 CHAPTER 18 THE BROTHER'S WALK When the host and his guest had gone out together to the paved yard, it was already night and the moon was shining brilliantly. Tom had settled the horse, and at the first summons led him out. And Harry, with a nod and a grin, for he was more prodigal of his smiles than of his shillings, took the bridle from his fingers and, with Charlie by his side, walked forth silently from the yard gate upon that dark and rude track which followed for some distance the precipitous edge of the ravine which opens upon the deeper glen of Carwell. Very dark was this narrow road, overhung and crisscrossed by towering trees through whose boughs only here and there an angular gleam or minute modelling of moonlight hovered and floated on the white and stony road, with the uneasy motion of the branches like little flights of quivering wings. There was a silence corresponding with this darkness. The clank of the horse's hoof and their own more muffled tread were the only sounds that mingled with the sigh and rustle of the boughs above them. The one was expecting, the other meditating, no very pleasant topic, and it was not the business of either to begin for a little. They were not walking fast. The horse seemed to feel that the human wayfarers were in a sauntering mood and fell accommodatingly into a lounging gate like theirs. If there were eyes that constructed to see in the dark, they would have seen two countenances, one sincere, the other adjusted to that sort of sham sympathy and regret which Hogarth, with all his delicacy and power, portrays in the paternal older man who figures in the last picture of Marijala mode. There was much anxiety in Charles's face, and a certain brooding shame and constraint which would have accounted for his silence. In that jelly dog Harry was discoverable, as I have said, quite another light and form of countenance. There was a face that seemed to have just charged a smile that still would not quite go. The eyelids drooped, the eyebrows raised, a simulated condolence such as we all have seen. In our moral reviews of ourselves we practice optical delusions even upon our own self-scrutiny and paint and mask our motives and fill our ears with excuses and with downright lies. So inveterate is the habit of deceiving, and even in the dark we form our features by hypocrisy and scarcely know all this. Here's the turn at last to Cresley Common. There's no talking comfortably among these trees, it's so dark anyone might be at your elbow and you know nothing about it, and so the old man is very angry. Never saw a fellow so riled, answered Harry. You know what he is when he is riled, and I never saw him so angry before, if he knew I was here. But you'll take care of me? It's very kind of you old fellow. I won't forget it, indeed I won't, but I ought to have thought twice. I ought not to have brought poor Alice into this fix, for damn me if I know how we are going to get on. Well, you know, it's only just a pinch, an ugly corner, and you're all right, it can't last. It may last ten years or twenty for that matter, said Charlie. I was a fool to sell out. I don't know what we are to do, do you? You are too down in the mouth. Can't you wait and see? There's nothing yet, and it won't cost you much carrying on down here. Do you think, Harry, it would be well to take up John Walling's farm and try whether I could not make something of it in my own hands? asked Charles. Harry shook his head. You don't, said Charlie. Well, no, I don't. You'd never make the rent of it, answered Harry. Besides, if you begin upsetting things here the people will begin to talk, and that would not answer. You'll need to be damned quiet. There was here a pause, and they walked on in silence until the thick shadows of the trees began to break a little before them, and the woods grew more scattered. Whole trees were shadowed in distinct outline, and the wide common of crezly with its furs and fern and broad undulations stretched mystily before them. About money. You know, Charlie, there is money enough at present and no debts to signify. I mean, if you don't make them you'd needn't. You and Alice, with the house and garden, can get along on a trifle. The tenants give you three hundred a year, and you can manage with two. Two hundred a year, exclaimed Charlie, opening his eyes. Why, two hundred a year, that girl don't eat six pen worth in a day, said Harry. Alice is the best little thing in the world, and will look after everything I know. But there are other things besides dinner and breakfast, said Charles, who did not care to hear his wife called that girl. Needs must when the devil drives, my boy. You'll want a hundred every year for contingencies, said Harry. Well, I suppose so, Charles winced. And all the more need for a few more hundreds, for I don't see how anyone could manage to exist on such a pittance. You'll have to contrive, though, my lad, unless they'll manage a post-obit for you, said Harry. There is some trouble about that. And people are such damned screws, said Charles with a darkening face. Always was and never will be, said Harry with a laugh. And it's all very fine talking of a hundred a year, but you know and I know that won't do and never did, exclaimed Charles, breaking forth bitterly and then looking hurriedly over his shoulder. Upon my soul, Charlie, I don't know a curse about it, answered Harry good humoredly, but if it won't do it won't, that's certain. Quite certain, said Charles inside, very heavily. And again there was a little silence. I wish I was as sharp a fellow as you are, Harry, said Charles regretfully. Do you really think I'm a sharp chap? Do you, though? I always took myself for a bit of a muff except about cattle. I did upon my soul, said Harry, with an innocent laugh. You're a long way a cleverer fellow than I am, and you're not half so lazy. And tell me what you'd do if you were in my situation. What would I do if I was in your place? said Harry, looking up at the stars and whistling low for a minute. Well, I couldn't tell you offhand. It would puzzle a better man's head for a bit to answer that question. Only I can tell you one thing. I'd never gone into that situation, as you call it, at no price, to when to have answered me by no chance. But don't you be putting your finger in your eye yet a bit. There's nothing to cry about now that I know of. Time enough to hang your mouth yet, only I thought I might as well come over and tell you. I knew, Harry, there was something to tell, said Charles. Not over much. Only a trifle, when all's told, answered Harry. But you're right, for it was that brought me over here. I was in London last week, and I looked in at the place at Hackston, and found just the usual thing, and came away pretty much as wise as I went in. Not more reasonable, asked Charles. Not a bit, said Harry. Tell me what you said, asked Charles. Just what we agreed, he answered. Well, there was nothing in that that was not kind and conciliatory and common sense. Was there? pleaded Charles. It did not so seem to strike the plenty potentiary, said Harry. You seem to think it very pleasant, said Charles. I wish it was pleasanter, said Harry. But pleasanter no, I must tell my story straight. I ran in in a hurry, you know, as if I only wanted to pay over the twenty pounds, you mind. I, said Charles, I wish to heaven I had it back again. Well, I don't think it made much difference in the matter of love and liking, I'll not deny. But I looked round, and I swore I wondered any one would live in such a place when there were so many nice places where money would go three times as far in foreign countries. I wonder you did not think of it, and take more interest yourself. And upon that I could see the old sojourn was thinking of fifty things, suspecting poor me of foul play among the number, and I was afraid for a minute I was going to have half a dozen claws in my smeller. But I turned it off, and I coaxed and weadled a bit. You'd have laughed yourself black till I had us both a purring like a pair of old maids' cats. I tell you what, Harry, there's madness there. Literal madness, said Charles, grasping his arm as he stopped and turned towards him so that Harry had to come also to a stand still. Don't you know it, as mad as bedlam, just think. Harry laughed, mad enough by Jingo, said he. But don't you think so, actually mad, repeated Charles. Well, it is near the word maybe, but I would not say quite mad. Worse than mad, I dare say by chocks. But I wouldn't place the old sojourn there, said Harry. Where, said Charles? I mean exactly among the maddens. No, I wouldn't say mad, but as vicious, and worse may happen. It does not matter much what we think, either of us. But I know what another fellow would have done long ago, but I could not bring myself to do it. I have thought it over often, but I couldn't. I couldn't. Well then, it ain't no great consequence, said Harry, and he tightened his saddle girth a whole or two. No great consequence, but I couldn't put a finger to that, mind. For I think the upper works is as sound as any. Only there's many a devil beside maddens. I give it to you there. And what do you advise me to do? This sort of thing is dreadful, said Charles. I was going to say, I think the best thing to be done is just to leave all that business, do you mind? To me. Harry mounted and leaning on his knee, he said. I think I have a knack if you leave it to me. Old pipe-clay doesn't think I have any reason to play false. Rather the contrary, said Charles, who was attentively listening. No interest at all, pursued Harry, turning his eyes towards the distant knoll of Torsten, and going on without minding Charles' suggestion. Look now, that bee still follow my hand as sweet as sugary candy, when you'd have nothing but bolting and bulking and rearing her worse. There's plenty of them little French towns or German, and don't you be bothering your head about it. Only do just as I tell ye, and I'll take all in hands. You're an awfully good fellow, Harry. For upon my soul I was at my wit's end, almost, having no one to talk to and not knowing what any one might be thinking of. And I feel safe in your hands, Harry, for I think you understand that sort of work so much better than I do. You understand people so much better. And I never was good at managing any one or any thing for that matter, and—and when will business bring you to town again? Three weeks or so, I wouldn't wonder, said Harry. And I know, Harry, you won't forget me. I'm afraid to write to you almost, but if you'd think of any place we could meet and have a talk, I'd be ever so glad. You have no idea how fidgety and miserable a fellow grows that doesn't know what's going on. I, to be sure—well, I've no objection. My book's made for ten days or so, a lot of places to go to, but I'll be coming round again and I'll tip you a stave. That's a good fellow. I know you won't forget me, said Charles, placing his hand on his brother's arm. No, of course. Good night, and take care of yourself, and give my love to Ali. And—and Harry? Well, answered Harry, backing his restless horse a little bit. I believe that's all. Good night, then. Good night, echoed Charles. Harry touched his hat with a smile and was away the next moment, flying at a ringing trot over the narrow, unfenced road that traverses the common and dwindling in the distant moonlight. There he goes, light of heart nothing to trouble him. Life a holiday, the world a toy. He walked a little bit slowly in the direction of the disappearing horsemen and paused again and watched him moodily till he was fairly out of sight. I hope he won't forget. He's always so busy about those stupid horses. A lot of money he makes, I dare say. I wish I knew something about them. I must beat about for some way of turning a penny. Poor little Alice, I hope I have not made a mull of it. I'll save every way I can. Of course that's due to her. But when you come to think of it and go over it all there's very little you can give up. You can lay down your horses if you have them, except one. You must have one in a place like this. You'd run a risk of starving or never getting your letters or dying for want of a doctor. And I won't drink wine. Brandy or old Tom does just as well. And I'll give up smoking totally. A fellow must make sacrifices. I'll just work through this one box slowly and order no more. It's all a habit, and I'll give it up. So he took a cigar from his case and lighted it. I'll not spend another pound on them, and the sooner these are out, the better. He sauntered slowly away with his hands in his pockets to a little eminence about a hundred yards to the right, and mounted it and looked all around, smoking. I don't think he saw much of that extensive view, but he would have fancied him an artist in search of the picturesque. His head was full of ideas of selling carawayl grange, but he was not quite sure that he had power and did not half-like asking his attorney to whom he already owed something. He thought how snug and pleasant they might be comparatively in one of those quaint little toy towns in Germany, where dull human nature bursts its sermons, and floats and flutters away into a butterfly life of gold and color, where the punter and the crooper assist at the worship of the brilliant and fickle goddess and bands play sweetly, and people ain't buried alive in deserts and forests, among dogs and Chabachans, where little Alice would be all wonder and delight. Was it quite fair to bring her down here to amure her in the mouldering cloister of carawayl grange? He had begun now to re-enter the wooded ascent toward that melancholy mansion. His cigar was burnt out, and he said, looking toward his home through the darkness, poor little Alice. She does love me, I think. And that's something. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Melissa Green Chapter 19 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheraton-Lefonu Chapter 19 Coming In When at last her husband entered the room where she awaited him that night. Oh, Charlie! It is very late, said Alice, a little reproachfully. Not very, is it, darling? said he, glancing at his watch. Why, Jove, it is! My poor little woman, I had not an idea. I suppose I am very foolish, but I love you so much, Charlie, that I grow quite miserable when I'm out of your sight. I am sorry, my darling, but I fancied he had a great deal more to tell me than he really had. I don't think I'm likely, at least for a little time, to be pressed by my duns. And I wanted to make out exactly what money he's likely to get me for a horse he's going to sell. And I'm afraid from what he says it won't be very much. Really, twenty pounds, one way or other, seems ridiculous, but it does make a very serious difference just now. And if I hadn't such a clever, careful little woman as you, I don't really know what I should do. He added this little complimentary qualification with an instinctive commiseration for the pain he thought he saw in her pretty face. These troubles won't last very long, Charlie, perhaps. Something, I'm sure, will turn up, and you'll see how careful I will be. I'll learn everything old Mildred can teach me ever so much, and you'll see what a manager I will be. You are my own little treasure. You always talk as if you were in the way, somehow, I don't know how. A wife like you is a greater help to me than one with two thousand a year and the reckless habits of a fine lady. Your wise little head and loving heart, my darling, are worth whole fortunes to me without them. And I do believe that you are the first really good wife that ever a fairfield married. You are the only creature I have on earth that I'm quite sure of. The only creature. And so saying he kissed her, folding her in his arms and with a big tear filling each eye she looked up, smiling on utterable affection in his face. As they stood together in that embrace, his eyes also filled with tears, and his smile met hers, and they seemed wrapped for a moment in one angelic glory, and she felt the strain of his arm draw her closer. Such moments come suddenly and are gone, but remaining in memory they are the lights that illuminate a dark and troublesome retrospect forever. We'll make ourselves happy here a little alley, and I, in spite of everything, my darling, and I don't know how it happened that I stayed away so long, but I walked with Harry further than I intended, and when he left me I loitered on Cressley Common for a time with my head full of business, and so without knowing it I was filling my poor little wife's head with alarms and condemning her to solitude. Well, all I can do is to promise to be a good boy and to keep better hours for the future. That's so like you. You are so good to your poor, foolish little wife, said Alice. I wish I could be, darling, said he. I wish I could prove one half my love, but the time will come yet. I shan't be so poor or powerless always. But you're not to speak so. You're not to think that. It is while we are poor that I can be of any use, she said eagerly. Very little, very miserable, my poor attempts, but nothing makes me so happy as trying to deserve ever so little of all the kind things my rye says of me, and I'm sure Charlie, although there may be cares and troubles, we will make our time pass here very happily, and perhaps we shall always look back on our days at Carwell as the happiest of our lives. Yes, darling, I am determined we shall be very happy, said he, and rye will tell me everything that troubles him. Her full eyes were gazing sadly up in his face. He averted his eyes and said, Of course I will, darling. Oh, rye, if you knew how happy that makes me, she exclaimed. But there was that in the exclamation which seemed to say, if only I could be sure that you meant it. Of course I will, that is everything that could possibly interest you. For there are very small worries as well as great ones, and you know I really can't undertake to remember everything. Of course, darling, she answered. I only meant that if anything were really any great anxiety upon your mind, you would not be afraid to tell me. I am not such a coward as I seem. You must not think me so foolish, and really, rye, it pains me more to think that there is any anxiety weighing upon you and concealed from me than any disclosure could. And so I know, won't you? Haven't I told you, darling, I really will, he said a little pettishly. What an odd way you women have of making a fellow say the same thing over and over again. I wonder it does not tire you. I know it does us awfully. Now there, see, I really do believe you're going to cry. Oh, no indeed, she said, brightening up and smiling with a sad little effort. And now kiss me, my poor, good little woman. You're not vexed with me. No, I'm sure you're not, said he. She smiled a little affectionate assurance. And really, a poor little thing. It's awfully late, and you must be tired. And I've been, no, not lecturing. I'll never lecture I hate it, but boring or teasing. I'm an odious dog, and I hate myself. So this little dialogue ended happily, and for a time Charles Fairfield's forgot his anxieties, and a hundred pleasanter cares filled his young wife's head. In such monastic solitudes as Carwell Grange, the days passed slowly, but the retrospect of a month or a year is marvelously short. Twelve hours without an event is very slow to get over. But that very monotony, which is the soul of tediousness, robs the background of all the irregularities and objects which arrest the eye and measure distance in review, and thus it cheats the eye. An active woman may be well content with an existence of monotony, which would all but stifle even an indolent man. So long as there is a household ever so frugal to be managed, and the more frugal the more difficult and harassing the female energies are tasked, and healthily because usefully exercised. But in this indoor administration the man is incompetent, and in the way. His ordained activities are out of doors, and if these are denied him, he mopes away his days and feels that he cumbers the ground. With little resource but his fishing rod and sometimes, when a fit of unwanted energy inspired him, his walking stick, and a lonely march over the breezy expanse of Creswell Common, days, weeks, and months loitered their drowsy way into the past. There were reasons why he did not care to court observation. Under other circumstances he would have ridden into the neighboring towns and heard the news, and lunched with a friend here or there. But he did not want anyone to know that he was at the Grange, and if it should come out that he had been seen there, he would have had it thought that it was but a desultory visit. A man less indolent and perhaps not much more unscrupulous would have depended upon a few offhand lies to account for his appearance, and would not have denied himself an occasional excursion into human society in those rustic haunts within his reach. But Charles Fairfield had not decision to try it, nor resource for a system of fibbing, and the easiest and dullest course he took. In Paradise the man had his business to dress and to keep the garden, and no doubt the woman hers suitable to her sex. It is a mistake to fancy that it is either a sign of love or conducive to its longevity that the happy pair should always pass the entire four and twenty hours in each other's company, or get over them in any ways without variety or usefulness. Charles Fairfield loved his pretty wife. She made his inactive solitude more indurable than any man could have imagined. Still, it was a dull existence, and being almost darkened with an ever-present anxiety was a morbid one. Small matters harassed him now. He brooded over trifles, and the one care which was really serious grew and grew in his perpetual contemplation until it became tremendous and darkened his entire sky. I can't say that Charles grew morose. It was not his temper, but his spirits that failed. Careworn and gloomy, his habitual melancholy depressed, and even alarmed his pretty little wife, who yet concealed her anxieties and exerted her music and her invention. Sang songs, told old stories of the wyvern folk, touched him with such tragedy and comedy as may be found in such miniature centers of rural life, and played backgammon with him, and sometimes ecarte, and in fact nursed his sick spirits as such angelic nature's will. Now and then came Harry Fairfield, but his visits were short and seldom. And what was worse, Charles always seemed more harassed or gloomy after one of his calls. There was something going on, and by no means prosperously she was sure, from all knowledge of which however it might ultimately concern her, and did immediately concern her husband, she was jealously excluded. Sometimes she felt angry, often her pained, always troubled with untold fears and surmises. Poor little Alice, it was in the midst of these secret misgivings that a new care and hope visited her, a trembling, delightful hope that hovers between life and death, sometimes in sad and mortal fear, sometimes in delightful anticipation of a new and already beloved life, coming so helplessly into this great world, unknown to be her little comrade, all dependent on that beautiful love with which her young heart was already overflowing. So almost trembling, hesitating, she told her little story with smiles and tears, in a pleading, beseeching, almost apologetic way, that melted the better nature of Charles, who told her how welcome to him and how beloved, for her dear sake, the coming treasure should be, and held her beating heart to his in a long, loving embrace. And more than all, the old love revived, and he felt how lonely he would be if his adoring little wife were gone, and how gladly he would have given his life for hers. And now came all the little cares and preparations, that so mercifully and delightfully beguiled the period of suspense. What is there so helpless as a newborn babe entering this great, rude, cruel world? Yet we see how the beautiful and tender instincts which are radiated from the sublime love of God provide everything for the unconscious comer. Let us then take heart of grace, when the sad journey ended. We children of dust, who have entered so, are about to make the dread exit, and remembering what we have seen, and knowing that we go in the keeping of the same faithful creator, be sure that his love and tender forecast are provided with equal care for our entrance into another life. Chapter 20 Harry appears at the Grange It was about four o'clock one afternoon, while Charles was smoking a cigar. For notwithstanding his self-denying resolutions, his case was always replenished still, that his brother Harry rode into the yard, where he was puffing away, contemplatively, at an open, stable door. Delighted to see you, Harry? I was thinking of you this moment, by Jove? And I can't tell you how glad I am, said Charles, smiling as he advanced, yet with an anxious inquiry in his eyes. Harry took his extended hand, having dismounted. But he was looking at his horse, and nodded Charles. As he said, the last mile or so I noticed something in the off forefoot, do you? Look now, taint brushing, nor he's not gone lame but tender like, do you notice? And he led him round a little bit. No, said Charles. I don't see anything, but I'm an ignoramus, you know. No, I think nothing. Taint a great deal anyhow, said Harry, leading him toward the open, stable door. I got your note, you know. And how are you all? And how is Allie? Very well, poor little thing. We are all very well. Did you come from Wyvern? said Charles. Yes. And the old man, just as usual, I suppose? Just the same, only not growing no younger, you'll suppose. Charles nodded. And damned deal-crosser, too. There's times I can tell you he won't stand no one nigh him. Not even old Drake, damned vicious? Harry laughed. They say he liked Allie. They do upon my soul, and I wouldn't wonder. Tis an old rat won't eat cheese. Only, you took the bit out of his mouth when you did, and that's enough to rile a fellow, you know. Who says so? asked Charles, with a flush on his face. The servants, yes, and the townspeople. It's pretty well about, and I think, if it came to the old boy's ears, there would be black eyes and bloody noses all about. I do. Well, it's a lie, said Charles. And don't like a good fellow. Tell poor little Alice there's any such nonsense, talked about her at home. It would only vex her. Well, I won't, if I think of it. Where's Tom? But wouldn't vex her not a bit quite other way? There's never a girl in England wouldn't be pleased if old Parr himself were in love with her. So she hadn't to marry him. But the governor by Jove, I don't know a girl twelve miles round Wyvern, as big and old brute as he is, would turn up her nose at him. We all he has to grease her hand. But where's Tom? The nag must have a feed. So they bolt for Tom and Tom appeared and took charge of the horse, receiving a few directions about her treatment from Master Harry, and then Charles let his brother in. I'm always glad to see you, Harry. But always, at the same time a little anxious when you come, said Charles, in a low tone, as they traversed the passage toward the kitchen. Taint much. I have to tell you something. But first, give me a mouthful from as hungry as a hawk and a mug of beer. Wouldn't hurt me while I'm waiting. It's good hungry air, this. You eat a lot, I dare say. The air alone stands you in fifty pounds a year, I reckon. Let's pay it pretty smart for what we're supposed to have for the taken. And Harry laughed at his joke as they entered the dark, old dining-room. Alley not here? said Harry, looking round. She can't be very far off, but I'll manage something if she's not to be found. So, Charles, left Harry smiling out of the window at the tops of the trees and drumming a devil's tattoo on the pane. Oh, Dulcy Bella! Is your mistress upstairs? I think she's gone out to the garden, sir. She took her trowel and garden gloves, and the little basket we her, answered the old woman. Well, don't disturb her. Will not mind. I'll see Old Mildred. So to Old Mildred he betook himself. Here's Master Harry, come very hungry, so send him anything you can make out, and in the meantime some beer, for he's thirsty, too, and like a good old soul, make all the haste you can. And with his conciliatory exhortation, he returned to the room where he had left his brother. Alley has gone out to visit her flowers, but Mildred is doing the best she can for you, and we can go out and join Alice by and by. But we are as well to ourselves for a little. I—I want to talk to you. Well, fire away, my boy, with your big oaks thick, as the Irishman says, though. I'd rather have a mouthful first. Thank ye, chickabitty. Where the devil did you get that queer-looking fair one? He asked when the heebie Lily-Dogger disappeared. Alley of Fifty, it was Alley chose that one. And he laughed obstreperously, and he poured out a tumbler of beer and drank it, and then another drank it, and poured out a third to keep at hand while he conversed. There used to be some old pewter goblets here in the kitchen. I wonder what's gone with them. There were grand things for drinking beer out of. The pewter, while you live, there's nothing like it for beer or porter, by Jove. Have you got any porter? No, not any, but do, like a good fellow, tell me anything you've picked up that concerns me. There's nothing pleasant, I know. There can be nothing pleasant, but if there's anything, I should rather have it now than wait, be it ever so bad. I wish you'd put some other fellow on this business, I know, for you'll come to hate the sight of me, if I'm always bringing you bad news. But it is not good, that's a fact. That beast is getting unmanageable. By the law, here comes something for a hungry fellow. Thank ye, molasses. God bless ye, feeding the hungry. How can I pay ye back, my dear? I don't know, unless by taking ye in, ha ha ha. Whenever ye want shelter, mind, but you're too sharp, I warrant, to let any fellow take you in with them roguish eyes you've got. See how she blushes, the brown little rogue? He giggled after her with a leer, as Lily Dogger, having placed his extemporized lunch on the table, edged hurdly out of the room. Devilish fine eyes she's got, and a nice little set of ivories, sir. My jove, I didn't half see her. Hitty, she's not a bit taller, and them square shoulders. But hair, she has nice hair, and teeth, and eyes goes a long way. He had stuck his fork in a rasher while making his pretty speech, and was champing away greedily by the time he had come to the end of his sentence. But what has turned up in that quarter? You were going to tell me something when this came in, asked Charles. About the old sojourn. Well, if you don't mind a fellow's talking with his mouth full, I'll try when I can think of it, but the noise of eating clears a fellow's head of everything, I think. Do like a dear fellow, I can hear you perfectly, urged Charles. I'm afraid, said Harry, with his mouth full, as he had promised. She'll make herself devilish troublesome. Tell us all about it, said Charles uneasily. I told you, I was running up to London. We haven't potatoes like these up in Wyvern, and so I did go, and as I promised, I saw the old beast at Hoxton, and hang me, but I think someone has been putting her up to Mischief. How do you mean, what sort of Mischief, asked Charles? I think she's got on easy about you. She was asking all sorts of questions. Yes, well? And I wouldn't wonder if someone has been telling her. I was going to say lies. But I mean something like the truth. By the law, I was telling such a hatful of lies about it myself, that I hardly know which is which, or one end from Tother. Do you mean to say she was abusing me, or what, urged Charles very uncomfortably? I don't suppose you care very much what the old sojourner says of you, it ain't pretty. You may be sure, and it don't much signify. But it ain't all talk, you know. She's always grumbling, and I don't mind that. Her tick-dola rule, and her nerves and her nonsense. She wants carriage exercise, she says, and the court doctor, I forget his name. And she says you allow her next to nothing, and keeps her always on the starving line, and she won't stand it no longer, she swears. And you'll have to come down with the dust, my boy. And Florid Stollward Harry laughed again, as if the affair was a good joke. I can't help it, Harry. She has always had more than her share. I've been too generous. I've been a damned fool always. Charlie spoke with extreme bitterness, but quietly, and there was a silence of two or three minutes during which Harry's eyes were on his plate, and the noise of his knife and fork and the crunching of his repass under his fine teeth were the only sounds heard. Seeing that Harry seemed disposed to confine his attention for the present to his luncheon, Charles Fairfield, who apprehended something worse, said, If that's all it is, nothing very new. I've been hearing that sort of thing for fully ten years. She's ungrateful and artful and violent. There's no use in wishing or regretting now, but God knows. It was an evil day for me when first I saw that woman's face. Charlie was looking down on the table as he spoke, and tapping on it feverishly with the tips of his fingers, Harry's countenance showed that unpleasant expression, which sometimes overcame its rustic freshness, the attempt to discharge an unsuitable smile or dubious expression from the face, the attempt, shall we bluntly say, of a rogue to look simple. It is a loose way of talking and thinking which limits the vice of hypocrisy to the matter of religion. It counterfeits all good and assimilates all evil, every day and hour, and among the men who frankly admit themselves to be publicans and sinners, whose ways are notoriously worldly and who never affected religion are some of the worst and meanest hypocrites on earth. Harry Fairfield, having ended his luncheon, had laid his knife and fork on his plate, and leaning back in his chair was ogling them with an unmeaning stare and mouth a little open, affecting a brown study. But no effort can quite hide the meaning and twinkle of cunning and nothing is more repulsive than this semi-transparent mask of simplicity. Thus the two brothers sat, neither observing the other much, with an outward seeming of sympathy, but with very divergent thoughts. Charles, as we know, was a lazy man with little suspicion, and rather an admiration of his brother's worldly wisdom and activity, with a wavering belief in Harry's devotion to his cause. Sometimes a little disturbed when Harry seemed for a short time hard and selfish or careless, but generally returning with a quiet self-assertion, like the tide on a summer day. For my part I don't exactly know how much or how little Harry cared for Charles. The Fairfields were not always what is termed a united family and its individual members, in prosecuting their several objects, sometimes knocked together, and occasionally, in the family history more violently and literally, than was altogether seemly. Harry's Beer and Conversation At last Harry, looking out of the window as he leaned back in his chair, said in a careless sort of way, but in a low tone. Did you ever tell Alice anything about it before you came here? Alice? said Charles, wincing and looking very pale. Well, you know, why should I? You know best, of course, but I thought you might maybe, answered Harry, stretching himself with an imperfect yawn. No, said Charles, looking down with a flush. She never heard anything about it at any time then? In mind, my dear fellow, I'm only asking, you know much better than me what's best to be done, but the old brute will give you trouble, I'm feared. She'll be writing letters and maybe printing things, but you don't take in the papers here, so it won't come so much by surprise like. Alice knows nothing of it. She never heard of her, said Charles. I wish she may have heard as little of Alice, said Harry. Why, don't you mean to say? began Charles and stopped. I think the woman has got some sort of a maggot in her head. I think she has more than common, and you'll find I'm right. Charles got up and stood at the window for a little. I can't guess what you mean, Harry. I don't know what you think. Do tell me, if you have any clear idea, what is she thinking of? I don't know what to think, and upon my soul that one's so deep, said Harry, but I'd bet something she's heard more than we'd just like about this, and if so, they'll be wigs on the green. There has been nothing, I mean no letter. I have not heard from her for months, not since you saw her before. I think if there had been anything unusual in her mind she would have written, don't you? I daresay what you saw was only one of those ungoverned outbreaks of temper that mean nothing. I hope so, said Harry. I blame myself. I'm no villain. I didn't mean badly, but I'm a cursed fool. It's all quite straight, though, and it doesn't matter of farthing what she does, not a farthing, broke out Charles Fairfield. But I would not have poor little Alice frightened and made miserable. And what had I best do? And where do you think we had best go? He lowered his voice and glanced toward the door as he said this, suddenly remembering that Alice might come in the midst of their consultation. Go? For the presents aren't you well enough where you are? Wait a bit anyhow. But I wonder you didn't tell Alice. She ought to have known something about it. Wouldn't she, before you married her? Or whatever you call it? Before I married her? Of course, said Charles sternly. Married her? You don't mean I fancy to question my marriage. Charles was looking at him with very grim, steady gaze. Why? What the devil should I know or care about lawyers' nonsense and pleadings, my dear fellow? I never could have made head or tail of them, only as we are talking here so confidential, you and me. Whatever came up her most, I forgot what. I just wrapped out. Has that Hoxton lady any family? Don't you know she has not? replied Charles. I know it now. But she might have a sieve full of anything I knew, answered Harry. I think, Harry, if you really thought she and I were married, that was too important a question for you, wasn't it? To be forgotten so easily, said Charles. Important? How so? asked Harry. How so, my dear Harry? Why, you can't be serious. You haven't forgotten that the succession to Wyvern depends on it, exclaimed Charles Fairfield. Bah, Wyvern indeed. Why, man, the thought never came near me. Me, Wyvern? Sitch pure rot. We fairfields, lives good long lives mostly, and marries late sometimes. There's forty good years before ye. Yeah, Charlie, you must think is somewhat more likely if you want folk to believe ye. You'll not hang me on that count. No, no. And he laughed. Well, I think so. I'm glad of it. For you know I wrote to tell you about what is, I hope, likely to be. It is made poor little Alice so happy. And if there should come an air, you know he'd be another squire of Wyvern in a long line of fairfields, and it wouldn't do Harry to have a doubt thrown on him. And I'm glad to hear you say the pretense of that damned woman's marriage is a lie. Well, you know best, said Harry. I'm very sorry for Alice, poor little thing, if there's ever any trouble at all about it. And he looked through the windows, along the tops of the tufted trees that caught the sunlight softly, with his last expression of condolence. You have said more than once, I don't say today, that you were sure, that you knew as well as I did there was nothing in that woman's story. Isn't that someone coming? said Harry, turning his head toward the door. No, no one, said Charles after a moment's silence. But you did say so, Harry. You know you did. Well, if I did, I did, that's all. But I don't remember, said Harry. And I'm sure you make a mistake. A mistake? What do you mean? asked Charles. I mean marriage or no marriage. I never meant to say as you suppose. I know nothing about it. Whatever I may think, said Harry sturdily. You know everything that I know. I've told you everything, answered Charles Fairfield. And what of that? How can you or me tell whether it makes a marriage or not? And I won't be quoted by you or anyone else as having made such a mouth of myself as to lay down the law in a case that might puzzle a judge, said Harry, darkening. You believe the facts I've told you, I fancy? said Charles sternly. You meant truth, I'm sure of that. And beyond that I believe nothing but what I have said myself. And more, I won't say for the king, said Harry, putting his hands in his pockets. And looking sulkily at Charles with his mouth a little open. Charles looked awfully angry. You know very well, Harry, you have 50 times told me there was nothing in it. And you have even said that the person herself thinks so too. He said at last, restraining himself. That I never said by God, said Harry Cooley, who was now standing with his back against the window shutters and his hands in his pockets. As he so spoke he crossed one sinewy leg over the other and continued to direct from the corner of his eye a sullen gaze upon his brother. With the same oath that brother told him he lied. Here followed a pause, as when a train is fired and men are doubtful whether the mine will spring. The leaves rustled and the flies hummed happily outside as if those seconds were charged with nothing. And the big feeble bee, who had spent the morning in walking up a pane of glass and slipping down again, continued his stumbling exercise as if there was nothing else worth attending to for a mile round Carwell Grange. Harry had set both heels on the ground at this talismanic word. One hand clenched had come from his pocket to his thigh, and from his eyes leaped the old fairfield fury. It was merely as Harry would have said, the turn of a shilling, whether a fairfield battle, short, sharp, and decisive, had not tried the issue at that instant. I don't valy a hot word spoken haste. It's ill raising hands between brothers. Let it pass. I'm about the last friend you've left just now, and I don't see why ye should seek to put a quarrel on me. It's little to me, you know. No thanks, loss of time. And like to be more kicks than havens. Harry spoke these words after a considerable pause. I was wrong, Harry. I mean to you such a word, and I beg your pardon, said Charles, extending his hand to his brother, who took his fingers and dropped them with a rather short and cold shake. He shouldn't talk that way to a fellow that's taken some trouble about ye, and ye know I'm short-tempered. We all are, and tisn't the way to handle me, said Harry. I was wrong, I know I was, and I'm sorry. I can't say more, answered Charles. But there it is. If there's trouble about this little child that's coming, what am I to do? Wouldn't it be better for me to be in Wyvern Charchart? Harry lowered his eyes with his mouth still open to the threadbare carpet. His hands were again both reposing quietly in his pockets. After a silence he said, If you had told me anything about what was in your head concerning Alice Maybell, I'd have told you my mind quite straight. And if you ask it now, I can only tell you one thing, and that is, I think you're married to Tother Woman, a hater like poison, but that's nothing to do with it, and I'd have been for making a clear breast of it and telling Alice everything, and let her judge for herself, but you wouldn't look before you, and you've got into a nice pound, I'm afraid. I'm not a bit afraid about it, said Charles, very pale. Only for the world I would not have frightened her, and vexed her just now. And Harry, there's nothing like speaking out, as you say, and I can't help thinking that your opinion, and at another time perhaps he would have added your memory, is biased by the estate. Charles spoke bitterly or petulantly, which you will, but Harry seemed to have made up his mind to take this matter coolly, and so he did. Upon my soul I wouldn't wonder, he said, with a kind of laugh. Though if it does, I give you my oath, I'm not aware of it. But take it so, if you like. It's only saying a fellow loves his shirt very well, but his skin better, and I suppose, so we do, you and me, both of us. Only this I'll say, it will be all straight and above board, to which you and me, and I'll do the best I can for ye. You don't doubt that. No, Harry, you'll not deceive me. No, of course, and as I say, I think that brute, the Huckston one, she took a notion in her head. To give me trouble? A notion, continued Harry, that there's another woman in the case, and if you ask me, I think she'll not rest quiet for long. She says she's your wife, and one way or another she'll pitch into any girl that says the same for herself. She's like a mad horse, you know, when she's riled, and she'd kick through a wall and knock herself to pieces to get at you. I wish she was sunk in the sea. Tell me, what do you think she's going to do, asked Charles uneasily? Upon my soul I can't guess. But to wouldn't hurt you, I think, if you kept fifty pounds or so in your pocket to give her the slip. If she should begin maneuvering with any sort of dodges that look serious, and if I hear any more, I'll let you know, and I've stayed here longer than I meant. And I hadn't seen Ali, but she'll make my compliments and tell her I was too hurried and my nags had his feet by this time, and I've stayed too long. Well, Harry, thank you very much. It's a mere form asking you to remain longer. There's nothing to offer you worth staying for. And this is such a place, and I, so heartbroken, and we part good friends, don't we? The best, said Harry carelessly. Have you a cigar or two? Thanks. You may as well make it free, thank you. Jolly goodens. I've a smart ride before me, but I think I'll make something of it, rather. My hands are pretty full always. I'd give you more time if they wasn't, but keep your powder dry and a sharp look out. And so will I. And give my love to Ali, and tell her to keep up her heart, and all will go right, I dare say. By this time they had threaded the passage and were in the stable yard again, and mounting his horse, Harry turned and, with a wag of his head in the farewell grin, rode slowly over the pavement, and disappeared through the gate. Charles was glad that he had gone without seeing Alice. She would certainly have perceived that something was wrong. He thought for a moment of going to the garden to look for her. But the same consideration prevented his doing so. And he took his fishing rod instead, and went off the other way to look for a trout in the brook that flows through Carwell Glen. End of Chapter 21. Recording by John Brandon Chapter 22 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou Chapter 22. The Trout Down the Glen, all the way to the ruined windmill, sauntered Charles Fairfield before he had his rod together and adjusted his casting line. Very nervous he was, almost miserable. But he was not a man instinctively to strike out a course on an emergency or to reduce his resolve promptly to action. Neither was he able yet to think very clearly on his situation. Somehow his brother Harry was constantly before him in a new and dismal light. Had there not peeped out today, instead of the boot of that horsey jolly fellow, the tip of a cloven hoof that cannot be mistaken? Oh, Harry brother! Was he mediating treason, and going to take arms in the cause of the murderer of his peace? He was so cunning and so energetic that Charles stood in awe of him, and thought, if his sword were pointed at his breast, that he might as well surrender and think no more of safety. Harry had been too much in his confidence, and had been too often in conference with that evil person whom he called the Old Sager. To be otherwise than formidable as an enemy, an enemy he trusted he never would see him. An unscrupulous one in his position could work fearful mischief to him, by a little coloring and perversion of things that had occurred. He would not assume such a transformation possible. But always stood before him, Harry, in his altered mean and estranged looks, as he had seen him sullen and threatening that day. What would he not have given to be sure that the wicked person, whom he now dreaded more than he feared all other powers, had formed no actual design against him? If she had, what was the agency that had kindled her evil passions and excited her activity? He could not fancy Harry such a monster. What were her plans? Did she mean legal proceedings? He would have given a good deal for life no matter what it may disclose anything but suspense, and the fantasmal horrors with which imagination peels darkness. Never did a rest-brain so need the febber-fuge of the angler's solace, and quickly his cares and agitation subsided in that serene absorption. One thing only occurred for a moment to divert his attention from his tranquilizing occupation. Standing on a flat stone near midway in the stream, he was throwing his flies over a nook where he had seen a trout rise. When he heard the ring of carriage wheels on the road that passes round the base of the old windmill and pierces the dense wood that darkened the glen of car well, raising his eyes, he did see a carriage following that unfrequented track. A thin screen of scattered trees prevented his seeing this carriage very distinctly. But the road is so little a thoroughfare that except an occasional cart few wheeled vehicles ever traversed it. A little anxiously he watched this carriage till it disappeared totally in the wood. He felt uncomfortably that its destination was car well-grange, and at that point conjecture failed him. This little incident was, I think, the only one that for a moment disturbed the serene abstraction of his trout fishing. And now the sun, beginning to approach the distant hills, warned him that it was time to return. So listlessly he walked homeward, and as he ascended the narrow and melancholy track that threads the glen of car well, his evil companions, the fears and cares that tortured him, returned. Near car well-grange, the road makes a short but steep ascent, and a slight opening in the trees displays on the eminence a little platform on the verge of the declivity, from which a romantic view down the glen and over a portion of the lower side unfolds itself. Here for a time he paused, looking westward on the sky already glowing in the saddened splendors of sunset. From this miserable rumination he carried away one resolution hard and clear. It was painful to come to it, but the torture of concealment was more dreadful. He had made of his mind to tell Alice exactly how the facts were. One ingredient, and he fancied just then the worst in his cup of madness, was the torture of secrecy, and the vigilance and the uncertainties of concealment. Poor little Alice, he felt ought to know. It was her right, and the attempt, longer to conceal it, would make her much more miserable, for he could not disguise his sufferings. And she would observe them and be abandoned to the solitary anguish of suspense. As he entered the grange he was reminded of the carriage which he had observed turning up the narrow car well road, by actually seeing it, standing at the summit of the short and steep ascent to the grange. Coming suddenly upon this object, with its nutty, well-appointed air, contrasting with the old world neglect and homeliness of all that's around it, he stopped short with an odd Robinson Crusoe shyness and surveyed the intruding vehicle. The survey told him nothing. He turned sharply into the back entrance of the grange, disturbed and a good deal vexed. It could not be an invasion of the enemy. Carriage, harness, and servants were much too smart for that. But if the neighbors had found them out, and that this was the beginning of a series of visits, could anything in a small way be more annoying and even dangerous? Here was a very necessary privacy violated with what ulterior consequences who could calculate. This was certainly Alice's doing. Women are such headstrong, silly creatures. End of Chapter 22, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 23 of the Wyvern Mystery This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon, The Wyvern Mystery by Joseph Sheraton Lafano, The Visitor The carriage which Charles Fairfield had seen routing the picturesque rune of Grace's Mill was that of Lady Windale. Mrs. Tarnley opened the door to her summons, enacting on her general instructions said, not at home. But good Lady Windale was not so to be put off. She had old Mildred to the side of the carriage. I know my niece will be glad to see me, she said. I'm Lady Windale, and you are to take this card in, and tell my niece, Mrs. Fairfield, I have come to see her. Mrs. Tarnley looked with a dubious scrutiny at Lady Windale, for she had no idea that Alice could have an aunt with a title and a carriage. On the whole, however, she thought it best to take the card in, and almost immediately it was answered by Alice, who ran out to meet her aunt and throw her arms around her neck, and let her into Carwell Grange. Oh darling, darling, I'm so delighted to see you. It was so good of you to come. But how did you find me out? said Alice, kissing her again and again. There's no use, you see, in being secret with me. I made out where you were, though you meant to keep me quite in the dark, and I really don't think I ought to have come near you, and I'm very much affronted, said kind old Lady Windale a little high. But auntie darling, didn't you get my letter? Telling you that we were married, pleaded Alice? Yes, and that you had left Wyvern, but you took good care not to tell me where you were going. And in fact, if it had not been for the good housekeeper at Wyvern, to whom I wrote, I suppose I should have lived and died within fifteen miles of you, thinking all the time that you had gone to France. We were thinking of that, I told you, pleaded Alice, eagerly. Well, here you have been for three months, and I've been living within a two-hours drive of you, and dreading all the time that you were four hundred miles away. I have never once seen your face. I don't think that was good-natured. Oh, dear aunt, forgive me, entreated Alice. You will when you know all. If you knew how miserable I have often been, thinking how ungrateful and odious I must have appeared, how meanly reserved and basely suspicious, all the time longing for nothing on earth so much as a sight of your beloved face, and a good talk over everything with you, my best and truest friend. There, kiss me, child, I'm not angry, only sorry, darling, that I should have lost so much of your society, which I might have enjoyed often very much, said the placable old lady. But, darling aunt, I must tell you how it was. You must hear me. You know how I idolize you, and you can't know, but you may imagine, what in this solitary place, and with cares and fears so often troubling me, your kind and delightful society would have been to me. But my husband made it a point that just for the present I should divulge our retreat to no one on earth. I pleaded for you, and in fact there is not another person living to whom I should have dreamed of disclosing it. But the idea made him so miserable, and he urged it with so much entreaty and earnestness, that I could not without a quarrel have told you, and he promised that my silence should be enforced only for a very short time. Dear me, I'm so sorry, said Lady Windale, very much concerned. It must be that that poor man is very much dipped, and is literally hiding himself here. You poor little thing. Is he in debt? I'm afraid he is. I can't tell you how miserable it sometimes makes me. Not that he allows me ever to feel it, except in these precautions, for we are, though in a very homely way, perfectly comfortable. You would not believe how comfortable. But we really are, said poor, loyal, little hellish, making the best of their frugal and self-denying life. Your room is very snug. I like an old-fashioned room, said the good-natured old lady, looking round, and you make it so pretty with your flowers. Is there any ornament like them? And you have such an exquisite way of arranging them. It is an art. No one can do it like you. I know I always got you to undertake ours at Alton, and you remember Tremaine, standing beside you, trying, as he said, to learn the art, though I fancy he was studying something prettier. Alice laughed. Lord Tremaine was a distant figure now, and this little triumph a dream of the past. But is not the spirit of woman conquest? Is not homage the air in which he lives and blooms? So Alice's dark, soft eyes dropped for a moment, side-long, with something like the faintest blush and a little dimpling smile. But all that's over, you know, said Lady Windale. You would insist on putting a very effectual extinguisher upon it. So there's an end of my matchmaking, and I hope you may be very happy your own way. And I'm sure you will, and you know any little money trouble can't last long. For old Mr. Fairfield, you know, can't possibly live very long, and then I'm told Wyvern must be his. And the Fairfields were always thought to have some four or five thousand a year. And although the estate they say owes something, yet a prudent little woman like you will get all that to rights in time. You are always so kind and cheery, you darling, said Alice, looking fondly and smiling in her face, as she placed a hand on each shoulder. It is delightful seeing you at last. But you are tired, ain't you? You must take something. Thanks, dear. I'll have a little tea, nothing else, I launched before we set out. So Alice touched the bell, and the order was taken by Mildred Tarnley. And how is that nice, good-natured old creature, Dulcy Bella Crane? I like her so much. She seems so attached. I hope you'll have her still with you. Oh, yes. I could not exist without her, dear old Dulcy Bella, of course. There was here a short silence. I was thinking of asking you if you could come over to Olten for a month or so. I'm told your husband is such an agreeable man, and very unlike Mr. Harry Fairfield, his brother. A mere bear, they tell me. And do you think your husband would venture? We should be quite to ourselves if you preferred it. And we could make it almost as quiet as here. It is so like you, you darling. And to me would be so delightful. But no, no. It is quite out of the question. He is really... This is a great secret, and you won't say a word to anyone. I'm afraid very much harassed. He is very miserable about his affairs. There has been a quarrel with old Mr. Fairfield, which makes the matter worse. His brother Harry has been trying to arrange with his creditors. But I don't know how that will be. And Charlie has told me that we must be ready on very short notice to go to France, or somewhere else abroad. And I'm afraid he owes a great deal. He's so reserved and nervous about it. And you may suppose how I feel. How miserable sometimes, knowing that I am, in great measure, the cause of his being so miserably harassed. Or Charlie. I often think how much happier it would have been for him, never to have seen me. Did I ever hear such stuff? But I won't say half what I was going to say. For I can't think you such a fool. And I must only suppose you want me to say ever so many pretty things of you. Which in this case I am bound to say would be, unlike common flatteries, quite true. But if there really is any trouble of that kind. Of the least consequence, I mean, I think it quite a scandal. Not only shabby, but wicked that old Mr. Fairfield, with one foot in the grave, should do nothing. I always knew he was a mere Bruin. But people said he was generous in the matter of money, and he ought to think that in the course of nature Wyvern should have been his sons years ago. And it is really quite abominable, his not coming forward. There's no chance of that. There has been a quarrel, said Alice, looking down on the threadbare carpet. Well, darling, remember. If it should come to that, I mean, if he should be advised to go away for a little, remember that your home is at Olton. He'll not stay away very long, but if you accept my offer, the longer the happier for me. You ought to come over to Olton, you understand. And to bring old Dulcy Bella. And I only wish that you had been a few years married that we might set up a little nursery in that dull house. I think I should live ten years longer if I had the prattle and laughing, and pleasant noise of children in the old nursery. The same nursery where my poor George ran about, sixty years ago nearly, when he was a child. We should have delightful times, you and I, and I'd be your head nurse. My darling, I think you are an angel, said Alice, with a little laugh and throwing her arms about her. She wept on her thin old neck, and the old lady, weeping also, happy and tender tears, pattered her shoulder gently in that little silence. Well, Alice, you'll remember, and I'll write to your husband as well as to you, for this kind of invitation is never attended to, and you would think nothing of going away and leaving your old auntie to shift for herself. And if you will come, it will be the kindest thing you ever did, from growing old, and strangers don't amuse me quite as much as they did. And I really want a little home society to exercise my affections, and prevent my turning into a selfish old cat. So the tea came in, and they sipped it to the accompaniment of their little dialogue, and time glided away unperceived, and the door opened, and Charles Fairfield, in his careless fishing costume, entered the room. He glanced at Alice, a look which she understood. Her visitor also perceived it, but Charles had not become a mere orson in this wilderness, so he assumed an air of welcome. We are so glad to see you here, Lady Windale, though indeed it ain't easy to see anyone, the room is so dark. It was so very good of you to come this long drive to see Alice. I hardly hope to have seen you, replied the old lady, for I must go in a minute or two more. And I'm very frank, and you won't think me rude, but I have learned everything, and I know that I ought not to have come without a little more circumspection. He laughed a little, and Alice thought as well as the failing light enabled her to see that he looked very pale, as laughing he fixed for a moment a hard look on her. All is not a great deal, he said, not knowing very well what to say. No, no, said the old lady, there's no one on earth almost who has not suffered at one time or other that kind of passing annoyance. You know that Alice and I are such friends, so very intimate that I feel as if I knew her husband almost intimately, although you were little more than a boy when I last saw you, and I'm afraid it must seem very impertinent by mentioning Alice's little anxieties, but I could not well avoid doing so without omitting an explanation that I ought to make, because this secret little creature, your wife, with whom I was very near being offended, was perfectly guiltless of my visit, and I learned where she was from your old housekeeper at Wyvern, and from no one else on earth did I receive the slightest hint, and I thought it very ill-natured, being so near a relation and friend, and when you know me a little better, Mr. Fairfield, you'll not teach Alice to distrust me. Then the kind old lady diverged into her plans about Alice and Alton, and promised a diplomatic correspondence, and at length she took her leave for the last time, and Charles saw her into her carriage and bid her a polite farewell. Away drove the carriage, and Charles stood listlessly on the summit of the embowered and gloomy road that descends in one direction into the Vale of Carwell, and passes in the other, with some windings to the wide heath of Cressley Common. This visit, untoward as it was, was nevertheless a little stimulus. He felt his spirits brightening, his pulse less sluggish, and something more of confidence in his future. There's time enough in which to tell her my trouble, thought he, as he turned toward the house, and by Jove, we haven't had our dinner. I must choose the time. Tonight it shall be. We will both be, I think, less miserable, when it is told, and he sighed heavily. He entered the house through the back gate, and as he passed the kitchen door, called to Mildred Tarnley the emphatic word, Dinner. End of Chapter 23, Recording by John Brandon. The Summons When Charles Fairfield came into the wanes-coated dining-room a few minutes later it looked very cozy. The sun had broken the pile of western clouds, and sent low and level a red light, flecked with trembling leaves on the dark panels that faced the windows. Outside in that farewell glory of the day, the coying crows were heard returning to the somber woods of Carwell, and the small birds whistled and warbled pleasantly in the clear air and chatty sparrows in the ivy round, gossiped and fluttered merrily, before the little community betook themselves to their leafy nooks, and couched their busy little heads for the night under their brown wings. He looked through the window towards the gloriously stained sky and darkening trees, and he thought, a fellow like me who has seen out his foolish days and got to value better things, who likes a pretty view and a cigar and a stroll by a trout brook, and a song now and then, and a book, and a friendly guest and a quiet glass of wine, and who has a creature like Alice to love and be loved by, might be devilish happy in this queer lonely corner if only the load were off his heart. He sighed, but something of that load was for the moment removed, and as pretty Alice came in at the open door he went to meet her and drew her fondly to his heart. We must be very happy this evening, Alice. Somehow I feel that everything will go well with us yet. If just a few little hitches and annoyances were got over, I should be the happiest fellow, I think, that ever bore the name of Fairfield, and you, darling creature, are the light of that happiness, my crown and my life, my beautiful Alice, my joy and my glory. I wish you knew half how I love you, and how proud I am of you. Oh, Charlie, Charlie, this is delightful. Oh, rhyme, my darling, I'm too happy, and with these words in the strain of her slender embrace she clung to him as he held her locked to his heart. The affection was there, the love was true. In the indolent nature of Charles Fairfield, capabilities of good were not wanting. That dreadful interval in the soul's history, between the weak and comparatively noble state of childhood, and that later period when experience saddens and illuminates and begins to turn our looks regretfully backward, was long past with him. The period when women come out and see the world, and men in the old-fashioned phrase sew their wild oats. That glorious summertime of self-love, sin and folly, that bleak and bitter winter of the soul through which the mercy of God alone preserves for us alive the dormant germs of good, was past for him, without killing, as it sometimes does, all the tenderness and truth of the nursery. In this man, Charles Fairfield, with a trodden down but still living affections which now in this season unfolded themselves anew. Simplicity unkilled in the purity not of Eden, not of childhood, but of recoil. Altogether a man who had not lost himself capable of being happy, capable of being regenerated. I know not exactly what had evoked this sudden glow and effervescence. Perhaps it needs some manifold confluence of internal and external conditions, trifling and unnoticed, except for such unexplained results, to evolve these trembling and lightings up that surprise us like the fiercer analogies of volcanic chemistry. It is sad to see what appear capabilities and opportunities of great happiness so nearly secured, and yet by reason of some inflexible caprice of circumstance, quite unattainable. It was not for some hours, and until after his wife had gone to her room, that the darkness and chill that portended the return of his worst care crept over him as he sat and turned over the leaves of his book. He got up and loitered discontentedly about the room, stopping now before the little bookshelves between the windows and adjusting unconsciously their contents. Now at the little oak table and fiddling with the flowers which Alice had arranged in a tall old glass, one of the relics of other days of Carwell, and so on. Listless, irresolute. So here I am once more, back again among my enemies. Happiness for me a momentary illusion. Hope a cheat. My reality is the blackness of the abyss. God help me. He turned up his eyes and he groaned this prayer unconscious that it was a prayer. I will, he thought, extract the sting from this miserable mystery. Between me and Alice it shall be a secret no longer. I'll tell her to-morrow. I'll look out an opportunity, I will by God. And to nail himself to his promise this irresolute man repeated the same passionate oath, and he struck his hand on the table. Next day, therefore, when Alice was again among the flowers in the garden, he entered that antique and solemn shade with a strange sensation at his heart of fear and grief. How would Alice look on him after it was over? How would she bear it? Pale as the man who walks after the coffin of his darling, between the tall gray pyres he entered that wild and umbrageous enclosure. His heart seemed to stop still as he saw little Alice, all unsuspicious of his dreadful message, working with her tiny trowel at the one sunny spot of the garden. She stood up, how pretty she was, looking on her work. And as she stood with one tiny foot advanced, and her little arms folded with her garden-gloves on, and the little diamond-shaped trowel glittering in her hand, she sang low to herself in air which he remembered her singing when she was quite a little thing long ago at Wyvern. When he never dreamed she would be anything to him, just a picture of a little brown-haired girl and nothing dearer. Then she saw him and, oh, Rye, darling, she cried, as making a diagonal from the distant point she ran towards him through tall trees and old raspberries, and under the boughs of overgrown fruit trees which nowadays bore more moss and lichen than pears or cherries upon them. Rye, how delightful! You so seldom come here, and now I have you, you shall see all I'm doing and how industrious I have been, and we are going to have such a happy little ramble. Has anything happened, darling? She said suddenly, stopping and looking in his face. Here was an opportunity, but if his resolution was still there, presence of mind failed him, and forcing a smile he instantly answered. Nothing, darling, nothing whatever. Come, let us look at your work. You are so industrious and you have such wonderful taste. And as reassured and holding his hand, she praddled and laughed, leading him round by the grass-grown walks to her garden, as she called that favored bit of ground on which the sun shone. He hardly saw the old current bushes or gray trunks of the rugged trees. His sight seemed dazzled, his hearing seemed confused, and he thought to himself, Where am I? What is this, and can it be true that I am so weak or so mad as to be turned from the purpose over which I have been brooding for a day and a night, and to which I had screwed my courage so resolutely by a smile and a question? What is this, black current? And this is ground-cell. And little Alice, your glove wants a stitch or two. He added aloud, and oh, here we are, now you must enlighten me. And what a grove of little sticks and little inscriptions, these are your annuals, I suppose. And so they talked, and she laughed and chatted very merrily, and he had not the heart, perhaps the courage to deliver his detested message, and again it was postponed. The next day Charles Fairfield fell into his old gloom and anxieties. The temporary relief was felt no more, and the usual reaction followed. It is something to have adopted a resolution. The anguish of suspense at least is ended, and even if it be to undergo an operation, and to blow one's own brains out, men will become composed and sometimes even cheerful, as the coroner's inquest discovers when once the way and the end are known. But this melancholy serenity now failed Charles Fairfield, for without acknowledging it he began a little to recede from his resolution. Then was the dreadful question, how will she bear it, and even worse how will she view the position? Is she not just the person to leave forthwith a husband thus ambiguously placed, and to insist that this frightful claim, however shadowy, should be met and determined in the light of day? I know very well what an idol she makes of me, poor little thing. But she would not stay here an hour after she heard it. She would go straight to Lady Windale. It would break her heart, but she would do it. It was this fear that restrained him. Impelling him, however, was the thought that sooner or later, if Harry's story were true, his enemy would find him cut, and his last state be worse than his first. Again and again he cursed his own folly for not having consulted his shrewd brother before his marriage. How horribly were his words justified? How easy it would have been comparatively to disclose all to Alice before leading her into such a position. He did not believe that there was actual danger in his claim. He could swear that he meant no villainy. Weak and irresolute in a trying situation he had been. That was all. But could he be sure that the world would not stigmatize him as a villain? Another day passed and he could not tell what a day might bring, a day of feverish melancholy, of abstraction, of agitation. She had gone to her room. It was twelve o'clock at night when, having made up his mind to make his agitating shrift, he mounted the old oak stairs with his candle in his hand. Who's there? said his wife's voice from the room. Eye, darling. And at the door she met him in her dressing-gown. Her face was pale and miserable and her eyes swollen with crying. Oh, right, darling. I'm so miserable, I think I shall go mad. And she hugged him fast in trembling arms and sobbed convulsively on his breast. Charles Fairfield froze with a kind of terror. He thought, she has found out the whole story. She looked up in his face and that was the face of a ghost. Oh, right, darling. For God's sake, tell me. Is there anything very bad? Is it debt only that makes you so wretched? I'm in such dreadful uncertainty. Have mercy on your poor little miserable wife and tell me whatever it is. Tell me all. Here you would have said was something more urgent than the opportunity which he coveted. But the sight of that gaze of wildest misery smote and terrified him. It looked in reality so near despair, so near insanity. To tell her will be to kill her. Something seemed to whisper. And he drew her closer to him and kissed her and laughed. Nothing unearth but money. The want of money. Debt. Upon my soul you fright me, Alice. You looked so... so piteous. I thought you had something dreadful to tell me, but thank God you are quite well and haven't even seen a ghost. You must not always be such a foolish little creature. I'm afraid this place will turn our heads. Here we are safe and sound and nothing wrong but my abominable debts. You would not wonder at my moping if you knew what debt is, but I won't look if I can help it quite so miserable for the future. For, after all, we must have money soon, and you know they can't hang me for owing them a few hundreds. And I'm quite angry with myself for having annoyed you so, you poor little thing. My noble rye, it is so good of you. You make me so happy. I did not know what to think, but you have made me quite cheerful again, and I really do think it is being so much alone. I watch your looks so much, and everything preys on me so, and that seems so odious when I have my darling along with me. But rye will forgive his foolish little wife, I know he will. He's always so good and kind. Then followed more reassuring speeches from Charles and more raptures from poor Alice, and the end was that, for a time, Charles was quite turned away from his purpose. I don't know, however, that he was able to keep his promise about more cheerful looks, certainly not beyond a day or two. A few days later he heard a tragic bit of news. Tom related to him that the miller's young wife, down at Raleigh, hearing on a sudden that her husband was drowned in the mill-stream, though it was nothing after all but a ducking, was took with fits and died in three days' time. So much for surprising young wives with alarming stories, Charles Fairfield listened and made the application for himself. A few days later a letter was brought into the room where rather silently Charles and his wife were at breakfast. It came when he had almost given up the idea of receiving one for some days, perhaps weeks, and he had begun to please himself with the idea that the delay augured well, and Harry's silence was a sign that the alarm was subsiding. Here, however, was a letter addressed to him in Harry's bold hand. His poor little wife, sitting next to the tea-things, eyed her husband as he opened it, with breathless alarm. She saw him grow pale as he glanced at it. He lowered it to the tablecloth and bit his lip, his eye still fixed on it. As he did not turn over the leaf, she saw it could not be a long one, and must all be comprised within one page. "'Right, darling?' she asked, also very pale in a timid voice. "'It's nothing very bad. Oh, darling, what is it?' He got up and walked to the window silently. "'What do you say, darling?' he asked suddenly after a little pause. She repeated her question. "'No, darling, nothing but—' "'But possibly we may have to leave this. You can read it, darling.' He laid the letter gently on the tablecloth beside her, and she picked it up and read. "'My dear Charlie, the old soldier means business. I think you must go up to London, but be sure to meet me tomorrow at Hatherton. Say the commercial hotel at four o'clock p.m. Your affectionate brother, Harry Fairfield.' "'Who does he mean by the old soldier?' asked Alice, very much frightened after a silence. "'One of those damned people who are plaguing me,' said Charles, who had returned to the window and answered, still looking out. "'And what is his real name, darling?' I'm ashamed to say that Harry knows ten times as well as I all about my affairs. I pay interest through his hands, and he watches those people's movements. He's a rough diamond, but he has been very kind, and you see his note. Where is it? Oh, thanks. I must be off in an hour to meet the coach of the pied horse.' "'Let me go up, darling, and help you to pack. I know where all your things are,' said poor little Alice, who looked as if she was going to faint. "'Thank you, darling. You're such a good little creature, and never think of yourself. Never. Never half enough.' His hands were on her shoulders, and he was looking in her face with sad, strange eyes as he said this, slowly, like a man spelling out an inscription. I wish—I wish a thousand things. God knows how heavy my heart is. If you cared for yourself, Alice, like other women, or that I weren't a fool, but—but you, poor little thing, it was such a venture, such a sea, such a crazy boat to sail in.' "'I would not give up my rye, my darling, my husband, my handsome, clever noble rye. I'd lose a thousand lives if I had them, one by one, for you, Charlie. And oh, if you left me, I should die.' Poor little thing, he said, drawing her to him with a trembling strain, and in his eyes, unseen by her, tears were standing. "'If you leave this, won't you take me, Charlie? Won't you let me go wherever you go? And oh, if they take my man, I'm to go with you, Charlie, promise that. And oh, my darling, you're not sorry you married your poor little ellie?' "'Come, darling, come up. You shall hear from me in a day or two, or see me. This will blow over, as so many other troubles have done,' he said, kissing her fondly. And now began the short fuss and confusion of a packing on brief notice, while Tom harnessed the horse and put him to the dog cart. And the moment having arrived, down came Charles Fairfield, and Tom swung his portmanteau into its place. And poor little Ellis was there with, as old Dolcebela said, her poor little face all cried, to have a last look and a last word, her tiny feet on the big, unequal paving stones and her eyes following Charlie's face, as he stepped up and arranged his rugged coat on the seat, and then jumped down for the last hug, and the wild, close, hurried whisperings, last words of love and cheer from laden hearts and pale smiles, and the last—really the last—look. And the dog cart and Tom and the portmanteau and Charlie, and the sun's blessed light, disappear together through the old gateway under the wide stone arch with tufted ivy and careless sparrows. And little Ellis stands alone on the pavement for a moment, and runs out to have one last wild look at the disappearing trap under the old trees, as it rattled swiftly down to the narrow road of Carwell Valley. It vanished. It was gone. The tinkling of the wheels was heard no more. The parting for the present was quite over, and poor little Ellis turned at last and threw her arms about the neck of kind old Dolce Bella, who had held her when a baby in her arms in the little room at Wyvern Vicarage, and saw her now a young wife wooed and married and all in the beauty and the sorrows of life. And the light air of autumn rustled in the foliage above her in a withered leaf or two fell from the sunlit summits to the shadow at her feet, and the old woman's kind eyes filled with tears. And she whispered homely comfort and told her she would have him back again in a day or two, and not to take on so. And with her gentle hand as she embraced her patted her on the shoulder as she used to in other years, that seemed like yesterday, to comfort her in nursery troubles. But our sorrows outgrow their simple consolations and turn us in their gigantic maturity to the sympathy and wisdom that is sublime and eternal. Days passed away and a precious note from Charlie came. It told her where to write to him in London. And very little more. The hasty scrawl added, indeed emphatically, that she was to tell his address to no one. So she shut it up in the drawer of the old-fashioned dressing table, the key of which she always kept with her. Other days passed. The hour was dull at Carwell Grange for Alice. But things moved on in their dull routine without event or alarm. Old Mildred Tarnley was sour and hard as of old, and up to a certain time, neither darker nor brighter than customary. Upon a day, however, there came a shadow and a fear upon her. Two or three times on that day and the next was Mrs. Tarnley gliding, when old Dalsabella with her mistress was in the garden, about Alice's bedroom noiselessly as a shadow. The little girl downstairs did not know where she was. It was known but to herself and what she was about. Coming down those dark stairs and going up she went to Tiptoe and looked black and stern as if she was laying out a corpse upstairs. Accidentally, old Dalsabella, coming into the room on a message from the garden, surprised Lean straight, Mrs. Tarnley, feloniously trying to turn a key from a bunch in her hand in the lock of the dressing table drawer. Oh, la, Mrs. Tarnley! cried old Dalsabella very much startled. The two women stood perfectly still, staring at one another. Each looked scared. Stiff Mildred Tarnley, without, I think, being the least aware of it, dropped a stiff, short curtsy, and for some seconds more the silence continued. What be! you are doing here, Mrs. Tarnley. At length demanded Dalsabella Crane. No occasion to tell you, replied Mildred intrepidly. Another one that owed her as little as I'm like ever to do would tell your young mistress. But I don't want to break her heart. What for should I? There's dark stories enough about the Grange without no one hanging their selves in their garters. What I want is where to direct a letter to Master Charles, that's all. I can't say I'm sure, said old Dalsabella. She got a letter from him on Thursday last. To be in it no doubt, and that I take it, ma'am, is in this drawer, for she used not to lock it. And I expect you, if you love your young mistress, to help me get at it, said Mrs. Tarnley firmly. Lord, Mrs. Tarnley, ma'am, me to pick a lock, ma'am. I die first. You can't mean it. I knowed you as a fool. I shouldn't have said nothing to you about it, said Mildred with sharp disdain. Look, I never was so frightened in my life, responded Dalsabella. You'll be more so, ma'am. I wash my hands on you, said Mrs. Tarnley, with a furious look and a sharp little stamp on the floor. I thought of nothing but your mistress's good, and if you teller I was here, I'll explain all, for I won't lie under no surmises, and I think it will be the death of her. Oh, this place, this awful place! I never was so frightened in my days, said Dalsabella, looking very white. She's in the garden now, I do suppose, said Mildred, and if you mean to teller what I was about, taint a pin's head to me, but I'll go out and tell her myself, and even if she lives through it she'll never hold up her head more, and that's all yull here from Mildred Tarnley. Oh, dear, dear, dear, my heart how it goes! Come, come, woman, you're nothing so squeamish, I dare say. Well, said Dalsabella, it may be as you say, ma'am, and I'll say this, Justice, I hadn't missed to the value of a penny-piece since we come here, but if you promise me, only you won't come up here no more while we're out, Mrs. Tarnley, I won't see nothing about it. That settles it. Keep your word, Mrs. Crane, and I'll keep mine. I'll burn my fingers no more in other people's messes. And she shook the key with a considerable jingle of the whole bunch from the keyhole, and popped it grimly into her pocket. Your servant, Mrs. Crane. Yours, Mrs. Tarnley, ma'am, replied Dalsabella, and the interview which had commenced so bruskly ended with ceremony as Mildred Tarnley withdrew. That old woman was in a sort of fever that afternoon and the next day, and her temper, Lily Dogger thought, grew more and more savage as night approached. She had in her pocket a friendly, fulsome little letter which had reached her through the post, announcing an arrival for the night that was now approaching. The coach that changed horses at the Pied Horse was due there at half past eleven p.m., but might not be there till twelve. And then there was a long drive to Carwell Grange. I wore out with them. I'm tired to death. I wore off my feet with them. I walked like a horse. To be well for Mildred Tarnley, I'm thinking she was under the mould with a stone at her head, and shuddered them all.