HOUSEHOLD TREASON.
The Provencal took the letter from his son's hand, and looked at him with
an approbation half-complacent, half-ironical. "Mon fils!" said he,
patting the boy's head gently, "why should we not be friends? We want
each other; we have the strong world to fight against."
"Not if you are master of this place."
"Well answered,--no; then we shall have the strong world on our side, and
shall have only rogues and the poor to make war upon." Then, with a
quiet gesture, he dismissed his son, and gazed slowly on the letter. His
pulse, which was usually low, quickened, and his lips were tightly
compressed; he shrank from the contents with a jealous pang; as a light
quivers strugglingly in a noxious vault, love descended into that hideous
breast, gleamed upon dreary horrors, and warred with the noxious
atmosphere: but it shone still. To this dangerous man, every art that
gives power to the household traitor was familiar: he had no fear that
the violated seals should betray the fraud which gave the contents to the
eye that, at length, steadily fell upon the following lines:--
DEAREST, AND EVER DEAREST,--Where art thou at this moment? What are thy
thoughts,--are they upon me? I write this at the dead of night. I
picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see
you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark
eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave
there? Well, well! it will not be for long now that we shall be divided.
Oh, what joy, when I think that I am about to see you! Two days more, at
most three, and we shall meet, shall we not? I am going to see my
sister. I subjoin my address. Come, come, come; I thirst to see you
once more. And I did well to say, "Wait, and be patient;" we shall not
wait long: before the year is out I shall be free. My uncle has had
another and more deadly attack. I see its trace in his face, in his
step, in his whole form and bearing. The only obstacle between us is
fading away. Can I grieve when I think it,--grieve when life with you
spreads smiling beyond the old man's grave? And why should age, that has
survived all passion, stand with its chilling frown, and the miserable
prejudices the world has not conquered, but strengthened into a creed,--
why should age stand between youth and youth? I feel your mild eyes
rebuke me as I write. But chide me not that on earth I see only you.
And it will be mine to give you wealth and rank! Mine to see the homage
of my own heart reflected from the crowd who bow, not to the statue, but
the pedestal. Oh, how I shall enjoy your revenge upon the proud! For I
have drawn no pastoral scenes in my picture of the future. No; I see you
leading senates, and duping fools. I shall be by your side, your
partner, step after step, as you mount the height, for I am ambitious,
you know, William; and not less because I love,--rather ten thousand
times more so. I would not have you born great and noble, for what then
could we look to,--what use all my schemes, and my plans, and aspirings?
Fortune, accident, would have taken from us the great zest of life, which
is desire.
When I see you, I shall tell you that I have some fears of Olivier
Dalibard; he has evidently some wily project in view. He, who never
interfered before with the blundering physician, now thrusts him aside,
affects to have saved the old man, attends him always. Dares he think to
win an influence, to turn against me,--against us? Happily, when I shall
come back, my uncle will probably be restored to the false strength which
deceives him; he will have less need of Dalibard; and then--then let the
Frenchman beware! I have already a plot to turn his schemes to his own
banishment. Come to Southampton, then, as soon as you can,--perhaps the
day you receive this; on Wednesday, at farthest. Your last letter implies
blame of my policy with respect to Vernon. Again I say, it is necessary
to amuse my uncle to the last. Before Vernon can advance a claim, there
will be weeping at Laughton. I shall weep, too, perhaps; but there will
be joy in those tears, as well as sorrow,--for then, when I clasp thy
hand, I can murmur, "It is mine at last, and forever!"
Adieu! No, not adieu,--to our meeting, my lover, my beloved! Thy
LUCRETIA.
An hour after Miss Clavering had departed on her visit, Dalibard returned
the letter to his son, the seal seemingly unbroken, and bade him replace
it in the hollow of the tree, but sufficiently in sight to betray itself
to the first that entered. He then communicated the plan he had formed
for its detection,--a plan which would prevent Lucretia ever suspecting
the agency of his son or himself; and this done, he joined Sir Miles in
the gallery. Hitherto, in addition to his other apprehensions in
revealing to the baronet Lucretia's clandestine intimacy with Mainwaring,
Dalibard had shrunk from the thought that the disclosure would lose her
the heritage which had first tempted his avarice or ambition; but now his
jealous and his vindictive passions were aroused, and his whole plan of
strategy was changed. He must crush Lucretia, or she would crush him, as
her threats declared. To ruin her in Sir Miles's eyes, to expel her from
his house, might not, after all, weaken his own position, even with
regard to power over herself. If he remained firmly established at
Laughton, he could affect intercession,--he could delay, at least, any
precipitate union with Mainwaring, by practising on the ambition which he
still saw at work beneath her love; he might become a necessary ally; and
then--why, then, his ironical smile glanced across his lips. But beyond
this, his quick eye saw fair prospects to self-interest: Lucretia
banished; the heritage not hers; the will to be altered; Dalibard
esteemed indispensable to the life of the baronet. Come, there was hope
here,--not for the heritage, indeed, but at least for a munificent
bequest.
At noon, some visitors, bringing strangers from London whom Sir Miles had
invited to see the house (which was one of the lions of the
neighbourhood, though not professedly a show-place), were expected.
Aware of this, Dalibard prayed the baronet to rest quiet till his company
arrived, and then he said carelessly,--
"It will be a healthful diversion to your spirits to accompany them a
little in the park; you can go in your garden-chair; you will have new
companions to talk with by the way; and it is always warm and sunny at
the slope of the hill, towards the bottom of the park."
Sir Miles assented cheerfully; the guests came, strolled over the house,
admired the pictures and the armour and the hall and the staircase, paid
due respect to the substantial old-fashioned luncheon, and then,
refreshed, and in great good-humour, acquiesced in Sir Miles's
proposition to saunter through the park.
The poor baronet was more lively than usual. The younger people
clustered gayly round his chair (which was wheeled by his valet), smiling
at his jests and charmed with his courteous high-breeding. A little in
the rear walked Gabriel, paying special attention to the prettiest and
merriest girl of the company, who was a great favourite with Sir Miles,--
perhaps for those reasons.
"What a delightful old gentleman!" said the young lady. "How I envy Miss
Clavering such an uncle!"
"Ah, but you are a little out of favour to-day, I can tell you," said
Gabriel, laughingly; "you were close by Sir Miles when we went through
the picture-gallery, and you never asked him the history of the old
knight in the buff doublet and blue sash."
"Dear me, what of that?"
"Why, that was brave Colonel Guy St. John, the Cavalier, the pride and
boast of Sir Miles; you know his weakness. He looked so displeased when
you said, 'What a droll-looking figure!' I was on thorns for you!"
"What a pity! I would not offend dear Sir Miles for the world."
"Well, it's easy to make it up with him. Go and tell him that he must
take you to see Guy's Oak, in the dell; that you have heard so much about
it; and when you get him on his hobby, it is hard if you can't make your
peace."
"Oh, I'll certainly do it, Master Varney;" and the young lady lost no
time in obeying the hint. Gabriel had set other tongues on the same cry,
so that there was a general exclamation when the girl named the subject,-
-"Oh, Guy's Oak, by all means!"
Much pleased with the enthusiasm this memorial of his pet ancestor
produced, Sir Miles led the way to the dell, and pausing as he reached
the verge, said,--
"I fear I cannot do you the honours; it is too steep for my chair to
descend safely."
Gabriel whispered the fair companion whose side he still kept to.
"Now, my dear Sir Miles," cried the girl, "I positively won't stir
without you; I am sure we could get down the chair without a jolt. Look
there, how nicely the ground slopes! Jane, Lucy, my dears, let us take
charge of Sir Miles. Now, then."
The gallant old gentleman would have marched to the breach in such
guidance; he kissed the fair hands that lay so temptingly on his chair,
and then, rising with some difficulty, said,--
"No, my dears, you have made me so young again that I think I can walk
down the steep with the best of you."
So, leaning partly on his valet, and by the help of the hands extended to
him, step after step, Sir Miles, with well-disguised effort, reached the
huge roots of the oak.
"The hollow then was much smaller," said he, "so he was not so easily
detected as a man would be now, the damned crop-ears--I beg pardon, my
dears; the rascally rebels--poked their swords through the fissure, and
two went, one through his jerkin, one through his arm; but he took care
not to swear at the liberty, and they went away, not suspecting him."
While thus speaking, the young people were already playfully struggling
which should first enter the oak. Two got precedence, and went in and
out, one after the other. Gabriel breathed hard. "The blind owlets!"
thought he; "and I put the letter where a mole would have seen it!"
"You know the spell when you enter an oak-tree where the fairies have
been," he whispered to the fair object of his notice. "You must turn
round three times, look carefully on the ground, and you will see the
face you love best. If I was but a little older, how I should pray--"
"Nonsense!" said the girl, blushing, as she now slid through the crowd,
and went timidly in; presently she uttered a little exclamation.
The gallant Sir Miles stooped down to see what was the matter, and
offering his hand as she came out, was startled to see her holding a
letter.
"Only think what I have found!" said the girl. "What a strange place for
a post-office! Bless me! It is directed to Mr. Mainwaring!"
"Mr. Mainwaring!" cried three or four voices; but the baronet's was mute.
His eye recognized Lucretia's hand; his tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth; the blood surged, like a sea, in his temples; his face became
purple. Suddenly Gabriel, peeping over the girl's shoulder, snatched
away the letter.
"It is my letter,--it is mine! What a shame in Mainwaring not to have
come for it as he promised!"
Sir Miles looked round and breathed more freely.
"Yours, Master Varney!" said the young lady, astonished. "What can make
your letters to Mr. Mainwaring such a secret?"
"Oh! you'll laugh at me; but--but--I wrote a poem on Guy's Oak, and Mr.
Mainwaring promised to get it into the county paper for me; and as he was
to pass close by the park pales, through the wood yonder, on his way to
D---- last Saturday, we agreed that I should leave it here; but he has
forgotten his promise, I see."
Sir Miles grasped the boy's arm with a convulsive pressure of gratitude.
There was a general cry for Gabriel to read his poem on the spot; but the
boy looked sheepish, and hung down his head, and seemed rather more
disposed to cry than to recite. Sir Miles, with an effort at simulation
that all his long practice of the world never could have nerved him to,
unexcited by a motive less strong than the honour of his blood and house,
came to the relief of the young wit that had just come to his own.
"Nay," he said, almost calmly, "I know our young poet is too shy to
oblige you. I will take charge of your verses, Master Gabriel;" and with
a grave air of command, he took the letter from the boy and placed it in
his pocket.
The return to the house was less gay than the visit to the oak. The
baronet himself made a feverish effort to appear blithe and debonair as
before; but it was not successful. Fortunately, the carriages were all
at the door as they reached the house, and luncheon being over, nothing
delayed the parting compliments of the guests. As the last carriage
drove away, Sir Miles beckoned to Gabriel, and bade him follow him into
his room.
When there, he dismissed his valet and said,--
"You know, then, who wrote this letter. Have you been in the secret of
the correspondence? Speak the truth, my dear boy; it shall cost you
nothing."
"Oh, Sir Miles!" cried Gabriel, earnestly, "I know nothing whatever
beyond this,--that I saw the hand of my dear, kind Miss Lucretia; that I
felt, I hardly knew why, that both you and she would not have those
people discover it, which they would if the letter had been circulated
from one to the other, for some one would have known the hand as well as
myself, and therefore I spoke, without thinking, the first thing that
came into my head."
"You--you have obliged me and my niece, sir," said the baronet,
tremulously; and then, with a forced and sickly smile, he added: "Some
foolish vagary of Lucretia, I suppose; I must scold her for it. Say
nothing about it, however, to any one."
"Oh, no, sir!"
"Good-by, my dear Gabriel!"
"And that boy saved the honour of my niece's name,--my mother's
grandchild! O God! this is bitter,--in my old age too!"
He bowed his head over his hands, and tears forced themselves through his
fingers. He was long before he had courage to read the letter, though he
little foreboded all the shock that it would give him. It was the first
letter, not destined to himself, of which he had ever broken the seal.
Even that recollection made the honourable old man pause; but his duty
was plain and evident, as head of the house and guardian to his niece.
Thrice he wiped his spectacles; still they were dim, still the tears
would come. He rose tremblingly, walked to the window, and saw the
stately deer grouped in the distance, saw the church spire that rose
above the burial vault of his ancestors, and his heart sank deeper and
deeper as he muttered: "Vain pride! pride!" Then he crept to the door
and locked it, and at last, seating himself firmly, as a wounded man to
some terrible operation, he read the letter.
Heaven support thee, old man! thou hast to pass through the bitterest
trial which honour and affection can undergo,--household treason. When
the wife lifts high the blushless front and brazens out her guilt; when
the child, with loud voice, throws off all control and makes boast of
disobedience,--man revolts at the audacity; his spirit arms against his
wrong: its face, at least, is bare; the blow, if sacrilegious, is direct.
But when mild words and soft kisses conceal the worst foe Fate can arm;
when amidst the confidence of the heart starts up the form of Perfidy;
when out from the reptile swells the fiend in its terror; when the breast
on which man leaned for comfort has taken counsel to deceive him; when he
learns that, day after day, the life entwined with his own has been a lie
and a stage-mime,--he feels not the softness of grief, nor the absorption
of rage; it is mightier than grief, and more withering than rage,--it is
a horror that appalls. The heart does not bleed, the tears do not flow,
as in woes to which humanity is commonly subjected; it is as if something
that violates the course of nature had taken place,--something monstrous
and out of all thought and forewarning; for the domestic traitor is a
being apart from the orbit of criminals: the felon has no fear of his
innocent children; with a price on his head, he lays it in safety on the
bosom of his wife. In his home, the ablest man, the most subtle and
suspecting, can be as much a dupe as the simplest. Were it not so as the
rule, and the exceptions most rare, this world were the riot of a hell!
And therefore it is that to the household perfidy, in all lands, in all
ages, God's curse seems to cleave, and to God's curse man abandons it; he
does not honour it by hate, still less will he lighten and share the
guilt by descending to revenge. He turns aside with a sickness and
loathing, and leaves Nature to purify from the earth the ghastly
phenomenon she abhors.
Old man, that she wilfully deceived thee, that she abused thy belief and
denied to thy question and profaned maidenhood to stealth,--all this
might have galled thee; but to these wrongs old men are subjected,--they
give mirth to our farces; maid and lover are privileged impostors. But
to have counted the sands in thine hour-glass, to have sat by thy side,
marvelling when the worms should have thee, and looked smiling on thy
face for the signs of the death-writ--Die quick, old man; the executioner
hungers for the fee!
There were no tears in those eyes when they came to the close; the letter
fell noiselessly to the floor, and the head sank on the breast, and the
hands drooped upon the poor crippled limbs, whose crawl in the sunshine
hard youth had grudged. He felt humbled, stunned, crushed; the pride was
clean gone from him; the cruel words struck home. Worse than a cipher,
did he then but cumber the earth? At that moment old Ponto, the setter,
shook himself, looked up, and laid his head in his master's lap; and
Dash, jealous, rose also, and sprang, not actively, for Dash was old,
too, upon his knees, and licked the numbed, drooping hands. Now, people
praise the fidelity of dogs till the theme is worn out; but nobody knows
what a dog is, unless he has been deceived by men,--then, that honest
face; then, that sincere caress; then, that coaxing whine that never
lied! Well, then,--what then? A dog is long-lived if he live to ten
years,--small career this to truth and friendship! Now, when Sir Miles
felt that he was not deserted, and his look met those four fond eyes,
fixed with that strange wistfulness which in our hours of trouble the
eyes of a dog sympathizingly assume, an odd thought for a sensible man
passed into him, showing, more than pages of sombre elegy, how deep was
the sudden misanthropy that blackened the world around. "When I am
dead," ran that thought, "is there one human being whom I can trust to
take charge of the old man's dogs?"
So, let the scene close!