Chapter VII.A Nameless WifeA terrible gale was blowing up the Channel, and wise mariners made for port before it was too late, while wives shuddered at the howling whose menace they knew too well.Off the South Coast a small French vessel was beating its way against the blast, and coast-guards looked with astonishment at its manoeuvers, finally shrugging their shoulders at the madness of the foreigner. Had they seen what was taking place on the deck they would have opened their eyes still wider.The French skipper was holding to the rail, shouting orders, while a madman, without hat or coat, and with a set white face, was pointing a pistol at his head.“I tell you, sir,” said the shaking seaman, “we dare not run in close to the shore, we shall be driven in onto the rocks. It is sheer madness.”“Very well,” said Reckavile calmly “lower a boat and I will go ashore.”The other made a gesture of despair. “It is impossible, no boat would live for five minutes. Why not let me run to shelter, or ride out the storm?”“I tell you I will not wait, though all Hell were in the storm. You can choose, either you lower a boat for me, or I shoot you.” His calmness overawed the other.“It is death, sir, for you, and perhaps for us too.”“The first is my affair, and the other is in the hands of God or the Devil.”“Oh, Mon Dieu!” said the frightened man, crossing himself. “Very well, since you will have it so, and I will even go as near to the land as I dare, though I am risking the lives of the crew.”With a sense of relief he gave the order, hoping that he might save his life and his vessel, by casting this blasphemer.And so Hugh, seventh Lord Reckavile went to his death, driven by the Curse, and his body bruised and broken but still recognisable, was washed ashore by the oldBlack Horseat Portham, and brought by the Southgates on a shutter to the castle, while the storm shouted a requiem, and the fiends seemed to be laughing at their last effort at humour.Winnie was summoned, for the news must be broken, but it was dangerous in her condition, as her time had almost come.The butler in faltering accents, told her the sad tidings.She listened stony-eyed, and without tears. The news stunned her. Much also as she thought she loved him, his base desertion had cut her to the quick, and his refusal to answer any letters hurt her pride. She came and viewed the poor relic, now decently laid out, and saw the quiet beauty of the face, at rest at last, and peaceful. Then the tears came, and she sobbed bitterly till the nurse gently led her from the room, reminding her that another life might depend on her courage and restraint.More to take her mind off the horror than for any other reason the nurse placed into her hands the sea-soaked contents of his pocket, and Winnie idly examined them, her mind far removed from the articles, and seeing only his flushed handsome face, as she had last seen him alive.A parcel, damp with sea water, and sticky to the touch seized her attention, and she opened the sheets of paper. The first words were sufficient to rivet her mind on the writing.Be it known to all that I Hugh Desmond, seventh Baron Reckavile, being of sound mind, wish, as far as lies in my power to make restitution for a great wrong which has been committed.As she read on, fear clutched her. The document told of his marriage, and the birth of his heir, and of his bigamy with Winnie. Enclosed was the marriage certificate at the little village of Steeping among the Sussex Downs.The letters were blurred before her eyes. Surely this must be hallucination. She staggered as she read, and the quiet nurse came at once to her aid, guiding her to the bed, where she lay quivering.The nurse gave one look at her, and went out to summon the Doctor, after seeing that she could be left safely.Then all Winnie’s faculties came back, and she was the fierce Mother fighting for her offspring in some primeval forest.She half rose, determined to destroy the document before it could be seen by other eyes. That must be done at all costs, but great waves of pain came over her. She tried to rise, but could not. Then as a cold numbness gripped her, she grasped the packet in a despairing effort to throw it into the brightly burning fire.Delirium was coming on, and in the corner of the room a formless shape was gathering, from the sea-mist which pervaded the house. To her startled imagination a dreadful shape emerged, and the dead form of Hugh stood before her, the face stern and grim, and the dead eyes gazing at her in a fixed stare. Though no sound came from the closed blue lids, she heard him say “Destroy that paper, and the Curse will light on you. I will give you no peace, nor your unborn son. In sorrow and shame you shall bring forth a nameless thing to bear my name and title.”With a wild shriek, she sank back fainting on the bed, as the nurse hurried into the room.That night, the eighth Lord Reckavile was born, with the mocking voice of the storm fiends wailing round the old castle, and the very foundations shaking with the fury of the tempest, while in the Bay, gallant men were bringing half drowned Frenchmen safe ashore from the wreck of the vessel, and below a still form was lying with a smile of devilish satisfaction on the dead lips.When Winnie, like a pallid ghost crept downstairs for the first time, the nurse shook her head.“She must have loved him very much to take on so,” she said to the housekeeper.But Winnie had one purpose in view. At all costs the damning papers must be hidden, destroy them she could not after the horrible vision, even though her reason told her it was a nightmare born of her condition. Hugh had told her of the secret drawer of the Reckaviles, and she placed the documents there.“The villain,” she muttered “that accounts for all his absences abroad, leading a double life, and then trying to do my son out of his rights at the end.” For black hatred had come to her of the man who still haunted her in her dreams, and more of the innocent girl and her son, far away in Italy, who would hang like a dark cloud over her son’s head for all his life. Truly the Curse was heavy on the family.And in Murano poor Carlotta awaited with yearning anxiety for the man who would never come back to her, and the weeks went on without news. Bitter tears fell over that little cot, and she would talk to the tiny mite lying there as though he could understand, in baby language. But the weeks went on, and her only friend was Doctor Halley, who came with unfailing regularity, always sympathetic and hopeful. She grew to look for his visits, and if business kept him, she became fretful. Time was taking its toll with her, and sad lines came to her beautiful face, which the doctor noticed with secret anguish.At last he came with a solemn look on his usually cheerful face.“Mrs. Desmond,” he said “I am afraid I have some terrible news for you. You must try and be brave.”“He is dead,” she gasped with quick intuition.“It is worse than that, I grieve to say.”“Worse?”He slowly unfolded an English paper, where an account was given of the wreck, and the drowning of Lord Reckavile.It was of old date, but a print was given of the dead man, and the likeness was unmistakable, apart from the name below, “Hugh Desmond, Lord Reckavile.”At first she did not understand.“It looks like Hugh,” she said in a hollow voice. “It must be a relative.”The Doctor shook his head. “I am afraid there is no doubt,” he said gently “I never told you, but on the night when your husband went away, he dropped an envelope on the floor. I picked it up from a sense of tidiness, intending to throw it in the fire, when the name arrested my hand. It was Lord Reckavile, and was part of the letter he had opened in our presence, and which had evidently disturbed him. There is no doubt that it was his real name. He was Lord Reckavile.”A vague memory floated back to her mind. The parson at their wedding had called him by that name. She remembered the very words.“ ‘Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw!’ he had said.”Even then she did not realise the full meaning of the terrible news the doctor had brought.Hugh was dead, and that stunned her for the time, but Halley was speaking.“I am so sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I felt you must be told. Poor little Roy. It will be dreadful for him.”“Yes, of course,” she replied wondering. How would it matter when he was too young to understand.“Mrs. Desmond, you are a brave woman, I know that. Don’t you see what this means. Here is an account of the affair. Lady Reckavile gave birth to a son and heir on the same night.”“Lady Reckavile!” she whispered. “You mean he was married. He had a wife.”“I am afraid so, he married you as Hugh Desmond, having a wife already,” his voice was hard and bitter.She was up in arms at once. Every true woman can so easily forgive a cruel wrong done her if it is for Love.“He loved me only, I am sure of that, and if he had another wife, at any rate he left her for me.”The Doctor was wisely silent. The realisation of the wrong done to the child upstairs would come later.“I have been so long away from England,” he said “that I have lost touch with the people there. I seem to have heard of the Reckaviles.”It all came back to her when she lay on her sleepless bed that night. His hesitation and the delay in getting married, and then the secrecy, and the hurried flight to Italy. Yes, it was all clear now.“Hugh, darling,” she said to herself, condoning the wrong, in her great love as is the way with a woman. “What you must have suffered.” She never doubted his love for her, but she knew vaguely that people in his station sometimes had to make loveless marriages for social reasons.All was black and hopeless, but she must live on for her child’s sake. Relief came from the parched fever when she bent over the cot where the child lay, and a passionate flood of tears woke the sleeping boy, and the need for comfort was come. She rocked him in her arms, and sobbed out her broken little heart. The good Doctor was her one solace. With unselfish kindness he saw her through this time of horror, and fought inch by inch to help her forget. Each month an allowance arrived from the lawyer in London without explanation, for Hugh had arranged this with Curtis, though the lawyer had no idea who the lady was, and imagined it was one of Reckavile’s past fancies, who had been pensioned off.It was to continue during her lifetime, for at the time there had been no thought of a further contingency.Halley had retired from practice, but lingered on in Venice. When he thought suitable interval had elapsed, he came suppliant to Carlotta, his motives love and chivalry equally blended.“I know you will never allow anyone to take Hugh’s place,” he said humbly, “but you need some one to protect you and help you to fight on. I can only offer you my love, and I will devote my life to you. But I fear I am hurting you.”She had half risen with a look of horror on her face, but sank back again.“You don’t understand, Doctor, and you are very kind, especially as you alone know how I really am, a nameless wife, but you do not realise. I am Italian, and I love but once. Whatever you think of Hugh, I can never forget him and the very thought of marrying again is like committing a foul crime.”Halley was one of those rare beings who can love and sacrifice. Whatever he felt, no sign appeared.“Then you must allow me to be your protector only,” he said, with a smile which hardly hid his pain.She was quick to see it. “You are a true friend, and I am afraid I have hurt you horribly. Believe me I do feel deeply for you, and am so grateful for all you have done. Anything I can do to return your friendship, I will do.” She stopped there, and he understood.
A terrible gale was blowing up the Channel, and wise mariners made for port before it was too late, while wives shuddered at the howling whose menace they knew too well.
Off the South Coast a small French vessel was beating its way against the blast, and coast-guards looked with astonishment at its manoeuvers, finally shrugging their shoulders at the madness of the foreigner. Had they seen what was taking place on the deck they would have opened their eyes still wider.
The French skipper was holding to the rail, shouting orders, while a madman, without hat or coat, and with a set white face, was pointing a pistol at his head.
“I tell you, sir,” said the shaking seaman, “we dare not run in close to the shore, we shall be driven in onto the rocks. It is sheer madness.”
“Very well,” said Reckavile calmly “lower a boat and I will go ashore.”
The other made a gesture of despair. “It is impossible, no boat would live for five minutes. Why not let me run to shelter, or ride out the storm?”
“I tell you I will not wait, though all Hell were in the storm. You can choose, either you lower a boat for me, or I shoot you.” His calmness overawed the other.
“It is death, sir, for you, and perhaps for us too.”
“The first is my affair, and the other is in the hands of God or the Devil.”
“Oh, Mon Dieu!” said the frightened man, crossing himself. “Very well, since you will have it so, and I will even go as near to the land as I dare, though I am risking the lives of the crew.”
With a sense of relief he gave the order, hoping that he might save his life and his vessel, by casting this blasphemer.
And so Hugh, seventh Lord Reckavile went to his death, driven by the Curse, and his body bruised and broken but still recognisable, was washed ashore by the oldBlack Horseat Portham, and brought by the Southgates on a shutter to the castle, while the storm shouted a requiem, and the fiends seemed to be laughing at their last effort at humour.
Winnie was summoned, for the news must be broken, but it was dangerous in her condition, as her time had almost come.
The butler in faltering accents, told her the sad tidings.
She listened stony-eyed, and without tears. The news stunned her. Much also as she thought she loved him, his base desertion had cut her to the quick, and his refusal to answer any letters hurt her pride. She came and viewed the poor relic, now decently laid out, and saw the quiet beauty of the face, at rest at last, and peaceful. Then the tears came, and she sobbed bitterly till the nurse gently led her from the room, reminding her that another life might depend on her courage and restraint.
More to take her mind off the horror than for any other reason the nurse placed into her hands the sea-soaked contents of his pocket, and Winnie idly examined them, her mind far removed from the articles, and seeing only his flushed handsome face, as she had last seen him alive.
A parcel, damp with sea water, and sticky to the touch seized her attention, and she opened the sheets of paper. The first words were sufficient to rivet her mind on the writing.
Be it known to all that I Hugh Desmond, seventh Baron Reckavile, being of sound mind, wish, as far as lies in my power to make restitution for a great wrong which has been committed.
Be it known to all that I Hugh Desmond, seventh Baron Reckavile, being of sound mind, wish, as far as lies in my power to make restitution for a great wrong which has been committed.
As she read on, fear clutched her. The document told of his marriage, and the birth of his heir, and of his bigamy with Winnie. Enclosed was the marriage certificate at the little village of Steeping among the Sussex Downs.
The letters were blurred before her eyes. Surely this must be hallucination. She staggered as she read, and the quiet nurse came at once to her aid, guiding her to the bed, where she lay quivering.
The nurse gave one look at her, and went out to summon the Doctor, after seeing that she could be left safely.
Then all Winnie’s faculties came back, and she was the fierce Mother fighting for her offspring in some primeval forest.
She half rose, determined to destroy the document before it could be seen by other eyes. That must be done at all costs, but great waves of pain came over her. She tried to rise, but could not. Then as a cold numbness gripped her, she grasped the packet in a despairing effort to throw it into the brightly burning fire.
Delirium was coming on, and in the corner of the room a formless shape was gathering, from the sea-mist which pervaded the house. To her startled imagination a dreadful shape emerged, and the dead form of Hugh stood before her, the face stern and grim, and the dead eyes gazing at her in a fixed stare. Though no sound came from the closed blue lids, she heard him say “Destroy that paper, and the Curse will light on you. I will give you no peace, nor your unborn son. In sorrow and shame you shall bring forth a nameless thing to bear my name and title.”
With a wild shriek, she sank back fainting on the bed, as the nurse hurried into the room.
That night, the eighth Lord Reckavile was born, with the mocking voice of the storm fiends wailing round the old castle, and the very foundations shaking with the fury of the tempest, while in the Bay, gallant men were bringing half drowned Frenchmen safe ashore from the wreck of the vessel, and below a still form was lying with a smile of devilish satisfaction on the dead lips.
When Winnie, like a pallid ghost crept downstairs for the first time, the nurse shook her head.
“She must have loved him very much to take on so,” she said to the housekeeper.
But Winnie had one purpose in view. At all costs the damning papers must be hidden, destroy them she could not after the horrible vision, even though her reason told her it was a nightmare born of her condition. Hugh had told her of the secret drawer of the Reckaviles, and she placed the documents there.
“The villain,” she muttered “that accounts for all his absences abroad, leading a double life, and then trying to do my son out of his rights at the end.” For black hatred had come to her of the man who still haunted her in her dreams, and more of the innocent girl and her son, far away in Italy, who would hang like a dark cloud over her son’s head for all his life. Truly the Curse was heavy on the family.
And in Murano poor Carlotta awaited with yearning anxiety for the man who would never come back to her, and the weeks went on without news. Bitter tears fell over that little cot, and she would talk to the tiny mite lying there as though he could understand, in baby language. But the weeks went on, and her only friend was Doctor Halley, who came with unfailing regularity, always sympathetic and hopeful. She grew to look for his visits, and if business kept him, she became fretful. Time was taking its toll with her, and sad lines came to her beautiful face, which the doctor noticed with secret anguish.
At last he came with a solemn look on his usually cheerful face.
“Mrs. Desmond,” he said “I am afraid I have some terrible news for you. You must try and be brave.”
“He is dead,” she gasped with quick intuition.
“It is worse than that, I grieve to say.”
“Worse?”
He slowly unfolded an English paper, where an account was given of the wreck, and the drowning of Lord Reckavile.
It was of old date, but a print was given of the dead man, and the likeness was unmistakable, apart from the name below, “Hugh Desmond, Lord Reckavile.”
At first she did not understand.
“It looks like Hugh,” she said in a hollow voice. “It must be a relative.”
The Doctor shook his head. “I am afraid there is no doubt,” he said gently “I never told you, but on the night when your husband went away, he dropped an envelope on the floor. I picked it up from a sense of tidiness, intending to throw it in the fire, when the name arrested my hand. It was Lord Reckavile, and was part of the letter he had opened in our presence, and which had evidently disturbed him. There is no doubt that it was his real name. He was Lord Reckavile.”
A vague memory floated back to her mind. The parson at their wedding had called him by that name. She remembered the very words.
“ ‘Reckavile, you ruffian, this is the last straw!’ he had said.”
Even then she did not realise the full meaning of the terrible news the doctor had brought.
Hugh was dead, and that stunned her for the time, but Halley was speaking.
“I am so sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but I felt you must be told. Poor little Roy. It will be dreadful for him.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied wondering. How would it matter when he was too young to understand.
“Mrs. Desmond, you are a brave woman, I know that. Don’t you see what this means. Here is an account of the affair. Lady Reckavile gave birth to a son and heir on the same night.”
“Lady Reckavile!” she whispered. “You mean he was married. He had a wife.”
“I am afraid so, he married you as Hugh Desmond, having a wife already,” his voice was hard and bitter.
She was up in arms at once. Every true woman can so easily forgive a cruel wrong done her if it is for Love.
“He loved me only, I am sure of that, and if he had another wife, at any rate he left her for me.”
The Doctor was wisely silent. The realisation of the wrong done to the child upstairs would come later.
“I have been so long away from England,” he said “that I have lost touch with the people there. I seem to have heard of the Reckaviles.”
It all came back to her when she lay on her sleepless bed that night. His hesitation and the delay in getting married, and then the secrecy, and the hurried flight to Italy. Yes, it was all clear now.
“Hugh, darling,” she said to herself, condoning the wrong, in her great love as is the way with a woman. “What you must have suffered.” She never doubted his love for her, but she knew vaguely that people in his station sometimes had to make loveless marriages for social reasons.
All was black and hopeless, but she must live on for her child’s sake. Relief came from the parched fever when she bent over the cot where the child lay, and a passionate flood of tears woke the sleeping boy, and the need for comfort was come. She rocked him in her arms, and sobbed out her broken little heart. The good Doctor was her one solace. With unselfish kindness he saw her through this time of horror, and fought inch by inch to help her forget. Each month an allowance arrived from the lawyer in London without explanation, for Hugh had arranged this with Curtis, though the lawyer had no idea who the lady was, and imagined it was one of Reckavile’s past fancies, who had been pensioned off.
It was to continue during her lifetime, for at the time there had been no thought of a further contingency.
Halley had retired from practice, but lingered on in Venice. When he thought suitable interval had elapsed, he came suppliant to Carlotta, his motives love and chivalry equally blended.
“I know you will never allow anyone to take Hugh’s place,” he said humbly, “but you need some one to protect you and help you to fight on. I can only offer you my love, and I will devote my life to you. But I fear I am hurting you.”
She had half risen with a look of horror on her face, but sank back again.
“You don’t understand, Doctor, and you are very kind, especially as you alone know how I really am, a nameless wife, but you do not realise. I am Italian, and I love but once. Whatever you think of Hugh, I can never forget him and the very thought of marrying again is like committing a foul crime.”
Halley was one of those rare beings who can love and sacrifice. Whatever he felt, no sign appeared.
“Then you must allow me to be your protector only,” he said, with a smile which hardly hid his pain.
She was quick to see it. “You are a true friend, and I am afraid I have hurt you horribly. Believe me I do feel deeply for you, and am so grateful for all you have done. Anything I can do to return your friendship, I will do.” She stopped there, and he understood.