"Till the lost sense of life returned again,Not as delight, but as relief from pain."The Falcon of Sir Federigo.
"Till the lost sense of life returned again,Not as delight, but as relief from pain."
The Falcon of Sir Federigo.
Allonby's return to full consciousness had been a very gradual affair. Each lucid interval had been eagerly watched by Dr. Forbes, who feared the loss of memory, partial or entire, which often results from such brain attacks. Were the young man to forget—as it was entirely probable that he would—the circumstances immediately preceding his illness, the difficulty of Mr. Dickens' mission would be increased tenfold.
When it became evident that the sick man recognised his sister, the excitement began to culminate. But hours went by, he slept, ate, awoke, and dozed again, quite tranquil, and apparently not at all solicitous as to how Wynifred came to be at his side, or where he was, or what was the reason of his illness.
But at last, one afternoon, the "light of common day" broke in upon the calmness of his musings, and sent his mind tossing restlessly to and fro in all the tumult of newly aroused consciousness.
He awoke from a delicious sleep with a sense of returning vigor in all his big limbs, and, essaying to throw out his left arm, behold! It was immovable.
He held his breath, while he surveyed the bandaged limb, and all the glittering visions which had been the companion of his delirium came showering to earth in a torrent of shining fragments.
Throughout his illness, the idea of the Island Valley of Avilion had never left him. No doubt the fact that his dominant idea had been a beautiful and a peaceful one had greatly served to help him through. His talk, when he rambled, had been all of "bowery willows crowned with summer sea," and of the rest of the exquisite imagery with which he had mentally surrounded Edge Combe in his holiday dreams. Now, the mirage of imaginary loveliness had fled. Like a flash it was gone, and only the commonplace daylight of every day remained.
This sudden departure of the baseless fabric of his vision was by no means a novelty to Osmond. Often and often before he had had violently to recall his winged thoughts to earth: to set aside the sparkling beauties of the life he lived in fancy, in order to cope with the butcher's bills, the rates and taxes of the life he lived in reality.
But this last dream had been passing sweet, and he thought it had lasted longer than was common with the airy things. It had rivetted itself in his mind, till he felt that he could close his eyes and commit it to canvas from memory alone. He could see the soft dim outline of the mythic barge, he could "hear the water lapping on the crags, and the long ripple washing in the reeds," and he could see, feature for feature, the face of the sorrowing queen. A young, lovely face, with the light of morning on it, but with anguish in the eyes, and sympathy of tears upon the cheeks.
For a moment he closed his eyes to recall it all. Then he boldly opened them, to confront a world with which he felt too weak to cope.
Not much of the said world was visible just then, and what there was seemed calculated to soothe and cheer. It was bounded by the four walls of a not very large room, the whitewash of whose ceiling was spotlessly white, the roses of whose wall paper were aggressively round and pink. To his right, a casement window hung wide open; and through it came the sighing of a summer wind rustling through elm-trees.
Near this window stood the well-known figure of his sister Wynifred, stepping leisurely to and fro before the board on her sketching easel, to which she was transferring, in charcoal, some impression which was visible to her through the window.
Her straight brows were pulled together so as to make a perpendicular furrow in the forehead between them; the soft scratching of her charcoal brought back to Osmond common-place memories of the Woodstead Art School, wherein he passed three days of every week as a master, when it was not vacation time.
Wynifred and Wynifred's occupation were familiar enough. They let him know the folly of his dreaming; but there yet remained one puzzling thing. How came he to be lying there in bed, with a bandaged arm, in a room that was utterly strange to him?
It was rather a remarkable room, too, when one came to study it attentively. It possessed a heavy door carved in black oak, which door was not set flat in the wall, but placed cross-ways across the corner—evidently a relic of great antiquity.
The invalid pondered over that door with a curiosity which was somewhat strange, considering that the answer to his puzzle, in the shape of his sister, stood so close to him, and that he had only to ask to be enlightened.
But it is to be supposed that there is something fascinating in suspense, or why do we so often turn over and over in our hands a letter the handwriting of which is unknown to us—exhausting ourselves in surmise as to who is our correspondent, when we have but to break the seal for the signature to stare us in the face? There is no saying how long Allonby might have amused himself with conjecture, for it was, truth to tell, a state of mind peculiarly congenial to him. He liked to feel that he did not know what was to happen next—to wait for an unexpecteddénouementof the situation. He had often, when exploring an unknown country, been guilty of the puerile device of sitting down by the roadside, just before a sharp bend in the road, or just below the summit of a high hill, while he pleased himself with guessing what would be likely to meet his eye when the corner was turned, or the hill-crest reached. So now he lay, speculating idly to himself, and by no means anxious to break the spell of silence by pronouncing his sister's name; when suddenly she looked up from her work, half absently, and, finding his eyes gravely fixed on her, flung down her charcoal, and came hastily to the bedside, wiping her fingers on her apron.
"How are you, old man?" she said, meeting his inquiring look with one of frank kindliness. There was no trace of the burst of feeling with which she had told Dr. Forbes that her heart was soaring up to the evening star in the quiet heavens in gratitude and love. Evidently Miss Allonby kept her sentiment for rare occasions.
"I believe I feel pretty well," said he, using his own voice in an experimented and tentative way. "But I feel rather muddled. I don't quite recall things. I think, if you were to tell me where I am, it would give me a leg up."
"Take a spoonful of 'Brand' first," said Wyn; and, taking up a spoon, she proceeded to feed him. He ate readily enough; and philosophically said no more till she had turned his pillows and arranged his head in comfort; all of which she did both quietly and efficaciously, though in a manner all her own, and which would have revealed to the eye of an expert that she had been through no course of nursing lectures, nor known the interior of any hospital.
"There!" she said at last, seating herself lightly on the edge of the bed. "Now I will tell you—you are in a place called Poole Farm. Does that help you?"
"Poole Farm? Yes," he said, reflectively. "I was sketching near there. Did I have a fall? I have managed to smash myself somehow. How did I do it?"
"Don't you remember?" asked Wyn, earnestly.
He lifted his uninjured hand and passed it over his forehead. It came in contact with more bandages. He felt them speculatively.
"Broken head, broken arm, broken rib," he remarked, drily. "Broken mainspring would almost have been more simple. How did it happen, now? How did it happen? I can't understand."
"You were painting, in the lane by the wayside," said the girl, suggestively. "A picture with a warm key of color, and a little bit of the corner of the farm-house coming into it—evening sky—horizon line broken on the left by clump of ash-trees."
"Yes, I know. I recollect that," he said. "I walked over from Edge Combe in rather a hot sun. I felt a little queer. But a sunstroke couldn't break one's bones, Wyn. I must have had a fall, eh?"
"You fell from your camp-stool to the grass," she returned, "but that could hardly have hurt you to such an extent."
He lay musing. At last,
"I don't remember anything," he said, with a sigh. "I think the sun must have muddled my head. Tell me what happened."
"My dear boy," cried she, "that is exactly what we wantyouto tellus!"
"What! Don't you know?" he asked, with a sudden access of astonishment.
"Nothing! Nobody knows anything except that you were found by the roadside, all in fragments. Ah! I can laugh now. But oh, Osmond! when they telegraphed to me first!"
She leaned over him, and kissed his forehead.
"My dear boy," she said, "I could eat you."
He caught his breath with a weary sigh.
"What's become of Hilda and Jac?" he asked.
"Oh! they are all right—gone to the Hamertons at Ryde, and having a delightful holiday. Don't fret," she said, answering fast, and with an evident anxiety at the turn his inquiries were taking. But he would go on.
"And how long have I been lying here?" he asked, grimly. "I suppose there are some good long bills running up, eh? Doctors not the least among them." A pair of very distinct furrows were visible on his forehead.
"And that commission of Orton's," he sighed out.
Wyn had slipped down to her knees by his bed, and now she took his hand and laid her cheek upon it.
"Listen to me, old man," she said; "there is no need to fret, I've managed things for you. I wrote first thing to Mr. Orton, and he answered most kindly—his friend will be satisfied if the pictures are ready any time within six months, so do unpucker your forehead, please. As to expense, it won't be much. Mrs. Battishill is the most delightful person, but becomes impracticable directly the money question is broached. She says she never let her rooms to anybody in her life, and she isn't going to begin now. The room would be standing empty if you didn't have it, and you are just keeping it aired. As to linen, it all goes into her laundry: "She don't have to pay nothing for the washing of it, so why should we!" Ditto, ditto, with dairy produce. "It all cooms out of her dairy. It don't cost her nothing, and she can't put no price on it!" I have been allowed to pay for nothing but the fish and meat I have bought; and I don't apprehend that Dr. Forbes' bill will ruin us. There! That's a long explanation, but I must get the £ s. d. out of your head, or we shall have no peace. I've kept my eyes open and managed everything. You arenotto worry—mind!"
He heaved a long breath of relief.
"Bless you, Wyn!" he said. "But we must not be too indebted to these good folks, you know."
"I know! I'll manage it! We must give them a present. They are really well-to-do, and don't want our money. Besides, they are, owing to us, the centre of attraction to the neighborhood. All Edge Combe is for ever making pilgrimages up here to know how you are faring. You are the hero of the hour."
"And you can't tell me what it all means?" he asked, with corrugated brow.
"I can tell you no more at present," she answered, rising as she spoke. "I must feed you again, and you shall rest an hour or two before you do any more talking, and, if you are disobedient, I shall send for Dr. Forbes."
Whether Osmond found this threat very appalling, or whether what he had already heard supplied him with sufficient food for meditation, was a matter of doubt; but some cause or other kept him absolutely silent for some time; and Wyn, who had retired to her easel, the better to notify that conversation was suspended for the present, by-and-by saw his eyes close, and hoped that he was dozing again. So the afternoon wore on, till voices struck on her ear—voices of persons in eager conversation. They were floated to her through the open window, but came apparently from round the corner of the house, for she could not see the speakers when she looked out.
As the sounds broke the stillness, Osmond's eyes opened wide.
"Who is there?" he asked, hurriedly.
"I don't know," said his sister, peering forth, "I hear Mr. Cranmer, but there is some one else."
Then suddenly a little gush of laughter, high and clear, sailed in on the hot summer air, followed by the distinct notes of a girl's voice.
"Saul! Saul! Get up, you stupid boy!"
Osmond stirred again. He rolled right over in bed, and turned his eager face full to the window.
"Wyn—who is it?" he asked, uneasily.
"I'll go and see if you want to know."
"Stay one minute—I want to hear—who found me by the wayside, as you say, in fragments?"
"A young lady and her maid," was the reply, "She is a Miss Brabourne, I believe, and lives near here. She ran in search of help, and accidentally met a carriage containing two tourists——"
"Brabourne? Isn't that the name of that horrible imp of a child who lives with the Ortons?"
"Yes—I believe it is," said Wyn pausing. "My nephew, the heir to a very large property," she presently added, mimicking a masculine drawl, apparently with much success, for her brother laughed.
"That's it," he said. "Well—but who is Mr. Cranmer?"
Wynifred now became eloquent.
She told him all that Claud had done—his kindness, his interest, his unwearying attention, his laying aside all plans for the better examination of the mystery.
Of course she greatly exaggerated both Mr. Cranmer's sacrifice and his philanthropy. He had been interested, that was all. It had amused him to find himself suddenly living and moving in the heart of a murderous drama, such as is dished up for us by energetic contributors to the sensational fiction of the day. Vol. I. had promised exceedingly well: Vol. II. seemed likely to be disappointing. In all the "shilling horrors," though of course the detective does not stumble on the right clue till page two hundred and fifty is reached, still he contrives to be erratic and interesting through all the intermediate chapters, by dint of fragments of a letter, the dark hints of an aged domestic, the unwarranted appearance of a mysterious stranger, or the revelations of a delirious criminal.
Since Allonby had burned the sole letter which could have been of any importance, and in his delirium talked only of a place and persons alike mythical and useless, it really seemed as if the story must stop short for want of incident. Mr. Dickens had all but succeeded in persuading Claud that they had to deal with a modern Englishvendetta—a thing of all others to be revelled in and enjoyed in these days when the incongruous is the interesting.
Our jaded palates turn from the mysteries of Udolpho, where all was in keeping, where murders were perpetrated in donjon keeps, ghosts were fitly provided with arras as a place to retire to between the acts, and mediæval knights and ladies were to the full as improbable as the deeds and motives assigned to them. Now something more piquant must be provided, above all somethingrealistic. Mr. Radcliffe and Horace Walpole are relegated to the land of dreams and shadows; give usvraisemblanceto whet our blunted susceptibilities. Let us have mystic ladies, glittering gems, yawning caverns, magic spells; but place the nineteenth century Briton, chimney-pot hat and all, in the centre of these weird surroundings. Make him your hero; jumble up what is with what could never have been, and the first critics in English literature shall rise up and call you blessed! They thought themselves dead for ever to the voice of the charmer: you have given them the luxury of a new sensation; what do you not deserve of your generation? Join the hands of the modern English nobleman and the mythical African princess—link together the latest development of Yankeeism and dollars with the grim tragedy of the Corsican bandit—your fortune is made; you are absolutely incongruous; you have out-Radcliffed Radcliffe. She gave us the improbable; to you we turn for the absurd.
That Allonby was going to miss such an opportunity as this was, to the mind of Mr. Dickens, abêtisetoo gross to be contemplated. He had already caused the local newspapers to bristle with dark hints. He awaited, in a state of feverish suspense, the waking of the lion.
Could he have seen that lion's unfurrowed brow and unenlightened expression, his heart would have sunk within him.
As to Claud, the upshot of it all would not materially affect him, whichever way it turned. After all his personal taste for melodrama was only skin-deep. He preferred what was interesting to what was thrilling. He had taken a liking to the unconscious victim; he was struck with the loveliness of the Devonshire valley; the weather was fine; he had nothing else to do; and that was the sum of all. Considerably would he have marvelled, could he have heard Wynifred's description of his conduct as it appeared to her. Nobody that he knew of had ever thought him a hero; neither did any of his relations hold self-sacrifice to be in general the guiding motive of his conduct.
When Miss Allonby, after instilling her own view of his actions into her brother's willing ear, slipped off her apron, hung it over the back of a chair, and went to summon this good genius to receive the thanks she considered so justly his due, he was totally unprepared for what was to come.
To have his hand seized in the languid, bony grip of the sick man, to see his fine dark grey eyes humid with feeling, to hear faltering thanks for "such amazing kindness from an utter stranger," these things greatly embarrassed the ordinarily assured Claud.
He jerked his eye-glass from his eye in a good deal of confusion, he pulled the left hand corner of his neat little moustache, he absolutely felt himself blushing, as he blurted out a somewhat vindictive declaration that,
"Miss Allonby must have given a very highly-colored version of the part he had taken in the affair."
"Oh, of course you would disclaim," said Allonby, with an approving smile. "That's only natural. But I hope some day the time may come when I shall have a chance to do you a kindness; it doesn't sound likely, but one never knows."
"But this is intolerable," cried Claud, fuming, "I haven't been kind—I tell you I haven't! I have been merely lazy and more than a trifle inquisitive! I won't be misrepresented, it isn't fair!"
"Could some fay the giftie gie us," said Wyn, smiling softly at him across the bed.
"Oh, well," said the young man, with a sudden softening of voice and manner, "it's not often that others see me in the light that you two appear to have agreed upon. I don't see why I am to disclaim it. It's erroneous, of course; but rather unpleasant on the whole; and, after all, we never do judge one another justly. If you didn't think me better than I am, you might think me worse; so I'll say no more."
"Better not, it would be labor lost," said Wyn, seriously. "When we Allonbys say a thing, we stick to it."
"Do you?" said he, with an intonation of eager interest, as if he had never before heard such a characteristic in any family.
The girl nodded, but turned away, and beckoned to him not to talk any more.
"We must leave him a little," she said, gently. "Dr. Forbes will soon be here, and I don't want him to think him unduly excited."
"Wyn," said Osmond, as his sister and the Honorable Claud reached the door, "is Miss Brabourne downstairs?"
"Yes."
"It was she who found me by the roadside?"
"Yes."
"Ah!" He said no more, but turned his face to the window and lay still, with his poetic and prominent chin raised a little. It was impossible to guess at his musings.
Since you have praised my hair,'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.In a Gondola.
Since you have praised my hair,'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.
In a Gondola.
When Miss Allonby and Mr. Cranmer emerged into the garden, they found a pleasing group awaiting their arrival.
Lady Mabel was sitting in a wicker chair, her gloves were removed, and lay rolled up in her lap, her firm white hands were employed with tea-cups and cream jug.
On the grass near sat Elsa, her hat off, her eyes dilated with wonder and enjoyment. Mr. Fowler stood near her ladyship, cutting bread-and-butter.
"Come along, Claud," she cried, as they appeared. "That good Mrs. Battishill provides anal frescotea for us! Sit down and take the gifts the gods provide you. Did you ever see such a view?"
"Never," said Claud, with conviction. "Of all the lovely bits of rural England, I do think this is the loveliest. What makes its charm so peculiar is that it's unique. Half a mile along the high-road either towards Philmouth or Stanton, you would never guess at the existence of such an out-of-the-way spot of beauty. It really does remind one of what your brother called it," he went on, turning to Wynifred, "The 'Island Valley of Avilion.'"
"That's in Tennyson, I think," said Mr. Fowler. "I am ashamed to say how little poetry I read; we are behind the times here in the Combe, I'm afraid—eh, Elsie?"
"I don't know," said the monosyllabic beauty, confused.
Her large eyes were resting on Miss Allonby, drinking her in as she had drunk in Lady Mabel. They were not alike, most assuredly, yet from Elaine's standpoint there was a similarity. Both of them were evidently at ease. Each knew how to sit in her chair, what to do with her hands, and, above all, what to say.
When her aunts received company they were excited, disordered. They ran here and there, for this and that—they fidgetted, they were flurried.
Wynifred Allonby looked as if she did not know what to be flurried meant.
She wore the simplest of grey linen gowns, with an antique silver buckle at her waist. Into her belt she had fastened three or four of the big dark red carnations which grew in profusion in the farm-house garden, and were just beginning to blossom. She was in the presence of an earl's sister, whom she had never seen before, yet her calm was unruffled, and her manner perfectly quiet. In Elsa's untutored eyes, this was inimitable.
Though she herself had now met Mr. Cranmer several times, yet she found herself blushing more and more every time she met his eye. Consciousness was awake—her quick feminine eye told her that her clothes did not resemble those of either of the women beside her.
Both were most simply attired, for it was the whim of Lady Mabel, when in the country, to wear short woollen skirts, leaving visible her shapely ankles, and otherwise to cast away the conventions of Bond Street by the use of wash-leather gloves and a stout walking stick. To-day, under a short covert coat of dark blue cloth, she wore a loose scarlet shirt, the effect of which was coquettish and telling. Her well-looped skirts were also of dark blue, and there was a rough and ready suitableness to the occasion about her which was most effective. The poor little watching, unfledged Elsa felt a soreness, an intolerable jealousy. Why was she so unlike others? Why could she not have different gowns? She almost thought she could sit and talk as easily as Miss Allonby, if only her dress fitted, and she could wear buckles on her shoes.
There was Mr. Fowler, who had always been her own especial property, her godfather, the one human being who had ever dared to say, "Let the child have a holiday." "Let the child stay up another hour this evening." There he was, talking to Miss Allonby in his gentle way, looking at her with his honest eyes, laying himself out to entertain her, and not so much as throwing a glance at his forlorn Elsa.
Nobody knew what purely feminine sorrows were vexing the young heart.
Lady Mabel was in a frame of mind inclined to be very regretful. She, like her brother, had taken a vehement fancy to Edge Combe, and she knew she must leave it, and return to London. She wanted to make the most of these sunshiny, peaceful hours, these interesting people, this lovely landscape.
Her fine eyes gazed down the valley, at the mysterious deeps below them, thick with foliage, and the deep glowing sea which formed the horizon.
"What a color that ocean is!" she said. "Do look, Claud, it's quite tropical!"
Mrs. Battishill was placing a big dish of clotted cream on the table.
"Eh, for all the world like a great basin of hot starch, isn't it? I've often thought so," said she, good-humoredly.
Her prompt exit into the farm-house allowed the smiles to broaden at will on the countenances of four of her five auditors.
"Oh, Mab," said Claud, with tears in his eyes, "what a slap in the face for your sentiment!"
"I'm not sure that it's not a very apt illustration," cried Wyn, when she could speak. "It is really just the same color, and the dip of the valley holds it like a basin! Imaginative Mrs. Battishill!"
"You draw, I think, Miss Allonby?" said Mr. Fowler.
"Yes, I am very fond of it," she answered.
"You will be able to do some sketching, now that your mind is at ease about your brother."
"Yes; but I am a poor hand at landscape. That is Osmond's province. I prefer heads. I should like," she paused, and fixed her eyes on Elsa, "I should like to paint Miss Brabourne."
Elsa started as if she had been shot. Up rushed the ungoverned color to face, throat, and neck. She could not believe the hearing of her ears.
"To paint me?" she cried. The water swam in her glorious eyes. "Are you making game of me?" she passionately asked.
"Making game of you? No!" said Wyn, in some surprise. "I am very sorry—I beg your pardon—I am afraid I have distressed you."
Lady Mabel reached out her hand towards the girl as she sat on the grass; and, placing it under her chin, turned up the flashing, quivering, carmine face and smiled into the eyes.
"Should you dislike to sit for your portrait, Elsa?"
"I don't know—I never tried—I know nothing about it!" cried she, enduring the touch, as it seemed, with difficulty, and ready to shrink back into herself.
"You would try to sit still, if it would be a help to Miss Allonby, I am sure?"
"I don't think she means it," cried the tortured Elsa, with a sob.
"I meant it, of course," said Wynifred, very sorry to have been so unintentionally distressing. "But I am ashamed of having asked so much. Sitting is very tedious, and takes up a great deal of time."
"I should be very anxious to see what you would make of her," said Mr. Fowler, with interest. "Elsa, little woman, you must see if you can't keep still, if Miss Allonby is so kind as to take so much trouble about you."
"Trouble! It would be both pleasure and education," said Wyn, with a smile; "she will make a delicious study, if——"
"If?" said Lady Mabel, turning swiftly as she hesitated.
"If I might do her hair," said Wyn, laughing, and throwing a look of such arch and friendly confidence towards Elaine that the shy girl smiled back at her with a sudden glow.
"Oh, you may do as you like with my hair, if the aunts will only let me sit to you!" she said, with eager change of feeling.
"Leave the aunts to me, Elsie—I'll manage them," said Mr. Fowler, reassuringly.
"To think that I must go home and lose all this interest and enjoyment," cried Lady Mabel, in some feigned, and a good deal of real regret.
"Why need you go, Mab?" asked Claud.
"Oh, my dear boy, I must! Edward is coming down to fetch me, and there are my darlings to see after. My holiday is over. But I shall comfort myself with hoping to have Elsa to stay with me when I am settled. Edward writes me word that we shall be obliged to have a house in town this winter—my husband has been so ill-advised as to get into Parliament," explained she to Mr. Fowler.
"Oh, yes; I remember hearing very gladly of his success," was the cordial response. "Also that his electioneering was most ably assisted by Lady Mabel Wynch-Frère, who was received with an ovation whenever she appeared in public."
He was bending over her as he spoke, handing her the strawberries, and she smiled up at him with sudden passion of Irish eyes.
"Any effort in the good cause," she said, with fervency.
"Exactly, in the good cause," he responded. "You may speak out—we are all friends here."
"How do you know?" asked Claud. "You don't suppose I sympathize with Mab's political delusions, do you? A younger son must be a Radical, as far as I can see. The idea of plunder is the only idea likely to appeal to his feelings with any force."
Mr. Fowler laughed pleasantly.
"You put me in a difficulty," said he. "I was going to try to persuade you to come and take up your quarters in my bachelor diggings in the Lower House for awhile and try my shooting; but if you are going to vote against the government——"
"You'll have to drive me out of the Lower House—stop my mouth with a peerage, eh?" cried Claud.
"Miss Allonby doesn't see the joke," said Mr. Fowler; "my dwelling is called the Lower House," he proceeded to explain, "receiving that title merely because it happens to be further down the valley than Edge Willoughby."
"I see," said the girl, laughing. "Well! as a representative of law and order, I'm shocked to hear you advocating shooting, Mr. Fowler!"
"To an Irishman, eh? Yes, it's risky, I own. But what say you, Mr. Cranmer, seriously? Come and try my covers?"
It was exactly the invitation Claud wanted. He had no compunction in becoming the guest of a well-to-do bachelor, whose birds were probably pining to be killed; and it would keep him in this lovely part of the country, and within reach of Allonby and his mystery, not to mention Elsa Brabourne.
His face lighted up with pleasure.
"But——" he began.
"But it's not the 12th, yet—no, you're right. I can offer you a trout-stream to begin with, and a horse if you care about riding. If you are bored, you can run up to town, and come down again for the shooting."
"I shan't be bored," said Claud.
In point of fact, the whole thing promised most favorably.
A visit to a house with no mistress—where doubtless you might smoke in your bed-room, and need never exert yourself to get off the sofa, or put on a decent coat, or make yourself entertaining, or go to church twice on Sundays.
His bachelor soul rejoiced.
All this, with the ladies within reach if by chance he wanted them or their society, why, it was the acme of luxury!
"I was wondering how you were going to begin shooting so soon," said Lady Mabel; "but I assure you, Claud will be perfectly happy if only you let him loaf about and dream by himself. He likes a contemplative existence."
"Yes," said Claud, modestly and even cheerfully accepting this description of himself. "I like leisure to congratulate myself that I have none of the vices, and few of the failings, of my fellow-creatures in this imperfect world."
"Fewof the failings—have youany?" asked Miss Allonby, with innocent surprise, holding a strawberry ready poised for devouring. "Do you really admit so much? I am curious to know to what human weakness you are free to confess?"
"Would you really like to know? Well—it is a very interesting subject to me, so doubtless it must be interesting to other people," said Claud, in his debonair way. "Know, then, that I have a fault. Yes, I know it, self-deception was never a vice of mine; I see clearly that I am not without a defect; and I deeply fear that time will not eradicate it, though haply indigestion may do so. This weakness is—strawberries." He heaved a deep sigh, and helped himself to his fourth plateful with melancholy brow.
"Only one consolation have I," he went on, placing a thick lump of cream on the fruit. "It is that the period of degradation is transient. A few short weeks in each year, and I recover my self-respect until next June. Peaches smile on me in vain, dusky grapes besiege my constancy. My friends tempt me with pine-apples, and wave netted melons before my dazzled vision; but I remain temperate. Strawberries are my one vulnerable point; which, being the case, I know you'll excuse my further conversation."
"Say no more," said Wyn, in solemn accents. "A confidence so touching will be respected by all."
"Ah! sympathy is very sweet," sighed he. "Have you a failing, by chance, Miss Allonby?"
"I am sure I do not know," she answered, with great appearance of reflective candor. "My self-knowledge is evidently not so complete as yours. If I were conscious of one, I fear I should not have your courage to avow it; perhaps because my defect would most likely be chronic, and not a mere passing weakness like yours."
During this passage, Lady Mabel had been abundantly occupied in studying Elsa's face. Its expression of incredulity and dismay was strange to behold. That, two grown-up persons should deliberately set to work to talk the greatest nonsense that occurred to them at the moment had never struck her as in any way a possibility. What made them do it? Were they in earnest? Their faces were as grave as judges, but Mr. Fowler was laughing. She hoped that nobody would ever speak to her like that, and expect her to reply in the same vein. It overwhelmed, it oppressed her. Involuntarily she drew near Lady Mabel, and shrank almost behind her, as if for protection from the two who were, like Cicero, speaking Greek.
Lady Mabel amused herself in thinking what Miss Charlotte Willoughby's verdict would have been, had she been present.
"I am sure you both have a pretty good opinion of yourselves," she might have remarked, or more probably still, "Strawberries are wholesome enough when eaten in moderation, but I am sure such excessive indulgence must be bad for anybody."
"I don't wonder," said Mr. Fowler, with sly playfulness, "that Miss Allonby is unwilling to follow Mr. Cranmer's fearless example, and proclaim herself uninteresting for eleven months out of twelve."
"Uninteresting!" cried Claud.
"What so uninteresting as perfection? I am glad I first made your acquaintance when you were under the influence of your one defect. I doubt I shouldn't have invited you to Lower House if I had met you a month later."
"Ah! you have invited me now, and you must hold to it," cried Claud, in triumph; "but, as I must admit I have deceived you, and owe you reparation, why—to oblige you—I will try to hatch up a special defect for August."
"I don't think you'll find it very difficult, dear boy," said Lady Mabel, sweetly.
"Difficult to make myself interesting? No, Mab, that has always come easily to me; you and I were never considered much alike," was the impudent answer.
"His desire to have the last word is really quite—lady-like, isn't it?" said his sister to Mr. Fowler; and all four burst out laughing. "Claud, I am ashamed of you—get up and put down those strawberries. Here is Elsa looking at you in horror and amazement! Do mind your manners."
"As I have devoured my last mouthful, I obey at once. I am like the ancient mariner after telling his story. The feverish desire for strawberries has passed from me for a while. I become rational once more."
"Such moments are rare; let us make the most of them," retorted she, "and tell me seriously what your plans are."
"If you'll allow me, I'll walk back with you and Miss Brabourne, and expound them on the way. Oh, look, Mr. Fowler, there's that ass Dickens; I must go and speak to him a minute, and tell him we're more in the dark than ever."
He rose hurriedly, his nonsense disappearing at once, and went down to the gate, followed by Henry Fowler.
"We can never be grateful enough to your brother, Lady Mabel," said Wyn, gently, when they were out of hearing.
"I am sure he is only too pleased to have had a chance of being of use. He is as kind a fellow as ever breathed, and hardly ever does himself justice," said Claud's sister, warmly. "He is a real comfort to me, and always has been; so thoughtful and considerate, and never fusses about anything."
"No, he does everything so simply, and as if it were all in the day's work," said Wynifred, as if absently. "It is the kind of nature which would composedly perform an act of wild heroism, and then wonder what all the applause was for."
Lady Mabel looked swiftly at the speaker. It seemed to her that it was the most un-girlish comment on a young man that she had ever heard. Perhaps the strangeness of it lay more in manner than in words. Wynifred leaned one elbow on the table, her chin rested in her hand; her pale face and tranquil eyes studied Mr. Cranmer, as he stood pulling the gate to and fro, and eagerly talking to the detective. Her expression was that of cool, critical attention. Something in Lady Mabel's surprised silence seemed to strike on her sensitive nerves. She looked hurriedly up, and colored warmly.
"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly, "I am afraid I am blundering" ... and then broke short off, and pushed back her chair from the table. "We have a bad habit at home," she said, "of studying real people as if they were characters in fiction; but we don't, as a rule, forget ourselves so far as to discuss them with their own relations."
Lady Mabel smiled; it was a pretty and an adequate apology. She thought Miss Allonby an interesting girl, and was inspired with a desire to see more of her.
"You must come and see me when I am settled in London, Miss Allonby," she said, kindly, "I should like to know your sisters."
"I should like you to know them," was the eager response. "Osmond and I are very proud of them."
"They are both younger than you?"
"Yes; Hilda is three years younger, and Jacqueline four. There is only just a year between them."
"And you are orphans?"
"Yes."
At this moment Claud approached.
"Miss Allonby," he said, "I wonder if you would get your brother's permission for Mr. Dickens to rifle the things he left behind him at the 'Fountain Head'with Mrs. Clapp?"
"Oh, certainly, I am sure he would have no objection. Perhaps I had better come myself," said Wynifred. "I have been wanting to fetch up some paints."
"It would be far the best plan," said Claud, with alacrity. "I am going to walk down with my sister and Miss Brabourne. Will you come to? I will see you safely home again."
"You are very kind," she answered, simply. "I will go and tell Osmond, and see whether nurse has given him his tea."
"We shall have to set out soon," said Lady Mabel, "or we shall be late for tea at Edge Willoughby."
"The amount of meals one can get through in this climate!" observed Claud, pensively. "Why, you have this moment finished one tea, Mab,—I'm ashamed of you! Mr. Fowler, how many meals a day am I to have at the Lower House?"
"Oh, I think I can promise you as many as you can eat, without taxing my cook or my larder too far. We are used to appetites here."
"A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind," mused Mr. Cranmer. "The fact that King Henry died of a surfeit used to impress me, I remember, with an unfavorable view of that monarch's character. But"—he heaved a sigh, and, with a side-glance of fun at Elsa, took another strawberry—"nous avons changé tout cela!ViveDevonshire and the Devon air!"
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced.We were not lovers, nor even friends well-matched:Say rather, scholars upon different tracks,Or thinkers disagreed.Aurora Leigh.
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced.We were not lovers, nor even friends well-matched:Say rather, scholars upon different tracks,Or thinkers disagreed.
Aurora Leigh.
With his usual forethought, Mr. Cranmer had made out in his own mind a plan of the coming walk. He meant to walk from Poole to Edge with Elsa Brabourne, the anachronism, and return from Edge to Poole with Wynifred Allonby, one of the latest developments of her century.
He felt that there must needs be a piquancy about the contrast which the dialogue in these two walks would necessarily present. No doubt one great cause of his happy, contented nature was this faculty for amusing himself, and at once becoming interested in whatever turned up.
It is scarcely a common quality among the English upper classes, who mostly seem to expect that the mountain will come to Mahomet as a matter of course, and so remain "orbed in their isolation," and, as a natural consequence, not very well entertained by life in general. It was this trait in Claud which drew him and his eccentric sister together. She was every bit as ready as he to explore all the obscure social developments of her day. Anything approaching eccentricity was a passport to her favor, as to his; and these valley people had taken strong hold on the fancy of both.
He was standing just outside the door, when Wynifred came down ready for her walk, and he noted approvingly that the London girl was equipped for country walking in the matter of thick shoes, stout stick, and shady hat. On the shoes he bestowed a special mental note of approval. Lady Mabel had once said that she believed the first thing Claud noticed in a woman was her feet. Miss Allonby was intensely unconscious that her own were at this moment passing the ordeal of judgment from such a critic, and passing it favorably.
"Osmond is very quiet and comfortable, and nurse thinks I can well be spared," she announced.
"I must reluctantly bid you all good-bye for the present," said Mr. Fowler, regretfully. "I am obliged to go on to visit a farm up this way. I wish you a pleasant walk."
He raised his hat with a smile, and stood watching as they started. Lady Mabel, urged on by her active disposition, went first, and Wynifred went with her. Claud dropped behind with Elaine, and this was the order of the march all the way to the village. Mr. Cranmer was resolved to make Elsa talk, and he began accordingly with the firm determination that nothing should baulk him, and that he would not be discouraged by monosyllables. It was well that this resolution was strong, for it was severely tried.
The first subject he essayed was the beauty of the scenery, and the joy of living in the midst of such a fine landscape. He could have waxed eloquent on this theme, and shown his listener how much happier are the dwellers in rural seclusion than they who exist in towns, and how it really is a fact that the dispositions of those born among mountains are freer and nobler than those of denizens of flat ground—with much more of the same kind. But he soon became aware that he spoke to deaf ears. The girl beside him was not interested: he could not even keep her attention. Her feet lagged, her head seemed constantly turning, without her volition, back towards the direction of Poole Farm.
"But perhaps you don't share my enthusiasm for the country?" he broke off suddenly, with great politeness.
Elsa grew red, stretched out her hand for a tendril from the hedge, and answered, confusedly:
"I hate living in the country!"
There was a note in her young voice of a defiance compelled hitherto to be mute, and consequently of surprising force. The very fact of having broken silence at last seemed to give her courage; after a minute's excited pause, she went on:
"I want people—I want companions. I want to be in a great city, all full of life! I want to hear people talk, and know what they think, and find out all about them. Do you know that I have never met a girl in my life till I saw Miss Allonby! And—and—" with voice choked with shame—"I am afraid to speak to her. I don't know what to say. I should show her my ignorance directly. Oh, you can't think how ignorant I am! I know nothing—absolutely nothing. And I do so long to."
"Knowledge comes fast enough," said Claud, impetuously. "You will know—soon enough. Don't fret about that. In these days you cannot think what a rest it is to find anyone so fresh, so unspoiled—so—so ingenuous as yourself, Miss Brabourne! You must forgive my venturing to say so much. But, if you only knew what a power is yours by the very force of the seclusion you have lived in, you would be overwhelmed with gratitude to these wonderful ladies who have made you what you are!"
"Then," said Elaine, shyly, stealing a wary glance at him, "youdosee that I am very unlike any girl you ever met?"
Claud laughed a little, and hesitated.
"Yes, you are—in your bringing up, I tell you frankly," he said. "As regards your disposition, I don't know enough to venture on an opinion."
They walked on a few minutes in silence, and then she said:
"Tell me about London, please."
He complied at once, but soon found out that it was not theatrical London, nor artistic London, nor the London of balls and receptions which claimed her attention, but the world of music, which to her was like the closed gates of Paradise to the Peri.
When he described the Albert Hall, and the Popular Concerts, she drank in every word. It was enchanting to have so good a listener, and he talked on upon the same theme until the village was reached, when his sister faced round, and said that Miss Allonby wished to stop at the "Fountain Head," but she and Elsa must hasten on, so as not to be late for the Misses Willoughby's tea-time.
It was accordingly settled that Claud should walk up with them as far as the gate of Edge and return to fetch Wynifred in half-an-hour. On his way back he called at the postman's cottage to see if there were any letters for Poole Farm. They put two or three into his hands, and also a packet which surprised him. It was addressed to Miss Allonby, and obviously contained printer's proofs.
He stared at it. A big fat bundle, with "Randall and Sons, Printers, Reading, Llandaff, and London," stamped on a dark blue ground at the top left-hand corner.
"So she writes, among other things, does she?" said he, speculatively, as he turned the packet over and over. "What does the modern young lady not do, I wonder? what sort of literature? Fiction, I'll bet a sovereign, unless it is an essay on extending the sphere of feminine usefulness, or on the doctrine of the enclitic De, or on First Aid to the Sick and Wounded. Strange! How the male mind does thirst after novelty! I declare nowadays it is exquisitely refreshing to find a girl like Miss Brabourne, who has never been to an ambulance lecture, nor written a novel, nor even exhibited a china plaque at Howell and James'!"
For Claud had that instinctive admiration for "intelligent ignorance" in a woman which seems to be one of the most rooted inclinations of the male mind. Theoretically, he hated ignorant woman; practically, there were times when he loved to talk to them.
Wynifred was seated in the porch of the inn, talking to Mrs. Clapp, when he came up. The subject of conversation was, needless to relate, the missing pudding-basin.
"When we find that, miss, the murder'll be aout," was the good lady's opinion.
Claud thought so too.
"First catch your hare," he murmured, as he paused at the door. "Have I kept you waiting, Miss Allonby?"
"Scarcely a minute," she answered, rising, and nodding a "good evening" to Mrs. Clapp.
"I called in at the postman's," he said, as they turned homewards, "and have brought you this, as the result of my enterprise."
He produced the packet of proofs, with his eyes fixed on her. Her face did not change in the least.
"Thanks," she said, "but what a heavy packet for you to carry—let me relieve you of it."
"Certainly not; it goes easily in my pocket;" and he replaced it with a curious sense of being baffled. Should he leave the subject, or should he take the bull by the horns and tax her with it? It might be merely a sense of shyness which made her unwilling to talk of her writings.
"I did not know you were an authoress, Miss Allonby," he said.
"No? I have not written very much," she answered, frankly.
"May I venture to ask what you write? Is it novels?" he asked, tentatively.
"It is singular, not plural, at present," she answered, laughing. "I have published a novel, and hope soon to bring out another."
"You seem to be a universal genius," he observed.
"That is the kind of speech I never know how to reply to," said Wynifred. "I can't demonstrate that you are wrong—I can only protest: and I do hate protesting."
"I am very sorry—I didn't know what to say," apologised he, lamely.
"Then why did you introduce the subject?" she answered, lightly. "You can't accuse me of doing so. Let us now talk of something on which you are more fluent."
He laughed.
"Do you know you are most awfully severe?"
"Am I? I thought you were severe on me. But, if you really wish to know, I will tell you that I don't care to talk of my writings, because I always prefer a subject I can treat impartially. I can't be impartial about my own work—I am either unjust to myself or wearisome to my audience. I don't want to be either, so I avoid the topic as much as possible. This letter is from my sisters at Ryde—will you excuse me if I just peep to see if they are quite well?"
"Most certainly," replied Claud, strolling meditatively on, with a glance now and then towards his companion, who was absorbed in her letter. He thought he had never beheld such an ungirlish girl in his life. That total absence of consciousness annoyed him more than ever. Elsa Brabourne was one mass of consciousness, all agitated with the desire to please, all eager to know his opinion of her. It really did not seem to matter in the least to Wynifred whether he had an opinion concerning her at all. Evidently he did not enter into her calculations in any other relation than as her brother's benefactor. Her burst of gratitude had been very pleasant to the young man's vanity; he had hoped at least to arrest her attention for a few days, to make her sensible of his presence, intolerant of his absence; but no. He had to confess that she was new to him—new and incomprehensible. He could not know that her state of impartiality and unconsciousness was an acquired thing, not a natural characteristic, the result of a careful restraint of impulse, a laborious tutoring of the will. It sprang from a conviction that, to do good work as a novelist, one must be careful to preserve the moral equilibrium, that no personal agitations should interfere with quiet sleep at night, and the free working of ideas. She met everybody with the pre-conceived resolution that they were not to make too deep an impression. They were to be carefully considered and studied, if their characters seemed to merit such attention; but this study was to be of their relation to others, not herself. She, Wynifred, was to be a spectator, to remain in the audience; on no account was she to take an active part in the scenes of passion and feeling enacting on the stage.
No doubt this was not a normal standpoint for any young woman to occupy; but she was scarcely to be judged by the same standards as the average girl. If blame there were, it should attach to the circumstances which compelled her, like an athlete, to keep herself continually in training for the race which must be run.
"Hilda and Jacqueline are quite well," she said, folding her paper with a smile. "They are having great fun. There is a mysterious yacht at Ryde which is causing great excitement; have you heard about it, by chance?"
"I wonder if it is the same that I heard about from a man I know at Cowes? Is it called theSwan?"
"Yes, that is the name. It belongs to a Mr. Percivale, of whom nobody seems to know anything, except that he is very rich and very retiring—nobody can get up anything like an intimacy with him. He speaks English perfectly; but they do not seem to think that he is English in spite of his name. It is interesting, isn't it?"
"Yes, I think it is; but I expect, after all, it is nonsense. Why should a man make a mystery about his identity, if you come to think of it, unless he's ashamed of it? But, as a novelist, I suppose you have an appetite for mystery?"
"Yes, I do think I must own to a weakness that way; you see mystery is rare in these days," said Wynifred, meditatively.
"Well, I don't know; we have a good rousing mystery up here in the Combe just now—a mystery that I don't think we shall solve in a hurry," said Claud, with a baffled sigh, as they drew near the fatal spot in the lane.
The girl's face grew grave.
"Yes, indeed," she said, abstractedly.
As if by mutual consent they came to a stand-still, and stood gazing, not at the grassy road-side where the crime had been perpetrated, but down the fair valley, where the long crescent of the waxing moon hung in the dark-blue air over the darkening sea.
"The worst of an untraceable crime like this seems to me," she said, "to consist in the ghastly feeling that what has been once so successfully attempted, with perfect impunity, might be repeated at any moment—on any victim; one has no safeguard."
"Oh, don't say that," he said, hurriedly, "it sounds like a prophecy."
She started, and looked for a moment into his dilated eyes, her own full of expression. For the first time in their mutual acquaintance he thought her pretty. In the isolation of the twilight lane, rendered deeper by the shadow of the tall ash-trees, with the memory of a horrible crime fresh in her mind, a momentary panic had seized her. She came nearer to him; instinctively he offered his arm, and she took it. He could feel her fingers close nervously on it.
"It is so dreadful," she said, in a whisper, "to think of wickedness like—likethat, in such a beautiful world as this."
"It is," he answered, in sober, reassuring tones, "therefore I forbid you to think about it. I ought not to have brought you home this way; I am an idiot."
"It is I who am an idiot," said the girl, smiling at her own weakness. "Ever since I have known you—I mean, you have grown to know me at an unfortunate time. I suppose I am a little overdone; you mayn't believe it, but I—I hardly ever lose my head like this."
"I can believe it very well," was the prompt reply. "You will be all right again in half a minute." He had turned so that their backs were towards the fatal spot; and, as if absently, he strolled back a little way down the road, her hand still on his arm. He began to speak at once, in his easy tones. "Look!" he said, "what a superb night it is! I thought I saw a sail, just going behind that tree. Ah! there it is! How bright! The moon just catches it."
"Perhaps it is theSwan," she answered, struggling valiantly for a natural voice. "The girls said I was to look out for it—it is going to cruise westward."
"Perhaps it is," he answered. "How phosphorescent the water is in its trail—do you see? How the little waves are full of fire!"