CHAPTER VII. NOT DISLOYAL.
‘Irene, I have loved you, as men love
Light, music, odour, beauty, love itself;
Whatever is apart from, and above,
Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf.’
‘CHRISTMAS is coming and Bruno,’ exclaimed Lucille, on the morning of Christmas-eve, as she worked with Miss Marjorum, Tompion, and Elizabeth May at the decoration of hall, staircase, and corridor. Lord Ingleshaw objected to holly and ivy in the rooms in which he lived — clocks and lamps and picture-frames embowered in greenery gave him an uncomfortable feeling.
‘Make the hall and corridor as festive as you please, my dear,’ he said, ‘but don’t let me see a Madonna by Guido staring at me like an owl out of an ivy-bush, or my Sèvres china made a mere vehicle for the exhibition of holly-berries.’
‘It may be vulgar, old-fashioned, Philistine,’ said Lucille, as she twisted an elaborate wreath of variegated ivies and glittering red berries round the massive oaken newel at the head of the staircase; ‘but I should like Bruno to feel that it is Christmas-time directly he enters the Castle.’
Lucille and her three assistants worked with good-will, from breakfast to a late luncheon; and among them they contrived to make the old hall, the wide shallow staircase, and long low corridor delightfully suggestive of Christmas-tide in the olden time. The polished oak panelling made such a good background, the many-coloured lights from the painted window at the end of the corridor so helped and heightened the effect.
The Earl and Bruno, who were coming from the North that day were not expected until dusk. It would be afternoon tea-time before they could arrive, the most delightful time at which to welcome them. Lucille’s morning-room was glorious with hot-house flowers, bright with the soft red firelight, tempered by a ground-glass screen. The quaint little tables — Queen Anne, Japanese, Dundee — were daintily arranged by Lucille’s own hands, Each low luxurious chair was in its most appropriate place; the fair young châtelaine was looking her loveliest in a dark-blue velvet gown, all bed and puffed with deepest red, and with a red satin petticoat just peeping below the dark-blue of the skirt. It was one of Lucille a trousseau gowns; and Tompion had told her that it was very unlucky to wear it — a tampering with futurity, which must result in something awful; but Lucile was bent upon looking her very best when Bruno and she met, after an agonising separation of nearly three weeks. The gown fitted her as never gown had fitted her before; and she stood in front of the cheval-glass innocently admiring herself.
‘Well, Lady Lucille, it do, give you figure ‘ exclaimed Tompion; ‘but, for all that, I shouldn’t like to wear it, if I was you, I should feel I was flying in the face of Fate.’
‘I don’t think Fate will take any notice of my new gown,’ said Lucille, pirouetting lightly, just to see the effect of the dark-blue stocking and the Queen Anne shoe, ‘And I want Mr. Challoner to be pleased. What is my finery meant for except to please him?
‘No, that’s Lucille, that’s not it,’ protested Tompion, with a superior air. ‘Your trousseau is to do credit to your position as his lordship’s only daughter. That’s what you’ve got to study.’
‘I shall study nothing except my husband’s happiness,’ answered Lucille; ‘ and I hope that’s what yon mean to do, Tompion, when you are married.’
Tompion breathed a despondent sigh.
‘I never can bear to think of my marriage,’ she said; ‘for when I marry, you’ll be having.some stuck-up French maid who’ll want you to paint your lips and pencil your eyebrows.’
‘No, she won’t, Tompion; at least, she won’t make such a suggestion a second time, I can assure you.’
Tompion’s marriage, which had been talked of for the last six years, had again been deferred unconditionally; and Lucille was to enter upon her new state encumbered with an old servant.
Lucille waited for the returning travellers alone in the winter gloaming, Miss Marjorum having discreetly gone to afternoon tea at the Vicarage. She sat a little way from the shaded hearth with an unheeded book in her lap, listening for the ring of wheels and horses’ hoofs upon the frost-bound road. There it was at last; and then a sonorous peal at the big bell. Should she go to meet them? Had it been her father alone who was returning, she would have flown to the hall, and would have been in his arms before he could take off his overcoat. Had it been the Bruno of old days, she would have run to the head of the staircase to give him a laughing welcome. But a new sense of shyness restrained the betrothed bride. She waited by the fireside, with her heart beating fast and her colour coming and going, like the light and shadow on a rose that sways to and fro in the wind.
‘Well, little lady, here you are at last!’ said Lord Ingleshaw, as he and Bruno came into the firelight, bringing the frosty outdoor atmosphere with them. ‘What a deathlike quiet there is in the house — almost like coming into a tomb!’
‘Is that all the praise Lucille is to get for her Christmas decorations?’ asked Bruno, when he and his betrothed had kissed, and she stood shyly at his side, hardly daring to look up at his face. ‘I thought the hall and staircase looked lovely.’
‘It all had a goblin air, to my mind,’ said the Earl, ‘such unearthly stillness.’
‘Dear father, you forget how quiet the Castle always is,’ said Lucille.
‘Of course he does,’ exclaimed Bruno. ‘His lordship is demoralised by a great bustling hotel in a manufacturing city, where the waiters have as many different tongues as stopped the works at Babel, and where eager-looking Americans are always rushing in and out of the coffee-room. For my part, I am charmed to get back to the quiet of the fairy castle; and I should be content to be snow-bound here until — until my wedding-day.’
He drew Lucille a little nearer to him as he spoke, the twilight favouring such gentle caresses. He had come back to Ingleshaw determined to be very happy, to value to the uttermost this treasure of a pure and lovely woman’s love which Providence had given to him. What could he ever have better in life than this perfect blessing, this constant incentive to good deeds and holy thoughts, this perpetual inspiration, this second conscience walking at his side and guiding his steps, and always pointing upward?
‘Look at him, Lucille! You see before you the member for the North-Eastern division of Smokeshire,’ said the Earl, laying his hand on Bruno’s shoulder. ‘How does he carry his dignity? Do you think he has grown?’
‘Miss Marjoram Will be Bare to say so, answered Lucille, laughing; ‘or, at any rate, she will declare that he has expanded.’
‘His pockets have had to expand considerably, I can assure you,’ said her father. ‘Now I that legislation has done its uttermost to insure the incorruptibility of electors, elections are just a little more expensive than they were in the days of rank rottenness. The voters are just as greedy, and they are not half so candid.’
‘Have you ever observed anything of the professional beauty about me, Lucille?’ asked Bruno.
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Yet I assure you there was as much eagerness to photograph me as if I had been the Lily herself. All the local photographers fell upon me like a pack of bounds. They told me it was customary for the member to be photographed; and it was furthermore customary for him to have his photograph enlarged by a twenty-guinea process, and provided with a handsome frame. The high-souled creatures would have scorned to accept a sixpence in the beaten way of bribery; but they all wanted to run me in for forty pounds’ worth of photography. And this was only typical of the general sentiments.’
‘But why didn’t you order the photographs?’ asked Lucille naively. ‘I should have been enchanted to have them.’
‘What! six or seven enlarged me’s?’ There are at least as many photographers in Billingford. No, I refused to yield to the charmers — first, because it would have been the encouragement of cool impudence; and, secondly, because it would have been indirect bribery.’
‘But if you looked at things in such a Roman manner, and st
eadfastly refused to bribe, how was it you spent so much money?’ asked Lucille, much puzzled.
‘Ah, how indeed? You see, I had an agent.’
‘And he bribed for you?’
‘He spent the money — on electioneering expenses. But now I am a member of the British Senate, and I am going to set about righting the wrongs of the universe. Is not that a great privilege?”
‘I am very proud to think your talents will be of use in the world,’ said Lucille, seeing him, in the middle-distance of life, as Prime Minister. ‘But members of Parliament are never at home of an evening, are they?’ she added regretfully.
‘O, we must try to get the early closing movement adopted at St. Stephen’s. We ought, at any rate, to have our Wednesday evenings and our Saturday afternoons, like the counter-jumpers in small country towns.’
A footman brought in lamps, while another brought the tea-tray; and Lucille’s attention for the next five minutes was occupied with the delight of pouring out tea for the two people she loved best in the world. The shaded lamp gave only a subdued light, so she was not afraid of her happiness being too much in evidence. The sweet young face beamed with happy smiles; the soft blue eyes were luminous with delight.
‘What a delicious thing in frocks!’ said Bruno, sitting down close to her, on a capacious saddle-bag ottoman, and touching the velvet with the tips of his fingers. ‘Your Maidstone dressmaker is improving. There is a bold effect in those crimson slashings against dark blue, which does credit to our county town.’
‘I am sorry to say this is not a Maidstone gown. It is Madame Muntzowski’s.’
‘Indeed! Some other local genius! Sittingbourne, perhaps, or Sevenoaks?’
‘Oh, Bruno! Madame Muntzowski is the new Polish dressmaker in Bruton Street.’
‘She may live in Park Lane for aught I care, so long as she preserves the knack of making you look so entrancingly lovely!’
Lord Ingleshaw had ensconced himself in the deepest and softest of the plush-covered armchairs. He had set down his empty cup already, and was half asleep, basking in the warmth and perfume, after a long cold railway journey. The lovers could talk what nonsense they pleased. Bruno had not felt so happy for ever so long as he felt this evening.
It seemed to him as if the old fresh sweet feelings had returned to him; those unspeakable feelings which had. made the commencement of his courtship like a blissful dream. He had struggled with, and had overcome, that fatal fancy which had so nearly wrecked his happiness. He had fought against that strange and unhealthy fascination which had made Elizabeth May’s image a haunting thought by day and night. He knew that he had been on the threshold of hideous falsehood and wrong, and he had recoiled horror-stricken at the idea of his own infamy.
Lord Ingleshaw slumbered for nearly an hour in that comfortable plush-lined nest by the fire, lulled by the low murmur of loving voices, as by the sound of falling waters on a summer noontide. Lucille and her lover could have talked to each other for hours. He was full of his electioneering experiences, of great plans for the future; of all kinds for the enlightenment and happiness of his fellow-men; measures which he was going to get passed in the very teeth of prejudice and opposition, fighting as St. George fought the dragon, as Macauley fought for Catholic Emancipation.
‘How proud I shall be of your victories!’ said Lucille; ‘and I am sure that no one can stand up against you. Eloquence like yours will overcome everything.
‘Ah, my dearest, it is so easy to talk by this fireside, with one sweet sympathetic listener. I shall seem a very different man, to myself even, at Westminster, with some facetious member of the Opposition crowing like a cock in the in the midst of my boldest flight of oratory, and my right arm working involuntarily like an automatic pump-handle.’
‘No one will crow while you are speaking,’ said Lucille, with conviction; ‘I know you are a Heaven-born statesman, Pitt.’
Miss Marjorum came in presently, and found Lord Ingleshaw snoring, and the lovers so deep in talk that they were unconscious of that nasal accompaniment to their conversation. The spinster’s entrance dissolved the spell. His lordship started up and declared that he must dress for dinner; Bruno followed his example; and Lucille was left alone with her governess, who was brimming over with the last parish news. Lucille pretended to listen; but she was glad when Miss Marjorum went off to decorate herself for the evening, and left her alone with her happy thoughts. She sat down to the piano, and played her favourite bits of Mozart by memory. How those tender passionate airs, ‘Vedrai carino,’ ‘Batti, batti,’ and ‘Voi che sapete,’ lent themselves to the reveries of love!
The little dinner of four was the gayest thing in dinners. The Earl, refreshed by a warm bath and a careful toilet, had recovered from the effects of his long cold journey. Bruno was in the highest spirits; he talked a great deal about his election, and the humorous aspects of the free and independent citizens of Smokeshire, and Lucille listened with rapture. In the evening they gave themselves up to music, to the delight of Lord Ingleshaw, who loved nothing better than to take his ease in his arm-chair while his daughter sang or played to him. There were some simple German duets, in which Lucille’s voice and her lover’s harmonised deliciously — verses all about love and flowers, and stars, and eventide. Bruno had one of those sympathetic baritone voices which are at their best in such music, and Lucille’s fresh, young mezzo-soprano sounded as untutored and free as the carolling of a bird.
Lady Carlyon, who valued music merely as an addition to a young woman’s society charms, had urged the necessity for lessons from an Italian master, in order that a more brilliant and striking effect might be obtained.
‘When I was young all the girls sang “Una voce.” Why does not Lucille sing “ Una voce”?’ she inquired; ‘those little things of Mozart’s are all very well before she is out; but in society I should like to hear her do something better.’
‘In society I shall hold my tongue, auntie,’ Lucille answered, laughing. ‘People who can have Patti or Nilsson at their parties won’t want my little pipe.’
‘Not on state occasions, perhaps; but amateur concerts are very much in vogue, and I should like my niece to be able to distinguish herself. You ought to compose an occasional thing too, — a gavotte, or a setting for one of Heine’s ballads; it looks well.’
This had been said before Lucille’s engagement, but after her fate was settled the dowager became less exacting.
‘You will have plenty of money, and you will be the future Countess of Ingleshaw,’ she said; ‘ so you can do as you like. Very few girls jump into their independence so easily.’
‘Isn’t it good of Bruno? ‘asked Lucille, smiling.
‘Bruno could not have done better for himself,’ replied Lady Carlyon; ‘he understands perfectly what is good for him.’
This was one of those speeches that wound, like the feathery air-blown darts of a South American savage; so slight and light a thing, and yet so deadly. But now Lucille had forgotten her worldly-minded aunt’s caustic speech and freezing philosophy. Bruno was restored to her, as tender and as true as he had been in the first days of their engagement. Once in the course of the evening she found herself wondering whether he had any curiosity about Elizabeth May; whether he knew she was still in the house, or concerned himself about her in any way.
By one of those coincidences which seem like magnetism, Lord Ingleshaw began to talk about Elizabeth in the next moment.
‘How is Lucille’s protégée?’ he asked, addressing him-self to Miss Marjorum, who sat by the fire knitting a comforter. Miss Marjorum knitted comforters for all the gaffers and goodies in the parish. ‘Still grinding away at the three R’s?’
‘ If you mean reading, writing, and arithmetic, she conquered those three months ago. Rhetoric, rhythm, and Roman history would answer better for her present studies, ‘replied Miss Marjoram, pompously. ‘All I can say is, I never had such a pupil — such application, such tenacity of purpose, and such an acute intelligen
ce. I suppose the poor creature feels that, for her, education is matter of life or death, just the one thing that can raise her out of the Slough of Despond in which she was born and bred.’
‘I am very glad I was bear such a good account of her,’ said the Earl, ‘I was rather afraid that my daughter’s imitation of the good Samaritan would entail no end of trouble on all of us. You are not tired of your protégée?, Lucille?’
‘No, father, I am delighted to have been able to help — to help her to so good a friend as Miss Marjorum, that is to say,’ said Lucille, with a loving look at her old governess, ‘for it is to her careful teaching Elizabeth owes most. ‘Mrs. Raymond is quite charmed with her, and has engaged her as nursery governess. I know she will be happy at the Dower House.’
‘No doubt of that,’ replied Lord Ingleshaw; ‘Mrs. Raymond is one of the best little women I know.’
During this conversation Lucille’s eyes had almost unconsciously watched Bruno’s face. He sat in the full light of the lamp, turning over the leaves of a Doré Tennyson, as if in sheer emptiness of mind. His eyes were on the pictures as he slowly turned them over. If Elizabeth’s name had power to quicken the beating of his heart, no quiver of brow or lip betrayed that influence. A marble image could not have been calmer than that broad open brow and that finely-moulded mouth. Yet this calmness cost Bruno Challoner no light effort. He had conquered the dangerous feeling which Elizabeth had aroused in him; but he had not forgotten her, and the memory of her was full of pain.
It was a relief, or it ought to have been a relief, to know that her future was comfortably provided for; that she would be sheltered in a home where her husband coul scarcely venture to persecute her. There would, of course always be the danger of his claiming her, so long as the marriage-tie remained unbroken; but it was probable that a man of that stamp would put himself out of court by leading an immoral life, and that there might be a judicial separation by-and-by. All this was satisfactory, so far as Elizabeth was concerned; and it was undoubtedly a comfort to know that she had overcome any fatal penchant — betrayed so artlessly, yet with such impassioned looks, such thrilling tones, that night on board the yacht. Yes, all this was comfort, and knowing that it was so, Bruno wondered that his heart should wax heavy, his pulses throb tumultuously, at the very mention of this girl’s name.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1113
