SONS OF FIRE
A Novel
By Mary Elizabeth Braddon
THE AUTHOR OF
"LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "VIXEN,"
"ISHMAEL," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_
VOL. II.
LONDON
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO.
LIMITED
STATIONERS' HALL COURT
[_All rights reserved_]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
I. FATE INTERVENES
II. "BEFORE THE NIGHT BE FALLEN ACROSS THY WAY"
III. WHILE LEAVES WERE FALLING
IV. "LET NO MAN LIVE AS I HAVE LIVED"
V. "CHANCE CANNOT CHANGE MY LOVE, NOR TIME IMPAIR"
VI. AT EVENSONG
VII. "THE DEAD MAN TOUCH'D ME FROM THE PAST"
VIII. "WHAT WAS A SPECK EXPANDS INTO A STAR"
IX. "A WHITE STAR MADE OF MEMORY LONG AGO"
X. "AND THAT UNREST WHICH MEN MISCALL DELIGHT"
XI. "WHO KNOWS WHY LOVE BEGINS?"
XII. "THAT WAY MADNESS LIES"
SONS OF FIRE.
CHAPTER I.
FATE INTERVENES.
The return of Geoffrey Wornock made no essential difference in the
lives of the lovers. Suzette continued her organ practice; Allan
continued his visits to the Manor House; and Suzette and Allan were
much oftener Mrs. Wornock's companions than her son, whose restless
temper did not allow of his remaining long in any one place, and for
whom monotony of any kind was intolerable.
He stayed in London for a week buying horses, and having brought home
a string of four, every one supposed to be matchless, he began hunting
with the vigour of a man whose appetite for that British sport had
only been sharpened by paper-chases and polo in the tropics. Not
content with the South Sarum, he travelled up and down the line, hunted
with the Vine from Basingstoke, and with the H. H. from Winchester. He
was up and away in the grey November mornings after a seven-o'clock
breakfast, and seldom home in time for an eight-o'clock dinner.
On the days when there was no hunting to be had, he flung himself
into the delights of the music-room with all the ardour of a musical
fanatic, and Allan and Suzette were content to listen in meek
astonishment to performances which were far above the drawing-room
amateur, although marked by certain imperfections and carelessnesses
which seemed inevitable in a player whose ardour was too fitful for the
drudgery of daily practice.
These musical days were the bright spots in Mrs. Wornock's existence,
the chief bond of union between mother and son; as if music were the
only spell which could hold this volatile spirit within the circle of
domestic love.
"I like my mother to accompany me," said Geoffrey. "I have played with
some prodigious swells, but not one of them has had her sympathetic
touch, her instantaneous comprehension of my spontaneities. They
expected me to be faultily faultless, instead of which I play de Beriot
as Chopin used to play Chopin, indulging every caprice as to time."
Geoffrey was occasionally present when one of the organ lessons was
in progress. He was interested, but not so much so as to sit still
and listen. He carried Allan off to the billiard-room, or the stable,
before the lesson was half over.
"What a happy little family we are," he said laughingly one day, as he
and Allan were strolling stablewards. "My mother is almost as fond of
your _fiancée_ as if she were her daughter."
"Your mother is a very amiable woman, as well as a gifted woman."
"Gifted? yes, that's the word. She is all enthusiasm. There have been
no spiritualists or supernatural people here lately, I suppose?"
"No."
"I'm glad of that. My poor mother loses her head when that kind of
people are in the way. She is ready to believe in their nonsense. She
wants to believe. She wants to see visions and dream dreams. She has
secluded herself from the world of the living, and she would give
half her fortune if she could bring the dead into her drawing-room.
Poor dear mother! How many weary hours she has spent waiting for
materializations that have never materialized! I have never been able
to convince her that all her spiritualistic friends are pretenders and
comedians. She tells me she knows that some are charlatans; but she
believes that their theories are based upon eternal truths. She rebukes
my scepticism with an appeal to the Witch of Endor. I dare not shock
her by confessing that I have my doubts even about the Witch of Endor."
He had a way of making light of his mother's fancies and eccentricities
which had in its gaiety no touch of disrespect. Gaiety was the chief
characteristic of his temperament, as it was with Suzette. He brought a
new element of mirthfulness into the life at Discombe Manor; but with
this happy temperament there was the drawback of an eager desire for
change and movement which disturbed the atmosphere of a house whose
chief charm to Allan's mind had been its sober quiet, its atmosphere of
old-world peace.
Allan studied this young man's character closely, studied him and
thought of him much more than he wanted to think of him, and vainly
struggled against an uneasy feeling that in every superiority of this
new acquaintance there lurked a danger to his own happiness.
"He is handsomer than I am," mused Allan, in one of his despondent
moods. "He has a gayer temper--Suzette's own temper--which sees all
things in the happiest light. I sit and watch them, listen to them,
and feel myself worlds away from them both; and yet if she were free
to-morrow he could never love her as I love her. There, at least, I am
the superior. He has no such power of concentration as I have. To his
frivolous nature no woman could ever be all in all."
These despondent moods were luckily not of long duration. On Suzette's
part there had not been the faintest sign of wavering; and Allan felt
ashamed of the jealous fears which fell ever and anon like a black
cloud across the sunny prospect of his life. However valiantly he might
struggle against that lurking jealousy, there were occasions upon which
he could not master it, and his darkest hours were those during which
he sat in the music-room at Discombe, and heard Suzette and Geoffrey
playing concertante duets for violin and piano. It seemed to him as the
violinist bent over the pretty dark head, to turn a leaf, or to explain
a passage in the piano score, that for these two there was a language
which he knew not, a language in which mind spoke to mind, and perhaps
heart to heart. Who could keep the heart altogether out of the question
when that most eloquent of all languages was making its impassioned
appeal? Every long-drawn legato chord upon the Strad, every delicate
diminuendo of the sighing strings, the tremulous bow so lightly held in
the long lissom fingers, sounded like an avowal.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," sobbed the violin; "how can
you care for that dumb brute yonder, while I am telling my love in
heavenliest sounds, in strains that thrill along every nerve, and
tremble at the door of your heart? How can you care for that dumb dog,
or care how you hurt him by your inconstancy?"
Possessed by these evil fancies, Allan started up from his seat in
a remote window, and began to pace the room in the midst of a de
Beriot sonata, to which Suzette had been promoted after a good deal of
practice in less brilliant music.
"What's the matter, old fellow?" asked Geoffrey, noting that impatient
promenade; "was I out of tune?"
"No, you were only too much in tune."
"How do you mean? I don't understand----"
"Is it likely you can understand me--or I you?" cried Allan,
impetuously. "You have a language which I have not, a sense which
is lacking in me. You and Suzette are in a paradise whose gate I
can't open. Don't think me an envious, churlish kind of fellow, if I
sometimes grudge you your happiness."
"But, my dear Allan, you are fond of music--you like listening----"
"No, I don't. I have had too much listening, too much of being out of
it. Put on your hat, Suzette, and come for a walk. I am tired to death
of your de Beriot."
Mrs. Wornock was sitting a little way from the piano, reading. She
looked up wonderingly at this outburst. Never before had Allan been
guilty of such rough speech in her presence. Never before had he spoken
with such rude authority to Suzette.
"If our music has not the good fortune to please you, I would suggest
that there are several rooms in this house where you would not hear
it," said Geoffrey, laying down his fiddle.
All the brightness had faded from his countenance, leaving it very
pale. Suzette looked from one to the other with an expression of
piteous distress. The two young men stood looking at each other,
Allan flushed and fiery, Geoffrey's pallid face fixed and stern, with
an anger which was stronger than the occasion warranted. They were
sufficiently alike to make any ill-will between them seem like a
brother's quarrel.
"You are very good, but I would rather be out-of-doors. Are you coming,
Suzette?"
"Not till I have finished the sonata," she answered quietly, with a
look which reproved his rudeness, and then began to play.
Geoffrey took up his fiddle, and the performance was resumed as if
nothing had happened.
Mrs. Wornock rose and went to Allan.
"Will you come for a stroll with me, Allan?" she asked, taking up the
warm Indian shawl which lay on a chair near the window. "It is not too
cold for the garden."
He could not refuse such an invitation as this, though it tortured him
to leave those two alone at the piano. He opened the window, wrapped
Mrs. Wornock in her shawl, and followed her to the lawn.
"Allan, why were you angry just now?" she asked.
"Why? Perhaps I had better tell you the truth. I am miserable when I
see the woman I love interested and enthralled by an art in which your
son is a master--and of which I know hardly the A, B, C. I ask myself
if she can care for a creature so inferior as I am--if she can fail to
perceive his superiority."
"Jealous, Allan! Oh, I am so sorry. It was I who proposed that they
should play duets. It was not Geoffrey's idea. I thought it would
encourage Suzette to go on practising. You don't know the delight a
pianist feels in accompanying a violin----"
"I think I can imagine it. Suzette takes very kindly to the concertante
practice."
"She has improved so much since I first knew her. She has such a talent
for music. It never occurred to me that you could object."
"It never occurred to you that I could be a jealous fool. You might
just as well say that, for no doubt you think it."
"Yes, I think you are foolish to be jealous. Suzette is as true as
steel; and I don't believe Geoffrey has the slightest inclination to
fall in love with her."
"Not at this moment, perhaps; but who knows what tender feelings
those dulcet strains may bring? However, Suzette will be leaving the
neighbourhood, I hope, in a few days."
"Leaving us, you hope!"
"Yes. My mother has written to invite her to Fendyke. She is to see the
White Farm, and get acquainted with all our Suffolk neighbours, who
declare themselves dying to see her, while I am shooting my father's
pheasants."
"You are both going away then? I shall miss you sadly."
"You will have Geoffrey."
"One day out of six, perhaps. He will be hunting or shooting all the
rest of the week."
"We shall not be away very long. I don't suppose General Vincent will
spare us his daughter for more than a fortnight or three weeks."
"Suzette told me nothing about the invitation."
"She has not received the letter yet. The post had not come in when she
left home. I met the postman on my way here, and read my letters as I
came along. De Beriot has been too absorbing to allow of my telling
Suzette about my mother's letter to me. Shall we go back? Unless that
sonata is interminable, it must have come to an end before now."
Mrs. Wornock turned immediately. She saw Allan's uneasiness, and
sympathized with him. They went back to the music-room, where there
was only silence. Suzette had left the piano, and had put on her hat
and jacket. Geoffrey was still standing in front of the music-stand,
turning the leaves of the offending sonata.
"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Wornock," said Suzette, kissing her friend. "Now,
Allan, I am quite ready."
Allan and Geoffrey shook hands at parting, but not with the usual
smiling friendliness.
"How could you be so dreadfully rude, Allan?" Suzette said with a
pained voice, as they walked away from the house. "You were quite
hateful."
"I know that. I am astounded at my own capacity for hatefulness."
"I shall play no more concertante duets, though I have enjoyed them
more than anything in the way of music. It was only the most advanced
pupils at the Sacré Cœur who ever had accompanying lessons--and such
happiness never fell to my share."
"I should be very sorry to interfere with your--happiness; but I think,
Suzette, if you cared for me half as much as I care for you, you would
understand how it hurts me to see you so completely in sympathy with
another man, and happy with a happiness which I cannot share."
"Why should you not share our happiness, Allan? You are fond of music,
I know."
"Fond of music--yes; but I am not a musician. I cannot make music as
that young man can. I cannot speak to you as he speaks to you, in that
language which is his and yours, and not mine. I am standing outside
your world. I feel myself thrust far off from you, while he is so near."
"Allan!" cried Suzette, with a smile that was a pale shadow of her old
sportiveness, "can you actually be jealous?"
"I'm afraid I can."
"Jealous about a man who is nothing to me except my dear friend's son.
You know how fond I am of Mrs. Wornock--the only real friend I have
made since I left the convent--and you ought to understand that I like
her son for her sake. And I have been pleased to take my part in the
music they both love. But that is all over now. I will not allow myself
to be misconstrued by you, Allan. There shall be no more duets."
They were still in Mrs. Wornock's domain, in a wooded drive where the
leafless branches overarched the way; and the scene was lonely enough
and sheltered enough to allow of Allan taking his sweetheart to his
breast and kissing her in a rapture of penitent love.
"My darling, forgive me! If I did not know the pricelessness of my
treasure, I should not be so full of unworthy fears. We won't stop the
duets for ever, Susie. I must get accustomed to the idea of a gifted
wife, who has many talents which I have not. But I hope your musical
studies at Discombe may be suspended for a month or so. When you go
home, you will find a letter from my mother inviting you to Fendyke.
She loves you already, and she wants to know more of you, so that you
may really be to her the daughter she has been wishing for ever since
I was born. You will go, won't you, Suzette, if the good General will
spare you; and I think he will?"
"Are you to be there too?"
"Yes, I am to be there; but you shall not see too much of me. Ours
is a shooting county, and I shall be expected to be tramping with my
gun nearly every day. I think you will like Fendyke. The house is a
fine old house, and the neighbourhood is pretty after a fashion, just
as some parts of Holland and Belgium are pretty--sleepy, contented,
prosperous, useful."
He walked home with her and stayed to luncheon, so as to secure
General Vincent's consent upon the spot. This was obtained without
difficulty. The General, having had to dispense with his daughter for
at least three-fourths of her existence, was not dependent upon her for
society, though he liked to see the bright young face smiling at him
across the table at his luncheon and his dinner, and he liked to be
played to sleep after dinner, or to have Suzette as a listener when he
was in the mood for talking. The greater part of his life was spent
out-of-doors--hunting, shooting, fishing, golfing--so that he could
afford to be amiable upon this occasion.
"Yes, yes, Suzette, accept the invitation, by all means. The change
will do you good. Lady Emily is a most estimable person, and it is only
right that you should become better acquainted with her."
"I am very fond of her already," said Suzette. "Then I am really to go,
Allan? Lady Emily suggests Saturday--three days from now."
"Well, you are ready, I suppose," said her father. "You have the frocks
and things that are necessary."
"Yes, father, I think I have frocks enough; unless you are dreadfully
fashionable in Suffolk, Allan."
"The less said about our fashion the better. If you have a stout
cloth skirt short enough to keep clear of our mud, that is all you
need trouble about. I suppose I shall be allowed to escort Suzette,
General?"
"Well, yes, I don't see any objection to your taking care of her on
the journey; but I have very lax notions of etiquette. I must ask my
sister. Suzie will take her maid, of course; and Suzie's maid is a
regular dragon."
* * * * *
Allan walked homeward with a light step and a light heart. The idea of
having Suzette as a visitor in his own home, growing every day nearer
and dearer to his parents, was rapture. No more concertante duets, no
more long-drawn sobbings and sighings on the Stradivarius! He would
have his sweetheart all to himself, to pace the level meadow paths, and
saunter by the modest river, and loiter by rustic mills and bridges,
which Constable may have painted. And in that atmosphere of homely
peacefulness he might draw his sweetheart closer to his heart, win her
more completely than he had won her yet, and persuade her to consent to
a nearer date for their marriage than that far-off summer of the coming
year. He counted much on home influences, on his mother's warmhearted
affection for the newly adopted daughter.
"A telegram, sir," said the servant who opened the door, startling him
from a happy day-dream. "It came nearly an hour ago."
Allan tore open the envelope and glanced carelessly at the message,
expecting some trivial communication.
"Your father is dangerously ill. Come at once. I am writing to
postpone Miss Vincent's visit.--Emily Carew."