DUCHESS. What have they said?
BERTUCCIO. Ask never that of man.
DUCHESS. What have they said of me?
BERTUCCIO. I cannot say.
DUCHESS. Thou wilt not, being my enemy. Why, for shame,
You should not, sir, keep silence.
BERTUCCIO. Yet I will.
DUCHESS. I never dreamt so dark a dream as this,
BERTUCCIO. God send it no worse waking!
_Marino Faliero._
A pleasant autumn afternoon shed its mellow light over Edge Combe. The
fields were golden with harvest, and the air was warm with sunshine. In
the porch at Lower House, Wynifred Cranmer stood leaning against the
arched doorway, her needle-work in her hands. Near her, in a capacious
wicker chair, her husband was enjoying his afternoon "weed."
Very contented and serene did Claud look, in his countrified suit of
rough cloth, his leggings and thick boots. The costume suited him
admirably, and the healthy out-of-door life had already given a glow of
red-brown to his fair complexion. His gun lay near at hand, ready for
him to clean, when so disposed; but at present life seemed to offer no
more perfect enjoyment than to sit still, smoke, and look at his wife's
delicate head in a setting of sunny sky and purple clematis blossom.
"Penny for your thoughts, Wyn," he remarked, after a more lengthy pause
than usual; for they were, on the whole, rather a talkative pair.
"I was thinking about saucepans," said Wyn, peacefully, as she drew her
needleful of silk out of the cloth and stuck in her needle with a click
of her thimble.
"Saucepans, my dear girl?"
"Yes, saucepans. Where is my penny?"
"Do you think pots and pans are worth such a sum?"
"I wish they were not. It would be pleasant if we could stock our house
with them at the price. No; it was Miss Willoughby's lovely
preserving-pan that filled my thoughts. We must drive into Philmouth and
get one to-morrow. You are so terribly addicted to jam that I expect I
shall pass my whole career in boiling and skimming fruit!"
"Yes, let us have plenty of jam," returned Claud, with interest. "Dear
me, how entertaining all the little details of life are, to be sure. I
don't know when I have been more excited than when I had successfully
contrived those bookshelves; and the sinking of the well in our garden
kept me awake two whole nights."
"You silly boy! New brooms sweep clean," said his wife, laughing. "You
will get tired of it all one day. No! I don't believe you will! We shall
always be planning some improvement, we two. Housekeeping is a great
pleasure."
"To think we shall be under our own roof in a month's time, my child,"
cried Claud, gleefully. "It sounds ungrateful to dear old Fowler, who is
such a first-rate fellow; but it will be nice to be all to ourselves,
won't it?"
"Won't it!" said Wyn, rapturously, letting fall her work, while she
gazed at her husband with devotion.
"Mrs. Cranmer, come here and sit on my knee. I want to say something."
"Can't you say it as we are?"
"It's private and confidential."
"You must put down your pipe then. I can't talk to you if you puff smoke
in my face."
He obediently laid aside the pipe and held out his arms invitingly.
Wyn decorously took a seat, still armed with her work.
"A gardener is sure to come by in a moment," she remarked, primly.
"The entire staff of domestics may march past in procession, for aught I
care. Don't be silly," said her husband, pinching her ear.
"Well, now, what did you want to say?" asked she.
"Why, that something has upset dear old Henry. I expect it is to do with
Elsa. I know he is very anxious about her. I was down at the quarries
this morning, and he rode up to give me the message I gave you--that he
would not be in to dinner. I thought he seemed not quite himself, and I
asked him what it was. He said he would tell me later. He looked most
horribly put out."
"Oh, it can't be Elsa. Why, they are coming here in the yacht to-morrow,
to spend a week at Edge Willoughby. Something connected with business,
it must be."
"I don't think so, from his manner; but we shall see. Imagine those
other two honey-moonists turning up to-morrow. I wonder if they enjoyed
themselves as much as you and I did?"
"They couldn't!" cried Wyn, letting her work slip from her knee, while
she took her husband's face between her hands and caressed it. "No
wedding-journey was ever like ours, or ever will be, will it?"
"I don't quite see how it _could_," he returned, with an air of candid
reflection. "Ours was jolly. We'll have another next year, and go
further afield, if we can save up enough out of our income."
"My dear silly, we shall save _heaps_! We are _rich_, I keep on telling
you, but you won't believe it. Do you remember my last month's
accounts?"
"They were absurd; but we have not tried housekeeping yet."
"And, as we are going to keep such a great deal of dinner company, our
expenses will be heavy indeed."
"My dear girl, reflect! Think of the cost of your preserving-pan!"
"As to you, you have just bought that expensive fowling-piece. Whenever
my weekly balance is low, I shall send you out shooting. No more
butcher's meat till things come right again."
"Ah! Henry Fowler speaks the truth. I am indeed a hen-pecked husband."
"Claud! How dare you? I am sure Mr. Fowler never said such a thing."
"I never said he did."
"You are quite too foolish; and now you must let me go, for here comes
George, and he is bringing the tea-tray out here."
"Well done, George," said Mr. Cranmer. "Just what I feel to want. And
there comes the postman over the bridge. Run like a good little girl and
bring me my letters."
"None for you," said Wyn, returning. "Only one for the Honorable Mrs. C.
Cranmer, from Lady Mabel."
As she stood by the rustic tea-table, opening and reading her letter,
her husband, for the hundredth time, thought how pretty she looked.
Fresh and dainty as to her gown, her face just tinged with color, no
longer unnaturally thin, but alive and sparkling with animation. Her
soft hair waved about her in the pleasant air, her sole ornaments were
the two wide gold rings on the third finger of her left hand. Henry
Fowler had witnessed the change he had so longed to effect in her--the
combined result of happiness and the Combe air.
From her serene brow to her neatly-shod feet, this doting Claud had not
a fault to find with her. She was his own, the darling of his heart, the
fulfilment of every need of his soul.
But, even as he gazed, Wyn's happy face clouded; a furrow came in the
smooth forehead.
"Oh, Claud!" she said, hurriedly, "here is something very disagreeable.
I wonder if Mr. Fowler can have heard this; it would be enough to make
him feel very disturbed, at least. Mabel is at Moynart, and Edward
joined her yesterday, and he says there is a hateful story about Mr.
Percivale going the round of the clubs."
"My child, there usually is a hateful story about him going the round of
the clubs----"
"Yes, but Colonel Wynch-Frere seems to think there is something in this
one. The names and dates are so accurate. I--it was before my time. Did
you ever hear of R----?"
She named a notorious political offender, who, nearly thirty years
before, fled to Germany, and there committed suicide on the eve of his
arrest.
"Yes," said Claud, thoughtfully, "I remember hearing of it. I was in the
nursery at the time. I think Mabel and I acted the whole scene together.
We liked a violent death of any sort. But what about him?"
"They say Leon Percivale is his son."
Claud raised his eyes to the scene before him. There lay the bay, there
was the spot where the white _Swan_ had anchored. There in the dawn, a
twelvemonth ago, he had seen the sun rise over Percivale the
victor--Percivale, who had saved Elsa Brabourne from a stigma worse than
death.
Now the blow had fallen. The girl whom he had rescued had betrayed him,
as Claud had feared she would. The blood rushed to his face, a storm of
angry sorrow to his heart. Why, why had such a man wasted his heart on
so slight a thing as Elsa?
Wynifred's eyes rested keenly on her husband. She saw his silence, his
consternation.
"Oh, Claud, it is not true, is it?"
"No, darling, I know that it is not true; and yet--yet--I fear there is
some truth in it."
She came close to him, laying her hands on his shoulders.
"Who can have spoken of such a thing?" she said, earnestly.
"There was only one human being who knew the facts," was the answer.
"That was--his wife."
"Claud, no!" Her vehemence startled him. "You should say such a thing of
no wife!" she cried. "It is impossible--unnatural! She never could have
betrayed such a secret!"
He rose, and slipped an arm round her neck.
"You judge all women by your own standard, dear."
"I don't! I don't do anything of the kind! I do not think highly of
Elsa--you know I never did! But that would be too horrible. It has come
out some other way. No wife could be such a traitor."
As she spoke the words, Henry Fowler came over the bridge; and
instinctively they held their breath. His face looked calmer and he was
smiling.
"Well, young people," he said, brightly, "my eyes are getting old, you
know, but I don't fancy I'm wrong. Claud, look out to sea. Isn't there a
sail out there towards Lyme? Isn't it the cutter?"
Claud turned his eyes in the direction indicated.
"Right enough," he said. "If this breeze holds, she'll be here in no
time. She has made her journey a day faster than was expected."
"Ay lad! It's a year to-day since she came sailing into the bay!
Yesterday was the night of the great storm."
He turned to Wyn. "I got a bit upset to-day by some foolish talk that I
heard in Stanton about Leon. But I've decided to think no more of it. As
soon as I see him I know I should feel ashamed of myself to have thought
ill of the lad--God bless him! Now, Mrs. Cranmer, a cup of tea, if you
please, for I must be off down to the shore."
Wyn slipped her letter into her pocket, and betook herself to the
tea-pot. Her husband hastily got up, leaving his own tea almost
untasted, and disappeared into the house to collect himself a little;
for he felt as though his meeting with Percivale might be agitating.