As Sir Karl Andinnian was leaving the house, he saw Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve in the dining-room. The latter held out her hand to Karl. He clasped it warmly.
"I am glad it is settled," she said, in a low, impressive tone. "You will take good care of her, I know, and make her happy."
"With the best energies of my heart and life," was his earnest answer. "Dear Mrs. Cleeve, I can never sufficiently thank you."
The voices penetrated to a dressing-chamber at the end of the short passage, the door of which was ajar. A lady in travelling attire peeped out. It was Miss Blake, who had just arrived from England somewhat unexpectedly. Karl passed out at the front door. Miss Blake's eyes, wide open with astonishment, followed him.
"Surely that was Captain Andinnian!" she exclaimed, advancing towards the dining-room.
"Captain Andinnian that used to be, Theresa," replied Colonel Cleeve. "He is Sir Karl Andinnian now."
"Yes, yes; but one is apt to forget new titles," was her impatient rejoinder. "I heard he was staying in Paris. What should bring him inthishouse? Is he allowed to call atit."
"For the future he will be. He is to have Lucy. Mrs. Cleve will tell you about it," concluded the Colonel. "I must write my letters."
Mrs. Cleeve was smiling meaningly. Theresa Blake, utterly puzzled, looked from one to the other. "Have Lucy!" she cried. "Have her for what?"
"Why, to be his wife," said Mrs. Cleeve. "Could you not have guessed, Theresa?"
"To--be--his--wife!" echoed Miss Blake. "Karl Andinnian's wife! No, no; it cannot be."
"But itis, Theresa. It has been settled to-day. Sir Karl has now gone out from his first interview with her. Why, my dear, I quite believe that if we had not brought it about, Lucy would have died. They are all the world to each other."
Miss Blake went back to her room with her shock of agony. From white to scarlet, from scarlet to white, changed her face, as she sat down to take in the full sense of the news, and what it inflicted on her. A cry went up aloud to Heaven for pity, as she realized the extreme depth of her desolation.
This second blow was to Miss Blake nearly, if not quite, as cruel as the first had been. It stunned her. The hope that Karl Andinnian would return to her had been dwelt on and cherished as the weeks had gone on, until it became as a certainty in her inmost heart. Of course, his accession to wealth and honours augmented the desirability of a union with him, though it could not augment her love. She had encouraged the secret passion within her; she had indulged in sweet dreams of the future; she had rashly cherished an assurance that she should, sooner or later, become Sir Karl's wife. To find that he was indeed to have Lucy was truly terrible.
Miss Blake had undergone disappointment on another score. The new modes of worship in Mr. Blake's church, together with the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, had collapsed. Matters had gone on swimmingly until the month of December. Close upon Christmas the rector came home: it should, perhaps, be mentioned that his old curate had died. Mr. Blake was hardly fit to return to his duties; but the reports made to him of the state of things in his church (they had been withheld during his want of strength), brought him back in grief and shame. His first act was to dismiss the Rev. Guy Cattacomb: his second to sweep away innovations and restore the service to what it used to be. Miss Blake angrily resented this but she was unable to hinder it. Her occupation in Winchester was gone; she was for the present grown tired of the place, and considered whither her steps should be next directed. She had a standing invitation to visit the Cleeves, and felt inclined to do so; for she loved the gay Parisian capital with all her heart. Chance threw her in the way of Captain Lamprey. She heard from him that Sir Karl Andinnian was in Paris; and it need not be stated that the information caused the veering scale to go down with a run. Without writing to apprise Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve, she started. And, in the first few minutes of her arrival at their house, she was gratified by the sight of Karl; and heard at the same time the startling tidings that destroyed her hopes for ever.
It was like a fate.Comme un sort, as Mademoiselle Aglaé might have phrased it. Only a few months before, when Miss Blake got home to Winchester from Paris, her heart leaping and bounding with its love for Karl Andinnian, and with the prospect of again meeting him, she had been struck into stone at finding that his love was Lucy's; so now, hastening to Paris from Winchester with somewhat of the same kind of feelings, and believing he had bade adieu to Lucy for ever, she found that the aspect of matters had altered, and Lucy was to be the wife of his bosom. Miss Blake's state of mind under this shock was not an enviable one. And--whereas she had hitherto vented her silent anger on Lucy, woman fashion, she now turned it on Karl. What right, she asked herself, forgetting the injustice of the question, what right had he to go seeking Lucy in Paris, when she had been so unequivocally denied to him for ever? It was a worse blow to her than the first had been.
Waiting until the trace of some of the anguish had passed from her white face, until she had arranged her hair and changed her travelling dress, and regained composure of manner, she went into the presence of Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve. They were yet in the dining-room, talking of Lucy's future prospects; getting, in fact, with every word more and more reconciled to them.
"The alliance will be an everlasting disgrace to you," quietly spoke Miss Blake. "It will degrade Lucy."
"I do not see it, Theresa," said the Colonel. "I do not think any sensible people will see it in that light. And consider Lucy's state of health! Something had to be sacrificed to that. This may, and I believe will, restore her; otherwise she would have died. The love they bear for each other is marvellous--quite out of the common."
Theresa bit her pale lips to get a little colour in them. "A min whose brother was tried and condemned for wilful murder, and who died a convict striving to escape from his lawful fetters! He is no proper match for Lucy Cleeve."
"The man is dead, Theresa. His crimes and mistakes have died with him. Had he lived, the convict, we would have followed Lucy to the grave rather than allowed one of the Andinnian family to enter ours."
Theresa played with a tremendously big wooden cross of black wood, that she wore appended to a long necklace of black beads--the whole thing most incongruously unbecoming, and certainly not in the best of taste in any point of view. That she looked pale, vexed, disturbed, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve saw: and they set it down in their honest and simple hearts to her anxiety for Lucy.
"Against Sir Karl Andinnian nothing can be urged, Theresa: and his brother, as I say, is dead," pursued the Colonel. "In himself he is everything that can be desired: a sweet-tempered, honourable gentleman. He is a baronet of the realm now, you know; and his proposed settlement on Lucy is good."
"I don't call him rich," doggedly returned Miss Blake. "Compare him with some baronets."
"And compare him, on the other hand, with others! His income averages about seven thousand a-year, I believe. Out of that he will accord his mother a good portion while she lives. Compare that with my income, Theresa--as we are on the subject of comparisons; I cannot count anything liketwothousand."
"Are you sure that he is worthy of Lucy in other ways?" resumed Miss Blake, her tone unpleasantly significant. "I have heard tales of him."
"What tales?"
"Words dropped from the officers at Winchester. To the effect that he iswild."
"I can hardly believe that he is," said the Colonel, uneasily, after a pause. "I should dislike to give Lucy to any man of that kind."
"Oh, well, it may not be true," returned Miss Blake, her suggestive conscience reminding her that she was saying more than she ought: or, rather, giving a colouring to it that she was not altogether justified in. "You know little Dennet. More than a year ago--it was before I went abroad--he was talking at the rectory one day about the officers generally, hinting that they were unsteady. I said--of course it was an absurd thing for me to say--that I felt sure Mr. Andinnian was steady: and Dennet rejoined, in a laughing kind of way, that Andinnian was as wild as the rest. That's the truth," concluded Miss Blake, honestly, in obedience to her conscience.
Not very much, you will think; but Colonel Cleeve did not like the doubt it implied; and he resolved to set it at rest, if questioning could do it. That same evening, when Karl arrived to dinner, as invited, the Colonel caused him to be shown into a little apartment, that was as much a boot-closet as anything else: but they were cramped for room in the Avenue D'Antin. Colonel Cleeve was standing by the fire. He and Karl were very much alike in one particular--that of unsophistication. In his direct, non-reticent manner, he mentioned the hint he had received, giving as nearly as possible the words Theresa had given.
"Is it true, or is it not, Sir Karl?"
"It is not true: at least, in the sense that I fear you may have been putting upon it," was the reply: and Karl Andinnian's truthful eyes went straight out to the Colonel's. "When I was with the regiment I did some foolish things, sir, as the others did, especially when I first joined: a young fellow planted down in the midst of careless men can hardly avoid it, however true his own habits and principles may be. But I soon drew in. When my father lay on his dying bed, he gave me some wise counsel, Colonel Cleeve."
"Did you follow it?"
"If I did not quite always, I at any rate mostly tried to. Had I been by inclination one of the wildest of men, events would have surely sobered me. My acquaintance with Lucy, the love for her that grew up in my heart, would have served to keep me steady; and since then there has been that most dreadful blow and its attendant sorrow. But I was not wild by inclination: quite the contrary. On my word, Colonel Cleeve, I have not gone into the reckless vice and folly that some men go into; no, not even in my days of youth and carelessness. I can truly say that I have never in my life done a wrong thing but Ihave been bitterly ashamed of it afterwards, whatever its nature;and--and--have asked forgiveness of God."
His voice died away with the last hesitating sentence. That he was asserting the truth as before Heaven, Colonel Cleeve saw, and judged him rightly. He took Karl's hands in his: he felt that he was one amid a thousand.
"God keep you, for a true man and a Christian!" he whispered. "I could not desire one more worthy than you for my daughter."
When they reached the drawing-room, Lucy was there: Lucy, who had not joined in the late dinner for some time past. She wore pink silk; she had a transient colour in her face, and her sweet brown eyes lighted up at sight of Karl. As he bent low to speak to her, Theresa Blake covered her brow, as though she had a pain there.
"Madame est servie."
Sir Karl advanced to Mrs. Cleeve, as in duty bound. She put him from her with a smile. "I am going on by myself, Karl. Lucy needs support, and you must give it her. The Colonel has to bring Miss Blake."
And as Karl took her, nothing loth, under his arm, and gave her the support tenderly, Miss Lucy blushed the rosiest blush that had been seen in her face for many a month. Mademoiselle Aglaé, superintending the arrangement of the round table, had taken care that their seats should be side by side. Theresa's fascinated eyes, opposite, looked at them more than there was any need for.
"Lucy has got a prize," whispered the Colonel to her, as she sat on his right hand. "A prize if ever there was one. I have been talking to him about that matter, Theresa, and he comes out nobly. And--do you see how changed Lucy is, only in this one day? how well and happy she looks? Just think! it was only this time last night that his note was brought in."
Miss Blake did see. Saw a great deal more than was agreeable; the unmistakable signs of mutual love amidst the rest. Her own feelings were changing: and she almost felt that she was not far off hating her heart's cherished idol, Karl Andinnian, with a jealous and bitter and angry hatred. But she must wait for that. Love does not change to hate so quickly.
It was decided that the marriage should take place without delay; at least, with as little delay as Lucy's health should allow. Perhaps in February. Day by day, she grew better: appetite returned, spirits returned, the longing to get well returned: all three very essential elements in the case. At a week or two's end Lucy was so much stronger that the time was finally fixed for February, and Sir Karl wrote to tell Plunkett and Plunkett to prepare the deeds of settlement. He also wrote to his mother--which he had somewhat held back from doing: for instinct told him the news would terribly pain her; that she would accuse him of being insensible to the recent loss of his brother. And he found that he had judged correctly; for Mrs. Andinnian did not vouchsafe him any answer.
It grieved him much: but he did not dare to write again. It must be remembered that the relations between Karl and his mother were quite exceptional ones. She had kept him at a distance all his life, had repressed his instincts of affection; in short, had held him in complete subjection. If she chose not to accord him an answer, Karl knew that he should only make matters worse by writing to ask why she would not.
"He has forgotten his ill-fated brother: he casts not a thought to my dreadful sorrow; he is hasting with this indecent haste to hear the sound of his own gay wedding bells!" As surely as though he had heard her speak the complaints, did Karl picture to himself the manner of them. In good truth, he would no have preferred to marry so soon himself; but it was right that private feelings should give way to Lucy. They were in a hurry to get her to a warmer place; and itwas deemed better that Karl should go with her as her husband thanas her lover. In the latter case, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve must have gone--and he, the Colonel, wanted to be in England to attend to some matters of business. Sir Karl and his wife were to stay away for a year; perhaps more; the doctors thought it might be well for Lucy. Karl was only too glad to acquiesce: for the arrangement, as he candidly avowed, would leave him at liberty to allow his mother a year's undisturbed possession of Foxwood. And so the month of January came to an end, Lucy gaining ground regularly and quickly. As to Miss Blake, she stayed where she was, hardening her heart more and more against Karl Andinnian.
On the 6th of February Sir Karl went to London. The marriage was to take place in Paris on the 12th. He had various matters to transact, especially with his lawyers. The deeds of settlement on Lucy, previously despatched to Paris by Plunkett and Plunkett, had been already signed. When in London Karl wrote a short note to his mother, saying he was in town, and should run down to Foxwood to see her. In her reply, received by return of post, she begged he would not go down to Foxwood, as it might "only upset her"--if, the words ran, she might so far presume to deny his entrance to his own house.
It was rather a queer letter. Karl thought so as he studied it. By one of the sentences in it, it almost seemed as though Mrs. Andinnian were not aware of his projected marriage. The longer he reflected, the more desirable did it appear to him that he should see her. So he wrote again, craving pardon for disobeying her, but saying he must come down.
About six-o'clock in the evening he reached Foxwood. It was the last day of his stay; on the following one he must depart for Paris. A servant-maid admitted him, and Hewitt came out of the dining-room. The man's face wore a look of surprise.
"I suppose my mother is expecting me, Hewitt."
"I think not, Sir Karl. I took a telegram to the station this morning, sir, to stop your coming," he added in a confidential tone, as he opened the door to announce his master.
Mrs. Andinnian was dining in solitary state in the solitarydining-room. She let fall her knife and fork, and rose up with an angry glare. Her dress was of the deepest mourning, all crape. Save the widow's cap, she had not put on mourning so deep for her husband as she wore for her ill-fated son.
"How did you dare to come, after my prohibitory telegram, Karl?" she exclaimed, imperiously.
"I have had no telegram from you, mother," was his reply. "None whatever."
"One was sent to you this morning."
"I missed it, then. I have been about London all day, and did not return to the hotel before coming here."
He had been standing close to her with his hand extended. She looked fixedly at him for a few moments, and then allowed her hand to meet his.
"It cannot be helped, now; but I am not well enough to entertain visitors," she remarked. "Hewitt, Sir Karl will take some dinner."
"You surely do not look on me as a visitor," he said, smiling, and taking the chair at table that Hewitt placed. But, for all the smile, there was pain at his heart. "My stay will be a very short one, mother," he added, "for I must be away long before dawn to-morrow morning."
"The shorter the better," answered Mrs. Andinnian. And Sir Karl could not help feeling that it was scarcely the thing to say to a man coming to his own house.
He observed that only Hewitt was waiting at table: that no one else was called to bring in things required by the fact of his unexpected intrusion. Hewitt had to go backwards and forwards. During one of these absences Karl asked his motherwhyshe should have objected to his coming.
"You have been told," she answered. "I am not in a state to bear the least excitement or to see any one. No visitor whatever is welcomed at Foxwood. My troubles are great, Karl."
"I wish I could lighten them for you, mother."
"You only increase them. But not willingly, I am sure, Karl. No fault lies with you."
It was the kindest thing she had said to him. As they went on talking, Karl became more and more convinced, from chance expressions, that she was in ignorance of his engagement and approaching marriage. When Hewitt had finally left them together after dinner, Karl told her of it. It turned out that Mrs. Andinnian had never received the letter from Paris: though where the fault lay, Karl could not divine. He remembered that he had given it to the waiter of the Hôtel Montaigne to post--a man he had always found to be very exact. Whether he had neglected it, or whether the loss lay at the door of the post itself, the fact was the same--it had never reached Mrs. Andinnian.
She started violently when Karl told her. He noticed it particularly, because she was in general so cold and calm a woman. After staring at Karl for a minute or two she turned her gaze to the fire and sat in silence, listening to him.
"Married!" she exclaimed, when he had stopped. "Married!--and your brother scarcely cold in his dishonoured grave! It must not be, Karl."
Karl explained to her why it must be. Lucy's health required a more genial climate, and he had to take her to one without delay. When respect for the dead and consideration for the living clash, it was right and just that the former should give way, he observed. Mrs. Andinnian did not interrupt him; and he went on to state the arrangements he had completed as to Lucy's settlement. He then intimated, in the most delicate words he could use, that their proposed prolonged residence abroad would afford his mother at present undisturbed possession of Foxwood; and he mentioned the income (a very liberal one) he had secured to her for life.
She never answered a word. She made no comment whatever, good or bad; but sat gazing into the fire as before. Karl thought she was hopelessly offended with him.
He said that he had a letter to write. Mrs. Andinnian gave a dash at the bell and ordered Hewitt to place ink and paper before Sir Karl. When tea came in she spoke a few words--asking whether he would take sugar and such like--but, that excepted, maintained her silence. Afterwards, she sat at the fire again in her arm-chair; buried in disturbed thought; and then she rose to pace the room with uncertain steps, like one who is racked by anxious perplexity. At first Karl felt both annoyed and vexed, for he thought she was making more of the matter than she need have done; but soon he began to doubt whether she had not some trouble upon her apart from him and his concerns. A word, that unwittingly escaped her, confirmed him in this.
"Mother," he said, "you seem to be in great distress of your own: for I cannot believe that any proceedings of mine would thus disturb you."
"I am, Karl. I am."
"Will you not let me share it, then?--and, if possible, soothe it? You will find me a true son."
Mrs. Andinnian came back to her seat and replied calmly. "If you could help me in any way, Karl, you should hear it. But you cannot--you cannot, that I can see. Man is born to trouble, you know, as the sparks fly upwards."
"I thought thatIhad offended you: at least, pained you by my coming marriage. It grieved me very much."
"My trouble is my own," she answered.
Karl could not imagine what it could be. He tried to think of various causes--just as we all do in a similar case--and rejected them again. She had always been a strangely independent, secretive woman: and such women, given to act with the daring independence of man, but possessing not man's freedom of power, may at times drift into troubled seas. Karl greatly feared it must be something of this kind. Debt? Well, he didnotthink it could be debt. He had never known of any outlets of expense: and surely, if this were so, his mother would apply to him to release her. But, still the idea kept coming back again: for he felt sure she had not given the true reason for wishing to keep him away from Foxwood, and he could not think of any other trouble. Sunk in these thoughts, he happened to raise his glance and caught his mother's sharp eyes inquisitively fixed on him.
"What are you deliberating upon, Karl?"
"I was wondering what your care could be."
"Better not wonder.Youcould not help me. Had my brave Adam been alive, I might have told him. He was daring, Karl; you are not."
"Not daring, mother? I? I think I am sufficiently so. At any rate, I could be as daring as the best in your interests."
"Perhaps you might. But it would not serve me, you see. Andsympathy--the sympathy that my poor lost Adam gave me--I have never from you sought or wished for."
She was plain at any rate. Karl felt the stab, just as he had felt many other of her stabs during his life. Mrs. Andinnian shook off her secret thoughts with a kind of shiver; and, to banish them, began talking with Karl of ordinary things.
"What has become of Ann Hopley?" he enquired. "She was much attached to you: I thought perhaps you might have kept her on."
"Ann Hopley?--oh, the servant I had at Weymouth. No, I did not keep her on, Karl. She had a husband, you know."
At ten o'clock Mrs. Andinnian wished him goodnight and good-bye, and retired. Karl sat on, thinking and wondering. He was sorry she did not place confidence in him, and so give him a chance of helping her: but she never had, and he supposed she never would. At times--and this was one--it had almost seemed to Karl as though she could not be his mother.
"Will you take anything, Sir Karl?"
The question came from Hewitt, who had looked in to ask for orders for the morning, arousing his master from a curious train of thought.
"I don't mind a drop of hot brandy and water, Hewitt. Half a glass. Something or other seems to have given me the shivers. Is it a cold night?"
"No, Sir Karl; the night's rather warm than cold."
"Has my mother any particular trouble or worry upon her, Hewitt, do you know?" he asked, as he mechanically watched the mixing of the spirit and water. "She seems to be very much put out."
"I have noticed it myself, sir; but I don't know what the cause is," was the answer. "For my part, I don't think she has been at all herself since Sir Adam's death. Loving him as she did--why, of course, sir, it was a heavy blow; one not to be got over easily."
"And that's true, Hewitt. How many servants have you here?" resumed Karl, asking the question not really with any particular care to know, but simply to turn the subject.
"There's me and two maids, sir."
"You and two maids!" echoed Karl, in surprise. "Yes, sir, me and two maids. That's all; except the out o' door gardeners."
"But that's not enough for Foxwood. It is only what we had in Northamptonshire. How does the work get done? Why does my mother not keep more?"
"My mistress says she can't afford more, Sir Karl," returned Hewitt, who seemed sore upon the point, and spoke shortly.
"But she can afford more," returned Karl, impulsively; "a great many more. Her income is a large one now."
Hewitt rubbed his bald head with an air of perplexity. Karl spoke to him of things that he would not have entered on with any less esteemed and faithful servant. Hewitt had been so long in the family that he seemed like an old confidential friend. From his boyhood's days, Karl had looked up to Hewitt with respect The man stood before his master, as if intending to wait and see him drink the brandy-and-water.
"There can be no debts, you know, Hewitt," spoke Sir Karl, hastily.
Hewitt did not evince any surprise whatever at the implied suggestion. It seemed to be rather the contrary.
"I have fancied that my mistress had some embarrassment on her mind, sir, such as debt might cause," was the rejoinder, much to Karl's astonishment. "I have fancied her money goes somewhere--though I should never hint at such a thing to anybody but you, sir; nor to you if you had not asked me. Perhaps Sir Adam left some debts behind him."
"No, he did not, Hewitt. Any debts left by Sir Adam would have been paid out of the estate before it came to me. Plunkett and Plunkett informed me at once that there were no debts at all: except the costs of the trial."
"Then it must be some that have cropped up since: that is, the claim for them," surmised Hewitt. "It is what I've thought myself, Sir Karl."
"But why have you thought it?"
"Well, sir, one can't help one's thoughts," answered Hewitt, falling away from the question--but not intentionally. "One evening, sir, when my mistress seemed fit to die with trouble, I asked her if anything had happened to vex her: and she answered--after looking at me sternly in silence--No, nothing fresh; only some sorrow of a good many years ago. It was the evening after that gentleman called, Sir Karl: a gentleman who came and stayed with her ever so long."
"What gentleman?" asked Karl.
"Some stranger, sir; I didn't know him. He came up to the house and asked for Mrs. Andinnian. I told him (they were my general orders) that Mrs. Andinnian was not well enough to see visitors. Oh, indeed, he said, and asked to come in and write a note. I was standing by when he began to write it, and he ordered me to the other end of the room: I suppose he feared I might look over. It seemed to me that he wrote but one or two words, Sir Karl; not more: quite in a minute the paper was folded and sealed--for he told me to light the taper. 'There,' said he, 'take that to Mrs. Andinnian: I think she'll see me.' My mistress was very angry when I took it to her, asking why I disobeyed orders; but when she opened it, her face went deadly white, and she bade me show the gentleman up to her sitting-room. He was there about two hours, sir."
Karl thought this rather strange. "What sort of man was he, Hewitt?"
"A well-dressed gentleman, sir; tall. He had had a hurt to his left arm, and wore it in a black silk sling. When he took it out of the sling to seal the note, he could hardly use it at all. It was that same evening after he had been, sir, that my mistress seemed so full of trouble: a great deal more so than usual."
"Did you hear his name?"
"No, sir, I didn't hear his name. A tray of luncheon was ordered up for him; and by the little that I heard said when I took it in and fetched it away, I gathered that he was a gentleman applying for the agency of your estate."
"But I do not require an agent," cried Karl in some wonder.
"Well, sir, I'm sure that's what the gentleman was talking of. And my mistress afterwards said a word or two to me about the place being neglected now Sir Karl was absent, and she thought she should appoint an agent to look after it."
"But the place is not neglected," reiterated Karl. "How long was this ago?"
"About three weeks, Sir Karl. I've not heard anything of it since, or seen the gentleman. But my mistress seems to have some secret care or uneasiness, apart from the death of Sir Adam. She seems always to be in an inward worry--and you know how different from that she used to be. It has struck me, Sir Karl, that perhaps that stranger came to prefer some claims left by Sir Adam."
Karl did not think this likely, and said so. But neither of them could be at any certainty.
"I wish you would write to me from time to time during my absence, Hewitt, and let me know how my mother is," resumed Karl, dropping the unsatisfactory subject.
"And that I will with pleasure, Sir Karl, if you will furnish me with an address to write to."
"And be sure, Hewitt, that you send to me in any trouble or sickness. I wish my poor mother's life was a less lonely one!"
Hewitt shook his head as he left the room. He felt sure that his mistress would never more allow her life to be anything but a lonely one: the light of it had gone out of it for ever with her beloved son.
Sir Karl went up to his chamber shortly. Before he had well closed his door, a maid knocked at it, and said Mrs. Andinnian wished to see him. Karl had supposed his mother to be in bed: instead of that, he found her standing by the fire in her little sitting-room, and not undressed.
"Shut the door, Karl," she said--and he saw that her face was working with some painful emotion. "I have been debating a question with myself the better part of this evening, down stairs and up--whether or no I shall disclose to you the trouble that is upon us: and I have resolved to do so. Of two evils, it may, perhaps, be the least."
"I am very glad indeed, my mother."
"Hush!" she solemnly said, lifting a warning hand. "Speak not before you know. Glad! It has been consideration for you, Sir Karl," she added, in that stern and distant tone that so pained him, "that has alone kept me silent. You have no doubt been thinking me unnaturally cold and reserved; but my heart has been aching. Aching for you. If I have not loved you with the passionate love I bore for your poor brother--and oh, Karl, he was my firstborn!--I have not been so neglectful of you as you may imagine. In striving to keep you away from Foxwood, I was but anxious that your peace should not be imperilled earlier than it was obliged to be."
"Let me hear it mother. I can bear it, I daresay."
"You maybearit, Karl. A man can bear most things. But, my son, I dread to tell it you. You will regard it as an awful calamity, a frightful perplexity, and your spirit may faint under it."
Karl smiled sadly. "Mother, after the calamities I have undergone within the past year I do not think Fate can have any worse in store for me."
"Wait--and judge. Your anger will naturally fall on me, Karl, as the chief author of it. Blame me, my son, to your heart's content: it is my just due. I would soften the story to you if I knew how: but it admits not of softening. What is done cannot be undone."
Mrs. Andinnian rose, opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, shut it again, and bolted it. "I do not need to fear eaves-droppers in the house," she observed, "and the doors are thick: but this secret is as a matter of life or death. Sit down there, Karl,"--pointing to a chair opposite her own.
"I would rather stand, mother."
"Sit down," she reiterated: and Karl took his elbow from themantel-piece, and obeyed her. He did not seem very much impressed with what he was about to hear: at least not to the extent that her preparation seemed to justify. Each leaned forward, looking at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had her arms on the elbows of her chair; Karl's were crossed.
"First of all, Karl, you will take an oath, a solemn vow to God, that you will never disclose this secret to any human being without my consent."
"Is this necessary, mother?"
"It is necessary for you and for me," she sharply answered, as if the question vexed her. "I tell you nothing unless you do."
Karl rose, and took the oath. Resuming his seat as before, he waited.
No, she could not say it. They sat, gazing at each other, she in agitation, he in expectancy; and for a minute or two she literally could not say what she had to say. It came forth at last. Only four words.
Only four words. But Karl Andinnian as he heard them sprang up with a cry: almost as the ill-fated man Martin Scott had sprung, when shot to death by his brother.
"Mother! This cannot be true!"
Mrs. Andinnian went over to him and pushed him gently into his chair. "Hush, Karl; make no noise," she soothingly whispered. "It would not do, you see, for the household to be alarmed."
He looked up at his mother with a kind of frightened gaze. She turned away and resumed her seat. Karl sat still, tumultuous ideas crowding on him one after another.
"You should have disclosed this to me before I engaged myself to marry," he cried at last with a burst of emotion.
"But don't you see, Karl, I did not know of your intended marriage. It is because you have informed me of it to-night that I disclose it now."
"Would you have kept it from me always?"
"That could not have been. You must have heard it some time. Listen, Karl: you shall have the story from beginning to end."
It was one o'clock in the morning, before Karl Andinnian quitted his mother's room. His face seemed to have aged years. Any amount of perplexity he could have borne for himself, and borne it calmly; but he did not know how to grapple with this. For what had been disclosed to him ought to do away with his proposed marriage.
He did not attempt to go to bed. The whole of the rest of the night he paced his room, grievously tormented as to what course he should take. The wind, howling and raging around the house--for it was one of the most turbulent of nights--seemed but an index of his turbulent mind. He knew that in honour he was bound to disclose the truth to Colonel Cleeve and Lucy; but this might not be. Not only was he debarred by his oath; but the facts themselves did not admit of disclosure. In the confusion of his mind he said to his mother, "May I not give a hint of this to Lucy Cleeve, and let her then take me or leave me?" and Mrs. Andinnian had replied by demanding whether he was mad. In truth, it would have been nothing short of madness.
What to do? what to do? In dire distress Karl Andinnian strode the carpet as he asked it. He might make some other excuse, if indeed he could invent one, and write to break off the marriage--for, break it off to their faces he could not. But, what would be the effect on Lucy? Colonel Cleeve had not concealed that they gave her to him to save her life. Were he to abandon her in this cowardly and heartless manner, now at the eleventh hour, when they were literally preparing the meats for the breakfast table, when Lucy's wedding lobe and wreath were spread out ready to be worn, it might throw her back again to worse than before, and verily and indeed kill her. It was a dilemma that has rarely fallen on man. Karl Andinnian was as honest and honourable a man as any in this world, and he could see no way out of it: no opening of one. He might not impart to them so much as a hint of the dreadful secret; neither could he inflict the stab that might cost Lucy's life: on the other hand, to make Lucy his wife, knowing what he now knew, would be dishonour unutterable. What was he to do? What was he to do? There was absolutely no loophole of escape, no outlet on either side.
Karl Andinnian knelt down and prayed. Man, careless, worldly man, rarely does these things. He did. In his dire distress he prayed to be guided to the right. But all the uncertainty came back as he rose up again, and he could not see his course at all. Very shortly Hewitt knocked at his door: saying it was time for Sir Karl to get up, if he would catch the passing train. When Sir Karl came forth Hewitt thought how very quickly he had dressed.
"It is a rough morning, sir," said Hewitt, as he opened the hall door.
"Ay, I can hear that. Farewell, Hewitt."
Delayed a tide by the non-controllable winds and waves, Sir Karl reached Paris only on the evening of the eleventh. He drove at once from the station to the Avenue d'Antin, and asked to see Lucy in private. Torn by conflicting interests, he had at length resolved to sacrifice his own sense of honour to Lucy's life. At least, if she should not decide against it.
She was looking radiant. She told him (in a jest) that they had considered him lost, that all had prophesied he had decamped and deserted her. Karl's smile in answer to this was so faint, his few words were so spiritless and subdued, that Lucy, a little sobered, asked whether anything was the matter. They were standing on the hearth-rug: Karl a few steps apart from her.
"What should you say if I had deserted you, Lucy?"
"I should just have said Bon voyage, monsieur," she answered gaily, never believing the question had a meaning.
"Lucy, my dear, this is no time for jesting. I have come back with a great care upon me. It is a fact, believe it or not as you will, that I had at one time determined to desert you: to write and give you up."
There was no immediate answer, and Karl turned his eyes on her. The words told home. Her blanched face had a great terror dawning on it.
"Sit down, Lucy, while you listen to me," he said, placing her in a chair. "I must disclose somewhat of this to you, but it cannot be much."
Remaining standing himself, he told her what he could. It was a most arduous task to speak at all, from the difficulties that surrounded it. A great and unexpected misfortune had fallen upon him, he said; one that from its nature he might not further allude to. It would take away a good deal of his substance; it ought in short to debar his marriage with her. He went on to tell of the conflict he had passed through, as to whether he should quit her or not, and of his final resolve to disclose so much to her, and to leave with her the decision. If she decided against him, he would invent some other plea to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve for breaking off the marriage; or let the act appear to come from her, as she should will. If she decided for him, why then----
"Tell me one thing, Karl," she said as he broke down. "Has this matter had its rise in any dishonour or ill-doing of yours?"
"No," was the emphatic rejoinder. "I am as innocent in it, and until a day or two ago, was as unconscious of it as you can be. You need not fear that, Lucy."
"Then on your part you need not have doubted me, Karl," she said, the glad tears rising to her eyes with the intensity of her relief. "It was cruel of you to think of a separation now. I am yours."
"Lucy, look fully into the future. At least as fully as these indefinite words of mine will admit of. I hope--I trust--that no further complication may come of it; that it may be never knownto the world. But it may, and probably will, be otherwise. A great calamity may fall upon us; in the world's eyes we should both be dishonoured--dishonoured, Lucy; I through others, you through me."
"I am yours; yours for all time," was the reiterated answer.
"Very well, Lucy. So be it. But, my darling, if that blow should fall, you may repent of your marriage with me. I know your parents would repent it for you."
"Hush, Karl!" she whispered, rising from her seat to the arms opening to receive her. "Irepent? That can never be. My dearest friend, my almost husband, I am yours for weal or for woe. Have you forgotten the vows I shall take to you to-morrow in the sight of God? For richer for poorer, for better for worse."
"God bless you, Lucy! May God bless and protect us both." And as Sir Karl held her to him, his frame shook with its own emotion, and a scalding tear fell on her face from an aching heart.
The second week in March, just as nearly as possible a month after the marriage, Sir Karl Andinnian received at Florence, where he and his wife were staying, a telegram from Hewitt at Foxwood. It stated that Mrs. Andinnian was ill with some kind of fever; it had taken a dangerous turn, and her life might be a question of a few hours.
As quickly as it was practicable for them to travel, Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian reached Paris. Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake were still there; the Colonel was in London. The Cleeves had let their house at Winchester, and could not yet get back to it. Sir Karl left Lucy with her mother: not daring, as he said, to take her on to Foxwood, lest the fever should be infectious. The change in Lucy was wonderful: her cheeks were plump and rosy, her eyes told their own unmistakable tale of happiness. Mrs. Cleeve could do nothing but look at her.
"We did well to give her to him," said she to Theresa. But, for answer, Miss Blake only drew in her lips. The sting had not left her.
"O Karl, my darling, don't stay long away from me!" whispered Lucy, clinging to him in the moment of his departure. "And be sure take care of yourself, Karl, and do not run any risk, if you can help it, of the fever."
With many a sweet word of reassurance, murmured between his farewell kisses of passionate tenderness, Karl answered her. To part with one another, even for this short and temporary space of time, seemed a great trial.
A change for the better had taken place in Mrs. Andinnian, when Karl arrived at Foxwood. She was in no immediate danger. Mr. Moore, the surgeon at Foxwood, informed him that he must not trust to this improvement. The fever had in a degree subsided, but her state of prostration was so great that he feared she might yet die of the weakness. Karl inquired the nature of the illness: Mr. Moore replied that it was a species of low fever more than anything else, and appeared to have been induced chiefly by the sad state of mind Mrs. Andinnian had been brought into, grieving over the fate of her elder son. Dr. Cavendish of Basham (the neighbouring market town) had attended regularly with Mr. Moore. Sir Karl at once telegraphed to London for a physician of world-wide reputation. When this great doctor arrived, he only confirmed the treatment and opinion of the other two; and said that nothing could well be more uncertain than the recovery of Mrs. Andinnian.
Karl wrote these various items of information to his wife in Paris, and showed her how impossible it was that he could quit his mother during the uncertainty. Lucy replied by saying she should think very ill of him if he could; but she begged him to allow her to come to Foxwood and help him in the nursing, saying she was not afraid of the fever. She added a pretty and affectionate message to Mrs. Andinnian that she would find in her a loving daughter. The same post brought Karl a letter from Mrs. Cleeve, who evidentlywasafraid of the fever. "Doyou take precautions for yourself, dear Sir Karl, anddoyou fumigate all letters before you send them out?" Such was its chief burthen.
Karl believed there was no danger from the fever: but, alas, he dared not have Lucy. He had reached Foxwood only to find more complication than ever in the unhappy secret disclosed to him by his mother. Only a word or two dropped by her--and in her weak, and sometimes semi-lucid state, he could not be sure she would not drop them--and Lucy might know as much as he did. Besides, there was no establishment at Foxwood sufficient to receive Lady Andinnian.
Hour after hour, day after day, he sat by his mother's bedside. When they were alone, she could only whisper of the trouble she had disclosed to him. Karl felt that it was wearing her out. He told her so, and she did not deny it. Never for a moment did she let the subject rest: it filled her mind to the exclusion of everything else in the world.
Karl felt that death would inevitably end it: and he watched her grow weaker. The strain upon his own mind was great. Brooding over the matter as he did--for, in truth, to think of any other theme was not practicable--he saw what a wrong he had committed in marrying Lucy. Sir Karl's only interludes of change lay in the visits of the medical men. Dr. Cavendish came once a day; Mr. Moore twice or thrice. The latter was rather brusque in his manner, but kindly, keen, and sensible. He was plain, with a red face and nose that turned up; and brown hair tinged with grey. The more Karl saw of him, the more he liked him: and he felt sure he was clever in his calling.
"It is a great misfortune that Mrs. Andinnian should have taken poor Sir Adam's death so much to heart," Mr. Moore one day observed to Karl, when he found his patient exhausted, restless, in all ways worse. "While she cultivates this unhappy frame of mind, we can do nothing for her."
"Her love for my brother was a great love, Mr. Moore; quite passing the ordinary love of mothers."
"No doubt of that. Still, Sir Karl, it is not right to let regret for his death kill her."
Karl turned the conversation. He knew how wrong were the surgeon's premises. Her regret for his brother's death had been terrible: but it was not that that was killing Mrs. Andinnian.
The days went on, Mrs. Andinnian growing weaker and weaker. Her mind had regained unfortunately all its activity: unfortunately because she had not strength of body to counterbalance its workings. Karl had a great deal to do for her: consultations to hold with her and letters to write; but even yet he was not admitted to her full confidence. During that night's interview with her, when he had learned so much, he had enquired who the gentleman was that had called and taken luncheon. Mrs. Andinnian had declined to answer him, further than it was a Mr. Smith who had applied for the agency of Sir Karl's estate. Hewitt informed him that Mr. Smith had called again the very day succeeding Sir Karl's departure. He had held a long interview with Mrs. Andinnian, and she had never been well since that hour.
It was very strange: strange altogether. Karl now found out that Mr. Smith had been appointed the agent, and had had a house side by side with Foxwood Court assigned to him as his residence. The information nearly struck Karl dumb. He felt sure there was more behind, some inexplicable cause for this: but no more satisfactory explanation could he obtain from his mother. "Shewas ill,hewas going to live abroad, therefore it was necessary some responsible person should be on the spot to look after things," was all she said. And Mr. Smith arrived at Foxwood and took up his abode: and Sir Karl did not dare to forbid it.
To Karl's intense surprise, the next letter he had from his wife was dated London. They had left Paris and come over. With his whole heart Karl hoped they would not be coming to Foxwood; and in his answering letter he talked a good deal about the "fever."
As to himself, he was wearing to a shadow. One might surely have thought he had a fever, and a wasting one. In writing to Mrs. Cleeve he admitted he was not well; and she wrote him back four pages full of instructions for fumigation, and beseeching him not to come to them. There is nothing like trouble to wear out a man.
The event that had been prognosticated by the doctors and feared by Karl took place--Mrs. Andinnian died. In the midst of praying for a few days' longer life, she died. Only a few days, had run her incessant prayer; a few days! Karl's anguish, what with the death, and what with the weight of other things, seemed more than he could bear. Mrs. Andinnian's grave was made close to that of her son Adam: and the funeral was a very quiet one.
Karl remained at Foxwood, ostensibly fumigating the house and himself preparatory to joining his wife in town. He looked as much like a skeleton as a man. Mr. Moore noticed it, and asked what was coming to him.
One day Mr. Smith, the agent, called, and was shown in to Sir Karl. The interview lasted about twenty minutes, and then the bell was rung.
"Is the gentleman going to remain here as your agent, sir?" enquired Hewitt, with the familiarity of an old servant, when he had closed the door on the guest.
"Why, yes, Hewitt, while I am away. My mother appointed him. She thought it better some one should be here to act for me--and I suppose it is right that it should be so."
Freely and lightly spoke Karl. But in good truth Mr. Smith fairly puzzled him. He knew no more who he was or whence he came than he had known before; though he did now know what his business was at Foxwood. Mr. Smith's conversation during the interview had turned on the Foxwood estate: but he must have been aware Sir Karl saw all the while that his agency was only a blind--a blind to serve as a pretext for his residence at Foxwood. The two were playing a shallow part of pretence with one another. Mrs. Andinnian had fixed the amount of salary he was to receive, and Sir Karl meant to continue the payment of it. Why?--the reader may ask. Because Sir Karl dared not refuse; for the man knew too much of Mrs. Andinnian's dangerous secret: and it lay in his power to render it more dangerous still.
At length Sir Karl went up to London to rejoin his wife. Lucy gave a startled cry when she saw him--he was looking so ill; and Mrs. Cleeve accused him of having had the fever. Karl turned it off lightly: it was nothing, he said, but the confinement to his mother's sick-room.
But Miss Blake, who was growing very keen in her propensity for making the world better than it is, could not understand two things. Why Karl need have lingered so long at Foxwood, or why he could not have had his wife there.