Мэри Элизабет Брэддон
Wyllard's Weird
"Yes. It was the only foolishness of his life that I have ever heard of; and he was so kind to the woman he married that he might be pardoned for his folly."
"I hope she was fond of him, and worthy of him."
Bothwell did not enter upon the question, and his reticence about Lady Valeria Harborough struck Dora as altogether at variance with his natural frankness. And then she remembered that unexplained entanglement which he had confessed to her – an entanglement with a married woman – and it flashed upon her that Lady Valeria might be the heroine of that story. He had spoken of General Harborough, but never of General Harborough's wife. There had been a studied reserve upon that subject. And now Dora discovered that Valeria Harborough was a young woman.
The invitation to the funeral came by next morning's post – a formal invitation sent by a fashionable firm of undertakers – and Bothwell had no excuse for staying away from Fox Hill, where the mourners were to assemble at three o'clock in the afternoon. He had no fear that Lady Valeria would be present upon such an occasion; but there was just the possibility that she might send for him when she knew he was in the house. She had always been reckless of conventionalities, carrying matters with such a high hand as to defy slander.
His heart sank within him as he approached the classic portico of the villa. Deepest regret for his dead benefactor, deepest remorse for having wronged him, weighed down his heart as he entered the darkened house, where rooms built for brightness and gaiety looked all the more gloomy in the day of mourning. The hall was hung with black, and in the midst stood the plain oak coffin, draped with the colours which the General had fought for forty years before among the wild hills of Afghanistan. Crosses and wreaths of purest white were heaped upon the coffin, and the atmosphere of the darkened hall was heavy with the perfume of stephanotis and tuberose; those two flowers which the General had always associated with his wife, who rarely decorated herself or her rooms with any other exotics.
Bothwell stood amidst the mourning crowd, with heavily-beating heart. There was no summons from Lady Valeria, and he heard some one near him telling some one else that her grief was terrible – a stony, silent grief, which alarmed her people and her medical attendant. She would see no one. Lady Carlavarock had come all the way from Baden, where the poor dear Earl was doctoring his gout; but Lady Valeria had only consented to see her mother for half an hour, and poor Lady Carlavarock had not even been asked to stay at Fox Hill. She had been obliged to put up at an hotel, which was a cruelty, as everyone knew that the Carlavarocks were as poor as church mice.
"Perhaps Lady Valeria has not forgiven her family for having sold her," said the second speaker, in the same confidential voice.
"Sold her! Nothing of the kind. She adored the old General."
"You had better tell that to – another branch of the service," muttered his friend, as Bothwell moved away from the group.
It was past five before the funeral was over, and there was no train for Bodmin till seven; so Bothwell strolled into the coffee-room of the Duke of Cornwall and ordered a cup of tea.
While he was drinking it he was joined by a young officer who had been at the funeral, and whom Bothwell had often met at Fox Hill – quite a youth, beardless, and infantine of aspect, but with a keen desire to appear older than his years. He affected to have steeped himself in iniquity, to have dishonoured more husbands and fleeced more tradesmen than any man in the service. He hinted that his father had turned him out of doors, and that his mother had died of a broken heart on his account. He was a youth who loved gossip, and who went about among all the wives and spinsters of Plymouth, the dowagers and old ladies, disseminating tittle-tattle. Hardly anything he said was true, hardly anybody believed him; but people liked to hear him talk all the same. There was a piquancy in slander uttered by those coral lips, which had not long finished with the corals of babyhood.
"My dear Bothwell, what a tragedy!" he exclaimed, as he seated himself in front of a brandy-and-soda.
"It is a sad loss for every one," Bothwell answered tritely.
"Sad loss – but, my dear fellow, what a scandal! Everybody in Plymouth is talking about it. There has been hardly anything else spoken of at any of the dinners I have been at during the last ten days."
"I thought old maids' tea-parties were your usual form," retorted Bothwell, with a sneer. "What is your last mare's nest, Falconer? The General's death, or the General's funeral?"
"The circumstances that preceded the dear old man's death. That's the scandal. Surely you must have heard – "
"Consider that I have been buried among the Cornish moors, and have heard nothing."
"By Jove! Do you mean to say that you don't know there was a dreadful row one night at Fox Hill? Sir George Varney insulted Lady Valeria – called her some foul name, accused her of carrying on with a young man. The General came up at the moment and smashed his head. Sir George went all over the place next day, abusing my lady, sent the General a summons to the police-court, where the whole story must have come out in extenso, as those, newspaper fellows say. A very ugly story it is – betting transactions, borrowed money, and a lover in the background. An uncommonly queer story, my dear Grahame. Plymouth was on the qui-vive for a tremendous scandal. You know what these garrison and dockyard towns are, and a man in the General's position is a mark for slander. The thing was altogether too awful, and the poor old General wouldn't face it. He wouldn't face it, old chap, and he died."
"You mean to say that he – "
"I mean to say nothing. There was no inquest. The poor old man kept his bed for a week, and the cause of death was called bronchitis; but there are people I know who have their own idea about the General's death, and a very ugly idea it is."
"Your friends have a penchant for ugly ideas, Falconer," answered Bothwell coolly.
He did not believe a word of the subaltern's story, and yet the thought of it troubled him as he sat alone in his corner of the smoking-carriage, trying to solace himself with a pipe, trying to think only of the girl he loved, and of his brightening prospects.
That mention of a lover! How much or how little did it mean? Could it be true that General Harborough had knocked a man down in his own house? Such an act on the part of the most chivalrous of men must have been the result of extraordinary provocation. Only a deliberate insult to a woman could excuse such an outrage against the laws of hospitality. He remembered that Lady Valeria had talked of borrowing money from Sir George Varney; and what could she expect but insult if she placed herself under obligation to a notorious roue? He had warned her of the folly of such a course. He had urged her to confide in her husband. And now that good and loyal friend and protector was gone; and this last act of his wife's had left her to face the world with a damaged reputation.
He told himself that there must be some grain of truth in the subaltern's story, some fire behind this smoke. The scandal too nearly touched actual facts to be altogether false.
"God help her if her good name is at the mercy of such a scoundrel as Varney!" thought Bothwell.
He left Penmorval in a dog-cart next morning, carrying his portmanteau and a box of books at the back. He was to have the use of the dog-cart and Glencoe while he stayed at Trevena, so that he should not feel himself altogether banished. He could ride over to Penmorval occasionally.
"You must not come too often, mind," said Dora, when she was bidding him good-bye. "Indeed; on reflection, I think you had better only come when you are invited. You may have no discretion otherwise. It will not do for you to be really living here, and only pretending to live at Trevena."
"It is unkind of you to suggest that a man must be an utter imbecile because he is in love, Dora," remonstrated Bothwell. "Of course I understand that I am sent away as a sacrifice to the proprieties. I am banished in order that Mrs. Grundy may be satisfied – that same Mrs. Grundy who was willing to suspect me of murder on the very smallest provocation. No, my dear Dora, I am not going to be troublesome. I will only come when I have your permission. I suppose I may come next Sunday?"
"O Bothwell, this is Wednesday; Sunday is very near."
"It will seem ages off to me. Yes, I shall certainly come on Sunday. Even servants are allowed to go and see their friends on the Sabbath. Is your cousin less than a hireling that he should be denied? I shall ride over in time for breakfast on Sunday morning."
"You will have to get up at six o'clock."
"What of that? I have had to get up at four, and even at half-past three, for cub-hunting."
He arrived at Trevena early in the afternoon, settled himself comfortably in his cottage-lodgings, and arranged his books in a corner of the neat little parlour, with its superabundant crochet-work and crockery, which ornamentation he artfully persuaded his landlady to put away in a cupboard during his residence.
"Men are so clumsy," he pleaded. "They always spoil things."
Goody confessed that the male sex was inherently awkward, and had an innate incapacity to appreciate crochet antimacassars. She sighed as she denuded her best parlour of its beauties. "The place dew look so bare," she said.
Bothwell gave up his afternoon to a long interview with the builder, who was a smart young man, and as honest as he was smart. The old cottage was thoroughly overhauled and inspected, with a view to the carrying out of those extensions and improvements which Bothwell had planned for himself, and for which he had made drawings that were very creditable to an amateur architect. His experience as an Engineer stood him in good stead.
He modified his plans somewhat on the advice of the smart young builder; but the alterations were to be carried out very much upon his own original lines – the builder's modifications were chiefly in detail. And then they had to fight out the question of time. The builder asked for six months; Bothwell would only grant four. Finally, time and cost were settled; everything was agreed upon; Bothwell having given up his original idea of being his own builder and buying his own materials; and the contract was to be taken to Camelford next day, to be put into legal form. For four hundred and fifty pounds the old cottage was to be transformed into a comfortable house. The two little parlours and the kitchen were to be made into three little studies or bookrooms, communicating with each other. These were for Bothwell and his pupils to work in. A new drawing-room, dining-room, and kitchen were to be built, and over these three good bedrooms.
"I shall add a billiard-room with a large nursery over it later on, when I am beginning to make my fortune," thought Bothwell. "I know we shall want a billiard-room; and I hope we shall want a nursery."
The builder had gone home to his young wife and baby, in a cheerful red-brick cottage of his own construction; and Bothwell was pacing the old neglected garden alone, in the autumn sunset, when he looked up suddenly, and saw a dark figure standing in the narrow path between him and the rosy western sky.
It was the tall slender figure of a woman, robed in black and thickly veiled. That black figure seemed to shut out all the warmth and beauty of the glowing west. Bothwell's heart grew cold within him at sight of it.
He had not a moment's doubt or hesitation, though the woman's face was hardly visible under the thick crape veil.
"Valeria!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it is Valeria."
"How, in the name of all that's reasonable, did you come here?"
"A pair of post-horses brought me; that was easy enough when I knew where to find you. I heard at Bodmin Road station that you were here. You had been seen to drive by, and you told the station-master where you were going."
CHAPTER IX.
TWO WOMEN
They stood face to face in the evening light, Bothwell and Valeria; those two who had loved each other, who had once been wont to meet with smiles and gladness, hand clasped in hand – they stood pale and silent, each waiting for the other to speak.
"How could you do so mad a thing as to come here, Lady Valeria?" Bothwell asked, at last.
His heart was beating passionately, not with love, but with anger. He was indignant at the unfeminine feeling shown by this pursuit of him, this persecution of a man who had frankly owned a new and wiser attachment.
"It is not the first madness I have been guilty of for your sake," she answered. "There was the madness of loving you, in the first instance; and the still greater madness of being constant to you; even when I suspected that you had grown tired of me. But it was not weariness of me that influenced you, was it, Bothwell? It was the false position which grew irksome; the falsehood towards that good, brave man. It was that which made you desert me, was it not? That is all over now. My bondage is over. I am my own mistress, answerable to no one for my conduct; and I am here to remind you of old vows made three years ago beside the fountain at Simla."
"Those old vows have been cancelled, Lady Valeria," said Bothwell coldly. "Surely you have not forgotten our last parting, and the old love-token which you threw away."
"I was beside myself with anger," she answered hurriedly. "You could not have meant all you said that day, Bothwell. You wanted to escape from a false position; you could not guess that my release was to come so soon, that in less than a month I should be free, that in a year I might be your wife."
"Stop!" he cried; "for pity's sake not another word. I am engaged to marry another woman – bound heart and soul to another. I have no other purpose in life but to win her, and to be happy with her."
Lady Valeria looked at him in silence for some moments. She had thrown back her veil when she first addressed him. Her face was almost as white as the crape border of her widow's bonnet, but on each cheek there was one spot of hectic – a spot that looked like flame – and in her eyes, there was the light of anger.
"It is true, then! You are in love with another woman!"
"It is true. I am in love with her; and I am bound to her by all those feelings which are sweetest and most sacred in the mind of a man – by gratitude, by love, by respect, by admiration for her noble qualities. I am to be married to her almost immediately. You can understand, therefore, Lady Valeria, that as I hope always to be your friend – your champion and defender, if need of championship should ever arise – I am justified in remonstrating with you for your folly in coming here alone, upon the day after your husband's funeral."
"My champion, my friend!" she repeated mockingly. "What amazing generosity, what sublime chivalry! You offer me your friendship – you who swore to be my husband, to give me the devotion of your life, whenever it pleased God to set me free from an unnatural union. You who were bound to me by the most sacred vows."
"You released me from those vows when you threw away the love-token. I asked you for my freedom, and you told me that I was free. You cannot recall that release, Lady Valeria."
"I released you from a false position. That is over now: and your alleged motive – your compunction, your remorse of conscience – must be over too."
Bothwell was silent. He had said all that could be said. He stood before Lady Valeria motionless, dumb, ready to bear the brunt of her anger and submit meekly to her reproaches, were they never so ungenerous.
"Do you know what you have done for me?" she demanded passionately. "Do you know what you have cost me – you who pretended to be my slave, who pretended to worship me, and whose flimsy passion could not stand the wear and tear of three short years? You have blighted my life; you have ruined my good name."
"That last charge cannot be true, Lady Valeria. You were much too careful of your reputation – you knew much too well how to keep your slave at a proper distance," answered Bothwell, with a touch of scorn.
"But I did not know how to hide my love for you. There were eyes keen enough to read that. Do you know that my husband assaulted Sir George Varney in his own house on my account?"
"Ah, then the story was true," muttered Bothwell.
"You have heard about it, I see. Did you hear the nature of the insult which provoked that punishment?"
"No."
"It was the mention of your name – your name flung in my face like an accusation – cast at me as if my position were notorious – as if all society knew that I had been guilty of an intrigue."
"Sir George is a blackguard, and no act of his would surprise me; but Sir George is not society. You need not be unhappy about any speech of his. If you want me to call him out, I am quite willing to go over to Blankenberghe and ask him to meet me there."
"You know that such an act as that would intensify the scandal. No, Bothwell, there is only one way in which you can set me right, a year hence, when my year of widowhood is over, when I can marry again without disrespect to my husband's memory. That is the only way of setting me right with the world, Bothwell; and it is the only way of setting me right in my own self-esteem."
"My dear Lady Valeria, I wonder that you have not learnt to understand society better – you, who are essentially a woman of society. Do you think the world would applaud you or respect you for making a very poor marriage – for uniting yourself to a man without pursuit or means or position? You, who with beauty, rank, and wealth, might marry almost any one you pleased. The world does not smile on such marriages, Lady Valeria. The world worships the star which mounts higher in the social firmament, not the star which bends earthward. You have your future before you, free and unfettered. You have wealth, which in this age means power. You can have nothing to regret in a foolish love of the past, love that drooped and died for want of a congenial atmosphere."
"Is that your last word upon this subject?" asked Valeria, looking at him intently with those angry eyes.
They were beautiful even in anger, those violet-dark eyes; but the light in them was a diabolical light, as of an evil spirit.
"My very last."
"Then we will say no more; and we will enter upon a new phase of our existence – the period of friendship. Perhaps you will be kind enough to take me back to the inn where I left my carriage, and order some tea for me?"
"I shall be very happy," said Bothwell quietly; and they walked off towards the inn, which was less than half a mile from the cottage.
"May I ask what you were doing in that deserted garden?" inquired Lady Valeria.
"I have been planning the improvement of my future home."
"Indeed! You are going to live in that desolate spot, with nothing but the sea and the sky to look at?"
"The sea and the sky, and some of the finest coast-scenery in England – the sands and the rocks and the wild hills. Don't you think that ought to be enough for any man to look at?"
"For a hermit, no doubt, not for a man. A man should have the city and the Forum. Ah, Bothwell, if you were my husband, there would be no limit to my ambition for you! And you are going to vegetate in a place like this?"
"I am going to work here, and to be useful in my generation, I hope. I shall help to make the soldiers of the future;" and then he told Lady Valeria his plans.
"What a drudgery!" she exclaimed; "what a wearisome monotonous round, from year's end to year's end! I would as soon be a horse in a mill. O Bothwell, the very idea is an absurdity. You a schoolmaster! You!"
She measured him from head to foot with a scornful laugh; trying to humiliate him, to make him ashamed of his modest hopes. But she failed utterly in this endeavour. Bothwell was too happy to be easily put out of conceit with his prospects. Even that opprobrious name of "schoolmaster" had no terrors for him.
"Tell me about my friend's last illness," he said presently, gravely, gently, anxious to bring Lady Valeria to a more womanly frame of mind.
He thought that she must surely have some touch of tenderness, some regret for the husband who had been so good and loyal in his treatment of her; the man to whom she had been as an indulged and idolised daughter rather than as a wife; escaping all wifely servitude, seeking her own pleasure in all things, allowed to live her own life.
Lady Valeria told Bothwell about those last sad days: how the strong frame had been burnt up with fever, the broad chest racked with pain; how patiently weakness and suffering had been endured.
"He was a brave, good man," she said; "noble, unselfish to the last. His parting words were full of love and generosity. 'You will marry again,' he said. 'I have left no fetter upon your life. My latest prayer will be for your happiness.'"
"I wish we had both been worthier of his regard," said Bothwell gloomily.
He wondered at the supreme egotism of a nature which could be so little moved by this good man's death.
"That is past wishing now. Nothing that you or I can do will cancel the past. No, Bothwell," she said, looking at him steadily, "nothing will cancel the past."
They were at the hotel by this time. Bothwell ordered tea, then went out to the stables to order the carriage. He left Lady Valeria to take her tea in mournful solitude, while he walked up and down in front of the hotel, waiting to hand her into her carriage. He was indignant with her for the unwomanly step she had taken. He wondered that he could ever have cared for such a woman, a woman who could assume the dignity of an empress, and yet stoop to follies at which a dressmaker's apprentice might have hesitated; a creature of caprice and impulse, governed by no higher law than her own whim.
He walked up and down in the autumn darkness, listening to the murmur of the waves, seeing the stars shine out, pale and far apart in the calm gray, glancing now and then at the window of the sitting-room, where Lady Valeria was seated in the glow of the fire, a tall slim figure in densest black.
She came out after the carriage had been waiting some time.
"O, you are there, are you?" she exclaimed, seeing Bothwell by the hotel-door. "I thought you had gone."
"I waited to hand you to your carriage."
"You are vastly polite. I hardly expected so much attention."
"There is a train from Bodmin Road a few minutes after nine. You will be in time for it if your coachman drives pretty fast."
"The road is not the safest in the world for fast driving, but you can tell him to catch the train, if you please. Good-night."
Bothwell told the coachman not to waste his time when he had a level road; and as the habit of Cornish coachmen is to spring their horses up-hill and canter them gaily down-hill, there was every chance that Lady Valeria would be in time.
The carriage drove off, and Bothwell went back to his lodgings, wondering whether he had seen the last of the lady. Her coming had introduced a new element of doubt and fear into his mind. A woman capable of such foolishness might stop at no desperate act. All the serenity of Bothwell's sky had become clouded over.
He turned his face in the direction of Penmorval, and looked across the hills, through the cool, dark night. O, what a different nature that was, the nature of the girl who was to be his wife! What rest, what comfort in the very thought of her love!
"God bless you, my darling," he said to himself. "I send my love and blessing to you, dearest, over the quiet hills, under the silent stars."
