Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  He was an officer, who had come’ down to Boscobel to hunt; and his only friend in the neighbourhood was Squire Faversham, of the Copse, a young man who enjoyed the reputation of leading a wild life in London, when he was neither hunting nor shooting in Devonshire. The fact of his friendship with Faversham was taken as all-sufficient evidence that Captain Wyatt was wild, and that whatever means he had possessed at the beginning of his career had been gambled or horse-raced away before now.

  Whether this dismal view of the case were true or false, Isabel Trevannion married this stranger to the soil, only six weeks after she met him for the first time at a ball in the old Town Hall; not the splendid Gothic edifice of the existing Boscobel, but the Town Hall of a hundred years ago, when George the Third was king, and when a Devonshire heiress with an estate worth three thousand a year was a much more central and important feature in the world where she lived than she would be nowadays.

  Boscobel was so far correct in its theorizing: the Captain was decidedly out-at-elbows. He was a younger son in a good old Shropshire family, in which means were not abundant; and whatever small patrimony had been his at the outset, had dwindled and vanished in the course of a somewhat distinguished military career. He had fought in the East Indies under Clive and Mann, and his handsome features still bore the bronze of an Indian sun. But although Geoffrey Wyatt was about as poorly off as a man could be, his marriage with Isabel Trevannion was not the less a love match. He had fallen in love with her on that first night at the Town Hall, having ample opportunity to admire the fair frank face, to sun himself in the radiance of blue eyes, during the leisurely progress of country dance and cotillon. He had time while they promenaded the rooms to discover that the girl’s mind was as bright as her eyes, and that she was disposed to think well of him. His friend, Squire Faversham, congratulated him on his conquest, as they drove home to Copse Hill in a rumbling old chariot.

  ‘It would have been the making of me, if she’d ever been as civil to me!’ said Faversham, with a pang of envy. ‘ I paid her a good deal of attention last winter, but it was no use. I’m not good-looking enough, I suppose; and then you see these young women like the idea of a soldier — an Indian hero, who may be a lord some day, like Bob Clive.’

  The two young men went a few days afterwards to call on the heiress. The Favershams and Trevannions had always been friendly, and the Squire had the right of approach.

  Isabel received them with smiles and blushes and happy looks, which were not meant for Faversham. That harebrained young gentleman knew only too well that it was not for him the blue eyes sparkled and danced so beautifully, while dimples came and went in the fair cheeks. But he was a good-natured youth, and did not want to spoil sport. He asked Isabel to let his friend see the Abbey, which was full of beauty and interest from an archæological point of view, and she rose gaily to accompany them through the rooms.

  ‘Servants are so stupid,’ she said, ‘ they can never explain things properly. I had better take Mr. Faversham’s friend round myself, had I not, Auntie?’

  This question was addressed to the dearest old lady in the world, who pretended to take care of Isabel, but whose guardianship was very mildly exercised; insomuch as she spent her existence knitting, or reading the British Essayists, in one particular arm-chair, which stood by the fire in winter and in a sunny window in summer, and never troubled herself about anything, so long as her niece was well and happy. The question was therefore merely a matter of form. The old lady smiled and nodded; the young one went off with the two gentlemen. The house took a long time to see. It was so rich in relics and memories; the remains of old monastic days, the portraits of dead and. gone ancestors; curious little cabinet pictures collected in the Low Countries, mosaics and marbles bought by dilettante Trevannions in their Italian travels. Miss Trevannion and her guests lingered in the corridors, where there were most inviting velvet-cushioned window-seats. They loitered over the old china, Isabel explaining and exhibiting the family treasures with a pardonable pride. She had seen so little of this world, outside Boscobel Abbey, that she might be forgiven if she fancied the old house just the one most interesting thing in the universe. Her father had been born in it, her mother had lived and died in it, and she had loved them both so well, that the mere sense of its association with them made the gray old mansion sacred. She was pleased by Captain Wyatt’s warm admiration of the place.

  ‘You ought to see the gardens in summer,’ she said, as they stood in one of the windows looking out at blossomless lawns.

  When summer came Geoffrey Wyatt was master at Boscobel Abbey, and signed himself Wyatt Trevannion. His wife idolized him, and he doated upon her; yet, like many doating lovers, they sometimes quarrelled. That even and placid affection which the poet calls thrice blessed was not theirs. They were both hot-tempered; the heiress had always been, in the language of admiring friends, high-spirited; and her high spirit showed itself occasionally, even to an idolized husband. She was jealous, suspicious of his attentions to other women; and it was Geoffrey’s habit to be attentive to every pretty woman. She was jealous of his pleasures — hated him to be away from her; and she could not quite forget that he owed her everything, that he had been penniless Geoffrey Wyatt of nowhere in particular before her love made him Wyatt Trevannion, master of the dearest old house in the world, and the first gentleman in Boscobel. It never occurred to her rustic innocence that Boscobel was a very small dominion in which to be Prince Consort.

  Aunt Tabitha, the dear little old lady in black brocade and gold-rimmed spectacles, did her best to keep peace between the married lovers, so long as she sat beside their hearth; but the first winter of their domestic life saw the evanishment of that gentle figure, and then there was no one to murmur tender little conciliatory speeches when the two quarrelled. Happily their quarrels, though not unfrequent, were brief, and generally ended with one of those tender reconciliations which are said to be the renewal of love.

  Several winters and summers had come and gone since Geoffrey looked out at the Abbey gardens for the first time, and it could not be said that Isabel was otherwise than happy in her married life. There were no children, but this fact was taken to heart much more deeply by the inhabitants of Boscobel in general than by Isabel herself. She loved her husband too entirely and profoundly to have any sense of loss in the absence of other ties. So long as she had him she had everything; her chief trouble was that she had not always him. He was an ardent sportsman, and from September to April his days were devoted to hunting and shooting. He was fond of racing, and in the summer was often away at distant race meetings. He had a modest racing stud of his own, and had won cups in a small way. Isabel had never grudged him the money which he wasted on this expensive amusement; but she resented his frequent absence from home, and this was their chief ground of quarrel.

  It was a delicious morning in July, and Geoffrey had returned the night before from one of those odious race-meetings, and there was no hunting or shooting possible — not even otter-hunting. Isabel and her husband strolled in the lovely old gardens; all flowers and sunlight, and velvet lawn and glancing shadows of birds; she with her hands clasped round his arm, he looking down with tender admiration at the beautiful face, the soft chestnut hair falling in loose curls upon the white neck.

  ‘Upon my soul you grow handsomer every day, Belle!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘If you really think so it must be because you see me so seldom,’ she said, pleased at his praise, yet with an undertone of resentment. ‘I possess that charm of novelty which other men’s wives can hardly have.’

  ‘I protest now, Bella, I was only away a fortnight this last bout; a fortnight from here to York and back again, allowing three days for the races. If you knew at what a rate I travelled, every bone in my body shaken within an inch of dislocation in their confounded post-chaises.’

  ‘I wish it might cure you of ever wanting to go away again, love,’ she said, ‘ and then I would be grateful to York races all the days of my l
ife.’

  ‘You ought to be very grateful as it is for the cup I won for you with Meer Jaffier. I don’t think you’ve so much as looked at it since I put it in the glass case in the hall.’

  ‘Those cups in the hall will get the house robbed some of these days,’ answered Isabel petulantly. ‘Vulgar, ugly things! I hate the sight of them, for they remind me how much of my married life I have had to spend alone.’

  ‘You know you might sometimes go with me, if you pleased,’ remonstrated Geoffrey.

  ‘Yes, and have my bones shaken in your post-chaises, and mix with the horrible coarse creatures you meet at such places, and see sights and hear language which would make me despise myself for the rest of my life. Why cannot you stay at home, where we are so happy?’

  ‘Yes, love, thank God we are very happy. Let us make the most of our happiness while it lasts; one can never tell how long the sun may shine. Is not this summer morning lovely — and that sunny stretch of grass — and the river beyond it — and the lights and shadows dancing on the hill? I have been reminded of my own good fortune to-day by a long letter from an unhappy beggar who was my brother officer and my equal in everything, before I won your love. Don’t you think such a comparison as that should make me grateful to Providence? What am I better than Jasper Dane that I should be so blest by Fate?’

  ‘Jasper Dane. Is that your friend’s name? Tell me all about him,’ Isabel answered gently, touched by her husband’s talk of his happiness.

  What could she wish for in life more than to make him happy! She knew that she had sometimes wounded him, had been cruel and bitter of speech, out of overweening love which ran into jealousy.

  ‘He is one of the cleverest fellows I ever knew,’ said Geoffrey; ‘not showy or brilliant, but a man of unbounded common sense and solidity. We were together in India. He fought like a devil at Buxar, and yet he is one of those slender, pale-faced men who would seem more in his place in a library. He rose from the ranks — a small tradesman’s son, who ran away from home on account of a step-mother’s severity; and some of our fellows slighted him on that score. But thank God I had none of their petty prejudices. Dane was the cleverest officer in the regiment, and about the best behaved, and he and I were close friends. And now he has left the army, broken in health, he tells me, and he wants civilian’s employment of some kind, and fancies I can help him. Yet, Heaven knows how I could do so, unless’ — here he hesitated a little, as if his thoughts were straying far ahead of his speech—’unless you would like me to carry out an idea which has come into my head while I have been talking to you.’

  ‘I should like you to do anything that is kind and friendly to an old friend,’ answered Isabel. ‘But what is this idea of yours?.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking what a capital fellow Jasper would be to manage your property for me — a kind of steward and accountant; a factotum to look after everything and keep everybody else in check. We’ve a bailiff for the home-farm, but the bailiff wants supervision; and we’ve an agent to collect the rents, and draw up leases, and so on; but we want a general custodian; one all-pervading mind; a man who could have no interest outside our interests. I have often felt the want of such a fellow — a man who would have the pluck to pull me up when I was spending too much money — who wouldn’t be afraid to tell me I was a fool!’

  ‘I don’t think you’d like that, Geoffrey, even from Mr. Dane.’

  ‘Oh yes, I should. Dane is one of those plain-sailing, hard-headed fellows, from whom one can stand a great deal. He used to talk to me very freely in days gone by.’

  ‘Perhaps,’answered Isabel; ‘but then you were not my husband.’

  ‘To be sure, that makes a difference, doesn’t it? But I think I could bear Dane’s lecturing even now, knowing it was all for my own good. He was adjutant of our regiment — a wonderful hand at accounts; a thoroughly commercial mind, inherited from the tradesman father, no doubt. And you would not find him a disagreeable fellow about the house. He is very quiet and gentlemanlike, and has refined tastes.’

  ‘In spite of the tradesman father?’

  ‘Oh, blood will tell of course. I daresay you would see a difference between him and a man of family.’

  ‘Like Faversham, for instance, who made me an offer in a letter which might have been written by my cowboy — and then was surprised that I refused to marry him. Will it please you to have this Mr. Dane here, Geoffrey?’

  ‘I really think it will be a relief to my mind,’ answered her husband. ‘I have felt myself getting into a financial muddle lately; and I believe that we both are cheated and imposed upon to a large extent. You are so generous, and I am so careless. A cool, clear-headed fellow like Dane would be a treasure to us.’

  ‘And you will not let him interfere with our domestic life? You will not let him deprive me of your society?’

  ‘My dearest, what are you thinking of? I want the man for his usefulness — not for his company.’

  This assurance satisfied Mrs. Trevannion, and her husband wrote to his old friend by that evening’s mail, offering him rooms at the Abbey, with a modest salary. ‘As the movement is one of economy you must not expect me to be lavish!’ he wrote. ‘I daresay with your talents you might do something better, but place-hunting is hard work. You say you are out of health. Our mild climate, pure air, and quiet life ought to go a long way towards curing you; and perhaps you may like to be domiciled with an old friend who has not forgotten old times.’

  Dane wrote by return of post, gratefully accepting the offer; and a week afterwards he came to the Abbey, arriving in the late twilight of a lovely day.

  Geoffrey and his wife were sitting on the terrace in front of the drawing-room windows, with their field and household favourites — a brace of Irish setters, a Blenheim spaniel, and a greyhound or two grouped about them. In a home where there are no children, dogs are apt to come conspicuously into the foreground.

  The butler brought Mr. Dane to the terrace, and the two men greeted each other heartily; Geoffrey receiving his friend with loud-voiced genial welcome, Jasper Dane quietly cordial.

  ‘If you knew how cheering it is to be so welcomed in such a home as this after ten years of Indian exile, you would have some idea of what I must feel for your husband, Mrs. Trevannion,’ said Mr. Dane, when Geoffrey had presented him to the mistress of the Abbey.

  She murmured some vague civility, and looked at him, not unkindly but critically, a little doubtful as to her wisdom in having allowed a new element to be introduced into her domestic life. ‘I hope he will keep his place,’ she thought.

  The man looked every inch a gentleman, in spite of his obscure origin. Ho was tall and slim, pale, delicate-featured, with dreamy gray eyes, and the whitest hands Mrs. Trevannion had ever seen in a man. Indian suns which had baked Geoffrey’s complexion to a warrior-like bronze, had only given a faint yellow tinge, like the hue of old ivory, to Jasper’s pale countenance. He had never affected out-of-door pursuits, preferring books and seclusion.

  ‘He looks as if he would keep his place,’ mused Mrs. Trevannion, whose chief thought about the stranger was an ardent hope that she and her husband might see as little as possible of him.’

  ‘If he absorbs Geoffrey I shall hate him,’ she said to herself.

  The first effect of Mr. Dane’s arrival was to give Mrs. Trevannion more of her husband’s society than she had enjoyed before his coming. His scrutiny of the financial position revealed a state of things which demanded an immediate narrowing of Captain Wyatt-Trevannion’s expenses. He had been spending his wife’s money with the recklessness of a man who, having had hitherto to deal with hundreds, believed thousands inexhaustible. With grave straightforwardness, Jasper Dane showed his friend that he had been imposing on his wife’s generosity, taking an unworthy advantage of her unquestioning love. If he were to continue his present course, he would end by encumbering the Trevannion estate by making his wife a beggar. The first thing to be done was to give up the racing stud.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s such a small one,’ said Geoffrey, pathetically.

  ‘It is big enough to spoil two thousand a year,’ answered Dane. ‘And then there are your bets.’

  ‘A gentleman ought to back his own horses. It shows good faith,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But the stud shall be sold, and I’ll bet no more. You are right, Dane. Bell has been too generous to me. I am bound to consider her welfare above everything. But a country gentleman’s life without a racing stable is deucedly humdrum.’

  ‘Humdrum, with such a wife as yours,’ exclaimed Dane, with a faint glow on his sallow cheeks. ‘You ought to be happy with her in a desert island.’

  ‘I’m going to sell the racers, so you needn’t sermonize,’ retorted Geoffrey; and the horses were sold at Exeter shortly afterwards, Mr. Dane having held his friend to his resolution, meanwhile, with a firmness of hand, remarkable in a dependent. Indeed, there were many things in which Mr. Dane soon showed himself master; Geoffrey’s self-indulgent nature lending itself easily to leading-strings.

  There was ample room for an independent existence in the spacious old Abbey. Mr. Dane had his own suite of rooms at the end of a southward-fronting wing, rooms which opened on the picture-gallery, where the effigies of departed Trevannions scowled or simpered under a top-light. He had sent to London for two large chests of books, the companions of his Indian exile, and with these, which were special in character, and the somewhat common-place library of the Abbey he had plenty of material for thought and study. He seemed fond of solitude — only came to the drawing-room when he was particularly invited, and gave Mrs. Trevannion no ground for complaining that he did not keep his place.

  She was very grateful to him for the sale of the racehorses, and was too impulsive to refrain from letting him know her gratitude.