When I reached home it was to find my father dead. Had I arrived an
hour sooner I should have had the gratification of holding his hand
in mine during the parting moments, and have heard his last words.
But my act of disobedience had prevented this, and by my secret visit
to Furnivaux I had lost what would have been one of the dearest
recollections of my life. He had died thinking of me, and as the last
struggle began had stammered out that I was to yield myself entirely
to the written instructions contained in the secret drawer of his
writing-desk, and intended for my eyes alone.
Therein I found myself directed to spend the years intervening before
my coming of age at a tiny estate in northern Italy. He had purchased
it several months before his death, and having such use for it in view,
had furnished the house comfortably and revived the faded glories of
the library. Bound by a solemn command I was to live retired from the
world, and not to present myself at Furnivaux whilst Lady Barbara
Verelst lived.
The manuscript concluded mystically: ‘I have known that in your youth
she will cross your path; an unscrupulous woman who cares for nought so
long as her heart’s desire is fulfilled. The stars declare it. Perhaps,
even as I write, she may be weaving the fatal web that is to destroy
life and happiness. But the line of Fate runs on straightway. I cannot
tell (for the evil destiny may overpower you) what to advise, but let
justice and love ever sway you, and remember that earth’s joy is nought
in comparison with that which follows. Beware, Ralph, of her I write
of, wherever she be.’
Overpowered with grief, my first impulse was a petulant and
unreasonable fury against those with whom I had passed that delicious
summer morning. So angry was I with the cause of my disobedience that
I did not even write to Lady Barbara, and after my father’s funeral I
started at once for the home he had chosen.
Here I passed seven years of irresolute work. The management of the
estate was entirely in my own hands, and I worked in a desultory
fashion amongst my people, earning their affection, and being as
happy as any man who has no aim in life. I had always my ideals and
my recollections to think of, and I never felt a desire for stronger
interests.
At last came a time when all this ceased, and I became terribly
depressed. Who can trust presentiments? I have had so many--so
many true and so many false, that I have alternately believed and
disbelieved in the supernatural powers in which foolish people place
such absolute trust. We spend many hours in mourning over catastrophies
that never occur, whilst at the time that the greatest possible
disasters are affecting our fortunes, we are plunged into the lightest
ecstasy.
Yet I must confess that, when I received word from the Verelst’s lawyer
that on the opening of my great-aunt’s will he had discovered a new
codicil by which I was compelled to marry either Rachel or Mary, or to
suffer the estates to pass entirely from our branch of the family, a
long vista of ills opened before me, and I complained bitterly, because
of the craftiness and self-will of the old woman, who would not believe
that ought but worldly interest was necessary for marriage.
At first I determined not to go, but as the knowledge came that, unless
I did so my cousins would be plunged into poverty, I gave instructions
for my trunk to be packed, and left everything in the hands of a
steward. It was with considerable trepidation that I pondered over our
meeting; and as I looked farewell on the gardens of my house, on the
vineyards and the river, I execrated the memory of the old make-plot.
In four days I was on the platform at Carlrhys station, watching with
a sort of amazement the train that had brought me disappearing at the
curve, and wondering whether the letter I had written from Dover had
forewarned the ladies, when a withered groom advanced and touched his
hat in antiquated style.
‘Be ye Mr. Rafe?’ he said. ‘Why, God bless me, what am I sayin’--as if
I couldn’t tell him from his likeness to Mr. Alston!’
‘Yes,’ I responded laughingly. ‘I am Rafe Eyre. You are from Furnivaux
Castle?’ He wore the old fawn livery with pelicans wrought on the
buttons, and a high white crape stock was tied around his neck. ‘You
are surely not Stephen, whom my father spoke of so often?’
‘That I be!’ he cried.
I remembered him perfectly now, from my father’s description. In my
boyhood, I had been told that he was at least ninety; yet he was still
straight as a staff.
‘Miss Rachel’s waiting outside in the carriage, sir,’ he said. ‘Train’s
nigh upon an hour late!’
With this gentle hint that his mistress might be growing impatient, he
seized my luggage and led me to the gate, where stood a large green
chariot.
A woman’s voice accosted me. ‘I bid you welcome, cousin.’ And before I
could speak I felt my hand taken and held. The sunlight was gleaming
so fiercely, that I could scarcely distinguish the features that
smiled beneath the crown of red-golden hair; but when I did so it was
with a start of astonishment, for Rachel Verelst’s beauty had become
transcendent.
She leaned back against the soft olive velvet cushions, and after
insisting on my sitting at her side, she gave the order, and we were
driven through the stretches of woodland and moor, and over the miles
of park road that lead to Furnivaux. Half bewildered I continually
turned to look at my companion. Strange to say she did not wear
mourning, but a gown of yellow tulle, worked in high relief with golden
flowers, and the outline of her splendidly proportioned figure was
visible through the gauzy folds.
Whether it was that my arrival had excited her, or that it was her
ordinary motion, I could not tell, but her heart was beating wildly
beneath its coverings, and floods of a rich colour sped to and from her
cheeks.
Her bizarre conversation related much to the object of my visit. The
peculiarity of the circumstances she took little heed of, and having
at the first moment leaped into the familiarity of an old friend, she
tacitly refused to vacate the position.
‘How delightful it is,’ she remarked as we passed through the Headless
Cross wood, ‘to meet a man who knows something of the outer world! O
the stupidity of our country gentlemen, whose noblest aspiration is
to dine well; whose noblest possibility is to hide the mark of the
ploughman and the lout! How definitely you refresh me, Rafe! Your
presence here has already done me a world of good. If you only knew how
stagnant--how wearisome life is! Bah! but you don’t sympathise!’
This last observation was made because I had not replied, but to tell
the truth I did not wish my voice to break the musical echo hers had
left in my ears. I expressed a hope that she would not regard me as
laconic, but rather as overwhelmed by the gladness of reunion.
Whilst I spoke the turrets of Furnivaux, just touched by the purple
rays of the setting sun, gleamed above a cluster of gnarled elms. The
mists from the sloping woods had ascended to the parapet of the roof
and given it the aspect of a terrace in the clouds. A gaily-coloured
flag fluttered in the Giant’s Tower, and I could distinctly see the
crest wrought in flagrant contradiction to the laws of blazonry.
‘’Twas I who did it,’ Rachel said, ‘in your honour. Mary wanted to
embroider the pelican, but it was all my own idea, and I would not let
her. However, she prevailed on me concerning the motto--see--you can
just catch a glimpse of her _Nourrit par son sang_, in azure letters.’
The carriage stopped in front of the portico, and Stephen opened the
door. My cousin laid her hand on my arm, and we entered the great hall
together. As I paused to look up at the domed roof, with its pargeting
of wyverns and cockleshells, a feeling of chilliness made me shiver.
‘My dear Rafe,’ Rachel said, ‘the change of climate tries you. Had I
imagined that the place would be so cold I would have ordered a fire
to be lighted. This is the way to the dining-room. I wonder where my
sister is;--ah, you are there, Mary.’
One dressed in the plainest of white muslins stood in an open doorway.
She shrank visibly at the sight of my outstretched hand, and it was
only by an effort that she placed her own in it; to lie there for too
brief a space. Her figure was slight and insignificant, and she had
not a feature worthy of comparison with her brilliant sister’s. Rachel
had taken away all the awkwardness of my involuntary visit; Mary had
forced it back again, and I mentally accused her of inhospitality.
Rachel, seeing that I was hurt, turned with the intention of diverting
my thoughts.
‘Pray do not change your clothes this evening,’ she said. ‘We are very
unconventional here, and it is nearly dinner-time. I will show you the
state bedroom--it is at your disposal.’
So saying she led me to an immense upper chamber, with a gilt bedstead
hung with watchet blue. Grotesque lacquered cabinets lined the walls,
and in each corner stood a dark-green monster from Nankin. Here I made
a few hasty alterations in my toilet, and after slipping a spray of
honeysuckle from a bowl on the dressing-table into my button-hole I
hurried down to the drawing-room. Mary sat within; her knees covered by
a long piece of lawn which she was embroidering. It fell to the floor
and she turned very pale as I entered.
‘Cousin Mary,’ I said reproachfully, ‘why do you treat me so coldly?
Have I offended you?’
Her eyes were slowly lifted to mine, and I beheld in them, despite
her timidity, a look of the keenest pleasure. She held out her hand
tentatively, and seemed relieved when I grasped it.
‘I am sorry that you should have misunderstood me,’ she murmured. ‘The
anticipation of this meeting has been so painful. I am not as strong
as Rachel, and anything disconcerts me.’
Rachel’s entrance prevented any further remarks. She had taken
advantage of the short time to doff her yellow gown for one of pale
green gauze, of the same hue as the sea where the sunlight falls over
shallows. A pair of fancifully worked gloves were fastened to her
girdle: they were made of a claret-coloured, semi-transparent skin.
With a laughing reminder of the ceremony we had used as boy and girl
at our first meeting, she accompanied me to the table, where the meal
passed in delicious interchange of thought, during which, although Mary
neither spoke nor seemed to listen I could well understand that she was
appreciative.
When I returned to the drawing-room Rachel’s look was mischievous: Mary
had evidently been reproving her.
‘You shall judge me, Rafe,’ she cried, holding up her hands so that
I might see what she had done. The gloves she had worn at her belt
covered them now. They were awkwardly made, and on the back of each was
worked a silk picture of a dagger and a vial.
‘They are tragic accompaniments,’ she said. ‘Mary has been scolding me
for wearing them--she declares that they will bring me ill luck. Do you
believe in such nonsense?’
She did not wait for my reply, but continued: ‘They were made of the
skin of a murderess gibbeted in these parts a hundred and twenty years
ago. Old Barnard Verelst insisted on having a piece: he wanted to
cover a book with it, but his wife, whom tradition reports as a real
she-devil, insisted on having these gloves instead. Between ourselves,
the result was that she poisoned her lord, but as he was very old,
nobody was much the worse.’
And mirthfully arching her mouth, she passed the gloves into my hand. A
strong repugnance to touch them made me immediately drop them on a side
table. Rachel’s originality carried her into strange humours. I was
not sorry when the lamps were brought. They were of curious Venetian
make, with round shades of silver lattice work filled in with cubes of
gold-coloured glass. Their soft and pleasant light enhanced Rachel’s
personal charm.
She went to the piano soon, and calling me to her side, began to play.
Never had I heard such wild and fantastical music as the first three
melodies. They were Russian; savage, rough airs, which fretted me to
unhealthy excess of inquietude. After the third, by which the soul is
wrought to such a pitch that it is hard to refrain from shrieking, she
began a plaintive air with a grotesque rhythm.
‘This is the tune the gnomes dance to on the hillside’, she said.
‘Here they emphasise the step; now they float round and round in
rings; now the king is performing alone and they are all watching. My
favourite is that one with the white slashed doublet and crooked face,
with a moustache so long that it pricks the others. Ah, well! (with
hands brought down clashingly) they must all creep through the bronze
door. _So!_’ Then, playing another unfamiliar melody, she began to sing
Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy.’ I scarcely dare attempt to describe her
voice. Poets have dreamed of its likes (heard them I may swear never);
it was almost unearthly in its pathos, and tears were streaming from
my eyes ere the first verse was ended. How she could sing so purely I
cannot tell, but it seemed as if to the accompaniment of music all the
dross were purged from her spiritual nature, and an innocence left,
unsullied as that of our first mother ere she sinned.
As the song went on a fuller harmony sustained her, and looking around,
I saw that Mary’s hands swept delicately over the strings of a harp
that stood in shadow. I leaned back, delivered to perfect delight, but
just as my head pressed the cushion a sob came from Rachel’s lips, and
rising hastily, she pressed her hands over her face and hurried from
the room.
Mary followed her, but returned almost immediately. ‘Cousin Rafe,’
she said nervously, ‘forget that Rachel has broken down--her singing
often overpowers her--she feels everything too acutely. She begs you
to pardon her absence for the rest of the evening. Recent events--my
aunt’s illness and sudden death amongst them--have unnerved her; you
must remember what great store they set on each other.’
The revulsion was very distressing. I had begun to regard Rachel as a
woman of iron will, endowed with an intellect nothing could quail. This
sign of weakness, coming so unexpectedly, surprised and pained me. Had
I been more closely connected with her, I would have sought her chamber
and drawn her head to my breast.
As I sat, the moon began to rise over the further hills. The rays
slanted into the Italian garden, where, seven years before, Mary and I
had played like young children. She had returned to her harp and was
drawing forth soft chords. The night, however, became so beautiful that
I felt I must breathe the outer air.
‘Let us walk together,’ I said. ‘Show me the dragon and the maze
where we ran, and the lilies and flowing rushes. The heat of the room
oppresses me.’
She led me silently down the broad stone stairs. The dragon was
unchanged.
‘We will sit here,’ she said; ‘and you can tell me everything that has
happened in the last few years. I have nothing to give in return, for
my life has been placid from the very beginning, and the only great
excitement I ever had was when you visited Furnivaux before. Rachel
says that I have a small soul; it must be so, for the quiet content of
this place suits me well. I suppose that I am one of those weeds that
root themselves firmly anywhere. Each thing about here I love as if
it were a part of me. Now, forgive me for my tediousness, and tell me
everything!’
Thus bidden, I began the story of how I had spent the intervening time.
There was little worth telling. It was a brief and simple record of
dormant faculties and aspirations, when my highest desire had been for
undisturbed sleep. Mary listened in silence, and when I had finished,
looked up.
‘But the awakening has come now,’ she said very gently. ‘A new future
is thrust upon you:--your life will no longer be as it was.’
Somehow as she spoke my head moved nearer hers, and before she could
draw back my lips had pressed her cheek. She rose, gasping, then
turning on me a look of surprise and wonder, she hurried away. Perhaps
some reminiscence of our former racing came to her, for I heard her
laugh, light and long and silvery, as her gown glimmered through the
yews.
When I retired to my room, it was not to sleep. A conflict was raging
in heart and brain. Rachel was undeniably the more beautiful: indeed
she was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and her
wit and power of fascination were incomparably superior to Mary’s.
She evidently believed that I _must_ choose her, and so I had fully
intended to do until a tone in Mary’s voice and a quick responsive
beating of my own heart told me that it could not be. Mary had never
imagined that I should take her in preference, but I knew now that
whatever love lay in my nature must be placed in her keeping. I had
discovered that I wanted no mental stronghold to surround me, but a
wife, tender, loving, and dependent.
Uncertain whether a declaration would or not be premature, I decided
to leave the castle early next morning, and to reflect for at least
a month on my decision. Rachel had acquired a strong influence over
me, and I dared not venture to free myself from her bonds without
tightening my armour. So, rising almost before daybreak, I set out in
secret, from the village inn despatching a short note:--
‘My dear Rachel,--Do not attempt to fathom the motive which compels
me to leave Furnivaux. Impute it, if you will, to flightiness. I was
always fond of doing strange things. I shall return in a month--a month
to-day.--RALPH EYRE.’
My meditating place was Northen Hall, a small manor-house situated
about two hundred miles away. I had inherited it from my mother. It
stands in a little park, outside an antiquated market town. I had
installed Jeffreys, my father’s old friend, and he was living out the
remainder of his years in ease and solitude.
He was standing in the walled rose-garden when I reached the place.
Half his time since my father’s death had been spent with me in Italy;
but the climate had proved unsuited to him, and he had been compelled
to return to England. The affection he greeted me with was very
touching. Although I had always been very tiresome, I have no doubt
that he loved me deeply.
A suite of rooms had been kept in readiness for me, and I was soon
made comfortable therein. I had much writing to do, and for some days
worked hard, so that I might drive away the thought of my dilemma. But
after awhile, when I was idle again, the remembrance of Mary’s timid
loveliness haunted me from morning to night, and I began to long for
the time of my return.
The momentous day came at last. Rachel Verelst, like another Fiammetta,
clad in a gown of dull dark green, with scarlet lilies at the neck, met
me on the terrace. There was a slightly puzzled look in her eyes, when
I did not give her the warm greeting she evidently expected; but she
slipped her arm into mine with as much graceful ease as if she were
already my wife.
There was no sign of Mary, and when I inquired for her Rachel replied
evasively. Not until I went to the drawing-room after dinner did I see
her. She was alone, sitting near a window, with a book in her hands.
She gave a sudden start when she saw me. ‘O Rafe,’ she cried, ‘when
did you come? I did not know you were here: Rachel would not tell me
anything about you, either where you were or why you went, and I have
only just come in from riding to watch the sunset.’
Before she had done speaking I had clasped her in my arms and was
showering kisses on her lips.
‘Mary,’ I whispered, ‘I have come back for you!’
She began to extricate herself, but before I had released her the door
opened, and Rachel herself entered.