‘I AM HER HUSBAND.’
A night and a day passed after this without any incident. What the chief
persons in this strange drama were doing or thinking was hid under an
impenetrable veil to all the world. Life at Blencarrow went on as usual.
The frost was now keen and the pond was bearing; the youngsters had
forgotten everything except the delight of the ice. Even Emmy had been
dragged out, and showed a little colour in her pale cheeks, and a flush
of pleasure in her eyes, as she made timid essays in the art of skating,
under the auspices of her brothers. When she proved too timid for much
progress, they put her in a chair and drew her carriage from end to end
of the pond, growing more and more rosy and bright. Mrs. Blencarrow
herself came down in the afternoon to see them at their play, and since
the pond at Blencarrow was famed, there was a wonderful gathering of
people whom Reginald and Bertie had invited, or who were used to come as
soon as it was known that the pond ‘was bearing.’
When the lady of the house came on to this cheerful scene, everybody
hurried to do her homage. The scandal had not taken root, or else they
meant to show her that her neighbours would not turn against her.
Perhaps the cessation of visits had been but an accident, such as
sometimes happens in those wintry days when nobody cares to leave home;
or perhaps public opinion, after the first shock of hearing the report
against her, had come suddenly round again, as it sometimes does, with
an impulse of indignant disbelief. However that might be, she received a
triumphant welcome from everybody. To be sure, it was upon her own
ground. People said to each other that Mrs. Blencarrow was not looking
very strong, but exceedingly handsome and interesting; her dark velvet
and furs suited her; her eyes were wonderfully clear, almost like the
eyes of a child, and exceptionally brilliant; her colour went and came.
She spoke little, but she was very gracious and made the most charming
picture, everybody said, with her children about her: Emmy, rosy with
unusual excitement and exercise, clinging to her arm, the boys making
circles round her.
‘Mamma, come on the chair--we will take you to the end of the pond.’
‘Put mamma on the chair,’ they shouted, laying hold upon her.
She allowed herself to be persuaded, and they flew along, pushing her
before them, their animated, glowing faces full of delight, showing over
her shoulders.
‘Brown, come and give us a hand with mamma. Brown, just lay hold at this
side. Brown! Where’s Brown? Can’t he hear?’ the boys cried.
‘Never mind Brown,’ said Mrs. Blencarrow; ‘I like my boys best.’
‘Ah! but he is such a fellow,’ they exclaimed. ‘He could take you over
like lightning. He is far the best skater on the ice. Turn mamma round,
Rex, and let her see Brown.’
‘No, my darlings, take me back to the bank; I am getting a little
giddy,’ she said.
But, as they obeyed her, they did not fail to point out the gyrations of
Brown, who was certainly, as they said, the best skater on the ice. Mrs.
Blencarrow saw him very well--she did not lose the sight--sweeping in
wonderful circles about the pond, admired by everybody. He was heavy in
repose, but he was a picture of agile strength and knowledge there.
And so the afternoon passed, all calm, bright, tranquil, and, according
to every appearance, happy, as it had been for years. A more charming
scene could scarcely be, even summer not brighter--the glowing faces lit
up with health and that invigorating chill which suits the hardy North;
the red sunset making all the heavens glow in emulation; the graceful,
flying movements of so many lively figures; the boyish shouts and
laughter in the clear air; the animation of everything. Weakness or
trouble do not come out into such places; there was nothing but
pleasure, health, innocent enjoyment, natural satisfaction there. Quite
a little crowd stood watching Brown, the steward, as he flew along,
making every kind of circle and figure, as if he had been on wings--far
the best skater of all, as the boys said. He was still there in the
ruddy twilight, when the visitors who had that privilege had streamed
into the warm hall for tea, and the nimble skaters had disappeared.
The hall was almost as lively as the pond had been, the red firelight
throwing a sort of enchantment over all, rising and falling in fitful
flames. Blencarrow had not been so brilliant since the night of the
ball. Several of the young Birchams were there, though not their mother;
and Mrs. Blencarrow had specially, and with a smile of meaning, inquired
for Kitty in the hearing of everybody. They all understood her smile,
and the inquiry added a thrill of excitement to the delights of the
afternoon.
‘The horrid little thing! How could she invent such a story?’ people
said to each other; though there were some who whispered in corners that
Mrs. Blencarrow was wise, if she could keep it up, to ‘brazen it out.’
Brazen it out! A woman so dignified, so proud, so self-possessed; a
princess in her way, a queen-mother. As the afternoon went on, her
strength failed a little; she began to breathe more quickly, to change
colour instantaneously from red to pale. Anxiety crept into the clear,
too clear eyes. She looked about her by turns with a searching look, as
if expecting someone to appear and change everything. When the visitors’
carriages came to take them away, the sound of the wheels startled her.
‘I thought it might be your uncles coming back,’ she said to Emmy, who
always watched her with wistful eyes.
Mr. Germaine had gone back to his parsonage through the moonlight with a
more troubled mind than he had perhaps ever brought before from any
house in his parish. A clergyman has to hear many strange stories, but
this, which was in the course of being enacted, and at a crisis so full
of excitement, occupied him as no tale of erring husband or wife, or son
or daughter going to the bad--such as are also so common
everywhere--had ever done. But the thing which excited him most was the
recollection of the silent figure behind, sitting bowed down while the
penitent made her confession, listening to everything, but making no
sign. The clergyman’s interest was all with Mrs. Blencarrow; he was on
her side. To think that she--such a woman--could have got herself into a
position like that, seemed incredible, and he felt with an aching
sympathy that there was nothing he would not do to get her free--nothing
that was not contrary to truth and honour. But, granted that
inconceivable first step, her position was one which could be
understood; whereas all his efforts could not make him understand the
position of the other--the man who sat there and made no sign. How
could any man sit and hear all that and make no sign?--silent when she
made the tragical suggestion that she might be contradicted--motionless
when she herself did the servant’s part and opened the door to the
visitor--giving neither support, nor protest, nor service--taking no
share in the whole matter except the silent assertion of his presence
there? Mr. Germaine could not forget it; it preoccupied him more than
the image, so much more beautiful and commanding, of the woman in her
anguish. What the man could be thinking, what could be his motives, how
he could reconcile himself to, or how he could have been brought into,
such a strange position, was the subject of all his thoughts. It kept
coming uppermost all day; it became a kind of fascination upon him;
wherever he turned his eyes he seemed to see the strange image of that
dark figure, with hidden face and shaggy hair pushed about, between his
supporting hands.
Just twenty-four hours after that extraordinary interview these thoughts
were interrupted by a visitor.
‘A gentleman, sir, wishing to see you.’
It was late for any such visit, but a clergyman is used to being
appealed to at all seasons. The visitor came in--a tall man wrapped in a
large coat, with the collar up to his ears. It was a cold night, which
accounted sufficiently for any amount of covering. Mr. Germaine looked
at him in surprise, with a curious sort of recognition of the heavy
outline of the man; but he suddenly brightened as he recognised the
stranger and welcomed him cheerfully.
‘Oh! it is you, Brown; come to the fire, and take a chair. Did you ever
feel such cold?’
Brown sat down, throwing back his coat and revealing his dark
countenance, which was cloudy, but handsome, in a rustic, heavy way. The
frost was wet and melting on his crisp, curly brown beard; he had the
freshness of the cold on his face, but yet was darkly pale, as was his
nature. He made but little response to the Vicar’s cheerful greeting,
and drew his chair a little distance away from the blaze of the fire.
Mr. Germaine tried to draw him into conversation on ordinary topics, but
finding this fail, said, after a pause:
‘You have brought me, perhaps, a message from Mrs. Blencarrow?’
He was disturbed by a sort of presentiment, an uneasy feeling of
something coming, for which he could find no cause.
‘No, I have brought no message. I come to you,’ said Brown, leaning
forward with his elbows on his knees, and his head supported by his
hands, ‘on my own account.’
Mr. Germaine uttered a strange cry.
‘Good heavens!’ he said, ‘it was you!’
‘Last night?’ said Brown, looking up at him with his deep-set eyes.
‘Didn’t you know?’
Mr. Germaine could not contain himself. He got up and pushed back his
chair. He looked for a moment, being a tall man also and strong, though
not so strong as the Hercules before him, as if he would have seized
upon him and shaken him, as one dog does another.
‘You!’ he cried. ‘The creature of her bounty! For whom she has done
everything! Obliged to her for all you are and all you have!’
Brown laughed a low, satirical laugh. ‘I am her husband,’ he said.
The Vicar stood with rage in his face, gazing at this man, feeling that
he could have torn him limb from limb.
‘How dared you?’ he said, through his clenched teeth; ‘how dared you? I
should like to kill you. You to sit there and let her appeal to you, and
let her open to me and close the door, and do a servant’s office, while
you were there!’
‘What do you mean?’ said Brown. ‘I am her husband. She told you so. It’s
the woman’s place in my class to do all that; why shouldn’t she?’
‘I thought,’ said the Vicar, ‘that however much a man stood by his
class, it was thought best to behave like a gentleman whatever you
were.’
‘There you were mistaken,’ said Brown. He got up and stood beside Mr.
Germaine on the hearth, a tall and powerful figure. ‘I am not a
gentleman,’ he said, ‘but I’ve married a lady. What have I made by it?
At first I was a fool. I was pleased whatever she did. But that sort of
thing don’t last. I’ve never been anything but Brown the steward, while
she was the lady and mistress. How is a man to stand that? I’ve been
hidden out of sight. She’s never acknowledged me, never given me my
proper place. Brought up to supper at the ball by those two brats of
boys, spoken to in a gracious sort of way, “My good Brown.” And I her
husband--her husband, whom it was her business to obey!’
‘It is a difficult position,’ said Mr. Germaine, averting his eyes.
‘Difficult! I should think it was difficult, and a false position, as
you said. You spoke to her like a man last night; I’m glad she got it
hot for once. By----! I am sick and tired of it all.’
‘I hope,’ said the Vicar, not looking at him, ‘that you will not make
any sudden exposure, that you will get her consent, that you will
respect her feelings. I don’t say that you have not a hard part to play;
but you must think what this exposure will be for her.’
‘Exposure!’ he said. ‘I can’t see what shame there is in being my wife;
naturally I can’t see it. But you need not trouble your head about that.
I don’t mean to expose her. I am sick and tired of it all; I’m going
off to begin life anew----’
‘You are going off?’ Mr. Germaine’s heart bounded with sudden relief; he
could scarcely believe the man meant what he said.
‘Yes, I’m going off--to Australia. You can go and tell her. Part of the
rents have been paid in this week; I have taken them for my expenses.’
He took out a pocket-book, and held it out to the Vicar, who started and
laid a sudden hand on his arm.
‘You will not do that--not take money?’ he cried. ‘No, no, that cannot
be!’
‘Why not? You may be sure she won’t betray me. I am going for her good
and my own; I don’t make any pretence; it’s been a failure all round. I
want a wife of my own age and my own kind, not a grand lady who is
disgusted with all my natural ways. A man can’t stand that,’ he cried,
growing darkly red. ‘She kept it under at first. But I am not a brute,
whatever you think. I have done all I can for her, to save her from what
you call the exposure, and I take this money fairly and above-board; you
can tell her of it. I wouldn’t have chosen even you for a confidant if
she hadn’t begun. You can go and tell her I sail for Australia from
Liverpool to-morrow, and shall never see her more.’
‘Brown,’ said the Vicar, still with his hand on the other’s arm, ‘I
don’t know that I can let you go.’
‘You’ll be a great fool, then,’ Brown said.
The two men stood looking at each other, the one with a smile, half of
contempt, half of resolution, the other troubled and uncertain. ‘They
will say you have gone off with the money--absconded.’
‘She’ll take care of that.’
‘Brown, are you sure she wishes you to go? The exposure will come, all
the same; everything is found out that is true; and she will be left to
bear it alone without any support.’
‘There will be no exposure,’ he said with a short laugh; ‘I’ve seen to
that, though you think me no gentleman. There’s no need for another
word, Mr. Germaine; I’ve a great respect for you, but I’m not a man that
is to be turned from his purpose. You can come and see me off if you
please, and make quite sure. I’m due at the station in an hour to catch
the up-train. Will you come?--and then you can set her mind quite at
ease and say you have seen me go.’
Mr. Germaine looked at his comfortable fire, his cosy room, his book,
though he had not been reading, and then at the cold road, the dreary
changes of the train, the sleepless night. After a time he said, ‘I’ll
take your offer, Brown. I’ll go with you and see you off.’
‘If you like, you can give me into custody on the way for going off with
Mrs. Blencarrow’s money. Mrs. Blencarrow’s money? not even that!’ he
cried, with a laugh of bitterness. ‘She is Mrs. Brown; and the money’s
the boy’s, not hers, or else it would be lawfully mine.’
‘Brown,’ said the Vicar tremulously, ‘you are doing a sort of generous
act--God help us!--which I can’t help consenting to, though it’s utterly
wrong; but you speak as if you had not a scrap of feeling for her or
anyone.’
‘I haven’t!’ he cried fiercely, ‘after three years of it. Half the time
and more she’s been ashamed of me, disgusted with me. Do you think a man
can stand that? By----! I neither can nor will. I’m going,’ he
continued, buttoning his coat hastily; ‘you can come or not, as you
please.’
‘You had better have some supper first,’ said the Vicar.
‘Ah! that’s the most sensible word you have said,’ cried Brown.
Was it bravado, was it bitterness, was it relief in escaping, or the
lightness of despair? Mr. Germaine could never tell. It was something of
all of these feelings, mingled with the fierce pride of a peasant
slighted, and a certain indignant contemptuous generosity to let her go
free--the woman who was ashamed of him. All these were in Brown’s
thoughts.