THE FIRST SHELL.
So Wyverne went on his way--not rejoicing; and Helen would have been
left "sighing her lane," if she had been at all given to that romantic
pastime. But they were not a sentimental pair; and did not even think it
necessary to bind themselves under an oath to correspond by every
possible post--a compact which is far more agreeably feasible in theory
than in practice. However, a long letter from Alan made his cousin very
happy on the third day after his departure. It was a perfect epistle in
its way--at least, it thoroughly satisfied the fair recipient; to be
sure, it was her first experience in that line. Two lines evidently
written after the rest--said that his return must be deferred
four-and-twenty hours. Helen did not hear again from her cousin; but on
the morning of the day on which he was expected, the post brought two
strange letters to Dene which changed the aspect of things materially.
One was addressed to Lady Mildred, the other to her daughter. Both were
written in the same delicate feminine hand, and the contents of both
were essentially the same, though they varied slightly in phrase. "My
lady's" communication may serve as a sample:
"When Alan Wyverne returns, it might be well to ask him three simple
questions:--What was the business that detained him in town? Who was his
companion for two hours yesterday in the Botanical Gardens (which they
had entirely to themselves)? Where he spent the whole of this afternoon?
I would give the answers myself, but I know him well, and I am sure he
will not refuse to satisfy your natural curiosity. As my name will never
be known, I need not disguise my motive in writing thus. I care not
serving you, or saving your daughter; I simply wish to serve my own
revenge. I loved him dearly, once, or I should not hate him so heartily
now. If Alan Wyverne chooses to betray so soon the girl to whom he has
plighted faith, I do not see why _one_ of his old loves should engross
_all_ the treachery."
Helen's letter was to the same purport, but at greater length, and more
considerately and gently expressed, as though some compassion was
mingled in the writer's bitterness.
I should very much like to know the _fiancee_ who would receive such a
communication as this with perfect equanimity--supposing, of course,
that her heart went with the promise of her hand. Miss Vavasour believed
in her cousin to a great extent, and her nature was too frank and
generous to foster suspicion; but she was not such a paragon of
trustfulness. She was thoroughly miserable during the whole of the day.
There was very little comfort to be got out of her mother (it was
decided that the subject should not be mentioned, at present, to the
Squire); "my lady" said very little, but evidently thought that matters
looked dark. When she said--"Don't let us make ourselves unhappy till
you have spoken to Alan; I am certain he can explain everything"--it was
irritatingly apparent that she really took quite an opposite view of the
probabilities, and was only trying to pacify Helen's first excitement,
as a nurse might humour the fancies of a fever-patient. Nevertheless,
the _demoiselle_ bore up bravely; not one of the party at Dene guessed
that anything had occurred to ruffle her; and there were sharp eyes of
all colours amongst them.
Mrs. Fernley was there--the most seductive of "grass-widows"--whose
husband had held for years some great post high up in the Himalayas,
only giving sign of his existence by the regular transmission of large
monies, wherewith to sustain the splendour of his consort's
establishment. There, too, was Agatha Drummond--whose name it is treason
to introduce thus episodically, for she deserves a story to herself, and
has nothing whatever to do with the present one--a beauty of the grand
old Frankish type, with rich fair hair, haughty aquiline features,
clear, bold blue eyes, and long elastic limbs--such as one's fancy
assigns to those who shared the bed of Merovingian kings. She passed the
most of her waking hours in riding, waltzing, or flirting; seldom or
ever read anything, and talked, notwithstanding, passingly well; but for
daring, energy, and power of supporting fatigue in her three favourite
pursuits, you might have backed her safely against any woman of her age
in England. Both were very fond of Helen, and would have sympathized
with her sincerely had they seen cause; but their glances were not the
less keenly inquisitive; and, under the circumstances, she deserved some
credit for keeping her griefs so entirely to herself.
I have heard grave, reverend men, with consciences probably as clear and
correct as their banking books, confess that they never returned home,
after a brief absence during which no letters had been forwarded,
without a certain vague apprehension, which did not entirely subside
till they had met their family and glanced over their correspondence. I
will not affirm that some feeling of the sort did not cross Wyverne's
mind as he drove up the long dark avenue to Dene. He arrived so late
that almost every one had gone up to dress, so he was not surprised at
not finding Helen downstairs; it is possible that he was slightly
disappointed at not encountering her somewhere--by chance of course--in
gallery or corridor. When they met, just before dinner, Alan did fancy
that there was something constrained in his cousin's welcome, and
unusually grave in his aunt's greeting; but he had no suspicion that
anything was seriously amiss, till Helen whispered, as she passed him on
leaving the dining-room--"Come to the library as soon as you can. I am
going there now." You may guess if he kept her waiting long.
Miss Vavasour was sitting in an arm-chair near the fire; her head was
bent low, leaning on her hand; even in the uncertain light you might see
the slender fingers working and trembling; there was a listless
despondency in her whole bearing, so different from its usual proud
elasticity, that a sharp conviction of something having gone fearfully
wrong, shot through Wyverne's heart, like the thrust of a dagger. His
lips had not touched even her forehead, yet, but he did not now attempt
a caress; he only laid his hand gently on her shoulder--so light a touch
need not have made her shiver--and whispered--
"What has vexed you, my own?"
For all answer, she gave him the letter, that she held ready.
He read it through by the light of the shaded lamp that stood near.
Helen watched his face all the while with a fearful, feverish anxiety;
it betrayed not the faintest shade of confusion or shame, but it grew
very grave and sad, and, at last, darkened, almost sternly. When he came
to the end he was still silent, and seemed to muse for a few seconds.
But she could bear suspense no longer. Yet there was no anger in the
sweet voice, it was only plaintive and pleading--
"Ah, Alan, do speak to me. Won't you say it is all untrue?"
Wyverne roused himself from his reverie instantly; he drew nearer to his
cousin's side, and took her little trembling hand in his own, looking
down into her face--lovelier than ever in its pale, troubled
beauty--with an intense love and pity in his eyes.
"The blow was cruelly meant, and craftily dealt," he said, "but they
shall not part us yet, if you are brave enough to believe me thoroughly
and implicitly, this once. I will never ask you to do so again. Yes, the
facts are true--don't draw your hand back--I would not hold it another
second if I could not say the inferences are as false as the Father of
lies could make them. A dozen words answer all the questions. I was with
Nina Lenox, in the Gardens; and yesterday afternoon I staid in town on
_her_ business, not on my own. There is the truth. The lie is--the
insinuation that I had any other interest at stake than serving a rash
unhappy woman in her hard need. That unfortunate is doomed to be fatal,
it seems, even to her friends--she has right few left now to ruin.
Darling, try to believe that neither she nor the world have ever had the
right to call _me_ by any other name."
Mrs. Rawson Lenox was one of the celebrities of that time. Her face and
figure carried all before them, when she first came out; and even in the
first season they set her up as a sort of standard of beauty with which
others could only be compared in degrees of inferiority. She married
early and very unhappily. Her husband was a coarse, rough-tempered man,
and tried from the first to tyrannize over his wayward impetuous
wife--who had been spoilt from childhood upwards--just as he was wont to
do over the tenants of his broad acres, and his countless dependents. Of
course it did not answer. Years had passed since then, each one giving
more excuse to Nina Lenox for her wild ways and reckless disregard of
the proprieties; but--not excuse enough. Men fell in love with her
perpetually; but they did not come scathless out of the fire, like the
admirers of Maud Brabazon. The taint and smirch of the furnace-blast
remained; well if there were not angry scars, too, rankling and refusing
to be healed. Mothers and mothers-in-law shook their heads ominously at
the mention of Nina's name; the first, tracing the ruin of their
son--moral or financial--the last, the domestic discomfort of her
daughter, to those fatal lansquenet-parties and still more perilous
morning _tete-a-tetes_.
Was it not hard to believe that a man, still short of his prime, and
notoriously epicurean in his philosophy, could be in the secret of the
sorceress without having drunk of her cup? That he could serve her as a
friend, in sincerity and innocence, without ever having descended to be
her accomplice? Yet this amount of faith or credulity--call it which you
will--Wyverne did not scruple to ask from Helen, then.
It may not be denied that her heart seemed to contract, for an instant,
painfully, when her lover's lips pronounced so familiarly that terrible
name. But it shook off distrust before it could fasten there. She rose
up, with her hand in Alan's, and nestled close to his breast, and looked
up earnestly and lovingly into his eyes.
"My own--my own still," she murmured, "I do believe you thoroughly, now,
even if you tell me not another word. But do be kind and prudent, and
don't try me again soon, it is so very hard to bear."
"If I had only guessed--"
That sentence was never finished, for reasons good and sufficient; such
delicious impediments to speech are unfortunately rather rare. The kiss
of forgiveness was sweeter in its lingering fondness, than that which
sealed the affiancement under the oak-trees of the Home Wood.
"Sit here, child," Wyverne said, at last. "You shall hear all now."
He sank down on a cushion at her feet, and so made his confession. Not a
disagreeable penance, either, when absolution is secured beforehand, and
a delicate hand wanders at times, with caressing encouragement, over the
penitent's brow and hair.
It is quite unnecessary to give the explanation at length. Mrs.
Lenox had involved herself in all sorts of scrapes, of which
money-embarrassments were the least serious. Things had come to a
dangerous crisis. She had been foolish enough to borrow money of a man
whose character ought to have deterred her, and then to offend him
mortally. The creditor was base enough to threaten to use the weapons he
possessed, in the shape of letters and other documents, compromising
Nina fearfully. She heard that Wyverne was in town, and wrote to him to
help her in her great distress. She preferred trusting him, to others on
whom she had a real claim, because she knew him thoroughly; and if there
was no love-link between them, neither was there any remorse or
reproach. She was heart-sick of intrigue, for the moment, and would try
what a kind honest friend could do. It was true. Their intimacy had been
always innocent. These things are not to be accounted for; perhaps Alan
never cared to offer sacrifice at an altar on which incense from all
kingdoms of the earth was burned. Mr. Lenox's temper had become of late
so brutally savage, that Nina felt actual physical fear at the idea of
his hearing of her embarrassments. This was the reason why she had met
Wyverne clandestinely in the Botanical Gardens. Her husband was absent
the whole of the next day; so that she had received him at home. It was
a difficult and delicate business; but Alan carried it through. He got
the money first--not a very large sum--found out the creditor with some
trouble, and satisfied him, gaining possession of every dangerous
document. It was a stormy interview at first; but Wyverne was not easily
withstood when thoroughly in earnest; and his quiet, contemptuous
firmness fairly broke the other down. You may fancy Nina's gratitude:
indeed, up to a certain point, Alan had congratulated himself on having
wrought a work of mercy and charity without damage to any one. You have
seen how he was undeceived. He did not dissemble from Helen his
self-reproach at having been foolish enough to meddle in the matter at
all.
"Some one must be sacrificed at such times," he said; "but, my darling,
it were better that all the _intrigantes_ in London should go to the
wall, than that you should have an hour's disquiet. Trust me, I'll see
to this for the future. I am sure Mrs. Lenox would not be a nice friend
for you; and it is better to cut off the connexion before you can be
brought in contact. One can afford to be frank when one has done a
person a real service. I'll write her a few lines--you can correct them,
if you like--to say that this affair has been made the subject of
anonymous letters; and that I cannot, for _your_ sake, risk more
misconstruction; so that our acquaintance must be of the slightest
henceforward."
So peace was happily restored. We need not go into a minute description
of the "rejoicings" that ensued. One thought only puzzled and troubled
Alan exceedingly.
"I can't conceive who can have written that letter," he said, "or got it
written. The hand of course proves nothing, nor the motive implied,
which is simply not worth noticing. It is just as likely the work of a
man's malevolence as of a woman's. Helen, I own frankly I would rather
it were the first than the last. But I thought I had not made an enemy
persevering enough to watch all my movements, or cruel enough to deal
that blow in the dark."
It was evident that the shock to his genial system of belief in the
world in general affected him far more than the foiled intent of
personal injury.
When Lady Mildred saw her daughter's face, as the latter re-entered the
drawing-room alone, she guessed at once the issue of the conference, and
knew that it would be useless now to cavil at an explanation which must
have been absolutely satisfactory. She was not in the least
disappointed; indeed, the most she had expected from this first shock to
Helen's confidence was a slight loosening of the foundations. From the
first moment of reading the anonymous letter, she detected fraud and
misrepresentation; and argued that the Truth would this time prevail.
So, when Alan had audience of her in her boudoir late that evening, he
found no difficulty in making his cause good. "My lady" did just refer
to something she had said on a former occasion, and quite coincided in
Wyverne's idea, that this was one of the dangerous acquaintances that it
was imperative for him to give up: indeed, she was very explicit and
decided on this point. Otherwise, she was everything that was kind and
conciliatory; and really said less about the imprudence in meddling with
such an affair at all, than could have been expected from the most
indulgent of aunts or mothers. Just before he left the boudoir, Alan
read the letter through that "my lady" had given him--he had scarcely
glanced at it before. When he gave it back his face had perceptibly
lightened, though his lip was curling scornfully.
"I'm so glad you showed me that pleasant letter, Aunt Mildred," he said.
"My mind is quite easy now as to the sex of the informer. No woman, I
dare swear, to whom I ever spoke words of more than common courtesy
could have written such words as those. Perhaps I may find out his name
some day, and thank him for the trouble he has taken."
Lady Mildred did not feel exactly comfortable just then. She would have
preferred the whole transaction being now left in as much obscurity as
possible. She knew how determined and obstinate the speaker could be
when he had real cause to be unforgiving. She knew that he was capable
of exacting the reckoning to the uttermost farthing, though the
settlement was ever so long delayed. On the whole, however, she was
satisfied with the aspect of affairs as they remained. She had good
reason to be so. Doubt and distrust may scorn to vanish; but they
generally leave behind them a slow, subtle, poisonous influence, that
the purest and strongest faith may not defy. Of all diseases, those are
the most dangerous, which linger in the system when the cure is
pronounced to be perfect.
I knew a man well who passed through the Crimean war untouched by steel
or shot, though he was ever in the front of the battle. Even the
terrible trench-work did not seem to affect him. He would come in, wet
but not weary, sleep in his damp tent contentedly, and rise up in his
might rejoicing. When, quite at the end of the war, he was attacked by
the fever, no one felt any serious alarm. We supposed that Kenneth
McAlpine could shake off any ordinary sickness as easily as Sampson did
the Philistine's gyves. In truth, he did appear to recover very
speedily; and, when he returned to England, seemed in his usual health
again. But soon he began to waste and pine away without any symptoms of
active disease. None of the doctors could reach the seat of the evil, or
even define its cause. It took some time to sap that colossal strength
fairly away; but month by month the doom came out more plainly on his
face, and the end has come at last. Poor Kenneth's grave will be as
green as the rest of them, next spring, when the grass begins to grow.
Standing by the sepulchre of Faith, or Love, or Hope--if we dared look
back--we might find it hard to remember when and where the first seeds
of decay were sown, though we do not forget one pang of the last
miserable days that preceded the sharp death-agony.