by Ellen Wood
Mrs. Ravensworth — a young wife — turned to her husband, and spoke in English. “Arnold, what can we do? We cannot go on in the dark, with such roads as these.”
“My love, I see only one thing for it: you must sleep here, and I must sit up.”
Madame interrupted; it appeared she added a small stock of English to her other acquirements. “Oh, but dat meeseraable for monsieur: he steef in legs for morning.”
“And stiff in arms too,” laughed Arnold Ravensworth. “Do try and find us a larger bedroom.”
“Perhaps the miladi Anglaise might give up one of her rooms for dis one,” debated the hostess, bustling away to ask.
She returned, followed by an unmistakable Englishwoman, fine both in dress and speech. Was she the miladi? She talked enough for one: vowing she would never give up her room to promiscuous travellers, who prowled about with no avant courier, taking their own chance of rooms and beds; and casting, as she spoke, annihilating glances at the benighted wanderers.
“Is anything the matter, Timms?” inquired a gentle voice in the background.
Mr. Ravensworth turned round quickly, for its tones struck upon his remembrance. There stood Blanche, Lady Level; and their hands simultaneously met in surprise and pleasure.
“Oh, this is unexpected!” she exclaimed. “I never should have thought of seeing you in this remote place. Are you alone?”
He drew his wife to his side. “I need not say who she is, Lady Level.”
“Are you married, then?”
“Ask Mary.”
It was an unnecessary question, seeing her there with him, and Lady Level felt it to be so, and smiled. Timms came forward with an elaborate apology and a string of curtseys, and hoped her room would be found good enough to be honoured by any friends of my lady’s.
Lady Level’s delight at seeing them seemed as unrestrained as a child’s. Exiles from their native land can alone tell that to meet with home faces in a remote spot is grateful as the long-denied water to the traveller in the Eastern desert. And we are writing of days when to travel abroad was the exception, rather than the rule. “There is only one private sitting-room in the whole house, and that is mine, so you must perforce make it yours as well,” cried Lady Level, as she laughingly led the way to it. “And oh! what a charming break it will be to my loneliness! Last night I cried till bedtime.”
“Is not Lord Level with you?” inquired Mr. Ravensworth.
“Lord Level is in England. While they are getting Timms’ room ready, will you come into mine?” she added to Mrs. Ravensworth.
“How long have you been married?” was Lady Level’s first question as they entered it.
“Only last Tuesday week.”
“Are you happy?”
“Oh yes.”
“I knew your husband long before you did,” added Lady Level. “Did he ever tell you so? Did he ever tell you what good friends we were? Closer friends, I think, than he and his cousin Cecilia. He used to come to White Littleham Rectory, and we girls there made much of him.”
“Yes, he has often told me.”
Mrs. Ravensworth was arranging her hair at the glass, and Lady Level held the light for her and looked on. The description given of her by Blanche to her father was a very good one. A pale, gentle girl, with nice eyes, dark, inexpressively soft and attractive. “I shall like you very much,” suddenly exclaimed Lady Level. “I think you are very pretty — I mean, you have the sort of face I like to look at.” Praise that brought a blush to the cheeks of Mrs. Ravensworth.
The landlady sent them in the best supper she could command at the hour; mutton chops, served German fashion, and soup, which Lady Level’s man-servant, Sanders, who waited on them, persisted in calling the potash — and very watery potash it was, flavoured with cabbage. When the meal was over, and the cloth removed, they drew round the fire.
“Do you ever see papa?” Lady Level inquired of Mr. Ravensworth.
“Now and then. Not often. He has let his house again in Gloucester Place, and Mrs. Guy has gone back to the Channel Islands.”
“Oh yes, I know all that,” replied Blanche.
“The last time I saw Major Carlen he spoke of you — said that you and Lord Level were making a protracted stay abroad.”
“Protracted!” Blanche returned bitterly; “yes, it is protracted. I long to be back in England, with a longing that has now grown into a disease. You have heard of the mal du pays that sometimes attacks the Swiss when they are away from their native land; I think that same malady has attacked me.”
“But why?” asked Mr. Ravensworth, looking at her.
“I hardly know,” she said, with some hesitation. “I had never been out of England before, and everything was strange to me. We went to Switzerland first, then on to Italy, then back again. The longer we stayed away from England, the greater grew my yearning for it. In Savoy I was ill; yes, I was indeed; we were at Chambéry; so ill as to require medical advice. It was on the mind, the doctor said. He was a nice old man, and told Lord Level that I was pining for my native country.”
“Then, of course, you left for home at once?”
“We left soon, but we travelled like snails; halting days at one place, and days at another. Oh, I was so sick of it! And the places were all dull and retired, as this is; not those usually frequented by the English. At last we arrived here; to stay also, it appeared. When I asked why we did not go on, he said he was waiting for letters from home.”
As Lady Level spoke she appeared to be lost in the past — an expression that you may have observed in old people when they are telling you tales of their youth. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy, and it was evident that she saw nothing of the objects around her, only the time gone by. She appeared to be anything but happy.
“Something up between my lord and my lady,” thought Mr. Ravensworth. “Had your husband to wait long for the expected letters?” he asked aloud.
“I do not know: several came for him. One morning he had one that summoned him to England without the loss of a moment, and he said there was not time for me to be ready to accompany him. I prayed to go with him. I said Timms could come on afterwards with the luggage. It was of no use.”
“Would he not take you?” exclaimed Mrs. Ravensworth, her eyes full of the astonishment her lips would not express.
Blanche shook her head. “No. He was quite angry with me; said I did not understand my position — that noblemen’s wives could not travel in that unceremonious manner. I was on the point of telling him that I wished, to my heart, I had never been a nobleman’s wife. Why did he marry me, unless he could look upon me as a companion and friend?” abruptly continued Lady Level, perhaps forgetting that she was not alone. “He treats me as a child.”
What answer could be made to this?
“When do you expect him back again?” asked Mr. Ravensworth, after a pause.
“How do I know?” flashed Lady Level, her tone proving how inexpressibly sore was the subject. “He said he should return for me in a few days, but nearly three weeks have gone by, and I am still here. They have seemed to me like three months. I shall be ill if it goes on much longer.”
“Of course you hear from him?”
“Oh yes, I hear from him. A few lines at a time, saying he will come for me as soon as he possibly can, and that I must not be impatient. I wanted to go over alone, and he returned me such an answer, asking what I meant by wishing to travel with servants only at my age. I shall do something desperate if I am left here another week.”
“As you once did at White Littleham when they forbade your going to a concert, thinking you were too ill!” laughed Mr. Ravensworth.
“Dressed myself up in my best frock, and surprised them in the room. I had ten pages of Italian translation for that escapade.”
“Do you like Italy?” he inquired, after a pause.
“No, I hate it!” And the animus in Lady Level’s answer was so intense that the husband and wife exchanged stolen glances. Something must be out
of gear.
“What parts of Italy did you stay in?”
“Chiefly at Pisa — that is not far from Florence, you know; and a few days at Florence. Lord Level took a villa at Pisa for a month — and why he did so I could not tell, for it was not the season when the English frequent it: no one, so to say, was there. We made the acquaintance of a Mrs. Page Reid, who had the next villa to ours.”
“That was pleasant for you — if you liked her.”
“But I did not like her,” returned Lady Level, her delicate cheeks flushing. “That is, I did and I did not. She was a very pleasant woman, always ready to help us in any way; but she told dreadful tales of people — making one suspect things that otherwise would never have entered the imagination. Lord Level liked her at first, and ended by disliking her.”
“Got up a flirtation with her,” thought Mr. Ravensworth. But in that he was mistaken. And so they talked on.
It appeared that the mail passed through the village at night time; and the following morning a letter lay on the breakfast-table for Lady Level.
MY DEAR BLANCHE, — I have met with a slight accident, and must
again postpone coming to you for a few days. I dare say it
will not detain me very long. Rely upon it I shall be with you
as soon as I possibly can be. — Ever affectionately yours,
LEVEL.
“Short and sweet!” exclaimed Blanche, in her bitter disappointment, as she read the note at the window. “Arnold, when you and your wife leave to-morrow, what will become of me, alone here? If — —”
Suddenly, as Lady Level spoke the last word, she started, and began to creep away from the window, as if fearing to be seen.
“Arnold! Arnold! who do you think is out there?” she exclaimed in a timid whisper.
“Why, who?” in astonishment. “Not Lord Level?”
“It is Captain Cross,” she said with a shiver. “I would rather meet the whole world than him. My behaviour to him was — was not right; and I have felt ashamed of myself ever since.”
Mr. Ravensworth looked out from the window. Captain Cross, seated on the bench in the inn yard, was solacing himself with a cigar.
“I would not meet him for the world! I would not let him see me: he might make a scene. I shall stay in my rooms all day. Why does my husband leave me to such chances as these?”
That Captain Cross had not been well used was certain; but the fault lay with Major Carlen, not with Blanche. Mr. Ravensworth spoke.
“Take my advice, Lady Level. Do not place yourself in Captain Cross’s way, but do not run from him. I believe him to be a gentleman; and, if so, he will not say or do anything to annoy you. I will take care he does not, as long as I remain here.”
In the course of the morning Captain Cross and Arnold Ravensworth met. “I find Lady Level’s here!” the Captain abruptly exclaimed. “Are you staying with her?”
“I and my wife arrived here only last night, and were surprised to meet Lady Level.”
“Where’s he?” asked Captain Cross.
“In England.”
“He in England and she here, and only six months married! Estranged, I suppose. Well, what else could she expect? People mostly reap what they sow.”
Arnold Ravensworth laughed good-humouredly. He was not going to give a hint of the state of affairs that he suspected himself.
“You are prejudiced, Cross. Miss Heriot was not to blame for what happened. She was a child: and they did with her as they pleased.”
“A child! Old enough to engage herself to one man, and to marry another,” retorted Captain Cross, in a burst of angry feeling. “And Level, of all people!” — with sarcastic scorn. “Why does he leave her in Germany whilst he stays gallivanting in England? What do you say? Met with an accident, and can’t come for her? That’s his tale, I suppose. You may repeat it to the Marines, old boy; it won’t do for me. I know Level; knew him of old.”
Lady Level was as good as her word: she did not stir out of her rooms all day. On the following morning when Mr. Ravensworth came out of his chamber, he saw, from the corridor window, a travelling-carriage in the yard, packed. By the coat-of-arms he knew it for Lord Level’s. Timms moved towards him in a flutter of delight.
“Oh, if you please, sir, breakfast is on the table, and my lady is waiting there, ready dressed. We are going to England, sir.”
“Has Lord Level come?”
“No, sir: we are going with you. My lady gave orders, last night, to pack up for home. It is the happiest day I’ve known, sir, since I set foot in these barbarious countries.”
Lady Level met him at the door of the breakfast-room; “ready dressed,” as Timms expressed it, for travelling, even to her bonnet.
“Do you really mean to go with us?” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” was her decisive reply. “That is, you must go with me. Stay here longer, I will not. I tell you, Arnold, I am sick to death of it. If Lord Level is ill and unable to come for me, I am glad to embrace the opportunity of travelling under your protection: he can’t grumble at that. Besides — —”
“Besides what?” asked Mr. Ravensworth, for she suddenly stopped.
“I do not choose to remain at an inn in which Captain Cross has taken up his abode: neither would my husband wish me to do so. After you and Mrs. Ravensworth left me last night, I sat over the wood fire, thinking these things over, and made my mind up. If I have not sufficient money for the journey, and I don’t think I have, I must apply to you, Arnold.”
Whether Mr. Ravensworth approved or disapproved of the decision, he had no power to alter it. Or, rather, whether Lord Level would approve of it. After a hasty breakfast, they went down to the carriage, which had already its array of five horses harnessed to it; Sanders and Timms perched side-by-side in their seat aloft. The two ladies were helped in by Mr. Ravensworth. Captain Cross leaned against the outer wall of the salle-à-manger, watching the departure. He approached Mr. Ravensworth.
“Am I driving her ladyship off?”
“Lady Level is going to England with us, to join her husband. I told you he had met with an accident.”
“A merry meeting to them!” was the sarcastic rejoinder. And, as the carriage drove out of the inn-yard, Captain Cross deliberately lifted his hat to Lady Level: but lifted it, she thought, in mockery.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VINE-COVERED COTTAGE AT PISA.
That Archibald, Lord Level, had been a gay man, fond of pleasure, fond of talking nonsense to pretty women, the world knew well: and perhaps, world-fashion, admired him none the less for it. But his wife did not know it. When Blanche Heriot became Blanche Level she was little more than an innocent child, entirely unversed in the world’s false ways. She esteemed her husband; ay, and loved him, in a measure, and she was happy for a time.
It is true that while they were staying in Switzerland a longing for home came over her. They had halted in Paris for nearly a fortnight on their outward route. Some very nice people whom Lord Level knew were there; they were delighted with the fair young bride, and she was delighted with them. Blanche was taken about everywhere, no one being more anxious for her amusement than Lord Level himself. But one morning, in the very midst of numerous projected expeditions, he suddenly told Blanche that they must continue their journey that day.
“Oh, Archibald!” she had answered in a sort of dismay. “Why, it is this very afternoon that we were going to Fontainebleau!”
“My dear, you shall see Fontainebleau the next time we are in Paris,” he said. “I have a reason for wishing to go on at once.”
And they went on. Blanche was far too good and dutiful a wife to oppose her own will to her husband’s, or to grumble. They went straight on to Switzerland — travelling in their own carriage — but instead of settling himself in one of those pretty dwellings on the banks of Geneva’s lake, as he had talked of to Blanche, Lord Level avoided Geneva altogether, and chose a fearfully dull little village as their place of abode. Very lovely as
to scenery, it is true; but quite unfrequented by travellers. It was there that Blanche first began to long for home.
Next, they went on to Italy, posting straight to Pisa, and there Lord Level took a pretty villa for a month in the suburbs of the town. Pisa itself was deserted: it was hot weather; and Blanche did not think it had many attractions. Lord Level, however, seemed to find pleasure in it. He knew Pisa well, having stayed at it in days gone by. He made Blanche familiar with the neighbourhood; together they admired and wondered at the Leaning Tower, in its green plain, backed by distant mountains; but he also went out and about a good deal alone.
One English dame of fashion was sojourning in the place — a widow, Mrs. Page Reid. She occupied the next villa to theirs, and called upon them; and she and Lady Level grew tolerably intimate. She was a talkative, gay woman of thirty — and beside her Blanche seemed like a timid schoolgirl.
One evening, when dinner was over, Lord Level strolled out — as he often did — leaving his wife with Mrs. Page Reid, who had dined with them. The two ladies talked together, and sang a song or two; and so whiled away the time.
“Let us go out for a stroll, too!” exclaimed Mrs. Page Reid, speaking on a momentary impulse, when she found the time growing monotonous.
Blanche readily agreed. It was a most lovely night; the moon bright and silvery in the Italian sky. Putting on some fleecy shawls, the ladies went down the solitary road, and turned by-and-by into a narrow lane that looked like a grove of evergreens. Soon they came to a pretty dwelling-place on the left, half villa, half cottage. Vines grew up its trellised walls, flowers and shrubs crowded around it.
“A charming little spot!” cried Mrs. Page Reid, as they halted to peep through the hedge of myrtles that clustered on each side the low entrance-gate. “And two people are sitting there — lovers, I dare say,” she added, “telling their vows under the moonbeams.”
