THE THUNDERBOLT.
Longueville Hall, the principal residence of Sir Alexis Longueville,
Bart., is one of the first houses of its class in the south of England.
It is not of the first magnitude, but it is of the first excellence. It
has always been the home of wealth--nothing about it has ever fallen
into decay. The façade is pure Italian, and has been ascribed to a very
great name indeed in architecture; but in the east wing, which is the
oldest part of the house, there are traces (as the “Handbook” to the
county will tell you) of much older work. The kitchen is a great vaulted
Gothic chamber, whispering recollections of Wolsey, and guests
archiepiscopal at the least, and the building has been carefully toned
up or down to these relics. You can see at a glance that nothing has
ever been neglected or forsaken at Longueville Hall. The Longuevilles
had always been a very proud family, though Sir Alexis, by dint of being
of the younger branch--not a younger son, but, what is worse, a younger
nephew--had learned to veil his native haughtiness in a semblance of
theoretical equality; but even he had all the pride of the Longuevilles,
though he knew better than to exhibit it where there was no need of such
vanities. And to all the Longuevilles their house had always been the
first of houses, the one sacred shrine to which no evil was permitted to
approach. They had worshipped it with a certain superstition, and the
consequence was that few houses in such perfect preservation were to be
found in England. Almost all that remained for Sir Alexis to do when he
came into possession was the remodelling of the gardens, and the
rearrangement of the picture gallery--not that either was in bad order,
indeed, but that, as a connoisseur and amateur flower-gardener of the
first water, it was for him one of the first necessities of life to
conform these sovereign luxuries to his own fancy. Sir Alexis was
luxurious in everything. He was rich, and had few claims upon him beyond
those of his own tastes, and accordingly he had spared nothing in the
gratification of those tastes. The house accordingly was the pride of
the county, the standard of grace and of art for the whole district.
“Ah, you should see Longueville,” the rural squires said, when they were
told of Chatsworth or of Trentham; and when a newly-married gentleman of
the district remodelled his old rooms for his bride’s arrival, furtive
recollections of the reigning house were ever visible in his furniture
and flower-beds. Simplicity itself came into fashion through the example
of Sir Alexis; and, though the magnificence was less easy to be copied,
the attempt was made out with still more eager servility. Every new
detail in the great house was described and dwelt upon with unfailing
interest throughout the neighbourhood, and when it was known that Sir
Alexis was about to introduce that crowning novelty, that final luxury,
a young and beautiful wife, the interest rose to a climax. This was a
particular in which few of the rural great people could copy, in which
most of them had preceded, the baronet. But still in hall, and park, and
parsonage throughout the country the new Lady Longueville was looked for
with almost enthusiasm. People were honestly glad that the old house was
not to die out. Whatever advances democratical feeling may have made,
this pleasure in the continuance of a family is, I believe, universal in
England. It gave an almost personal gratification to people who had no
connexion whatever with the Longuevilles--such a gratification as
bystanders have in seeing an apparently failing cause or combatant pick
up strength, and gain at the very end an unhoped-for triumph.
There were all kinds of rejoicings on the estate itself, and it was
under triumphal arches, with ringing of bells, and sound of music, with
a bodyguard of mounted tenantry, and shouts that rent the sky, that
Innocent was conducted to her future home. I do not know if she
understood the full meaning of such a demonstration, or took in, in the
smallest degree (I do not believe it), the elevating sense of local,
almost national importance, the _quasi_-sovereignty which such a
reception might convey. But her mind was full of a kind of wondering
pleasure--the phantasmagoria in this case which glided before her dreamy
eyes was pleasant and bright, and amusing and pretty; and she had one
strong staff of reality to support her in her husband, her perfectly
kind and always attentive companion, who took complete charge of her,
told her what to do, cared for her in everything, and never scolded her;
conditions which made up all the Elysium Innocent had ever dreamed of.
Sir Alexis had happily hit upon the right key-note at the very
beginning. He had taken up, after careful thought, the position which
Frederick had stumbled into by chance, and which had bound Innocent to
him in absolute allegiance for so long. Sir Alexis, thinking it all
carefully over, and determined to be successful in this last great
venture of his life, had not been above taking a lesson, even from that
attachment to Frederick, which was the only thing he resented, and the
only thing he feared in his simple young wife; and the experiment had
all the appearance of being triumphantly successful. After the first
bewilderment and agitation inseparable from the beginning of a life so
strangely new and different from all her past, Innocent had settled down
with sweet docility into all the novel habits of her changed existence.
The magnificence that surrounded her pleased her. She took to it
naturally. The great rooms, the larger lines of drapery, the size and
space about her, supplied a want which she had vaguely felt during all
her life at The Elms. The want of space was the first thing which had
struck her on her arrival, and during all the interval she had been
conscious of it. To be sure, the magnificent perfection of Longueville
was very unlike the scanty poverty and bareness of the Palazzo
Scaramucci; but yet this great house was more like home to her than were
the smaller crowded rooms, clothed from top to bottom, of her Aunt’s
house. She had room to breathe. I think Sir Alexis was disappointed that
she did not choose for herself one of the smaller rooms, to make of it
her own special bower and the future domestic centre; but he was wise
and very tolerant, and did not interfere. “All that will come in time,”
he said to himself. He did not even ask questions about what she liked
or did not like, but skilfully watched and followed the unconscious
leading of her inclinations. Few men would have had the patience to do
this, as few men would have been able to gratify these inclinations as
they showed themselves. But Sir Alexis was capable of both.
I cannot follow out the course of this curious idyll. I suppose it is
within the bounds of possibility that a man of fifty might find himself
able to play the impassioned part of the young lover in an idyll of the
more usual land, though I avow that to a woman approaching that period
of life the possibility appears half humbling, half comical; but Sir
Alexis did not attempt this particular _rôle_, which indeed would have
been incomprehensible to Innocent. Their mutual position was of a
different kind. In marrying a creature so unlike ordinary women--so
undeveloped, so simple in mind and thoughts--Sir Alexis had accepted all
the responsibilities of the position. He showed his love for her rather
in the calm way in which a father displays his sentiments than with the
passion of a young husband. Her beauty delighted him, and the pride of
possessing so rare a piece of Nature to crown his collections; and her
simplicity--even her pensiveness and silentness had a charm for the man
of the world, whom the world had often wearied, but who found a kind of
renewal in the society of this soft companion, who accepted all he said
with little response but no contradiction, and who turned to him after a
while as flowers turn to the sun. And it would be simple foolishness to
say that Innocent loved Sir Alexis as women love their husbands; she was
incapable of such a sentiment; but she had a gentle affection for him,
made up of gratitude and the soft response to kindness which every
gentle nature gives. She learned soon and without words the pleasant
lesson that her comfort and happiness and well-being were dear to him
beyond everything else, that he would neglect no indication of her
wishes, no germ of inclination on her part. He took care of her whatever
she did, wherever she went, he shaped all his acts and his ways to
please her, or--which was just as good--he implied her acquiescence in
all he wished, and told her to do what she was glad and pleased to do in
obedience to him. He made her drive, he made her ride, he took her out
walking, he filled her life with gentle occupation. Sometimes she would
write something for him at his dictation, or at his desire--sometimes
she would play for him, pleased to think she pleased him, and with
growing certainty day by day that everything she did pleased him,
_because_ she did it, a certainty which is more potent in attracting and
confirming affection than perhaps any other secondary influence. And
haply Sir Alexis himself not only endured patiently, but enjoyed this
curious placid life, which was so strangely different from the ordinary
honeymoon. His pride was involved, as well as his affection. Many men
dream (I believe) of training their wives into perfect accord, perfect
harmony, or rather reflection of their own being; but few men have ever
had such an opportunity. Innocent seemed the blank sheet on which he
could write his name, the virgin wax which he could mould into any form
he pleased. He did not put actual educational processes in operation,
but he began to guide her towards the things that pleased him. He
praised her music, and so persuaded her to cultivate that faculty, which
was perhaps the only one by which she could have reached a certain kind
of excellence; he read to her, not inquiring much into her opinions,
hoping for little beyond impression, yet placing a certain trust in
that. He talked to her, and told her stories of people and places and
things, of pictures which she had a natural love for, and books which
she respected with a certain awe. His object was not only to ripen and
mature the pretty Innocent he was fond of, but to produce out of this
germ of being the Lady Longueville, who would be the mother of his
children, and mistress of his house--when his work was done.
They spent some weeks thus together, pleasant and soft and free from
care. Thus all February, with its winds and chills passed over them, and
March began. They had not, however, quite completed the honeymoon, when
a vague, indescribable shadow fell on this tranquil sweetness. The
shadow fell, not on Innocent, who, however, once or twice vaguely
fancied on looking at her husband that he might be “angry,” but on Sir
Alexis alone, who sat long over the newspaper one particular morning,
rose pallid as a ghost from reading it,--locked it carefully away in his
desk, and telegraphed immediately after to his solicitor in town. His
countenance was changed when his young wife came into the room, and that
was the first time that Innocent fancied he was angry, but when she
asked him, he took her in his arms with more passionate fervour than he
had ever shown before.--“Angry! my darling,--can I ever be angry with
you?” he cried, frightening her by his vehemence. The solicitor, Mr.
Pennefather, a serious man, whom Innocent had scarcely seen before, came
next day, and there were very long and solemn discussions between the
two men, during which she was left alone, and felt somewhat desolate,
poor child; but she was perfectly satisfied when she was told it was
business, and asked no questions. When Mr. Pennefather went away, the
shadows seemed to pass, and all was well again. The great woods about
Longueville began to thrill with the new life of spring, and to open new
buds to the genial sun. They seemed an emblem of their master, who was
also clothing himself with a new existence, and delights, and hopes. The
green slopes of the park surrounded the pair with miles and miles of a
lovely solitude, stately in immemorial splendour, yet fresh as a village
common. On the terrace, which occupied the front of the house, and upon
which opened the many windows of the great drawing-room which Innocent
loved, great baskets of flowers were already placed. It had a southern
exposure and was sheltered from the winds, and the gardeners were
skilful and many. Sir Alexis took pleasure in placing these great
bouquets of blossom in his young wife’s favourite walk; and if any
delicate plant succumbed to the frost, there were abundant means of
replacing it. In the distance the broad lawn was marked out with deep
golden lines of crocuses, and waving airy anemones, and every common
flower that loves the spring; for he was wise enough not to despise the
common children of Nature, the sweetest and most abundant riches of the
season. After the momentary cloud which had passed over their sky, he
was more tender than ever, more constantly watchful over her; and much
of their time was spent on this terrace, where they would sometimes sit
together, sometimes wander, from one end to another, talking as they
called it, which meant that Sir Alexis would talk and Innocent listen,
looking up at him with docile, grateful eyes--or reading, when she was
more attentive still, absorbed with the story; for it was always story,
either poetry or prose. This was how they were occupied on one mild
afternoon early in March. The sun slanted from the west upon the green
terrace, one end of which lay in full light, while the other was turned
into a chill corner of shadow by the projection of the west wing. The
husband and wife were walking slowly along the sunny side, now and then
making a long pause by one of the flower baskets, gay with hyacinths and
hardy azaleas. Sir Alexis, with the sunshine streaming upon the crisp
curls of his hair, which was getting grey, read to her one of Tennyson’s
lighter and more youthful poems. I think it was “The Miller’s Daughter.”
Sometimes, if he thought her attention was wandering, he would put out
his hand and lay it lightly on her shoulder, holding the book from which
he read in his other hand; and on these occasions Innocent turned to him
with a smile, in which a faint dawning sense of amusement at his
solicitude mingled with the natural dreamy sweetness. She was dressed in
a gown made of white cashmere, somewhat more akin to the fashion than
was her wont, yet falling in the soft, clinging folds peculiar to the
material, with a grace which modern fashion scarcely permits--and a
little cloak of pale blue velvet, gray-blue, with a bloom upon it such
as painters love, made after the fashion of the old cloak which had been
her constant wrap in Pisa. It was Sir Alexis who had disinterred the
ancient garment, and had learned the associations it had to her. He was
a man who thought of such trifles, and he had himself chosen with great
trouble the colour of the material in which it was reproduced. Her hair
had been allowed to fall down, as of old, on her shoulders. Nobody could
be more strenuous on the point of appearance than was Sir Alexis on
state occasions, but he liked to see his young wife look as childlike as
when he saw her first. Thus she strayed along by his side, a child, yet
with the mysterious maturity of wifehood in her eyes--a gentle vagrant
in a world not half realized, yet one whose simple feet had trod through
mysteries and wonders of life and death--the simplest of girls, yet a
great lady-sovereign in a breadth of country as great as many a
principality, and with power for good or evil over many a soul unborn.
The evening sun slanted down upon her uncovered head, the princely house
held all its windows open behind her, the afternoon bees, ready to fly
home, sucked their last at the hyacinths with drowsy hum, and the soft
grass felt warm under her feet. There was not a cloud upon the sky, save
those which had already began to perform the final ceremonial of the
sunset in the west. How peaceful the scene! Tranquil happiness in the
air, soft sunshine, nothing impassioned, lofty, ecstatic, but a gentle
perfection of well-being. Every line of those trees, every blade of the
growing grass, seemed to bear its part in the peaceful fulness of
enjoyment, which was almost too still and soft to be called by that
name.
“The Miller’s Daughter!” Our poet was not the great poet we know when he
wrote that soft and youthful pastoral. There was nothing in it too deep
for Innocent. She listened, with her heart gently stirred, with a sense
of all the peace surrounding her, and the grave, calm love that
cherished her, and her own ineffable safety from all evil--smiling when
her husband laid his hand upon her shoulder. There have been scenes of
more exalted, more profound emotion; but none more soft, more safe, more
peaceful, safe, and sure than this afternoon scene at Longueville. The
very afternoon was tranquil in its slumberous peacefulness, like the
girl’s heart.
They were disturbed by the sounds of wheels ringing sharply upon the
gravel of the avenue, and dispersing the pebbles on all sides, as if
some one in hot haste was on his way to the Hall. The avenue was
invisible from the terrace; but this harsh sound offended Sir Alexis. It
was no carriage, but some impertinent two-wheeled thing like a dog-cart
which made this ado--he could tell as much by the sound. His brow
puckered with impatience; he stopped his reading. Something of the look
which had made Innocent think he was “angry,” a sharp anxiety, a sudden
pallor, came over his face.
“It is some Cockney party to see Longueville, no doubt,” he said, in a
voice which sounded harsh to Innocent. “But, thank heaven! they will be
disappointed to-day.”
The sound ceased, but he could not resume his reading all at once.
“That is the nuisance of having a handsome house,” he said; “all the
fools in the country think they have a right to come and see it. I have
no doubt these impertinent intruders will go away quite angry that we
choose to keep our house to ourselves. I do not know what the world is
coming to. But whom have we here?”
Two men were approaching, following the butler, who was a very solemn
personage, looking like a bishop at the least, but who this time was
pale and scared, with a curious look of warning and alarm. The men who
followed at first only conveyed to the beholder the impression that they
were “not gentlemen.” As, however, they advanced closer an indefinable
air about them began to take effect upon Sir Alexis, as it seemed to
have done upon his servant. The paleness of his face increased till it
grew ashen-grey.
“Had you not better go in, Innocent?” he said hoarsely, laying his hand
once more on her shoulder; but his voice was strange, not like the
gentle tone in which he usually gave her his instructions, and Innocent
kept her place by him, falling a step behind him, but showing no other
appearance of embarrassment or shyness. She was not looking at them, but
saw vaguely that the new-comers were not interesting to her. She waited
because her husband waited, to see what they wanted. It was an
interruption--but interruptions did not affect Innocent as they do most
people. “The Miller’s Daughter” and the lingering warmth of the spring
afternoon would wait.
“Two--gentlemen, Sir Alexis--to speak with you,” said the butler,
standing aside with an air of fright. He did not go away when he
announced them in this simple way, but stood still, like a man
paralyzed, not seeming to know what he did.
Shabby men--not such men as had any right to penetrate there--into that
region of refinement and splendour. They kept very close to each other.
One of them, the shabbiest of the two, kept so close on his companion’s
track that their shadows fell into one along the grass. The other
cleared his throat, shifted from one foot to another, took out his
handkerchief, and wiped his face. He was embarrassed and uncertain.
“Is there anything in which I can serve you, gentlemen?” said Sir
Alexis, with a voice so strangely altered by restrained excitement that
even Innocent looked up at him wondering, not recognizing the sound.
“I don’t want to do nothing disagreeable,” said the foremost, “or to
make any unpleasantness as can be spared. It is an ’orrible business,
make the best of it as you can. We won’t give no trouble as we can help,
Sir Alexis. She may go in her own carriage, and you may go along with
her, if you please. But I can’t disguise from you as my lady must come
with us. I don’t know how much you knows about it--and I don’t doubt as
one way or other she’ll get off----”
“What is the meaning of this?” said Longueville. O God! how well he knew
what it meant! He made a step forward in front of his wife by instinct,
then stopped short in the confusion of impotence, knowing that he could
do nothing, and that his only policy was to submit.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man, moulding his hat in his hands
with real embarrassment. “I feels for you with all my heart. I have my
warrant all in order. You shan’t be deceived nohow--and anything as we
can do to make the blow less ’eavy and spare ill-convenience you may
calculate upon. But I have to do my duty----”
“Of course, you must do your duty,” said Sir Alexis, pale, but nerving
himself for the worst. “But, my good fellow, here is evidently some
mistake. What”--he paused with an effort, for his lips were
parched--“what--do you mean?--whom--do you seek here?”
“If I must say it in so many words,” said the officer, “I have come for
my Lady Longueville. Here’s my warrant. It’s all in the paper.--‘Dame
Innocent, wife of Sir Alexis Longueville, Bart.----’”
“For what? Good heavens!”
How vain it was to ask!--as if since even he saw these men the certainty
of it, the shame, the misery, the horrible possibilities which might
follow, had not risen like a picture, pale against a lurid background of
suffering, before his eyes.
“For the murder of Amanda Eastwood, at Sterborne, on the 21st of October
last----”
For the first time Innocent was fully roused. She uttered a low cry--she
turned to her husband with a wild look of wonder and appeal.
“You said it would all be made right--all right!” she said, clasping her
helpless hands, appealing against her sudden misery to heaven and earth.