My Lady at the Red Court.
At the end window of the corridor, looking towards the church and
village, stood Mary Anne Thornycroft. Not yet had she recovered the
recent stormy interview, and a resentful feeling in regard to it was
rife within her. The conduct of her father and eldest brother appeared
to have been so devoid of all reason in itself, and so gratuitously
insulting to Robert Hunter, that Mary Anne, in the prejudice of her
love for _him_, was wishing she could pay them off. It is the province
of violent and unjust opposition to turn aside its own aim, just as it
is the province of exaggeration to defeat itself; and Miss
Thornycroft, conning over and over again in her mind the events of the
day, wilfully persuaded herself that Mr. Kyne was right, her father
wrong, and that smuggling of lace, or anything else that was valuable,
_was_ carried on under (as may be said) the very face and front of
their supine house.
Cyril came up the stairs--his book in his hand--saw her standing
there, and came to her side. The short winter's day was already
verging towards twilight, and the house seemed intensely still.
"Is it not a shame?" exclaimed Mary Anne, as Cyril put his arm about
her.
"Is what not a shame? That the brightness of the day is gone?"
"_You know!_" she passionately exclaimed. "Where's the use of
attempting subterfuge with me, Cyril? Cyril, on my word I thought for
the moment that papa and Richard must have gone suddenly mad."
In Cyril Thornycroft's soft brown eyes, thrown out to the far
distance, there was a strange look of apprehension, as if they saw an
unwelcome thing approaching. Something was approaching in fact, but
not quite in sight yet. He had a mild, gentle face; his temper was of
the calmest, his voice sweet and low. And yet Cyril seemed to have a
great care ever upon him;--his mother, whom he so greatly resembled,
used to have the same. He was the only one of her children who, as
yet, had profited much by her counsel and monition. In the last few
years of her life her earnest daily efforts had been directed to draw
her children to God, and on Cyril they had borne fruit.
In the German schools, to which he had been sent, in the Oxford
University life that succeeded, Cyril Thornycroft had walked unscathed
amidst the surging sea of surrounding sins and perils. Whatever
temptation might assail him, he seemed, in the language of one
who watched his career, only to come out of them more fit for God.
Self-denying, walking not to do his own will, remembering always that
he had been bought with a price and had a Master to serve, Cyril
Thornycroft's daily life was one of patient endurance of a great
inward suffering, and of active kindness. Where he could do good he
did it; when others were tempted to say a harsh word he said a kind
one. He had been brought up to no profession; his inclination led him
to go into the Church; but some motive, of which he never spoke,
seemed to hold him back. Meanwhile Mr. Thornycroft appeared quite
content to let him stay on at the Red Court in idleness--idleness as
the world called it. Save that he read a great deal, Cyril did no
absolute work; but many in Coastdown blessed him. In sickness of body,
in suffering of mind, there by the bed-side might be found Cyril
Thornycroft, reading from the Book of Life--talking of good things
in his low, earnest voice; and sometimes--if we may dare to write
it--praying. Dare! For it is the fashion of the world to deride such
things when spoken of--possibly to deride them also in reality.
And now that is all that will be said. It was well to say it for the
satisfaction of the readers, as will be found presently, even though
but one of those readers may be walking in a similar earnest path, the
world lying on one hand, heaven on the other.
"Courtesy is certainly due to Mr. Hunter, and I am sorry that my
father and Richard forgot it," resumed Cyril. "When does he leave?"
"On Saturday," she answered, sullenly.
"Then--endeavour to let things go on peaceably until that time. Do not
excite him by any helping word on your part to oppose home prejudices.
Believe me, Mary Anne, my advice is good. Another such scene as there
was to-day, and I should be afraid of the ending."
"What ending?"
"That Richard might turn him out of the house."
Miss Thornycroft tossed her head. "Richard would be capable of it."
"Let us have peace for the rest of his sojourn here, forgetting this
morning's episode. And--Mary Anne--do not ask him to prolong his visit
beyond Saturday."
He looked with kindly earnestness into her eyes for a moment as if
wishing to give impression to the concluding words, and then left
her to digest them: which Miss Thornycroft was by no means inclined
to do pleasantly. She was picking up the notion that she would be
required to give way to her brothers on all occasions; here was even
Cyril issuing his orders now! Not ask Robert Hunter to stay over
Saturday!--when her whole heart had been set upon his doing it!
Playing with her neck-chain, tossing it hither and thither, she at
length saw Robert Hunter come strolling home from the village, his air
listless, his steps slow; just like a man who is finding time heavy on
his hands.
"And not one of them to be with him!" came her passionate thought. "It
_is_ a shame. Bears! Why! who's _this?_"
The exclamation--cutting short the complimentary epithet on her
brothers, though it could not apply with any sort of justice to
Cyril, who had been prevented by his father from following Robert
Hunter--related to a Jutpoint fly and pair. Driving in at the gates,
it directly faced Mary Anne Thornycroft; she bent her eyes to peer
into it, and started with surprise.
"Good gracious! What can bring _her_ here?"
For she recognised Lady Ellis; with a maid beside her. And yet, in
that pale, haggard, worn woman, who seemed scarcely able to sit
upright, there was not much trace of the imperious face of her
who had made for so brief a period the Red Court her home.
Illness--long-continued illness, its termination of necessity
fatal--changes both the looks and the spirit.
The chaise had passed Robert Hunter at right angles: had my lady
recognised him?
But a moment must be given to Cyril. On descending the stairs, he saw
Richard striding out at the front door, and hastened after him.
"Where are you going, Richard?"
"Where am I going?" retorted Richard. "To Tomlett's, if you must know.
Something must be done."
Cyril laid his calm hand on his brother's restless one, and led him
off towards the plateau.
"Do nothing, Richard. You are hasty and incautious. They cannot make
any discovery."
"And that fellow talking of going to sound the rocks, with his boasted
engineering experience?"
"Let him go. If the square sounds as hollow as his head, what then?
They can make nothing else of it. No discovery can be made from the
outside; you know it _can not_; and care must be taken that they don't
get in."
"Perhaps you would not care if they did," spoke Richard in his unjust
passion.
"You know better," said Cyril, sadly. "However I may have wished that
certain circumstances did not exist, I would so far act with you now
as to ward off discovery. I would give my life, Richard, to avert pain
from you all, and disgrace from the Red Court's good name. Believe me,
nothing bad will come of this, if you are only cautious. But your
temper is enough to ruin all--to set Hunter's suspicions on you. You
should have treated it derisively, jokingly, as I did."
Richard, never brooking interference, despising all advice, flung
Cyril's arm aside, and turned off swearing, meeting Isaac, who was
coming round by the plateau.
"Isaac, we are dropped upon."
"What?"
"We are dropped upon, I say."
"How? Who has done it?"
"That cursed fellow Mary Anne brought here--Hunter. He and Kyne have
been putting their heads together; and, by all that's true, they have
hit it hard. They had got up a suspicion of the rocks; been sounding
the square rock, and found it hollow. Kyne has scented the cargo
that's lying off now."
The corners of Isaac Thornycroft's mouth fell considerably. "We must
get _that_ in," he exclaimed. "It is double the usual value."
"I wish Hunter and the gauger were both hanging from the cliffs
together!" was Richard's charitable conclusion, as he strode onwards.
"It was a bad day's work for us when they moved Dangerfield. I'm on my
way now to consult with Tomlett; will you come?"
Isaac turned with him. Bearing towards the plateau, but leaving it to
the right--a road to the village rarely taken by any but the
Thornycroft family, as indeed nobody else had a right to take it, the
waste land belonging to Mr. Thornycroft--they went on to Tomlett's,
meeting Mr. Kyne en route, with whom Isaac, sunny-mannered ever,
exchanged a few gay words.
Cyril meanwhile strolled across the lawn as far as the railings, and
watched them away. He was deep in thought; his eyes were sadder than
usual, his high, square brow was troubled.
"If this incident could but turn out a blessing!" he half murmured.
"Acted upon by the fear of discovery through Kyne's suspicions, if my
father would but make it a plea for bringing things to a close, while
quiet opportunity remains to him! But for Richard he would have done
so, as I believe, long ago."
Turning round at the sound of wheels, Cyril saw the fly drive in.
Reaching it as it drew up to the door, he recognised his stepmother.
Mary Anne came out, and they helped her to alight. Hyde, every atom of
surprise he possessed showing itself in his countenance, flung wide
the great door. She leaned on Cyril's arm, and walked slowly. Her
cheeks were hollow, her black eyes were no longer fierce, but dim; her
gown sat about her thin form in folds.
"My dears, I thought your father would have had the carriage waiting
for me at Jutpoint."
"My dears!" from the once cold and haughty Lady Ellis! It was spoken
in a meek, loving tone, too. Mary Anne glanced at Cyril.
"I am sure my father knew nothing of your intended arrival," spoke
Cyril; "otherwise some of us would certainly have been at Jutpoint."
"I wrote to tell him; he ought to have had the letter this morning. I
have been a little better lately, Cyril; not really better, I know
that, but more capable of exertion; and I thought I should like to
have a look at you all once again. I stayed two days in London for
rest, and wrote yesterday."
She passed the large drawing-rooms, and turned of her own accord into
the small comfortable apartment that was formerly the school-room, and
now the sitting-room of Mary Anne. Cyril drew an easy-chair to the
fire, and she sat down in it, letting her travelling wraps fall from
her. Sinnett, who had come in not less amazed than Hyde, picked them
up.
"You are surprised to see me, Sinnett."
"Well--yes, I am, my lady," returned Sinnett, who did not add that she
was shocked also. "I am sorry to see you looking so poorly."
"I have come for a few days to say good-bye to you all. You can take
my bonnet as well."
Sinnett went out with the things. It was found afterwards that the
letter, which ought to have announced her arrival, was delayed by some
error on the part of the local carrier. It was delivered in the
evening.
As she sat there facing the light, the ravages disease was making
showed themselves all too plainly in her wasted countenance. In
frame she was a very skeleton, her hands were painfully thin, her
black silk gown hung in folds on her shrunken bosom. Mary Anne put a
warm foot-stool under her feet, and wrapped a shawl about her
shoulders; Cyril brought a glass of wine, which she drank.
"I have to take a great deal of it now, five or six glasses a day, and
all kinds of strengthening nourishment," she said. "Thank you, Cyril.
Sometimes I lie and think of those poor people whose case is similar
to mine, and who cannot get it."
How strange the words sounded from her! Thinking for others! Miss
Thornycroft, remembering her in the past, listened in a sort of amused
incredulity, but a light as of some great gladness shone in the eyes
of Cyril.
As he left the room to search for his father, who had gone out, Robert
Hunter entered it. Seeing a stranger there, an apparent invalid, he
was quitting it again hastily when Mary Anne arrested him.
"You need not go, Robert; it is my stepmother, Lady Ellis. Mr.
Hunter."
At the first moment not a trace could he find of the handsome,
haughty-faced woman who had beguiled him with her charms in the days
gone by. Not a charm was left. She had left off using adjuncts, and
her face was almost yellow; its roundness of contour had gone; the
cheeks were hollow and wrinkled, the jaws angular. Only by the eyes,
as they flashed for a moment into his with a sort of dismayed light,
did he recognise her. Bowing coldly, he would have retreated, but she,
recovering herself instantly, held out her hand.
"No wonder you have forgotten me; I am greatly changed."
Mary Anne Thornycroft looked on with astonishment. Had they ever met
before?
"Yes," said Lady Ellis; "but he was mostly called Mr. Lake then."
A flush dyed Robert Hunter's brow. "I threw off the name years ago,
when I threw off other things," he said.
"What other things did you throw off?" quickly asked Mary Anne.
"Oh, many," was the careless answer; "frivolity and idleness, amidst
them."
Perhaps he remembered that his manner and words, in the view of that
wasted face and form, were needlessly ungracious, for his tone
changed; he sat down, and said he was sorry to see her looking ill.
"I have been ill now for a long while; I must have been ill when I
knew you," she said; "that is, the disease was within me, but I did
not suspect it. Had I taken heed of the symptoms, slight though they
were and for that cause entirely unheeded, perhaps something might
have been done for me; I don't know. As it is, I am slowly dying."
"I hope not," he said, in his humanity.
"You cannot hope it, Mr. Hunter. Look at me!"
Very true. Had she been all the world to him--had his whole happiness
depended on his keeping her in life, he could not have hoped it. With
her wan face, and eyes glistening with that peculiar glaze that tells
of coming death; with her thin frame and deep, quick breath, that
seemed to heave the body of her gown as though a furnace-bellows were
underneath, there could be no thought of escape from the portals that
were opening for her. As she sat before him leaning in the chair, the
shawl thrown back from her chest, Robert Hunter looked at her and knew
it.
There ensued a silence. He did not answer, and Mary Anne was much
wondering at this suddenly-discovered past intimacy, never spoken of
by either to her, and resenting it after the manner of women. The fire
flickered its blaze aloft; the twilight deepened; but it was not yet
so dark but that the plateau was distinct, and also the figure of the
preventive man at the edge, pacing it. Lady Ellis suddenly broke the
stillness.
"Do the people believe in the ghost still, Mary Anne?"
"I suppose so. There has been no change that I know of."
"I meant--has anything been discovered?"
Mary Anne Thornycroft lifted her eyes. "How do you mean, discovered?
What is there to discover?"
"Not anything, I dare say," she said. "But it used to strike me
as very singular--this superstitious belief in these enlightened
times--and a feeling was always on my mind that something would occur
to explain it away. Have you heard of it?" she asked, directing her
eyes to Robert Hunter.
"Somewhat. There is a difficulty, I hear, in keeping the preventive
men on the plateau after dusk. What it is they precisely fear, I do
not know."
"Neither did I ever know," she observed, dreamily. "The curious part
of it to me always was, that Mr. Thornycroft and his sons appeared to
fear it."
Before Miss Thornycroft, who sat in silence, the subject was not
pursued. Lady Ellis started a more open one, and inquired after Mrs.
Chester.
"She is living in Paris," said Robert Hunter. "At least--she has been
living there; but I am not sure that she is still. A few days ago I
had a letter from her, in which she said she was about to change her
residence to Brussels."
He did not add that the letter was one of Mrs. Chester's usual
ones--complaining grievously of hard times, and the impossibility of
"getting along." Somehow she seemed not to be able to do that
anywhere. She had two hundred a year, and was always plunging into
schemes to increase her income. They would turn out well at first,
according to her report, promising nothing less than a speedy fortune;
and then would come a downfall. In this recent letter, she had
implored of Robert Hunter to "lend" her fifty pounds to set her going
in Brussels, to which capital she was on the wing, with an excellent
opportunity of establishing a first-class school. He sent the money,
never expecting to see it again.
"Are her children with her?" questioned Lady Ellis.
"Only Fanny. The boys are at school in England. And Anna--you remember
Anna?"
"I should think I do, poor girl. The slave of the whole house."
"Anna is here on a visit."
"_Here!_"
"I mean at Coastdown. She is staying with a Captain and Mrs. Copp, who
are some slight relatives of hers."
"I have thought of Anna as teacher in a school. Mrs. Chester said she
should place her in one."
"She is a teacher. This visit is only a temporary one, prolonged on
account of Anna's health. She was with Miss Jupp."
With the last word, all the reminiscences, as connected with that
lady's name and the past, rose up in the mind of Robert Hunter--of a
certain Christmas-day, when Mary Jupp had brought some shame home to
him: perhaps also to her of the faded face sitting opposite. It
brought shame to him still; but, seeing that faded face, he was vexed
to have inadvertently mentioned it.
"Mary Anne, I think I will go to my room. The fire must have burnt up
now. No, don't come with me; I would be quiet for a little while."
As she got up from the chair, she staggered. Robert Hunter, who was
crossing the room to open the door for her, stopped and offered his
arm. He could do no less in common pity: but the time had been when he
registered a mental vow that never again should the arm of that woman
rest within his.
"Thank you: just to the foot of the stairs. I have but little strength
left, and the journey to-day has temporarily taken away that. Are you
getting on well in your profession, Mr. Hunter?"
"Oh, yes. My prospects are very fair."
Sinnett happened to be in the hall; her mistress called to her, took
her arm, and quitted that of Robert Hunter. He returned to Mary Anne,
who was rather sulky still. What with the scene in the afternoon, with
the unexpected and not over-welcome appearance of her stepmother, and
with this mysterious acquaintanceship, about which nothing had been
said to her, the young lady was not in so amiable a mood as usual.
"When did you know Lady Ellis?" she abruptly began after an interval
of silence. "And where?"
"Some years ago; she was staying, for a few months with my half-sister,
Mrs. Chester, at Guild."
"At Guild; yes, I know; I saw her there when I went over with papa.
But I was not aware that you were intimate there."
Robert Hunter had never spoken of that past time in any way to Mary
Anne. It happened that Anna Chester had not.
"I went over to Guild sometimes. I was living at Katterley, seven
miles off."
"Was that in your wife's time?"
"Yes."
"It is strange you never told me you knew my stepmother."
"It never occurred to me to tell you. Business matters have so
entirely occupied my thoughts since, that those old days seem
well-nigh blotted out of them."
"Were she and your wife great friends?"
"No. My wife did not like her."
Robert Hunter was standing at the window, looking out in the nearly
faded twilight. He could not fail to perceive by the tone of her voice
that Mary Anne was feeling displeased at something. But her better
nature was returning to her, and she went and stood by him. He held
out his arm, as he had done once or twice before when they were thus
standing together: and she slipped her hand within it. The fire had
burnt down to dulness, emitting scarcely any light: the preventive man
could no longer be seen on the plateau.
"How dark it is getting, Robert!"
"Yes; but I think it will be a fine night. There's a star or two
twinkling out."
Very, very conscious was each, as they stood there. In these silent
moments, with the semi-darkness around, love, if it exists, must make
itself felt. Love within, love around, love everywhere; the atmosphere
teeming with it, the soul sick to trembling with its own bliss. It
seemed to them that the beating of their own hearts was alone heard,
and that too audibly. Thus they stood; how long it was hard to say.
The room grew darker, the stars came out clearer. The softness of the
hour was casting its spell on them both; never had love been so
present and so powerful. In very desperation Mary Anne broke the
silence, her tone sweet and low, her voice sunk to a half-whisper.
"Robert, how is it you have never spoken to me of your wife?"
"I did not know you would like it. And besides----"
"Besides what?"
"I have not cared to speak of her since her death. A feeling has been
upon me that I never should speak of her again, except perhaps to one
person."
"And that person?"
"My second wife. Should I be fortunate enough ever to marry one."
He turned involuntarily and looked at her. And then looked away again
hastily. It might be dangerous just now. But that look, brief as it
was, had shown him her glowing, downcast countenance.
"What was her name?"
"Clara. She was little more than a child--a gentle, loving child,
unfit to encounter the blasts of the world. One, ruder than ordinary,
struck her and carried her away."
"Did you love her very much?"
He paused, hesitated, and then turned to her again. "Am I to tell you,
Mary Anne?"
"As you like," she whispered, the blushes deepening. "Of course not,
if it be painful to you."
"I did not love her; taking the word in its truest extent. I thought I
did, and it is only within a few months--yes, I may as well tell you
all--that I have learnt my mistake."
Mary Anne Thornycroft glanced at him in surprise. "Only within a few
months! How is that?"
"Because I have learnt to love another. To love--do you understand,
Mary Anne?--to _love_. With my very heart and soul; with my best and
entire being. Such love cannot come twice to any man, and it teaches
him much. It has taught me, amidst other knowledge, that I liked my
wife as one likes a dear child, but not otherwise."
Mary Anne Thornycroft's hand trembled as it lay upon his arm. In her
bewilderment of feelings, in the tumultuous sensation born of this
great love that was filling all her mind, she nearly lost command of
her words, and spoke at random.
"But why should this be told only to your second wife?"
"Because I should wish to show her that my true love is hers; hers
only in spite of my early marriage. The rest of the world it concerns
not, and will never be spoken of to them."
"You assume confidently that you will feel this love for your second
wife?"
"I shall if I marry her. _That_ is by no means sure. Unless I marry
_her_, the one to whom my love is given, I shall never marry at all."
Ah, where was the use of keeping up this farce? It was like children
playing at bo-peep with the handkerchief over the face. The other is
there, but we pretend to know it not. With their hearts wildly beating
in unison--with her hand shaking visibly in its emotion--with the
consciousness that concealment was no longer concealment but full and
perfect knowledge, stood they. Mary Anne rejoined, her words more and
more at random, her wits utterly gone a-woolgathering.
"And why should you not marry her?"
"I am not in a position to ask for her of her father."
It was all over in a moment. Save that he turned suddenly to look at
her, and laid his hand on hers as if to still its trembling, Mary Anne
Thornycroft doubted ever after if she had not made the first movement.
Only a moment, and her head was lying on his breast, his clasped arms
were holding her there, their pulses were tingling with rapture, their
lips clinging together in a long and ardent kiss.
"Dare I speak to you, Mary Anne?" he asked, hoarsely.
"You know you may."
"Oh, my love--my love! It is you I would, if possible, make my wife.
None other. But I may not ask for you of Mr. Thornycroft. He would not
deem my position justified it."
"I will wait for you, Robert."
Only by bending his head could he catch the low words. His cheek lay
on hers; he strained her closer, if that were possible, to his beating
heart.
"It may be for years!"
"Let it be years and years. I ask no better than to wait for you."
The stars shone out brighter in the sky; the fire in the room went
quite down; and nothing more could be heard from those living in their
new and pure dream, but snatches of the sweet refrain--
"My love, my love!"