AN INCUBUS
It is not to be supposed that any gentleman can see a lady in the
streets of London and remain himself unseen. In the human as in meaner
races the female organ of perception is quicker, keener, and more
accurate than the male. Therefore it is that a man bowing in Pall Mall
or Piccadilly to some divinity in an open carriage, and failing to
receive any return for his salute, sinks at once into a false position
of awkwardness and discomfiture, _il a manqué son coup_, and his face
assumes incontinently the expression of one who has missed a woodcock
in the open, and has no second barrel with which to redeem his shot.
As Dick saw Lady Bearwarden in Oxford Street, we may be sure that Lady
Bearwarden also saw Dick. Nor was her ladyship best pleased with the
activity he displayed in avoiding her carriage and escaping from her
society. If Mr. Stanmore had been the most successful Lovelace who
ever devoted himself to the least remunerative of pursuits, instead
of a loyal, kindhearted, unassuming gentleman, he could hardly have
chosen a line of conduct so calculated to keep alive some spark of
interest in Maud's breast as that which he unconsciously adopted. It
is one thing to dismiss a lover because suited with a superior article
(as some ladies send away five-foot-ten of footman when six-foot comes
to look after the place), and another to lose a vassal for good, like
an unreclaimed hawk, heedless of the lure, clear of the jesses, and
checking, perhaps, at every kind of prey in wilful wanton flight,
down-wind towards the sea.
There is but one chance for a man worsted in these duels _à
l'outrance_, which are fought out with such merciless animosity. It is
to bind up his wounds as best he may, and take himself off to die or
get well in secret. Presently the conqueror finds that a battle only
has been won, and not a territory gained. After the flush of combat
comes a reaction. The triumph seems somewhat tame, ungraced by
presence of the captive. Curiosity wakes up, pity puts in its pleading
word, a certain jealous instinct of appropriation is aroused. Where is
he? What has become of him? I wonder if he ever thinks of me _now_!
Poor fellow! I shouldn't wish to be forgotten altogether, as if we had
never met; and though I didn't want him to like _me_, I never meant
that he was to care for anybody else. Such are the thoughts that chase
each other through the female heart when deprived of sovereignty in
the remotest particular; and it was very much in this way that Lady
Bearwarden, sitting alone in her boudoir, speculated on the present
doings and sentiments of the man who had loved her so well and had
given her up so unwillingly, yet with never a word of reproach, never
a look nor action that could add to her remorse or make her task more
painful.
Alas, she was not happy; even now, when she had gained all she most
wished and schemed for in the world. She felt she was not happy, and
she felt, too, that for Dick to know of her unhappiness would be the
bitterest drop in the bitter cup he had been compelled to drain.
As she looked round her beautiful boudoir, with its blue-satin
hangings, its numerous mirrors, its redundancy of coronets surmounting
her own cipher, twisted and twined into a far more graceful decoration
than the grim heraldic bruin which formed her husband's cognisance,
she said to herself that something was yet required to constitute
a woman's happiness beyond the utmost efforts of the upholder's
art--that even carriages, horses, tall footmen, quantities of flowers,
unlimited credit, and whole packs of cards left on the hall table
every day were mere accessories and superfluities, not the real pith
and substance of that for which she pined.
Lady Bearwarden, more than most women, had, since her marriage, found
the worldly ball at her foot. She needed but to kick it where she
would. As Miss Bruce, with nothing to depend on but her own good looks
and conquering manners, she had wrested a large share of admiration
from an unwilling public; now, as a peeress, and a rich one, the same
public of both sexes courted, toadied, and flattered her, till she
grew tired of hearing herself praised. The men--at least those of high
position and great prospects--had no scruple in offering a married
woman that homage which might have entailed their own domestic
subjugation if laid at a spinster's feet; and the women--all except
the very smartest ladies (who liked her for her utter fearlessness and
_sang-froid_ as well as for her own sake)--thought it a fine thing to
be on intimate terms with "Maud Bearwarden," as they loved to call
her, and being much afraid of her, made up to her with the sweet
facility and sincerity of their sex.
Yet in defiance of ciphers, coronets, visiting-cards, blue hangings,
the homage of lords, and the vassalage of ladies, there was something
amiss. She caught herself continually looking back to the old days
at Ecclesfield Manor, to the soft lawns and shady avenues, the fond
father, who thought his darling the perfection of humanity, and whose
face lit up so joyfully whenever she came into the room; the sweet
delicate mother from whom she could never remember an unkind look nor
an angry word; the hills, the river, the cottages, the tenants, the
flower-garden, the ponies, and the old retriever that died licking her
hand. She felt kindly towards Mrs. Stanmore, and wondered whether she
had behaved quite as well to that lady as she ought, recalling many a
little act of triumphant malice and overt resistance which afforded
keen gratification to the rebel at the time. By an easy transition,
she glided on to Dick Stanmore's honest and respectful admiration, his
courtesy, his kindness, his unfailing forbearance and good humour.
Bearwarden was not always good-humoured--she had found that out
already. But as for Dick, she remembered how no mishap nor annoyance
of his own ever irritated him in the slightest degree; how his first
consideration always seemed to be _her_ comfort and _her_ happiness;
how even in his deep sorrow, deceived, humiliated, cut to the heart,
he had never so much as spoken one bitter word. How nobly had he
trusted her about those diamonds! How well he had behaved to her
throughout, and how fondly would he have loved and cherished her had
she confided her future to his care! He must be strangely altered now,
to avoid her like this. She was sure he recognised her, for she saw
his face fall, saw him wince--that at least was a comfort--but never
to shake hands, never even to stop and speak! Well, she had treated
him cruelly, and perhaps he was right.
But this was not the actual grievance, after all. She felt she would
do precisely the same over again. It was less repentance that pained
her, than retribution. Maud, for the first time in her life, was
beginning to feel really in love, and with her own husband. Such an
infatuation, rare as it is admirable, ought to have been satisfactory
and prosperous enough. When ladies do so far condescend, it is usually
a gratifying domestic arrangement for themselves and their lords;
but in the present instance the wife's increasing affection afforded
neither happiness to herself nor comfort to her husband. There was
a "Something" always between them, a shadow, not of suspicion nor
mistrust, for Bearwarden was frank and loyal by nature, but of
coldness. She had a secret from him, and she was a bad dissembler; his
finer instincts told him that he did not possess her full confidence,
and he was too proud to ask it. So they lived together a few short
weeks after marriage, on outward terms of courtesy and cordiality, but
with this little rift of dissatisfaction gradually yet surely widening
into a fissure that should rend each of these proud unbending hearts
in twain.
"What would I give to be like other wives," thought Maud, looking at
a half-length of her husband in uniform, which occupied the place of
honour in her boudoir. "What is it? Why is it? I would love him so, if
he would let me. How I wish I could be good--_really_ good, like mamma
was. I suppose it's impossible now. I wonder if it's too late to try."
And with the laudable intention of beginning amendment at once, Lady
Bearwarden rang sharply to tell her servants she was "not at home to
anybody till Lord Bearwarden came in, except"--and here she turned
away from her own footman, that he might not see the colour rising in
her face--"except a man should call with some silks and brocades, in
which case he was to be shown up-stairs at once."
The door had scarcely closed ere the paper-cutter in Maud's fingers
broke short off at the handle. Her grasp tightened on it insensibly,
while she ground and gnashed her small white teeth, to think that she,
with her proud nature, in her high position, should not be free
to admit or deny what visitors she pleased. So dandies of various
patterns, afoot, in tea-carts, and on hacks more or less deserving in
shape and action, discharged themselves of their visiting-cards at
Lady Bearwarden's door, and passed on in peace to fulfil the same rite
elsewhere.
Two only betrayed an unseemly emotion when informed "her ladyship was
not at home": the one, a cheerful youth, bound for a water-party
at Skindle's, and fearful of missing his train, thanked Providence
audibly for what he called "an unexpected let off"; the other, an
older, graver, and far handsomer man, suffered an expression of
palpable discomfiture to overspread his comely face, and, regardless
of observation, walked away from the door with the heavy step that
denotes a heavy heart. Not that he had fallen in love with Lady
Bearwarden--far from it. But there _was_ a Somebody--that Somebody an
adverse fate had decreed he must neither meet to-day nor to-morrow,
and the interval seemed to both of them wearisome, and even painful.
But Maud was Somebody's dear friend. Maud either had seen her or would
see her that very afternoon. Maud would let him talk about her, praise
her, perhaps would even give her a message--nay, it was just possible
she might arrive to pay a morning visit while he was there. No wonder
he looked so sad to forego this series of chances; and all the while,
if he had only known it, Fate, having veered round at luncheon-time,
would have permitted him to call at Somebody's house, to find her at
home, enchanted to see him, and to sit with her as long as he liked
in the well-known room, with its flowers and sun-shades and globes
of gold-fish, and the picture over the chimney-piece, and its dear
original by his side. But it is a game at cross-purposes all through
this dangerous pastime; and perhaps its very _contretemps_ are what
make it so interesting to the players, so amusing to the lookers-on.
Lady Bearwarden grew fidgety after a while. It is needless to say that
"the man with some silks and brocades" to be admitted by her servants
was none other than "Gentleman Jim," who, finding the disguise of a
"travelling merchant" that in which he excited least suspicion in his
interviews with her ladyship, had resolved to risk detection yet once
more, and had given her notice of his intention.
We all remember Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea, and the grip of that
merciless rider tightening closer and closer the longer he was carried
by his disgusted victim. There is more truth in the fable than most of
us would like to allow. If you once permit yourself to set up an "Old
Man of the Sea," farewell to free agency, happiness, even tolerable
comfort, from that time forth! Sometimes your burden takes the shape
of a renewed bill, sometimes of a fatal secret, sometimes of an unwise
attachment, sometimes only of a bad habit; but whatever it be, the
farther you carry it the heavier it seems to grow; and in this case
custom does not in the least degree reconcile you to the infliction.
Up with your heels, and kick it off at any price! Even should you rick
your back in the process, it is better to be crippled for life than
eternally oppressed by a ruthless rider and an intolerable weight.
Gentleman Jim was becoming Lady Bearwarden's Old Man of the Sea. More
than once of late he had forced himself on her presence when it was
exceedingly inconvenient and even dangerous to meet him. The promised
interview of to-day had been extorted from her most unwillingly, and
by threats, implied if not expressed. She began to feel that she was
no longer her own mistress--that she had lost her independence, and
was virtually at the command of an inferior. To a proud nature like
hers such a situation seemed simply intolerable.
Lord Bearwarden seldom came in much before it was time to dress for
dinner; but young men's habits are not usually very regular, the
monotonous custom of doing everything by clockwork being a tedious
concomitant of old age. Maud could not calculate on his absence at any
particular hour of the day unless he were on duty, and the bare notion
that she should _wish_ thus to calculate fretted and chafed her beyond
measure. It was a relief to hear the door-bell once more, and prepare
to confront the worst. A London servant never betrays astonishment,
nor indeed any emotion whatever, beyond a shade of dignified and
forbearing contempt. The first footman showed Lady Bearwarden's
suspicious-looking visitor into her boudoir with sublime indifference,
returning thereafter leisurely and loftily to his tea. Maud felt her
courage departing, and her defeat, like that of brave troops seized
by panic, seemed all the more imminent for habitual steadiness and
valour. She took refuge in an attempt to bully.
"Why are you here?" said Maud, standing bolt upright; while Gentleman
Jim, with an awkward bow, began as usual to unroll his goods. "I have
told you often enough this persecution must finish. I am determined
not to endure it any longer. The next time you call I shall order my
servants to drive you from the door. O, will you--_will_ you not come
to terms?"
His face had been growing darker and darker while she spoke, and she
watched its expression as the Mediterranean fisherman watches a white
squall gliding with fatal swiftness over the waters, to bring ruin and
shipwreck and despair. It sometimes happens that the fisherman loses
his head precisely at the wrong moment, so that foiled, helpless,
and taken aback, he comes to fatal and irremediable grief. Thus Lady
Bearwarden, too, found the nerve on which she prided herself failing
when she most wanted it, and knew that the prestige and influence
which formed her only safeguards were slipping from her grasp.
She had cowed this ruffian at their first meeting by an assumption
of calm courage and superiority in a crisis when most women, thus
confronted at dead of night by a housebreaker, would have shrunk
trembling and helpless before him. She had retained her superiority
during their subsequent association by an utter indifference as to
results, so long as they only affected character and fortune, which
to his lower nature seemed simply incomprehensible; but now that her
heart was touched she could no longer remain thus reckless, thus
defiant. With womanly feelings came womanly misgivings and fear of
consequences. The charm was lost, the spell broken, and the familiar
spirit had grown to an exacting master from an obedient slave.
"That's not the way as them speaks who's had the pith and marrow out
of a chap's werry bones," growled Jim. "There wasn't no talkin of
figure-footmen and drivin' of respectable tradesmen from folks' doors
when a _man_ was wanted, like this here. A _man_, I says, wot wasn't
afeard to swing, if so be as he could act honourable and fulfil his
bargain."
"I'll pay anything. Hush! _pray_. Don't speak so loud. What _must_ my
servants think? Consider the frightful risks I run. Why should you
wish to make me utterly miserable--to drive me out of my senses? I'll
pay anything--anything to be free from this intolerable persecution."
"Pay--pay anythink!" repeated Jim, slightly mollified by her distress,
but still in a tone of deep disgust. "Pay. Ah! that's always the word
with the likes of you. You think your blessed money can buy us poor
chaps up, body and heart and soul Blast your money! says I. There,
that's not over civil, my lady, but it's plain speaking."
"What would you have me do?" she asked, in a low plaintive voice.
She had sunk into an arm-chair, and was wringing her hands. How lovely
she looked now in her sore distress! It imparted the one feminine
charm generally wanting in her beauty.
Gentleman Jim, standing over against her, could not but feel the old
mysterious influence pervading him once more. "If you was to say to
me, Jim, says you, I believe as you're a true chap!--I believe as
you'd serve of me, body and bones. Well, not for money. Money be
d----d! But for goodwill, we'll say. I believe as you thinks there's
nobody on this 'arth as is to be compared of me, says you; and see
now, you shall come here once a week, once a fortnit, once a month,
even, and I'll never say no more about drivin' of you away; but you
shall see me, and I'll speak of you kind and haffable; and whatever
I wants done I'll tell you, do it: and it _will_ be done; see if it
won't! Why--why I'd be proud, my lady--there--and happy too. Ay, there
wouldn't walk a happier man, nor a prouder, maybe, in the streets of
London!"
It was a long speech for Jim. At its conclusion he drew his sleeve
across his face and bent down to re-arrange the contents of his
bundle.
Tears were falling from her eyes at last. Noiselessly enough, and
without that redness of nose, those contortions of face, which render
them so unbecoming to most women.
"Is there no way but this?" she murmured. "No way but this? It's
impossible! It's absurd! It's infamous! Do you know who I am? Do you
know what you ask? How dare you dictate terms to _me_? How dare you
presume to say I shall do this, I shall not do _that?_ Leave my house
this minute. I will not listen to another syllable!"
She was blazing out again, and the fire of pride had dried her tears
ere she concluded. Anger brought back her natural courage, but it was
too late.
Gentleman Jim's face, distorted with fury, looked hideous. Under his
waistcoat lurked a long thin knife. Maud never knew how near, for one
ghastly moment, that knife was to being buried in her round white
throat.
He was not quite madman enough, however, to indulge his passions so
far, with the certainty of immediate destruction.
"Have a care!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "If you and me
is to be enemies, look out! You know me--leastways you ought to; and
_you_ know I stick at nothing!"
She was still dreadfully frightened. Once more she went back to the
old plea, and offered him fifty pounds--a hundred pounds. Anything!
He was tying the knots of his bundle. Completing the last, he looked
up, and the glare in his eyes haunted her through many a sleepless
night.
"You've done it now!" was all he muttered. "When next you see me
you'll wish you hadn't."
It speaks well for Jim's self-command that, as he went down, he could
say, "Your servant, my lord," with perfect composure, to a gentleman
whom he met on the stairs.