CHAPTER IX.
The next day Colonel Richardson went to Scotland, after taking a very warm farewell of Annie, who, so far as she herself was concerned, was extremely sorry for his departure. He was the only man to whom she had spoken since her marriage who had tastes in common with her, and whose views of life were not bounded by the stable, the kennel, and the dinner-table. George had indeed shown himself to be ready to enter into her feelings, but his sympathy she was afraid to encourage. It was true that she had felt for him, from the first time he had talked to her at the Grange dinner-table, a warmer sentiment than she had ever felt for Harry or any other man; and, though since her marriage she had stifled it without much difficulty, she could not but know his interest in her remained strong. She felt, however, that since last night’s talk she would have to be more careful as to her conduct, and combine prudence with a little more graciousness. It did not prove so difficult, after all.
That very afternoon she had gone into the library to amuse herself among the old books that nobody else ever touched, but in whose very presence she delighted; and she was perched upon the ladder that stood there by which to reach the highest shelves, and had covered herself with dust in her endeavors to get at the dingy-looking volume whose only attraction lay in the fact that it was out of reach, when Sir George came in. She was surprised to see him, as she had never seen any of the brothers indulge in heavier reading than that which a sporting paper afforded.
“What are you doing among my books?” he asked, with severity.
“I don’t wonder you are astonished to see any one reading them,” said she, looking down saucily, with her dull discovery open in her hand.
“You think I don’t know how to read, I believe.”
“I am sure you couldn’t read this, at any rate. It is called ‘Extracts from the Sermons of the Reverend Thomas Dobbs, late Vicar of Garstone,’ and it is dated 1844.”
“Why, no; I indulge in that only on very special occasions! I don’t think much of your literary taste.”
“And I don’t think much of your library. I can’t find anything better.”
“Oh, nonsense! Here’s the ‘Life of Knox,’ and the ‘Works of Josephus,’ and ‘Fox’s Martyrs.’ I remember my mother cured us of the vice of reading when we were youngsters by letting us have these entertaining works to read on Sundays. Have you ever noticed, Annie, that careless and irreligious parents are always very particular about what their children read on Sunday?”
“But I am too old to be cured in that simple manner. Find me something nicer, please.”
“Come down, then, and sit by the fire, and I’ll find you ‘Clarissa Harlowe,’ or something else as light and frivolous.”
She came down and sat in the chair he drew on to the hearth-rug, while he brought one book after another, and, after dusting it carefully, placed it on her lap. Sometimes he would kneel by her side for a few minutes to look over one with her, and listen to her remarks upon it; and they got on so well together over this pastime that by the time the light of the December afternoon had faded, and the red glow of the fire was all they had to see by, the awkward barrier between them was quite broken down, and a friendly intercourse between them begun, which was to Annie merely a new pleasure, but which brought to the young baronet a delight which he knew to be full of peril.
After that day she avoided him no longer, but treated him with gracious gratitude for his kindness, which would have disarmed a man of better principles.
Lilian’s coldness to her had grown into more open dislike since Colonel Richardson’s fondness for music had kept him so long at her side on the eve of his journey to Scotland. But the girl could not do much to make her sister-in-law uncomfortable for fear of her eldest brother, with whom she jealously felt Annie’s interest to be strong. Young Sir George was a harder and somewhat colder man than his father had been, and took the lead in the family of which he was now the head as much by character as by position.
It was getting very near Christmas when the baronet told his sister one day at luncheon that he wished to speak to her. They went into the library together, had a long interview, and, when the girl came out, her face was red and swollen with crying. She was very silent that evening, and Stephen watched her in wistful wretchedness. He had not been able to speak to her that afternoon; he could only guess at the reason for her unhappiness, and he sat brooding sullenly over George’s cruelty in bringing tears to those proud eyes, and longing to be with her alone, that he might learn what her trouble was and comfort her. It was late in the evening before he got an opportunity of speaking to her in the morning-room, whither she had gone on the pretext of fetching some work, knowing well that her cousin would follow her. She broke into the subject at once.
“Mr. Falconer has proposed for me, and George insists on my accepting him.”
Mr. Falconer was a rich gentleman of about forty, who had paid Lilian marked attention for some time. Lilian affected to look down upon him because his father had made his money in “cotton;” but the sneer was absurd, as her admirer was a man scarcely less stalwart and handsome than her own brothers, and as much their superior in intellect, character, and feeling as it was possible for a man to be.
Stephen leaned on his crutches, trembling from head to foot at the news. He had known very well, poor fellow, in spite of mad dreams after an occasional moment of her fascinating kindness, that she could never be his; but her marriage had been a horrible dread for the distant future, and, now that it proved a not distant reality, his heart sunk within him. She was touched by the utter prostration of this poor cripple, who would, as she very well knew, have given his life at any moment for her. She led him to a chair, and tried to cheer him with a sort of regal tenderness. At last he said, his lips trembling:
“But George can’t force you to marry him, Lily.”
“Yes, he can, practically. The money that ought to have been mine, of course, I shall never get from this spendthrift crew. George says it is impossible that he can give me what my father intended me to have, that the estate is so burdened that there may be a break-up before very long, and I am half inclined to believe him. So I am portionless, and ought to think myself lucky to get a husband at all, it seems.”
“But, Lilian, that is nonsense! You are the most beautiful girl in the country; you will make a sensation in London, and marry a duke, if you like. You are surely never going to let George do what he likes with you, with your high spirit?”
The girl did not answer, but impulsively hid her face in her hands. A light came into Stephen’s troubled eyes, and he shuddered as he looked at her.
“Lily,” he whispered, “has George heard anything?”
“I think so,” she answered, without looking up. “He just hinted, in a way that made me think he must have been prying into my affairs, that it would be better for me to do as he wished. But, after all,” she cried, in a different tone, raising her proud head from the table as suddenly as she had cast it down, “I have done nothing wrong—nothing to be ashamed of. It is not my fault if I am so hunted and teased and mistrusted by my own family that I cannot see what friends I please, but must correspond with them secretly. For I won’t give up my friends at any one’s bidding!”
“But you saw him not long ago, and by your friends’ invitation,” said Stephen, in a low voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think I didn’t know at the first moment of seeing you with Colonel Richardson, that it was his letters I had been receiving for you? Oh, Lilian—and he is married!”
“And what if he is?” asked the girl, quietly. “I like him well enough to marry him if he were free; but I am not going to give up his friendship just because Aunt Constantia and mamma and Annie insulted him and me when I was in town by saying our acquaintance was improper. I shall have what friends I please—now and always; and, if I am to marry Mr. Falconer soon after Christmas, I will see Colonel Richardson again before then.”
“Soon after Christmas!” echoed Stephen, in a low voice.
“So George says. And the sooner the better, for then I shall be free,” said the girl, impatiently. “And now you must post a letter for me at Beckham to-morrow—just one more—the last,” she added, coaxingly.
“To Colonel Richardson, under cover, as usual, I suppose?”
“Yes. And, as it is perhaps the very last service you will ever be able to do me, I am sure you won’t tease about it, will you?”
“It is a very bad service I am doing you, Lily. If George were really to find it out, I think he would kill me, and perhaps you.”
“Oh, the sense of honor is not so keen as you imagine in our family!” sneered Lilian. “He would bully us both, and perhaps strike one of us; but he wouldn’t risk hanging on your account or mine.”
“But what do you want to say to Colonel Richardson?”
“I want to tell him to come and say good-bye to me before he goes away, for he has been ordered abroad. George won’t invite him here again, I know; but I must see him, and I will.”
“But how can you——”
“He must come on Christmas Day, in the evening. You know how my brothers will celebrate Christmas by drinking more than usual, and then quarreling among themselves. They will soon give me an excuse for leaving their society, and I will meet Colonel Richardson at the gate at the bottom of the garden—the one that leads to the short cut to Beckham.”
“You would risk that? Think what you are doing, Lilian. Colonel Richardson would never consent to put your reputation in peril like that.”
“He will put himself in peril too, with my wild brothers about; so he’ll risk it. And I know how to make him come. I’ll tell him, if he doesn’t come down here, I’ll come up to London to see him.”
“Lily, are you mad? I will not help you to do this.”
“Very well, then; I’ll risk it without your help—post my own letter, receive the answer, and you may betray me to George if you dare. I believe I am mad, I am so miserable!”
“And all for a man who doesn’t appreciate you, who likes Annie better than you?”
“It is not true,” said she fiercely. “If I believed that, she should not stay in the house a day longer—I would not rest until I got the little hypocrite turned out! But it is not true—it is not true! Now, will you desert me at the last just when I am so wretched, and have nobody to help me?”
“I will serve you to the end, for good or for evil, as I have always done, Lily; you know I live only for that. When you are gone, whether Mr. Falconer marries you or somebody else, my wretched life will be no good to me, and I don’t care how soon I lose it. No one will ever worship you as I do, Lily, nor for so little thanks.”
But she soothed him with sweet words and kind eyes. She did indeed feel the strength of his devotion, and, moreover, he was too useful an ally not to be worth a few kind speeches.
So the letter was sent, and the answer came—and the secret was safe.
Since the regular hunting-season had begun, Harry’s neglect of his wife had not only grown more open than ever, but had been supplemented by sneers at her “refined tastes” and “poetry, prunes, prism” manners. She could not tell the cause of this change, and went on quietly in her own way, dutifully caring for his small comforts, and accepting his coarse snubs with the same placid indifference with which she had formerly taken his scanty thanks.
When Christmas Day arrived it was spent just as Lilian had predicted. In the morning the ladies went to church, accompanied by Stephen and William. As there was no hunting, and Lady Braithwaite had insisted upon the grooms having a holiday, the other young men spent the afternoon in the stable and the billiard-room, wrangling more than usual. Wilfred had already remonstrated with George for teasing Harry.
“You are always saying things to put his back up now. What do you do it for?” he asked.
“I don’t care a straw what he says!” cried Harry, sullenly, who was flushed and excited long before the afternoon was over. “And, as for my not being ‘a person of authority,’ as he calls it, I have as much authority as anybody here.”
“Over whom or over what, pray?” said George, tauntingly. “I don’t say you can’t manage a horse as well as—an hostler; but show me the man or woman on whom your word or your opinion has the slightest effect.”
“Well, I like that!” burst out Harry, his face twitching with passion. “Don’t I manage my own wife—doesn’t she obey me, and quickly, too? Do you ever hear her contradict me or differ from my opinion? Answer me, or, by Jove, I’ll make you!”
“Your wife doesn’t think your opinion worth differing from, and she obeys you as the shortest way of getting rid of your presence. Everybody knows that.”
“I say, George, do shut up!” broke in Wilfred. “Can’t you see you are only irritating him against his poor little wife, who has quite enough to put up with from him already? What on earth are you driving at? Can’t make you out lately!”
“Don’t interfere with your infernal preaching!” shouted Harry. “So my wife has enough to put up with from me already! Very well, she’ll have more than enough, then, before long, if she doesn’t get rid of her confoundedly cold tragedy-queen airs, I can tell her! I’ll show her and you too if I’m not master of my own wife!” And Harry flung away the cigar-end he had been biting, and swung himself out of the yard, unable to control himself any longer.
Wilfred turned to his brother.
“Why the dickens did you badger the boy like that? He’ll only go and let off his ill-temper on poor little Annie, and perhaps take to proving his authority with his fists or his boots, the hulking bully!”
“Well, the sooner he does, and disgusts her thoroughly, and makes her throw him over altogether, the better for her.”
Wilfred looked at his brother keenly.
“I say, George, you’re not playing square.”
“Yes, I am; you don’t know the game;” and the baronet lounged out of the stable-yard with his hands in his pockets, but with teeth so firmly set that he bit his cigar in two.
Dinner that evening began quietly enough. There was a lull in the hostilities between the young men, Harry being sullen, Wilfred rather sleepy, and George giving all his attention to Lilian, who was in her most brilliant mood, talking, laughing, teasing her eldest brother, and delighting him by her archness; only one person at the table noticed how feverishly bright her eyes were, and the nervous play of her delicate fingers when she was not speaking. For Stephen never took his eyes off her; he drank scarcely anything and ate nothing. Annie was pale to the lips, and the sound of Harry’s voice made her start. Only Lady Braithwaite and William were quite their usual selves.
“So this is the last Christmas I am to spend as Miss Braithwaite!” said Lilian. “I wonder how I shall like married life.”
“Ask Annie how she likes it,” suggested George.
The young wife did not look up; but all could see that a shiver passed over her slight form. Harry made a restless movement on his chair.
“Confound her!” William, who sat next, heard him mutter; and the boy’s blood took fire. Wiser than George or Wilfred in the interests of his play-fellow, however, he said nothing, and clinched his hands together under the table to keep himself from punching his brother’s head. Such acts as that had not been unknown in past times at the Grange dinner-table, and a repetition of them seemed perilously near.
When they at last came into the drawing-room after dinner, after sitting an unusually long time over their wine, Annie was seated—it almost seemed that she was hidden—in the shadow of one of the window-curtains close to the conservatory. Lady Braithwaite was happily dozing as usual, and Lilian was flitting about the room, more animated, more restless than usual. She looked at her brothers searchingly as they came in, they were all talking and laughing loudly and discordantly. Stephen was the only one perfectly sober, and he, white to the lips and silent, was more excited than they. He watched Lilian with glistening eyes full of fear and anxiety.
She had scarcely listened to half a dozen sentences of her brothers when she left them and crossed the room.
“Where are you going? We want you to play something.”
“I think you can amuse yourselves better without me to-night,” she said, with playful insolence—“at least for the present. I’ll come down presently, when I’ve finished my letter to Aunt Constantia, and give you ‘John Peel.’”
She calculated upon their having found some other means of passing the time long before they thought of her again; and, before they could stop her, she had left the room. The little black figure in the shadow of the curtain sprung up, and was at the door to follow her example, when Harry’s voice thundered:
“Annie, stop where you are!”
But for once she took no notice, and she was turning the handle when he sprung forward and stumbled over a footstool. George laughed. William darted across the room to Annie, and, holding the door open, said:
“Go, dear—quick!”
But the power to do so had gone from the frightened woman’s limbs. She hesitated. In that one moment Harry had recovered himself, and, just as William was giving her a gentle little push, her husband reached them, and, seizing Annie’s arm roughly, swung her round into the middle of the room again.
There came a sullen imprecation from the lips of every other man in the room, and William, with a howl of rage, felled his staggering brother like an ox to the ground. Wilfred, sober for the moment, turned to the wife, who had clasped her hands in fright as she saw her husband fall.
“Go, my child, go!” he said earnestly. “He isn’t hurt. For Heaven’s sake, go before he gets up!”
They were all between her and the door now, swearing, fallen husband and the rest. She turned, fled through the conservatory, and out into the garden; she ran, ran—over the steeply-sloping lawn and down into the shrubbery at the bottom, too much scared to stop herself. She fancied she saw a tall, black figure among the trees in front of her, and called “Lilian!”—but there was no answer. Then, having reached the path that ran between the trees all around the garden she leaned against a tree to get back her breath. The next minute she heard a man’s footsteps coming hurriedly down the walk. Her excited fancy told her it was her husband come to wreak his disappointed fury on her; she tried to get behind a tree, but there was a wire fence which stopped her. She crouched down on the ground with her face hidden, until the footsteps came quite close and stopped.
“Don’t, don’t! I can’t bear any more!” she said, hoarsely.
But an arm was put round her very gently, and tried to raise her from the ground.
“My darling, it is not your brutal husband. Don’t you know who it is?”
“Oh, George!” she cried, with a gasp of relief, as he raised her from the ground.
She hung on his arm, quite still, except for a convulsive trembling from time to time, for a few minutes, until her shaken sense began to return; then she tried to stand alone.
“I am better now, thank you, George. But, oh, I was so frightened!”
“Lie still in my arms, my darling,” said he, his voice shaking.
He drew her more closely to him, and she could feel the quick beating of his heart against hers.
“Let me go, George; I am quite well now. You frighten me too!” she said, piteously, imploringly, trying to unlock his hands with her slender fingers.
He held her more closely at once.
“I frighten you, Annie! I would not hurt a hair of your beautiful head for the world. Oh, my darling, my darling, tell me you are better! Look up at me, Annie.”
She raised her eyes timidly to his face, then dropped them again, as his passionate gaze met hers.
“I am much better. Let me go, George, please. Won’t you do what I ask you? I am tired; I want to go in—to bed. Oh, George, if you are really sorry for me, let me go in, or I shall die out here in the cold!”
“You shall not die; you shall not be cold in my arms. Do you want to go back to the husband who is waiting to bully you, perhaps to strike you, away from the man who loves you with all his soul?”
Annie gathered all her strength and gave one ringing cry:
“Harry!”
The bare branches of the shrubbery-trees rustled and cracked as a man sprung into the pathway and tore the trembling woman from the unprepared George. She looked up.
“Thank Heaven! Colonel Richardson!”
George looked at him, too, dumb with surprise. But his eyes saw what Annie’s did not. From the opposite side of the path Lilian’s handsome eyes were flashing in the moonlight in jealous anger at the woman who lay unconscious in Colonel Richardson’s arms.