MOHAWKS
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "VIXEN," "ISHMAEL," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON
JOHN AND ROBERT MAXWELL
MILTON HOUSE, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET
AND
ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.
[_All rights reserved_]
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAP. PAGE
I. "ONE THAT DOTH WEAR HIMSELF AWAY IN LONENESS" 1
II. "A TEDIOUS ROAD THE WEARY WRETCH RETURNS" 40
III. "AND TO THE VIEWLESS SHADES HER SPIRIT FLED" 54
IV. "HOW BRIGHT SHE WAS, HOW LOVELY DID SHE SHOW!" 75
V. "I HAVE FORGOT WHAT LOVE AND LOVING MEANT" 110
VI. "YET WOULD I WISH TO LOVE, LIVE, DIE WITH THEE" 124
VII. "HOW SWEET AND INNOCENT'S THE COUNTRY MAID!" 144
VIII. "HE SPRINGS TO VENGEANCE WITH AN EAGER PACE" 177
IX. "BY VOW OBLIGED, BY PASSION LED 212
X. "AND SUDDENLY, SWEETLY, MY HEART BEAT STRONGER" 280
XI. "AND BEAUTY DRAWS US WITH A SINGLE HAIR" 290
XII. "LOVE IN THESE LABYRINTHS HIS SLAVES DETAINS" 304
MOHAWKS
CHAPTER I.
"ONE THAT DOTH WEAR HIMSELF AWAY IN LONENESS."
"Nothing?" asked the farmer, standing upon a heathery knoll, with his
gun under his arm, and his two clever spaniels, Nell and Beauty,
crouched dutifully at his feet.
"Nothing but this," answered the farmer's man, holding up a bundle of
papers--pamphlets and manuscripts--dirty, crumpled, worn as if with much
carrying to and fro over the face of the earth. They were tied up in a
ragged old cotton handkerchief, and they had been carried in the
breast-pocket of yonder wayfarer who lay stark and stiff, with his dead
face staring up at the bright blue sky of early morning. A little child,
a mere baby, lay asleep beside him, nestling against the arm that would
never again shelter or defend her.
It was a bright clear morning late in September, just one hundred and
seventy-seven years ago, the year of the battle of Malplaquet, and the
earth was so much the younger and fairer by all those years--innocent of
railroads, speculating builders, gasworks, dust-destructors,
sewage-farms, and telephones--a primitive world, almost in the infancy
of civilisation as it seems to us, looking back upon those slow-pacing
days from this age of improvement, invention, transmutation, and general
enlightenment.
It was a year for ever memorable in history. The bloody battle of
Malplaquet had but just been fought: a deluge of blood had been spilt,
and another great victory scored by the allies, at a cost of twenty
thousand slain. Brilliant as that victory had been, there were some who
felt that Marlborough's glory was waning. He was no longer in the flush
and floodtide of popularity. There were those who grudged him his
well-won honours, his ducal coronet, and palace at Woodstock. There were
those who feared his ambition, lest he should make himself a military
dictator, a second Cromwell, or even aspire to the crown. If ever
England seemed ripe for an elective monarchy or a republic, it was
surely just at this critical period: when widowed, childless Anne was
wavering in the choice of her successor, and when poor young Perkin, the
sole representative of legitimate royalty, was the chosen subject for
every libellous ballad and every obscene caricature of the day.
Very fair to look upon was Flamestead Common upon that September
morning, purple with heather, flecked here and there with golden patches
of the dwarf furze that flowers in the late summer, and with here and
there a glistening water-pool. The place where the dead man lay,
stretched on a bank of sunburnt moss and short tawny turf, was at the
junction of four roads. First, the broad high-road from London to
Portsmouth, stretching on like a silvery ribbon over hill and valley,
right and left of the little group yonder--the dead man and the sleeping
child, and the two living men looking down at them both, burly farmer in
stout gray homespun, and his hind in smock-frock and leather gaiters, a
costume that has changed but little within the last two hundred years.
The labourer had left his bush-harrow in a field hard by the common at
the call of his master, shouting from the little knoll above the road.
Matthew Bowman, the farmer, trudging across the common in the dewy
morning-tide, bent on a little partridge-shooting in the turnips on the
other side of this heathery waste, had lighted on this piteous group--a
tramp, lying dead by the wayside, and an infant, unconscious of its
desolation, lying asleep beside him.
What was to be done? Who was to take care of the dead, or the living?
Neither could very well be left by the wayside. Something must be done,
assuredly; but Matthew Bowman had no clear idea of what to do with
father or child. He had made up his mind that the baby owned that dead
man as father.
"You'd best take the little one home to my missus," he said at last,
"and I'll go on to Flamestead and send the constable to look after
this."
He pointed to the gaunt, ghastly figure, with bony limbs sharply defined
beneath scantiest covering. A vagrant wayfarer, whose life for a long
time past must have been little better than starvation, and at last the
boundary-line between existence and non-existence had been passed, and
the hapless wretch had sunk, wasted and famished, on the king's highway.
"What are you going to do with that baby, Bowman?" demanded an
authoritative voice on the higher ground above that little knoll where
the farmer was standing.
Bowman looked up, and recognised one who was a power in that part of the
world; all the more powerful, perhaps, because his influence rarely took
a benignant form, because it was the way of his life to hold his
fellow-men aloof, to exact all and to grant nothing.
This was Squire Bosworth, Lord of the Manor of Flamestead and Fairmile,
owner of the greater part of the land within ten miles of this hillocky
wilderness, and a notorious misanthrope and miser; shunned by the
gentlefolks of the neighbourhood as half-eccentric and half-savage,
feared and hated by the peasantry, distrusted and scrupulously obeyed by
his tenants.
His horse's hoofs had made no sound upon the sward and heather, and he
had come upon the little group unawares. He was a man of about forty,
with long limbs, broad slouching shoulders, strongly-marked features of
a rugged cast, reddish-brown eyes under bushy brows, a determined chin,
and a cruel mouth.
His voice awakened the child, who opened wide wondering eyes of
heavenliest blue, looked about with a scared expression, and anon began
to cry.
Mr. Bowman explained his intentions. He would have taken charge of the
child for a day or so at his own homestead, while the authorities made
up their minds what to do with it. The father would find a resting-place
in the nearest churchyard, which was in the village of Flamestead, half
a mile Londonwards.
"Let me look at the little one," said Bosworth, stretching out his hand,
and taking the infant in his strong grasp as easily as if it had been a
bird.
"A pretty baby," he said, soothing it with uncouth unaccustomed hand as
he held it against his horse's neck. "About the size of my motherless
girl yonder, and not unlike her--the same blue eyes and flaxen hair--but
I suppose all babies are pretty much alike. Take it to Fairmile Court,
fellow, and tell my housekeeper to look after it."
He handed the little bundle of humanity to the farm-labourer, who stared
up at him in amazement. Kindness to nameless infancy was a new and
altogether unexpected development in Squire Bosworth's character.
"Don't stand gaping there, man!" cried the Squire. "Off with you, and
tell Mistress Layburne to take care of the child till further orders.
And now, Bowman, what kind of a man is this, d'ye think, who has taken
his last night's gratis lodging on Flamestead Common?"
"He looks like a beggar-man," said the farmer.
"Nay, Bowman, that is just what he does not look. A vagabond, if you
like, a scapegrace, a spy, a rebel--but not a bred-and-born vagrant.
There is the brand of Cain upon his forehead, friend; broken-down
gentleman, the worst breed of scoundrel in all Britain."
The farmer looked down at the dead face somewhat ruefully, as if it
hurt him to hear evil spoken of that clay there, which those locked lips
could not answer. It was, indeed, by no means the kind of face common on
the roadside--not the sturdy bulldog visage of tramp or mendicant. Those
attenuated features were as regular in their lines as Greek sculpture;
those hands, cramped in the death throe, were slender and delicate. The
rags upon that wasted body had once been the clothes of a gentleman--or
had at least been made by a fashionable tailor. The man had perished in
his youth--not a thread of silver in the rich chestnut of the abundant
hair, long, silken, falling in loose waves about the thin throat and
pallid ears.
"A well-looking fellow enough before want and sickness came upon him,"
said the Squire. "Did you find anything about him to give a clue to his
name or his belongings?"
"Nothing but this," said Bowman, handing his landlord the papers in the
cotton handkerchief.
Squire Bosworth sat with thoughtful brow, looking over pamphlets and
manuscripts.
"Just as I thought," he said at last: "the fellow was a plotter, a tool
of the Muggite crew, a hack scribbler, sowing the seeds of civil war and
revolution with big words and fine sentences, a little Latin and a
little Greek. He found he could not live upon his trash--was on the
tramp for Portsmouth, I dare swear, meaning to get out of the country,
to make his way to America, perhaps, before the mast; as if his wasted
carcass would be worth board and lodging where thews and sinews are
wanted! Poor devil! a sorry end for his talents. I'll ride to the
village and tell the constable to send for the body."
"And the baby, Squire?" urged Bowman. "Do you mean to adopt it?"
"Adopt! That's a big word, farmer, and means a good deal. I'll think
about it, friend, I'll think about it. If it's a girl, perhaps yes. If
it's a boy, decidedly no."
He rode off with the bundle of papers in his pocket, leaving his tenant
full of wonder. What could the Squire, whose miserly habits and want of
common humanity were the talk of the county, what could such as he mean
by taking compassion upon a nameless brat picked up on the wayside?
What magical change had come over his disposition which prompted Roland
Bosworth to an act of charity?
Nothing was further than charity from the Squire's thoughts as he rode
to Flamestead; but he was a man of reflective temper, and he always
looked far ahead into the future. Ten months ago his fair young wife had
died, leaving him an only child--a daughter of half a year old--and now
the child was sixteen months old, and her nurse had told him that she
began to pine in the silence and seclusion of a house which was like a
hermitage, and gardens which were gloomy and lonesome as a desert
wilderness. He had poohpoohed the nurse's complaint. "'Tis you, woman,
who want more company, not that baby," he had said; but after this he
had been more observant of his daughter, and he had noticed that the
baby's large blue eyes shone out of a pale old-looking face, which was
not what a baby's face should be. The eyes themselves had a mournful
yearning look, as if seeking something that was never found.
"Babies never thrive in a house where there are no children," said the
nurse; and the Squire began to believe her.
The child sickened soon after this with some slight infantile ailment,
and Mr. Bosworth took occasion to question the doctor as to the nurse's
theory. The medico admitted that there was some reason in the woman's
view. Children always throve best who had the society of other children.
Fairmile Court was one of the finest places within fifty miles of
London, but it was doubtless somewhat secluded and silent--there was
even an air of gloom. Mr. Bosworth had allowed the timber to grow to an
extent which, looked at from the point of view of health and
cheerfulness--
"I am not going to cut down my trees to gratify any doctor in
Christendom!" cried the Squire savagely; "but if you say my little girl
wants another little girl to play with her, one must be got."
This had all happened about a fortnight before that September morning
when the fatherless baby was found sleeping so peacefully beside the
dead. The Squire had shrunk from introducing a stranger's brat into that
stately desolate home of his, which it had been the business of his
later years to keep closed against all the world. In his solitary rides
he had reconnoitred many a farmer's homestead where children swarmed; he
had looked in upon his gamekeeper's and gardener's cottages, where it
seemed to him there was ever a plethora of babies; but he could not
bring himself to invite one of these superfluous brats to take up its
abode with him, to lie cheek by jowl with his dead wife's fair young
daughter--a child whose lineage was alike ancient and honourable on the
side of mother and father. His soul revolted against the spawn of the
day-labourer or even of the tenant-farmer; and he hated the idea of the
link which such an adoption would make between him and a whole family of
his inferiors.
Thus it happened that the finding of that friendless child upon the
common seemed to Squire Bosworth as a stroke of luck. Here was a child
who, judging from the dead father's type, was of gentle blood. Here was
a child whom none could ever claim from him, upon whose existence no
greedy father or harpy mother could ever found a claim to favours from
him. Here he would be safe. The child would be his goods, his chattel,
to deal with as he pleased--to be flung out of doors by and by, when his
own girl was grown up, should it so please him, or should she deserve no
more generous treatment.
He saw the village constable, arranged for inquest and burial, and then
put his horse at a sharp trot, and rode back to Fairmile Court as fast
as the animal would take him. The house lay some way from the high-road
in a park of considerable extent, and where the timber and underwood had
been allowed to grow as in a forest for the last half-century. The
result was wild but beautiful; the place seemed rather a chase than a
park. The fine old gardens surrounding the house had also been
neglected, one gardener and a boy sufficing where once seven or eight
men had laboured; but these gardens were beautiful even in neglect. The
hedges of yew and cedar, the rich variety of shrubs, testified to a
period when country gentlemen deemed no care or cost too much for the
maintenance and improvement of their grounds--men of the school of
Evelyn and Temple, with whom horticulture was a passion.
The house was a gloomy pile of gray stone, built in the reign of James
I. Tall gables, taller chimney-stacks, heavily mullioned windows, and
much overhanging greenery gave a picturesque air to the exterior; but
within all was gloom--a gloom which had been deepening for the last ten
years, when, after leading a wild life at the University, and a much
wilder life in London, Roland Bosworth sobered down all of a sudden,
left off spending money, renounced all the habits and all the
acquaintances of his riotous youth, and began to look after his
patrimonial estate. In order the better to do this he took up his abode
at Fairmile Court, going up to London by the coach once a week to look
after his business in the City, where he was a person of some importance
on 'Change. The political arena offering few allurements to a man of his
temperament, he had taken to stock-jobbing, which had lately come into
fashion. By education he was a High Churchman and staunch Tory, as his
father and grandfather had been before him, and his adherence to the
tenets of Laud and Atterbury was all the more disinterested, as he
rarely entered a tabernacle of any kind. He affected to be warmly
attached to the exiled king, and he was one of those lukewarm Jacobites
who contrived to carry on a mild philandering kind of connection with
Saint-Germains, so cautious that it could be disavowed at any moment of
danger--a feeble and wavering partisanship which helped to keep the
cause of the Stuarts alive, and prevented it from ever succeeding.
Things had been going to ruin at Fairmile Court during his absence,
money had been squandered by old servants, and his gamekeepers had been
sleeping partners with a thriving firm of poachers. But the Squire
introduced a new _régime_ of strictest economy. He dismissed all the old
servants, and was a hard taskmaster to the diminished household which he
established in their place. At thirty years of age he had turned his
back upon the town, a soured and disappointed man. At forty he had
nearly doubled his fortune by successful speculations in the City,
whither he went very often by coach or on horseback, as the fancy moved
him. At seven-and-thirty he married the youngest daughter of a needy
peer, whose father's necessities flung her into his arms. The
uncongenial union, which involved parting from one she devotedly
loved, broke the girl's heart, and she died ten months after the
birth of her first child. On her death-bed, when weeping mother and
conscience-stricken father stood beside her, sensible of the wrong they
had done, she had no complaint to make against the hard, cold-hearted
man whom she had sworn to honour and obey. He had not been unkind to
her. He had loved her after his fashion, and he sat a little way off
with covered face and head bowed in grief. He had loved her: but he had
loved his money better, and he had done nothing to brighten her young
life or to reconcile her to a forced marriage.
"You will be kind to Rena," she said faintly, with white lips,
presently, as he bent over her, watching for that awful change which was
to part them for ever. In his mind there was no ray of hope to light
that parting hour. He was materialist to the core; the things which he
valued and believed in were the hard realities of this world. The
ethereal had no existence for him.
"You will be kind to Rena?"
Rena, short for Irene: that was the baby's name.
"Kind to her? yes, of course. She is all that will be left me."
"Except riches. O Roland, do not care more for your money than for her."
"She will be a great heiress," said Bosworth.
"Riches do not always bring happiness. Love her, be kind to her!"
Those were the last words the dying lips uttered. She dropped asleep
soon after this, her head resting against her husband's shoulder, and so
out of that dim land of slumber passed silently into that deeper
darkness which living eyes have never penetrated.
* * * * *
The Squire flung his bridle to a groom who had been hanging about the
drive watching for his master's return, and stalked into the stately old
hall, panelled with age-blackened oak, adorned with many trophies of the
battle-field and the chase, and further embellished with the portraits
of Mr. Bosworth's ancestors, which he valued less than the canvas upon
which they were painted. He was as proud as Lucifer, but his was not
that kind of pride which fattens itself, ghoul-like, upon the dead. The
captains and learned judges looming from those dark walls were to him
the most worthless of all shadows. The hall was spacious and gloomy, and
opened into a still more spacious dining-room, where the Squire had
never eaten a dinner since he came of age. A noble saloon or music-room,
painted white, and furnished exactly as it had been in the days of
Charles II., opened on the other side of the hall; but the only
apartments which the Squire occupied on this ground floor were three
small rooms at the end of a long passage, which served him as
dining-room, study, and office. A steep narrow little staircase built in
the wall, which stair had once been a secret means of communication
between upper and lower stories, conducted to the Squire's bedchamber
and dressing-room. His child and her nurse had their abode in the
opposite wing; and thus all the state rooms, constituting the centre and
main body of the house, were given over to emptiness.
The establishment was on the smallest scale. There were less than half a
dozen servants where there had once been twenty.
No portly powdered footman came to Mr. Bosworth's summons, but a little
old man in a very shabby livery shambled along the passage at the sound
of his master's bell.
"Has there been a child brought here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Send Mrs. Layburne here."
The man shambled out again. The Squire flung off hat and riding-gloves,
and seated himself by his solitary hearth. There were some logs
smouldering there, for the September mornings were cool, and the Squire
was of a chilly temper. The table was laid for a frugal breakfast of tea
and toast; not by any means the kind of meal which would have satisfied
the average country gentleman of that era; a scrivener's or a
garreteer's breakfast rather.
The Squire poured himself out a cup of tea, and sat sipping it with an
absent stir, and his eye upon the door.
It was flung open abruptly, and a woman entered, tall, with noble neck
and shoulders, and the carriage of Dido herself--a magnificent ruin. No
one could doubt that the creature had once been eminently beautiful;
there were traces still of those vanished charms: eyes of velvety brown,
full, fiery, splendid, and the outline of fine features. But the skin
was withered and yellow, the raven hair was grizzled, some of the teeth
had gone, and nose and chin had both become too prominent. The queen had
degenerated into the hag.
She was shabbily and carelessly dressed in a black stuff gown, with
laced bodice and muslin kerchief. She wore no cap, and her coarse
unkempt hair was gathered into a loose knot on the top of her head.
"An extinct volcano," thought the student of character, as he looked at
that haggard countenance, with its premature wrinkles and unhealthy
pallor. "A slumbering volcano, rather," he might say to himself upon
closer scrutiny.
"Well," said the Squire, "I sent you home a child."
"You sent me some beggar's daughter, I should say, by her rags. I have
washed her, and dressed her in some of Rena's clothes. What put it into
your astute head to interfere with the people whose duty it may be to
take charge of vagrants?"
"I don't usually act without a motive, as I think you know, Barbara. If
the child is sound in wind and limb--a healthy child--I intend to adopt
her. Rena wants a companion, I am told--"
"Nurse Bridget's fancy. I wonder you lend your ear to an ignorant
country wench."
"The country wench is sustained by the doctor, and by facts. Rena has
been drooping of late. Another baby's company may enliven her. Have you
put them together?"
"Not I," protested Barbara; "it would have been more than my place is
worth to act without orders. I never forget that I am a servant. You
ought to know that."
"You tell me of it often enough," said the Squire, shrugging his
shoulders. "The misfortune is that you never let me forget you were once
something else."
"O, but the memory of it never ruffles your peace," sneered the woman,
with a flashing glance at the stern, cold face. "It was so long ago, you
see, Squire, and you have a knack of taking things coolly."
"Come and let us introduce the children to each other," said Bosworth,
rising; and he followed Barbara Layburne to the further end of the
house, where the sound of a crying baby indicated the neighbourhood of
the nursery.
It was not the friendless waif who thus bewailed her inarticulate
misery. The little stranger was asleep in Barbara's room on the upper
story. It was the heiress who was lamenting her infantine woes. Buxom,
apple-cheeked Bridget was marching up and down the room, trying to hush
her to sleep.
"She's cutting another tooth, sir," she said apologetically.
"She seems to be everlastingly cutting teeth," muttered Bosworth, with a
vexed air; "I never come to see her that she is not wailing. Fetch me
the other child, Barbara; I want to see them together."
The other child was brought, newly awakened from the refreshing slumber
that had been induced by her bath. Her large blue eyes explored the
unknown room, full of a pleased wonder. There were bright-coloured
chintz curtains, worsted-work shepherds and shepherdesses framed and
glazed upon the flowered wall-papering. The nurseries were the brightest
rooms in the rambling old house; had been brightened by the young mother
before the coming of her baby.
The nameless child had a sweet placidity which appealed to the Squire.
"I suppose _she_ has teeth to cut, too," he said, "but you see she
doesn't cry."
"She cried loud enough while I was dressing her," retorted Barbara.
"Put them on the floor side by side," ordered the Squire.
The two infants were set down at his command. They were both at the
crawling stage of existence, that early dawn in which humanity goes upon
all fours. They seemed about the same size and age, as nearly as might
be guessed. They had eyes and hair of the same colour, and had that
resemblance common to pretty children. The heiress had a sicklier air
than the waif, and was less beautiful in colouring.
"They would pass for twin sisters," said Bosworth; "come, now, Mistress
Bridget, do you think you would know them apart?"
Bridget resented the suggestion as an insult to her affection and her
intellect.
"I should know my own little darling anywheres," she said; "and this
strange child ain't half so pretty."
"There's a mark she'll carry for life, anyhow," said Barbara Layburne,
taking up the stranger, and baring the baby's right arm just where it
joined the shoulder. "A burn or a scald, you see, Squire. I can't say
which it is, but I don't think she'll outlive the scar."
Bosworth glanced at it indifferently.
"A deep brand," he said, and that was all.
He was watching his own child, who was staring at the intruder with
looks of keenest interest. She had left off crying, and was crawling
assiduously towards the baby-waif, whom Barbara Layburne had set down
upon the floor a little way off. The two infants crawled to each other
like two puppies, and climbed and tumbled over each other just as young
animals might have done, obeying instinct rather than reason.
Presently the little lady uplifted her voice and crowed aloud, and then
began to talk after her fashion, which was backward, as of a child
brought up amidst gloom and silence.
"Gar, gar, gar!" she reiterated, in a gurgling monotone.
The other baby looked about her, and murmured piteously, "Dada, dada!"
and seeing not him whom she sought, she began to cry.
"Another fountain!" exclaimed the Squire, turning upon his heel.
He stopped on the threshold to look back at nurse and children.
"You have had your whim, Mistress Bridget," he said, shaking his
forefinger at her; "look you that no harm comes of it;" and with that he
stalked away, and went back to his den, without so much as a word to
Barbara Layburne, who looked after him with strangely wistful eyes.
Then, when the sound of his firm tread had died into silence, she too
left the nurse and the babies, and stalked away to her own den.
"A pretty pair," muttered Bridget, as she squatted down upon the ground
to play with her charges; but whether she meant the two babies, or the
Squire and his housekeeper, remains an open question.
* * * * *
There had been a time when the presence of Squire Bosworth's housekeeper
at Fairmile had caused some vague murmurs in the way of scandal; but
time accustoms people to most things, and after ten years Mistress
Barbara Layburne, with her flashing eyes and her unkempt hair, her
majestic figure and her shabby gown, her imperious manners and her
menial capacity, came to be accepted as only a detail in the numerous
eccentricities of the Squire. Only such a man could have had such a
housekeeper.
The tradition of her first appearance at Fairmile was still talked of,
and sounded like a fairy tale. She had arrived there late at night, in a
coach and four, during a thunderstorm which was still remembered in
those parts. So might Medea have come to Jason in her fiery car drawn by
dragons, said the parson, who was an Oxford scholar, and loved the
classics. She had arrived in a velvet gown and jewels, with all the
style of a lady of fashion. She had been closeted with the Squire for an
hour, during which time the sound of their alternate voices in scorn and
anger had never ceased. The storm within had raged no less furiously
than the storm without. Then had the door been flung open by the Squire,
and he had come out into the hall, where he gave an order that a room
should be got ready for his unexpected visitor: and, the order given, he
had dashed out of the house, mounted into the coach which was waiting
before the portico, and had driven off upon the first stage to London,
leaving the stranger mistress of the field.
The Squire did not return for a month, during which time the lady had
gradually settled down into the position of housekeeper, her status
assured by a letter in which Mr. Bosworth bade his old butler obey Mrs.
Layburne in all matters connected with the interior of Fairmile Court.
So henceforth it was Mrs. Layburne who gave the cook her orders, and who
paid all the bills, and who doled out wages to coachman and gardener.
She was every whit as great a niggard as her master, people said; and
under her rule the miserly ways of the house began to take a settled
form and consistency. Every superfluous servant was dismissed, all
luxurious living was put down with a high hand, and the gloom which had
fallen upon the abandoned house while Roland Bosworth was leading a life
of riot and dissipation in London only grew deeper now that he had
returned, a reformed rake, to the hearth of his forefathers.
He came back to Fairmile Court at the end of a month, nodded curtly to
Mistress Barbara as he passed her in the hall, and took no more notice
of her than of any other hireling. She had established herself in his
house; but whatever claim she might have upon his friendship was but
little honoured. There were occasional conferences in the little red
parlour in which the Squire passed most of his indoor life; there were
occasional storms; but there was never any touch of tenderness to
provoke the scandal of the household as to the present relations of
master and servant. As to what those relations had been in the past, the
neighbourhood, from parson to innkeeper, from high to low, had its
opinions and ideas; but nothing ever occurred to throw any clearer light
upon the antecedents of the lady who had come to Fairmile in velvet and
jewels, which she was never seen to wear again after that night of
tempest. She seemed to age suddenly by twenty years within the first few
months of her residence in that melancholy house. Her oval cheeks grew
hollow, her complexion faded to a sickly sallow, her ebon hair whitened,
and deep lines came in the wan face. She never left the boundary of the
park; she never had a friend to visit her. A cloistered nun's life would
have been far less lonely. If she was by birth and breeding a lady, as
most people supposed, she had not a creature of her own grade with whom
to hold converse. To the servants she rarely spoke, save in the way of
business. She had her own den, as the Squire had his: she read a good
deal; and sometimes of an evening, when the heavy oak shutters were all
closed and barred, she would open the spinet--an instrument which had
belonged to her master's mother--and sing to it in a strange language,
in a wonderful deep voice, which thrilled those who heard her.
The Squire's marriage made no difference in Mrs. Layburne's position,
and brought no diminution of her authority. Lady Harriet had no longing
for power, and was content to let the house be managed exactly as it had
been before her coming. She saw that avarice was the pervading spirit of
the household, but she made no complaint; and she was too innocent and
simple-minded to have any suspicion of evil in the past history of her
husband and his strange housekeeper. It was only when Lady Harriet was
about to become a mother that she asserted herself so far as to insist
upon some small expenditure upon the rooms which her baby was to occupy.
Under her own directions the old nursery wing, in which generation after
generation of Bosworths had been reared, was cleansed, renovated, and
decorated, in the simplest fashion, but with taste and refinement.
The result of the little stranger's presence fully justified Mrs.
Bridget in her opinion. Rena improved in spirits, and even grew more
robust in health, from the hour of her little companion's advent. The
two children were rarely asunder: they played together, fed together,
slept together, took their airings in the same baby-carriage, which
Bridget or the gardener's boy dragged about the park, or rolled and
crawled together on the grass on sunny autumn mornings. Rena, who had
been backward in all things, soon began to toddle, and soon began to
prattle, moved by the example of her companion, who had a great gift of
language. Bridget was proud of her sagacity, and speedily grew fond of
the adopted child, though she always professed to be constant in her
affection for Rena, who was certainly a less amiable infant. The little
stranger was called Belinda, a name which the Squire had found in one of
the dead man's manuscripts.
"It may have been her mother's name," said the Squire, and that was all,
though he might have said more had he pleased.
Among those pamphlets and political manuscripts he had found three
private letters, which to his mind suggested a domestic history, and
which served to assure him that his daughter's companion was of gentle
birth. He desired to know no more, and he had no intention of inquiring
into her antecedents.
* * * * *
The wanderer had been lying in his nameless grave for a little over
three years, and his orphan daughter had thriven apace in her new home.
The two children had but rarely passed the gates of the park during
those years, but they had been utterly happy together in that wooded
wilderness, too young to languish for change of scene, renewing every
day the childish pleasures of yesterday. They had not yet emerged from
the fairyland of play into the cold arid world of work and reality. They
played together all day long on the sunlit grass or under the dappled
shadows of the trees in spring, summer, and autumn; in winter making a
little paradise for themselves in the day nursery before the cheerful
fire, into which they used to peer sometimes, with dilated eyes, seeing
gnomes and fairies, and St. George and his dragon, and all the Seven
Champions of Christendom, in the burning logs. The shining brass fender
seemed to them like a glittering golden gate shutting in fairyland.
How did they know anything of St. George and his dragon, King Arthur,
Melusine, and the gnomes and the fairies, at this tender age, when they
hardly knew their letters, and certainly could not read these dear old
stories for themselves? Easily explained. They had a living book in
which they read every evening, and the book was Bridget. Mistress
Bridget had more imagination than most of her class, and had spent her
superfluous cash with the pedlar, in whose pack there was generally a
department for light literature--curious paper-covered books, printed on
coarsest paper, and with the roughest and rudest of illustrations; but
the Seven Champions and all the old fairy tales were to be found among
these volumes, and Bridget had gradually possessed herself of the whole
realm of Robin Goodfellow and the fairies.
In the evening, when the stealthy shadows came creeping over the window,
and shutting out the leafy wilderness beyond, the two children used to
clamber on to Bridget's knee and ask for stories, and Bridget related
those old legends with the uttermost enjoyment. That twilight interval
before candles and bedtime was the pleasantest hour in her day.
So the children were happy, having, as it seemed, but one friend in the
world, in the person of buxom Bridget. Mrs. Barbara Layburne but rarely
condescended to enter the nurseries, and looked askant at the children
if she happened to meet them in the corridors or hall. She did not even
pretend to be fond of her master's daughter, and for the alien she had
nothing but contempt. The Squire himself was at best an indifferent
father. He seemed quite satisfied to hear that his daughter was well and
happy, and seldom put himself out of the way to see her. Sometimes,
riding across the park, he would come upon the two children in their
play, and would pull up his horse and stop for a few minutes to watch
them. There could not be a prettier picture than the two golden-haired
children, in their white frocks and blue sashes, chasing each other
across the sunlit sward, or squatted side by side in the deep pasture
grass, making daisy-chains or buttercup-balls. Belinda looked the
stronger of the two, the Squire thought. He knew her by her somewhat
darker hair and rosier cheeks. His own motherless child had always a
delicate air, though she had never had any serious illness.
It was late in the October of that third year when the children's
peaceful days came to an end, like a tale that is told, never hereafter
to be any more than a sad sweet memory of love and happiness that had
been and was not.
The twilight was earlier than usual on that October evening, and night
came up with a great threatening cloud like the outspread wing of a bad
angel. Mrs. Barbara Layburne stood at the hall-door watching that
lowering sky, and listening to the sough of the south-west wind, and
thinking of that night just thirteen years ago--that night of tempest
and gloom upon which she had first seen yonder elms and oaks in all
their garnered might of foregone centuries, standing stern and strong
against the threatening wrack. She thought of her life as it had been
before that night, of her life as it had been since.
"Would anybody in London--those who knew me in my glory--believe that I
would endure such a long slow martyrdom, a death in life?" she asked
herself. "Well, perhaps they would believe, if they could fathom my
motive."
The sound of footsteps startled her. Peering into the darkness of the
long avenue, she saw a lad running under the trees, sheltering himself
as best he might from the driving rain. She watched him as he came
towards the house, and hailed him as he drew near. He was the son of the
old gardener who lived at the lodge.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"There is a man at the lodge very ill--dying, mother thinks--and he sent
this for you, ma'am, and I was to give it into your own hands."
He handed her a scrap of paper, folded but not sealed. It was scrawled
over in pencil, with a tremulous hand.
"Come to me at once, if you want to see me alive.--RODERICK."
That was all.
"Is he tall, with dark eyes and hair?" she asked.
"Yes. You'd better come at once if you know anything about him. He's
mortal bad. And mother said you'd best bring some brandy."
Barbara Layburne went hastily to the store-room, where everything was
kept sternly under lock and key. Half the business of her life was to
unlock and lock those presses and store-closets, doling out everything
to the submissive cook, who still contrived somehow to have her pinch
out of this and that. Barbara filled a small bottle with brandy, fetched
her cloak and hood, and then went back to the hall, where the boy was
waiting.
She went along the avenue, muffled in her gray cloth cloak, a ghostlike
figure, the boy following her as fast as his legs would carry him. He
declared afterwards that he had never seen any one walk so fast as Mrs.
Layburne walked that stormy night, though the wind and rain were beating
against her face and figure all the way.
There was a light burning dimly in the lodge as they drew near. The door
was open, and the old gardener was standing on the threshold watching
for them.
"Is he--dead?" gasped Barbara.
"No; but his breath is short and thick, just as if he was near his end,
poor wretch. He ain't anybody belonging to _you_, is he, madam?"
"Not he," answered Barbara promptly; "but I know something about him.
He's the son of an old servant who lived with me in my prosperous days.
Where is he?"
"In the kitchen. He was shivering, so the missus thought he'd be better
by the fire be-like."
The ground floor of the lodge consisted of two rooms, parlour and
kitchen. Barbara went to the kitchen, which was at the back, the common
living-room of the family. The parlour was for ornament and
state--temple and shrine for the family Bible and the family samplers,
laborious works of art which adorned the walls.
The sick man was lying in front of the fire, with an old potato-sack
between him and the flagged floor. Barbara knelt beside him, and looked
into his face, half in the red light of the fire, half in the yellow
flare of the tallow candle.
His eyes were glassy and dim, his cheeks were flushed, his breath
laboured and rattled as it came and went. Barbara Layburne knew the
symptoms well enough. It was gaol fever--a low form of typhus. That
tainted breath meant infection, and the gardener's cottage swarmed with
children. He must be got away from there at once, unless they were all
to die. Typhus in those days was always master of the field where he had
once set up his standard.
The dim eyes looked at her piteously: the lips began to murmur
inarticulately.
"Leave us together for a few minutes, Mrs. Bond, while I hear what the
poor creature has to say, and think over what I had best do with him.
There is no room for him here."
Mrs. Bond retired, shutting the door behind her.