Christmas gold, p.791
Christmas Gold, page 791
The next day came, and I was again prevented, by certain literary labours to which I was obliged to devote myself, from going out in the early part of the day. I spent the morning in my room, which was situated in one of the round towers which flanked the entrance of the castle, one on each side.
About half-past eleven I heard the voices of some of the men who were staying in the castle, as they lounged about the door, gossiping and talking. Soon after, I heard the clatter of horses' hoofs in the distance, and soon the same sound accompanied by the scattering of gravel, and the "Wo, mare!" and "Steady, horse!" of the grooms.
I looked out from behind my curtains; I am always very easily diverted from my work. The riding party was all assembled. Three or four men; among them, for a wonder, Lord Sneyd. He had his own horse, a nasty long-tailed white brute, that cost, I dare say, a mint of money, and that no man worth twopence would get across. The duchess and Miss Crawcour were the ladies of the party. The duke came to the door to see them off. He was not going with them, having all sorts of things to arrange with that important minister the gamekeeper.
"Where's Fortescue?" said some one.
"Oh, he's not going this morning," the duke answered. "He is writing letters." He was helping Miss Crawcour into the saddle as he spoke. It may have been the exertion of mounting, or it may not, but I could see that she blushed deeply.
I did not like the look of the animal on which Miss Crawcour was mounted. As far as beauty went, certainly there was nothing to complain of. A handsomer mare I never saw. But the movements of the ears were too incessant and violent, and there was more white to the eye shown than I like to see in connexion with a riding-habit. The mare had been difficult to hold while Miss Crawcour was being lifted on, and, now that the young lady was fairly on the brute's back, it became exceedingly restive, almost unmanageable.
"Are you afraid of her at all, Mary?" the duke asked, as he stood at the door; "she seems unusually frisky this morning."
"No, not in the least. She's always like this at starting."
This was Miss Crawcour's answer, but I thought she looked pale. Perhaps it was the reaction after that blush I had noticed. The duke spoke again. This time to the head groom: "Has that mare been exercised this morning, Roberts?"
The man hesitated just half a moment, and looked at the mare.
"Yes, your grace," he said, touching his hat.
"You're sure, Mary," the duchess said, "that you're not afraid? Do let them take her back and bring you another mount."
"Yes, yes, much better," added the duke. "Roberts, send that mare back, and saddle Robin Hood for Miss Crawcour."
"Beg your pardon, your grace, but the horse is in physic; he's not been very well for a day or two."
"Well, then, the brown mare, or Bullfinch, or——"
"No, no, no, no," Miss Crawcour called from the saddle. "I like this mare best of all. Let her go," she said to the groom who was holding the cursed brute's head. And off she cantered, the mare plunging and kicking.
"Really," said Lord Sneyd, with his foot in the stirrup, "Miss Crawcour ought not to be allowed to ride that ferocious animal. Can nobody stop her?"
"You ride after her, Sneyd," said the duke, smiling, "and try if you can't bring her back." Lord Sneyd was in the saddle by this time, and cantered off at a regular rocking-horse pace. His groom behind him on a thorough-bred.
That was the last I saw of the cavalcade. The duke retired immediately to the gun-room; and I went back to my writing-table, but I could not help feeling a certain sense of uneasiness, the look of that mare not being at all to my liking, and the manner of the groom having left an impression on my mind that the animal had not really been out before, that morning.
All the events of that day are very fresh in my memory. The next room to mine was a boudoir. There was a piano in it, and some one of the ladies of the party was playing on it. I don't know what she was playing, though I should recognise the air now in a moment if I heard it. It was what is called a "piece," and had a wonderful plaintive beauty about it. As the performer played it many times over, I suppose she was learning it.
I went on writing, and what I wrote seemed in a sort of way to be mixed up with this tune. Presently I heard the sound of wheels, and some light vehicle drove up to the door. I went again to the window. It was a dog-cart, driven by one of the duke's grooms, and it drew up before the door. Some servants brought out a portmanteau, some gun-cases, and other luggage, and placed them in the vehicle. Almost at the same moment my door opened, and Fortescue entered the room. I never saw anything more dreadful than the suppressed agony in his face.
"Good-by, old fellow," he said, with a miserable ghastly smile. "I'm off, you see. Will you take charge of this note for the duchess? I've explained to Greta that I find my letters this morning require my presence in London. Good-by! I've only just time to catch the train."
"Stay," I said; "where can I write to you?"
"London, tomorrow. After that, Chatham. Good-by again, dear old fellow, good-by!"
He was gone. In a minute more I saw the duke come with him to the door, and after shaking him warmly by the hand and pressing him to return whenever he possibly could, they parted, and the dog-cart disappeared rapidly, behind that angle of the castle round which I had seen Miss Crawcour pass so short a time before.
Poor fellow! what a departure. What an episode in the gay story of the life at Creel.
I went back to my desk. And still from the next room came that same plaintive air, and still it seemed to belong to what I wrote, and to be an inseparable part of the day and its events.
Once more I was disturbed, and by the clatter of hoofs. It was a single horse this time, and going evidently at a tremendous pace. I looked out and saw young Balham, who had been one of the party of equestrians, dashing along the road at full gallop. He turned off in the direction of the stables, and I saw no more of him. I remained where I was, but with a dim foreboding that something had gone wrong, and by-and-by a low open carriage, empty, was driven out of the stable-yard at a great pace. Lord Balham rode rapidly on in front of it, both he and the carriage going back by the way he had come.
I still kept where I was, and in a few moments the door of the house was opened, and some of the servants came out. They looked out in the direction by which the carriage had disappeared. One or two ladies'-maids stood on the steps, one of them the duchess's, and there was another who was crying, but quite quietly, the servants in such houses being drilled into the greatest un-demonstrativeness. I heard one of the men-servants say to another, "Roberts is gone off to Inverkeed, for Dr. Maclntyre, and James has gone into Creel for Mr. Cameron. They'll both be here quickly." "Is his grace in the house?" "No. He's up at the plantations. But he's been sent for."
The conversation among the men stopped suddenly. The carriage, driving now very slowly, had come in sight. It was followed by some horsemen. Presently I made out that two grooms behind were leading each a lady's horse; then I saw that the duchess was sitting in the carriage bending over and supporting; something—somebody—lying at length on the cushions. A gentleman, one of those on horseback, detached himself from the group, and rode swiftly up to the door.
"Is Miss Crawcour's maid here?" he asked.
The girl came forward, sobbing. The duchess's woman, older, with more head, more self-controlled, and more useful now, came out too.
Not a word more was spoken. The carriage drew up to the door, and I saw at a glance that it was Miss Crawcour over whom the duchess was bending; that the poor girl's habit was all torn and dirty; and that a handkerchief, deeply stained, was laid over her face.
There was no word spoken still. The duchess, in tears, descended from the carriage and went into the house to see that all was ready, while the gentlemen of the party lifted the poor maimed form of Miss Crawcour from the cushions. I noticed that Lord Sneyd did not assist in this, but hovered about the group in a helpless way. Nobody seemed to want him, or to notice him.
I remained still where I was. I knew I could be of no use, should only be in the way below. I could not help looking. I wish I had not. As they lifted Miss Crawcour from the carriage, the handkerchief that was over her face became displaced, and I saw—— One whole side of her face seemed to have been crushed and beaten in. That beautiful face!
It was covered again, in a moment, but I had seen it—and so had some one else. When Lord Sneyd looked upon that mutilated face, he turned even paler than he had been before, and went into the house.
The door closed over the sad group, with Mary Crawcour's helpless figure carried in the midst of it, the carriage drove away to the stables, and all was quiet again.
"And he did it, think of that," said Balham. "It was that disgusting white brute of his to whom this terrible mishap is owing."
"What do you mean?" I asked, as we were talking some time afterwards about what has been partly described above. "How did the thing happen? You saw it all."
"It is told in two words," said Balham. "You know that mare that poor Miss Crawcour used to ride. Well, she was always an unsafe, ill-conditioned mare, in my opinion, but on this occasion she was particularly bad. All the time we were out she was fidgeting and starting at everything, and more than one of us wanted Miss Crawcour to let the groom put her saddle on one of the other horses, and let some man with a stronger hand ride the mare. However, it was no use, and so at last—I never saw a worse thing—the mare took fright at some barrow, or something by the side of the hedge, and bolted straight across the road at a bound. Miss Crawcour was thrown, but fell clean, luckily without becoming entangled with the stirrup, and might have escaped serious mischief, when up comes that intolerable ass Sneyd, on his infernal ambling Astley's-looking beast, and rides clean over her, the brute of a horse—ssh—I can't bear to think of it—sending one of his hoofs straight into her face as he passed."
"And her arm is broken, too, is it not?"
"Yes, I believe so. That may, however, have happened when she fell; but the other thing, that fearful mutilation of the poor young lady's face, was done by a kick from that horse of Sneyd's, and by nothing else in the world. I saw it with my own eyes."
Chapter V.
His Writing-Desk
Table of Contents
Charles Allston Collins
THE REST OF THIS MANUSCRIPT HE HAD PUT INTO HIS WRITING-DESK
Some years after these things had happened, I stood on the summit of one of those mighty mountains which form a boundary line, such as few countries can boast of, between Switzerland and Italy.
It was evening, and I was gazing with all my eyes into that strange receptacle for the dead, which the monks of St. Bernard have placed at the door of their convent, and where the bodies of those unfortunates who have perished in the snow are preserved. They are embalmed by the highly rarefied air of that height, and do not decay. The Egyptian mummies are not more perfectly kept.
I was so absorbed in these strange figures, that I scarcely noticed there was any one standing beside me, until I suddenly heard my own name pronounced by a voice familiar to me. I turned and found myself face to face with Jack Fortescue.
"Well," he said, almost before we had exchanged greetings, "this is the most extraordinary thing, the most marvellous combination of coincidences, that ever took place since the creation of the world! Who do you think is in there?" pointing to the convent.
"Who?" I asked. "In Heaven's name, who?"
"In the strangers' parlour, there, you will find, at this moment, your old acquaintance Lord Sneyd—and, what is more, a new acquaintance, if you choose to make it, in the shape of that nobleman's illustrious consort."
"What, the Irish-Italian singer, who, as I saw by Galignani, had managed to become Lady Sneyd?"
" The same."
"And your wife—where is she?"
"Mary is with me. Is it not extraordinary, incredible almost, that we should all be under the same roof again? Do you remember the last time?"
"Remember it? Shall I ever forget it! "
"Of course," Fortescue went on, "I can't let her come in contact with those people, so she keeps her room, or rather her cell. It is awfully cold, but anything is better than such a meeting."
"But you will let me see her?"
"You. Why, of course," Fortescue answered. " How can you ask?"
"I will ask something else, then," I continued. "I will ask you to tell me some of the particulars of what took place after I left Creel, and went abroad. My letters from England and the papers told me, to my great delight, of your marriage with Miss Crawcour, and also of Lord Sneyd's wonderful match. But I want to know more than these bare facts."
"There is really not much to tell," said Fortescue. " When I got your letter telling me of that terrible disaster at Creel, I was at Chatham, and was, in fact, just negotiating for an exchange into a regiment that was going abroad at once. Your letter altered all my plans. Do what I would, the thought of that poor maimed figure haunted me, the love which I resisted when she was in the full pride and glory of her beauty, became now that pity was mixed up with it, now that this fearful trouble had come upon her, a thing that I could no longer hold out against. I felt that I must go back to Creel. And I went.
"When I got there, I found that that infernal brute and scoundrel, Sneyd, had left the place. Very soon after the accident—you know that he had never actually spoken to the duke about Mary, or said anything definite to her—well, very soon after the accident, he discovered that it was actually necessary that he should pay a visit to some estates of his in Ireland. He left the castle, to come back there no more. He went first of all to Ireland, and then was absent on the Continent for a considerable length of time. There was an end of him. At Naples, he became entangled in the snares of a regular designing adventuress, and out of those snares he has never escaped. I wish him joy.
"Well, I stayed on and on at Creel. It was a quiet delightful time. After the accident everybody left, but Greta—he and I, you know, were always great friends—the duke pressed me to stay that he might have somebody to shoot with, and I stayed on, and on.
"At that time, too, I saw more of the duchess than I had ever done before, and one day we began talking about the accident and about Sneyd's behaviour, and I ventured to say that I thought that if Mary had broken every bone in her skin, she would still have had reason to congratulate herself on being thereby delivered from a marriage with the wretched creature that he had proved himself to be. The duchess did not differ from me, and somehow from that day a strange kind of hope and happiness seemed to take possession of me, a curious indefinite delight such as I had never felt before.
"At length a day came when I was allowed to see her. And when I went into the room"—at this point Fortescue's voice faltered a little—"when I saw her poor arm bound up, and half her sweet face covered with bandages—I knelt down by the side of the sofa, and, in short, I made a fool of myself. The duchess was present, but she was fairly beat, and——Well, very soon I was discussing ways and means with the duke.
"There never was anything like that man's kindness. Besides making Mary a very handsome present indeed, which he declared he had always intended to do, he set himself to work to get me such an appointment as should make it possible for me to marry. Between him and the duchess (whose interest is not small) this has been effected, so I waited till I got my company—I am Captain Fortescue now, if you please—and then sold my commission, and with my own small means, and my place in the Shot and Shell Department, we manage to get on in a very inexplicable but delightful way."
"And the privations which were to make your wife so wretched?" I asked, as I shook him warmly by the hand.
"Looked much worse at a distance than they do close," said my friend. "I do think, sincerely," he continued, " that an imprudent marriage ought to be made every now and then, if it is only to bring out the immense amount of real kindness that there is in the world. I am perfectly sure that if two married people, however poor they may be, will only put a good face upon it, and neither sink down into gloomy despair on the one hand, nor shut themselves up in a haughty reserve on the other—I am perfectly sure, I say, that there is so much real goodness in the world, that they need never know that they are poorer than other people, or suffer any of those humiliations, the dread of which has kept many true and loving hearts asunder. But come," said Fortescue, "I am getting poetical. Let us go inside, and see how Lord and Lady Sneyd are getting on. He'll take no notice of either of us, you'll see."
Fortescue left me for a time to go and see after his wife, and I went up into the strangers' room. There was a good large company assembled, waiting for the supper hour, English tourists, German students, and some French officers—among them, sure enough, sitting next to a very showy and over-dressed lady with jewellery all over her, with a very strong soupçon of paint upon her countenance, with a long curl brought over her left shoulder—there was Lord Sneyd.
A changed man already. Feeble and effeminate he was still, but he had ceased to be the insolent languid petit-maître and coxcomb he was when I had last seen him. He was lowered in tone. His whole faculties seemed to be entirely absorbed in attention on his better-half, off whom he never took his eyes.
"I hear," said Fortescue to me, as he took his place by my side at the supper-table, "that he is intensely jealous of her, and leads, in consequence, the most miserable life imaginable. Look how he is watching, now that that French officer is speaking to her. The man is only offering her some potatoes, but Sneyd looks as if he would like—if he had courage enough—to put his knife into him."
It was true. A more pitiable and contemptible sight I never witnessed than this man's jealousy. It extended itself to the French officers opposite, to the young English undergraduate who sat next to the lady, and even to the good-looking young monk who—a perfect man of the world, and a very agreeable fellow—took the head of the supper-table. I must say that Lady Sneyd's appearance was not calculated to quiet her lord and master's discomfort. A more liberal use of a pair of fine rolling black eyes I never saw made. Not long after supper this worthy pair retired, not the slightest attempt at recognition of either Fortescue or myself being made on the part of this distinguished nobleman. Perhaps he was of opinion that our fascinations would be dangerous with his amiable consort. Perhaps he felt a little ashamed of himself.
_preview.jpg)
