He closed the book suddenly, and looked up at Lucille. That sweet fair face was turned to him, the soft blue eyes seeking his with vague pathetic entreaty, as if she said, ‘Think of me, and of me only; lean on me; be true to me. ‘Yes, dear one,’ he answered inwardly, ‘ I will be true; I will hold fast by your love; and all will be well with us both in the end.’
At eleven o’clock the butler brought in some old-fashioned spiced concoction of hot wine, which was supposed to have a peculiar appropriateness to Christmastide. The tankard that held it and the goblets into which it was poured were nearly three hundred years old — plate that had been buried under old stone urns in the pleasaunce during the Civil War, and had thus escaped that period of general melting down. Lucille sipped a little of the mulled wine dutifully, not liking it at all, but accepting it as a libation to Father Christmas. Bruno did not scruple to make a wry face at the mixture, declaring that it was like a Mansion House loving cup warmed up. And then they all drank happiness to each other, and peace and goodwill to all men.
Midnight was striking when Lucille and Miss Marjorum took their candles and retired. Lord Ingleshaw followed immediately, leaving Bruno to find his way to his rooms when he pleased. The young senator was in no hurry to retire. His brain was too highly strung for sleep to be possible yet awhile: so he raked the fading logs together, and sat in front of the low fire musing for nearly an hour before he rose slowly and meditatively, lighted his candle, extinguished the lamps, and went into the corridor.
All was dark outside. Bruno’s solitary candle made a faint spot of light upon the darkness of the long corridor, with its pictured faces, and old carved-oak cabinets projecting their bulky forms at intervals in the blank spaces between the doors.
‘What a house for burglars!’ thought Bruno. This silence and darkness of the small boon is apt to set people thinking of burglars, if they are happily exempt from the necessity of thinking about blackbeetles. ‘Why a dozen black-visaged gentlemen might hide behind those cabinets!’
Suddenly, at the farthest end of the long passage, a light shone out of the gloom, like a star. This, at an hour when the whole household was supposed to be hashed in sleep, was alarming. Did that distant light portend a ghost or a burglar?
Bruno advanced boldly to meet the unknown, afraid of neither phantom nor thief, but curious, and with his pulses stirred newly
As he drew nearer to the figure he saw it was a woman, tall and slender, dressed in black. She was carrying a pile of books in one arm, a candle in the other hand; and she was that one woman whose presence had more power to agitate and disturb Bruno Challoner than any ghostly visitant from the pale dust of dead and gone centuries.
He was not disloyal; he had fought a good fight: yet this woman could never be to him as other women; for in one fatal moment of their lives she had let him understand that she loved him, and was breaking her heart for love of him.
She did not hear his footstep on the thick Axminster carpet, and he was close to her when she looked up suddenly and saw him standing before her. She started and gave a little cry, while the topmost volume of the pile of books held against her breast slipped from under her chin, and all the rest came down after it in a shower.
‘I am so sorry,’ she faltered, kneeling to pick them up; ‘I hope the noise won’t wake any one. I was going to take the books back to the library, in. case his lordship should want them to-morrow.’
‘I’ll take them back for you,’ said Bruno kindly, and with a commonplace business-like tone which he felt to be worthy of much praise. ‘Is it not rather foolish to sit up reading till such a late hour?’
‘The time slipped by,’ answered Elizabeth meekly. ‘I am not a very good sleeper, so I like to get rid of some of the night. The winter nights are so dreadfully long.’
Bruno remembered the time when no night was long enough for him; and the terrible conquest of inclination involved in getting up early, even for such delights as trout fishing or cub-hunting. Of late his nights had been not always unbroken by long watches of troubled thought.
They were both kneeling, getting the scattered volumes together by the light of the two candles on the floor beside them. Bruno glanced at the titles of the books. They were all poetry — the old-world poets, in sober brown calf livery; a set which the Earl loved and often looked at — Chaucer, Spenser, Surrey, Wyatt, Waller, Herrick, Dryden.
‘You have not read all these old fellows, have you?’ asked Bruno lightly.
‘I only read, bits here and there. It is so nice to have ever so many books, and just to dip into one after another.’
‘Yes, that is the luxury of reading. I don’t suppose it is particularly good for one, any more than a meal of ices and creams at a confectioner’s; but it is very nice.’
The pleasant lightness of his tone would have suited a conversation with some young lady in society to whom he had just been introduced, and of whom he knew nothing except that she was there, and that he was expected to be civil to her. Suddenly, as he rose with the pile of books in his arms, he looked for the first time full in Elizabeth May’s face, and the revelation which flashed upon him in that one look almost made him drop the books as awkwardly as she had dropped them a few minutes ago.
That which he saw in the too brilliant eyes, the hectic bloom, the pale parted lips, was the stamp of death. Looking at her for a space which might be counted by moments, he saw enough to be terribly certain of her doom. This girl — rescued from fever-haunted alleys and crowded garrets, from dirt and disorder, squalor, horrors of every kind; sheltered and cared for, and surrounded with all the luxuries of refinement — had broken her heart, and was dying of rapid consumption. The fiery sword had worn out the scabbard.
What was it to him that she should so die? Nothing, perhaps; but he knew, he knew! Those vaguely-passionate broken sentences on board the yacht had told him too much. There are some for whom a first impassionate romantic love means triumph or death; and in this case triumph was impossible, and the girl must die.
He thought all this as he stood carefully readjusting the pile of slippery octavos, as if all his energies were absorbed in the one duty of conveying those books safely back to their shelf; and then, glancing at that wan face uneasily, he said —
‘You are not looking so well as when I saw you last. I’m afraid you must have been very ill since I left.’
‘O no,’ she answered lightly; ‘lam quite well. I have a rather troublesome cough, and I have bad nights; but there is nothing the matter with me. Mrs. Raymond it going to me to Brighton at the beginning of the year, and then I shall get rid of my cough.’
‘Has Mr. Wharton seen you?’
‘Yes; Lady Lucille insisted upon my seeing him. He gave me some stuff for my cough, and told me to wear warm clothes, and not to study so much. That was all.’
‘He is a fool!’ said Bruno angrily. ‘I should like you — You ought to see a London physician — Jenner, Gull, Clark — somebody who has common sense.’
‘That would be a waste of money and trouble, I shall get quite well at Brighton,’ the girl answered with conviction.
Bruno was silent for a moment or so; and then, in a lowered voice, he asked —
‘Have you heard any more of that man — your husband?’
No, not a word. I am so thankful for that. I begin to hope that he is coming here any more. Good-night, Mr. Challoner — if — if you a are really going to be so kind as to take those books back to the library for me.’
She made him a curtsy, just as she would have done to the Earl; and then went quickly to her room, the door of which was close by; leaving Bruno to carry the books downstairs, through the dark silent house.
CHAPTER VIII. AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS.
‘So are our gentle natures intertwined
With sweet humanities, and closely knit
In kindly sympathy with human kind.’
CHRISTMAS-DAY passed very happily for Lucille, whose fair face was flushed with delight at hav
ing her lover at her side once more in the old square pew, where the crimson velvet cushions and footstools had faded almost to a neutral tint in the lapse of a century of Sundays, and where the most modern of the big quarto prayer-books contained a prayer for George and Charlotte, of pious domestic memory. It was a clear frosty morning; not a black frost, by any means, but an ideal Christmas-day — warm in the sunlight, crisply cold in the shade. All the trees looked like fairy-trees, and the lake was crowded with village skaters in the early afternoon. Lucille and Bruno walked to and from church, calling on Mrs. Raymond at the Dower House on their way home.
The children here were full of enquiries about Elizabeth, whom they called Miss May. They liked her so much, they told Bruno. They were always confidential with Bruno, who was a great favourite with them all. They were so glad she was going to be their governess. They meant to be very good, and learn all the lessons she set them; and then she would play hide and-seek and Tom Tiddler with them — she had promised as much. And then they asked Bruno if he knew Tom Tiddler; to which Bruno replied that he had some recollection of having made the gentleman’s acquaintance in very early days before he went to Eton.
“But didn’t you play at Tom Tiddler’s ground at Eton?’ inquired Totty, standing close up to Bruno’s knee, with her eyes very wide open.
‘No. We concentrated all our energies on cricket.’
‘Then what a nasty school Eton must be, if they wouldn’t let you play Tom Tiddler!’
‘Hard lines, wasn’t it?’ agreed Bruno; ‘a T. T. Club would have been a relaxation from the responsibilities of fielding and bowling.’
‘I like cricket,’ said Dotty, standing at Bruno’s other knee, and speaking in a defiant voice.
‘Then you oughtn’t!’ exclaimed Lotty; ‘it’s a boy’s game, and girls oughtn’t to like boy’s games.’
Mrs. Raymond at this juncture sent the children into the garden, lest they should become oppressive.
‘You are too good to them, Mr. Challoner,’ she said; ‘and they are such talkative children; they have been allowed to say what they like, and they will express their opinions. Isn’t it lucky they are so pleased with Miss May?’
“Yes, that is very fortunate,’ answered Bruno cooly, yet wondering all the while why the more mention of Elizabeth’s name should set his heart aching, just as a kindly-meant inquiry about chronic neuralgia will bring on the pain. ‘The very name of governess is enough to set some children against the person whom they are asked to receive in that capacity.’
‘O, but Miss May is so nice!’ said Mrs. Raymond; ‘she has no governessish ways. Of course that is only natural, since this is to be her first attempt; but I find her positively charming. No one would imagine her a person of low antecedents; she is one of Nature’s jewels.’
‘I’m afraid she is very ill,’ said Bruno, in a low serious voice. Lucille had been carried off to the garden by the children, to see their snow-man, a colossal figure of heaped up snow, with a supposed semblance to humanity, carried out and accentuated by an inverted flower-pot, which was meant to represent a hat. ‘I saw her last night, by accident, and I was shocked by the change in her. She looks like a person who is going into a decline.’
‘O, no, no!’ exclaimed Mrs. Raymond cheerfully, ‘I am sure there is nothing so serious as that. She has a winter cough, that’s all. A fortnight of dear lively Brighton will set her up again.’
‘I don’t think she ought to go to Brighton,’ said Bruno. ‘She ought to have the very best advice that London can give, and be sent off to the south of France without an hour’s delay.’
‘And what is to become of Lotty, Dotty, and Totty?’ cried Mrs. Raymond; ‘ they are so fond of her.’
‘Lotty and Dotty can get another governess; but Elizabeth cannot get another life, if she throws away the one Providence has given her,’ answered Bruno, waxing stern.
‘O Mr. Challoner, surely you cannot think me so selfish as to wish the dear girl to run any risk on my account!’ protested Mrs. Raymond, with a grieved look. ‘I like her so much, and so do my children. If I thought there were anything serious I should be deeply concerned.’
‘I am sure she is seriously ill. I could not be mistaken in her appearance, though I saw her only for a few minutes. I don’t want to alarm Lucille — who — who is very sensitive, and very fond of her protégée. I know what a sensible practical woman you are, dear Mrs. Raymond, and I want you to take this poor creature in hand. Take her up to London to see a physician the very first day you can; go to the very best man you can — Jenner, I think. Money need be no consideration; I will send you a cheque. But don’t let Lucille be made unhappy by knowing how very serious the case is.”
‘No, no, dear girl; so near her wedding too, when life is full of joy for her.’
‘Then I may rely upon your managing this for me?’
‘Certainly. Let me see, we could not go to-morrow, Boxing-day — travelling would be impossible; and I suppose even the physicians take a holiday on that day. Shall we go the day after?’
‘If you please. It might be best to write to Sir William Jenner by this evening’s post, asking for an appointment.’
‘Yes, that shall be done.’
They had just time for their talk when Lucille was brought back in triumph by the three chubby little girls, all in new gray velveteen frocks, point lace collars of motherly workmanship, and scarlet sashes. They had shown Lady Lucille all their treasures — snow-man, bantams, rabbits, and a goat which was being broken to harness, not without a tendency on his own part to breaking carriages.
‘‘Ady ‘Ucille ‘ikes my bunny best,’ cried Dotty, the youngest of these graces, who had not yet conquered the letter l.
‘She says so ‘cos you ast her, and she’s too polite to say no,’ said Totty; ‘you didn’t ought to have ast.’
‘“Ast” and “didn’t ought!” ‘ cried Mrs. Raymond; ‘that is Phoebe’s English. You see how badly we all want a governess.’
‘Mother doesn’t!’ exclaimed Lotty; ‘mother knows — O, such lots!’
‘Be sure you are all with us before five,’ said Lucille, as she took leave of Mrs. Raymond.
There was to be a grand German, Christmas-tree for the
school-children at five o’clock, and a game at blind man’s buff afterwards for the little Raymonds and some other children of the genteel classes, in whom Lucille was interested.
Bruno felt more comfortable in his mind after that little talk with Mrs. Raymond. Elizabeth’s face had haunted him, by fits and starts, all through the church service, coming back upon his mind every now and then, in his happier moments, like the memory of a great sorrow which Will not let a man rest. He could nor bear to think that she should fade and perish before his eyes, and he make no effort to save her. She was nothing, never could be anything, to him; but she had loved him, and for that fact alone she must always be sacred in his thoughts.
Luncheon was almost as merry a meal as dinner had been yesterday. The Vicar and his daughters had been brought to the Castle by the Earl, and they were full of life and spirits.
After luncheon they all walked down to the lake to see the skaters; and Miss Marjorum created some sensation by a new bonnet, which was in the very latest Tunbridge Wells Parisian fashion, but which was better adapted for exhibition in a milliner’s window — where one saw it only from an abstract point of view — than for Miss Marjorum’s head.
‘I didn’t like to wear it in the morning,’ said Miss Marjorum meekly, when the Vicarage girls had complimented her. ‘I thought it might be too conspicuous for a village church.’
‘I’m afraid it would have distracted the school-children,’ said Emma, the eldest girl.
‘And it might have made them discontented with their Dunstables,’ said Alice, the second.
Laura, the youngest, was hiding behind her sister, speechless with laughter. That velvet monstrosity, with its ostrich feather, fixed in its place by a sprawling brass lizard, had been too mu
ch for her equanimity.
Day was dying when they went back to the Castle, with that pleasant darkness of an early winter evening-stars shining faintly in the dim gray sky, a low streak of golden light slowly fading in the far-off west. Lucille and Bruno walked side by side through the leafless avenue, talking in low voices; while the Vicarage girls skipped on in front of them, prattling gaily with Miss Marjorum. The youngest of the family was nine-and-twenty, but they were spoken on everywhere as the Vicarage girls, and will be so spoken of when the youngest is forty. This was not flattery, but a friendly tribute to the inherent girlishness and gushingness of the damsels, a perennial freshness which time could not destroy.
The great hall of the Castle was brilliant with the many-tapered Christmas-tree when they went in. The logs in the wide stone fireplace burnt low, and their red light was obscured by a broad Indian screen, so as to concentrate the effect of those tiny twinkling tapers, which shone upon every spray of the tall yew-tree, one of the gardener’s finest specimens, yielded up reluctantly for the occasion. Fairy-like dolls were perched among the branches — dolls in white and silvery raiment, with diadems on their flaxen heads, and wands in their waxen hands; angelic dolls, with golden wings; Watteau dolls, with chintz frocks and beribboned crooks. Other branches drooped heavily with baskets of sweetmeats; cracker-bonbons hung in gorgeous festoons from bough to bough; Tangerine oranges, tiny red apples, showed bright amidst the sombre green; toy watches and coral necklaces hung on every bough. Tompion and Elizabeth, with all the other maids to help them, had been toiling since luncheon to produce this dazzling effect. It was Elizabeth whose deft fingers had dressed the dolls, and made the seraphic wings and fairy wands out of gilt paper. It had pleased her to be thus useful, even with that gnawing pain in her side all the time she worked — that ever-increasing languor which made work so difficult.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1114
