Читать книгу Expiation - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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Dinner was over, Mr. Mornington and his solicitor had moved their easy chairs upon the balcony outside the dining-room, and the former, reclining to the utmost extent, and with a cigar in his mouth, seemed enjoying to the full the luxurious ease. Conversation between the two had not flourished, the remarks which Mr. Woodruff ventured upon either falling to the ground unnoticed, or provoking merely the most commonplace rejoinders. Perceiving, therefore, that his companion was in no mood for conversation, and contented enough in the degustation of the fine old Lafitte, and the flavour of his Havannah, Mr. Woodruff relapsed into silence, which was at last broken by the host.

"My daughter will not be here until eleven, you say?" He looked up inquiringly.

"She cannot reach here before, and it may probably be later—say half-past."

Mr. Mornington took out his watch and consulted it. "Half-past eight. Well, Mr. Woodruff, there has been much in my past life, and especially the events which led to my leaving England so suddenly, which must appear inexplicable to you; and, with your permission, I will devote a portion of the time to explaining matters. You will then be better able to understand the course of events which culminated in such unhappiness to me."

The lawyer bowed, and, drawing his chair up a little closer, assumed a listening air.

"First of all," went on Mr. Mornington, "before I begin, let me ask about my children. Is Eva like her mother?"

"She is considered remarkably so," answered Mr. Woodruff, who, although he could not see his companion's face, could tell by the silence which ensued, and the slight tremor in his tone when he spoke again, that the reply had affected him.

"And my son?"

"Oh, he is the image of all the Mornington men," was the reply; "exactly what you were twenty-five years ago, and would be now, if living abroad had not altered you so much. A fine young fellow too," he continued admiringly, for Godfrey Mornington was a favourite of the lawyer's.

After another short silence, Mr. Mornington commenced his tale.

"As you know, I was an orphan at sixteen, and my life, until I went to college, was uneventful enough. I had been at Oxford about six months when I met Cecil Braithwaite, and in a very short time there sprung up between us a strong friendship. Who he was, and where he came from, I knew not then, and I know not now; perhaps it was the mystery seeming to surround him which first excited my fancy, and unconsciously attracted me to him. However that may be, we speedily became inseparable, and, being in the same college, we spent all our time together. One day we received an invitation from an old 'coach' of mine—a Mr. Wakefield—to spend a Sunday with him at his house down the river. You will excuse my passing over this part as quickly as possible, as it is exceedingly painful to me."

Mr. Woodruff bowed sympathetically.

"We accepted, and arranged to row down on the Saturday afternoon. How well I remember that row. It was the middle of summer, just before 'the Long,' one of the hottest days of the year. Luckily for us, the current was in our favour, and with very little exertion we glided along, every little while taking long rests, and letting our boat drift among the willows, while we refreshed ourselves with a smoke and claret cup. It was too hot to talk much, and our friendship had long ago reached that point which renders it unnecessary for two fellows to talk for the sake of talking; and we passed time in idly speculating as to what sort of place our friend had, and whether we should be obliged to go to church next day. The hours fleeted by—too quickly for us—for we reached our destination about six o'clock. It was one of those charming little cottages with lawn sloping down to the river, the dwelling itself half-hidden among trees, and covered with ivy. The moment we saw it we went into raptures. Our host was on the look-out, and we, having tied up our boat, went with him into the house, and were shown into our rooms to doff our flannels and dress for dinner. When we descended to the drawing-room, our host met us at the door, and we all entered together. To my surprise—for I had always thought Mr. Wakefield a bachelor—a girl was in the room, and we were introduced to her as his daughter. Love at first sight is, generally, I believe, supposed to be a mere captivation of the senses which seldom forms the foundation for a deep and lasting passion. However that may be, before dinner was over I had made up my mind that earth held but one woman for me, and life but one object, to call Eva Wakefield mine. After dinner we all took our coffee on the lawn, and smoked and talked, till, after a while, Miss Wakefield went into the drawing-room, and, opening the French windows, sang to us. How that scene comes back to me even now! We three—Wakefield, Cecil, and I—on low garden chairs on the lawn, with the full moon shining upon the river flowing within a few yards of us, and the faint odour of roses and mignonette which reached us from the side of the walk. Above all, that rich, clear, musical voice, singing some old German love song, the tune of which haunts me still. Then she—Eva—came forth to join us again, and we all chatted in low tones, as if fearing to break the charm of the scene by loudness or jarring laughter. Last of all, when Cecil and old Wakefield were deep in some question of ancient Egyptian history, Eva and I rose, and strolled the garden together. What our conversation was; what I said to her, I could never recall. I only know that my senses seemed intoxicated, and in every word of mine, and with every glance, I betrayed my sudden passion. She seemed startled at first, as well she might be, and looked at me with those wondrous eyes filled with a half-mocking, half-tender, light, till I almost went wild, and several times I nearly burst out with my tale of passionate love, and nothing but the fear of the deserved rebuke for so abrupt a wooing restrained me. At last came the time for Cecil and me to retire to our rooms. There was no sleep for me that night. I threw open the little latticed window, and sat for hours gazing at the stars and moon, and down at the silvery river flowing beneath, and when I turned at last to my bed, it was still not to sleep, but to build up dreams of a future, in all of which Eva was the central figure.

"The next day came and passed, all too swiftly for me; but before it was over I had hinted of my love to Eva, and she had confessed that she might, in time, return it.

"We went back early on Monday morning, but I had made arrangements to see Eva often, and felt wildly, rapturously happy. Every day I rowed down to her home, and she met me in the meadows, and, fastening up my boat, I used to spend hours with her, roaming about, indulging in all the usual lovers' rhapsodies, and uttering all the lovers' platitudes. Well, no doubt the matter would have ended in the stereotyped way; when I came of age we should have been married, but her father suddenly died of heart disease. A tearful note summoned me early one morning to her house, where I found her in a paroxysm of grief over his dead body. I took up my quarters at the village inn, and never left her until the funeral was over. Then we spoke about the future, and she told me that, beside myself, she had scarcely a friend or relation in the world. I proposed marrying her, of course; but this she would not hear of. Would to God I had insisted on it!"

The lawyer looked up with a quick glance of surprise, which changed into one of earnest interest as Mr. Mornington continued.

"I have no excuse for what followed," he said slowly. "The very devil must have tempted me, for I swear that never once had the thought entered into my head of treating her in any other way than as my affianced wife. I was young and inexperienced, it is true, but I can plead neither youth nor ignorance as my excuse for what followed. I loved her fondly, and we were alone in the world together, and alas! I forgot all else but the loving her. In mere thoughtlessness I committed the one blackguardly action of my life. Well," he continued with a sigh, "repentance now is useless. One thing, however, I repeat. I always meant to marry her; and but for the subsequent horrible events I would have done it.

"We went to London and took a house in Upper Sleeke Street, and there I met Cecil Braithwaite again. We became constant companions. I often had to run down here to see about matters connected with the estate. One evening, when I had intended coming, and had left word with Eva that I should not be home, I missed the train, and, meeting Cecil, dropped into the club with him. 'By-the-bye,' he said, as we were chatting in the smoke-room, 'you never told me that your wife had a brother.' 'Never, for the good reason, old fellow, that she has none,' I answered, hiding my surprise with mirthfulness; 'she was an only child.' He looked at me rather curiously for a moment or two, smoking on in silence. 'What do you mean?' I said. He made some evasive reply, and immediately afterwards muttered an excuse about an appointment, which I knew to be false, and rose to go. But I would not let him leave me until he had explained his question, and with an ill grace he resumed his seat. For some time he would tell me nothing, but my earnestness at last prevailed, and he told me with great reluctance that which drove me almost frantic to hear.

"It seemed that he had friends in Upper Sleeke Street, living almost opposite to me, whom he often visited, and on two occasions, when I was away, he had seen a man enter my house whom my wife always admitted herself, and who stopped there several hours. Once, when the blinds had been left up, he had seen this man and my wife in amiable, not to say affectionate conversation, and—but I cannot tell you all I learnt! This was enough for me. I asked him at what time this took place, and he told me about twelve, after the servants were abed. While we were talking, the hall-porter brought me a letter from the rack. The handwriting was strange, so I tore it open mechanically. It was an anonymous letter, and one of the most cruel I ever read. As far as I can remember, these words were scrawled in a disguised hand on half a sheet of paper:—

"Has Harold Mornington lost all sense of honour, or is he a coward, that he stops away from home to allow his wife the opportunity of entertaining her lover?"

There was no signature to this laconic epistle. It made my head swim, although I believe that, outwardly, I kept quite cool. What followed seems to me more like a terrible dream, but one of which the slightest feature has become branded into my memory as if with fire. I remember calling for some brandy, and drinking it off without waiting for the water. Then I looked at my watch; it was still early. I resumed my seat and took up an evening paper, and I remember reading, with interest, of a horrible murder in the East-end, the details of which I read several times. Then I laid the paper down and listened to a political argument occupying the attention of a group close to me, and soon I entered into it with interest and I remember being complimented by one or two for the calm and logical remarks I made. The time passed on, until at a few minutes past eleven I made preparations for leaving. As I stood on the steps, Braithwaite joined me.

"You had better not come," I said. "You can do no good." But he insisted. "I know all," he said. "There can be no concealment from me. I will not leave you."

"Be it so," I replied. We walked away together. When we reached upper Sleeke Street, we took up our post observation in the deep doorway of an old-fashioned house nearly over against mine. We waited. In about half an hour—an age to me!—I saw all the lights in my house extinguished, save in my wife's sitting-room. Soon afterwards the hall-door slowly opened, and Eva herself with a cloak over her head came out, traversed a bit of a garden which some of the houses had in those days before them, opened the iron gate and walked slowly down the street. Every now and then she cast anxious glances behind. When I saw her all my calmness deserted men and I strove to break loose from Braithwaite's restraining arm, and accost and upbraid her. But though all the infernal passions blazed within me, Cecil's grasp was like a vice on my arm, and I could not move.

"In a moment or two she was joined by a tall man, muffled up, and with his hat over his eyes. After talking earnestly for a few moments, they entered the house together. At this sight my calmness returned, and with it my presence of mind. I remembered having heard something of a former lover of Eva's who had gone to India, and doubted not that this was the man. Like a flash there came to my mind, too, the interest with which she had questioned Colonel Davenport—a friend of ours—about Indian military affairs; and this confirmed my idea. At that moment I rejoiced that Eva was yet my wife in name only. On the very next day I had made arrangements for marrying her privately.

"I stepped cautiously across the road, followed by Cecil, and while wondering how we should gain access to the house, saw that the front door latch had not caught, and it stood ajar. We both entered noiselessly, and in a few moments I stood on the landing on which were my wife's room and the sitting-room. Both doors were wide open, and looking into the former I saw her standing with her back to me, unlocking her desk, and presently taking out some papers which I recognised as bank-notes. I looked into the other room. A tall, fair man, was seated in my easy chair drawn up to the fire; and now that his muffler and hat were removed, I could see that he was very handsome, though poorly enough dressed. I did not dare to dwell looking at him for a second, but turned again to my wife's room. She was half-way across when I entered it, with a bundle of notes in her hand. Never shall I forget the start and look of horrified surprise she gave when she encountered this tiger in her path. The notes dropped from her hand, and she opened her lips to speak, but something in my face froze her words, and though they moved, no sound did issue. She simply stood gazing at me with horror.

"'You need not trouble yourself to offer any explanation,' I said. 'I know all.' She watched me without speaking, while I took the key from the inside of the lock ere leaving with it in my hand. Then she staggered towards me, and flung her arms around my neck sobbing, 'Forgive me, Harold! Would to God I had never deceived you!' Goaded with rage, I hurled her from me, and she sank on the floor in a dead faint. I left her, and with Cecil Braithwaite at my side, entered the sitting-room. The man, aroused by the sound of my wife's fall, and our footsteps, was on his feet when we entered. My calmness all fled, I rushed towards him, and with an oath, closed with him, commencing a desperate struggle. He was a strong man, so was I, and although he was the taller, my frenzy lent me unwonted strength which made me fully his equal. All round the room we flung one another about in what seemed a death-grapple. Methought he would have mastered me, yet I would have succumbed rather than have Cecil's impending aid. Luckily, as we passed one corner, I snatched at a heavily-loaded riding-whip, and, securing it, dealt him a terrible blow on the temple. Down he went, without a groan. Quivering with rage and excitement, I stood, grasping the whip by the butt-end, waiting for him to rise. But he lay quite still. Presently Braithwaite, with a look of apprehension, strode to his side and bent over him. When he looked up, his face was blanched with terror, and his voice sounded harsh and unnatural. 'You have killed him,' he faltered, rising. At that moment I was a murderer in spirit, if not in deed, for I was glad when I heard the verdict, and laughed, actually laughed at the look of horror in Cecil's face. Gradually his self-possession came back, and he spoke again rapidly. 'We must leave this,' he said. 'Quick! by the balcony;' he opened the window and stepped out. He was back in a moment saying, 'Right! We can get out this way. Listen! Do you hear anything?" But all was as still as death.

"We kept only two servants then, beside a coachman, who did not sleep in the house, and of these two, one, had, I remember, asked that morning for two days' holiday, and was probably away; while the other was deaf. 'Have you any cash?' Cecil whispered. I took out a long black case in which I carried valuable papers and had a large sum of money, and stuffed it into my breast pocket. Then we turned down the gas, and I followed Cecil out on the balcony, from which we easily swung ourselves down to the ground. We walked rapidly along, until we came across a stray hansom, and then drove to Waterloo station, where we just caught the special train to Southampton, meeting the steamship for New York. On this we embarked, having procured a hasty outfit at a ready-made-clothes shop at the port.

"There is nothing that I need tell you of our adventures in the United States, or in Canada. The last few years we spent in the most unexplored part of Alaska, where Cecil Braithwaite died. By the merest accident, when I had wandered as far as the nearest settlement, an English newspaper fell into my hands, and I read the confession of a burglar named James Dalton, and learnt that the warrant against me was cancelled. My money was almost gone, and it was months before I reached Quebec. Here I called on an English clergyman, who lent me the passage-money. You know the rest."

Mr. Mornington, with the air of one who has completed a disagreeable necessity, leant back in his chair, and proceeded to re-light his dead cigar. There was a troubled look in the lawyer's face when the story ceased, and it was several moments before he spoke.

"No one can help feeling for you," he said, "for your life must have been a miserable one, crushed with such a heavy weight of remorse, and with the ever present fear of detection before you. When did you first hear that the murdered man was truly your wife's brother?"

"I was then in Quebec," answered the other; "an English newspaper gave full particulars of the whole affair. I had never dreamt of the existence of any other member of her family; in fact, she gave me to understand that she was an only child. In that paper I read his history. How he had run away from home after a desperate quarrel with his father, enlisted as a private soldier and been drafted to India; finally deserting, he worked his passage back to England, for which, of course, he was liable to punishment. And how he was skulking about London when he met his sister Eva, who in fear of my handing him over to justice, never trusted me with her secret, but resorted to such ill-advised ways of meeting him. I remember now, her asking me one morning at breakfast, what I should think of a man who had deserted his flag; and I answered her that if my own brother were to desert, having once joined the army of his own free will, I would surrender him over to the law without hesitation. She shuddered, but I thought her pity proceeded from some case that she was reading in the paper; and asked no questions."

Breaking the long silence, Mr. Mornington spoke again. "How long did my wife live after Godfrey and Eva were born?"

"Miss Eva and Mr. Godfrey were born on the 23rd of December, exactly a month after you left England," he replied; "and Mrs. Mornington died about six months afterwards, towards the end of June. She died asking for you," he added; but Mr. Mornington displayed no token of feeling.

"Did she ever mention my friend's name, Cecil Braithwaite's?" he asked finally.

"Never to my knowledge," was the reply; the lawyer wondering at the interest his host evinced. Another silence; this time broken by the legal gentleman. There was a troubled look on his face, and agitation in his tone.

"You must forgive me, sir, if I don't appear very sympathising," he said. "The fact is I can think of nothing else just now but the consequences of what you have told me upon Miss Eva and Mr. Godfrey. Bad enough for the young lady; it will kill Mr. Godfrey outright. He has always been so proud of his name and descent—a thorough Mornington. For him to learn that he has no right to the name he bears and loves so well, to find that in the eyes of men and of the law, he is nameless—oh! 'twill be a cruel blow, sir." He broke off almost in anger. "Who will tell them this," he added; "and when?"

Mr. Mornington was gazing idly aloof, with a faraway look. No traces of the emotion which animated the lawyer were evident in his manner, but then he was a man, if of deep passions, of a wonderful restraint too; and Mr. Woodruff knowing this to be one of the Mornington traits did not wonder.

"Mr. Woodruff," he said at last, "I propose our adjourning into the library. The air is getting chilly, and it is already past the time at which you told me Eva would arrive. Let us postpone this conversation. I shall not mention this unfortunate circumstance to either of my children unless occasion demands, and I trust that it may never do so."

The two men passed through the French windows into the dining-room, and across the hall into the library.

"And my daughter has been living in Warwickshire?" asked Mr. Mornington, as the two men took seats.

"Yes; when she was only a year old, Mrs. Neville, your aunt, offered to give her a home, and she has lived with her ever since, I have seen her at times, and I can assure you that you will have every reason to be proud of her. But here she is," he added, as they heard the sound of wheels passing up the drive, to the hall door.

Mr. Mornington rose to his feet.

"Bring her in here, Mr. Woodruff," he said, quietly motioning him to leave the room, with something more akin to agitation in his manner than had escaped him since his return home.