Several hours had passed before Mrs. Marston was restored to consciousness; to this state of utter insensibility, one of silent, terrified stupor succeeded — and it was not until she saw her daughter Rhoda standing at her bedside, weeping, that she found voice and recollection to speak.
“My child — my darling — ray poor child,” she cried, sobbing piteously, as she drew her to her heart, and looked in her face alternately— “my darling — my darling child.”
Rhoda could only weep, and return her poor mother’s caresses in silence. Too young and inexperienced to understand the full extent and nature of this direful calamity — the strange occurrence — the general and apparent consternation of the whole household, and the spectacle of her mother’s agony, bad filled her with fear, perplexity, and anguish. Scared and stunned with a vague sense of danger, like a young bird, that, for the first time, cowers under a thunderstorm, she nestled in her mother’s bosom — there, with a sense of protection, and with a feeling of boundless love and tenderness, she lay, frightened, wondering, and weeping.
Two or three days passed, and Dr. Danvers came and sate for several hours with poor Mrs. Marston. To comfort and console, were, of course, out of his power. The nature of the bereavement — far more terrible than death — its recent occurrence — the distracting consciousness of all its complicated consequences — rendered this a hopeless task. She bowed herself under the blow, with the submission of a broken heart. The hope to which she had clung for years had vanished — the worst that ever her imagination feared, had come in earnest.
One idea was now constantly present in her mind. She felt a sad, but immovable assurance, that she should not live long, and the thought— “What will become of my darling, when I am gone — who will guard and love my child when I am in my grave — whom is she to look to for tenderness and protection then?” perpetually haunted her, and superadded the pangs of a still wilder despair to the desolation of a broken heart.
It was not for more than a week after this event, that, one day, Willett, with a certain air of anxious mystery, entered the silent and darkened chamber where Mrs. Marston lay — she had a letter in her hand — the seal and handwriting were Mr. Marston’s. It was long before the injured wife was able to open it — when she did so, the following sentences met her eye: —
“GERTRUDE — Y on can be ignorant neither of the nature, nor of the consequences of the decisive step I have taken — I do not seek to excuse it. For the censure of the world — its meddling and mouthing hypocrisy — I care absolutely nothing — I have long set it at defiance — and you yourself, Gertrude, when you deliberately reconsider the circumstances of estrangement and coldness under which, though beneath the same roof, we have lived for years — without either sympathy or confidence, can scarcely — if at all regret the rupture of a tie which had long ceased to be anything better than an irksome and galling formality — I do not desire to attribute to you the smallest blame. There was an incompatibility, not of temper, but of feelings, which made us strangers, though calling one another man and wife — upon this fact I rest my own justification; our living together under these circumstances was, I dare say, equally undesired by us both. It was, in fact, but a deference to the formal hypocrisy of the world. At all events, the irrevocable act which separates us for ever is done — and I have now merely to state so much of my intentions as may relate in anywise to your future arrangements. I have written to your cousin, and former guardian, Mr. Roe, telling him how matters stand between us. You, I told him, shall have, without opposition from me, the whole of your own fortune to your own separate use, together with whatever shall be mutually agreed upon as reasonable, from my income, for your support, and that of my daughter. It will be necessary to complete your arrangements with expedition, as I purpose returning to Dunoran in about three weeks — and as, of course, a meeting between you and those by whom I shall be accompanied is wholly out of the question, you will see the expediency of losing no time in adjusting everything for your’s, and my daughter’s departure. In the details, of course, I shall not interfere. I think I have made myself clearly intelligible, and would recommend your communicating at once with Mr. Roe, with a view to completing temporary arrangements, until your final plans shall have been decided upon.
“RICHARD MARSTON.”
The reader can easily conceive the feelings with which this letter was perused. We shall not attempt to describe them; nor shall we weary his patience by a detail of all the circumstances attending Mrs. Marston’s departure. Suffice it to mention, that, in less than a fortnight after the receipt of the letter which we have just copied, she had for ever left the mansion of Dunoran.
In a small house, in a sequestered part of the beautiful county of Wicklow, the residence of Mrs. Marston and her daughter was for the present fixed. And there, for a time, the heartbroken and desolate lady enjoyed, at least, the privilege of an immunity from the intrusions of all external troubles. But the blow, under which the feeble remains of her health and strength were gradually to sink, had struck too surely home — and, from month to month — almost from week to week — the progress of decay was perceptible.
Meanwhile, though grieved and humbled, and longing to return to Ireland, to comfort his unhappy mother, Charles Marston, for the present absolutely dependant upon his father, had no choice but to remain at Oxford, and to pursue his studies there.
At Dunoran, Marston and the partner of his guilt continued to live. The old servants were all gradually dismissed, and new ones hired by Mademoiselle de Barras. There they dwelt, shunned by everybody, in a stricter and more desolate seclusion than ever. The novelty of the unrestraint and licence of their new mode of life speedily passed away, and with it the excited and guilty sense of relief, which had for a time produced a false and hollow gaiety. The sense of security prompted in mademoiselle a hundred indulgences, which, in her former precarious position, she would not have dreamed of. Outbreaks of temper, sharp, and sometimes violent, began to manifest themselves on her part — and renewed disappointment, and blacker remorse, to darken the mind of Marston himself. Often, in the dead of night, the servants would overhear their bitter and fierce altercations ringing through the melancholy mansion — and often the reckless use of terrible and mysterious epithets of crime. Their quarrels increased in violence and in frequency — and, before two years had passed, feelings of bitterness, hatred, and dread, alone seemed to subsist between them. Yet, upon Marston she continued to exercise a powerful and mysterious influence. There was a dogged, apathetic submission upon his part, and a growing insolence upon her’s, constantly more and more strikingly visible. Neglect, disorder, and decay, too, were more than ever apparent in the dreary air of the place.
THE END
MY AUNT MARGARET’S ADVENTURE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER I.
AUNT MARGARET AT HOME.
MY Aunt Margaret was what is termed a clever woman — that is to say, she was keen and resolute, prompt and active, and difficult to overreach in matters of money or business. Of the former she was, people said, a little too fond. At all events she hated waste, and lived frugally on a dietary which leaned much upon tea and eggs, and sometimes omitted dinner altogether. But though light, her housekeeping was neither beggarly nor altogether uncomfortable.
Aunt Margaret, as I remember her — dear me, how many years ago! — was rather tall, if anything, and decidedly slim and erect, with a countenance which, though shrewd and energetic, had yet something kindly in it Her features were small and nicely turned, and one could quite suppose that she might have been a pretty girl once on a time.
She held herself well, and stepped with a good, firm tred, and lightly withal. Hers was a rus
tic life, somewhat lonely, in a three-storied house, with three rooms on a floor, and a gable at front — steep-roofed and tiled, and with a great growth of jessamine and woodbine about the porch and the windows. Half a dozen tall, dark elms made a comfortable shadow about the house; and a white paling in front enclosed, by the roadside, the little flower garden, with an old mulberry tree in the centre.
In the rear was a lock-up yard with coachhouse and stable, and a comfortable room in which old Tom Clinton slept with a blunderbuss and back-sword in case of robbers. On week-days Aunt Margaret dressed very plainly — stuff in winter, cotton in summer; but on Sundays she went to church in thick old satins or ancient brocades, so stiff that the squire’s lady across the aisle used to talk of them covetously for days after, and wonder why such things were not to be had now-a-days.
Aunt Margaret was always particularly neat She used to carry her keys in an oldfashioned way, man a ribbon by her side, a neat little pincushion, her scissors, and I forget what else. It was the tradition of that chatelaine which I saw revived lung after poor Aunt Margaret had gone to her rest She had long and very pretty hands — her years considered; and, in fact, the only thing I remember decidedly against her was her enamelled box of rappee, and the habit to which it ministered.
Her prime-minister was Winnifred Dobbs — fattish, rosy, ancient Time had thinned her flowing hair, and bleached it somewhat; but she smiled largely, and was goodhumoured; although not very quick, was steady and sure, and chatted volubly, though not always much to the purpose; and Aunt Margaret gave her her tea in the drawingroom, which was an excuse for keeping her there for the rest of the evening; and so Aunt Margret was not quite so lonely as she might have been.
There was a young and stumpy girl beside, who washed, and did nearly everything, and must have found these young days rather dull. To her the view of the road from the kitchen window was a resource, and the occasional calls of the baker, butcher, and dairyman were precious. She talked and laughed with herself; she sang a great deal in the scullery, and joked with the cat in the kitchen.
Among Aunt Margaret’s sources of revenue was her moiety of what she called the Winderbrooke property. Everybody, of course, knows the old town of Winderbrooke. Three houses in the main street belonged to her and her sister. Of these, for convenience, they made a division, the best they could. Aunt Margaret had for her share a tobacconist and half a tailor. The latter was punctual; but the tobacconist owed a whole year’s rent, and was already some way in his third half-year. His letters were highly unsatisfactory. The tailor’s answers to her inquiries about his defaulting neighbour were reserved and evasive. But that Be had a wise terror of law and lawyers my Aunt would have retained an attorney forthwith.
“I’m not surprised, Winnie,” said my Aunt, snuffing her candle, as she and her confidential handmaid sat by the fire, in her diminutive drawing room, at their tea; “not the least. Did you ever know one man tell of another when a woman was concerned Î John Pendle has been my tenant eleven years and knows all about that roguish snuff-man; but he won’t tell me one iota about him. Not that Browning is anything on earth to him. I suppose he doesn’t care if Browning was hanged; but simply Browning is a man, and I a woman. That’s it, Winnie — that’s all — I’m to be robbed and no one to prevent it A conspiracy I call it. I tell you, Winnie, I never knew one man prevent another’s robbing a woman, except when he hoped to rob her himself.
Honest Dobbs’s fat face and round eyes looked distressed over her teacup at her mistress, while she discoursed; and she made answer only by that expressive but unspellable tick-tick-ticking made by the tip of the tongue at the back of the teeth.
“And rob me they would, Winnie, if I were half such a fool as you, for instance. But I’ll show them there are women who do know something of business.”
And she nodded mysteriously, but briskly, on her maid with a side-glance of her dark eye.
“I mean to start tomorrow morning, after breakfast, at eight o’clock. You come with me, Winnie, and we’ll sleep tomorrow night at Winderbrooke, and that, I think, will surprise
CHAPTER II.
MY AUNT MARGARET ON THE ROAD.
OLD Tom Teukesbury, from the “Bull,” was not at the little wicket of Aunt Margaret’s habitation until sixteen minutes past nine.
As Tom drew up, driving a one-horse covered vehicle, the name and fashion of which have long passed away, my Aunt, fully equipped was standing on the step of her open door, with her watch in her right hand, the dial of which she presented grimly at Tom, perched in the distance on the box.
Tom’s lean, mulberry-coloured face, sharp nose, and cold gray eyes winced not at the taunt “It’s easy a showin’ a watch. I’d like to know where the ‘oss is to come from, if maister sends the grey to Huntley, and Jack can’t go in harness noways; and here’s the bay can’t go neither without a brushing boot; and I’m to go down to Hoxton to borrow one of Squire; there’s a raw there as big as my’ hand — you don’t want her to founder ‘twixt this and Muckleston, I’m sure; and you wouldn’t be so hard on the brute, to drive her without one — and that’s why, ma’am.”
Tom’s way with women when he was late, was to complicate the case, with an issue on farriery, which soon shuts them up.
So Winnifred got in with a basket of edibles, and the carpet-bag on the seat beside my Aunt, who entered the vehicle severely.
It was a journey of nearly forty miles, by cross-roads, to Winderbrooke. All geographers well know the range of bills that lie between Hoxton and that town. The landscape is charming — the air invigorating. But the pull up the steep road that scales the side of the hill, is severe. The bay-mare showed signs of her soft feeding. She was hirsute, clumsy, and sudorous. She had a paunch, and now and then a cavernous cough.
The progress was, therefore, slow; and the ladies, every here and there, up particulars stiff bits, were obliged to get out and walk, which, although my Aunt might not mind it much, distressed good Winnifred Dobbs, who was in no condition for executing an excelsior movement on foot.
Near the summit of the hill the ladies waxed hungry; so, it was presumed, did the mare. The party halted; the nosebag was applied; the basket was opened: Tom had a couple of clumsy sandwiches; the ladies partook; and the bay mare enjoyed her repast with that pleasant crisp crunching, which agreeably suggests good grinders and a good grist There was still a little pull before reaching the crown of the hill Winnifred could walk no more; but my Aunt trod nimbly up the ascent, and on reaching the summit, made a halt, and, like an invading general, viewed with an eye at once curious and commanding, the country that lay beneath.
She was looking for Winderbrooke close by the foot of the hill.
“Where’s the town?” demanded my Aunt.
“Wat toon, ma’am?” inquired Tom. “Winderbrooke, to be sure.”
“Well, Winderbrooke will be there.” Tom was pistoling Winderbrooke with his whip.
“Where?”
“You see the steeple there?”
“Ay.”
“Well, that isn’t it.”
“No?”
“Now, ye’ll see a bit of a rock or a hillock atop o’ that hill.”
“That hill — well?”
“Now, follow that line on past that whitish thing ye see.”
“You don’t mean on that remote plain? Why, man, that’s the horizon.”
“Well, it’s beyond that a little bit, over the rising ground that will be jest there; and folks say, on a clear day, you may see the smoke o’ the toon over it, though I never did.
There was a pause, and my Aunt looked stem and black toward the remote objects which he indicated and neither could see, and then she looked back over her shoulder in the direction of home. I can’t say what was passing in her mind; but she looked forward again, and with an angry side-glance at Tom, she said — Why, it’s a perfect journey!” There was another pause, and she said with a dry abruptness, “Let me in, please;” and in the same defiant tone, “Go on!”
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And she drew up the window with a sharp clang in Tom’s face.
She sat stiff and silent, and sniffed as she looked sternly through the window, and answered Winnifred Dobbs, who was under the same comfortable delusion about the vicinity of Winderbrooke, sharply and suddenly, when she asked how far they still had to go, before reaching that resting place.
“Fifty miles, and another range of mountains.”
CHAPTER III.
THE MOON RISES.
DOWN hill was pleasanter, and the bay mare did wonders, and my Aunt, who was not more unjust than the rest of her sex, soon forgave her companion, and talked affably enough with fat old Winnie Dobbs.
About two miles beyond the foot of the hill, in a pretty hollow, lies the pleasant little town of Dramworth, with old red brick gables and many tall poplars, where at the small inn, the party changed horses.
It was not far from three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived there. One horse they found in the inn stable, but nothing less than a postchaise, and no driver on the premises, men and vehicles being away on other travels.
Tom being well known there, and fortunately being well esteemed, there was no great hesitation in trusting the horse in his hands. So the bay mare took her place in the stable, and the Dramworth steed was put to in her place. It was a long drive — three-and-twenty miles — still to Winderbrooke, and the horse and the roads indifferent The season was pretty well on in the autumn, and the evenings were not so long as they had been at midsummer, and as it was some time past three when they started, Tom could not undertake to reach their destination before nightfall.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 844
