THE EARL AND HIS LEGAL ADVISER――A WIFE’S TREPIDATION.
Mr. Chicknell knew perfectly well that he would be a welcome visitor
to his client’s ancestral home, and he was in the best of spirits when
he passed into the vestibule of the grand old mansion.
Earl Ethalwood was busily engaged in his laboratory when the lawyer
made his appearance.
Aveline and Miss Jamblin had been sent to London for a change, under
the charge of the good-tempered and vivacious Lady Marvlynn, so that
the master of Broxbridge was without the companionship of the young
ladies or the _gouvernante_.
He consented to part with them upon the condition that their visit to
the metropolis was not of too protracted a duration.
To say the truth, Aveline did pretty much as she liked, and her
grandfather did not oppose her in anything but the one grand wish of
his life――this being a divorce from her low-born husband, as he was
pleased to term him.
Mr. Chicknell gave his patron a succinct account of those
circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted.
The earl was thunderstruck.
He had never for a moment counted on such an issue, but in the goblet
of pleasure he drained there were a few drops of bitterness.
His pride was wounded.
Although he affected and, indeed, did treat the very name of Gatliffe
with unmitigated disgust and contempt, he did not like the idea of his
being so faithless to even the memory of his wife.
To take up with a woman of Laura Stanbridge’s class was most
reprehensible.
“He’s a low-bred hound, and in saying this I have said all,” cried the
earl. “I always told you so, Chicknell, and we have had many
wrangles――if I may so term them――upon this subject. However, the worst
is over now, and we have every reason to be thankful that the fellow
has acted in such a discreditable way. Nevertheless his conduct rather
surprises me.”
“It has surprised me, my lord, and it will surprise many others, I
expect――more particularly your grand-daughter.”
“Poor girl! She clung to his memory with a pertinacity which was most
remarkable.”
“She is not to be blamed for that, my lord.”
“I say she is!” cried the earl, in one of his tantrums――“I say she is!
It is the only thing we disagree upon――have always disagreed upon.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but did not offer any observation
in reply.
“Mr. Wrench has done exceedingly well in this business, as, indeed, he
always has done, and he shall not go unrewarded. Now what are your
ulterior proceedings.”
“Matters are now simplified, and a divorce can be obtained without any
difficulty.”
“You have enough evidence?”
“Wrench says so. It will, of course, be an unopposed suit, that is
already understood.”
“Dear me, Chicknell, this is indeed joyful news. It seems to remove a
weight off my heart, and give me renewed life and vigour. I cannot
sufficiently express to you my sense of gratitude. Do, my dear friend,
set to work at once. Lose no time, but avoid as much exposure as
possible. I don’t want any public scandal.”
“You need not be under any apprehension, my lord; we shall run it
through the court as quietly and expeditiously as possible. We have a
plea, and that will suffice our purpose.”
The earl rose from his seat, rang the bell, and ordered wine and
refreshments to be served. He was in a perfect delirium of delight,
was loquacious, cheerful, and passed many flattering encomiums on the
wisdom and zeal displayed by his legal adviser.
Chicknell had never seen him in such spirits. The dream of his life
was about to be realised, and his darling Aveline would be separated
for ever from the connection which he deemed a blot upon his
escutcheon.
It did not occur to him that Gatliffe was the father of the boy who
was destined on some future day to represent the long line of the
Ethalwoods; had he thought of this possibly there might have been a
few drops more of bitterness in his cup of pleasure.
Mr. Chicknell remained at the hall that night, and on the following
morning hastened up to London to institute a suit in the Divorce
Court, agreeable to the instructions received from his client.
Meanwhile Aveline was enjoying an uninterrupted round of pleasure in
the metropolis. She was surrounded with hosts of fashionable swains,
who flattered her to her heart’s content.
Lady Marvlynn knew everybody, and everybody knew Lady Marvlyvn.
She was one of those active, quick-witted, good-natured busybodies
whom everyone appeared to like. She had the entrée into every coterie
of fashionable society, and could say smart things without giving
offence to any one.
Miss Jamblin was not taken everywhere with Aveline and her chaperon,
but she saw more pleasure than she had seen during her whole life at
Stoke Ferry Farm. Her position at the earl’s town house was a sort of
union of friend, companion, or lady’s maid to the greater star in the
firmament, Lady Aveline as she was termed.
Of course Aveline and the farmer’s daughter were to pay a visit to the
opera before they returned to Broxbridge Hall. Lady Marvlynn had made
her two young friends understand that they must see Patti.
She was the rage at the time. People felt disposed to fall down and
worship her, and declared that there never was such a singer.
The same remark has been made when other celebrities have been alluded
to, but that does not much matter. Patti was in the zenith of her
popularity, and possibly she was at her best about this time.
So the two young ladies, Lady Marvlynn, and the Honourable Tufnel
Oxmoor seated themselves in the earl’s carriage, which made direct for
the grand entrance to Covent Garden.
It is needless to say that the house was crammed――it being a Patti
night.
The opera was “La Somnambula,” one of her earliest triumphs――the opera
in which Malibran, many years before, had so entranced the town by her
matchless vocalisation and marvellous histrionic powers.
Lady Marvlynn, having adjusted her opera-glass to the right focus,
began to proceed to take a survey of the leading notabilities in the
stalls and boxes. She pointed out to Aveline many distinguished
persons, and gave a running commentary on them.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “as I live, there is my old friend, the Marquis
of Fincairn. I’ve not seen him for an age, indeed; but he’s looking
remarkably well. I wonder who the lady is he has got with him?”
“Don’t you know?” said Oxmoor.
“No. I confess I do not.”
“It’s Totty Pinkstream, who was the reigning belle in Paris some short
time since,” observed Oxmoor, in a whisper. “He doats on her――so I’m
told.”
“Bah! he’s an old fool then.”
“Oh, Lady Marvlynn!” cried the gentleman.
“Hush, don’t speak so loud――and that’s the Totty we have heard so much
of. Well, she’s distinguished in appearance, but not particularly
beautiful.”
“She’s not bad-looking, and has a lovely pair of eyes.”
“I allow you gentlemen to be the best judges of female loveliness,”
said Lady Marvlynn, hiding her face coquettishly behind her capacious
fan.
Her companion bowed, but made no reply.
“Who is that lady in the second box from the stage?” inquired Aveline.
“Who, my dear? Well, that’s the Countess of Lanfoil――very charming,
isn’t she, and dressed in such good taste? Her husband chooses her
dresses, I have been told, and is very proud of her, but she is cold
and unimpressionable, and cares but little for him. She has, however,
hosts of admirers.”
“What! a married woman have admirers!” said Patty Jamblin. “How very
odd.”
“Not at all, my dear; but hush, they are about to begin.”
The band struck up and played the overture, the curtain was raised,
and the performance commenced. When Patti made her appearance she
received a perfect ovation――the applause was prolonged to an
inordinate extent.
Aveline and Miss Jamblin were both delighted with her. No wonder,
seeing that they had never heard her equal.
When the first act was over, Aveline said――
“She’s grand――truly magnificent!”
“Yaas,” drawled Oxmoor, “very good, indeed. A most delightful
creature――a child of impulse.”
“And cultivation,” suggested Lady Marvlynn.
“Oh, of course, she has cultivation――that’s generally admitted.”
“Nature has something to do in forming a singer, and art also. It is
the union of the two that helps to form a great artiste.”
“Spoken like an oracle,” said the gentleman. “Upon my word, you are a
practical philosopher, a critic, and a commentator all in one.”
“You flatter.”
A gentleman opened the door of the box and peered in.
“Ah, Rolf, how are you? Come in,” said Oxmoor, addressing the new
comer.
“Let me introduce you. Lady Marvlynn, Mr. Rolf, theatrical critic to
the _Portsoken Gazette_――Lady Aveline, Miss Jamblin.”
They all bowed and smiled, as is usual in such cases.
“She’s very fine to-night, better than usual, I think――is she not?”
“Yes, excellent,” returned the critic.
“Wonderful singer, is she not, sir?” observed Lady Marvlynn, not
knowing very well what to say.
“Yes, has a magnificent organ.”
“There you go again,” cried Oxmoor. “A magnificent organ! A voice is
not an organ.”
“It is not a barrel organ, I admit,” said Rolf.
“No, nor is it an organ at all. It is produced by the vocal and
respiratory organs. By means of these organs a sound, or a series of
sounds, either better or worse, as the case may be; but the voice
itself is not an organ. I positively and emphatically deny that it
is.”
“I have heard you say something of the kind before,” returned Rolf.
“Perhaps you are correct in your theory. After all, it is but a figure
of speech. It is necessary to speak by the card, it would appear, when
addressing the Honourable Tufnel Oxmoor.”
“Oh, I can’t cope with you fellows of the press, you know,” observed
the young aristocrat, twirling his moustache.
His friend laughed.
“I should like to have a voice, or organ as you term it,” said Oxmoor.
“I would astonish their weak nerves.”
“You can’t astonish any person’s nerves,” cried Lady Marvlynn, “that
is impossible.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Astonishment must proceed from the brain, or sensorium. Nerves are
but threads of communication from the brain, and are not sentient.
There are, it is true, nerves of voluntary and involuntary action, but
they are incapable of being astonished. The phrase is, therefore,
quite incorrect.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the critic. “You’ve got your answer now, Oxmoor. I
would not presume to contradict her ladyship. The only answer I can
give is that it is like your ‘organ,’ a mere figure of speech.”
“As you are so very particular, it is just as well to be correct, you
know,” said her ladyship, tapping her friend on the elbow with the end
of her fan. “Don’t you see, Oxmoor, dear boy?”
“Ah, I see and feel, too,” he returned, with a good-humoured smile.
The curtain drew up for the second act, and cut short this playful
badinage.
Aveline Gatliffe had been charmed with the magnificent vocalisation of
the prima donna, with the admirable orchestral effects, and the
grandeur of the scenery; indeed, her attention had been so fixed upon
the performance that she had given but little heed to the conversation
which had been going on in the box.
Now she had no longer ears and eyes for the performers on the stage.
She turned deadly pale, and something seemed to deaden the pulsations
of her heart.
She saw a gentleman in the fourth or fifth row of stalls; by his side
sat a lady dressed in the height of fashion.
The gentleman was whispering soft words into her ear――so Aveline
judged, for ever and anon she turned her face towards his and smiled.
At first she could not bring herself to believe that the gentleman was
her husband, Tom Gatliffe, but she was but too well assured of this
fact when she scanned the pair through her opera-glass.
She saw that he was attired in a dress suit, and that his companion
was a woman of extreme beauty. She saw also, with the penetrating eye
of a jealous woman, that they were on the most friendly and familiar
terms.
She felt like one who is about to swoon. Her colour came and went, and
the very tremour seemed to pass through her frame, and her evening’s
amusement was at an end. She would have given worlds to be at home in
her own boudoir.
How to sit out the performance she could not divine. Had she been by
herself she would have left there and then, but, situated as she was,
such a course was quite impracticable.
It was in vain that the voice of the gifted singer gave expression to
the most seductive and entrancing strains. It was in vain that the
chorus and orchestra poured forth a flood of melody.
Aveline heard them not. Her attention was revitted upon her husband
and his fair partner.
“The green-eyed monster” was pressing with a leaden and oppressive
weight upon the jealous wife, who forgot at this trying hour that she
had deserted her husband for wealth and luxury.
“I hate and despise him,” she murmured, with supreme bitterness. “He
never was my equal. Now he is a false, deceitful monster. How I
despise him!”
“What is the matter with my darling pet?” exclaimed Lady Marvlynn,
leaning forward, and whispering in the ear of her young charge.
“Oh nothing-nothing at all.”
“Nay, my dear, something seems amiss. You look pale, and do not seem
yourself. Tell me what it is? Do you feel faint?”
“I have a headache――the heat is oppressive,” cried Aveline, not
knowing what excuse to make.
“Ah, you cannot deceive me, my child. I feel assured that you are not
well. When this act is over we will retire for a while.”
“I shall do very well where I am.”
But Lady Marvlynn was of a different opinion; so when the act drop
fell she conducted her friend into the lobby, and from thence to the
refreshment stall, where Aveline had some cooling drink.
“You are not looking at all well, dear,” said her ladyship. “And there
must be some reason for this.”
“There is a reason,” whispered Aveline, “and a powerful one, but do
not breathe a syllable to anyone.”
“My dear, do you suppose――――”
“No, no! I do not suppose. You have too much discretion.”
“What is it, then?”
“In the stalls my husband is seated.”
Lady Marvlynn gave a prolonged “Ah!” and looked astonished.
[Sidenote: No. 42.]
[Illustration: PEACE ENTERTAINS HIS FRIENDS.]
“And is he alone?” she inquired.
“No, he is not; he has a lady――I mean a female――with him; but take no
more notice of this――I am better now.”
They returned to the box, and secretly, unobserved by any one, Aveline
directed Lady Marvlynn’s attention to Gatliffe and Laura Stanbridge.
Her ladyship nodded, but said nothing.
“Lady Aveline is overcome with the heat, which, to say the truth, is
most oppressive,” observed Oxmoor.
“Yes, no doubt. She’s fresh from the country, and not used to London
life, hot theatres, overpowering gaslights, and all that sort of
thing, you know,” said her ladyship, coming to the rescue.
When the third act was over Oxmoor, to the great relief of Aveline,
took his departure, upon the plea that he had to meet someone at his
club who was about to depart for Calcutta, and prior to his departure
the members of the aforesaid club had invited him to a farewell
supper.
Whether this plea was a pure invention mattered but little. The
troubled wife was but too glad to be relieved of his company, for she
felt that he had his eyes upon her for nearly the whole of the time he
remained in the box.
It was a great relief to her when the curtain fell upon the
performance, the last two acts of which had been entirely lost upon
her.
Before she left the box she observed Gatliffe pass out of the stalls
with his female companion. She remained in the cloak-room longer than
there was any occasion for, that she might give time sufficient for
her husband and Laura to pass out of the theatre.
She felt assured that she should faint if by any chance or accident
she met them face to face.
Enveloping her head and shoulders in a shawl she passed through the
grand entrance, and tripped into the earl’s carriage. When once in
this vehicle she felt that she was safe.
Her husband and his fair enslaver would not be likely to cross her
path. She was silent and thoughtful during the journey home, and Lady
Marvlynn, who was at no loss to divine her thoughts, had the good
sense to refrain from making any observation upon a subject which she
knew must be a painful one.
She therefore contented herself with giving a running commentary upon
the evening’s entertainment, and her conversation was chiefly directed
to Miss Jamblin, who was at a loss to understand the reason for the
altered demeanour of Aveline.
To say the truth, the farmer’s daughter’s experience of fashionable
life did not in any way make her discontented with her own humble
sphere. The more she saw of the “upper ten,” as they are termed, the
more assured she was that real happiness was as little known or
experienced by the votaries of fashion as it was by those who could
not aspire to so exalted a position.
Patty was a simple-minded unsophisticated girl, who had but little
taste for the blandishments of wealth and power; nevertheless she had
become greatly attached to Aveline, who, throughout their brief
acquaintance, had treated her with uniform kindness. She was, as a
matter of course, much pained to find her so sad and thoughtful, and
had sufficient penetration to comprehend that there was some powerful
cause for this.
What the cause was she was at a loss to divine.
When they returned to the earl’s town mansion Aveline excused herself
upon the plea of indisposition, and retired to her own room. She
kissed Patty and Lady Marvlynn, and then withdrew.
“She’s not well,” said the farmer’s daughter, after she had left the
reception-room.
“No, not very well. You see, my dear, she is so excitable, so
remarkably impressionable, so delicately organised that it does not
take much to upset her. Poor Aveline, she’s very sensitive.”
“I think she is, but there has been nothing to put her out――that I am
aware of――nothing has occurred to-night.”
“Ah, dear me, no, nothing――positively nothing――except the heat and
over-fatigue, but after a night’s rest she’ll be herself again.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” murmured Patty, who did not, however, see that
the excuses offered by the diplomatic Lady Marvlynn were sufficient to
account for the distraught manner of Aveline. However, she did not
venture to disagree with her ladyship, and so sat down to the
supper-table with the best grace she could.
We have intimated that Lady Aveline returned to her own chamber. When
she had reached this she closed the door, bolted it, threw herself in
an easy chair, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
“I never would have believed it,” she exclaimed. “The perfidious
monster! I abhor and contemn him, and never wish to set eyes on him
again.”
With all her affected indifference and love of position, she still
had, deep down in the bottom of her heart, some latent love for the
man who, in an earlier day, she had sworn to love, honour, and obey.
How unmindful she had been of this vow we have already seen; but,
notwithstanding that she had cast him on one side and given him up for
the new sphere of action which presented itself to her with so much
witchery, she could not bear to see him whispering soft words in the
ears of a rival――and such a rival!
The thought was a maddening one, and as it passed through her brain
the tears fell thick and fast from her swollen eyelids.
She was glad, however, to have her hour or two of poignant sorrow
alone, and under the present circumstances could ill brook
companionship.
She sat for some time in her bedchamber a prey to tumultuous and
agonising thoughts. She would have liked half an hour’s interview with
the gentle and good Mrs. Maitland, who had been more than a mother to
her. Did she know the sort of life Tom Gatliffe was leading?
She upbraided herself for neglecting Mrs. Maitland. If it could be
arranged she would like to have her at the hall. She resolved to send
her an invitation when she got back to Broxbridge. The earl would give
his consent. He would not be cruel enough to make any objection to one
who had been so many years the guardian of his grand-daughter.
Aveline retired to bed and sobbed herself to sleep, which throughout
the life-long night was fretful, broken, and disturbed.
On the following day, at her own request, she returned with Lady
Marvlynn and Patty Jamblin to Broxbridge Hall.