Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  ‘Only an invalid’s fancy,’ said Mary, stooping down to kiss the pale forehead, so full of thought and care; ‘only a morbid fancy, nursed in the monotony of this quiet room. Maulevrier and Jack and I must find some way of amusing you.’

  ‘You will never amuse me out of that conviction, my dear. I can see the shadows lengthening and the sands running out. There are but a few grains left in the glass, Mary; and while those last I should like to see you and Mr. Hammond married. I should like to feel that your fate is settled before I go. God knows what confusion and trouble may follow my death.’

  This was said with a sharp ring of despair.

  ‘I am not going to leave you, grandmother,’ said Mary.

  ‘Not even for the man you love? You are a good girl, Mary. Lesbia has forsaken me for a lesser temptation.’

  ‘Grandmother, that is hardly fair. It was your own wish to have Lesbia presented this season,’ remonstrated Mary, loyal to the absent.

  ‘True, my dear. I saw she was very tired of her life here, and I thought it was better. But I’m sorely afraid London has spoiled her. No, Mary, you can stay with me to the end, if you like. There is room enough for you and your husband under this roof. I like this Mr. Hammond. His is the only face that ever recalled the face of the dead. Yes, I like him; and although I know nothing about him except what Maulevrier tells me — and that is of the scantiest — still I feel, somehow, that I can trust him. Send your lover to me, Mary. I want to have a serious talk with him.’

  Mary ran off to obey, fluttered, blushing, and trembling. This idea of marriage in the immediate future was to be the last degree startling. A year had seemed a very long time; and she had been told that she and her lover must wait a year at the very least; so that vision of marriage had seemed afar off in the dim shadowland of the future. She had been told nothing by her lover of where she was to live, or what her life was to be like when she was his wife. And now she was told that they were to be married almost immediately, that they were to live in the house where she had been reared, in that familiar land of hills and waters, that they were to roam about the dales and mountains together, they two, as man and wife. The whole thing was wonderful, bewildering, impossible almost.

  This was on the first morning after Mr. Hammond’s arrival. Maulevrier had gone off to hunt the Rotha for otters, and was up to his waist in the water, no doubt, by this time. Hammond was strolling up and down the terrace in front of the house, looking at the green expanse of Fairfield, the dark bulk of Seat Sandal, the nearer crests of Helm Crag and Silver Howe.

  ‘You are to come to her ladyship directly, please,’ said Mary, going up to him.

  He took both her hands, drew her nearer to him, smiling down at her. They had been sitting side by side at the breakfast table half-an-hour ago, he waiting upon her as she poured out the tea; yet by his tender greeting and the delight in his face it might have been supposed they had not met for weeks. Such are the sweet inanities of love.

  ‘What does her ladyship want with me, darling? and why are you blushing?’ he asked.

  ‘I — I think she is going to talk about — our — marriage,’ faltered Mary.

  ‘“Why, I will talk to her upon this theme until mine eyelids can no longer wag,”’ quoted Hammond. ‘Take me to her, Mary. I hope her ladyship is growing sensible.’

  ‘She is very kind, very sweet. She has changed so much of late.’

  Mary went with him to the door of her ladyship’s sitting-room, and there left him to go in alone. She went to the library — that room over which a gloomy shadow seemed to have hung ever since that awful winter afternoon when Mary found Lady Maulevrier lying on the floor in the twilight. But it was a noble room, and in her studious hours Mary loved to sit here, walled round with books, and able to consult or dip into as many volumes as she liked. To-day, however, her mind was not attuned to study. She sat with a volume of Macaulay open before her: but her thoughts were not with the author. She was wondering what those two were saying in the room overhead, and finding all attempts at reading futile, she let her head sink back upon the cushion of her deep luxurious chair, and sat with her dreamy eyes fixed on the summer landscape and her thoughts with her lover.

  Lady Maulevrier looked very wan and tired in the bright morning light, when Mr. Hammond seated himself beside her sofa. The change in her appearance since the spring was more marked to-day than it had seemed to him last night in the dim lamplight. Yes, there was need here for a speedy settlement of all earthly matters. The traveller was nearing the mysterious end of the journey. The summons might come at any hour.

  ‘Mr. Hammond, I feel a confidence in your integrity, your goodness of heart, and high principle which I never thought I could feel for a man of whom I know so little,’ began Lady Maulevrier, gravely. ‘All I know of you or your antecedents is what my grandson has told me — and I must say that the information so given has been very meagre. And yet I believe in you — and yet I am going to trust you, wholly, blindly, implicitly — and I am going to give you my granddaughter, ever so much sooner than I intended to give her to you. Soon, very soon, if you will have her!’

  ‘I will have her to-morrow, if there is time to get a special licence,’ exclaimed Hammond, bending down to kiss the dowager’s hand, radiant with delight.

  ‘You shall marry her very soon, if you like, marry her by special licence, in this room. I should like to see your wedding. I have a strange impatience to behold one of my granddaughters happily married, to know that her future is secure, that come weal, come woe, she is safe in the protection of a brave true man. I am not scared by the idea of a little poverty. That is often the best education for youth. But while you and I are alone we may as well talk about ways and means. Perhaps you may hardly feel prepared to take upon yourself the burden of a wife this year.’

  ‘As well this year as next. I am not afraid.’

  ‘Young men are so rash. However, as long as I live your responsibilities will be only nominal. This house will be Mary’s home, and yours whenever you are able to occupy it. Of course I should not like to interfere with your professional efforts — but if you are cultivating literature, — why books can be written at Fellside better than in London. This lakeland of ours has been the nursery of deathless writers. But I feel that my days are numbered — and when I am dead — well death is always a cause of change and trouble of some kind, and Mary will profit very little by my death. The bulk of my fortune is left to Lesbia. I have taught her to consider herself my heiress; and it would be unjust to alter my will.’

  ‘Pray do not dream of such a thing — there is no need — Mary will be rich enough,’ exclaimed Hammond, hastily.

  ‘With five hundred a year and the fruits of your industry,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘Yes, yes, with modest aspirations and simple habits, people can live happily, honourably, on a few hundreds a year. And if you really mean to devote yourself to literature, and do not mind burying yourself alive in this lake district until you have made your name as a writer, why the problem of ways and means will be easily solved.’

  ‘Dear Lady Maulevrier, I am not afraid of ways and means. That is the last question which need trouble you. I told Lesbia when I offered myself to her nearly a year ago, that if she would trust me, if she would cleave to me, poverty should never touch her, sordid care should never come near her dwelling. But she could not believe me. She was like Thomas the twin. I could show her no palpable security for my promise — and she would not believe for the promise’ sake. Mary trusted me; and Mary shall not regret her confidence.’

  ‘Ah! it was different with Lesbia,’ sighed Lady Maulevrier. ‘I taught her to be ambitious. She had been schooled to set a high price upon herself. I know she cared for you — very much, even. But she could not face poverty; or, if you like, I will say that she could not face an obscure existence — sacrifice her ambition, a justifiable ambition in one so lovely, at the bidding of her first wooer. And then, again, she was told that if she married you, she would fo
r ever forfeit my regard. You must not blame her for obeying me.’

  ‘I do not blame her; for I have won the peerless pearl — the jewel above all price — a perfect woman. And now, dear Lady Maulevrier, give me but your consent, and I am off to York this afternoon, to interview the Archbishop, and get the special licence, which will allow me to wed my darling here by your couch to-morrow afternoon.’

  ‘I have no objection to your getting the licence immediately; but you must let me write a cheque before you go. A special licence is expensive — I believe it costs fifty pounds.’

  ‘If it cost a thousand I should not think it dear. But I have a notion that I shall be able to get the licence — cheap. You have made me wild with happiness.’

  ‘But you must not refuse my cheque.’

  ‘Indeed I must, Lady Maulevrier. I am not quite such a pauper as you think me.’

  ‘But fifty pounds and the expenses of the journey; an outlay altogether unexpected on your part. I begin to fear that you are very reckless. A spendthrift shall never marry my granddaughter, with my consent.’

  ‘I have never yet spent above half my income.’

  Lady Maulevrier looked at him in wonderment and perplexity. Had the young man gone suddenly out of his mind, overwhelmed by the greatness of his bliss?

  ‘But I thought you were poor,’ she faltered.

  ‘It has pleased you to think so, dear Lady Maulevrier; but I have more than enough for all my wants, and I shall be able to provide a fitting home for my Mary, when you can spare her to preside over her own establishment.’

  ‘Establishment’ seemed rather a big word, but Lady Maulevrier supposed that in this case it meant a cook and housemaid, with perhaps later on a boy in buttons, to break windows and block the pantry sink with missing teaspoons.

  ‘Well, Mr. Hammond, this is quite an agreeable surprise,’ she said, after a brief silence. ‘I really thought you were poor — as poor as a young man of gentlemanlike habits could be, and yet exist. Perhaps you will wonder why, thinking this, I brought myself to consent to your marriage with my granddaughter.’

  ‘It was a great proof of your confidence in me, or in Providence,’ replied Hammond, smiling.

  ‘It was no such thing. I was governed by a sentiment — a memory. It was my love for the dead which softened my heart towards you, John Hammond.’

  ‘Indeed!’ he murmured, softly.

  ‘There was but one man in this world I ever fondly loved — the love of my youth — my dearest and best, in the days when my heart was fresh and innocent and unambitious. That man was Ronald Hollister, afterwards Lord Hartfield. And yours is the only face that ever recalled his to my mind. It is but a vague likeness — a look now and then; but slight as that likeness is it has been enough to make my heart yearn towards you, as the heart of a mother to her son.’

  John Hammond knelt beside the sofa, and bent his handsome face over the pale face on the pillow, imprinting such a kiss as a son might have given. His eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Dear Lady Maulevrier, think that it is the spirit of the dead which blesses you for your fidelity to old memories,’ he said, tenderly.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  BY SPECIAL LICENCE.

  After that interview with John Hammond all the arrangements for the marriage were planned by Lady Maulevrier with a calm and business-like capacity which seemed extraordinary in one so frail and helpless. For a little while after Hammond left her she remained lost in a reverie, deeply affected by the speech and manner of her granddaughter’s lover, as he gave her that first kiss of duty and affection, the affection of one who in that act declared the allegiance of a close and holy bond.

  Yes, she told herself, this marriage, humble as it might be, was altogether satisfactory. Her own feeling towards the man of her granddaughter’s choice was one of instinctive affection. Her heart had yearned to him from the beginning of their acquaintance; but she had schooled herself to hide all indications of her liking for him, she had made every effort to keep him at a distance, deeming his very merits a source of danger in a household where there were two fresh impressionable girls.

  And despite all her caution and care he had succeeded in winning one of those girls: and she was glad, very glad, that he had so succeeded in baffling her prudence. And now it was agreeable to discover that he was not quite such a pauper as she had supposed him to be.

  Her heart felt lighter than it had been for some time when she set about planning the wedding.

  The first step in the business was to send for James Steadman. He came immediately, grave and quiet as of old, and stood with his serious eyes bent upon the face of his mistress, awaiting her instructions.

  ‘Lady Mary is going to be married to Mr. Hammond, by special licence, in this room, to-morrow afternoon, if it can be managed so soon,’ said Lady Maulevrier.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it, my lady,’ answered Steadman, without the faintest indication of surprise.

  ‘Why are you so — particularly glad?’ asked his mistress, looking at him sharply.

  ‘Because Lady Mary’s presence in this house is a source of danger to — your arrangements. She is very energetic and enterprising — very shrewd — and — well, she is a woman — so I suppose there can be no harm in saying she is somewhat inquisitive. Things will be much safer here when Lady Mary is gone!’

  ‘But she will not be gone — she is not going away — except for a very brief honeymoon. I cannot possibly do without her. She has become necessary to my life, Steadman; and there is so little left of that life now, that there is no need for me to sacrifice the last gleams of sunshine. The girl is very sweet, and loving, and true. I was not half fond enough of her in the past; but she has made herself very dear to me of late. There are many things in this life, Steadman, which we only find out too late.’

  ‘But, surely, my lady, Lady Mary will leave Fellside to go to a home of her own after her marriage.’

  ‘No, I tell you, Steadman,’ his mistress answered, with a touch of impatience; ‘Lady Mary and her husband will make this house their home so long as I am here. It will not be long.’

  ‘God grant it may be very long before you cease to be mistress here,’ answered Steadman, with real feeling; and then in a lower tone he went on: ‘Pardon me, my lady, for the suggestion, but do you think it wise to have Mr. Hammond here as a resident?’

  ‘Why should it not be wise? Mr. Hammond is a gentleman.’

  ‘True, my lady; but any accident, such as that which brought Lady Mary into the old garden — —’

  ‘No such accident need occur — it must not occur, Steadman,’ exclaimed Lady Maulevrier, with kindling eyes. She who had so long ruled supreme was not inclined to have any desire of hers questioned. ‘There must have been gross carelessness that day — carelessness on your part, or that stable door would never have been left open. The key ought to have been in your possession. It ought not to have been in the power of the stableman to open that door. As to Mr. Hammond’s presence at Fellside, I cannot see any danger — any reason why harm should come of it, more than of Lord Maulevrier’s presence here in the past.’

  ‘The two gentlemen are so different, my lady,’ said Steadman, with a gloomy brow. ‘His lordship is so light-hearted and careless, his mind taken up with his horses, guns, dogs, fishing, shooting, and all kinds of sport. He is not a gentleman to take much notice of anything out of his own line. But this Mr. Hammond is different — a very thoughtful gentleman, an inquiring mind, as one would say.’

  ‘Steadman, you are getting cowardly in your old age. The danger — such a risk as you hint at, must be growing less and less every day. After forty years of security — —’

  ‘Security’ echoed Steadman, with a monosyllabic laugh which expressed intense bitterness. ‘Say forty years during which I have felt myself upon the edge of a precipice every day and every hour. Security! But perhaps you are right, my lady, I am growing old and nervous, a feebler man than I was a few
years ago, feebler in body and mind. Let Mr. Hammond make his home here, if it pleases your ladyship to have him. So long as I am well and able to get about there can be no danger of anything awkward happening.’

  Lady Maulevrier looked alarmed.

  ‘But you have no expectation of falling ill, I hope, Steadman; you have no premonition of any malady?’

  ‘No, my lady, none — except the malady of old age. I feel that I am not the man I once was, that is all. My brain is getting woolly, and my sight is clouded now and then. And if I were to fall ill suddenly — —’

  ‘Oh, it would be terrible, it would be a dire calamity! There is your wife, certainly, to look after things, but — —’

  ‘My wife would do her best, my lady. She is a faithful creature, but she is not — yes, without any unkindness I must say that Mrs. Steadman is not a genius!’

  ‘Oh, Steadman, you must not fail me! I am horror-stricken at the mere idea,’ exclaimed Lady Maulevrier. ‘After forty years — great God! it would be terrible. Lesbia, Mary, Maulevrier! the great, malignant, babbling world outside these doors. I am hemmed round with perils. For God’s sake preserve your strength. Take care of your health. You are my strong rock. If you feel that there is anything amiss with you, or that your strength is failing, consult Mr. Horton — neglect no precaution. The safety of this house, of the family honour, hangs upon you.’

  ‘Pray do not agitate yourself, my lady,’ entreated Steadman. ‘I was wrong to trouble you with my fears. I shall not fail you, be sure. Although I am getting old, I shall hold out to the end.’

  ‘The end cannot be very far off,’ said Lady Maulevrier, gloomily.

  ‘I thought that forty years ago, my lady. But you are right — the end must be near now. Yes, it must be near. And now, my lady, your orders about the wedding.’