‘IN THE MEANWHILE THE SKIES ’GAN RUMBLE SORE.’
After that portrait of Lady Barker, John Treverton drew no more
caricatures. It seemed as if he had laid aside the pen of the
caricaturist in deference to his wife’s dislike of that somewhat
ill-natured art. But he had not abandoned the higher walks of art,
for he had made himself a studio out of one of the spare bedrooms
that looked northward, and was engaged on a portrait of his wife, an
altogether fanciful and ideal picture, which he worked at for an hour
or two daily with infinite delight. He had many pleasant labours and
occupations at this period of his life. The farm, the hunting field,
the business details of a large property, which he wished to conduct
in an orderly manner, not hiding his talents in a napkin, but improving
the estate, which Jasper Treverton had considerably increased during
his long life, but upon which the old man had been somewhat loth
to spend money. It was altogether a full and happy life which John
Treverton led with his wife in this first year of their union, and it
seemed to both that nothing was wanting to perfect their happiness. And
yet, by-and-by, when there came the prospect of a child being born in
the grave old house which had so long been undisturbed by the patter of
childish feet, the fulfilment of this sweet hope seemed the one thing
needed to fill their cup of joy.
While at the Manor House all was bliss, life dawdled on comfortably
enough at the Vicarage, where the good, easy-tempered, hard-working
Vicar had begun to be reconciled to the idea that his only son was to
be an idler all his life; until perchance this seemingly barren plant
should some day put forth the glorious flower of genius. And then the
father’s patience, the mother’s love, would be rewarded all at once for
weary days of waiting and despondency.
Edward had contrived to make himself particularly agreeable since his
return to the family roof tree. He was less cynical than of old; less
apt to rail against fate for not having set his lines in pleasanter
places.
Even Celia was beguiled into the belief that her brother was completely
cured of his attachment to Laura.
‘I suppose his passion was like that poor sentimental old Petrarch’s,’
mused Celia, who had read about half-a-dozen sonnets of the illustrious
Italian’s in the whole course of her life, ‘and he will go on spinning
verses about the lady of his love for the next twenty years, without
feeling any the worse for his platonic affection. He seems to enjoy
being at the Manor House; and he and John Treverton get on very well
together, considering how different they are in character.’
Edward made himself very comfortable in his rural home. He had tried
London life, and had grown heartily sick of it; and he was now less
disposed than of old to grumble at the dulness of a Devonshire village.
What though he saw the same stolid bovine faces every day? Were they
not better and fairer to look at than the herd of strange faces--keen
and sharpened as if the desire for gain was an absolute physical
hunger--that had passed him by in the smoke-tainted streets of London?
These faces knew him. Here hats were touched as he passed by. People
noticed whether he looked well or ill. Here, at least, he was somebody,
an important figure in the sum of village life. His death would cause a
sensation, his absence would make a blank. Edward did not care a straw
about these simple villagers; but it pleased him that they should care
for him. He settled himself down in his old home--the good substantial
old Vicarage, a roomy house with stone walls, high gables, and heavy
chimney stacks, shut in from the road by a holly hedge of a century’s
growth, sheltered at the back by the steep slope of the moor, while its
front windows faced undulating pastures and distant woods.
Here Edward made himself a study, or den, where he could work at
his _magnum opus_, and where his solitude was undisturbed by
intrusion. It was understood that his labours in this sanctuary of
genius were of the hardest. Here he gave up his soul to convulsive
throes and struggles, as of Pythoness on her tripod. The chamber was
at the end of a long passage, and had a lattice overlooking the moor.
Here tobacco was not forbidden, although the Vicar was no smoker, and
had an old-fashioned detestation of cigars. Edward found a good deal
of smoke necessary to relax the tension of his nerves, during the
manufacture of his poem. If the door was suddenly opened by Celia or
Mrs. Clare, the poet was apt to be discovered reclining in his rocking
chair, with a cigar between his lips, and his eyes fixed dreamily upon
the topmost ridge of moorland. At such times he told his mother and
sister he was doing his thinking. The scored and blotted manuscript
on his writing-table testified to the severity of his labours; but
the sharp-eyed Celia perceived that the work progressed but slowly.
There was a good deal of meditation and cigar smoke necessary to its
elaboration. Once or twice Edward had been discovered reading a French
novel.
‘One so soon forgets a language if one doesn’t read a thoroughly
idiomatic work now and then,’ he said, explaining this seeming
frivolity.
He kept up his connection with the popular magazines, sending them as
many trifles in the drawing-room style as they could expect from him;
and by this means he contrived to be well dressed and provided with
pocket-money, without sponging on his father.
‘All I want is the run of my teeth for the next year or so, till I have
made a name,’ he told his mother; ‘that is not much for an only son to
ask of his father.’
The Vicar agreed that the demand was modest. He would have preferred
a son of a more active and eager temperament--a son who would have
taken to the church, or law, or medicine, or even soldiering. But it
was not for him to complain if Heaven had given him a genius, instead
of a commonplace plodder. It was the old story of the ugly duck, no
doubt. By-and-by, the snow-white wings would unfold themselves for a
noble flight, and the admiring world would acknowledge the beauty of
the swan. Mrs. Clare, who adored her only son, after the manner of
weak-minded mothers, was delighted to have him at home, for good, as
she said, delightedly. She made his den as luxurious as her small
means would allow; put up bookshelves wherever he wanted them, covered
his mantleboard with velvet, and draped it with point lace of her
own working, bought him cigar stands and ash trays, tobacco jars and
fusee boxes, blotting books, slippers, down pillows for his hours of
lassitude, soft fluffy rugs to cover his feet when he sank on his snug
little couch, prostrate after lengthened wrestling with an unpropitious
muse. All that a doting mother can do to spoil a young man, Mrs. Clare
did for her son; and it happened, unfortunately, that he was not made
of that strong stuff which the sweet flatteries of love cannot corrupt.
There were certain hours when the poet was approachable. At five
o’clock on those evenings when the brother and sister were not at the
Manor House, Celia used to bring him a cup of coffee, and the small
stock of gossip which she had been able to collect in the course of her
frivolous day. She would seat herself on a hassock beside the fire, or
even on the edge of the fender, and chatter gaily, while Edward lay
back in his easy chair, sipping his coffee, and listening with an air
of condescending indulgence.
A good deal of Celia’s talk was naturally about her friends at the
Manor House. She had got over her prejudice against John Treverton, and
was even enthusiastic in her praise of him. He was ‘quite too lovely.’
As a husband she declared him ‘perfect.’ She wished that Heaven had
made her such a man.
‘I really think Laura is the luckiest girl in creation!’ she exclaimed.
‘Such a husband, such a house, such a stable, such gardens, such
a rent-roll! It is almost provoking to see her take everything so
quietly. I believe she is grateful to Providence, because she is
dreadfully religious, you know. But her placidity almost enrages me. If
I had half such good fortune I should want to jump over the moon!’
‘Laura is thoroughly good style, my dear. Well-bred people never want
to jump over the moon,’ Edward remarked, languidly.
‘Strictly fraternal,’ ejaculated Celia, with a shrug.
‘I am very glad to hear she is so happy,’ pursued Edward, with an air
of ineffable good nature. ‘Thank heaven, I have quite got over my old
weakness about her, and can contemplate her happiness without a twinge
of jealousy. But at the same time I do rather wonder that she can be
thoroughly happy with a man of whose antecedents she knows nothing.’
‘How can you say that, Ted? She knows who he is, and what he is. She
knows that he was a lieutenant in a crack regiment, and sold out
because he had run through his money----’
‘Sold out just seven years ago,’ interrupted Edward. ‘What has he been
doing with himself in the meantime?’
‘Knocking about London.’
‘That is a very vague phrase. Seven years! He must have earned his
living somehow during the greater part of that time. The money he got
for his commission would not last him long. He must have had his own
particular circle of acquaintances during that interval. Why are none
of them forthcoming? Why is he so silent about the experiences of those
seven years? Man is an egotistical animal, my dear Celia. Be sure that
there is always something to be ashamed of when a man keeps silence
about himself.’
‘There is something rather odd about that, certainly,’ assented Celia,
in a musing tone. ‘John Treverton never talks of his past life, or,
at any rate, of the time that has gone by since he left the army. I
suppose he has been in London all the time, for he talks as if he were
awfully disgusted with London life. If I were Laura I should insist
upon knowing all about it.’
‘There can be no happiness between man and wife without perfect
confidence,’ said Edward. ‘No enduring happiness, at least.’
‘Poor, dear Laura,’ sighed Celia. ‘I always said it was an ill-omened
marriage; but lately I have thought that I was going to turn out a
false prophet.’
‘Has she ever told you what took her husband away after their marriage?’
‘No, on that point she has been as silent as the grave. She told me
once that he had been to Buenos Ayres, called away on business. I have
never been able to extort anything more out of her.’
‘It must have been a curious kind of business which called a man away
from his newly-wedded wife,’ said Edward.
Celia nodded significantly, and looked at the fire. She loved Laura
well, but she loved scandal better.
Edward gave a short, impatient sigh, and turned his head fretfully
upon the cushion which maternal hands had worked in softest wool. That
movement, expressive of disgust with life in general, did not escape
the sharp eyes of his sister.
‘Ted, dear, I’m afraid you have not left off being unhappy about
Laura,’ she murmured, sympathetically.
‘I am only unhappy about her when I think she is married to a
scoundrel.’
‘Oh, Ted, how can you say such a thing?’
‘Celia, a man who can give no account of seven years of his life must
be a scoundrel,’ Edward Clare said decisively. ‘Say nothing to alarm
Laura, I beg you. I am talking to you to-day as if you were a man, and
to be trusted. Wait and watch. Wait and watch, as I shall.’
‘Edward, how you frighten me! You make me feel as if we were living in
one of those villages at the foot of Vesuvius, with a fiery mountain
getting itself ready to explode and destroy us.’
‘There will be an explosion some day, Celia, depend upon it; an
explosion that will blow up the Manor House as surely as Kirk o’ Field
was blown up the night Darnley was slain.’
He said no more, though Celia did not willingly let the subject drop.
Indeed, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having said so
much, though he had not given his sister his confidence without a
motive. He wanted to know all that could be known about John Treverton,
and Celia was in a position to learn much that he could not discover
for himself.
‘I really thought you were beginning to like Mr. Treverton,’ the girl
said, presently. ‘You and he seem to get on so well together.’
‘I am civil to him for Laura’s sake. I would be guilty of a worse
hypocrisy if I thought it would serve her interests.’
Edward sighed, and gave his head another angry jerk upon the cushion.
He wanted to do John Treverton deadly harm; and yet he knew that the
worst he could do to his rival would bring about no good result to
himself. There was nothing to be gained by it. The injury would be
irrevocable, deadly; a blight upon name and fortune--perchance the
gallows--a shame so deep that a loving wife would scarcely survive the
blow. All this was in Edward Clare’s mind as a not impossible revenge.
And unhappily there was no smaller revenge possible. He felt himself
possessed of a deadly power; but of no power to wound without slaying.
He was like the cobra, whose poisonous fangs are provided with an
ingenious mechanism which keeps them in reserve until the creature
wants to use them. Two hinged teeth lie back against the roof of the
snake’s mouth. When he attacks his victim the hinge moves, the fangs
descend, the poison gland is pressed, and the deadly poison runs down
a groove in the tooth, and drops into the puncture prepared to receive
it. Lop off the wounded limb ere the shadow on the dial has marked
the passage of twenty seconds, or the venom will have done its work.
Medicine has yet to discover the antidote that can save the life of the
victim.