A few weeks after the events recorded in that last chapter, Wyverne came down late, as was his wont. His letters were in their usual place on the breakfast table: on the top of the pile lay one, face downwards, showing with exasperating distinctness the fatal scarlet monogram.
Seldom in the course of his life had Alan been so intensely provoked. He felt angry with Nina Lenox for her folly and pertinacity--angry with the person unknown, whose stupidity or malice had put the dangerous doc.u.ment so obtrusively forward--angry, just a very little, with Helen, for betraying, by her heightened colour and nervous manner, that she had already detected the obnoxious letter--angrier than all with "my lady,"
whose bright quiet eyes seemed to rest on him _judicially_, not caring to dissemble her suspicion of his guilt. It is always unwise, of course, to act on impulse, and of all impulses anger is supposed to be the most irrational. Such folly was the more inexcusable in Wyverne, because his power of self-command was quite exceptional; it only enabled him, now, to preserve a perfect outward composure; he acted just as stupidly and _viciously_ as if he had given way to a burst of pa.s.sion. In the first five seconds he had fully determined to burn that letter, unread--a most sage resolve, certainly--the only pity was, that he could not bring himself to execute his purpose there and then, or at all events confide his intention to the parties most interested therein. But you must understand that Alan--with all his chivalrous devotion to womankind--held orthodox notions (so _we_ should say) as to the limits of their powers, and by no means favoured any undue usurpation of the Old Dominion; he held, for instance, that the contents of the post-bag, unless voluntarily confided, should be kept as sacred from feminine curiosity as the secrets of the Rosicrucians. In the present case, he could hardly blame Helen for betraying consciousness of a fact that had been, so to speak, "flashed" before her eyes; but he felt somehow as if she ought to have ignored it. He would not make the smallest concession.
I have told you, how obstinate and unrelenting the frank, kindly nature could at times become: the shadow of a great disaster was closing round him fast, and his heart was hardened now, even as the heart was hardened of that unhappy King, predestined to be a world"s wonder, whom the torments of nine plagues only confirmed in his fell purpose--"not to let Israel go."
He pushed all the letters aside with an impatient movement of his arm, and thrust them into the pocket of his shooting-jacket before he left the table, without opening one of them. All through breakfast he persisted in talking carelessly on indifferent subjects, in spite of the evident discomfort and nervousness of his cousin, and the reticence of "my lady;" eventually he had to fall back on the Squire, who, ignorant of this fresh cause of discord as he had been of the former one, was open to any fair offer in the way of conversation.
An hour or so later, as Wyverne was going down to his uncle"s room (they were to shoot some small outlying covers) he met Helen in the picture-gallery.
"I suppose you are aware that a letter came for me this morning from Mrs. Lenox?" he said.
There was no particular reason why Miss Vavasour should feel guilty, and blush painfully, nevertheless she did both, as she answered him.
"Yes, Alan, I could not help seeing it, you know, and--"
He interrupted her, somewhat impatiently.
"Of course you could not help it, child. You were bound to remark it, where it lay. I suppose it was so fore-ordained by Fate, or some more commonplace power. I know it worried you; but, indeed, it vexed me quite as much. I have no idea what she wrote about, for I burnt the letter, half an hour ago, without breaking the seal."
Helen did not answer at once, and when she looked up, for the first time in their lives her cousin read uncertainty in her eyes. His own face grew dark and stern.
"Ah, Helen, it cannot have come to this, yet--that you doubt me when I state a simple fact."
Her cheek had paled within the last few seconds, but it crimsoned now for very shame.
"No, no, Alan," she said impetuously, "I don"t doubt you. I never do, when I am myself; but sometimes I feel so changed--so wicked----"
Wyverne would not let her go on; but the kiss which closed her lips carried scarcely more of caress than did his voice, as he answered what she meant to say.
"My own, I guess it all. It is a hard battle when such as you and I have to fight against princ.i.p.alities and powers. I fear we are not cool and crafty enough to hold our own. G.o.d knows how it will all end--and when.
The sooner, perhaps the better for you. But if they would only let _you_ alone, darling! It has been my fault from the first, and I ought to have all the trouble and pain. But indeed, now, I have done my best. I burnt the letter unread, and I have written six lines to tell Mrs. Lenox so.
Now, we won"t speak of it any more just now. There can be no repet.i.tion of _this_ annoyance, at all events. Will you tell Aunt Mildred what I have done? _I_ had better not enter into the subject with her, that"s certain."
Wyverne"s perfect sincerity carried all before it, for the moment; when he left her, Helen felt happier than she had done for days. Even had it been otherwise, of course she would have made the best of it to her mother. It is the woman"s way, you know--at least till, with middle age, wisdom has waxed and pa.s.sionate affection has waned--if in anywise maltreated by her lover, she will make her moan loudly enough to _him_, but she will tax her little ingenuity to the utmost, to palliate that same offence to her nearest and dearest friend.
It was well that Helen"s spirits were high, when she went to her audience in the boudoir; certes she reaped small encouragement there.
Lady Mildred was by no means disposed to be enthusiastic or unreserved in her trustfulness, and, indeed, hinted her doubts and fears and general disapprobation, much more plainly than she had hitherto done.
She believed Alan _now_, of course, but she could not help thinking that the relations between him and Mrs. Lenox must have been far more intimate than she had had any idea of. It would have been much more satisfactory if he could have opened the letter and shown it to Helen.
So he had written to say what he had done? That was right, at all events. (What made "my lady" smile so meaningly just then?) But every day made her more fearful about the future.
"I ought to have been firmer at first, darling," she murmured.
The look of self-reproach was a study, and the penitential sigh rightly executed to a breath.
"It is not that I doubt Alan"s meaning fairly; indeed, I believe he does his best; but when a man has lived that wild life, old connexions are very difficult to shake off; sometimes it is years before he is quite free. You don"t understand these things; but I do, my Helen, and I know how you would suffer. You are not cold-blooded enough to be patient or prudent. Even now, see how unhappy you have been at times lately. I was very weak and very wrong."
It is not worth while recording Helen"s indignant disclaimer and eager profession of faith, especially as neither in anywise disturbed or affected the person to whom they were addressed. "My lady" kissed the fair enthusiast, with intense fondness, but not in the least sympathetically or impulsively, and went on with her scruples and regrets and future intentions as if no interruption had occurred. There ensued a certain amount of desultory discussion, warm only on one side, it is needless to say. Lady Mildred did not actually bring maternal authority to the front, but she was _very_ firm. At last it came to this. "My lady" was understood to have taken up a fresh position, and now to disapprove actively; but she consented to take no offensive step, nor even to mention the changed state of her feelings to the Squire or Alan Wyverne, till some fresh infraction of the existing treaty should justify her in doing so. Then, the crisis was to be sharp and decisive.
This was all Helen could gain after much pleading, and perhaps it was as much as could be expected. The Absent, who are always in the wrong, don"t often come off so well.
The instant her daughter left her, Lady Mildred rang for her own maid, and said a dozen words to the attentive Abigail; though they were alone in the boudoir, she whispered them. All outward-bound letters at Dene were placed in a certain box, which was kept locked till they were transferred to the post-bag. The confidential _cameriste_ carried on her watch-chain several keys, one of which fitted the letter-box with curious exactness. It was not often used; but in the dusk of the evening a small slight figure with a footfall soft and light as the velvet tread of a cheetah, might have been seen (if she had not chosen her time so well) flitting through the great hall, and tarrying for a few seconds in that special corner.
That day there were two letters burnt at Dene, both with their seals unbroken.
Though all was not bitter in her recollections of the last twenty-four hours--those few minutes in the picture-gallery told heavily on the right side--Miss Vavasour"s state of mind, when she woke on the following morning, was none of the pleasantest or calmest. Her mother"s overt opposition did not dismay or discourage her much; for, after the grateful excitement of the first interview had pa.s.sed away, she had entertained in spite of herself certain misgivings as to the duration, if not the genuineness of "my lady"s" favour, or even neutrality. But the demoiselle could not deny to herself--though she had denied it to her mother--that the latter had spoken truly with regard to her own present unhappiness, and wisely as to the perils of the future. Helen"s heart, brave as it was, sank within her as she thought of what it would be if she were destined to experience for years the wearing alternations of hope and fear, pleasure and pain, that had been her portion only for a few weeks. She did believe in her cousin"s good faith _almost_ implicitly (there was a qualification now), but she did not feel sure that he would always resist temptations; and even with her slight knowledge of the world, she guessed that such might beset his path dangerously often. New enemies to her peace might arise any day; and Nina Lenox"s pertinacity showed plainly enough how loth Alan"s old friends were to let him go free. Could _she_ wonder at their wishing to keep him at all risks, so as at least to hear the sound of his voice sometimes--she, who could never listen to it when softened to a whisper, without a shiver and a tingle in her veins?
"Nina!"
As she uttered that word aloud, and fancied how he might have spoken it, and might speak it again, black drops of bitterness welled up in the girl"s heart, poisoning all its frank and generous nature; she set her little white teeth hard, and clenched her slender fingers involuntarily, with a wicked vengeful pa.s.sion. If wishes could kill, I fear Nina Lenox would have been found next morning dead and cold. Helen had seen her fancied rival once--at the great archery-meeting of the Midland shires--and even her inexperience had appreciated the fascinations of that dark dangerous beauty. She remembered, right well, how one man after another drew near the low seat on which Mrs. Lenox leant back, almost reclining, and how the lady never deigned to disturb her queenly languor by an unnecessary look or word, till one of her especial friends came up: she remembered how the pale statuesque face brightened and softened then: how the rosy lips bestirred themselves to murmur quick and low; and how from under the long heavy eyelashes glances stole out, that Helen felt were eloquent, though she could not quite read their meaning. She remembered watching all this, standing close by, and how the thought had crossed her heart, How pleasant it must be to hold such power.
Do you suppose that, because Miss Vavasour did perhaps more than justice to the charms of the woman she had lately learned to hate, she was unconscious of her own, or modestly disposed to undervalue them? It was not so. Helen was perfectly aware that she herself was rarely lovely and unusually fascinating. If she had been cool enough to reason dispa.s.sionately, she would probably have acknowledged that the comparison might safely be defied. Both flowers were pa.s.sing fair; but on the one lingered still the dewy bloom and scented freshness of the morning; the other, though delicate in hue and full of fragrance still, bore tokens on her petals, crisped here and there and slightly faded, of storm-showers and a fiery noon; nor, at her best could she ever have matched her rival in brilliancy of beauty.
But, supposing that Miss Vavasour had over-estimated herself and under-estimated her enemy to such a point as to imagine any comparison absurd, do you imagine it would have lightened one whit her trouble, or softened her bitterness of heart? I think not.
Feminine jealousy is not to be judged by the standard of ordinary ethics; you must measure it by the "Lesbian rule," if at all, and will probably, even so, be wrong in your result. Not only is the field more vast, its phases more varied, but it differs surely in many essentials from the same pa.s.sion in our s.e.x. Don"t be alarmed; I have no intention of writing an essay on so tremendous a subject. The pen of Libyan steel, that the old chroniclers talk about, would be worn down before it was exhausted. Take one distinction as an example. I suppose it is because we have more of conceit, pure and simple; but when we once thoroughly establish the fact, that the man preferred before us is really and truly our inferior in every way, it helps materially to soften the disappointment. Comfortable self-complacency disposes us to be charitable, compa.s.sionate, and forgiving; we try (not unsuccessfully) to think, that the bad taste displayed by the Object is rather her misfortune than her fault; nor do we nourish enduring malice even to him who bears away the bride. Remember the story of Sir Gawaine. When the huge black-browed carle would have reft from him his dame by force, he bound himself to do battle to the death; but when the lady had once made her choice, the Knight of the Golden Tongue thought no more of strife, but rode on his way, resigned if not rejoicing. With our sisters it is not so. Let a woman realize ever so completely the inferiority of her rival,--moral, physical, and social--it will not remove one of her suspicious fears, nor dull the sting of discomfiture when it comes, nor teach forgetfulness of the bitter injury in after days.
When wild Kate Goring created universal scandal and some surprise by eloping with that hirsute riding-master, Cecil Hamersley was intensely disgusted at first, but did not nurse his griefs nor his wrath long; when the unlucky couple came to the grief which was inevitable, Kate"s jilted lover pitied them from the bottom of his great honest heart, and seemed to think it the most natural thing in the world, that he should help them to the utmost of his power. It was entirely through Cecil, that Mr. Martingale was enabled to start in the horse-dealing business, which he has conducted with average honesty and fair success ever since.
Take a converse example. Ivor Montressor, for the last year or more, has been laying his homage at the feet of Lady Blanche Pendragon, and it has been accepted, not ungraciously; at the end of last season, it was understood that it was nearly a settled thing. But the wooer has not displayed intense eagerness since in pressing on the preliminaries.
There is a certain Annie Fern, whose duty it is to braid the somewhat scanty gold of Lady Blanche"s tresses--the most captivating little witch imaginable, with the most provoking of smiles, that contrasts charmingly with her long, pensive, dark-grey Lancashire eyes. She is prettier a thousand-fold, and pleasanter, and really better educated, than the tall, frigid, indolent descendant of King Uther, whom she has the honour to serve; but that is no excuse, of course, for Ivor"s infatuation. A dreadful whisper has got abroad, of late, that he admires the maid above the mistress. Lady Blanche is supposed to be not unconscious of all this; but, if she guessed it, she would not deign to notice it in any way, or even to discharge her fatally attractive handmaid. Let us hope that the vagrant knight will be recalled to a sense of his duty, and, remembering that he is a suitor nearly accepted, "act as such." However it may turn out, let us hope, for Annie"s sake (she has been absolutely innocent of intriguing throughout), that it will never happen to her "to be brought low even to the ground, and her honour laid in the dust;"--in such a case, I know _who_ will be the first to set the heel of her slender brodequin on the poor child"s neck, and keep it there, too.
No; that conscious superiority does not help them at all. As it is now, so it was in the ancient days. Did it much avail Calypso, that in her realm there was wealth of earth"s fairest fruits and flowers, while in Ithaca it was barren all--that ages pa.s.sed over her own divine beauty, leaving no furrow on her brow, no line of silver in her hair, while with every year the colour faded from the cheek, and the fire dried out of the eyes of her mortal rival--if her guest still persisted in repining?
Be sure she never felt more wretched and hapless than when, wreathing her swan"s neck haughtily, she spoke those words of scorn:
[Greek: Ou men then keines ge chereion euchomai einai, Ou demas, oude phyen, epei ou pos oude eoiken Onetas athanatesi demas kai eidos erizein.]
O gentle G.o.ddess! would your kindly heart have been most pained or pleased, if you could have guessed how ample was the final retribution?
You never knew how often--wearied by petty public broils, worried by Penelope"s shrill shrewish tongue, overborne by the staid plat.i.tudes of the prim, respectable Telemachus--your ancient lover strode over bleak rocks and gusty sand-hills, till his feet were dipped in the seething foam, and he stood straining his eyes seaward, and drinking in the wind that he fancied blew from Ogygia--the island to which no prow of mortal ever found the backward track. You never knew how often his thoughts rushed back, with a desperate longing and vain regret, to the great cave shrouded by the vine heavy with cl.u.s.ters of eternal grapes, deep in the greenwood where the wild birds loved to roost, girdled by the meadows thick with violets--where cedar and frankincense burned brightly on the hearth, making the air heavy with fragrance--where the wine, that whoso drank became immortal, mantled ever in unstinted goblets--where you bent over your golden shuttle, singing a low sweet song--where your dark divine eyes never wearied in their welcome.
I have always thought that, of all men alive or dead, of all characters in fact or fiction, Odysseus, in his declining years, must have been the most intensely bored. But then, you know, though pa.s.sing wise in his generation, he was wholly a pagan and half a barbarian. Far be it from me to insinuate, that any Christian and civilized Wanderer, when once reinstated in his domestic comforts, ever wastes a regret on a lost love beyond the sea.
CHAPTER XV.
PAVIA.
It is said, that when a man is struck blind by lightning, he never forgets afterwards the minutest object on which his eyes rested when the searing flash shot across them. Even so, when the crash of the great misfortune is over, and we wake from dull, heavy insensibility to find the light gone out of our life for ever, we remember with unnatural distinctness the most trivial incidents of the last hours of sunshine; we actually seem to see them over again sometimes, as we grope our way, hopelessly and helplessly, through the darkness that will endure till it is changed into night; for it may be, that from our spirit"s eyes the blinding veil will never be lifted, till they unclose in the dawn of the Resurrection.
Both the cousins had good cause to treasure in their memories every word and gesture that pa.s.sed between them on one particular evening; for it was the last--the very last--of pure, unalloyed happiness that either of them ever knew. Years afterwards, Wyverne could have told you to a shade the colour of the ribbons on Helen"s dress, the fashion of the bracelets on each of her wrists, the scent of the flowers she wore. She, too, remembered right well his att.i.tude when they parted; she could have set her foot on the very square of marble on which his was planted; she could recall the exact intonation of his gentle voice, as he bade her farewell on the lowest step of the great staircase, for he was to start very early the next morning. She remembered, too, how that night she lingered before a tall pier-gla.s.s, pa.s.sing her hands indolently through her magnificent hair, while the light fell capriciously on the dark shining ma.s.ses, rejoicing in the contemplation of her surpa.s.sing loveliness; she remembered how she smiled at her image in saucy triumph, as the thought rose in her heart--that Nina Lenox"s mirror held no picture like this.
Ah, Helen, better it were the gla.s.s had been broken then; it may show you, in after years, a face disdainful of its own marvellous beauty, or tranquil in its superb indifference, according to your varying mood; but a happy one--never any more.
The Squire had to go to town for a few days, and Alan, who had also business there, accompanied him. They were to be back for Christmas-day--the last in that week. Wyverne got through his affairs quicker than he had antic.i.p.ated, so he determined to return a day sooner, without waiting for his uncle. His evil Genius was close to his shoulder even here; for, if Hubert Vavasour had been present, it is just possible, though not probable, that things might have gone differently.
Alan started by an early train, so that he arrived at Dene soon after midday. Perhaps it was fancy, but he thought that the face of the Chief Butler wore rather a curious and troubled expression; if it were possible for that sublimely vacuous countenance to betray any human emotion, something like a compa.s.sionate interest seemed to ruffle its serenity. The letters of expected visitors were always placed on a particular table in the great hall. Again--on the top of the pile waiting for Alan, lay one in the well-known handwriting of Nina Lenox.
This time it was placed naturally, with the seal downwards.