VER UBI LONGUM TEPIDASQUE PRAEBET JUPITER BRUMAS.
AT first it really did appear as if, in expatriating himself for a
season, Wyverne had acted wisely and well.
The purveyors of scandal, wholesale and retail, were utterly routed and
disconcerted. The romance was a promising one, but it had not had time
to develop itself into form and substance. As things stood, it was
impossible to found any fresh supposition on Alan's prolonged absence,
especially as no one ventured to hint at any quarrel or misunderstanding
to account for his abrupt departure. Some were too angry to conceal
their discomfiture. One veteran gossip, in particular, went about,
saying in an injured, querulous way, that "he wondered what Wyverne did
next. He shouldn't be surprised to hear of his making a pilgrimage to
Mecca, having turned Turk for a change." It was great sport to hear
Bertie Grenvil, at the club, "drawing" the old _cancanier_, condoling
with him gravely, and encouraging him with hopes "of having something
_really_ to talk about before the season was over." Indeed, it seemed by
no means improbable that the Cherub, in person, would furnish the
materials; for, having convinced himself by repeated experiments that
Maud Brabazon either had no heart at all, or that it was absolutely
impregnable, he had taken out lately a sort of roving commission, and
was cruising about all sorts of waters, with the red signal of "no
quarter" hoisted permanently.
Lord Clydesdale rejoiced intensely, after his saturnine fashion, at
Wyverne's departure. It put him into such good humour that for days he
forgot to be captious or overbearing, and actually made some clumsy
overtures towards a reconciliation with his wife. It must be confessed,
he met with scant encouragement in that quarter. Helen was in no mood to
"forgive and forget" just then. There are women whom you may tyrannize
over one week, and cajole the next, amiable enough to accept both
positions with equanimity; but the haughty Countess was not of these
Griseldas. Her temper was embittered rather than softened by her great
sorrow and loneliness; for the void that Alan had left behind him was
wider and darker than ever she had reckoned on. Of course she tried the
old counter-irritation plan (nine out of ten do), seeking for excitement
wherever it could be found. The result was not particularly
satisfactory, but the habits of dissipation and recklessness
strengthened their hold hourly. She had a legion of caprices, and
indulged them all, without pausing to consider the question of right or
wrong, much less of consequences. Before the season closed, Helen was
virtually enrolled in the fastest of the thoroughbred sets, and might
have disputed her evil pre-eminence with the most famous _lionne_ of the
day.
Naturally the scandal mongers began to open--first their eyes, and then
their mouths again. Every morning brought some fresh story, generally
founded, at least, in fact, with Lady Clydesdale for its heroine. They
made wild work with her name before long, but so far no one could attach
to it the shame of any one definite _liaison_. A circle of courtiers
followed her wherever she went, but no one of these--jealously as they
watched for the faintest indication of a decided preference--could have
told who stood first in the favour of their wilful, capricious
sovereign. Sometimes one would flatter himself, for a moment, that he
really had gained ground, and made an abiding impression; but, before he
could realize his happiness, the weary, absent look would return to the
beautiful eyes, and the unhappy adorer had only to fall back to the dead
level of his fellows, in wrath and discomfiture.
No one the least interested in Helen could see how things were going
without serious alarm. Lady Mildred, Max Vavasour, and Maud Brabazon,
each in their turn, attempted remonstrance. The Countess met her
mother's warning apathetically, her brother's contemptuously, her
friend's affectionately--with perfect impartiality disregarding them
all.
It is more than doubtful if Clydesdale could have done any good by
interfering. He certainly did not try the experiment. From first to last
he never stretched out a finger to arrest his fair wife on her road to
Avernus. He allowed her to go where she would--very often alone--only,
indeed, escorting her when it suited his own plans or purposes. Whether
he was base enough to be actually careless about her temptations, or
whether he resolutely shut his eyes to the possibility of her coming to
harm, it would be hard to say. Nevertheless, from time to time, Helen
had to endure furious outbreaks of his temper; and with each of these,
that strange thrill of physical fear grew stronger and stronger. But
jealousy had nothing whatever to do with rousing the storms, which
usually burst forth on some absurdly frivolous provocation. The fact
was, when the Earl was sulky or wroth, he chose to vent his brutal
humour on the victim nearest to his hand that was likely to feel the
blows most acutely. He saw that such scenes _hurt_ his wife in some way,
though he did not guess at her real feelings; and it pleased him to
think that there was a vulnerable point in her armour of pride and
indifference. He would have rejoiced yet more if he had detected the
effort which it cost her sometimes--not to tremble while she vanquished
his savage eyes with the cold disdain of her own.
The domestic picture is not pleasant enough to tempt us to linger over
it. Perhaps, after all, it would have been better--it could scarcely
have been worse--if Alan had staid on, and braved it out; but this is
only arguing from consequences.
For a long time there were no certain tidings of the hunting-party: a
vague report got abroad of an encounter with lions, in which some
Englishman had been terribly hurt, but it was not even known whether it
was Wyverne or one of his companions. So months became years, and Alan's
place in the world was nearly filled up; a few of his old friends, from
time to time, "wondered how he was getting on,"--that was all. Yet he
was not entirely forgotten. Every morning and evening, in her simple
orisons, Grace Beauclerc joined his name to those of her husband and
children; and another woman--you know her well--seldom dared to pray,
because she felt it would be a mockery to kneel with a guilty longing
and repining at her heart.
It was the fourth winter after Wyverne's departure; the last
intelligence of the party dated from some months back; it reported them
all alive and well, in the northern provinces of India; there were
wonderful accounts of their sport, but no word as to their intention of
returning.
The Clydesdales were at Naples. Helen's health, which had begun to fail
rapidly of late, was pretext enough for a change of climate; but it is
more than doubtful if her husband would have taken this into
consideration, if other inducements had not drawn him southwards.
The Earl's home was certainly not a happy one; but even modern society
does not admit domestic discomfort as an excuse for outraging the common
proprieties of life; the most profligate of his companions agreed, that
he might at least have taken the trouble to mask his infidelities more
carefully; they could not understand such utter disregard of the trite
monachal maxim, _Si non caste, caute tamen_. Personally, one would have
thought Lord Clydesdale was not attractive; but a great Seigneur rarely
has far to go when he seeks "consolations:" there are always victims
ready to be sacrificed, no matter how repulsive the Idol may be; for
interest and vanity, and a dozen other _irritamenta malorum_ work still
as potently as ever. It so chanced that the siren of the hour had chosen
South Italy for her winter quarters, so that the Earl's sudden
consideration for his wife was easily accounted for.
Naples was crowded that year; every country in Europe was nobly
represented there; so that it really was no mean triumph when the
popular voice, without an audible dissentient, assigned the royalty of
beauty to Lady Clydesdale. Rash and wilful in every other respect, it
was not likely that Helen would be prudent about her own health; indeed,
if she would only have taken common precautions, her state was
precarious enough to forbid her mixing in society as usual.
If you could only have ignored certain dangerous symptoms, you would
have said she was lovelier than when you saw her last; her superb eyes
seemed larger than ever; softer, too, in their languor, more intense in
their brilliancy: the rose-tint on her cheek was fainter, perhaps, but
more exquisitely delicate and transparent now; and her figure had not
lost, so far, one rounded outline of its magnificent mould.
She had a perfectly fabulous success; before she had been in Naples a
fortnight they raved about her, not only in her own circle, but in all
others beside. It was literally a popular _furore_; the laziest
_lazzarone_ would start from his afternoon sleep to gaze after her with
a muttered oath of admiration when "la bellissima Contessa" drove by.
She had adorers of all sorts of nations, and was worshipped in more
languages than she could speak or understand.
At last, one man singled himself out from the crowd--like the favourite
"going through his horses"--and, for awhile, seemed to carry on the
running alone. That was the Duca di Gravina. Perhaps Europe could not
have produced a more formidable enemy, when a woman's honour was to be
assailed. The Duke was not thirty yet, and he had won long ago an evil
renown, and deserved it thoroughly. Few could look at his face without
being attracted by its delicate classical beauty; the dark earnest eyes,
trained to counterfeit any emotion--never to betray one--strengthened
the spell, and an indescribable fascination of manner generally
completed it. There was not a vestige of heart or conscience to
interfere with his combinations; to say that he had no principle does
not express the truth at all; the Boar of Capreae himself was no more
coolly cynical and cruel. Nevertheless, these last pleasant attributes
lay far below the surface; and a very fair seductive surface it was.
The Duke was more thoroughly in earnest now than he had ever been in his
life; and people seemed to think there could be but one result--the most
natural and reasonable one, according to the facile code of Southern
morality. Lord Clydesdale persisted in ignoring the whole affair; and no
one cared to take the trouble of enlightening him against his will. It
looked as if he had exhausted his jealousy and suspicions on Alan
Wyverne, and had none to waste on the rest of the world. One could not
help thinking of the old fable, of the stag who always fed with his
blind eye towards the sea, suspecting danger only from the land-quarter.
It was an ingenious plan enough; but the sea is wide and hunters are
wily; they came in a boat, you remember, and shot the poor horned Monops
to death with many arrows.
Di Gravina was almost as daring and successful at play as in intrigue;
in both he was well served by a half-intuitive sagacity which suggested
the right moment for risking a grand _coup_. He began to think that such
a crisis was now near at hand. One afternoon Lady Clydesdale and several
more of her set went up to Capo di Monte to lounge about in the gardens
and drink the fresh sea-breeze. The party then broke up into detachments
very soon, and the Duke found it very easy to bring about a comfortably
confidential _tete-a-tete_. Helen was in a dangerous frame of mind that
day. She had gone through a stormy scene with her husband in the
morning, whose temper had broken out as usual without rhyme or reason.
The velvet softness of the Italian's tone and manner contrasted
strangely with the Earl's harsh voice and violent gestures. At first it
simply _rested_ her to sit still and listen; but gradually the
fascination possessed her till her pulse began to quicken, though her
outward languor remained undisturbed. Not a particle of passion, much
less of love, so far, was at work in her heart; but in the desperation
of weariness she felt tempted to try a more practical experiment in the
way of excitement than she had ever yet ventured on. Di Gravina saw his
advantage and pressed it mercilessly. For some minutes the Countess had
ceased to answer him; she sat, with eyes half closed, just the dawning
of a dreamy smile on her beautiful lips, like one who yields not
unwillingly to the subjugation of a mesmerizer's riveted glance and
waving hands.
At last she looked up suddenly, evidently with her purpose set. How her
lips or her eyes would have answered can never be known, for at that
instant she became aware of the presence of a third person, who had
approached unheard while they were talking so earnestly.
The new-comer leant against the trunk of a palm-tree, contemplating the
pair with a quaint expression of mingled curiosity and sadness. His face
was sun-burnt to a black bronze, and almost buried in a huge bushy
beard; but the disguise was not complete. Helen sprang to her feet
impulsively as of old, with a low, happy cry, and in another second she
had clasped her hands round Alan Wyverne's arm, with just breath enough
left to gasp out a few fond incoherent syllables of welcome.
The Italian did not quite comprehend the situation at first; but he saw
instantly that he had lost the game. A smothered blasphemy worthy of the
coarsest _facchino_ (and they swear hard in those parts, remember)
escaped from his delicate, chiselled lips. For a moment his scowling
eyes belied their training, and all the soft beauty vanished from his
face, malign as a baffled devil's. Nevertheless he was his own silky
self again before Helen recovered from her emotion sufficiently to make
her excuses, and to present "her cousin." To do the Duke justice, he
behaved admirably.
"It is a most happy meeting," he said. "Will the Countess permit the
_stranger_ to offer his felicitations and--to retire? She must have so
much to say to the cousin who has so suddenly returned."
There was not an inflection of sarcasm in his voice; but he turned once
as he went, and his glance crossed Wyverne's. These two understood each
other thoroughly.
The pen of the readiest writer would fail in recording the long
incoherent conversation which ensued. Helen had so much to ask and so
much to tell that she never could get through a connected sentence or
allow Alan to finish one. She was so simply and naturally happy that he
had not the heart to check or reprove her. Even Stoicism has its limits
and intervals of weakness, and Alan was a poor philosopher with all his
good intentions "given in."
Certain members of her party came to reclaim Lady Clydesdale before half
their say was said. (Would they have intervened so soon if the Duca di
Gravina had remained master of the position?) So Alan had to content
himself with accompanying his cousin to her own door. On the whole he
thought it better not to risk meeting the Earl that night; he did not
feel quite cool and collected enough for the encounter.
Let me remark casually that there was nothing extraordinary in the
opportune apparition. The _Odalisque_ had anchored in the bay late on
the previous night. Wyverne met an old acquaintance immediately on
landing, who told him at once that the Clydesdales were in Naples. He
could not resist the temptation of calling, and the servants directed
him naturally to the place where he was sure to find Helen. Nevertheless
I own that the situation savours of the _coup de theatre_. I don't see
why one should not indulge in a slight touch of melodrama now and then;
but there are men alive who can testify that such an intervention,
coming exactly at the critical moment, is an actually accomplished fact.
No words can do justice to Lord Clydesdale's intense exasperation, when
he heard that his enemy had returned, sound in life and limb. He could
not for very shame forbid his wife to receive him just yet, but his
whole nature was transformed; the careless, negligent husband became
suddenly a suspicious, tyrannical jailor. Besides this, another foe lay
in wait for Wyverne. The Duca di Gravina made no secret of his
discomfiture or of his lust for revenge. This last enmity came round to
Helen's ears, and she confessed her apprehension frankly to her cousin.
He only laughed carelessly and confidently.
"I've seen a good deal of the feline tribe in these three years," he
said, "and I begin to understand them. That leopard is too handsome to
be very vicious. Nevertheless, I think it's as well you've given up
_domesticating_ him."
There was no bravado in his tone: he had only one honest purpose--to
reassure Helen. The event proved the correctness of his judgment. The
Duke had been "out" more than once; but it was only when he was
compelled to pay with his body for some one of his iniquities. He loved
life and its luxuries too well to risk the first without absolute
necessity. Exaggerated reports of Wyverne's prowess in the Far East had
got abroad; and the crafty voluptuary thoroughly appreciated valour's
better part when a formidable foe was to be confronted.
But the ground under their feet was nothing else than a Solfaterra, and
the volcanic elements could not remain quiet long. Early one morning,
Wyverne got a hurried message from his cousin, asking him to meet her
immediately in the garden of the Villa Reale. As he approached the spot
where she was sitting, he was struck painfully by the listless
exhaustion of her attitude. When she looked up, as he came to her side,
a cold thrill of terror shot through Alan's frame. He saw the truth at
last--a truth that Helen had striven so carefully to conceal, that it
was no wonder her cousin had failed to realize it. Her cheeks were
perfectly colourless, and seemed to have grown all at once strangely
thin and hollow; the dark circles under her eyes made them unnaturally
bright and large, and a wild haggard look possessed and transformed her
face. The signs were terribly plain to read--not of death immediately
imminent, but of slow sure decay.
Alan's courage and self-control were well nigh exhausted before he had
listened to half of what she had to tell. It appeared that on the
previous evening there had been an outbreak of Lord Clydesdale's temper,
incomparably more violent than any which had yet occurred. For the first
time he had brought Wyverne's name into the quarrel--upbraiding, and
accusing, and threatening his wife by turns, till he worked himself to a
pitch of brutal frenzy that did not quite confine itself to words. He
swore that the intimacy should be broken off at any cost, and signified
his determination to start with Helen for England within forty-eight
hours. This was the last thing she remembered; for just then she
fainted. When she recovered she was alone with her maid, and had not
seen her husband since.
"Ah, Alan; will you not save me?" she pleaded piteously. "There is no
one else to help me--no one. And I _am_ afraid now--really afraid: I
have good reason. Do you see _this_?"
She drew back her loose sleeve: on the soft white flesh there was the
livid print of a brutal grasp--marks such as were left on poor Mary of
Scotland's arm by Lindsay's iron glove.
A groan of horror and wrath burst from Wyverne's white lips, and he
shook from head to foot like a reed. A few minutes of such intense
suffering might atone for more than one venial sin. He knew well enough
what Helen meant as her eyes looked over the bay, and rested with a
feverish longing and eagerness on the spot where the _Odalisque_ lay at
anchor, the tall taper masts cutting the sky line. He knew that he had
only to speak the word, and that she would follow to the world's end. He
knew that her health was failing under tyranny and ill treatment; while
gentle nursing--such as he could tend her with--might still arrest the
Destroyer. He knew how much excuse even society would find in this
special case for the criminals. No wonder that he hesitated, muttering
under his breath--
"God help me! It is trying me _too_ hard."
There was silence only for a few seconds. During that brief space Alan's
brain was whirling, but the images on his mind were clear. He remembered
how he swore to himself to guard Helen from harm or temptation,
faithfully and unselfishly; he thought of the End--possibly very
near--and of the dishonour that would cling to his darling even in her
grave; last of all rose Hubert Vavasour's face, when he should hear that
the man whom he loved as his own son had brought his daughter to shame.
That turned the scale, and it never wavered afterwards. When Wyverne
spoke his voice was firm, though intensely sad.
"It is too late to wish that the fever or the lion had not spared me. If
I had guessed what my return would cost I would have stayed away till we
both grew old. I did hope that we had grown steadier and wiser, and that
people would have left us alone, and allowed us to be quietly happy. But
I did not go through the pain of parting three years ago, to come back
and ruin all. I stood firm then, and so I will--to the last. You will
never call me cold or cruel; I feel that. You know how I suffer now
while I am speaking; yet I say once more, we are better apart. Dear
child, I am powerless to help you, unless it were in a way that I dare
not think of. But you shall not be left to Clydesdale's tender mercies
defenceless. I'll speak to Randolph to-day. He starts for England
immediately, and he shall not lose sight of you till you reach it. He
knows enough of your husband not to be surprised at being asked to watch
over you. You may trust him as thoroughly as you could trust me. His
heart is as soft as a woman's, and his nerves are steel: I have seen
them tried often and hardly. Write to Dene, and go there straight from
Dover. Clydesdale will have come to his senses before that, and will
scarcely object. Remember, I shall follow by the next steamer, and not
sleep on the road; so that I shall be in England almost before you. Then
we will see what is best to be done. I swear that you shall have rest
and peace at any cost. This worry is killing you. Darling, do bear up
bravely, just for a little while; and be prudent and take care of
yourself. It breaks my heart to see you looking so wan and worn."
His voice shook, and his lip quivered, and his eyes were very dim.
Helen's head had sunk lower and lower while her cousin was speaking; she
felt no anger, only utter weariness and despair; she had listened with a
mechanical attention, hardly realizing the meaning of all the words, and
she answered helplessly and vaguely,--
"Thank you, dear Alan, I dare say you are right. I am sure you mean to
be kind; and I know you suffer when I suffer. It is foolish to be
frightened when there is no real danger; but I am not strong now, so
there is some excuse. Lord Clydesdale is probably ashamed of himself by
this time, and I shall have nothing to fear for some days--not even
annoyance. Still, if it suits Colonel Randolph to go so soon, I shall be
glad to feel there is one friend near me. You are sure you are coming
straight to England? And you _will_ come to Dene? Even if I am not
there, I hope you will. I must not stay longer than to say good-bye;
perhaps I have been watched and followed already. I don't know why I
ventured here, or sent for you; I knew it could do no good; but I felt
so weak and unhappy. Now--say good-bye, kindly, Alan?"
Though Wyverne knew it was wrong and unwise to detain her, a vague
presentiment that it might be long before they met again made him linger
before uttering the farewell. While he paused, a heavy foot crunched on
the gravel behind them, and a hoarse, thick voice, close by, muttered
something like a curse. The Earl stood there gazing at the cousins, his
face flushed with passion, and a savage glare in his pale blue eyes. He
essayed to speak with calmness and dignity; but the effort was absurdly
apparent and vain.
"Lady Clydesdale, I am excessively surprised and displeased at finding
you here, especially after what passed last night. I request that you
will return home instantly. You have more than enough to do in making
your preparations, and there are some necessary visits that you must
pay. We start by to-morrow's steamer, I will follow you in a few
minutes."
The assumption of marital authority was a miserable failure. Neither of
the supposed delinquents seemed at all awed or discomforted by the
Earl's sudden apparition, or by his set speech. Helen rose to depart,
silently, without vouchsafing a glance to her exasperated lord; Alan
accompanied her a few steps, to whisper a few words of farewell, and to
exchange a long pressure of hands; then he came back and waited quietly
to be spoken to.
Clydesdale's manner was arrogant and domineering to a degree; but he was
evidently ill at ease; he kept lashing gravel, angrily and nervously,
with his cane, and his eyes wandered everywhere except where they were
likely to encounter Wyverne's.
"I don't mean to have any discussion," he said; "and I choose to give no
reasons. You will understand that I decidedly disapprove of your
intimacy with Lady Clydesdale; I shall not allow her to meet you, on any
pretence, at any future period; and I beg that you will not attempt to
visit her. I mean to be master of my own house, and of my own wife. You
will take this warning, or--you will take the consequences!"
For once in his life--he reproached himself bitterly, afterwards, for
the weakness--Alan fairly lost his temper. When he replied, his tone
was, if anything, more galling than the other's, because its insolence
was more subtle and refined.
"You might have spared threats," he said; "they would scarcely have
answered, even if I had known you less thoroughly than I happen to do.
You may frighten women--especially if they are weak and ill--but men, as
a rule, don't faint. Consequences! What do you mean? I fancy I have
guaged your valour tolerably well; it is superb up to a certain
point--when personal risk comes in. If you had staid on here, perhaps
you _would_ have hired a knife. You might have laid some ruffian five
thousand piastres to fifty, for instance, that I should not be found
dead within a week--those are your favourite odds, I believe--that's
about the extent of what one has to fear from your vengeance. I am not
prepared to say how far a husband's dictation ought to extend, who does
not take the trouble to conceal his intrigues abroad, and treats his
wife brutally at home; and I'm not going to argue the point either. You
certainly have a right to close your doors against me, or any one else.
I shall not attempt to see my cousin while she remains in your house, or
under your authority; her father had better decide how long that ought
to last. I am no more inclined for discussion than you are; neither do I
threaten. I simply give you fair warning. You had better put some
constraint on your temper when your wife has to bear it; she has friends
enough left to call you to an account, and make you pay it too. Max
Vavasour will do his duty, I believe. If he don't--by G--d--I'll do
mine!"
He turned on his heel with the last word, and walked away very slowly;
but he was out of ear-shot before the Earl could collect himself enough
to speak intelligibly. If he had received a blow between the eyes,
delivered straight from the shoulder by a practised arm, he would hardly
have been more staggered. He had been so accustomed, from childhood, to
deference and adulation, that a direct, unmistakable personal insult,
literally confounded him; for a brief space he felt thoroughly
uncomfortable and humiliated; even his favourite curses came with an
effort, and failed to act as anodynes. But he remembered every word that
passed, and acted accordingly.
From that day forth, Clydesdale hated both his wife and Wyverne more
bitterly than ever; but he entirely changed his tactics, for the
present. The idea of a public _esclandre_ and separation, did not suit
him at all. His manner towards Helen on their journey homewards, was
kinder and more considerate than it had ever been; he even condescended
to express penitence for his late violence, and went so far as to
promise an amendment. He encouraged her wish to go straight to Dene,
only stipulating that he should accompany her there. The Countess was
neither satisfied nor convinced; but she was weary and wanted rest, and
so acquiesced listlessly and passively.
On the very first opportunity after his arrival at Dene, the Earl sought
an interview with Lady Mildred. It was easy to make his case good; he
lied, of course, literally; he confessed his failings, with certain
reserves, and professed great contrition; he only insisted on one
point--the necessity of keeping Wyverne at a distance, at least for a
time. "My lady" was equally anxious to avoid any public scandal, and she
was not disposed to look too closely into the facts. Helen did not
choose to make a confidante of her mother, so there was little fear of
her contradicting anything. When Alan reached England and wrote to his
uncle, he found the ground mined under his feet. The Squire believed in
his nephew thoroughly, but he was not strong-minded enough to take any
decidedly offensive step, and under the circumstances, inclined to
temporize. He talked about "faults on both sides," spoke of a
reconciliation being certainly effected, and ended, by begging Alan not
in anywise to interfere with it.
Wyverne felt sick and hopeless, he knew how much to believe of all this;
but he had only one course open to him now--to avoid meeting the
Clydesdales as carefully as possible. He hardly showed at all in town
that spring, and encountered Helen very seldom, then only for a few
minutes, when there was no opportunity for a confidence, even if either
had had the heart to attempt such a thing. He spent all the summer and
early autumn in Scotland.
Let me say now--for _your_ comfort--my patient reader, that the End is
very near.