Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I scarce closed my eyes last night,” she protested, “and I had half a mind to put on a petticoat and come down to the terrace. I could have come through the yellow drawing-room, where the men usually forget to close the shutters. And I should have brought my theorbo and serenaded you. Should you have taken me for a fairy, chère, if you had heard me singing?”

  “I should have taken you for a very silly little person who wanted to frighten her friends by catching an inflammation of the lungs.”

  “Well, you see, I thought better of it, though it would have been impossible to catch cold on such a stifling night I heard every clock strike in Westminster and London. It was light at five, yet the night seemed endless. I would have welcomed even a mouse behind the wainscot. Priscilla is an odious tyrant,” making a face at the easy-tempered gouvernante sitting by; “she won’t let me have my dogs in my room at night.”

  “Your ladyship knows that dogs in a bed-chamber are unwholesome,” said

  Priscilla.

  “No, you foolish old thing; my ladyship knows the contrary; for his Majesty’s bed-chamber swarms with them, and he has them on his bed even — whole families — mothers and their puppies. Why can’t I have a few dear little mischievous innocents to amuse me in the long dreary nights?”

  By dint of clamour and expostulation the honourable Henriette contrived to stay up till ten o’clock was belled with solemn tone from St. Paul’s Cathedral, which magnificent church was speedily to be put in hand for restoration, at a great expenditure. The wooden scaffolding which had been necessary for a careful examination of the building was still up. Until the striking of the great city clock, Papillon had resolutely disputed the lateness of the hour, putting forward her own timekeeper as infallible — a little fat round purple enamel watch with diamond figures, and gold hands much bent from being pushed backwards and forwards, to bring recorded time into unison with the young lady’s desires — a watch to which no sensible person could give the slightest credit. The clocks of London having demonstrated the futility of any reference to that ill-used Geneva toy, she consented to retire, but was reluctant to the last.

  “I am going to bed,” she told her aunt, “because this absurd old Prissy insists upon it, but I don’t expect a quarter of an hour’s sleep between now and morning; and most of the time I shall be looking out of the window, watching for the turn of the tide, to see the barges and boats swinging round.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind, Mrs. Henriette; for I shall sit in your room till you are sound asleep,” said Priscilla.

  “Then you will have to sit there all night; and I shall have somebody to talk to.”

  “I shall not allow you to talk.”

  “Will you gag me, or put a pillow over my face, like the Blackamoor in the play?”

  The minx and her governess retired, still disputing, after Angela had been desperately hugged by Henriette, who brimmed over with warmest affection in the midst of her insolence. They were gone, their voices sounding in the stillness on the terrace, and then on the staircase, and through the great empty rooms, where the windows were open to the sultry night, while the host of idle servants caroused in the basement, in a spacious room with a vaulted roof, like a college hall, where they were free to be as noisy or as drunken as they pleased. My lady was out, had taken only her chair, and running footmen, and had sent chairmen and footmen back from Whitehall, with an intimation that they would be wanted no more that night.

  Angela lingered on the terrace in the sultry summer gloom, watching solitary boats moving to and fro, shadowy as Charon’s. She dreaded the stillness of silent rooms, and to be alone with her own thoughts, which were not of the happiest. Her sister’s relations with De Malfort troubled her, innocent as they doubtless were: innocent as that close friendship of Henrietta of England with her cousin of France, when they two spent the fair midsummer nights roaming in palace gardens, close as lovers, but only fast friends. Malicious tongues had babbled even of that innocent friendship; and there were those who said that if Monsieur behaved liked a brute to his lovely young wife, it was because he had good reason for jealousy of Louis in the past, as well as of De Guiche in the present. These innocent friendships are ever the cause of uneasiness to the lookers-on. It is like seeing children at play on the edge of a cliff. They are too near danger and destruction.

  Hyacinth, being about as able to carry a secret as to carry an elephant, had betrayed by a hundred indications that a plot of some kind was being hatched between her and De Malfort. And to-night, before going out, she had made too much fuss about so simple a matter as a basset-party at Lady Sarah’s, who had her basset-table every night, and was popularly supposed to keep house upon her winnings, and to have no higher code of honour than De Gramont had when he invited a brother officer to supper on purpose to rook him.

  Mr. Killigrew’s comedy had been discussed in Angela’s hearing. People who had been deprived of the theatre for over a year were greedy and eager spectators of all the plays produced at Court; but this production was an exceptional event. Killigrew’s wit and impudence and impecuniosity were the talk of the town, and anything written by that audacious jester was sure to be worth hearing.

  Had her sister gone to Whitehall to see the new comedy, in direct disobedience to her husband, instead of to so accustomed an entertainment as Lady Sarah’s basset-table? And was that the only mystery between Hyacinth and De Malfort? Or was there something else — some ghost-party, such as they had planned and talked about openly till a fortnight ago, and had suddenly dropped altogether, as if the notion were abandoned and forgotten? It was so unlike Hyacinth to be secret about anything; and her sister feared, therefore, that there was some plot of De Malfort’s contriving — De Malfort, whom she regarded with distrust and even repugnance; for she could recall no sentiment of his that did not make for evil. Beneath that gossamer veil of airy language which he flung over vicious theories, the conscienceless, unrelenting character of the man had been discovered by those clear eyes of the meditative onlooker. Alas! what a man to be her sister’s closest friend, claiming privileges by long association, which Hyacinth would have been the last to grant her dissolute admirers of yesterday, but which were only the more perilous for those memories of childhood that justified a so dangerous friendship.

  She was startled from these painful reflections by the clatter of horses’ hoofs on the paved courtyard east of the house, and the jingle of sword-belt and bit, sounds instantly followed by the ringing of the bell at the principal door.

  Was it her sister coming home so early? No, Lady Fareham had gone out in her chair. Was it his lordship returning unannounced? He had stated no time for his return, telling his wife only that, on his business in Paris being finished, he would come back without delay. Indeed, Hyacinth had debated the chances of his arrival this very evening with half a dozen of her particular friends, who knew that she was going to see Mr. Killigrew’s play.

  “Fate cannot be so perverse as to bring him back on the only night when his return would be troublesome,” she said.

  “Fate is always perverse, and a husband is very lucky if there is but one day out of seven on which his return would be troublesome,” answered one of her gossips.

  Fate had been perverse, for Angela heard her brother-in-law’s deep strong voice talking in the hall, and presently he came down the marble steps to the terrace, and came towards her, white with Kentish dust, and carrying an open letter in his hand. She had risen at the sound of the bell, and was hurrying to the house as he met her. He came close up to her, scarcely according her the civility of greeting. Never had she seen his countenance more gloomy.

  “You can tell me truer than those drunken devils below stairs,” he said.

  “Where is your sister?”

  “At Lady Sarah Tewkesbury’s.”

  “So her major-domo swears; but her chairmen, whom I found asleep in the hall, say they set her down at the palace.”

  “At Whitehall?”

  “
Yes, at Whitehall. There is a modish performance there to-night, I hear; but I doubt it is over, for the Strand was crowded with hackney coaches moving eastward. I passed a pair of handsome eyes in a gilded chair, that flashed fury at me as I rode by, which I’ll swear were Mrs. Palmer’s; and, waiting for me in the hall, I found this letter, that had just been handed in by a link, who doubtless belonged to the same lady. Read, Angela; the contents are scarce long enough to weary you.” She took the letter from him with a hand that trembled so that she could hardly hold the sheet of paper.

  “Watch! There is an intrigue afoot this night; and you must be a greater dullard than I think you if you cannot unmask a deceitful — —”

  The final word was one which modern manners forbid in speech or printed page. Angela’s pallid cheek flushed crimson at the sight of the vile epithet. Oh, insane lightness of conduct which made such an insult possible! Standing there, confronting the angry husband, with that detestable paper in her hand, she felt a pang of compunction at the thought that she might have been more strenuous in her arguments with her sister, more earnest and constant in reproof. When the peace and good repute of two lives were at stake, was it for her to consider any question of older or younger, or to be restrained by the fear of offending a sister who had been so generous and indulgent to her?

  Fareham saw her distress, and looked at her with angry suspicion.

  “Come,” he said, “I scarce expected a lying answer from you; and yet you join with servants to deceive me. You know your sister is not at Lady Sarah’s.”

  “I know nothing, except that, wherever she is, I will vouch that she is innocently employed, and has done nothing to deserve that infamous aspersion,” giving him back the letter.

  “Innocently employed! You carry matters with a high hand. Innocently employed, in a company of she-profligates, listening to Killigrew’s ribald jokes — Killigrew, the profanest of them all, who can turn the greatest calamity this city ever suffered to horseplay and jeering. Innocently employed, in direct disobedience to her husband! So innocently employed that she makes her servants — and her sister — tell lies to cover her innocence!”

  “Hector as much as you please, I have told your lordship no lies; and, with your permission, I will leave you to recover your temper before my sister’s return, which I doubt will happen within the next hour.”

  She moved quickly past him towards the house.

  “Angela, forgive me — —” he began, trying to detain her; but she hurried on through the open French window, and ran upstairs to her room, where she locked herself in.

  For some minutes she walked up and down, profoundly agitated, thinking out the position of affairs. To Fareham she had carried matters with a high hand, but she was full of fear. The play was over, and her sister, who doubtless had been among the audience, had not come home. Was she staying at the palace, gossiping with the maids-of-honour, shining among that brilliant, unscrupulous crowd, where intrigue was in the very air, where no woman was credited with virtue, and every man was remorseless?

  The anonymous letter scarcely influenced Angela’s thoughts in these agitated moments — that was but a foul assault on character by a foul-minded woman. But the furtive confabulations of the past week must have had some motive; and her sister’s fluttered manner before leaving the house had marked this night as the crisis of the plot.

  Angela could imagine nothing but that ghostly masquerading which had, in the first place, been discussed freely in her presence; and she could but wonder that De Malfort and her sister should have made a mystery about a plan which she had known in its inception. The more deeply she considered all the circumstances, the more she inclined to suspect some evil intention on De Malfort’s part, of which Hyacinth, so frank, so shallow, might be too easy a dupe.

  “I do little good doubting and suspecting and wondering here,” she said to herself; and after hastily lighting the candles on her toilet-table, she began to unlace the bodice of her light-coloured silk mantua, and in a few minutes had changed her elegant evening attire for a dark cloth gown, short in the skirt, and loose in the sleeves, which had been made for her to wear upon the river. In this costume she could handle a pair of sculls as freely as a waterman.

  When she had put on a little black silk hood, she extinguished her candles, pulled aside the curtain which obscured the open window, and looked out on the terrace. There was just light enough to show her that the coast was clear. The iron gate at the top of the water-stairs was seldom locked, nor were the boat-houses often shut, as boats were being taken in and out at all hours, and, for the rest, neglect and carelessness might always be reckoned upon in the Fareham household.

  She ran lightly down a side staircase, and so by an obscure door to the river-front. No, the gate was not locked, and there was not a creature within sight to observe or impede her movements. She went down the steps to the paved quay below the garden terrace. The house where the wherries were kept was wide open, and, better still, there was a skiff moored by the side of the steps, as if waiting for her; and she had but to take a pair of sculls from the rack and step into the boat, unmoor and away westward, with swiftly dipping oars, in the soft summer silence, broken now and then by sounds of singing — a tipsy, unmelodious strain, perhaps, were it heard too near, but musical in the distance — as the rise and fall of voices crept along a reach of running water.

  The night was hot and oppressive, even on the river. But it was better here than anywhere else; and Angela breathed more freely as she bent over her sculls, rowing with all her might, intent upon reaching that landing-stage she knew of in the very shortest possible time. The boat was heavy, but she had the incoming tide to help her.

  Was Fareham hunting for his wife, she wondered? Would he go to Lady Sarah’s lodgings, in the first place; and, not finding Hyacinth there, to Whitehall? And then, would he remember the assembly at Millbank, in which he had taken no part, and apparently no interest? And would he extend his search to the ruined abbey? At the worst, Angela would be there before him, to prepare her sister for the angry suspicions which she would have to meet. He was not likely to think of that place till he had exhausted all other chances.

  It was not much more than a mile from Fareham House to that desolate bit of country betwixt Westminster and Chelsea, where the modern dairy-farm occupied the old monkish pastures. As Angela ran her boat inshore, she expected to see Venetian lanterns, and to hear music and voices, and all the indications of a gay assembly; but there were only silence and darkness, save for one lighted window in the dairyman’s dwelling-house, and she thought that she had come upon a futile errand, and had been mistaken in her conjectures.

  She moored her boat to the wooden landing-stage, and went on shore to examine the premises. The revelry might be designed for a later hour, though it was now near midnight, and Lady Sarah’s party had assembled at eleven. She walked across a meadow, where the dewy grass was cool under her feet, and so to the open space in front of the dairyman’s house — a shabby building attached like a wen to the ruined refectory.

  She started at hearing the snort of a horse, and the jingling of bit and curb-chain, and came suddenly upon a coach-and-four, with a couple of post-boys standing beside their team.

  “Whose coach is this?” she asked.

  “Mr. Malfy’s, your ladyship.”

  “The French gentleman from St. James’s Street, my lady,” explained the other man.

  “Did you bring Monsieur de Malfort here?”

  “No, madam. We was told to be here at eleven, with horses as fresh as fire; and the poor tits be mighty impatient to be moving. Steady, Champion! You’ll have work enough this side Dartford,” — to the near leader, who was shaking his head vehemently, and pawing the gravel.

  Angela waited to ask no further questions, but made straight for the unglazed window, through which Mr. Spavinger and his companions had entered.

  There was no light in the great vaulted room, save the faint light of summer stars, and two figur
es were there in the dimness — a woman standing straight and tall in a satin gown, whose pale sheen reflected the starlight; a woman whose right arm was flung above her head, bare and white, her hand clasping her brow distractedly; and a man, who knelt at her feet, grasping the hand that hung at her side, looking up at her, and talking eagerly, with passionate gestures.

  Her voice was clearer than his; and Angela heard her repeating with a piteous shrillness, “No, no, no! No, Henri, no!”

  She stayed to hear no more, but sprang through the opening between the broken mullions, and rushed to her sister’s side; and as De Malfort started to his feet, she thrust him vehemently aside, and clasped Hyacinth in her arms.

  “You here, Mistress Kill-joy?” he muttered, in a surly tone. “May I ask what business brought you? For I’ll swear you wasn’t invited.”

  “I have come to save my sister from a villain, sir. But oh, my sweet, I little dreamt thou hadst such need of me!”

  “Nay, love, thou didst ever make tragedies out of nothing,” said Hyacinth, struggling to disguise hysterical tears with airy laughter. “But I am right glad all the same that you are come; for this gentleman has put a scurvy trick upon me, and brought me here on pretence of a gay assembly that has no existence.”

  “He is a villain and a traitor,” said Angela, in deep, indignant tones. “Dear love, thou hast been in danger I dare scarce think of. Fareham is searching for you.”

  “Fareham! In London?”

  “Returned an hour ago. Hark!”

  She lifted her finger warningly as a bell rang, and the well-known voice sounded outside the house, calling to some one to open the door.

  “He is here!” cried Hyacinth, distractedly. “For God’s sake, hide me from him! Not for worlds — not for worlds would I meet him!”

  “Nay, you have nothing to fear. It is Monsieur de Malfort who has to answer for what he has done.”

  “Henri, he will kill you! Alas, you know not what he is in anger! I have seen him, once in Paris, when he thought a man was insolent to me. God! The thunder of his voice, the blackness of his brow! He will kill you! Oh, if you love me — if you ever loved me — come out of his way! He is fatal with his sword!”