CHAPTER XI.
A SHADOW ACROSS THE PATH.
No more was seen or heard of Lady Emily at Matcham. Except the one fact that she had returned to Suffolk on the morning after her brief appearance at the Manor, nothing more was known about that poor lonely lady, whom adverse fate had cut adrift from all she loved. At Beechhurst closed shutters told of the master's absence; and the inquiries of the officious or the friendly elicited only the reply that Mr. Carew was still travelling in Africa, and that no letters had been received from him for a long time. He was in a country where there were no post-offices, the housekeeper opined, but she believed her ladyship heard from him occasionally.
Geoffrey's return, and the news of his engagement to Miss Vincent, made a pleasant excitement in the village and neighbourhood. An early marriage was talked about. Mr. Wornock had told the Vicar that he was going to be married in a fortnight—had spoken as if he were sole master of the situation.
"As if such a nice girl as Suzette would allow herself to be hustled into marriage without time for a trousseau," persisted Bessie Edgefield, who assured her friends that there would be no wedding that year. "It may be in January," she said; "but it won't be before the New Year."
Geoffrey had pleaded in vain. He had won his sweetheart's promise; but his sweetheart was not to be treated in too masterful a fashion.
"God knows why we are waiting, or what we are waiting for," he said, in one of those fits of nervous irritability, which even Suzette's influence could not prevent. "Hasn't my probation been long enough? Haven't I suffered enough? Haven't you kept me on the rack of uncertainty long enough to satisfy your love of power? You are like all women; you think of a lover as a surgeon thinks of a rabbit, too low in the scale for his feelings to be considered—just good enough for vivisection."
"Can't we be happy, Geoffrey? We have everything in the world that we care for."
"I can never be happy till I am sure of you. I am always dreading the moment in which you will tell me you have changed your mind."
"I have given you my promise. Isn't that enough?"
"No, it is not enough. You gave Allan your promise—and broke it."
She started up from her seat by the piano, and turned upon him indignantly.
"If you are capable of saying such things as that, we had better bid each other good-bye at once," she said. "I won't submit to be reminded of my wrong-doing by you, who are the sole cause of it. If I had never seen you, I should be Allan's wife this day. You came between us; you tempted me away from him; and now you tell me I am fickle and untrustworthy. I begin to think I have made a worse mistake in promising to be your wife than I made when I engaged myself to Allan."
"That means that you are regretting him—that you wish he were here now—in my place."
"Not in your place; but I wish he were safe in England. It makes me miserable to be so uncertain of his fate, for his mother's sake."
"Well, he will be in England soon enough, I dare say. But you will be my wife by that time; and I shall be secure of my prize. I shall be able to defy a hundred Allans."
And then he sat down by her side, and pleaded for her pardon, almost with tears. He hated himself for those jealous doubts which devoured him, he told her—those fears of he knew not what. If she were but his wife, his own for ever, that stormy soul of his would enter into a haven of peace. The colour of his life would be changed.
"And even for Allan's sake," he argued, "it is better that there should be no delay. He will accept the situation more easily if he find us man and wife. A man always submits to the inevitable. It is uncertainty which kills."
He pleaded, and was forgiven; and by-and-by Suzette was induced to consent to an earlier date for her marriage. It was to be in the second week of December—five months after Geoffrey's return, and the honeymoon was to be spent upon that lovely shore where there is no winter; and then, early in the year, Suzette and her husband were to establish themselves at Discombe; and the doors of the Manor House were to be opened as they had never been opened since old Squire Wornock was a young man. Matcham was in good spirits at the prospect of pleasant hospitalities, a going and coming of nice people from London. Nobody in the immediate neighbourhood could afford to entertain upon a scale which would be a matter of course for Geoffrey Wornock.
"December will be here before we know where we are," said Mrs. Mornington, and her constitutional delight in action and bustle of all kinds again found a safety-valve in the preparation of Suzette's trousseau.
Again she was confronted by a chilling indifference in the young lady for whom the clothes were being made. She advised Suzette to spend a week in London, in order to get her frocks and jackets from the best people. Salisbury would have been good enough for Allan, and Beechhurst; but for Squire Wornock's wife—for the Riviera—and for Discombe Manor, the most fashionable London artists should be called upon for their best achievements.
"I suppose you'll want to look well when you show yourself at Cannes as Mrs. Wornock? You won't want to be another awful example of an Englishwomen wearing out her old clothes on the Continent," said Mrs. Mornington snappishly.
As the General was also in favour of a week in town, Suzette consented, and bored herself to death in the family circle of an aunt who was almost a stranger, but who had been offering her hospitality ever since she could remember. At this lady's house in Bryanstone Square, she spent a weary week of shopping, and trying on, always under the commanding eye of Aunt Mornington, who delighted in tramping about London out of the season, a London in which one could do just what one liked, without fear or favour of society.
And so the trousseau was put in hand; the wedding-gown chosen; the wedding-cake ordered; Mrs. Mornington taking all trouble off her brother's hands in the matter of the reception that was to be held after the wedding. Everybody was to be asked, of course; but the invitations were not to go out till a fortnight before the day.
"I don't want people to suppose I am giving them plenty of time to think about wedding-presents," Suzette explained, when she insisted upon this short notice.
All these arrangements were made in October—the marriage settlement was drafted, and everybody was satisfied, since Geoffrey's liberality had required the curb rather than the spur.
For the rest of the year the lovers had nothing to think of but each other, and those great spirits of the past whose voices still spoke to them, whose genius was the companion of their lives. Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schubert, were the friends of those quiet days; and love found its most eloquent interpreters in the language of the dead.
Sometimes, with a dim foreboding of evil, Suzette found herself wondering what she would do with that fiery restless spirit, were it not for that soothing influence of music; but she could not imagine Geoffrey dissociated from that second voice which seemed more characteristic of him than any spoken language—that voice of passionate joys and passionate regrets, of deepest melancholy, and of wildest mirth. Music made a third in their lives—the strongest link between them, holding them aloof from that outside world to which the mysteries of harmony were unknown. Matcham society shrugged shoulders of wonder, not unmixed with disdain, when it was told how Miss Vincent practised five hours a day at home or at Discombe, and how she was beginning to play as well as a professional pianist. There had been a little dinner at the Manor House, and Geoffrey and his betrothed had played a duet which they called a Salterello, and Mrs. Mornington was complimented on her niece's gifts. Her execution was really surprising! No other young lady in Matcham could play like that. The girls of the present day lived too much out-of-doors to aspire to "execution." If they could play some little thing of Schumann's or the easiest of Chopin's or Rubinstein's valses, they were satisfied with themselves.
The hunting season began, but Geoffrey only hunted occasionally. He went only when General Vincent and his daughter went, not otherwise. Suzette had three or four hunters at her disposal now, and could have ridden to hounds three times a week had she so desired. Geoffrey's first care had been to get some of his best horses ready for carrying a lady; and she had her own thoroughbred, clever and kind, and able to carry her for a long day's work. But Suzette was not rabid about riding to hounds in all weathers, and at all distances. She liked a day now and then when her father was inclined to take her; but she had no idea of giving up her whole life—books, music, cottage visiting, home, for fox-hunting. Geoffrey gave up many a day's sport in order to spend the wintry hours in the music-room at Discombe, or in long rambles in the woods, or over the downs, with his betrothed.
Was he happy, having won his heart's desire? Suzette sometimes found herself asking that question, of herself, not of him. He was a creature of moods: sometimes animated, eloquent, hopeful, talking of life as if doubt, sorrow, satiety were unknown to him, undreamt of by him; at other times strangely depressed, silent and gloomy, a dismal companion for a joyous high-spirited girl. Those moods of his scared Suzette; but she was prepared to put up with them. She had chosen him, or allowed herself to be chosen by him. She had bound herself to life-companionship with that fitful spirit. For him she had forsaken a lover whose happier nature need never have caused her an hour's anxiety—a man whose thoughts and feelings were easy to read and understand. She had taken the lover whose caprices and moods had awakened a romantic interest, had aroused first curiosity, then sympathy and regard. It was because he was a genius she loved him; and she must resign herself to the capricious varieties of temperament which make genius difficult to deal with in everyday life.
No news of Allan reached Matcham till the beginning of November, when Mrs. Mornington took upon herself to write to Lady Emily about him, and received a very cold reply.
"I heard from my son last week," Lady Emily wrote, after a stately acknowledgment of Mrs. Mornington's inquiry. "He has been laid up with fever, but is better, and on his way home. He wrote from Brazzaville. It is something to know that he did not die in the desert, neglected and alone. Even on the eve of her marriage, your niece may be glad to hear that my son has survived her unkindness, and Mr. Wornock's desertion; and that I am hoping to welcome him home before long."
Mrs. Mornington showed the letter to Suzette, whose mind was greatly relieved by this news of Allan.
"It is such a comfort to know that he is safe," she told Geoffrey, after commenting upon the unkindness of Lady Emily's letter.
The news which was so cheering to her had a contrary effect upon her lover. There was a look of trouble in Geoffrey's face when he was told of Allan's expected arrival, and he took no pains to conceal his displeasure.
"I am sorry you have suffered such intense anxiety," he said resentfully. "Did you suspect me of having murdered him?"
"Nonsense, Geoffrey! I could not help thinking of all possible dangers; and it distressed me to know that other people thought you unkind in leaving him."
"Other people have talked like fools—as foolishly as his mother, in whom one forgives folly. I was not his nurse, or his doctor, or his hired servant. I was only a casual companion; and I was free to leave him how and when I pleased."
"But not to leave him in distress or difficulty.Iknew you could not have done that. I knew that you could not act ungenerously. I think Lady Emily ought to make you a very humble apology for her rudeness, when she has her son safe at home."
"She may keep her apologies for people who value her opinion. I shall be a thousand miles away when her son returns."
He was silent and gloomy for the rest of the morning, and Suzette felt that she had offended him. Was he so jealous of her former lover that even the mention of his name—a natural interest in his safety—could awaken angry feelings, and make a distance between them? Even their music went badly, and Mrs. Wornock, from her seat by the fire, reproached them for careless playing.
"That sonata of Porpora's went ever so much better last week," she said, on which Geoffrey threw down his bow in disgust.
"I dare say you are right. I am not in the mood for music. Will you come for a ride after lunch, Suzette? I can drive you home, and the horses can follow while you are getting on your habit. We might fall in with the hounds."
Suzette declined this handsome offer. She was not going to say to lunch.
"Father complains that I am never at home," she said, putting away the music.
"Your father is out with the hounds. What is the use of your going back to an empty house?"
"I would rather be at home to-day Geoffrey."
"To think about Allan, and offer a thanksgiving for his safety?"
"I am full of thankfulness, and I am not ashamed of being glad."
She went over to Mrs. Wornock, who had been too much absorbed in her book to be aware that the lovers were quarrelling, till Suzette's brief good-bye and rapid departure startled her out of her tranquillity.
"Aren't you going to walk home with her, Geoffrey?" she asked when her son returned to the music-room, after escorting his sweetheart no further than the hall-door.
"No," he answered curtly; "we have had enough of each other for to-day."
He went to the library, where the morning papers were lying unread, and turned to the second page of theTimesfor the list of steamers, and then to the shipping intelligence.
Zanzibar? Yes, the Messageries Maritimes steamerDjemnah, was reported as arriving at Marseilles yesterday morning. Allan was in England, perhaps. If all went well with him, he would come by the first ship after the mail that brought his letter. TheRapidewould bring him from Marseilles in time for the morning mail from Paris. He was in England—he whom Geoffrey had cruelly, treacherously deserted, helpless, and alone.
"All is fair in love," Geoffrey told himself; "but I wonder what Suzette will think of her future husband when she knows all? Her future husband! If I were but her actual husband, I could defy Fate. Who knows? something may have happened to hinder his return—a fit of fever, a difficulty on the road. Three more weeks, and he may come back safe and sound; it won't matter to me; I have no murderous thoughts about him. He may tell her the worst he can about me. Once my wife, I can hold and keep her in spite of the world. I will teach her that the man who sins for love's sake must be forgiven for the sake of his love."
He was consumed with a fever of anxiety which would not let him rest within four walls. He walked to Beechhurst, and unearthed a caretaker, who came strolling from the distant stables, where he had been enlivening his idleness by gossip with the grooms. The blinds and shutters were all closed. Nothing had been heard from Mr. Carew.
"If he were in England you would have heard from him, I suppose?" said Geoffrey.
"Yes, sir; he would have wired, no doubt. My wife is housekeeper, and she would have had notice to get the house ready."
"Even if Mr. Carew had gone to Suffolk, in the first instance?"
"I should think so, sir. He would know we should want time to prepare for him."
There was relief in this. Perhaps theDjemnahhad carried no such passenger as the man whose return Geoffrey Wornock dreaded.
He went back to the Manor in the gloom of a November evening. The darkness and loneliness of the road suited his humour. He wanted to be alone, to think out the situation, to walk down the devil within him.
Matcham Church clock was chiming the third quarter after five when he opened the gate and went into Discombe Wood; but when the Discombe dressing-bell rang at half-past seven—an old-fashioned bell in a cupola, which gave needless information to every cottager within half a mile of the Manor House—Geoffrey had not come in.
His valet waited about for him till nearly dinner-time, and then went down to the drawing-room to ask Mrs. Wornock if his master was to dine at home.
"He is not in his dressing-room, ma'am. Will you wait dinner for him?"
"Yes, yes, of course I shall wait. Tell them to keep the dinner back."
The dinner was kept back so long that nobody eat any of it, out of the servants' hall. Mrs. Wornock spent a troubled evening in the music-room, full of harassing fears; while grooms rode here and there—to Marsh House, to inquire if Mr. Wornock was dining there; to Matcham Road Station, to ask if he had left by any train, up or down the line; to the Vicarage, a most unlikely place, and to other houses where it was just possible, but most improbable, that he should allow himself to be detained; but nowhere within the narrow circle of Matcham life was Mr. Wornock to be heard of.
"Pray don't be anxious about Geoffrey," Suzette wrote, in answer to Mrs. Wornock's hastily scribbled note of inquiry; "you know how erratic he is. He was vexed at something I said about Allan this morning, and he has gone off somewhere in a huff. Keep up your spirits, chère mère. I will be with you early to-morrow morning.Iam not frightened."
"She is not frightened! If she loved him as I do, she would be as anxious as I am," commented Mrs. Wornock, when she had read Suzette's letter.