A SHADOW ACROSS THE PATH.
No more was seen or heard of Lady Emily at Matcham. Except the one
fact that she had returned to Suffolk on the morning after her brief
appearance at the Manor, nothing more was known about that poor
lonely lady, whom adverse fate had cut adrift from all she loved.
At Beechhurst closed shutters told of the master's absence; and the
inquiries of the officious or the friendly elicited only the reply that
Mr. Carew was still travelling in Africa, and that no letters had been
received from him for a long time. He was in a country where there were
no post-offices, the housekeeper opined, but she believed her ladyship
heard from him occasionally.
Geoffrey's return, and the news of his engagement to Miss Vincent,
made a pleasant excitement in the village and neighbourhood. An early
marriage was talked about. Mr. Wornock had told the Vicar that he was
going to be married in a fortnight--had spoken as if he were sole
master of the situation.
"As if such a nice girl as Suzette would allow herself to be hustled
into marriage without time for a trousseau," persisted Bessie
Edgefield, who assured her friends that there would be no wedding that
year. "It may be in January," she said; "but it won't be before the New
Year."
Geoffrey had pleaded in vain. He had won his sweetheart's promise; but
his sweetheart was not to be treated in too masterful a fashion.
"God knows why we are waiting, or what we are waiting for," he said,
in one of those fits of nervous irritability, which even Suzette's
influence could not prevent. "Hasn't my probation been long enough?
Haven't I suffered enough? Haven't you kept me on the rack of
uncertainty long enough to satisfy your love of power? You are like all
women; you think of a lover as a surgeon thinks of a rabbit, too low
in the scale for his feelings to be considered--just good enough for
vivisection."
"Can't we be happy, Geoffrey? We have everything in the world that we
care for."
"I can never be happy till I am sure of you. I am always dreading the
moment in which you will tell me you have changed your mind."
"I have given you my promise. Isn't that enough?"
"No, it is not enough. You gave Allan your promise--and broke it."
She started up from her seat by the piano, and turned upon him
indignantly.
"If you are capable of saying such things as that, we had better bid
each other good-bye at once," she said. "I won't submit to be reminded
of my wrong-doing by you, who are the sole cause of it. If I had
never seen you, I should be Allan's wife this day. You came between
us; you tempted me away from him; and now you tell me I am fickle
and untrustworthy. I begin to think I have made a worse mistake in
promising to be your wife than I made when I engaged myself to Allan."
"That means that you are regretting him--that you wish he were here
now--in my place."
"Not in your place; but I wish he were safe in England. It makes me
miserable to be so uncertain of his fate, for his mother's sake."
"Well, he will be in England soon enough, I dare say. But you will be
my wife by that time; and I shall be secure of my prize. I shall be
able to defy a hundred Allans."
And then he sat down by her side, and pleaded for her pardon, almost
with tears. He hated himself for those jealous doubts which devoured
him, he told her--those fears of he knew not what. If she were but his
wife, his own for ever, that stormy soul of his would enter into a
haven of peace. The colour of his life would be changed.
"And even for Allan's sake," he argued, "it is better that there
should be no delay. He will accept the situation more easily if he
find us man and wife. A man always submits to the inevitable. It is
uncertainty which kills."
He pleaded, and was forgiven; and by-and-by Suzette was induced to
consent to an earlier date for her marriage. It was to be in the
second week of December--five months after Geoffrey's return, and the
honeymoon was to be spent upon that lovely shore where there is no
winter; and then, early in the year, Suzette and her husband were to
establish themselves at Discombe; and the doors of the Manor House were
to be opened as they had never been opened since old Squire Wornock was
a young man. Matcham was in good spirits at the prospect of pleasant
hospitalities, a going and coming of nice people from London. Nobody
in the immediate neighbourhood could afford to entertain upon a scale
which would be a matter of course for Geoffrey Wornock.
"December will be here before we know where we are," said Mrs.
Mornington, and her constitutional delight in action and bustle of
all kinds again found a safety-valve in the preparation of Suzette's
trousseau.
Again she was confronted by a chilling indifference in the young lady
for whom the clothes were being made. She advised Suzette to spend
a week in London, in order to get her frocks and jackets from the
best people. Salisbury would have been good enough for Allan, and
Beechhurst; but for Squire Wornock's wife--for the Riviera--and for
Discombe Manor, the most fashionable London artists should be called
upon for their best achievements.
"I suppose you'll want to look well when you show yourself at Cannes
as Mrs. Wornock? You won't want to be another awful example of an
Englishwomen wearing out her old clothes on the Continent," said Mrs.
Mornington snappishly.
As the General was also in favour of a week in town, Suzette consented,
and bored herself to death in the family circle of an aunt who was
almost a stranger, but who had been offering her hospitality ever
since she could remember. At this lady's house in Bryanstone Square,
she spent a weary week of shopping, and trying on, always under the
commanding eye of Aunt Mornington, who delighted in tramping about
London out of the season, a London in which one could do just what one
liked, without fear or favour of society.
And so the trousseau was put in hand; the wedding-gown chosen; the
wedding-cake ordered; Mrs. Mornington taking all trouble off her
brother's hands in the matter of the reception that was to be held
after the wedding. Everybody was to be asked, of course; but the
invitations were not to go out till a fortnight before the day.
"I don't want people to suppose I am giving them plenty of time to
think about wedding-presents," Suzette explained, when she insisted
upon this short notice.
All these arrangements were made in October--the marriage settlement
was drafted, and everybody was satisfied, since Geoffrey's liberality
had required the curb rather than the spur.
For the rest of the year the lovers had nothing to think of but each
other, and those great spirits of the past whose voices still spoke to
them, whose genius was the companion of their lives. Beethoven, Mozart,
Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schubert, were the friends of those quiet days;
and love found its most eloquent interpreters in the language of the
dead.
Sometimes, with a dim foreboding of evil, Suzette found herself
wondering what she would do with that fiery restless spirit, were
it not for that soothing influence of music; but she could not
imagine Geoffrey dissociated from that second voice which seemed
more characteristic of him than any spoken language--that voice of
passionate joys and passionate regrets, of deepest melancholy, and of
wildest mirth. Music made a third in their lives--the strongest link
between them, holding them aloof from that outside world to which the
mysteries of harmony were unknown. Matcham society shrugged shoulders
of wonder, not unmixed with disdain, when it was told how Miss Vincent
practised five hours a day at home or at Discombe, and how she was
beginning to play as well as a professional pianist. There had been a
little dinner at the Manor House, and Geoffrey and his betrothed had
played a duet which they called a Salterello, and Mrs. Mornington was
complimented on her niece's gifts. Her execution was really surprising!
No other young lady in Matcham could play like that. The girls of the
present day lived too much out-of-doors to aspire to "execution." If
they could play some little thing of Schumann's or the easiest of
Chopin's or Rubinstein's valses, they were satisfied with themselves.
The hunting season began, but Geoffrey only hunted occasionally. He
went only when General Vincent and his daughter went, not otherwise.
Suzette had three or four hunters at her disposal now, and could have
ridden to hounds three times a week had she so desired. Geoffrey's
first care had been to get some of his best horses ready for carrying
a lady; and she had her own thoroughbred, clever and kind, and able to
carry her for a long day's work. But Suzette was not rabid about riding
to hounds in all weathers, and at all distances. She liked a day now
and then when her father was inclined to take her; but she had no idea
of giving up her whole life--books, music, cottage visiting, home, for
fox-hunting. Geoffrey gave up many a day's sport in order to spend the
wintry hours in the music-room at Discombe, or in long rambles in the
woods, or over the downs, with his betrothed.
Was he happy, having won his heart's desire? Suzette sometimes
found herself asking that question, of herself, not of him. He was
a creature of moods: sometimes animated, eloquent, hopeful, talking
of life as if doubt, sorrow, satiety were unknown to him, undreamt
of by him; at other times strangely depressed, silent and gloomy, a
dismal companion for a joyous high-spirited girl. Those moods of his
scared Suzette; but she was prepared to put up with them. She had
chosen him, or allowed herself to be chosen by him. She had bound
herself to life-companionship with that fitful spirit. For him she
had forsaken a lover whose happier nature need never have caused her
an hour's anxiety--a man whose thoughts and feelings were easy to
read and understand. She had taken the lover whose caprices and moods
had awakened a romantic interest, had aroused first curiosity, then
sympathy and regard. It was because he was a genius she loved him; and
she must resign herself to the capricious varieties of temperament
which make genius difficult to deal with in everyday life.
No news of Allan reached Matcham till the beginning of November, when
Mrs. Mornington took upon herself to write to Lady Emily about him, and
received a very cold reply.
"I heard from my son last week," Lady Emily wrote, after a stately
acknowledgment of Mrs. Mornington's inquiry. "He has been laid up with
fever, but is better, and on his way home. He wrote from Brazzaville.
It is something to know that he did not die in the desert, neglected
and alone. Even on the eve of her marriage, your niece may be glad
to hear that my son has survived her unkindness, and Mr. Wornock's
desertion; and that I am hoping to welcome him home before long."
Mrs. Mornington showed the letter to Suzette, whose mind was greatly
relieved by this news of Allan.
"It is such a comfort to know that he is safe," she told Geoffrey,
after commenting upon the unkindness of Lady Emily's letter.
The news which was so cheering to her had a contrary effect upon her
lover. There was a look of trouble in Geoffrey's face when he was
told of Allan's expected arrival, and he took no pains to conceal his
displeasure.
"I am sorry you have suffered such intense anxiety," he said
resentfully. "Did you suspect me of having murdered him?"
"Nonsense, Geoffrey! I could not help thinking of all possible
dangers; and it distressed me to know that other people thought you
unkind in leaving him."
"Other people have talked like fools--as foolishly as his mother, in
whom one forgives folly. I was not his nurse, or his doctor, or his
hired servant. I was only a casual companion; and I was free to leave
him how and when I pleased."
"But not to leave him in distress or difficulty. _I_ knew you could not
have done that. I knew that you could not act ungenerously. I think
Lady Emily ought to make you a very humble apology for her rudeness,
when she has her son safe at home."
"She may keep her apologies for people who value her opinion. I shall
be a thousand miles away when her son returns."
He was silent and gloomy for the rest of the morning, and Suzette felt
that she had offended him. Was he so jealous of her former lover that
even the mention of his name--a natural interest in his safety--could
awaken angry feelings, and make a distance between them? Even their
music went badly, and Mrs. Wornock, from her seat by the fire,
reproached them for careless playing.
"That sonata of Porpora's went ever so much better last week," she
said, on which Geoffrey threw down his bow in disgust.
"I dare say you are right. I am not in the mood for music. Will you
come for a ride after lunch, Suzette? I can drive you home, and the
horses can follow while you are getting on your habit. We might fall in
with the hounds."
Suzette declined this handsome offer. She was not going to say to lunch.
"Father complains that I am never at home," she said, putting away the
music.
"Your father is out with the hounds. What is the use of your going back
to an empty house?"
"I would rather be at home to-day Geoffrey."
"To think about Allan, and offer a thanksgiving for his safety?"
"I am full of thankfulness, and I am not ashamed of being glad."
She went over to Mrs. Wornock, who had been too much absorbed in her
book to be aware that the lovers were quarrelling, till Suzette's brief
good-bye and rapid departure startled her out of her tranquillity.
"Aren't you going to walk home with her, Geoffrey?" she asked when
her son returned to the music-room, after escorting his sweetheart no
further than the hall-door.
"No," he answered curtly; "we have had enough of each other for to-day."
He went to the library, where the morning papers were lying unread, and
turned to the second page of the _Times_ for the list of steamers, and
then to the shipping intelligence.
Zanzibar? Yes, the Messageries Maritimes steamer _Djemnah_, was
reported as arriving at Marseilles yesterday morning. Allan was in
England, perhaps. If all went well with him, he would come by the
first ship after the mail that brought his letter. The _Rapide_ would
bring him from Marseilles in time for the morning mail from Paris. He
was in England--he whom Geoffrey had cruelly, treacherously deserted,
helpless, and alone.
"All is fair in love," Geoffrey told himself; "but I wonder what
Suzette will think of her future husband when she knows all? Her
future husband! If I were but her actual husband, I could defy Fate.
Who knows? something may have happened to hinder his return--a fit of
fever, a difficulty on the road. Three more weeks, and he may come back
safe and sound; it won't matter to me; I have no murderous thoughts
about him. He may tell her the worst he can about me. Once my wife, I
can hold and keep her in spite of the world. I will teach her that the
man who sins for love's sake must be forgiven for the sake of his love."
He was consumed with a fever of anxiety which would not let him rest
within four walls. He walked to Beechhurst, and unearthed a caretaker,
who came strolling from the distant stables, where he had been
enlivening his idleness by gossip with the grooms. The blinds and
shutters were all closed. Nothing had been heard from Mr. Carew.
"If he were in England you would have heard from him, I suppose?" said
Geoffrey.
"Yes, sir; he would have wired, no doubt. My wife is housekeeper, and
she would have had notice to get the house ready."
"Even if Mr. Carew had gone to Suffolk, in the first instance?"
"I should think so, sir. He would know we should want time to prepare
for him."
There was relief in this. Perhaps the _Djemnah_ had carried no such
passenger as the man whose return Geoffrey Wornock dreaded.
He went back to the Manor in the gloom of a November evening. The
darkness and loneliness of the road suited his humour. He wanted to be
alone, to think out the situation, to walk down the devil within him.
Matcham Church clock was chiming the third quarter after five when he
opened the gate and went into Discombe Wood; but when the Discombe
dressing-bell rang at half-past seven--an old-fashioned bell in a
cupola, which gave needless information to every cottager within half a
mile of the Manor House--Geoffrey had not come in.
His valet waited about for him till nearly dinner-time, and then went
down to the drawing-room to ask Mrs. Wornock if his master was to dine
at home.
"He is not in his dressing-room, ma'am. Will you wait dinner for him?"
"Yes, yes, of course I shall wait. Tell them to keep the dinner back."
The dinner was kept back so long that nobody eat any of it, out of
the servants' hall. Mrs. Wornock spent a troubled evening in the
music-room, full of harassing fears; while grooms rode here and
there--to Marsh House, to inquire if Mr. Wornock was dining there; to
Matcham Road Station, to ask if he had left by any train, up or down
the line; to the Vicarage, a most unlikely place, and to other houses
where it was just possible, but most improbable, that he should allow
himself to be detained; but nowhere within the narrow circle of Matcham
life was Mr. Wornock to be heard of.
"Pray don't be anxious about Geoffrey," Suzette wrote, in answer to
Mrs. Wornock's hastily scribbled note of inquiry; "you know how erratic
he is. He was vexed at something I said about Allan this morning, and
he has gone off somewhere in a huff. Keep up your spirits, chère mère.
I will be with you early to-morrow morning. _I_ am not frightened."
"She is not frightened! If she loved him as I do, she would be as
anxious as I am," commented Mrs. Wornock, when she had read Suzette's
letter.