Down at Foxwood.
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 in
_this_ house? Is he allowed to call at _it_."
"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 it _is_, 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 like _two_ thousand."
"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
is _wild_."
"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 I
have 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 it
was deemed better that Karl should go with her as her husband than
as 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 solitary
dining-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 mother _why_ she 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 that _I_ had 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 did _not_ think 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. _You_ could 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. And
sympathy--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.