Chapter VI.The Blow FallsThree days they kept it up. Wynter discovered new wonders in the cellar each day, and while at breakfast everyone was discussing trains, towards evening departure had been forgotten. Reckavile was first down, in a dressing gown, and stood before the great fireplace in the hall, now empty and black.The morning was far gone, but none of his guests showed any sign of appearing.The butler approached him withThe Timesnewspaper, and a large bumper of brandy. He idly opened the paper, and glanced at the news, then a pang shot through him as he read of an earthquake shock which had been felt in northern Italy, and several houses had been demolished near Venice. A great wave of disgust went over him, and his thoughts went back to the little villa, and the poor girl waiting for him, perhaps overtaken by this hideous menace.The moment he thought of this fair child in danger, he sickened of his surroundings. God, what a hog he was. He looked in the glass and saw the blotched face and heavy eyes, and with a blow he smashed the heavy mirror, careless of a bleeding fist. The butler came in alarmed at the sound, though he was inured to most things in that house.“Have you hurt yourself, my lord?” he asked.“It’s nothing, get one of the servants to clear up that mess.”“They say it’s unlucky, my lord, breaking a mirror,” said the butler, gazing ruefully at the ruin.“Unlucky, be damned, you fool, have you ever known a Reckavile anything else but unlucky. Get me another brandy.”There was only one thing to do. He would write no farewell letter, that was so common, so vulgar; he would melt away. Never mind luggage, he had the money he had got ready to take with him after the wedding.“Where is Lady Reckavile?” he asked.“Her maid has taken breakfast to her, my Lord.”“Very good, you may go, here take this glass with you,” and he handed his empty glass to the butler.At the corner of the drive he paused; the wood closed thick beyond, and he looked back at the sombre pile of the old house, for some instinct told him that he would never see it again. Then the woods swallowed him up, and he set his face to the distant railway at Portham Junction.Carlotta was waiting for him in the little haven of rest, so calm after the turgid days that had passed, and he felt at peace again.It was so charming to sit and listen to the small trifles of interest which had come to Carlotta’s quiet life, the earthquake which had not touched them, but had been much talked of, and the hot weather which was causing a drought.When they were sitting together after dinner, she shyly took up a piece of work, and plied her needle while he smoked and watched her.A great contentment settled on his soul.He would get on with his pictures, and the old past would fade. There would be no ghosts this time, and after a time the new Lady Reckavile would presume him dead, perhaps marry again, it was all one to him.The soft night air played about them, and only the sound of some night insect came from the garden.All at once his attention was rivetted by the sight of what Carlotta was sewing. Half consciously he looked at it, wondering at first, and then his mind became focussed, and he could not take his eyes from the little garment. Slowly realisation came, and a wave of mixed emotion swept over him. Horror, exaltation, pity and regret were equally blended.In a hushed voice he said “Little Daphne, what are you working at?”Her face sunk down over her work, and a crimson like a sunset dyed her neck.“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I could not tell you.”A tumult of many waters went over him. What did this mean? He knew of course, what she was telling him, there was no doubt of that, but what in God’s name was to be the outcome now.The line he had sworn to end, with its Curse and madness. And the child. What of that? By all the laws of God and man this was the heir, and why should he be kept from his title? What right had he to say that this should be plain Desmond, when he should be Reckavile. He was dumb, and rose and fled into the night without a word. Here he paced the rose garden wrestling with his thoughts. Cursed fool! He had never thought, never realised.And that farce in London, if he had only known before. Oh God! talk about honour, where was the honour in giving his name to a woman who had sought trouble with her eyes open, when he had betrayed an innocent child unborn, and sold his birthright for a freakish principle. Well, he need not decide now, sufficient for the day; that was the old motto. Anything might happen. And then a sudden realisation of what Carlotta must be feeling struck him like a blow, and he turned to the loggia.She was weeping quietly, as she had always done, but passionately and with abandonment.She had misunderstood, he was an artist, and she knew he admired her beauty. She had thought he was angry that her loveliness would be marred, and she would be unsightly, hideous to him.She wished he had not come back. Then he came in and took her into his arms.“Don’t cry, little Daphne,” he said very tenderly, “I have guessed your secret, poor child, and you had not told me.”“Are you angry with me?” she murmured. “I thought you would be pleased. Fancy … but I must whisper it.”She was only a child, delicate and sensitive as a flower.“I understand, Darling, but it came as a shock at first. Poor little Daphne! How you must have been worrying by yourself.”“It doesn’t matter, only I thought you would be pleased,” and the light shone in her starry eyes. “I would have told you before you went away, only I did not like to.”He burst into a wild discordant laugh, which frightened her.“Oh, the Curse. This is real humour, only a joke of the worst taste.”Then he saw her white puzzled face, and set himself to comfort her. She had little secrets to tell him. There was a cot hidden away which must be brought out, a delicate fairy thing of blue silk, and lace, and a casket fitted with tiny brushes and ivory boxes.It made him feel clumsy and awkward—out of place. He knelt by her and took her hands.“Do you remember, little Daphne, when we met in the woods, and I said I would paint you as a Madonna, and how shocked you were?”She nodded gravely; it had been their first meeting, and the memory of that had always been with her.“Perhaps I shall paint you as our Blessed Lady with the Bambino.”She blushed deeply, and her eyes spoke her thoughts.“It would be too much honour, but …” and the tears which came so easily now, started to her eyes.He was very gentle with her in the days that followed, and the old unrest was quieted. They would walk in the rose garden, amid the flowers, and all that was best in the man shone out like a star in a cloud wrack, calm and strong. She leaned more on him as the time went on, and found him a rock of support. There was no painting now, only sweet companionship and expectancy.An English doctor came post haste in answer to Hugh’s message, and while he was within Hugh stamped up and down the garden, cursing, angry with the futile wrath of a man who would gladly offer up his blood, his life, to save from pain one over whom the Dark Shadow was resting.How unfair that he who could stand anything with a cold disdain, should be impotent, while this tender girl was suffering. It touched his pride as well; he had been used to sympathy and respect for his endurance. He would have preferred that she should watch how indifferent he was to pain and admire him. It was most unfair.But the ordeal was over at last, and the doctor, Halley, came from the house, his face beaming.“It is all over, Mr. Desmond,” he said, “and you need have no anxiety. She was brave, splendid—and the child is a fine boy—a credit to his mother; you will be proud of them both.”Damp perspiration stood on Hugh’s forehead, and he felt a fool. He was not made for domesticity, and a feeling of repulsion mixed with the relief.“Come in and have a drink, Doctor,” he said “these things are very worrying.”Dr. Halley understood men, and he followed Hugh into the lounge where they toasted the new arrival.No peace was now in Hugh’s tortured soul, the Curse had him in its grip. He was fiercely jealous of the child for monopolising all Carlotta’s time and attention, exacting in his demands and resentful if not dissatisfied. And he must now share her with this intruder, no longer was she wholly his, responsive to his very word. Another claimed her, and the old restless mood returned; he was drunk three parts of the day, and sulked during the rest.Carlotta sorrowed in secret, but the little one kept her busy; later he would take an interest; it was unreasonable to expect a man to care for a senseless piece of humanity, which demanded only food and sleep. At times he would rouse himself, and the great picture was begun, in the fair garden, the Holy Mother with her Child, but he wanted to paint the child as a fiend, the bodily representative of the Curse, which had stolen his little Daphne.And so the months passed, and the spring had come. A strange friendship had sprung up between the Doctor, Halley, and Hugh. Like everyone with whom he came in contact, Hugh exercised a fascination over the Doctor. His charming manners, and beautiful face, even the sadness which pervaded him, attracted while they repelled.He was a frequent visitor at the villa, first for professional reasons, then to see Hugh, and at last for another reason which he dared not confess even to himself.He was dining with the Desmonds with a few friends, when the blow fell. As Hugh came down for dinner, he picked up a letter in the hall, and put it into his pocket.He knew the writing only too well, it was from Curtis.It was a pleasant little party, but a strange foreboding made Hugh distrait. When the ladies had gone, and the men were smoking, he took the letter from his pocket, and asking permission of his guests broke the seal. Inside was another letter, and his heart gave a bound as he saw the scrawly writing of Winnie. He had received letters full of appeal from her—asking him to come back. She had thought him at some foreign war, and could only write through Curtis, who was Sphinx-like as to his place of abode. Finally he had told Curtis not to forward any more. Why had he broken this instruction?He balanced this one in front of the fire; better burn it and let the dead past bury its dead, but something stayed his hand, and he broke the seal.He sat so long staring into the fire, that his guests gave sidelong glances at him. His face was ashen, and there was a devil peeping out of his eyes. At last the silence became intolerable, and the Doctor asked, “Nothing wrong, Desmond, I hope.”Hugh gave a horrible laugh which sent a shudder down the backs of his listeners.“Wrong! No, splendid news. I am sorry to be so rude. A great friend or enemy of mine, I am not certain which, is about to become a happy father, good luck to him. Let’s come and join the ladies.”His gaiety that evening was contagious, and Carlotta hoped that he was getting over his moods, and coming back to his old self.When the others had gone he kissed her tenderly good-night.“I shall not be coming yet, Daphne,” he said, using the old name. “I want to have a think.”“All right, Darling,” she replied, lifting her sweet eyes to him. “But you look tired and worn, poor Hugh!”“Never mind me,” he said almost impatiently “Daphne, where do you keep your marriage certificate?”The question startled her. She treasured this sacred document with her most intimate possessions though she had never looked at it. She had never refused him a request in her life, but something made her hesitate to tell him.“Do you want to see it, Darling?” she pleaded.“Yes, please,” he said in the tone she knew meant obedience, and she fetched it for him.“You will take care of it, Darling, won’t you?”It was placing her honour in his hands.She went slowly out of the room, feeling as though he had taken her child from her.All night Hugh paced the garden. Winnie was going to have a child, and little Roy in his cot upstairs was to be dispossessed of his birthright. The crisis had come at last, which he had refused to meet. Only one course was open to him, and that he would take to the bitter end. The Curse had handed him his poison cup, and he must drink as became a Reckavile.He would go to England, yes at once, without farewells which he hated, or an explanation which he could not give with those clear eyes on him.He would produce the marriage certificate, that would be necessary, and proclaim his infamy. He must put Carlotta in her place, and Roy as his heir, and then, of course, follow the path so many of his ancestors had done, with dignity and unfaltering courage. Only in his case it must be swift, he would never suffer arrest.
Three days they kept it up. Wynter discovered new wonders in the cellar each day, and while at breakfast everyone was discussing trains, towards evening departure had been forgotten. Reckavile was first down, in a dressing gown, and stood before the great fireplace in the hall, now empty and black.
The morning was far gone, but none of his guests showed any sign of appearing.
The butler approached him withThe Timesnewspaper, and a large bumper of brandy. He idly opened the paper, and glanced at the news, then a pang shot through him as he read of an earthquake shock which had been felt in northern Italy, and several houses had been demolished near Venice. A great wave of disgust went over him, and his thoughts went back to the little villa, and the poor girl waiting for him, perhaps overtaken by this hideous menace.
The moment he thought of this fair child in danger, he sickened of his surroundings. God, what a hog he was. He looked in the glass and saw the blotched face and heavy eyes, and with a blow he smashed the heavy mirror, careless of a bleeding fist. The butler came in alarmed at the sound, though he was inured to most things in that house.
“Have you hurt yourself, my lord?” he asked.
“It’s nothing, get one of the servants to clear up that mess.”
“They say it’s unlucky, my lord, breaking a mirror,” said the butler, gazing ruefully at the ruin.
“Unlucky, be damned, you fool, have you ever known a Reckavile anything else but unlucky. Get me another brandy.”
There was only one thing to do. He would write no farewell letter, that was so common, so vulgar; he would melt away. Never mind luggage, he had the money he had got ready to take with him after the wedding.
“Where is Lady Reckavile?” he asked.
“Her maid has taken breakfast to her, my Lord.”
“Very good, you may go, here take this glass with you,” and he handed his empty glass to the butler.
At the corner of the drive he paused; the wood closed thick beyond, and he looked back at the sombre pile of the old house, for some instinct told him that he would never see it again. Then the woods swallowed him up, and he set his face to the distant railway at Portham Junction.
Carlotta was waiting for him in the little haven of rest, so calm after the turgid days that had passed, and he felt at peace again.
It was so charming to sit and listen to the small trifles of interest which had come to Carlotta’s quiet life, the earthquake which had not touched them, but had been much talked of, and the hot weather which was causing a drought.
When they were sitting together after dinner, she shyly took up a piece of work, and plied her needle while he smoked and watched her.
A great contentment settled on his soul.
He would get on with his pictures, and the old past would fade. There would be no ghosts this time, and after a time the new Lady Reckavile would presume him dead, perhaps marry again, it was all one to him.
The soft night air played about them, and only the sound of some night insect came from the garden.
All at once his attention was rivetted by the sight of what Carlotta was sewing. Half consciously he looked at it, wondering at first, and then his mind became focussed, and he could not take his eyes from the little garment. Slowly realisation came, and a wave of mixed emotion swept over him. Horror, exaltation, pity and regret were equally blended.
In a hushed voice he said “Little Daphne, what are you working at?”
Her face sunk down over her work, and a crimson like a sunset dyed her neck.
“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I could not tell you.”
A tumult of many waters went over him. What did this mean? He knew of course, what she was telling him, there was no doubt of that, but what in God’s name was to be the outcome now.
The line he had sworn to end, with its Curse and madness. And the child. What of that? By all the laws of God and man this was the heir, and why should he be kept from his title? What right had he to say that this should be plain Desmond, when he should be Reckavile. He was dumb, and rose and fled into the night without a word. Here he paced the rose garden wrestling with his thoughts. Cursed fool! He had never thought, never realised.
And that farce in London, if he had only known before. Oh God! talk about honour, where was the honour in giving his name to a woman who had sought trouble with her eyes open, when he had betrayed an innocent child unborn, and sold his birthright for a freakish principle. Well, he need not decide now, sufficient for the day; that was the old motto. Anything might happen. And then a sudden realisation of what Carlotta must be feeling struck him like a blow, and he turned to the loggia.
She was weeping quietly, as she had always done, but passionately and with abandonment.
She had misunderstood, he was an artist, and she knew he admired her beauty. She had thought he was angry that her loveliness would be marred, and she would be unsightly, hideous to him.
She wished he had not come back. Then he came in and took her into his arms.
“Don’t cry, little Daphne,” he said very tenderly, “I have guessed your secret, poor child, and you had not told me.”
“Are you angry with me?” she murmured. “I thought you would be pleased. Fancy … but I must whisper it.”
She was only a child, delicate and sensitive as a flower.
“I understand, Darling, but it came as a shock at first. Poor little Daphne! How you must have been worrying by yourself.”
“It doesn’t matter, only I thought you would be pleased,” and the light shone in her starry eyes. “I would have told you before you went away, only I did not like to.”
He burst into a wild discordant laugh, which frightened her.
“Oh, the Curse. This is real humour, only a joke of the worst taste.”
Then he saw her white puzzled face, and set himself to comfort her. She had little secrets to tell him. There was a cot hidden away which must be brought out, a delicate fairy thing of blue silk, and lace, and a casket fitted with tiny brushes and ivory boxes.
It made him feel clumsy and awkward—out of place. He knelt by her and took her hands.
“Do you remember, little Daphne, when we met in the woods, and I said I would paint you as a Madonna, and how shocked you were?”
She nodded gravely; it had been their first meeting, and the memory of that had always been with her.
“Perhaps I shall paint you as our Blessed Lady with the Bambino.”
She blushed deeply, and her eyes spoke her thoughts.
“It would be too much honour, but …” and the tears which came so easily now, started to her eyes.
He was very gentle with her in the days that followed, and the old unrest was quieted. They would walk in the rose garden, amid the flowers, and all that was best in the man shone out like a star in a cloud wrack, calm and strong. She leaned more on him as the time went on, and found him a rock of support. There was no painting now, only sweet companionship and expectancy.
An English doctor came post haste in answer to Hugh’s message, and while he was within Hugh stamped up and down the garden, cursing, angry with the futile wrath of a man who would gladly offer up his blood, his life, to save from pain one over whom the Dark Shadow was resting.
How unfair that he who could stand anything with a cold disdain, should be impotent, while this tender girl was suffering. It touched his pride as well; he had been used to sympathy and respect for his endurance. He would have preferred that she should watch how indifferent he was to pain and admire him. It was most unfair.
But the ordeal was over at last, and the doctor, Halley, came from the house, his face beaming.
“It is all over, Mr. Desmond,” he said, “and you need have no anxiety. She was brave, splendid—and the child is a fine boy—a credit to his mother; you will be proud of them both.”
Damp perspiration stood on Hugh’s forehead, and he felt a fool. He was not made for domesticity, and a feeling of repulsion mixed with the relief.
“Come in and have a drink, Doctor,” he said “these things are very worrying.”
Dr. Halley understood men, and he followed Hugh into the lounge where they toasted the new arrival.
No peace was now in Hugh’s tortured soul, the Curse had him in its grip. He was fiercely jealous of the child for monopolising all Carlotta’s time and attention, exacting in his demands and resentful if not dissatisfied. And he must now share her with this intruder, no longer was she wholly his, responsive to his very word. Another claimed her, and the old restless mood returned; he was drunk three parts of the day, and sulked during the rest.
Carlotta sorrowed in secret, but the little one kept her busy; later he would take an interest; it was unreasonable to expect a man to care for a senseless piece of humanity, which demanded only food and sleep. At times he would rouse himself, and the great picture was begun, in the fair garden, the Holy Mother with her Child, but he wanted to paint the child as a fiend, the bodily representative of the Curse, which had stolen his little Daphne.
And so the months passed, and the spring had come. A strange friendship had sprung up between the Doctor, Halley, and Hugh. Like everyone with whom he came in contact, Hugh exercised a fascination over the Doctor. His charming manners, and beautiful face, even the sadness which pervaded him, attracted while they repelled.
He was a frequent visitor at the villa, first for professional reasons, then to see Hugh, and at last for another reason which he dared not confess even to himself.
He was dining with the Desmonds with a few friends, when the blow fell. As Hugh came down for dinner, he picked up a letter in the hall, and put it into his pocket.
He knew the writing only too well, it was from Curtis.
It was a pleasant little party, but a strange foreboding made Hugh distrait. When the ladies had gone, and the men were smoking, he took the letter from his pocket, and asking permission of his guests broke the seal. Inside was another letter, and his heart gave a bound as he saw the scrawly writing of Winnie. He had received letters full of appeal from her—asking him to come back. She had thought him at some foreign war, and could only write through Curtis, who was Sphinx-like as to his place of abode. Finally he had told Curtis not to forward any more. Why had he broken this instruction?
He balanced this one in front of the fire; better burn it and let the dead past bury its dead, but something stayed his hand, and he broke the seal.
He sat so long staring into the fire, that his guests gave sidelong glances at him. His face was ashen, and there was a devil peeping out of his eyes. At last the silence became intolerable, and the Doctor asked, “Nothing wrong, Desmond, I hope.”
Hugh gave a horrible laugh which sent a shudder down the backs of his listeners.
“Wrong! No, splendid news. I am sorry to be so rude. A great friend or enemy of mine, I am not certain which, is about to become a happy father, good luck to him. Let’s come and join the ladies.”
His gaiety that evening was contagious, and Carlotta hoped that he was getting over his moods, and coming back to his old self.
When the others had gone he kissed her tenderly good-night.
“I shall not be coming yet, Daphne,” he said, using the old name. “I want to have a think.”
“All right, Darling,” she replied, lifting her sweet eyes to him. “But you look tired and worn, poor Hugh!”
“Never mind me,” he said almost impatiently “Daphne, where do you keep your marriage certificate?”
The question startled her. She treasured this sacred document with her most intimate possessions though she had never looked at it. She had never refused him a request in her life, but something made her hesitate to tell him.
“Do you want to see it, Darling?” she pleaded.
“Yes, please,” he said in the tone she knew meant obedience, and she fetched it for him.
“You will take care of it, Darling, won’t you?”
It was placing her honour in his hands.
She went slowly out of the room, feeling as though he had taken her child from her.
All night Hugh paced the garden. Winnie was going to have a child, and little Roy in his cot upstairs was to be dispossessed of his birthright. The crisis had come at last, which he had refused to meet. Only one course was open to him, and that he would take to the bitter end. The Curse had handed him his poison cup, and he must drink as became a Reckavile.
He would go to England, yes at once, without farewells which he hated, or an explanation which he could not give with those clear eyes on him.
He would produce the marriage certificate, that would be necessary, and proclaim his infamy. He must put Carlotta in her place, and Roy as his heir, and then, of course, follow the path so many of his ancestors had done, with dignity and unfaltering courage. Only in his case it must be swift, he would never suffer arrest.