It was not long before the new baronet--the last of his line--began to make
his influence felt. His temper was resolute, secret, and domineering; he
bore himself haughtily among the neighboring squires, never seeking to
please a friend or to conciliate an enemy. Few people liked him; many
stood in awe of him. He seemed to be out of sympathy with his race; his
strange, ambiguous history invested him with an atmosphere of doubt and
mystery; his nature was not like other men's; it was even whispered that
he had powers transcending those of ordinary humanity. It is probable that
his remarkable personal beauty, which in moments of anger or energy
gleamed out with an almost satanic intensity, may have lent substance to
this impression; men shrunk from meeting the stern inquisition of his
black eyes; and for women his glance possessed a sort of fascination,
unconnected with his beauty. But there were other indications more direct
than these. A century, or even half a century, previous to this time Sir
Archibald might have found it difficult to avoid the imputation of
witchcraft. After all, was not he the descendant of his forefathers? and
what had some of them been? "Were there not people in the neighboring
village of Grinstead who were willing to take affidavit that the handsome
young baronet had the power to make himself invisible when he pleased?
Nay, had not Mrs. Pennroyal herself, while she was yet a young maid,
borne testimony to the fact--that he had suddenly stood before her, in
broad daylight, in a room which had the instant before been empty? That
room had always had a queer reputation; it was there, or thereabouts, that
most of these strange goings-on took place. A servant, who had once
wandered in there to announce to Sir Archibald that one of his lawyers had
arrived, and was waiting to see him, had found the room vacant, though he
had seen his master enter it only ten minutes before. Thinking that he
must have gone out by the other entrance, through the stable, he was about
to follow, when he noticed that this door was bolted on the inside. In
some bewilderment, he was on the point of retiring, when he was startled
by a burst of laughter which continued for near a minute, and which,
though it echoed almost in his ears, and came apparently from the very air
round about him, yet sounded faint and unsubstantial as if a vast distance
nevertheless intervened. Whether near or far, it was unmistakably the
laughter of Sir Archibald, but wilder and more scornful than had ever been
heard from his lips. The honest footman was now thoroughly frightened, and
made the best of his way out of the chamber; but before he could cross the
next room and reach the passage-way beyond, the living and peremptory
tones of Sir Archibald himself overtook him, and brought him back with
failing knees and pallid cheeks to where the black-haired baronet was
standing in the doorway. There he stood in flesh and blood, but cloaked,
booted, and spurred, as if just returned from a journey.
"What were you doing in this room?" demanded the baronet.
The man faltered out his errand.
"Hear this, once for all, and remember it," said the baronet, nor sternly
nor roughly, but with a concentration of purpose in his mellow voice that
seemed to stamp the words into the hearer's soul. "No one may enter this
chamber except I open the door. Else harm may happen which I could not
prevent. That is all. Now send Mr. Mawgage to me."
That was all, but it was quite enough; in fact, the difficulty thereafter
was to induce any one to venture into the room on any terms. It was
believed to be haunted, and that Sir Archibald was either himself the
ghost, or was in some way responsible for there being one.
I have mentioned this story, to which the reader already possesses the
clew, only by way of showing that Sir Archibald was making use, at that
time, of the secret which he had discovered, and was taking the surest
means of keeping it to himself. He had occupations in the inner chamber at
which he did not wish to be disturbed. What those occupations were he
confided to no living soul--indeed, there was no one who could have served
him as a confidant. His life was a lonely one, if ever a lonely life there
were. Whom had he to love, or to love him? Even his mother, now enfeebled
both in body and mind, felt fear of him rather than fondness for him. She
spent much of her time playing cards with her female companion, and in
worrying over the health of her pet spaniels. But did Sir Archibald love
no one?--at all events he hated somebody, and that heartily. He held
Richard Pennroyal responsible for all the ills that had fallen upon
Malmaison and upon himself; and he was evidently not the man to suffer a
grudge to go unrequited.
Pennroyal, on the other hand, was not disposed to wait quietly to be
attacked; he came out to meet the enemy half way. In the spring of the
year 1824--about nine months after Sir Edward's death--it was known in
every mansion and public house for twenty miles round that a great lawsuit
would by-and-by be commenced between Malmaison and Pennroyal, the question
to be decided being nothing less than the ownership of the Malmaison
estates, which Richard Pennroyal claimed, in the alleged failure of any
legitimate heir of Sir John Malmaison, deceased--the father of Sir
Clarence--but, as Pennroyal alleged, by a left-handed marriage. I have not
gone into the details of this case, and should not detain the reader over
it if I had; he may, if it pleases him, read it at full length elsewhere.
It is enough to observe that Pennroyal brought forward evidence to show
that he, and his father before him, had always had cognizance of the will
or other document which entitled him to the property in dispute in the
event provided for; and had only been withheld from putting in their claim
thereto by the repeated and solemn assurances of Sir Clarence that no such
irregularity as was suspected regarding his birth had in fact occurred.
Latterly, however, from fresh information accidentally received, it
appeared that Sir Clarence had either been guilty of a wilful and criminal
misstatement, or that he had been deceived. In confirmation whereof, the
Honorable Richard produced documents of undoubted genuineness, showing
that an illegitimate son had been born to Sir John; and now called upon
the defendant to prove that this son had died in childhood, or that he had
not grown up to be Sir Clarence; and furthermore, having disposed of this
difficulty, to show the certificate of birth of a legitimate heir to Sir
John Malmaison, and to identify that heir with Sir Clarence.
Now, there were certainly some awkward circumstances in respect of this
illegitimacy question. Sir Clarence had known that he had had a brother
born out of wedlock; and it is possible he also knew that the documents
relating to his own birth were not where he could put his hands upon them.
He may even have been aware that, were his title to be challenged, there
would be serious technical difficulties in the way of vindicating it. At
the same time, Sir Clarence was entirely and justly convinced that his
title was good. The history of the illegitimate son was familiar to him,
and to the rest of the family, in all its details. It was not, of course,
an ordinary topic of conversation, but it was an acknowledged piece of
family history. Sir John had been wild in his youth, and had made a good
many loose connections before acceding to the baronetcy--his father, Sir
Charles, the same who ate the venison pasty, having lived to see his heir
a man of thirty. One of these connections had been with the daughter of a
tenant; during its progress a marriage had been arranged between John
Malmaison and a neighboring heiress. About the time that the marriage took
place, the tenant's daughter had a child; Clarence himself was born about
a year later. The child had lived five or six years only; after its death
its mother had gone up to London, and had not since been heard of. This
was all simple enough; the only trouble being that no one could tell what
had become of the certificate of Clarence's birth, or of the other's
decease. Consequently there was an opening for an evil-disposed person to
assert what the Honorable Richard was now asserting.
Where had the Honorable Richard got his information?--of the absence,
that is to say, of these papers. It was never spoken of outside the
family. It is only proper to observe that his brother, Lord Epsom, would
have nothing to do with the affair, but explicitly and emphatically washed
his hands of it. But this did not deter Richard; he had got his materials,
he had decided upon his plan of action, and he was bound to go through
with it. He entertained no doubts of his success, and he probably
anticipated from it not only solid worldly advantage, but the
gratification of an undisguised enmity. It would give him peculiar
pleasure to augment his prosperity at the expense of Sir Archibald
Malmaison.
Considering that the outlook was so bad for him, the young baronet faced it
with commendable fortitude. People who met him regarded him with
curiosity, expecting him to appear disturbed, if not desperate. But he
wore an aspect of satisfied composure, tempered only by his habitual
haughtiness. He had interviews with his lawyers, seemed neither flurried
nor helpless, and altogether behaved as if his victory over his opponent
was placed beyond the possibility of a doubt. And yet, what could be his
defence? Was he going to rely upon the title having remained so long
unquestioned? Did he build his hopes upon a possible break in the chain of
Pennroyal's evidence? The on-lookers could only conjecture. And now the
time when conjectures would be exchanged for certainty was at hand.
It was the autumn of the year 1825. One cool, clear, gray afternoon Sir
Archibald had his horse saddled, and mounting him, rode out upon his
estate. In the course of an hour or so he found himself approaching the
pond, which, as has been already stated, lay on the border-line between
Malmaison and the lands of Richard Pennroyal. As he drew near the spot, he
saw at a distance the figure of a woman, also on horseback. It was
Kate--Mrs. Pennroyal. She was riding slowly in a direction nearly opposite
to his own, so that if they kept on they would meet on the borders of the
pond.
Sir Archibald had not met this lady for many months; and when he recognized
her, his first impulse was perhaps to draw rein. Then he looked to see
whether that were her impulse likewise. But she held on her course; and
he, smiling in a defiant way, shook his bridle, and in a few moments they
were but half a dozen yards apart. There they paused, as it seemed, by
mutual consent.
How lovely she looked! Sir Archibald saw it, and ground his teeth with a
kind of silent rage. She should have been his.
"Good-day, Mrs. Richard Pennroyal!"
"Good-day, Archibald!"
His name, coming with such gentleness and sweet familiarity from her lips,
made his blood tingle. He had expected coldness and formality.
"I had not looked forward to the honor of meeting you here," he said.
"But we have met here before, I think." And so they had, in days upon which
Archibald now looked back as does an exile upon home. His horse moved
forward a few steps, and his rider only stopped him when he was within
arm's length.
"That seems long ago; and yet, when I look at you, I could almost believe
it was but yesterday."
"You have changed more than I," replied the lady, letting her eyes rest
upon him with a certain intentness. This was true enough, physically
speaking; the handsome boy was now a superb young man; but Archibald chose
to interpret her words figuratively, and he answered bitterly:
"You may have changed little; but that little in you has caused whatever
change you find in me."
"It is true, then, that you are angry with me? I had hoped otherwise,"
said Mrs. Pennroyal, with a sad dignity that sat well upon her.
"Angry with you!" broke out Archibald, his face flushing. "Has it been a
desire to keep my--my friendship that has caused you to--"
Mrs. Pennroyal interrupted him, drawing herself up proudly. "Pardon me,
sir, I had no intention of forcing your good-will. If you will be my
enemy, please yourself, and perhaps I may learn to become yours." And she
turned her horse as she spoke. But Archibald, thus seemingly put in the
wrong, and unwilling now to terminate the interview so abruptly, pressed
his heel against his horse's side, and was again beside her.
"You misunderstand me," said he. "What could I think? You will not deny
that your--that Richard Pennroyal has shown himself no friend of mine."
"I shall deny nothing that you see fit to charge against me, sir," rejoined
the lady, still hurt and indignant, and the more irresistible.
Archibald reflected that she was not, perhaps, justly responsible for the
malevolence of another person, even though that person were her husband;
and from this thought to thinking that she might, perhaps, be inclined to
sympathize against her husband and with himself, was an easy transition.
This perilous fancy made his pulses throb and his eyes gleam. He caught
her horse's bridle.
"Do not go yet! Let us talk a little, since we are met."
"What has Sir Archibald Malmaison to say to me?"
"You called me 'Archibald' just now."
"You called me 'Mrs. Richard Pennroyal'!"
"Well--and so you are!" said he, between his teeth.
"Do you think of me by that name?" she asked, turning her brown eyes on him
for a moment, and then looking away.
"Kate!"
She put out her beautiful hand, and he took it and carried it to his lips.
Thoughts fierce and sweet flew through his mind. But Mrs. Pennroyal,
having gained her immediate end (which, to do her justice, was probably
nothing worse than the gratification of a coquettish whim), knew how to
take care of herself. She drew her hand away.
"There--well--you have been very unkind, Archibald. Have we not been
friends--have we not been together from the first? How could you believe
that I could wish you any harm?"
"Ah, Kate, but you married him!"
"Well, sir, I as good as asked you to marry me first, and you would not do
it."
"You asked me!"
"Yes; you have forgotten. It has all been so strange, you see. I hardly
know, even now, whether you are the Archibald I used to know."
"But I know, very well," returned he, grimly. "And you are the wife of my
enemy, the man who is trying to ruin me. Kate," he broke off suddenly,
"how did Richard know that those papers were missing in our family? I told
you once--do you remember that day? And no one knew it except you."
Mrs. Pennroyal would perhaps have preferred not to be asked this question.
But since it was asked, she was bound to make the best answer she could.
"It was for that I wanted to see you to-day," she said, after a pause. "I
have been to blame, Archibald; but it was ignorantly. It was long
ago--before all these troubles began to occur: while we were yet on good
terms. Ah me! would we were so again!"
"You told him, then?"
"I did not know that I was betraying a secret. From what Richard said, I
thought that he knew it, or at least suspected it; and I merely added my
confirmation. Afterward, when I found how things were going, I begged him
not to use that knowledge. But it was too late. I could not be at rest
until I had told you, and asked you to forgive me."
Archibald would not have believed this speech, if his head only had been
concerned in the matter. Unfortunately, such was not the case. He believed
it because he ardently wished to do so; and he forgave her the more
easily, because that implied having her hand in his again for a few
moments.
"If I could only see you and Richard at peace again, I should be happy,"
resumed Mrs. Pennroyal, with a sigh.
"Is it for him you fear, or for me?" inquired Archibald, smiling.
"The danger is yours," she answered, diplomatically.
He shook his head, still smiling: "Dismiss your anxiety, Kate. There is no
danger for me or mine. Let Richard look to himself!"
Mrs. Pennroyal was startled. She had looked upon the Malmaison case as
virtually hopeless. This hint of the contrary gave her a strong sensation,
not altogether unpleasurable. Richard was her husband, but he was not
nearly so young as Archibald, and as to looks!--there there was no
comparison. Archibald was simply the finest man in England. Perhaps Mrs.
Pennroyal tad never been passionately fond of her husband; and, on the
other hand, she had certainly liked Archibald very much. In the present
quarrel she had felt that the propriety of being on the winning side was
not diminished by the fact that it happened to be her husband's; but if it
should turn out that her husband's was not the winning side after
all--then there was matter for consideration. Of course, strictly
speaking, her husband's misfortunes must be her own; but in this instance
the nominal misfortune would be his failure to ruin Archibald, and Mrs.
Pennroyal thought she could sustain that. No, the sensation was certainly
not unpleasurable. But was it certain that Archibald was not mistaken?
"I am very glad, for both our sakes," said she, at last. "I could never
have endured to take your name and estates away from you. Then that notion
that the papers were lost was a mistake?"
"I can tell you nothing more," replied Archibald, looking at her.
"Ah, you have not forgiven me--you do not trust me!"
He checked his horse and hers, and turned full upon her: "Kate, you are the
wife of my enemy, I must remember that! If I found you playing a double
part between him and me, I should hate you more than I hate him; and then
... I should be capable of any crime. Well, I will not put it in your
power. You will know all soon enough. Meantime, I trust you in this--to
keep silence on what I have said to-day. Let him believe that he will
succeed until he knows that he has failed. Will you promise that?"
Mrs. Pennroyal saw no harm in making this promise, but she did not see why
she should not make as great a favor as she could of granting it.
"A wife should have no secrets from her husband, Archibald."
"Have you never had a secret from him, Kate?"
"You have no right to ask that!"