Читать книгу Foxglove Manor, Volume III (of III) - Robert W Buchanan - Страница 1

Sunday, Sept. 19. My wife has gone to church.

I can hear the bells ringing in the distance as I write… Now they cease, and at this very moment the clergyman, “snowy-banded, delicate-handed,” is ascending the pulpit stairs, amid the reverent hush of his congregation.

Though several times of late she has suggested that a little church-going would do me good, Ellen did not ask me to accompany her on this occasion; indeed, I thought at first that she was going to stay at home herself. At breakfast she was irritable and absent-minded, and she did not dress or order the carriage until the last moment. There was evidently a hard struggle in her mind whether she should go to church or not. Ultimately, she decided to go.

Out of this and other unpleasant indications, I have made a discovery. My wife, despite her purity, despite her lofty sense of honour, is jealous of the clergyman.

The day after my fishing expedition, I quietly told her what I had seen in the woodland. It was not without due deliberation that I determined to do so. One portion of the truth, however, I carefully concealed: namely, the references made by the lovers to herself. For the same reason, I showed no sign of personal suspicion, but treated the affair lightly, as a thing of indifference.

I began the conversation in this way, while beating the shell of my second egg at breakfast —

“By the way, my dear Nell, I have made a discovery.”

She looked up and smiled unsuspiciously. “Something terrible, I suppose; like Dr. Dupré’s elixir?”

“Oh dear no, nothing nearly so scientific; a mere social discovery, my dear. I have found out that I was right; that if your pet parson is not married, he ought to be.”

I saw her change colour; but, bending her head over her teacup, she forced a laugh.

“What nonsense you’re talking!”

“Don’t call it nonsense till you hear my story. It will interest you, being quite piscatorial and idyllic. Conceive to yourself, first, the primaeval woodland; then two figures, a nymph in a frock and a satyr in a clerical coat. The nymph, your friend Miss Dove; the satyr, your other friend, Mr. Santley. She was crying; he consoling. I heard their conversation; I saw them quarrel, make it up, embrace, kiss, and disappear. I think you will agree with me that so pretty a pastoral should have, in a moral country, but one sequel – marriage.”

How white and strange she seemed! How nervously she fought with her agitation!

“I don’t believe a word of what you say!” she cried. “You saw all this, but how?”

I told her how, and she uttered a cry of virtuous indignation.

“It is shameful!” she exclaimed. “I will never speak to him again – never!”

“On the contrary, I think you should speak to him, and, like a true matchmaker, produce the dénouement. You need not tell him that I played Peeping Tom; but, without doing so, you can act on the information I have given you. After all, if he really loves the girl – ”

“But he does not love her!”

She paused, trembling and flushing, conscious of her blunder.

“Then is he a greater scoundrel than even I suspected!”

“There must be some mistake. I am sure Mr. Santley would do nothing dishonourable. As to marrying, his ideas are those of the High Church. He does not think that a priest has any right to marry.”

I looked at her in amazement. After what I had told her, could she possibly be attempting to justify him? If so, the case was worse than I had foreseen, and her moral sense had already been effectually poisoned. She continued rapidly and eagerly, as if contending in argument with her own thoughts.

“A clergyman’s position is very difficult. If he is unmarried, as a true priest should be, he is persecuted by all the marriageable girls of his parish. His slightest attentions are misconstrued, his most innocent acts exaggerated; and if he shows a friendly interest in any young person, he is sure to be misunderstood. I have no doubt, after all, that what you saw could be easily explained; and that, in any case, Miss Dove is the person really to blame.”

I was right, then: justification, and ‘ – jealousy.

“You forget,” I answered quickly, “that I heard the whole conversation. Besides, though the language of words may be distorted, that of kisses and embraces is unmistakable.”

“He did not kiss her; he did not embrace her! I will never believe it.”

“Then, you simply assume that I am stating an untruth?”

“I know how glad you are,” she cried passionately, “to put this slur upon him.”

With some difficulty I mastered my indignation. Sick of the discussion, I rose and prepared to leave the room; but before leaving I spoke, with cold decision, to the following effect: —

“I have told you precisely what I saw; it is for you to impeach my motives, if you please, and to think, in your infatuation, that I dislike Mr. Santley because of the cloth he wears. If you doubt me, question the girl; you can possibly get the truth from her. In any case, remember that, from this moment, I forbid you to entertain that man in my house.”

So I left her, leaving my words to work.

The next day, i.e. yesterday, Santley called. She did not see him, but sent out a message that she was engaged. I saw him creeping, pale and crestfallen, past my laboratory door.

Since the conversation recorded above, Ellen and I have not alluded to the subject; indeed, we have seen little of each other, and spoken still less. Possibly our temporary estrangement might account for the fixed pallor, the cold look of sorrow and reproach, on my wife’s face; but I am inclined to fear otherwise. At all events, the thing had gone so far, and I knew so much, that the overtures to reconciliation could not come from me. I had to conquer my struggling tenderness, and watch.

The great struggle came this morning. I observed it with sickening suspense. Had honest indignation conquered, had Ellen held to her first decision of not returning into that man’s church, I think I should have taken her into my arms and begged her pardon for suspecting her. But no! she has gone; not, I am sure, to pray. Surely I am a model husband, to sit so tamely here!

Sunday Evening.– She drove home immediately after morning service, and

I saw by the expression of her face that she was greatly agitated. We lunched in silence, and afterwards she took a volume of sermons and sat reading on the terrace. Later on in the afternoon, while I sat writing alone, she came in behind me, and before I could speak, put her arms around my neck and kissed me.

“Forgive me,” she cried, with her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Oh, George, I am so unhappy! I cannot bear to quarrel.”

And she knelt by my side, looking pitifully up into my face.

I returned her kiss, and for the time being, in her soft embrace, forgot my suspicions. It was a happy hour! Neither of us spoke of the subject of our disagreement.

Tuesday. – After a temporary calm, the storm has again broken, and the weather is still charged with thunder. Let me try to record calmly what has taken place.

This afternoon, as I sat at work, Baptisto entered quietly.

“I think you are wanted, senor; there is some one here.”

“What do you mean? Who is it?”

“The clergyman, senor. He is with my lady.”

I started angrily; then, conquering myself, I demanded —

“Did they send you for me?”

“No, senor,” replied Baptisto, with his mysterious look; “but I thought you would like to know.”

I could have struck the fellow, for I saw that he had been playing the spy. Nevertheless, I remembered that I had forbidden Ellen to entertain Santley again at the Manor, and I felt my indignation rapidly rising at the thought of her disobedience. Angry and humiliated, I rose to my feet.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“In the drawing-room, senor.”

I at once went thither, uncertain what to say or do; for I was determined, if possible, not to make a scene. Now, the great drawing-rooms of the Manor house consist of two old-fashioned apartments, communicating with a curtained archway, where there was once a folding-door. The inner room opens on a lobby communicating with the house; the outer opens on the terrace. I approached from within, and finding the door open, entered softly. No one was visible; but I heard voices whispering in the outer room.

After a moment’s hesitation, I sat down in an armchair, and took up a book from the table. My back was to the curtained archway, and facing me was a large mirror, in which the archway and the dimly lighted, rose-coloured chamber beyond were clearly reflected.

The whispering continued.

I could bear the suspense no longer, and was about to rise and make my presence known, when the voices were raised, and I heard the clergyman exclaim —

“Ellen, for God’s sake! I can explain everything!”

Ellen! My satyr was familiar. I crouched in my armchair, listening, as my wife replied —

“Why should you explain to me? I have no wish to listen, Mr. Santley. Only I am shocked and indignant at what I have heard.”

“But there is not one word of truth in it. Who is your informant? I demand to know his name.”

I strained my ears in suspense, wondering how she would reply, for I already guessed the bearings of the conversation. To my surprise, she replied parabolically —

“It is the common talk of the place.”

“Then it is a simple scandal!”

“You are not engaged to Miss Dove?”

“Certainly not. She herself can tell you that there is nothing of the kind between us. I will admit freely that she has a great esteem for me – that, in short, she is attached to me; and that possibly, if I desired it, she would marry me.”

There was a silence. Then I heard Ellen say, quietly and firmly —

“Will you answer me a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you meet Miss Dove alone, last Thursday?”

I felt that her eyes were fixed upon his face as she put the question, and I guessed how it startled and amazed him; but he was unabashed, and replied instantly —

“Where?”

She waited a moment, like one pausing to give the coup de grâce, before she said – “Close to the river-side, among Lord – s plantations.”

Greatly to my astonishment, for I naturally expected a denial, the answer came at once, in a clear, decided voice. “Yes, I did meet her.”

I could imagine, though I could not see, my wife’s start of virtuous indignation. Almost instantly, I saw her image in the mirror before me, as she rapidly crossed the room beyond; then he followed, black-suited, like the devil. In the dim distance of the mirror, I now saw their two figures reflected, floating faintly in the rose-coloured light beyond the curtains. Their backs were turned to me, their faces were looking out upon the terrace.

“I have nothing to conceal,” he continued passionately. “Some enemy has been spying upon me; but I repeat, I have nothing to conceal. Only, I wished to spare Miss Dove. Now that you have made reserve impossible, I will admit, frankly, that she has misconstrued certain harmless attentions, and that, on the day you mention, she came upon me by accident, and reproached me for my coldness, my want of sympathy. She even went further, and asked me to marry her. I tell you this in sacred confidence, for I have no right to inform others of the young lady’s indiscretion.”

“Was that all that passed?”

“All, I assure you.”

Ellen gave a peculiar laugh, the sound of which I did not like at all. There is nothing more significant than a woman’s light laugh – nothing, sometimes, more horrible.

“She was reproachful, and you – consoled her?”

“Consoled her?”

“As a true lover should, – with kisses and embraces? You see, I know everything!”

“It is a calumny,” cried the clergyman, with seeming indignation. “True, I was gentle with her, for I felt very sorry. I reasoned and remonstrated with the foolish child: after all, she is a child only. Oh, Ellen, how could you listen to such an accusation? You who know that there is but one woman in the world who has my love, my life’s devotion, and that you are that woman.”

Did my eyes deceive me, or had he stretched out an arm to embrace her? No, I was right!

“Take away your arm!” she cried. “I will not suffer it!”

She did suffer it, notwithstanding.

“Ellen! dearest Ellen!”

He drew her towards him, and I thought she was going to yield to his embrace; but she shook herself free, and in a moment, before he knew her purpose, had opened the window and glided out upon the terrace. He followed her with a cry, and so – my mirror was empty. I rose to my feet, sick and dazed with what I had seen, and prepared to follow.

What should I do? Should I at once avow my knowledge of what had taken place, and seize my satyr by the throat; or, smiting him in the face, fling him from my door? Should I stand by tamely, and see my hearth violated, my wife tempted, by a common snake of the parish? If I had been less angry with my wife herself, I am sure I should have taken the violent course. But I saw now, to my horror, that she was neither adamantine nor marble. She had allowed him to know his evil power upon her, and to see that the knowledge of his power over another woman, so far from shocking and repulsing her, had increased the fascination. If I denounced him openly, it would be to admit his rivalry, and, by inference, to complete her degradation.

Fortunately, I have been accustomed, from youth upward, to control my strongest feelings, whether of tenderness or anger; and though I am capable enough of strong passion, I have generally the power to disguise it. In the present emergency, I found my habit of self-restraint stand me in good stead. I advanced into the outer room. By the time I had reached it, I was calm and cool to all outward appearances.

Quite quietly, I approached the window, and gazed out upon the terrace. There they stood, he talking eagerly, she with face averted from him, and looking my way. She saw me in a moment, and started in agitation. I nodded grimly, and opening the folding windows, looked out. Then, all at once, I drew back apologetically.

“Ah, there you are!” I said to my wife. “I was looking for you.”

She stepped over to the window, looking strangely pale and scared. I had not even looked at, much less addressed, her companion; but he approached, with a ghastly smile.

“I’m afraid I interrupt you,” I continued. “Some religious business, I suppose? Shall I retire till it is settled?” He looked at me doubtfully; but Ellen immediately replied —

“Do not go away. Mr. Santley is just leaving.”

Still preserving my sang froid, I sat down in one of the garden seats on the terrace, and opened the book which I had lifted at random from the drawing-room table. Curiously enough, it was a work which is rather a favourite of mine, one of Sebastiano’s “Tales in Verse.” I knew the thing, particularly the passage on which the page had opened, and which, strange to say, had a certain reference to the present situation.

“Pray proceed with your talk,” I said. “I have something here to amuse me, till you have done.”

So I sat reading, or pretending to read. I did not even glance up, but I felt that they were looking uneasily at one another. There was a long pause. At last I lifted my eyes.

“I’m sure I’m in the way,” I said; and rose as if to go.

“No, no!” cried Ellen, more and more uneasy at my manner, which I’m afraid was ominous. “We were only discussing some foolish village matters, on which Mr. Santley wished to have my advice.”

“Very well,” I replied. Then, turning to Santley, I inquired quietly, “Do you read Spanish?”

He shook his head.

“That’s a pity,” I continued. “Otherwise, you might have been much amused by this little work, written by a priest like yourself, though not quite of your persuasion.”

“Is it a tale?” asked Ellen, bending over me.

“Yes; one of old Sebastiano’s ‘Tales in Verse.’ Its author, I may tell you, was a Castilian monk, who abandoned the Church for the heretical pursuit of story-writing, and took ‘Sebastiano’ as a pseudonym. The story I am reading here is considered, by many, his masterpiece. The verse is assonantic throughout, the subject – ”

Here my satyr could not forbear a gesture of impatience and irritation.

“I’m afraid I bore you, sir,” I said, smiling. “Your tastes are not literary, I fear?”

“I seldom read fiction,” he answered. “I consider it too trivial, and a waste of time.”

“Do you really think so? I grant you, if the work is not of a truly moral nature, like the present. As I was going to tell you, the subject of this story, or tragedy in narrative, is edifying in the extreme. There was once in Castile a parish priest, an exceedingly handsome fellow, who, in a moment of impulse, fell deeply in love with a Spanish lady.”

There was no need to look up now. I felt that they were both fascinated, not knowing what was to come. Ellen’s hand was on my chair, which vibrated with the violent beating of her heart.

“Very prettily does Sebastiano describe the course of this amour. The priest’s first struggles to resist temptation, his frequent fastings and spiritual purgings, his growing desperation, his final yielding to the spell. To be brief, he at last spoke to her, avowed his passion, and flung himself, despairing and imploring, at her feet.”

“And she?” asked Ellen, in a voice so low that I scarcely heard her.

“Oh, the story says but little of her answer, though doubtless it was to the purpose, as the sequel proves. They understood one another, and might doubtless have been happy, but for one unfortunate impediment, which both had forgotten. The lady had – a husband!”

Ah, that frightened, beating heart! how it leapt and struggled, as the little hand still clutched my chair! I just glanced up, and meeting my gaze, she made an appealing gesture; for she began to understand. As for him, he stood pale and sullen, scowling at me with his seraphic face, and as yet imperfectly comprehending.

“A husband!” I repeated, turning over a leaf. “He, poor devil, was an alchemist, a dreary, doting seeker for the elixir of immortal life, and they thought him – blind. In this they were mistaken. As the poor flat flounder on the bottom of the sea, lying half buried and invisible in the sand and mud, still with its watery jelly of an eye surveys the liquid welkin overhead, so he, our alchemist, was marking much in silence. Well, sir, the thing grew, till at last, out of that obscure laboratory where the dreamer toiled there came a thunderbolt. One fine morning the lady was found – dead!”

“Dead!”

They both echoed the word involuntarily.

“Yes; but the curious part of the affair has yet to be told. They found her lying, as if sleeping, in her bed; so sweet, so quiet, so peaceful, no one in the world would have dreamed that she had been destroyed by a malignant poison. Such, however, was the case.”

Santley buttoned his coat, and moved nervously towards the door.

“A horrible story!” he said. “I detest these tales of violence and murder. Besides, though I am not a Roman Catholic, I look upon such rubbish as a calumny upon the Christian Church.”

I smiled.

“The Church’s history, I am afraid, offers endless corroborations.”

“I do not believe it; and I hold that the Church should be saved from such attacks.”

“Pardon me,” I persisted; while Ellen’s hand was softly laid upon my shoulder, as if beseeching me to cease, “the Church may be sacred, but so, you will admit, is the marriage tie. For myself, I am old-fashioned enough to sympathize with that poor alchemist, and applaud his rough-and-ready mode of vengeance.”

“Then you justify a cowardly murder?” he returned, trembling violently. “But, there, I must really go.”

“Pardon me, I don’t call it murder at all.”

“Not murder?” he ejaculated.

“No, sir; righteous vengeance. Were such a state of things possible now– though, of course, wives are now all pure, and priests all immaculate – I should recommend the same remedy. What, must you go? Well, good day; and pray excuse a scholar’s warmth. Actually, as I discussed that old monkish nonsense, I almost thought it real.”

He forced a feeble laugh, and then, with one long look at my wife, and a murmured “Good afternoon” to us both, retreated through the drawing-room doors. I sat still, as if intent on my book.

The moment he had gone, Ellen caught me wildly by the arm.

“George! look at me – speak to me!”

“Well?” I said, looking up quietly.

“What does it mean? Why did you tell that wild tale? You did not do it without a purpose.”

“Certainly not.”

She stood pale as death, clasping her hands together.

“You did not think – you could not, dare not – that – ”

“That what, pray?” I demanded coldly, seeing that she paused.

“That you suspect – that you can believe – that – ”

She paused again; then she added pleadingly —

“Oh, George, you would never do me such a wrong!”

“I have done you no wrong,” I replied. “You, on the other hand, have disobeyed me?”

“How?”

“I forbade you to entertain that man in my house.”

“He came unexpectedly. Indeed, indeed, I wish he had not come.”

She looked so pretty and so despairing, that I should have straightway forgiven her, had I not suddenly called to mind the conversation in the drawingroom. Women are strange creatures.

At that moment, I am certain she fervently believed that she was innocent, and I cruel. And yet… I knew, by her humility and by her sorrow, that she partially reproached herself for having awakened my anger.

“Let there be an end to this,” I said. “You must never speak to that man again.”

“Never speak to him!” she repeated imploringly. “But he is our clergyman, and if I break with him there will be a scandal. Indeed, George, he is not as bad as you think him. He is very earnest and impetuous, but he is good and noble.”

“What! do you defend him?”

She did not reply.

“You must choose between him and me; between the man whom you know to be a hypocrite, and the man who is your husband. If he comes here again, I shall deal with him in my own fashion; remember that! I spared him to-day, because I thought him too contemptible for any kind of violence. But I know his character, and you know it; that is enough. I shall not warn you again.”

With these words, I walked to my den. There, once alone, I gave way to my overmastering agitation. I found myself trembling like a leaf; looking in a mirror, I saw that I was pale as a ghost.

An hour passed thus. Then I heard a knock at the door.

Enter Baptisto.

“Well, what do you want?” I cried, angrily enough.

Before I knew it he was on his knees, seizing and kissing my hand.

“Senor, I know everything!” he cried. “I have known it all along. That was why I remained at home when you were away – to watch, to play the spy. Senor, give me leave! Let me avenge you!”

I shook him off with an oath, for I hated the fellow’s sympathy.

“You fool,” I said, “I want no one to play the spy for me. Stop, though! What do you mean? What would you like to do?”

In a moment he had sprung to his feet, and flashed before my eyes one of those long knives that Spaniards carry. His eyes flashed with homicidal fire.

“I would plunge this into his heart!”

I could not help laughing, – a little furiously.

“Put up that knife, you idiot! Put it up, I say! This is England, not Spain, and here we manage matters very differently. And now, let me have no more of this nonsense. Be good enough to go about your business.”

He yielded almost instantly to my old mastery over him, and, with a respectful bow, withdrew. So ended the curious events of the day. I have set them down in their order as they occurred. I wonder if this is the last act of my little domestic drama? If not, what is to happen next? Well, we shall soon see.