Behind his white plaster of composure, Lord Fleetwood had alternately
raged and wondered during the passage of the Welsh cavalcade up
Eastward: a gigantic burlesque, that would have swept any husband of
their heroine off the scene had he failed to encounter it deferentially,
preserving his countenance and ostensibly his temper. An idiot of a
woman, incurable in her lunacy, suspects the father of the infant as
guilty of designs done to death in romances; and so she manages to
set going solemnly a bigger blazing Tom Fool’s show than any known or
written romance gives word of! And that fellow, Gower Woodseer, pleads,
in apology, for her husband’s confusion, physiologically, that it comes
of her having been carried off and kept a prisoner when she was bearing
the child and knitting her whole mind to ensure the child. But what
sheer animals these women are, if they take impressions in such a
manner! And Mr. Philosopher argues that the abusing of women proves the
hating of Nature; names it ‘the commonest insanity, and the deadliest,’
and men are ‘planted in the bog of their unclean animal condition until
they do proper homage to the animal Nature makes the woman be.’ Oh,
pish, sir!--as Meeson Corby had the habit of exclaiming when Abrane’s
‘fiddler’ argues him into a corner. The fellow can fiddle fine things
and occasionally clear sense:--‘Men hating Nature are insane. Women and
Nature are close. If it is rather general to hate Nature and maltreat
women, we begin to see why the world is a mad world.’ That is the tune
of the fiddler’s fiddling. As for him, something protects him. He was
the slave of Countess Livia; like Abrane, Mallard, Corby, St. Ombre,
young Cressett, and the dozens. He is now her master. Can a man like
that be foolish, in saying of the Countess Carinthia, she is ‘not
only quick to understand, she is in the quick of understanding’? Gower
Woodseer said it of her in Wales, and again on the day of his walk up
to London from Esslemont, after pedestrian exercise, which may heat the
frame, but cools the mind. She stamped that idea on a thoughtful fellow.
He’s a Welshman. They are all excitable,--have heads on hound’s legs for
a flying figure in front. Still, they must have an object, definitely
seen by them--definite to them if dim to their neighbours; and it will
run in the poetic direction: and the woman to win them, win all classes
of them, within so short a term, is a toss above extraordinary. She is
named Carinthia--suitable name for the Welsh pantomimic procession. Or
cry out the word in an amphitheatre of Alpine crags,--it sounds at home.
She is a daughter of the mountains,--should never have left them. She is
also a daughter of the Old Buccaneer--no poor specimen of the fighting
Englishman of his day. According to Rose Mackrell, he, this Old
Buccaneer, it was, who, by strange adventures, brought the great Welsh
mines into the family! He would not be ashamed in spying through his
nautical glass, up or down, at his daughter’s doings. She has not yet
developed a taste for the mother’s tricks:--the mother, said to have
been a kindler. That Countess of Cressett was a romantic little fly-away
bird. Both parents were brave: the daughter would inherit gallantry. She
inherits a kind of thwarted beauty. Or it needs the situation seen
in Wales: her arms up and her unaffrighted eyes over the unappeasable
growl. She had then the beauty coming from the fathom depths, with the
torch of Life in the jaws of Death to light her: beauty of the nether
kingdom mounting to an upper place in the higher. Her beauty recognized,
the name of the man who married her is not Longears--not to himself, is
the main point; nor will it be to the world when he shows that it is not
so to himself.
Suppose he went to her, would she be trying at domination? The woman’s
pitch above woman’s beauty was perceived to be no intermittent beam, but
so living as to take the stamp of permanence. More than to say it
was hers, it was she. What a deadly peril brought into view was her
character-soul, some call it: generally a thing rather distasteful in
women, or chilling to the masculine temperament. Here it attracts. Here,
strange to say, it is the decided attraction, in a woman of a
splendid figure and a known softness. By rights, she should have more
understanding than to suspect the husband as guilty of designs done to
death in romances. However, she is not a craven who compliments him by
rearing him, and he might prove that there is no need for fear. But she
would be expecting explanations before the reconcilement. The bosom
of these women will keep on at its quick heaving until they have heard
certain formal words, oaths to boot. How speak them?
His old road of the ladder appeared to Fleetwood an excellent one for
obviating explanations and effecting the reconcilement without any
temporary seeming forfeit of the native male superiority. For there she
is at Esslemont now; any night the window could be scaled. ‘It is my
husband.’ The soul was in her voice when she said it.
He remembered that it had not ennobled her to him then; had not
endeared; was taken for a foreign example of the childish artless,
imperfectly suited to our English clime.’ The tone of adorable
utterances, however much desired, is never for repetition; nor is
the cast of divine sweet looks; nor are the particular deeds-once
pardonable, fitly pleaded. A second scaling of her window--no, night’s
black hills girdle the scene with hoarse echoes; the moon rushes out of
her clouds grimacing. Even Fleetwood’s devil, much addicted to cape and
sword and ladder, the vulpine and the gryphine, rejected it.
For she had, by singular transformation since, and in spite of a
deluging grotesque that was antecedently incredible, she had become
a personage, counting her adherents; she could put half the world in
motion on her side. Yell those Welshmen to scorn, they were on a plane
finding native ground with as large a body of these English. His baser
mind bowed to the fact. Her aspect was entirely different; her attitude
toward him as well: insomuch that he had to chain her to her original
features by the conjuring of recollected phrases memorable for the vivid
portraiture of her foregone simplicity and her devotion to ‘my husband.’
Yes, there she was at Essleinont, securely there, near him, to be seen
any day; worth claiming, too; a combatant figure, provocative of the
fight and the capture rather than repellent. The respect enforced by
her attitude awakened in him his inherited keen old relish for our
intersexual strife and the indubitable victory of the stronger, with
the prospect of slavish charms, fawning submission, marrowy spoil. Or
perhaps, preferably, a sullen submission, reluctant charms; far more
marrowy. Or who can say?--the creature is a rocket of the shot into
the fiery garland of stars; she may personate any new marvel, be an
unimagined terror, an overwhelming bewitchment: for she carries the
unexpected in her bosom. And does it look like such indubitable victory,
when the man, the woman’s husband, divided from her, toothsome to the
sex, acknowledges within himself and lets the world know his utter
dislike of other women’s charms, to the degree that herbal anchorites
positively could not be colder, could not be chaster: and he no forest
bird, but having the garden of the variety of fairest flowers at nod
and blush about him! That was the truth. Even Henrietta’s beauty had the
effect of a princess’s birthday doll admired on show by a contemptuous
boy.
Wherefore, then, did the devil in him seek to pervert this loveliest
of young women and feed on her humiliation for one flashing minute?
The taste had gone, the desire of the vengeance was extinct, personal
gratification could not exist. He spied into himself, and set it down to
one among the many mysteries.
Men uninstructed in analysis of motives arrive at this dangerous
conclusion, which spares their pride and caresses their indolence, while
it flatters the sense of internal vastness, and invites to headlong
intoxication. It allows them to think they are of such a compound, and
must necessarily act in that manner. They are not taught at the schools
or by the books of the honoured places in the libraries, to examine and
see the simplicity of these mysteries, which it would be here and there
a saving grace for them to see; as the minstrel, dutifully inclining
to the prosy in their behalf and morality’s, should exhibit; he should
arrest all the characters of his drama to spring it to vision and strike
perchance the chord primarily if not continually moving them, that
readers might learn the why and how of a germ of evil, its flourishing
under rebuke, the persistency of it after the fell creative energy has
expired and pleasure sunk to be a phlegmatic dislike, almost a loathing.
This would here be done, but for signs of a barometric dead fall in Dame
Gossip’s chaps, already heavily pendent. She would be off with us on one
of her whirling cyclones or elemental mad waltzes, if a step were taken
to the lecturing-desk. We are so far in her hands that we have to keep
her quiet. She will not hear of the reasons and the change of reasons
for one thing and the other. Things were so: narrate them, and let
readers do their reflections for themselves, she says, denouncing our
conscientious method as the direct road downward to the dreadful modern
appeal to the senses and assault on them for testimony to the veracity
of everything described; to the extent that, at the mention of a vile
smell, it shall be blown into the reader’s nostrils, and corking-pins
attack the comfortable seat of him simultaneously with a development of
surprises. ‘Thither your conscientiousness leads.’
It is not perfectly visible. And she would gain information of the
singular nature of the young of the male sex in listening to the wrangle
between Lord Fleetwood and Gower Woodseer on the subject of pocket-money
for the needs of the Countess Carinthia. For it was a long and an angry
one, and it brought out both of them, exposing, of course, the more
complex creature the most. They were near a rupture, so scathing was
Gower’s tone of irate professor to shirky scholar--or it might be put,
German professor to English scuffleshoe.
She is for the scene of ‘Chillon John’s’ attempt to restore the
respiration of his bank-book by wager; to wit, that he would walk a
mile, run a mile, ride a mile, and jump ten hurdles, then score five
rifle-shots at a three hundred yards’ distant target within a count of
minutes; twenty-five, she says; and vows it to have been one of the most
exciting of scenes ever witnessed on green turf in the land of wagers;
and that he was accomplishing it quite certainly when, at the first of
the hurdles, a treacherous unfolding and waving of a white flag caused
his horse to swerve and the loss of one minute, seven and twenty
seconds, before he cleared the hurdles; after which, he had to fire
his shots hurriedly, and the last counted blank, for being outside the
circle of the stated time.
So he was beaten. But a terrific uproar over the field proclaimed the
popular dissatisfaction. Presently there was a cleavage of the mob,
and behold a chase at the heels of the fellow to rival the very captain
himself for fleetness. He escaped, leaving his pole with the sheet
nailed to it, by way of flag, in proof of foul play; or a proof, as
the other side declared, of an innocently premature signalizing of the
captain’s victory.
However that might be, he ran. Seeing him spin his legs at a hound’s
pace, half a mile away, four countrymen attempted to stop him. All four
were laid on their backs in turn with stupefying celerity; and on rising
to their feet, and for the remainder of their natural lives, they swore
that no man but a Champion could have floored them so. This again may
have been due to the sturdy island pride of four good men knocked over
by one. We are unable to decide. Wickedness there was, the Dame says;
and she counsels the world to ‘put and put together,’ for, at any
rate, ‘a partial elucidation of a most mysterious incident.’ As to the
wager-money, the umpires dissented; a famous quarrel, that does not
concern us here, sprang out of the dispute; which was eventually, after
great disturbance ‘of the country, referred to three leading sportsmen
in the metropolitan sphere, who pronounced the wager ‘off,’ being two to
one. Hence arose the dissatisfied third party, and the letters of this
minority to the newspapers, exciting, if not actually dividing, all
England for several months.
Now the month of December was the month of the Dame’s mysterious
incident. From the date of January, as Madge Winch knew, Christopher
Ines had ceased to be in the service of the Earl of Fleetwood. At
Esslemont Park gates, one winter afternoon of a North-east wind blowing
‘rum-shrub into men for a stand against rheumatics,’ as he remarked,
Ines met the girl by appointment, and informing her that he had money,
and that Lord Fleetwood was ‘a black nobleman,’ he proposed immediate
marriage. The hymeneal invitation, wafted to her on the breath of
rum-shrub, obtained no response from Madge until she had received
evasive answers as to why the earl dismissed him, and whence the stock
of money came.
Lord Fleetwood, he repeated, was a black nobleman. She brought him to
say of his knowledge, that Lord Fleetwood hated, and had reason to hate,
Captain Levellier. ‘Shouldn’t I hate the man took my sweetheart from
me and popped me into the noose with his sister instead?’ Madge was now
advised to be overcome by the smell of rum-shrub:--a mere fancy drink
tossed off by heroes in their idle moments, before they settle down
to the serious business of real drinking, Kit protested. He simulated
envious admiration of known heroes, who meant business, and scorned any
of the weak stuff under brandy, and went at it till the bottles were the
first to give in. For why? They had to stomach an injury from the world
or their young woman, and half-way on they shoved that young person and
all enemies aside, trampled ‘em. That was what Old O’Devy signified; and
many’s the man driven to his consolation by a cat of a girl, who’s like
the elements in their puffs and spits at a gallant ship, that rides the
tighter and the tighter for all they can do to capsize. ‘Tighter than
ever I was tight I’ll be to-night, if you can’t behave.’
They fell upon the smack of words. Kit hitched and huffed away,
threatening bottles. Whatever he had done, it was to establish the
petticoated hornet in the dignity of matron of a champion light-weight’s
wholesome retreat of a public-house. A spell of his larkish hilarity was
for the punishment of the girl devoted to his heroical performances, as
he still considered her to be, though women are notoriously volatile,
and her language was mounting a stage above the kitchen.
Madge had little sorrow for him. She was the girl of the fiery heart,
not the large heart; she could never be devoted to more than one at
a time, and her mistress had all her heart. In relation to Kit, the
thought of her having sacrificed her good name to him, flung her on her
pride of chastity, without the reckoning of it as a merit. It was the
inward assurance of her independence: the young spinster’s planting of
the standard of her proud secret knowledge of what she is, let it be a
thing of worth or what you will, or the world think as it may. That was
her thought.
Her feeling, the much livelier animation, was bitter grief, because her
mistress, unlike herself, had been betrayed by her ignorance of the man
into calling him husband. Just some knowledge of the man! The warning to
the rescue might be there. For nothing did the dear lady weep except for
her brother’s evil fortune. The day when she had intelligence from Mrs.
Levellier of her brother’s defeat, she wept over the letter on her knees
long hours. ‘Me, my child, my brother!’ she cried more than once. She
had her suspicion of the earl then, and instantly, as her loving servant
had. The suspicion was now no dark light, but a clear day-beam to Madge.
She adopted Kit’s word of Lord Fleetwood. ‘A black nobleman he is! he
is!’ Her mistress had written like a creature begging him for money. He
did not deign a reply. To her! When he had seen good proof she was
the bravest woman on earth; and she rushed at death to save a child, a
common child; as people say. And who knows but she saved that husband of
hers, too, from bites might have sent him out of the world barking, and
all his wealth not able to stop him!
They were in the month of March. Her dear mistress had been begging my
lord through Mr. Woodseer constantly of late for an allowance of money;
on her knees to him, as it seemed; and Mr. Woodseer was expected at
Esslemont. Her mistress was looking for him eagerly. Something her heart
was in depended on it, and only her brother could be the object, for
now she loved only him of these men; though a gentleman coming over from
Barlings pretty often would pour mines of money into her lap for half a
word.
Carinthia had walked up to Croridge in the morning to meet her brother
at Lekkatts. Madge was left guardian of the child. She liked a stroll
any day round Esslemont Park, where her mistress was beginning to strike
roots; as she soon did wherever she was planted, despite a tone of pity
for artificial waters and gardeners’ arts. Madge respected them. She
knew nothing of the grandeur of wildness. Her native English veneration
for the smoothing hand of wealth led her to think Esslemont the home of
all homes for a lady with her husband beside her. And without him, too,
if he were wafted over seas and away: if there would but come a wind to
do that!
The wild North-easter tore the budded beeches. Master John Edward
Russett lay in the cradling-basket drawn by his docile donkey, Martha
and Madge to right and left of him; a speechless rustic, graduating in
footman’s livery, to rear.
At slow march round by the wrinkled water, Madge saw the park gates
flung wide. A coach drove up the road along on the farther rim of the
circle, direct for the house. It stopped, the team turned leisurely
and came at a smart pace toward the carriage-basket. Lord Fleetwood was
recognized.
He alighted, bidding one of his grooms drive to stables. Madge performed
her reverence, aware that she did it in clumsy style; his presence had
startled her instincts and set them travelling.
‘Coldish for the youngster,’ he said. ‘All well, Madge?’
‘Baby sleeps in the air, my lord,’ she replied. ‘My lady has gone to
Croridge.’
‘Sharp air for a child, isn’t it?’
‘My lady teaches him to breathe with his mouth shut, like her father
taught her when she was little. Our baby never catches colds.’
Madge displayed the child’s face.
The father dropped a glance on it from the height of skies.
‘Croridge, you said?’
‘Her uncle, Lord Levellier’s.’
‘You say, never catches cold?’
‘Not our baby, my lord.’
Probably good management on the part of the mother. But the wife’s
absence disappointed the husband strung to meet her, and an obtrusion
of her practical motherhood blurred the prospect demanded by his present
step.
‘When do you expect her to return, Madge?’
‘Before nightfall, my lord.’
‘She walks?’
‘Oh yes, my lady is fond of walking.’
‘I suppose she could defend herself?’
‘My lady walks with a good stick.’
Fleetwood weighed the chances; beheld her figure attacked, Amazonian.
‘And tell me, my dear--Kit?’
I don’t see more of Kit Ines.’
‘What has the fellow done?’
‘I’d like him to let me know why he was dismissed.’
‘Ah. He kept silent on that point.’
‘He let out enough.’
‘You’ve punished him, if he’s to lose a bonny sweetheart, poor devil!
Your sister Sally sends you messages?’
‘We’re both of us grateful, my lord.’
He lifted the thin veil from John Edward Russett’s face with a loveless
hand.
‘You remember the child bitten by a dog down in Wales. I have word from
my manager there. Poor little wretch has died--died raving.’
Madge’s bosom went shivering up and sank. ‘My lady was right. She’s not
often wrong.’
‘She’s looking well?’ said the earl, impatient with her moral
merits:--and this communication from Wales had been the decisive motive
agent in hurrying him at last to Esslemont. The next moment he heard
coolly of the lady’s looking well. He wanted fervid eulogy of his wife’s
looks, if he was to hear any.