THE VINE-COVERED COTTAGE AT PISA.
That Archibald, Lord Level, had been a gay man, fond of pleasure, fond
of talking nonsense to pretty women, the world knew well: and perhaps,
world-fashion, admired him none the less for it. But his wife did not
know it. When Blanche Heriot became Blanche Level she was little more
than an innocent child, entirely unversed in the world's false ways.
She esteemed her husband; ay, and loved him, in a measure, and she was
happy for a time.
It is true that while they were staying in Switzerland a longing for
home came over her. They had halted in Paris for nearly a fortnight
on their outward route. Some very nice people whom Lord Level knew
were there; they were delighted with the fair young bride, and she was
delighted with them. Blanche was taken about everywhere, no one being
more anxious for her amusement than Lord Level himself. But one
morning, in the very midst of numerous projected expeditions, he
suddenly told Blanche that they must continue their journey that day.
"Oh, Archibald!" she had answered in a sort of dismay. "Why, it is
this very afternoon that we were going to Fontainebleau!"
"My dear, you shall see Fontainebleau the next time we are in Paris,"
he said. "I have a reason for wishing to go on at once."
And they went on. Blanche was far too good and dutiful a wife to
oppose her own will to her husband's, or to grumble. They went
straight on to Switzerland--travelling in their own carriage--but
instead of settling himself in one of those pretty dwellings on the
banks of Geneva's lake, as he had talked of to Blanche, Lord Level
avoided Geneva altogether, and chose a fearfully dull little village
as their place of abode. Very lovely as to scenery, it is true; but
quite unfrequented by travellers. It was there that Blanche first
began to long for home.
Next, they went on to Italy, posting straight to Pisa, and there Lord
Level took a pretty villa for a month in the suburbs of the town. Pisa
itself was deserted: it was hot weather; and Blanche did not think it
had many attractions. Lord Level, however, seemed to find pleasure in
it. He knew Pisa well, having stayed at it in days gone by. He made
Blanche familiar with the neighbourhood; together they admired and
wondered at the Leaning Tower, in its green plain, backed by distant
mountains; but he also went out and about a good deal alone.
One English dame of fashion was sojourning in the place--a widow,
Mrs. Page Reid. She occupied the next villa to theirs, and called upon
them; and she and Lady Level grew tolerably intimate. She was a
talkative, gay woman of thirty--and beside her Blanche seemed like a
timid schoolgirl.
One evening, when dinner was over, Lord Level strolled out--as he
often did--leaving his wife with Mrs. Page Reid, who had dined with
them. The two ladies talked together, and sang a song or two; and so
whiled away the time.
"Let us go out for a stroll, too!" exclaimed Mrs. Page Reid, speaking
on a momentary impulse, when she found the time growing monotonous.
Blanche readily agreed. It was a most lovely night; the moon bright
and silvery in the Italian sky. Putting on some fleecy shawls, the
ladies went down the solitary road, and turned by-and-by into a narrow
lane that looked like a grove of evergreens. Soon they came to a
pretty dwelling-place on the left, half villa, half cottage. Vines
grew up its trellised walls, flowers and shrubs crowded around it.
"A charming little spot!" cried Mrs. Page Reid, as they halted to peep
through the hedge of myrtles that clustered on each side the low
entrance-gate. "And two people are sitting there--lovers, I dare say,"
she added, "telling their vows under the moonbeams."
In front of the vine-wreathed window, on a bench overhung by the
branches of the trailing shrubs, the laurels and the myrtles, sat two
young people. The girl was tall, slender, graceful; her dark eyes had
a flashing fire even in the moonlight; her cheeks wore a rose-red
flush.
"How pretty she is!" whispered Blanche. "Look at her long gold
earrings! And he---- Oh!"
"What's the matter?" cried Mrs. Page Reid, the tone of the last word
startling her.
"It is my husband."
"Nonsense!" began Mrs. Page Reid. But after one doubting,
disbelieving look, she saw that it was so. Catching Blanche's hand,
she drew her forcibly away, and when they had gained the highroad,
burst into a long, low laugh.
"Don't think about it, dear," she said to Blanche. "It's nothing. The
best of husbands like to amuse themselves behind our backs."
"Perhaps he was--was--inquiring the way--or something," hazarded
Blanche, whose breath was coming rather faster than usual.
Mrs. Page Reid nearly choked. "Oh, to be sure!" she cried, when she
could speak.
"You don't think so? You think it was--something else?"
"You are only a little goose, my dear, in the ways of the world,"
rejoined Mrs. Page Reid. "Where's the man that does not like to talk
with a pretty woman? Lord Level, of all others, does."
"_He_ does?"
"Well, he used to do so. Of course he has mended his manners. And the
women, mind you, liked to talk to him. But don't take up the notion,
please, that by saying that I insinuate any unorthodox talking," added
Mrs. Page Reid as an after-thought, when she caught a look at Lady
Level's tell-tale countenance.
"I shall ask Lord Level----"
"_Ask nothing_," impressively spoke the elder lady, cutting short the
words. "Say nothing to your husband. Take my advice, Lady Level, for
it is good. There is no mortal sin a wife can commit so repugnant in
her husband's eyes as that of spying upon his actions. It would make
him detest her in the end."
"But I was not spying. We saw it by accident."
"All the same. Let it pass from your mind as though it had never
been."
Blanche was dubious. _If_ there was no harm, why should she not speak
of it?--and she could not think there was harm. And if there
_was_--why, she would not have breathed it to him for the world.
Dismissing the subject, she and Mrs. Page Reid sat down to a quiet
game at cards. When Lord Level came in, their visitor said good-night.
Blanche sat on in silence and torment. Should she speak, or should she
not? Lord Level seemed buried in a reverie.
"Archibald," she presently began.
"Yes," he answered, rousing himself.
"I--we--I and Mrs. Page Reid went out for a little walk in the
moonlight. And----"
"Well, my dear?"
"We saw you," Blanche was wishing to say; but somehow her courage
failed her. Her breath was short, her throat was beating.
"And it was very pleasant," she went on. "As warm and light as day."
"Just so," said Lord Level. "But the night air is treacherous, apt to
bring fever. Do not go out again in it, love."
So her effort to speak had failed. And the silence only caused her to
think the more. Blanche Level would have given her best diamond
earrings to know who that person was in the gold ones.
An evening or two further on, when she was quite alone, Lord Level
having again strolled out, she threw on the same fleecy shawl and
betook herself down the road to the cottage in the grove--the cottage
that looked like a pretty bower in the evergreens. And--yes----
Well, it was a strange thing--a startling thing; startling, anyway, to
poor Blanche Level's heart; but there, on the self-same bench, side by
side, sat Lord Level and the Italian girl. Her face looked more
beautiful than before to the young wife's jealous eyes; the gold
earrings glittered and sparkled in the moonlight. He and she were
conversing in a low, earnest voice, and Lord Level was smoking a
cigar.
Blanche stood rooted to the spot, shivering a little as she peered
through the myrtle hedge, but never moving. Presently the young woman
lifted her head, called out "Si," and went indoors, evidently in
answer to a summons.
"Nina," sang out Lord Level. "Nina"--raising his voice higher--"I have
left my cigar-case on the table; bring it to me when you come out
again."
He spoke in English. The next minute the girl returned, cigar-case in
hand. She took her place by his side, as before, and they fell to
talking again.
Lady Level drew away. She went home with flagging steps and a bitterly
rebellious heart.
Not to her husband would she speak; her haughty lips were sealed to
him--and should be ever, she resolved in her new pain. But she gave a
hint the next day of what she had again seen to Mrs. Page Reid.
That lady only laughed. To her mind it was altogether a rich joke. Not
only the affair itself, but Blanche's ideas upon it.
"My dear Lady Level," she rejoined, "as I said before, you are very
ignorant of the ways of the world. I assure you our husbands like to
chatter to others as well as to us. Nothing wrong, of course, you
understand; the mistake is, if we so misconstrue it. Lord Level is a
very attractive man, you know, and has had all sorts of escapades."
"I never knew that he had had them."
"Well, it is hardly likely he would tell you of them before you were
his wife. He will tell you fast enough some day."
"Won't you tell me some of them now?"
Blanche was speaking very equably, as if worldly wisdom had come to
her all at once; and Mrs. Page Reid began to ransack her memory for
this, that, or the other that she might have heard of Lord Level. As
tales of scandal never lose by carrying, she probably converted
mole-hills into mountains; most assuredly so to Blanche's mind.
Anyway, she had better have held her tongue.
From that time, what with one doubt and another, Lady Level's regard
for her lord was changed. Her feeling towards him became most bitter.
Resentment?--indignation?--neither is an adequate word for it.
At the week's end they left Pisa, for the month was up, and travelled
back by easy stages to Savoy. Blanche wanted to go direct to England,
but Lord Level objected: he said she had not yet seen enough of
Switzerland. It was in Savoy that her illness came on--the mal du
pays, as they called it. When she grew better, they started towards
home; travelling slowly and halting at every available spot. That his
wife's manner had changed to him, Lord Level could only perceive, but
he had no suspicion of its cause. He put it down to her anger at his
keeping her so long away from England.
The morning after they arrived at the inn in Germany (of which mention
has been made) Lord Level received a letter, which seemed to disturb
him. It was forwarded to him by a banker in Paris, to whom at present
all his letters were addressed. Telling Blanche that it contained
news of some matter of business upon which he must start for London
without delay, he departed; declining to listen to her prayer that she
might accompany him, but promising to return for her shortly. It was
at that inn that Arnold Ravensworth and his wife found Lady Level: and
it was with them she journeyed to England.
And here we must give a few words to Lord Level himself. He crossed
the Channel by the night mail to Dover, and reached London soon after
daybreak. In the course of the day he called at his bankers', Messrs.
Coutts and Co., to inquire for letters: orders having now been given
by him to Paris to forward them to London. One only awaited him, which
had only just then come in.
As Lord Level read it, he gave utterance to a word of vexation. For it
told him that the matter of business upon which he had hurried over
was put off for a week: and he found that he might just as well have
remained in Germany.
The first thought that crossed his mind was--should he return to his
wife? But it was hardly worth while doing so. So he took rooms in
Holles Street, at a comfortable house where he had lodged before, and
looked up friends and acquaintances at his club. But he did not let
that first day pass without calling on Charles Strange.
The afternoon was drawing to an end in Essex Street, and Charles was
in his own private room, all his faculties given to a deed, when Lord
Level was shown in. It was for Charles he asked, not for Mr.
Brightman.
"What an awful business this is!" began his lordship, when greetings
had passed.
Charles lifted his hands in dismay. No need to ask to whom the remark
applied: or to mention poor Tom Heriot by name.
"Could _nothing_ be done, Mr. Strange?" demanded the peer in his
coldest and haughtiest tones. "Were there _no_ means that could have
been taken to avert exposure?"
"Yes, I think there might have been, but for Tom's own careless
folly: and that's the most galling part of it," returned Charles. "Had
he only made a confidant of me beforehand, we should have had a try
for it. If I could not have found the money myself, Mr. Brightman
would have done so."
"You need only have applied to me," said Lord Level. "I should not
have cared how much I paid--to prevent exposure."
"But in his carelessness, you see, he never applied to anyone; he
allowed the blow to fall upon him, and then it was too late----"
"Was he a fool?" interjected Lord Level.
"There is this excuse for his not speaking: he did not know that
things were so bad, or that the people would proceed to extremities."
The peer drew in his haughty lips. "Did he tell you that pretty
fable?"
"Believe this much, Lord Level: what Tom _said_, he _thought_. Anyone
more reprehensibly light and heedless I do not know, but he is
incapable of falsehood. And in saying that he did not expect so grave
a charge, or believe there were any grounds on which it could be
made, I am sure he spoke only the truth. He was drawn in by one
Anstey, and----"
"I read the reports of the trial," interrupted Lord Level. "Do not be
at the pain of going over the details again."
"Well, the true culprit was Anstey; there's no doubt of that. But,
like most cunning rogues, he was able to escape consequences himself,
and throw them upon Tom. I am sure, Lord Level, that Tom Heriot no
more knew the bill was forged than I knew it. He knew well enough
there was something shady about it; about that and others which had
been previously in circulation, and had been met when they came to
maturity. This one bill was different. Of course there's all the
difference between shady bills of accommodation, and a bill that has a
responsible man's name to it, which he never signed himself."
"But what on earth possessed Heriot to allow himself to be drawn into
such toils?"
"Ah, there it is. His carelessness. He has been reprehensibly careless
all his life. And now he has paid for it. All's over."
"He is already on his passage out in the convict ship _Vengeance_, is
he not?" said Lord Level, with suppressed rage.
"Yes: ever since early in August," shuddered Charles. "How does
Blanche bear it?"
"Blanche does not know it."
"Not know it!"
"No. As yet I have managed to keep it from her. I dread its reaching
her, and that's the truth. It is a fearful disgrace. She is fond of
him, and would feel it keenly."
"But I cannot understand how it can have been kept from her."
"Well, it has been. Why, she does not even know that he sold out! She
thinks he embarked with the regiment for India last May! We had been
in Paris about ten days--after our marriage, you know--when one
morning, happening to take up the _Times_, I saw in it the account of
his apprehension and first examination. They had his name in as large
as life--Thomas Heriot. 'Some gross calumny,' I thought; 'Blanche must
not hear of this:' and I gave orders for continuing our journey that
same day. However, I soon found that it was not a calumny: other
examinations took place, and he was committed for trial. I kept my
wife away from all places likely to be frequented by the English, lest
a word should be dropped to her: and as yet, as I tell you, she knows
nothing of it. She is very angry with me in her heart, I can see, for
taking her to secluded places, and for keeping her away from England
so long, but this has been my sole motive. I want the thought of it to
die out of people's minds before I bring her home."
"She is not with you, then?"
"She is in Germany. I had to hasten over here upon a matter of
business, and shall return for her when it is finished. I have taken
my old rooms in Holles Street for a week. You must look me up there."
"I will," said Charles.
Mr. Brightman came in then, and the trouble was gone over again. Lord
Level felt it keenly; there could be no doubt of that. He inquired of
the older and more experienced lawyer whether there was any chance of
bringing Anstey to a reckoning, so that he might be punished; and as
to any expense, great or small, that might be incurred in the process,
his lordship added, he would give carte blanche for that with greater
delight than he had given money for anything in his whole life.
Charles could not help liking him. With all his pride and his imputed
faults, few people could help liking Lord Level.
Meanwhile, as may have been gathered in the last chapter, Lord Level
was detained in England longer than he had thought for. Lady Level
grew impatient and more impatient at the delay: and then, taking the
reins into her own hands, she crossed the Channel with Mr. and Mrs.
Arnold Ravensworth.