I vaguely expected it would, by a new move on the part of our
adversaries. It was in the spring of 1774, and we had been at St.
Salvat's about eighteen months, which felt much more like as many years.
One evening after supper, as I sat in my room idly listening to the
sound, now so terrible to me, of the sea on the rocks, I was suddenly
aroused by the sound, no less frightful to my ears, of the brawling of
the uncles below. I rose in alarm, for my apartments were completely
isolated from the part of the house which they occupied, and for months
past all the intermediate doors had been kept carefully closed by the
tacit consent of both parties. The noise became greater; I could
distinguish the drunken voices of Simon and Richard, and a sharp
altercation between the other ones, and just as I had stepped, beyond my
own door, I heard a horrid yell of curses, a scuffle, and the door
opposite, which closed the main staircase, flew open, and what was my
astonishment when my husband appeared, pushed forward, or rather hurled
along by Hubert. The latter shouted to me to go back, and having thrust
Eustace into my room, he disappeared as suddenly as he had come,
slamming the doors after him. As he did so I heard the key click; he had
locked us in.
My husband was in a shocking condition, his clothes torn half off him,
his hair in disorder, and the blood dripping from his arm.
"Do not be frightened," he cried, "'tis merely a comedy of those filthy
villains," and he showed me that his wound was merely a long scratch.
"They want to frighten us," he added, "the drunken brutes wanted to
force me through some beastly form of initiation into their gang.
Faugh!" and he looked at his arm, which I was washing; "they did it with
a broken bottle, the hogs! And as to Hubert, and his fine saving me from
their clutches, that, I take it, was mere play-acting too, the most
sickening part of the business, and meant only to give you a scare."
Eustace had thrown himself gloomily into a chair, and I had never seen
him before with such a look of disgust and indignation. I was by no
means as certain as he that no serious mischief had been intended, or
that Hubert had not saved him from real danger. But that new look in him
awoke a sudden hope in me, and I determined to strike while the iron was
hot. "Eustace," I said very gravely as I bound a handkerchief round his
arm, "if your impression is correct, this is almost the worst of our
misery. Certainly no child of mine shall ever be born into such ignominy
as this. It is high time we went. Better to die like decent folk than
allow ourselves to be hacked about by these drunken brutes and pushed
through doors by a theatrical villain like Hubert."
"You are right, Penelope," he answered, burying his face in his chair.
"I have been a miserable coward." And, to my horror, I heard him sob
like a child who has been struck for the first time.
That decided me. But what to do? A desperate resolution came to me. As
Davies was brushing my hair that night, I looked at her once more in
the mirror, and, assuming the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster,
"Davies," I said, "Sir Eustace and I have decided on leaving St.
Salvat's, and we are taking you with us on our travels; unless you
should prefer to betray us to Mr. Hubert, which is the best thing you
can do for yourself."
What made me say those last words? Was it a desire to threaten, a
stupid, taunting spirit, or the reckless frankness of one who thought
herself doomed? Would it might have been the latter. But of all the
things which I would give some of my life to cancel, those words are the
foremost; and remorse and shame seize me as I write them.
But instead of answering these, the faithful creature threw herself on
her knees and covered my hand with kisses. "All is ready," she said
after a moment, "and Lady Brandling will start on Saturday."
She had been watching and planning for weeks, and had already thought
out and prepared every detail of our flight with extraordinary
ingenuity. She placed the savings of her whole lifetime at our service,
a considerable sum, and far beyond our need; and she had contrived to
communicate with her son, the one who had every good reason to bear a
grudge to the villains of St. Salvat's. My husband and I were to walk on
foot, and separately, out of the grounds; horses were to meet us at a
given point of the road, and take us, not to Swansea or Bristol, as
would be expected, but to Milford, there to embark for Ireland, a
country where all trace of us would easily be lost, and whence we could
easily re-enter England or take ship for the Continent, as circumstances
should dictate at the moment.
The next Saturday had been fixed upon for our flight, because Davies
knew that the uncles would be away on an important smuggling expedition
in a distant part of the coast. The maids, very few in number, and any
of the servants left behind, Davies had undertaken to intoxicate or drug
into harmlessness. Only one evil chance remained, and that we none of us
dared to mention: what if Hubert, as is sometimes the case, should stay
behind?
I do not know how I contrived to live through the three days which
separated us from Saturday; there are, apparently, moments in our lives
so strangely unlike all others, so unnatural to our whole being, that
the memory refuses to register them or even bear their trace. All I know
is that Eustace spent all his time in his laboratory, constructing
various appliances, an occupation which I explained as imposed upon
himself in order to deaden any doubts or scruples, such as were natural
to his character, for the only opposition he had made to our plan of
escape was on the score that it meant leaving St. Salvat's in the hands
of the uncles.
At last came Friday night. Friday, June 26, 1774, Davies had brought us
word that the uncles had gone down to the boats, taking all the
available men with them, save an old broken-down ship's carpenter, who
lived with the keeper in the gate tower, and the husband of one of the
sluttish women, who lay sick of the quinsy in the outhouse containing
the offices. Only, only, Hubert remained! Had his suspicion been
awakened? Was he detained on business? Was he ailing? Methought it was
the first of these possibilities. For on Friday morning he came to my
apartments, which was not his wont, early in the day and offered to pay
me a visit. But Davies had the presence of mind to answer that I was
sick, and lest he should doubt it, to force me to bed at once, and
borrow certain medicines from him. After this he sought for Eustace, and
finding him busy among his chemical instruments, his suspicions, if he
had any, were quieted; and, having dined, he went down to his own small
boat, a very fast sailer, and which he managed alone, often outstripping
the heavier boats of his brothers and nephew. The ground was now clear.
My husband remained, I believe, in his laboratory; Davies went down to
supper with the maids, whom she had undertaken to drug; we were to meet
again in my room at daybreak. I cannot say for sure, but I believe I
spent that night trying to pray and waiting for daylight.
The month was June and day came early;... a dull day, thin rain
streamed down continuously, hushing everything, even the sea on the
rocks becoming inaudible; only, I remember, a bird sang below my window,
and the notes he sang long ran in my ears and tormented me. I had sewn
some diamonds and some pieces of gold into my clothes, and those of my
husband and of Davies. I stuffed a few valuables, very childishly
chosen, for I took my diary, some of Eustace's love-letters, and the
little cap I had knitted for the baby who was never born, into my
pockets. And I waited. Presently Eustace came; he had a serviceable
sword, a large knife, and a pair of pistols in his great coat; he handed
me a smaller pistol, showed me that it was primed, and gave me at the
same time a little folded white paper. "You are a brave woman,
Penelope," he said, kissing me, "and I know there is no likelihood of
your using either of these things rashly or in a moment of panic. But
our enterprise is uncertain; we may possibly be parted, and I have no
right to let you fall alive into the hands of those villains." Then, he
sat down at my work-table and began drawing on a sheet of paper, while I
looked out of the window and listened to the unvarying song of that
bird. Davies did not come, and it was broad daylight. But neither of us
ventured to remark on this fact or to speak our fears. Then, after about
half an hour's fruitless waiting Eustace declared that we must have
misunderstood Davies's instructions, and insisted, much against my
wishes, upon going down to see whether she was not waiting for us below.
A secret fear had seized my husband that the old woman, whom I had now
got to trust quite absolutely, might after all have remained from first
to last a spy of Hubert's. As Eustace left he turned round and said,
"Remember what you have in your pocket, Penelope; and if I do not return
within ten minutes, come down the main staircase and sing the first bars
of '_Phyllis plus avare que tendre_' I shall be on the watch for it."
I hated his foolish obstinacy: far better, I thought, have awaited
Davies in the appointed place, and together.
I thought so all the more when, after some ten minutes had elapsed, a
light rap came on the wainscot door near my bed, the door leading to the
back staircase, and opposite to the one by which Eustace had taken his
departure.
"Come in, Davies," I said joyfully.
"It is not Davies, dear Lady Brandling," said a voice which made me feel
suddenly sick; and in came Hubert, bowing. He was dressed with uncommon
neatness, not in his fisherman's clothes, but as a clergyman, and, what
was by no means constantly the case with him, he was fresh shaven. In a
flash I understood that he had returned overnight, or perhaps not gone
away at all.
"It is not Davies," he repeated, "but I have come with her excuses to
your ladyship; a sudden ailment, and one from which it is not usual to
recover at her, or indeed, any age, prevents her waiting on you. I have
been giving her some of the consolations of religion, and hearing her
confession, a practice I by no means reject as Popish," and the villain
smiled suavely. "And now, as she can no longer benefit by my presence, I
thought I would come and make her excuses, and offer myself, though
unskilful, to pack your ladyship's portmanteau in her place."
"You have killed Davies!" I exclaimed, springing up from the sofa on
which I was seated. Hubert made a deprecatory gesture and forcing me
down again seated himself insolently close to me. "Fie, fie!" he said,
"those are not words for a pretty young lady to use to her old uncle.
Have you not learned your Catechism, my dear? It is said there, 'Thou
shalt not kill,' meaning thereby, kill anything save vermin. And, by the
way," continues the villain, taking my arm and preventing my rising,
"that's just what I want to talk about. I have a prejudice against
killing members of my own family, a prejudice not shared by my brothers,
worse luck to the sots, or else you would not be Lady Brandling as yet,
and that poor, silly coxcomb of a Thomas would still be enjoying his
glass and his lass. I hate a scandal, and intend to avoid one; also, I
am genuinely attached to you and to your husband, for though a milksop,
he is a man of parts and education, and I relish his conversation. Yes,
my dear. I know what you are going to ask! The precious Eustace is quite
safe, without a scratch in any part of his gentlemanly white body; and
no harm shall come to him--on one condition: That you, my pretty vixen,
for you are a _virago_, a warlike lady, my dear niece, that you swear
very solemnly that neither you nor he will ever again attempt to leave
St. Salvat's."
He had taken my hand and was looking in my eyes with a villainous
expression.
"What do you say to that?" he went on. "I know you to be a woman of
spirit and of honour, bound by an oath, and capable of making your
husband respect it. You have nothing to gain by refusing. You are alone
with me in this house. Your faithful Davies is as dead as a door-nail.
Your virtuous spouse is quite safe downstairs, for I have taken the
precaution to relieve him of all those dangerous swords and pistols of
his, which a learned man might hurt himself with. I give you five
minutes to make up your mind. If you accept my terms, you and Sir
Eustace Brandling shall live honoured and happy at St. Salvat's among
your obliged kinsmen. If you refuse, I shall, very reluctantly, hand
over your husband to my brothers' tender mercies when they return home
presently; and, as they do not know how to behave to a lady, I shall
myself make it a point to act as a man of refinement and a tender heart
should act towards a very pretty little shrew," and the creature dared
to touch me with his lips upon my neck.
I shrank back upon the sofa half paralysed, and with not strength enough
to grow hot and crimson. Hubert rose, locked the doors, and, to my
relief, sat down to the harpsichord, on which he began to pick out a
tune. It was that very "_Phyllis plus avare que tendre_," which I had
sung to my husband and him some days before. Was it a coincidence; or
had he overheard us appoint it as a signal, and was he mocking and
torturing Eustace as well as me?
"An elegant little air, egad," he says, "I wish I could remember the
second part. Don't let my strumming disturb you. You have still four
minutes to think over your answer, dear Lady Brandling." The familiar
notes aroused me from my stupor. I got up and walked slowly to the
harpsichord, at which Hubert was lolling and strumming.
"Well, my dear?" he asks insolently, and the notes seemed to ooze out
from under his fingers, "have I got the tune right? Is that it?"
"The tune," I answered, "is this: Mr. Hubert Brandling, in the name of
God Almighty, whose ministry you have defiled, and whose law you have
placed yourself outside, I take it upon myself to judge and put you to
death as a wrecker and a murderer." I drew Eustace's pistol from my
pocket, aimed steadily and fired. I was half stunned by the report; but
through the smoke of my own weapon, I saw Hubert reel and fall across
the harpsichord, whose jangling mingled with his short, sharp cry. Even
after fifty years, I quite understand how I did _that_, and when I
recall it all, I feel that, old as I am, I would do it over again. What
I cannot explain is what I did afterwards, nor the amazing coolness and
clearness of head which I enjoyed at that moment. For without losing a
minute I went to the harpsichord, and despite the horrid, hot trickle
all over my hands, I turned out his pockets and took his keys. Then I
left the room, locked it from the outside, and went downstairs singing
that French shepherd's song at the top of my voice. The fearful
stillness was beginning to frighten me, when, just as I felt my throat
grow dry and my voice faint, the same tune answered me in a low whistle,
from out of Hubert's study. I knew my husband's whistle, and yet the
fact of Hubert's room, the fact that Hubert had been strumming that
tune, filled me, for the first time, with horror. But I found the key on
the bunch, and unlocked the door. Eustace was seated in an arm chair,
unbound, but his clothes torn as after a scuffle.
"Eustace," I said, "I--I have killed Hubert." But to my astonishment he
barely gave me time to utter the words; and starting from the chair:
"Quick, quick!" he cries, "there is not a moment to lose. Another ten
minutes and we also are dead!" and seizing my arm he drags me away, down
the remaining stairs, out by the main door and then at a run across the
yard and up into the dripping shrubbery.
"Eustace, Eustace!" I cried breathless, "this is not the way; we shall
be seen from the stables."
"No matter," he answered hoarsely, and dragging, almost carrying, me
along, "run, Penelope, for our lives."
After about five minutes of desperate and, it seemed to me, random and
mad climbing up through the wet bushes, he suddenly stopped and drew
forth his watch.
"Where is Davies? At the turn of the road? Not in the house, at least,
there is no one in the house? No one except--except that dead man?"
I thought that fear had made him lose his wits, and I dared not tell him
that besides that dead man, the house held also a dead woman, our poor,
faithful Davies.
"She is out of danger," I answered. We had, by some miracle, found our
way to a place where the wall, which fortified St. Salvat's, was partly
broken at the top, and overgrown by bushes. With a decision I should
never have expected from him, and an extraordinary degree of strength
and agility, my husband climbed on to the wall, pulled me up, let
himself drop into the dry ditch beyond, and received me in his arms.
Then, seizing me again by the hand, we started off once more at a mad
run through the wood, stumbling and tearing ourselves against the
branches.
"Up the knoll!" he repeated. "I must see! I must see!" And he seemed to
me quite mad.
Once at the top of the knoll, he stopped. It was wooded all the way up,
but just here was an open space of grass burrowed by rabbits and set
with stunted junipers. It was full in sight of St. Salvat's, and if ever
there could be a dangerous place to stop in, it was this. But Eustace
pointed to the wet grass, "Sit down," he said, and sat down himself,
after looking at his watch again. "There are five minutes more," he
repeated, remaining, despite my entreaties, seated on the soft ground
among the rabbit holes, his face turned to St. Salvat's.
"You are sure Davies is safe?" he asked, again drawing out his watch.
"Davies is dead," I answered, counting on the effect it would have on
him, "Hubert had murdered her ... before ... I...."
Eustace's eye kindled strangely. "Ah! is it so?" he cried, "Then poor
Davies will have a splendid funeral! All I regret is that that villain
should share in the honour." So saying, he started up on to his feet,
and pulling out his watch, looked from it to the towers and battlements
nestled in the trees of the hollow beneath us.
"Half past seven less a minute, less half a minute, less ... Now!" he
cried.
As if he had shouted a word of command, an enormous sheet of flame leapt
up into the air, like the flash at a cannon's mouth; the hill shook and
the air bellowed, and we fell back half stunned. When I could see once
more, my husband was standing at the brink of the knoll, his arms
folded, and looking calmly before him.
The outline of towers and battlements had entirely disappeared; and
only the skeletons of the great trees, black and branchless, stood out
like the broken masts of wrecked vessels against the distant pale and
misty sea.
"I have burnt out their nest. My house shall be polluted no more," said
my husband very quietly. And then, kissing me as we stood on the brink
of the green sward, with the rain falling gently upon us, "Come,
Penelope," he added taking my hands, "we are outlaws and felons; but we
have saved our liberty and our honour."
And, hand in hand, we walked swiftly but quietly towards the high road
to Milford.
* * * * *
The foregoing pages are sufficient record for those of my children and
grandchildren who have heard the tale from my lips, and sufficient
explanation for the remoter posterity of Eustace Brandling and myself,
of the mystery which overhung their family in the latter part of the
eighteenth century. I have only a few legal details to add.
By the explosion which my husband's skill in chemistry and mechanics had
enabled him to procure and to time, all the main buildings of St.
Salvat's Castle had been utterly destroyed; hiding in their ruins the
fate alike of the faithful Davies and of the atrocious Hubert; and
hiding, for anything, that was known to the contrary, two other
presumable victims--my husband and myself. The gang of villains,
deprived of its headquarters, and deprived of its master spirit,
speedily fell to pieces. Richard and Gwyn appear to have come to a
violent end in quarrelling over the booty of the last wicked expedition;
Simon and Evan, and some of their followers ended in prison, on a charge
of pillaging the ruins and digging for treasure while the property, in
the absence of it master, was still in the hands of the law; but it is
probable that this condemnation was intended to save them from a worse
punishment, as the authorities gradually got wind of the real trade
which had been carried on in the castle.
From the villains of St. Salvat's Eustace and I were now safe. But we
had taken the law into our own hands; and the justice which had been
unable to defend us while innocent, was bound to punish our acts towards
the guilty. My husband's words had been true: he and I were outlaws and
felons. Our case was privily placed before the King and his ministers,
when we had left England and had rejoined my mother in her country. In
consideration of the unusual circumstances it was decided that the
baronetcy should not lapse, nor the lands be forfeited to the Crown, but
be held over for our possible heirs, while ourselves should be accounted
as mysteriously disappeared, and forbidden to enter the kingdom. So we
wandered for many years in the new world and the old; and it was far
from St. Salvat's that our children were successively born. And it was
only on the death of my dear husband, which occurred in 1802, that a
Brandling, our eldest son, reappeared and claimed his title and
inheritance. It was the wish of my son Piers that I should accompany him
and his wife to England, and help to rebuild the home which I had helped
to destroy. But the recollection of the place had only grown in terror,
and I have ever adhered to my resolution not to set eyes on it again. I
have spent the years of my widowhood at Grandfey, my dear dead mother's
little property in Switzerland, where Eustace and I had been so happy
before he succeeded to St. Salvat's. And it is at Grandfey, among the
meadows again white with hemlock and the lime avenues again in blossom,
that I await, amid the sound of cowbells and of mountain streams, Death,
who had held me in his clutches fifty years ago in that castle hidden
among the trees above the white wailing Northern sea.