IN BONDAGE.
Adela Branston found life very dreary in the splendid gloom of her town
house. She would have infinitely preferred the villa near Maidenhead for
the place of her occupation, had it not been for the fact that in London
she was nearer John Saltram, and that any moment of any day might bring
him to her side.
The days passed, however--empty useless days, frittered away in frivolous
occupations, or wasted in melancholy idleness; and John Saltram did not
come, or came so rarely that the only effect of his visits was to keep up
the fever and restlessness of the widow's mind.
She had fancied that life would be so bright for her when the day of her
freedom came; that she would reap so rich a harvest of happiness as a
reward for the sacrifice which she had made in marrying old Michael
Branston, and enduring his peevishness and ill-health with tolerable
good-humour during the half-dozen years of their wedded life. She had
fancied this; and now her release had come to her, and was worthless in
her sight, because the one man she cared for had proved himself cold and
indifferent.
In spite of his coldness, however, she told herself that he loved her,
that he had loved her from the earliest period of their acquaintance.
She was a poor weak little woman, the veriest spoilt child of fortune,
and she clung to this belief with a fond foolish persistence, a blind
devoted obstinacy, against which the arguments of Mrs. Pallinson were
utterly vain, although that lady devoted a great deal of time and energy
to the agreeable duty which she called "opening dear Adela's eyes about
that dissipated good-for-nothing Mr. Saltram."
To a correct view of this subject Adela Branston's eyes were not to be
opened in any wise. She was wilfully, resolutely blind, clinging to the
hope that this cruel neglect on John Saltram's part arose only from his
delicacy of feeling, and tender care for her reputation.
"But O, how I wish that he would come to me!" she said to herself again
and again, as those slow dreary days went by, burdened and weighed down
by the oppressive society of Mrs. Pallinson, as well as by her own sad
thoughts. "My husband has been dead ever so long now, and what need have
we to study the opinion of the world so much? Of course I wouldn't marry
him till a year, or more, after poor Michael's death; but I should like
to see him often, to be sure that he still cares for me as he used to
care--yes, I am sure he used--in the dear old days at Maidenhead. Why
doesn't he come to me? He knows that I love him. He must know that I have
no brighter hope than to make him the master of my fortune; and yet he
goes on in those dismal Temple chambers, toiling at his literary work as
if he had not a thought in the world beyond earning so many pounds a
week."
This was the perpetual drift of Mrs. Branston's meditations; and in the
absence of any sign or token of regard from John Saltram, all Mrs.
Pallinson's attempts to amuse her, all the fascinations and
accomplishments of the elegant Theobald, were thrown away upon an
unreceptive soil.
There were not many amusements open to a London public at that dull
season of the year, except the theatres, and for those places of
entertainment Mrs. Pallinson cherished a shuddering aversion. But there
were occasional morning and evening "recitals," or concerts, where the
music for the most part was of a classical and recondite
character--feasts of melody, at which long-buried and forgotten sonatas
of Gluck, or Bach, or Chembini were introduced to a discriminating public
for the first time; and to these Mrs. Pallinson and Theobald conducted
poor Adela Branston, whose musical proclivities had never yet soared into
higher regions than those occupied by the sparkling joyous genius of
Rossini, and to whom the revived sonatas, or the familiar old-established
gems of classical art, were as unintelligible as so much Hebrew or
Syriac. Perhaps they were not much more delightful to Mrs. Pallinson; but
that worthy matron had a profound veneration for the conventionalities of
life, and these classical matinées and recitals seemed to her exactly the
correct sort of thing for the amusement of a young widow whose husband
had not very long ago been consigned to the tomb.
So poor Adela was dragged hither and thither to gloomy concert-rooms,
where the cold winter's light made the performers look pale and wan, or
to aristocratic drawing-rooms, graciously lent to some favoured pianiste
by their distinguished owners; and so, harassed and weary, but lacking
spirit to oppose her own feeble inclinations to the overpowering force of
Mrs. Pallinson's will, the helpless little widow went submissively
wherever they chose to take her, tormented all the while by the thought
of John Saltram's coldness, and wondering when this cruel time of
probation would be at an end, and he would show himself her devoted slave
once more. It was very weak and foolish to think of him like this, no
doubt; undignified and unwomanly, perhaps; but Adela Branston was little
more than a child in knowledge of the world, and John Saltram was the
only man who had ever touched her heart. She stood quite alone in the
world too, lonely with all her wealth, and there was no one to share her
affection with this man, who had acquired so complete an influence over
her.
She endured the dreary course of her days patiently enough for a
considerable time, not knowing any means whereby she might release
herself from the society of her kinswoman, or put an end to the
indefatigable attentions of the popular Maida Hill doctor. She would have
gladly offered Mrs. Pallinson a liberal allowance out of her fortune to
buy that lady off, and be her own mistress once more, free to act and
think for herself, had she dared to make such a degrading proposition to
a person of Mrs. Pallinson's dignity. But she could not venture to do
this; and she felt that no one but John Saltram, in the character of her
future husband, could release her from the state of bondage into which
she had weakly suffered herself to fall. In the meantime she defended the
man she loved with an unflinching spirit, resolutely refusing to have
her eyes opened to the worthlessness of his character, and boldly
declaring her disbelief of those sad accounts which Theobald affected to
have heard from well-informed acquaintance of his own, respecting the
follies and dissipations of Mr. Saltram's career, his debts, his love of
gambling, his dealings with money-lenders, and other foibles common to
the rake's progress.
It was rather a hard battle for the lonely little woman to fight, but she
had fortune on her side; and at the worst, her kinsfolk treated her with
a certain deference, even while they were doing their utmost to worry her
into an untimely grave. If little flatteries, and a perpetual indulgence
in all small matters, such as a foolish nurse might give to a spoilt
child, could have made Adela happy, she had certainly no reason to
complain, for in this manner Mrs. Pallinson was the most devoted and
affectionate of companions. If her darling Adela looked a little paler
than usual, or confessed to suffering from a headache, or owned to being
nervous or out of spirits, Mrs. Pallinson's anxiety knew no bounds, and
Theobald was summoned from Maida Hill without a minute's delay, much to
poor Adela's annoyance. Indeed, she grew in time to deny the headaches,
and the low spirits, or the nervousness resolutely, rather than bring
upon herself a visitation from Mr. Theobald Pallinson; and in spite of
all this care and indulgence she felt herself a prisoner in her own
house, somehow; more dependent than the humblest servant in that spacious
mansion; and she looked out helplessly and hopelessly for some friend
through whose courageous help she might recover her freedom. Perhaps she
only thought of one champion as at all likely to come to her rescue;
indeed, her mind had scarcely room for more than that one image, which
occupied her thoughts at all times.
Her captivity had lasted for a period which seemed a very long time,
though it was short enough when computed by the ordinary standard of
weeks and months, when a circumstance occurred which gave her a brief
interval of liberty. Mr. Pallinson fell a victim to some slight attack of
low fever; and his mother, who was really most devoted to this paragon of
a son, retired from the citadel in Cavendish Square for a few days in
order to nurse him. It was not that the surgeon's illness was in any way
dangerous, but the mother could not trust her darling to the care of
strangers and hirelings.
Adela Branston seemed to breathe more freely in that brief holiday.
Relieved from Mrs. Pallinson's dismal presence, life appeared brighter
and pleasanter all at once; a faint colour came back to the pale cheeks,
and the widow was even beguiled into laughter by some uncomplimentary
observations which her confidential maid ventured upon with reference to
the absent lady.
"I'm sure the house itself seems lighter and more cheerful-like without
her, ma'am," said this young person, who was of a vivacious temperament,
and upon whom the dowager's habitual dreariness had been a heavy
affliction; "and you're looking all the better already for not being
worried by her."
"Berners, you really must not say such things," Mrs. Branston exclaimed
reproachfully. "You ought to know that my cousin is most kind and
thoughtful, and does everything for the best."
"O, of course, ma'am; but some people's best is quite as bad as other
people's worst," the maid answered sharply; "and as to kindness and
thoughtfulness, Mrs. Pallinson is a great deal too kind and thoughtful, I
think; for her kindness and thoughtfulness won't allow you a moment's
rest. And then, as if anybody couldn't see through her schemes about that
precious son of hers--with his finicking affected ways!"
And at this point the vivacious Berners gave a little imitation of
Theobald Pallinson, with which liberty Adela pretended to be very much
offended, laughing at the performance nevertheless.
Mrs. Branston passed the first day of her freedom in luxurious idleness.
It was such an inexpressible relief not to hear the perpetual click of
Mrs. Pallinson's needle travelling in and out of the canvas, as that
irreproachable matron sat at her embroidery-frame, on which a group of
spaniels, after Sir Edwin Landseer, were slowly growing into the fluffy
life of Berlin wool; a still greater relief, not to be called upon to
respond appropriately to the dull platitudes which formed the lady's
usual conversation, when she was not abusing John Saltram, or sounding
the praises of her beloved son.
The day was a long one for Adela, in spite of the pleasant sense of
freedom; for she had begun the morning with the thought of what a
delightful thing it would be if some happy accident should bring Mr.
Saltram to Cavendish-square on this particular day; and having once
started with this idea, she found herself counting the hours and
half-hours with impatient watchfulness until the orthodox time for
visiting was quite over, and she could no longer beguile herself with the
hope that he would come. She wanted so much to see him alone. Since her
husband's death, they had met only in the presence of Mrs. Pallinson,
beneath the all-pervading eye and within perpetual ear-shot of that
oppressive matron. Adela fancied that if they could only meet for one
brief half-hour face to face, without the restraint of that foreign
presence, all misunderstanding would be at an end between them, and John
Saltram's affection for her, in which she believed with a fond credulity,
would reveal itself in all its truth and fulness.
"I daresay it is my cousin Pallinson who has kept him away from me all
this time," Adela said to herself with a very impatient feeling about
her cousin Pallinson. "I know how intolerant he is of any one he
dislikes; and no doubt he has taken a dislike to her; she has done
everything to provoke it, indeed, by her coldness and rudeness to him."
That day went by, and the second and third day of the dowager's absence;
but there was no sign of John Saltram. Adela thought of writing to ask
him to come to her; but that seemed such a desperate step, she could not
think how she should word the letter, or how she could give it to one of
the servants to post. No, she would contrive to post it herself, if she
did bring herself to write. And then she thought of a still more
desperate step. What if she were to call upon Mr. Saltram at his Temple
chambers? It would be a most unwarrantable thing for her to do, of
course; an act which would cause Mrs. Pallinson's hair to stand on end in
virtuous horror, could it by any means come to her knowledge; but Adela
did not intend that it ever should be known to Mrs. Pallinson; and about
the opinion of the world in the abstract, Mrs. Branston told herself that
she cared very little. What was the use of being a rich widow, if she was
to be hedged-in by the restrictions which encompass the steps of an
unwedded damsel just beginning life? Emboldened by the absence of her
dowager kinswoman, Mrs. Branston felt herself independent, free to do a
foolish thing, and ready to abide the hazard of her folly.
So, upon the fourth day of her freedom, despairing of any visit from John
Saltram, Adela Branston ordered the solemn-looking butler to send for a
cab, much to the surprise of that portly individual.
"Josephs has just been round asking about the carriage, mum," he said, in
a kind of suggestive way; "whether you'd please to want the b'rouche or
the broom, and whether you'd drive before or after luncheon."
"I shall not want the carriage this morning; send for a cab, if you
please, Parker. I am going into the City, and don't care about taking the
horses there."
The solemn Parker bowed and retired, not a little mystified by this
order. His mistress was a kind little woman enough, but such extreme
consideration for equine comfort is hardly a feminine attribute, and Mr.
Parker was puzzled. He told Josephs the coachman as much when he had
dispatched an underling to fetch the cleanest four-wheeler procurable at
an adjacent stand.
"She's a-going to her banker's I suppose," he said meditatively; "going
to make some new investments perhaps. Women are always a-fidgeting and
chopping and changing with their money."
Mrs. Branston kept the cab waiting half an hour, according to the fairest
reckoning. She was very particular about her toilette that morning, and
inclined to be discontented with the sombre plainness of her widow's
garb, and to fancy that the delicate border of white crape round her
girlish face made her look pale, not to say sallow. She came downstairs
at last, however, looking very graceful and pretty in her trailing
mourning robes and fashionable crape bonnet, in which the profoundest
depth of woe was made to express itself with a due regard to elegance.
She came down to the homely hackney vehicle attended by the obsequious
Berners, whose curiosity was naturally excited by this solitary
expedition.
"Where shall I tell the man to drive, mum?" the butler asked with the
cab-door in his hand.
Mrs. Branston felt herself blushing, and hesitated a little before she
replied.
"The Union Bank, Chancery-lane. Tell him to go by the Strand and
Temple-bar."
"I can't think what's come to my mistress," Miss Berners remarked as the
cab drove off. "Catch _me_ driving in one of those nasty vulgar
four-wheel cabs, if I had a couple of carriages and a couple of pairs of
horses at my disposal. There's some style about a hansom; but I never
could abide those creepy-crawley four-wheelers."
"I admire your taste, Miss Berners; and a dashing young woman like you's
a credit to a hansom," replied Mr. Parker gallantly. "But there's no
accounting for the vagaries of the female sex; and I fancy somehow Mrs.
B. didn't want any of us to know where she was going; she coloured-up so
when I asked her for the direction. You may depend there's something up,
Jane Berners. She's going to see some poor relation perhaps--Mile-end or
Kentish-town way--and was ashamed to give the address."
"I don't believe she has any relations, except old Mother Pallinson and
her son," Miss Berners answered.
And thereupon the handmaiden withdrew to her own regions with a
discontented air, as one who had been that day cheated out of her
legitimate rights.