Still She Wished for Company

by Margaret Irwin

  “Good-night,” she said, but still lingered. What else was there to say? To-morrow—what would they be doing tomorrow?

  Oh, yes, she knew now.

  “To-morrow,” she said, “Vesey wants us all to go fishing in the stream before dressing time. He never wishes such a thing except when you are here.”

  “La, my poor freckles!” exclaimed Sophia. “And I have got three new ones after to-day. I positively must wear a mask to-morrow, as Grandmamma used to do—’tis the only way to keep off the sun.”

  She picked up her hand-mirror, consulted it in a long, intent silence, then dropped it with a great yawn, and laughed and said——

  “What happy dreams we shall have to-night. Good-night, sweet coz.”

  She kissed her hand to her. Juliana shut the door behind her and was outside in the dark corridor.

  She knew her way too well to need a candle as she went to her own room. She passed the staircase leading down to the hall, and stopped at the head of it for an instant. She thought that she heard voices below her—a sharp exclamation, a cry, quickly stifled. They were not voices that she knew. Were there strangers, perhaps robbers, in the house?

  As she stood, peering down into the thick darkness of the hall below, she could just distinguish two figures at the foot of the stairs, and could hear, quite distinctly, a thin, ghastly, whispering voice that fear had transformed to something hardly human.

  “There! Don’t you see it? All in white—leaning over the banisters——”

  And the answer, low and hoarse—

  “Stuff and nonsense. There’s nothing there I tell you— nothing but a patch of moonlight.”

  She turned and fled back down the corridor to her cousin’s room.

  “Sophia!” she cried, flinging open the door.

  No one answered her, and the room was in darkness. She called again. But there was no one in the room.

  In the vague half-darkness of the summer’s night, she saw that the great bed was not there. The room was almost empty, and it smelt musty and cold. Two narrow, empty beds, bare and uncurtained, stood near the closed but unshuttered windows. The only thing that was the same was the polished dressing table, but that, too, was bare; empty of all Sophia’s pots and jars and sparkling rings, and covered only with a thick coating of dust that showed a dim grey glimmer in the faint light from the windows.

  Chapter XX

  They said it was the heat, that it was unwise to go fishing without a parasol. They said it was the water party, it had been too long and fatiguing. They said she could not have slept well for she had come down early, although they had been so late the night before, and had been writing at her journal for some time before breakfast. And she had not answered when Sophia had asked her at breakfast what dreams she had had of their joyous adventures. Sophia had thought it odd of her not to answer.

  Now she lay in a dead faint, and though they had cut her stay laces and slapped her hands and fanned her head and administered hartshorn and strong waters, she had not yet come to herself.

  They put her to bed in the small four-post bed in her room. Nurse was sent for, and arrived running with a basket of phials, a verbal volume of prescriptions, and little William clinging to her petticoats like a frightened cherub caught up and swept along in the ample robes of an agitated Madonna. Having heard that his darling Miss Julie was ill, nothing would induce him to leave his mother till he had seen her.

  They were all in the room and round the bed, Sophia sobbing excitedly, Charlotte gaping, Aunt Emily darting in and out to fetch things that nobody wanted, Lady Chidleigh very still and composed, her high colour much abated, so that in her cherry-coloured wrapper her cheeks wore an odd purplish hue. Vesey had ridden to Reading for a surgeon, swearing that no servant could be trusted to ride as fast as he, and George had vanished mysteriously after the first alarm. Their absence, however, was amply compensated for by the crowd of servants huddled round the door.

  Little William, frightened by all these bustling people round that still, white face on the pillow, so different from the Miss Julie he knew, burst into a loud roar of crying.

  Juliana opened her eyes and whispered, “What, have you all come back?” and then shut them again.

  She was wandering, of course. William was removed, but not unkindly, for it was felt that he had rendered a service. It was less alarming to have her wandering than in that dead passivity.

  Juliana heard them say she was wandering. She wanted to ask how far she had wandered and if she would do so again, but she did not feel strong enough to ask yet. She remembered that she had looked everywhere for Lucian last night, knowing that if she could find him all would be well. She must have forgotten that he had left Chidleigh.

  That was all she could remember of her wanderings of last night as she lay now with closed eyes. She had forgotten them altogether when she had waked early this morning and rose at once so as to write the full record of the water party in her journal before breakfast. She had forgotten them until Sophia asked her at breakfast what dreams she had had of their joyous adventures, and then an obscure recollection of those “wanderings” had floated disturbingly back upon her.

  She opened her eyes once more. It surprised her to see all those people round the bed, so full of life and bustle. Last night the house had been empty of them. At any moment they might disappear again.

  The surgeon arrived, breathless at the rate at which Vesey had brought him. He bled Juliana and then pronounced that she had fallen into a health-giving sleep, thanks to his efforts. But in the health-giving sleep she continued so white and still, her breathing so scarcely perceptible, that all grew alarmed.

  Vesey had returned with a strange new agitation on him. A dozen times he had begun to speak and then broken off, staring at the doctor or the servants with restless impatience. He left the sick-room to look for George, but George was nowhere to be found. Feeling wretched and awkward, he had ridden off to a bear-baiting, and left no word of where he had gone.

  Vesey came back from his fruitless search just as the surgeon had declared that Juliana was no longer in a health-giving sleep, but unconscious, and was proposing to bleed her again. Vesey broke out at him in a roar. He was an ignorant quack, a dolt, a blockhead. His sister had lost too much blood already, or she would not be so white—“ so white.” He repeated the words in a sort of choking breath, almost a sob. He would ride to London and fetch the best doctor that could be procured; he would not have his sister practised on by ignorant country quacks.

  The man tried faintly to expostulate, but at his first words, Vesey seized him by the collar and flung him out into the passage. One of the maids screamed, Lady Chidleigh protested, scandalized by such an uproar in the sick-room, yet half-pleased by his unwontedly energetic methods. Everyone was amazed at the change in the sleepy, phlegmatic youth. Grandmamma Chidleigh, who had entered the bedroom a few minutes before, nodded approval. For once he was showing himself like his father.

  Vesey was showing it to the extent of turning all the maids out of the room. He would not have the silly hussies there, gaping at him and screaming. When he had shut the door on them he turned and faced his amazed relatives with blank eyes that did not seem to see them, did not even notice Sophia’s pretty upturned face.

  “I must ride or send to London,” he said in a lower voice. “Don’t let that fool bleed her again. They’re all fools—all fools and charlatans. It’s not only that. The news is out in Reading. It will be all over the county in a few hours. We are disgraced——”

  Again he stopped on that half-choking breath, and his eyes now sought his mother’s. He seemed to find speech difficult, but after a moment he brought out the next words stolidly enough.

  “Madam, they are going to try my brother Chidleigh for the murder of the French duke.”

  Juliana could not hear what they were saying. She had heard a loud, angry voice that seemed familiar, then a quick scuffle and a scream. Then she heard that voice again and knew that it was
Vesey’s, that it was saying something she must hear. Her eyelids lifted a very little, and through the fringe of her eyelashes she could see Vesey standing against the door in his red riding coat, his face flushed dark red.

  Everyone was speaking, exclaiming in horror. She must hear what they said. It was something of importance—of danger— yes, of danger to Lucian. And now she heard what Vesey was saying; that it would certainly be proved that Lucian had killed the Frenchman.

  “What—his guest!” exclaimed Lady Chidleigh, on a shocked, incredulous, tragic note. So might Lady Macbeth have uttered her “What—in our house!” on the morning after Banquo’s murder. She would not believe such a thing. It must have been a duel.

  But Vesey replied that there had been no seconds, no witnesses, nothing to prove that Lucian had not killed his man in cold blood. There was also the damning fact that Lucian had owed him large sums of money, and the extent of these had only lately been discovered. There was no doubt but that he would be proved guilty. Chrysole, that damned, sneaking, lying toad of a valet, had been working in the matter. The family of Saint Aumerle were moving heaven and earth for revenge. They had appealed to the King; there would be no chance for Lucian except to flee the country, and doubtless he would do so on the instant he had his warning. No, there would be no chance for Lucian if they took him. He was known to have killed a man before in a slightly irregular fashion.

  “Then they will hang him,” said Grandmamma Chidleigh. “They hang for murder now, even those of rank. But a silken rope is granted to a prisoner of noble birth.”

  Her hooked chin sank trembling on her breast. For the first time, her changeless, immemorial antiquity, as of an inanimate object, gave way, and she appeared feeble and weary, a poor old woman.

  Juliana saw them all very small and far away as though she were looking at them through the wrong end of Mr. Hilbury’s telescope. She had understood that Lucian was to be tried for the murder of Monsieur le Due. She thought she knew how he had died, but she could not remember. If she could remember, she might clear Lucian. But she could think of nothing. Her eyes moved vaguely round the room, though her head did not stir.

  They fell on the stripe of sunlight between the curtains, drawn to keep the light from her eyes, on the picture she had painted of a noble youth, as graceful as a maiden, consulting a hermit in a lonely grotto, surrounded by savage mountains.

  Her glance wandered to her clothes, left in disorder from the time when they had hurriedly undressed her that morning, her India muslin falling over the back of a chair as though it too had fainted. And there were the shoes she had taken off last night, they had not been put away either. They lay where they had been thrown down, creased and dusty after so much dancing on the deck of Mr. Bolsover’s barge. “They have a dissipated air, have they not—positively exhausted? What were they doing last night do you think, while you were asleep?” She could remember Lucian’s ludicrous questions. What was it she could not remember?

  She continued to gaze at the shoes, hearing nothing but a buzz of voices that seemed a long way off. Then, as she gazed, she thought she saw them, not dropped there on their sides on the rose and grey rug, but placed primly together on a dark floor lit up by a patch of moonlight. She thought she heard Monsieur le Due’s high, monotonous voice.

  “But yes,” he was saying, slowly and distinctly, “I can see very plainly the little green and silver shoes there in the moon-light.”

  With that, slowly and distinctly, all that had followed that night in the library came back into her mind. How could she ever have forgotten? But Lucian had told her to forget; she remembered that also, now. It was Monsieur le Due who had attacked Lucian, had lunged at him before he had even drawn his sword. Yes, she knew how it had happened, exactly, every detail. She had only to speak and Lucian would be cleared of this preposterous charge of murder.

  Her eyes opened wider, she saw all the occupants in the room clearly and near to her, and she saw that they were looking at her. They had noticed her eyes were open, they were talking much more quietly and about her, and someone began to try and make her drink something out of a cup. It was very strong and made her gasp and choke, but she drank what she could.

  “Vesey,” she said. “Is Vesey there?”

  He plunged forward, throwing himself down on his knees beside the bed so as to bring his head near hers, for she had spoken in a very faint whisper.

  “I’m here, Julie. What is it? What do you want?”

  His massive, red-coated shoulders seemed to heave over her, his flushed face, so unwontedly eager, was very near hers, he smelt of horses and wine. It was as though she were being crushed by him, although he was not touching her. Her head swam, she found it difficult to think what she was going to say.

  “Dear Vesey,” she began timidly, and was astonished herself to hear how low and far-away her voice sounded.

  He flung his arms round her and she felt a great hot tear splash on her face. Vesey was crying for her! He must think she was going to die.

  “Vesey, dear Vesey, but I am quite well, really,” she con trived to say, though with some difficulty. “But it is Lucian. Listen. Lucian did not——”

  “She was conscious!” exclaimed mamma’s voice in that pause. Juliana was making a supreme effort to collect her thoughts together; whatever happened she must not let them wander now, she must not be absent. She fixed her eyes upon the stripe of sunlight on the floor as if to fix her attention. It had moved a little since she had looked at it last.

  “He attacked Lucian,” she said. “He had drawn first.”

  There was a scurry of low, breathless voices.

  “What does she say?”

  “She says he attacked Lucian—that he had drawn his sword first.”

  “What does she mean? How can she tell?”

  “She cannot know anything of it. She must have been dreaming.”

  “She must be wandering.”

  They had drawn closer round the bed, but she did not speak any more. They pointed out to each other that she must have lost consciousness again, but this was not exact, for she could see them very well.

  But she could also see herself, quite clearly, as though she were someone else, standing at a little distance.

  She could see her face, still and white, on the pillow, and Vesey’s great arm flung across her as though he were holding her fast to him. But he could not hold her, for she was not there. She looked at herself lying in her own bed, and remembered how she had once seen herself in the library arm-chair, herself, leaning forward, with the silver inkpot in her hands, her head bent, looking down at it, and a long curl at the back of her head dropping forward on to her neck,

  It had been the worst dream of all, a nightmare, and now it had come true. She was absent and she could not come back.

  Chapter XXI

  Lucian was in his house in Soho. The room was almost dark, but the candles were not yet lit, and he sat in a spindle-legged arm-chair before a fire, his dark purple silk breeches showing now black, now ruddy in its light. The evening was chilly for summer, and Lucian hated to be cold.

  Sunk in his chair, his hands dropped lifeless on its arms, his dull eyes fixed motionless upon the chimney-piece, he appeared an inert, almost lifeless figure, and in some way shrunken. At first glance, one would have taken him for an old man sitting there before the fire.

  Less than ten minutes ago, private information had been brought him that by to-morrow morning there would be a warrant out for his arrest on the charge of the murder of Monsieur le Due de Saint Aumerle. He had little doubt of the way in which the evidence would go. Juliana was the only witness he could produce in his favour, and he had no intention of using her name in that curious story of the events that took place one evening in the library at Chidleigh. Also, he was certain that in the light of such a story, her evidence would be considered as worthlessly blind and partial.

  His only chance was flight, and, thanks to his informant, he had several hours’ start. He
had given his orders, the horses were being saddled, Bartelmy was looking out what ready money he had and making all the preparations. He would ride to Dover with Bartelmy only. It was quicker than coach or carriage, and they could change horses on the way.

  Meanwhile, he had meant to consider his plans, but found himself giving more attention to the warming of his chilly legs, and the consideration of his high carved chimney-piece, of Robert Adam’s work. He had reflected that this was probably the last time he would see those delicately moulded grapes and vine leaves, and regretted it, for he had been particularly well pleased with that chimney-piece.

  It was unlikely that he should see England or France again for an indefinite period, perhaps for the rest of his life. “The rest of his life” was a tedious phrase. What in the world was he going to do for the rest of his life?

  Italy would not be very safe, since the family of Saint Aumerle had many connections there. He had better make a start by going to Spain and then on to the East perhaps—Constantinople, and see the Grand Turk—possibly even India. He yawned prodigiously. He had not the slightest desire to resume his travels, which had seldom succeeded in interesting him.

  Most of the realities of his life had, in fact, failed singularly in this respect; the vacant or harsh realities of his sluggish, brooding boyhood, of his coldly ferocious pursuit of pleasure in early manhood, of his contemptuous rejection of ambition, which could bring him nothing he had not already got.

  His position had been secure and prosperous, as was the position of the whole country, apparently certain of equal security and prosperity in the future, a position which admitted no necessity and no desire for change. He thought of his past actions, his follies and excesses, possibly his crimes, without distaste or regret, merely with lack of interest. None of them had been what he desired nor how he desired them. Those preposterous debauches at Medmenham Abbey, when he had been head of that ridiculous society, the Hell-fire Club—-” childish” was his word as he thought of them now.