Mr. Trevanion’s attack wore off by degrees, and by and by he resumed his
old habits, appearing once more at dinner, talking as of old after that
meal, coming into the drawing-room for his rubber afterwards. Everything
returned into the usual routine. But there were a few divergences from
the former habits of the house. The invalid was never visible except in
the evening, and there was a gradual increase of precaution, a gradual
limitation of what he was permitted or attempted to do, which denoted
advancing weakness. John Trevanion remained, which was another sign. He
had made all his arrangements to go, and then after a conversation with
the doctor departed from them suddenly, and announced that if it did not
interfere with any of Madam’s arrangements he would stay till Christmas,
none of his engagements being pressing. Other guests came rarely, and
only when the invalid burst forth into a plaint that he never saw any
one, that the sight of the same faces day by day was enough to kill a
man. “And every one longer than the other,” he cried. “There is John
like a death’s head, and the doctor like a grinning waxwork, and
Madam--why, she is the worst of all. Since I interfered with her little
amusements, going out in the dark like one of her own housemaids, by
Jove, Madam has been like a whipped child. She that had always an
argument ready, she has taken up the submissive _rôle_ at last. It’s a
new development. Eh? don’t you think so? Did you ever see Madam in the
_rôle_ of Griselda before? I never did, I can tell you. It is a change!
It won’t last long, you think, John? Well, let us get the good of it
while we can. It is something quite novel to me.”
“I said nothing on the subject,” said John, “and indeed I think it would
be better taste to avoid personal observations.”
“Especially in the presence of the person, eh? That’s not my way. I say
the worst I have to say to your face, so you need not fear what is said
behind your back-- Madam knows it. She is so honest; she likes honesty. A
woman that has set herself to thwart and cross her husband for how
many--sixteen years, she can’t be in much doubt as to his opinion of
her, eh? What! will nothing make you speak?”
“It is time for this tonic, Reginald. Dr. Beaton is very anxious that
you should not neglect it.”
“Is that all you have got to say? That is brilliant, certainly; quinine,
when I want a little amusement. Bitter things are better than sweet, I
suppose you think. In that case I should be a robust fox-hunter instead
of an invalid, as I am--for I have had little else all my life.”
“I think you have done pretty well in your life, Reginald. What you have
wanted you have got. That does not happen to all of us. Except health,
which is a great deduction, of course.”
“What I have wanted! I wanted an heir and a family like other men, and I
got a poor little wife who died at nineteen, and a useless slip of a
girl. Then my second venture--perhaps you think my second venture was
very successful--a fine robust wife, and a mischievous brat like Rex,
always in scrapes at school, besides that little spiteful minx Sophy,
who would spite her own mother if she could, and the two imps in the
nursery. What good are they to me? The boy will succeed me, of course,
and keep you out. I had quite as lief you had it, John. You are my own
brother, after all, and that boy is more his mother’s than mine. He has
those eyes of hers. Lord! what a fool a young fellow is! To imagine I
should have given up so much when I ought to have known better, and
taken so many burdens on my shoulders for the sake of a pair of fine
eyes. They are fine eyes still, but I know the meaning of them now.”
“This is simply brutal, Reginald,” said his brother, in high
indignation. He got up to go away, but a sign from Mrs. Trevanion,
behind her husband’s back, made him pause.
“Brutal, is it? which means true. Give me some of that eau-de-Cologne.
Can’t you be quick about it? You take half an hour to cross the room.
I’ve always meant to tell you about that second marriage of mine. I was
a fool, and she was-- Shall I tell him all about it, Madam? when we met,
and how you led me on. By Jove! I have a great mind to publish the whole
business, and let everybody know who you are and what you are--or,
rather, were when I married you.”
“I wish you would do so, Reginald. The mystery has never been my doing.
It would be for my happiness if you would tell John.”
The sick man looked round upon her with a chuckling malice. “She would
like to expose herself in order to punish me,” he said. “But I sha’n’t
do it; you may dismiss that from your mind. I don’t wish the country to
know that my wife was--” Then he ended with a laugh which was so
insulting that John Trevanion involuntarily clinched his fist and made a
step forward; then recollected himself, and fell back with a suppressed
exclamation.
“It is quite natural you should take her part, Jack. She’s a fine woman
still of her years, though a good bit older than you would think. How
old were you, Madam, when I married you? Oh, old enough for a great deal
to have happened--eight-and-twenty or thereabouts--just on the edge of
being _passée_ then, the more fool I! Jove! what a fool I was, thrusting
my head into the bag. I don’t excuse myself. I posed myself in those
days as a fellow that had seen life, and wasn’t to be taken in. But you
were too many for me. Never trust to a woman, John, especially a woman
that has a history and that sort of thing. You are never up to their
tricks. However knowing you may be, take my word for it, they know a
thing or two more than you.”
“If you mean to do nothing but insult your wife, Reginald--”
“John, for Heaven’s sake! What does it matter? You will think no worse
of me for what he says, and no better. Let him talk!” cried Madam, under
her breath.
“What is she saying to you--that I am getting weak in my mind and don’t
know what I am saying? Ah! that’s clever. I have always expected
something of the sort. Look here, Madam! sit down at once and write to
Charley Blake, do you hear? Charley--not the old fellow. Ask him to come
here from Saturday to Monday, I want to have a talk with him. You are
not fond of Charley Blake. And tell him to bring all his tools with him.
He will know”--with a significant laugh--“what I mean.”
She went to the writing-table without a word, and wrote the note. “Will
you look at it, Reginald, to see if it is what you wish.”
The patient snarled at her with his laugh. “I can trust you,” he said,
“and you shall see when Blake comes.”
“What do you want with Blake, Reginald? Why should you trouble yourself
with business in your present state of health? You must have done all
that is necessary long ago, I wish you would keep quiet and give
yourself a chance.”
“A chance! that’s Beaton’s opinion, I suppose--that I have more than a
chance. That’s why you all gather round me like a set of crows, ready to
pounce upon the carcass. And Madam, Madam here, can scarcely hold
herself in, thinking how soon she will be free.” He pushed back his
chair, and gazed from one to another with fiery eyes which seemed ready
to burst from their sockets. “A chance! that’s all I’ve got, is it? You
needn’t wait for it, John; there’s not a penny for you.”
“Reginald, what the doctor says is that you must be calm, that nothing
must be done to bring on those spasms that shake you so. Never mind what
John says; he does not know.”
“Oh, you!” cried the sick man; “you--you’ve motive enough. It’s freedom
to you. I don’t tell you to scheme for it, I know that’s past praying
for. Nobody can doubt it’s worth your while--a good settlement, and
freedom to dance on my grave as soon as you like, as soon as you have
got me into it. But John has got no motive,” he said again, with a sort
of garrulous pathos; “he’ll gain nothing. He’ll rather lose something
perhaps, for he couldn’t have the run of the house if it were yours, as
he has done all his life. Yours!” the sick man added, with concentrated
wrath and scorn; “it shall never be yours; I shall see to that. Where is
the note to Charley--Charley Blake? John, take charge of it for me; see
that it’s put in the post. She has the bag in her hands, and how can I
tell whether she will let it go? She was a great deal too ready to write
it, eh? don’t you think, knowing it was against herself?”
After this cheerful morning’s talk, which was the ordinary kind of
conversation that went on in Mr. Trevanion’s room, from which John
Trevanion could escape and did very shortly, but Madam could not and did
not, the heavy day went on, little varied. Mrs. Trevanion appeared at
lunch with a sufficiently tranquil countenance, and entered into the
ordinary talk of a family party with a composure or philosophy which was
a daily miracle to the rest. She checked little Sophy’s impertinences
and attended to the small pair of young ones like a mother embarrassed
with no cares less ignoble. There was an air of great gravity about her,
but not more than the critical condition of her husband’s health made
natural. And the vicar, who came in to lunch to ask after the squire,
saw nothing in Madam’s manner that was not most natural and seemly. He
told his wife afterwards that she took it beautifully; “Very serious,
you know, very anxious, but resigned and calm.” Mrs. Vicar was of
opinion that were she Mrs. Trevanion she would be more than resigned,
for everybody knew that Madam had “a great deal to put up with.” But
from her own aspect no one could have told the continual flood of insult
to which she was exposed, the secret anxiety that was gnawing at her
heart. In the evening, before dinner, she met her brother-in-law by
accident before the great fireplace in the hall. She was sitting there,
thrown down in one of the deep chairs, like a worn-out creature. It was
rare to see her there, though it was the common resort of the household,
and so much, in spite of himself, had John Trevanion been moved by the
sense of mystery about, and by his brother’s vituperations, that his
first glance was one of suspicion. But his approach took her by
surprise. Her face was hidden in her hands, and there was an air of
abandon in her attitude and figure as if she had thrown herself, like a
wounded animal, before the fire. She uncovered her face, and, he
thought, furtively, hastily dried her eyes as she turned to see who was
coming. Pity was strong in his heart, notwithstanding his suspicion, he
came forward and looked down upon her kindly. “I am very glad,” he said,
“to see that you are able to get a moment to yourself.”
“Yes,” she said, “Reginald seems more comfortable to-night.”
“Grace,” said John Trevanion, “it is beyond human patience. You ought
not to have all this to bear.”
“Oh, nothing is beyond human patience,” she said, looking up at him
suddenly with a smile. “Never mind, I can bear it very well. After all,
there is no novelty in it to wound me. I have been bearing the same sort
of thing for many years.”
“And you have borne it without a murmur. You are a very wonderful woman,
or--”
“What do you mean? Do you think me a bad one? It would not be wonderful
after all you have heard. But I am not a bad woman, John. I am not
without blame; who is? But I am not what he says. This is mere weakness
to defend myself; but when one has been beaten down all day long by one
perpetual flood like a hailstorm-- What was that? I thought I heard
Reginald’s voice.”
“It was nothing; some of the servants. I am very sorry for you, Grace.
If anything can be done to ease you--”
“Nothing can be done. I think talking does him good; and what is the use
of a man’s wife if not to hear everything he has to say? It diverts the
evil from others, and I hope from himself too. Yes, I do think so; it is
an unpleasant way of working it out, and yet I think, like the modes
they adopt in surgery sometimes, it relieves the system. So let him
talk,” she went on with a sigh. “It will be hard, though, if I am to
lose the support of your good opinion, John.”
To this he made no direct answer, but asked, hurriedly, “What do you
suppose he wants with Charley Blake? Charley specially, not his father,
whom I have more faith in?”
“Something about his will, I suppose. Oh, perhaps not anything of
consequence. He tries to scare me, threatening something--but it is not
for that that I am afraid.”
“We shall be able to do you justice in that point. Of what are you
afraid?”
She rose with a sudden impulse and stood by him in the firelight, almost
as tall as he, and with a certain force of indignation in her which gave
her an air of command and almost grandeur beside the man who suspected
and hesitated. “Nothing!” she said, as if she flung all apprehension
from her. John, whose heart had been turned from her, felt himself
melting against his will. She repeated after a time, more gently, “I
know that if passion can suggest anything it will be done. And he will
not have time to reconsider, to let his better nature--” (here she
paused, and in spite of herself a faint smile, in which there was some
bitterness, passed over her face) “his better nature speak,” she said,
slowly; “therefore I am prepared for everything and fear nothing.”
“This sounds not like courage, but despair.”
“And so it is. Is it wonderful that it should be despair rather than
courage after all these years? I am sure there is something wrong.
Listen; don’t you hear it? That is certainly Reginald’s voice.”
“No, no, you are excited. What could it be? He wants something, perhaps,
and he always calls loudly for whatever he wants. It is seldom I can see
you for a moment. I want to tell you that I will see Blake and find out
from him--”
“I must go to Reginald, John.”
She was interrupted before she had crossed the hall by the sudden
appearance of Russell, who pushed through the curtain which hung over
the passage leading to Mr. Trevanion’s room, muffling herself in it in
her awkwardness. The woman was scared and trembling. “Where’s Madam,
Madam?” she said. “She’s wanted; oh, she’s wanted badly! He’s got a fit
again.”
Mrs. Trevanion flew past the trembling woman like a shadow. “It is your
doing,” she said, with a voice that rung into Russell’s heart. The
intruder was entirely unhinged. “I never saw him in one before. It’s
dreadful; oh, it’s dreadful! Doctor! doctor! oh, where’s the doctor?”
she cried, losing all command of herself, and shrieking forth the name
in a way which startled the house. The servants came running from all
sides; the children, terror-stricken, half by the cry, half by the sound
of Russell’s voice, so familiar to them, appeared, a succession of
little wistful faces, upon the stair, while the doctor himself pushed
through, startled, but with all his wits about him. “How has it
happened? You’ve been carrying your ill-tempered chatter to him. I’ll
have you tried for manslaughter,” the doctor said.