Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  While Mr. Smithson mused thus, alone and in the darkness, Montesma and Lady Lesbia were wandering arm in arm in another and lovelier part of the grounds, where golden lights were scattered like Cuban fire-flies among the foliage of seringa and magnolia, arbutus and rhododendron, while at intervals a sudden flush of rosier light was shed over garden and river, as if by enchantment, surprising a couple here and there in the midst of a flirtation which had begun in darkness.

  The grounds were lovely in the balmy atmosphere of a July night, the river gliding with mysterious motion under the stars, great masses of gloom darkening the stream with an almost awful look where the woods of Petersham and Ham House cast their dense shadows on the water. Don Gomez and his companion wandered by the river side to a spot where a group of magnolias sheltered them from the open lawn, and where there were some rustic chairs close to the balustrade which protected the parapet. In this spot, which was a kind of island, divided from the rest of the grounds by the intervening road, they found themselves quite alone, and in the midst of a summer stillness which was broken only by the low, lazy ripple of the tide running seawards. The lights of Richmond looked far away, and the little town with its variety of levels had an Italian air in the distance.

  From the ballroom, faint and fitful, came the music of a waltz.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve brought you too far,’ said Don Gomez.

  ‘On the contrary, it is a relief to get away from the lights and the people. How delicious this river is! I was brought up on the shores of a lake; but after all a lake is horribly tame. Its limits are always staring one in the face. There is no room for one’s imagination to wander. Now a river like this suggests an infinity of possibilities, drifting on and on and on into undiscovered regions, by ever-varying shores. I feel to-night as if I should like to step into that little boat yonder,’ pointing to a light skiff bobbing gently up and down with the tide, at the bottom of a flight of steps, ‘and let the stream take me wherever it chose.’

  ‘If I could but go with you,’ said Gomez, in that deep and musical tone which made the commonest words seem melody, ‘I would ask for neither compass nor rudder. What could it matter whither the boat took me? There is no place under the stars which would not be a paradise — with you.’

  ‘Please don’t make a dreamy aspiration the occasion for a compliment,’ exclaimed Lesbia, lightly. ‘What I said was so silly that I don’t wonder you thought it right to say something just a little sillier. But moonlight and running water have a curious effect upon me; and I, who am the most prosaic among women, become ridiculously sentimental.’

  ‘I cannot believe that you are prosaic.’

  ‘I assure you it is perfectly true. I am of the earth, earthy; a woman of the world, in my first season, ambitious, fond of pleasure, vain, proud, exacting, all those things which I am told a woman ought not to be.’

  ‘You pain me when you so slander yourself; and I shall make it the business of my life to find out how much truth there is in that self-slander. For my own part I do not believe a word of it; but as it is rude to contradict a lady I will only say that I reserve my opinion.’

  ‘Are you to stay long in England?’ asked Lesbia.

  She was leaning against the stone balustrade in a careless attitude, as of one who was weary, her elbow on the stone slab, and her head thrown back against her arm. The white satin gown, moulded to her figure, had a statuesque air, and she looked like a marble statue in the dim light, every line of the graceful form expressive of repose.

  ‘That will depend. I am not particularly fond of London. A very little of your English Babylon satisfies me, in a general way; but there are conditions which might make England enchanting. Where do you go at the end of the season?’

  ‘First to Goodwood, and then to Cowes. Mr. Smithson is so kind as to place his yacht at Lady Kirkbank’s disposal, and I am to be her guest on board the Cayman, just as I am in Arlington Street.’

  ‘The Cayman! That name is a reminiscence of Mr. Smithson’s South American travels.’

  ‘No doubt! Was he long in South America?’

  ‘Three or four years.’

  ‘But not in Cuba all that time, I suppose?’

  ‘He had business relations with Cuba all that time, and oscillated between our island and the main. He was rather fortunate in his little adventures with us — made almost as much money as General Tacon, of blessed memory. But I dare say Smithson has told you all his adventures in that part of the world.’

  ‘No, he very rarely talks about his travels: and I am not particularly interested in commercial speculations. There is always so much to think of and talk about in the business of the moment. Are you fond of Cuba?’

  ‘Not passionately. I always feel as if I were an exile there, and yet one of my ancestors was with Columbus when he discovered the island, and my race were among the earliest settlers. My family has given three Captain-generals to Cuba: but I cannot forget that I belong to an older world, and have forfeited that which ought to have been a brilliant place in Europe for the luxurious obscurity of a colony.’

  ‘But you must be attached to a place in which your family have lived for so many generations?’

  ‘I like the stars and the sea, the mountains and savannas, the tropical vegetation, and the dreamy, half-oriental life; but at best it is a kind of stagnation, and after a residence of a few months in the island of my birth I generally spread my wings for the wider world of the old continent or the new.’

  ‘You must have travelled so much,’ said Lesbia, with a sigh. ‘I have been nowhere and seen nothing. I feel like a child who has been shut up in a nursery all its life, and knows of no world beyond four walls.’

  ‘Not to travel is not to live,’ said Don Gomez.

  ‘I am to be in Italy next November, I believe,’ said Lesbia, not caring to own that this Italian trip was to be her honeymoon.

  ‘Italy!’ exclaimed the Spaniard, contemptuously. ‘Once the finishing school of the English nobility; now the happy hunting-ground of the Cockney tourist and the prosperous Yankee. All the poetry of Italy has been dried up, and the whole country vulgarised. If you want romance in the old world go to Spain; in the new, try Peru or Brazil, Mexico or California.’

  ‘I am afraid I am not adventurous enough to go so far.’

  ‘No: women cling to beaten tracks.’

  ‘We obey our masters,’ answered Lesbia, meekly.

  ‘Ah, I forgot. You are to have a master — and soon. I heard as much before I saw you to-night.’

  Lesbia half rose, as if to leave this cool retreat above the rippling tide.

  ‘Yes, it is all settled,’ she said; ‘and now I think I must go back. Lady Kirkbank will be wondering what has become of me.’

  ‘Let her wonder a little longer,’ said Don Gomez. ‘Why should we hurry away from this delightful spot? Why break the spell of — the river? Life has so few moments of perfect contentment. If this is one with you — as it is with me — let us make the most of it. Lady Lesbia, do you see those weeds yonder, drifting with the tide, drifting side by side, touching as they drift? They have met heaven knows how, and will part heaven knows where, on their way to the sea; but they let themselves go with the tide. We have met like those poor weeds. Don’t let us part till the tide parts us.’

  Lesbia gave a little sigh, and submitted. She had talked of women obeying their masters; and the implication was that she meant to obey Mr. Smithson. But there is a fate in these things; and the man who was to be her master, whose lightest breath was to sway her, whose lightest look was to rule her, was here at her side in the silence of the summer night.

  They talked long, but of indifferent subjects; and their talk might have been heard by every member of the Orleans Club, and no harm done. Yet words and phrases count for very little in such a case. It is the tone, it is the melody of a voice, it is the magic of the hour that tells.

  The tide came, in the person of Mr. Smithson, and parted these two weeds that were drifting t
owards the great mysterious ocean of fate.

  ‘I have been hunting for you everywhere,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘If you want another waltz, Lady Lesbia, you had better take the next. I believe it is to be the last. At any rate our party are clamouring to be driven home. I found poor Lady Kirkbank fast asleep in a corner of the drawing-room.’

  ‘Will you give me that last waltz?’ asked Don Gomez.

  Lady Lesbia felt that the long-suffering Smithson had endured enough. Womanly instinct constrained her to refuse that final waltz: but it seemed to her as if she were making a tremendous sacrifice in so doing. And yet she had waltzed to her heart’s content during the season that was waning, and knew all the waltzes played by all the fashionable bands. She gave a little sigh, as she said —

  ‘No, I must not indulge myself. I must go and take care of Lady Kirkbank.’

  Mr. Smithson offered his arm, and she took it and went away with him, leaving Don Gomez to follow at his leisure. There would be some delay no doubt before the drag started. The lamps had gone out among the foliage, and the stars were waning a little, and there was a faint cold light creeping over the garden which meant the advent of morning. Don Gomez strolled towards the lighted house, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘She is very lovely, and she is — well — not quite spoiled by her entourage, and they tell me she is an heiress — sure to inherit a fine fortune from some ancient grandmother, buried alive in Westmoreland,’ he mused. ‘What a splendid opportunity it would be if — if the business could be arranged on the square. But as it is — well — as it is there is the chance of an adventure; and when did a Montesma ever avoid an adventure, although there were dagger or poison lurking in the background? And here there is neither poison nor steel, only a lovely woman, and an infatuated stockbroker, about whom I know enough to disgrace and ruin an archbishop. Poor Smithson! How very unlucky that I should happen to come across your pathway in the heyday of your latest love affair. We have had our little adventures in that line already, and we have measured swords together, metaphorically, before to-night. When it comes to a question of actual swords my Smithson declines. Pas si bête.’

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  LORD HARTFIELD REFUSES A FORTUNE.

  A honeymoon among lakes and mountains, amidst the gorgeous confusion of Borrowdale, in a little world of wild, strange loveliness, shut in and isolated from the prosaic outer world by the vast and towering masses of Skiddaw and Blencathara — a world of one’s own, as it were, a world steeped in romance and poetry, dear to the souls of poets. There are many such honeymoons every summer; indeed, the mountain paths, the waterfalls and lakes swarm with happy lovers; and this land of hills and waters seems to have been made expressly for honeymoon travellers; yet never went truer lovers wandering by lake and torrent, by hill and valley, than those two whose brief honeymoon was now drawing to a close.

  It was altogether a magical time for Mary, this dawn of a new life. The immensity of her happiness almost frightened her. She could hardly believe in it, or trust in its continuance.

  ‘Am I really, really, really your wife?’ she asked on their last day, bending down to speak to her husband, as he led her pony up the rough ways of Skiddaw. ‘It is all so dreadfully like a dream.’

  ‘Thank God, it is the very truth,’ answered Lord Hartfield, looking fondly at the fresh young face, brightened by the summer wind, which faintly stirred the auburn hair under the neat little hat.

  ‘And am I actually a Countess? I don’t care about it one little bit, you know, except as a stupendous joke. If you were to tell me that you had been only making fun of poor grandmother and me, and that those diamonds are glass, and you only plain John Hammond, it wouldn’t make the faintest difference. Indeed, it would be a weight off my mind. It is an awfully oppressive thing to be a Countess.’

  ‘I’m sorry I cannot relieve you of the burden. The law of the land has made you Lady Hartfield; and I hope you are preparing your mind for the duties of your position.’

  ‘It is very dreadful,’ sighed Mary. ‘If her ladyship were as well and as active as she was when first you came to Fellside, she could have helped me; but now there will be no one, except you. And you will help me, won’t you Jack?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘My own true Jack,’ with a little fervent squeeze of his sunburnt hand. ‘In society I suppose I shall have to call you Hartfield. “Hartfield, please ring the bell.” “Give me a footstool, Hartfield.” How odd it sounds. I shall be blurting out the old dear name.’

  ‘I don’t think it will much matter. It will pass for one of Lady Hartfield’s little ways. Every woman is supposed to have little ways, don’t you know. One has a little way of dropping her friends; another has a little way of not paying her dressmaker; another’s little way is to take too much champagne. I hope Lady Hartfield’s little way will be her devotion to her husband.’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall end by being a nuisance to you, for I shall love you ridiculously,’ answered Mary, gaily; ‘and from what you have told me about society, it seems to me that there can be nothing so unfashionable as an affectionate wife. Will you mind my being quite out of fashion, Jack?’

  ‘I should very much object to your being in the fashion.’

  ‘Then I am happy. I don’t think it is in my nature to become a woman of fashion; although I have cured myself, for your sake, of being a hoyden. I had so schooled myself for what I thought our new life was to be; so trained myself to be a managing economical wife, that I feel quite at sea now that I am to be mistress of a house in Grosvenor Square and a place in Kent. Still, I will bear with it all; yes, even endure the weight of those diamonds for your sake.’

  She laughed, and he laughed. They were quite alone among the hills — hardy mountaineers both — and they could be as foolish as they liked. She rested her head upon his shoulder, and he and she and the pony made one as they climbed the hill, close together.

  ‘Our last day,’ sighed Mary, as they went down again, after a couple of blissful hours in that wild world between earth and sky. ‘I shall be glad to go back to poor grandmother, who must be sadly lonely; but it is so sweet to be quite alone with you.’

  They left the Lodore Hotel in an open carriage, after luncheon next day, and posted to Fellside, where they arrived just in time to assist at Lady Maulevrier’s afternoon tea. She received them both with warm affection, and made Hartfield sit close beside her sofa; and every now and then, in the pauses of their talk, she laid her wasted and too delicate fingers upon the young man’s strong brown hand, with a caressing gesture.

  ‘You can never know how sweet it is to me to be able to love you,’ she said tenderly. ‘You can never know how my heart yearned to you from the very first, and how hard it was to keep myself in check and not be too kind to you. Oh, Hartfield, you should have told me the truth. You should not have come here under false colours.’

  ‘Should I not, Lady Maulevrier? It was my only chance of being loved for my own sake; or, at least of knowing that I was so loved. If I had come with my rank and my fortune in my hand, as it were — one of the good matches of the year — what security could I ever have felt in the disinterested love of the girl who chose me? As plain John Hammond I wooed and was rejected; as plain John Hammond I wooed and won; and the prize which I so won is a pearl above price. Not for worlds, were the last year to be lived over again, would I have one day of my life altered.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I ought to be satisfied. I wanted you for Lesbia, and I have got you for Mary. Best of all, I have got you for myself. Ronald Hollister’s son is mine; he is of my kin; he belongs to me; he will not forsake me in life; he will be near me, God grant, when I die.’

  ‘Dear Lady Maulevrier, as far as in me lies, I will be to you as a son,’ said Lord Hartfield, very solemnly, stooping to kiss her hand.

  Mary came away from her tea-table to embrace her grandmother.

  ‘It makes me so happy to have won a little of your regard,’
she murmured, ‘and to know that I have married a man whom you can love.’

  ‘Of course you have heard of Lesbia’s engagement?’ Lady Maulevrier said presently, when they were taking their tea.

  ‘Maulevrier wrote to us about it.’

  ‘To us.’ How nice it sounded, thought Mary, as if they were a firm, and a letter written to one was written to both.

  ‘And do you know this Mr. Smithson?’

  ‘Not intimately. I have met him at the Carlton.’

  ‘I am told that he is very much esteemed by your party, and that he is very likely to get a peerage when this Ministry goes out of office.’

  ‘That is not improbable. Peerages are to be had if a man is rich enough; and Smithson is supposed to be inordinately rich.’

  ‘I hope he has character as well as money,’ said Lady Maulevrier, gravely. ‘But do you think a man can become inordinately rich in a short time, with unblemished honour?’

  ‘We are told that nothing is impossible,’ answered Hartfield. ‘Faith can remove a mountain; only one does not often see it done. However, I believe Mr. Smithson’s character is fairly good as millionaires go. We do not inquire too closely into these things nowadays.’

  Lady Maulevrier sighed and held her peace. She remembered the day when she had protested vehemently, passionately, against Lesbia’s marriage with a poor man. And now she had an unhappy feeling about Mr. Smithson’s wealth, a doubt, a dread that all might not be well with those millions, that some portion of that golden tide might flow from impure sources. She had lived remote from the world, but she had read the papers diligently, and she knew how often the splendour of commercial wealth has been suddenly obscured behind a black cloud of obloquy. She could not rejoice heartily at the idea of Lesbia’s engagement.