Sir Brook Fossbrooke Volume Ii Part 34

Trafford bit his lip in silence, and she went on more eagerly: "I needed not defenders. I could have had scores of them. There was not a man who came to the house would not have been proud to be my champion. You know if this be a boast. You know how I was surrounded. For the very least of those caresess I bestowed upon you on your sick-bed, there was not one who would not have risked his life. Is this true?"

"I believe it," muttered he.

"And why did I bear all this," cried she, wildly,--"why did I endure, not alone and in the secrecy of my own home, but before the world,--in the crowd of a drawing-room,--outrage that wounds a woman's pride worse than a brought-home crime? Why did I live under it all? Just for this, that the one man who should have avenged me was sick, if not dying; and that if _he_ could not defend me, I would have no other. You said you pitied me," said she, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Do you pity me still?"

"With all my heart I pity you."

"I knew it,--I was sure of it!" said she, with a voice vibrating with a sort of triumph. "I always said you would come back,--that you had not, could not, forget me,--that you would no more desert me than a man deserts the comrade that has been shipwrecked with him. You see that I did not wrong you, Lionel."

Trafford covered his face with both his hands, but never uttered a word, while she went on: "Your friends, indeed, if that be the name for them, insisted that I was mistaken in you! How often have I had to hear such speeches as 'Trafford always looks to himself.' 'Trafford will never entangle himself deeply for any one;' and then they would recount some little story of a heartless desertion here, or some betrayal there, as though your life--your whole life--was made up of these treacheries; and I had to listen to these as to the idle gossip one hears in the world and takes no account of! Would you believe it, Lionel, it was only last week I was making a morning call at my mother-in-law's, and I heard that you were coming home to England to be married! Perhaps I was ill that day--I had enough to have made me ill--perhaps more wretched than usual--perhaps, who knows, the startling suddenness of the news--I cannot say how, but so overcome was I by indignation that I cried out, 'It is untrue,--every syllable of it untrue.' I meant to have stopped there, but somehow I went on to say--Heaven knows what--that I would not sit by and hear you slandered--that you were a man of unblemished honor--in a word, Lionel, I silenced your detractors; but in doing so, I sacrificed myself; and as one by one each visitor rose to withdraw,--they were all women,--they made me some little apology for whatever pain they had given me, and in such a tone of mock sorrow and real sarcasm that as the last left the room, I fell into a fit of hysterics that lasted for hours. 'Oh, Lucy, what have you done!' were the first words I heard, and it was _his_ mother who spoke them. Ay, Lionel, they were bitter words to hear! Not but that she pitied me. Yes, women have pity on each other in such miseries. She was very kind to me, and came back with me to the Priory, and stayed all the evening with me, and we talked of _you!_ Yes, Lionel, she forgave me. She said she had long foreseen what it must come to--that no woman had ever borne what I had--that over and over again she had warned him, conjuring him, if not for his own sake, for the children's--Oh, Lionel, I cannot go on!" burst she out, sobbing bitterly, as she fell at his feet, and rested her head on his knees. He carried her tenderly in his arms and placed her on a sofa, and she lay there to all seeming insensible and unconscious. He was bending anxiously over her as she lifted her eyelids and gazed at him,--a long steadfast look it was, as though it would read his very heart within him. "Well," asked she,--"well?"

"Are you better?" asked he, in a kind voice.

"When you have answered _my_ question, I will answer yours," said she, in a tone almost stern.

"You have not asked me anything, Lucy," said he, tremulously.

"And do you want me to say I doubt you?" cried she, with almost a scream. "Do you want me to humble myself to ask, Am I to be forsaken?--in plain words, Is there one word of truth in this story of the marriage? Why don't you answer me? Speak out, sir, and deny it, as you would deny the charge that called you a swindler or a coward. What!

are you silent? Is it the fear of what is to come after that appalls you? But I absolve you from the charge, Trafford. You shall not be burdened by me. My mother-in-law will take me. She has offered me a home, and I have accepted it. There, now, you are released of that terror. Say that this tale of the marriage is a lie,--a foul lie,--a lie invented to outrage and insult me; say that, Lionel--just bow your head, my own--What! It is not a lie, then?" said she, in a low, distinct voice,--"and it is I that have been deceived, and you are--all that they called you."

"Listen to me, Lucy."

"How dare you, sir?--by what right do you presume to call me Lucy? Are you such a coward as to take this freedom because my husband is not here to resent it? Do not touch me, sir. That old man, in whose house I am, would strike you to the ground if you insulted me. It was to see him I came here,--to see him, and not you. I came here with a message from my husband to Sir Brook Fossbrooke--and not to listen to the insulting addresses of Major Trafford. Let me go, sir; and at your peril touch me with a finger. Look at yourself in that gla.s.s yonder,--look at yourself, and you will see why I despise you." And with this she arose and pa.s.sed out, while with a warning gesture of her hand she motioned that he should not follow her.

CHAPTER XXIII. TO REPORT

It was long after midnight when Mrs. Sewell reached the Priory. She dismissed her cab at the gate lodge, and was slowly walking up the avenue when Sewell met her.

"I was beginning to think you did n't mean to come back at all," cried he, in a voice of mingled taunt and irritation,--"it is close on one o'clock."

"He had dined in town, and I had to wait till he returned," said she, in a low, faint tone.

"You saw him, however?"

"Yes, we met at the station."

"Well, what success?"

"He gave me some money,--he promised me more."

"How much has he given you?" cried he, eagerly.

"Two hundred, I think; at least I thought he said there was two hundred,--he gave me his pocket-book. Let me reach the house, and have a gla.s.s of water before you question me more. I am tired,--very tired."

"You seem weak, too; have you eaten nothing?"

"No, nothing."

"There is some supper on the table. We have had guests here. Old Lendrick and his daughter came up with Beattie. They are not above half an hour gone. They thought to see the old man, but Beattie found him so excited and irritable he advised them to defer the visit."

"Did you see them?"

"Yes; I pa.s.sed the evening with them most amicably. The girl is wonderfully good-looking; and she has got rid of that shy, half-furtive way she had formerly, and looks at one steadfastly, and with such a pair of eyes too! I had no notion she was so beautiful."

"Were they cordial in manner,--friendly?"

"I suppose they were. Dr. Lendrick was embarra.s.sed and timid, and with that fidgety uneasiness as if he wanted to be anywhere else than where he was; but she was affable enough,--asked affectionately about you and the children, and hoped to see you to-morrow."

She made no reply, but, hastening her steps, walked on till she entered the house, when, pa.s.sing into a small room off the hall, she threw off her bonnet, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, said, "I am dead tired; get me some water."

"You had better have wine."

"No, water. I am feverish. My head is throbbing painfully."

"You want food and support. Come into the dining-room and eat something.

I 'll keep you company, too, for I could n't eat while those people were here. I felt, all the time, that they had come to turn us out; and, indeed, Beat-tie, with a delicate tact quite his own, half avowed it, as he said, 'It is a pity there is not light enough for you to see your old flower-garden, Lucy, for I know you are impatient to be back in it again.'"

"I 'll try and eat something," said Mrs. Sewell, rising, and with weary steps moving into the dining-room.

Sewell placed a chair for her at the table, helped her, and filled her gla.s.s, and, telling the servant that he need not wait, sat down opposite her. "From what Beattie said I gather," said he, "that the Chief is out of danger, the crisis of the attack is over, and he has only to be cautious to come through. Is n't it like our luck?"

"Hush!--take care."

"No fear. They can't hear even when they try; these double doors puzzle them. You are not eating."

"I cannot eat; give me another gla.s.s of wine."

"Yes, that will do you good; it's the old thirty-four. I took it out in honor of Lendrick, but he is a water-drinker. I 'm sure I wish Beattie were. I grudged the rascal every gla.s.s of that glorious claret which he threw down with such gusto, telling me the while that it was infinitely finer than when he last tasted it."

"I feel better now, but I want rest and sleep. You can wait for all I have to tell you till to-morrow,--can't you?"

"If I must, there 's no help for it; but considering that my whole future in a measure hangs upon it, I 'd rather hear it now."

"I am well nigh worn out," said she, plaintively; and she held out her gla.s.s to be filled once more; "but I 'll try and tell you."

Supporting her head on both her hands, and with her eyes half closed, she went on in a low monotonous tone, like that of one reading from a book: "We met at the station, and had but a few minutes to confer together. I told him I had been at his house; that I came to see him, and ask his a.s.sistance; that you had got into trouble, and would have to leave the country, and were without means to go. He seemed, I thought, to be aware of all this, and asked me, 'Was it only now that I had learned or knew of this necessity?' He also asked if it were at your instance, and by your wish, that I had come to him? I said, Yes; you had sent me." Sewell started as if something sharp had pierced him, and she went on: "There was nothing for it but the truth; and, besides, I know him well, and if he had once detected me in an attempt to deceive him, he would not have forgiven it. He then said, 'It is not to the wife I will speak harshly of the husband, but what a.s.surance have I that he will go out of the country?' I said, 'You had no choice between that and jail. 'He nodded a.s.sent, and muttered, 'A jail--and worse; and _you_,'

said he, 'what is to become of you?' I told him 'I did not know; that perhaps Lady Lendrick would take me and the children.'"

"He did not offer you a home with himself?" said Sewell, with a diabolical grin.

"No," said she, calmly; "but he objected to our being separated. He said that it was to sacrifice our children, and we had no right to do this; and that, come what might, we ought to live together. He spoke much on this, and asked me more than once if our hard-bought experiences had not taught us to be more patient, more forgiving towards each other."

"I hope you told him that I was a miracle of tolerance, and that I bore with a saintly submission what more irritable mortals were wont to go half mad about,--did you tell him this?"

"Yes; I said you had a very practical way of dealing with life, and never resented an unprofitable insult."

"How safe a man's honor always is in a good wife's keeping!" said he, with a savage laugh. "I hope your candor encouraged him to more frankness; he must have felt at ease after that?"