Lucretia — Complete

  CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADES ON THE DIAL

  The following morning was indeed eventful to the family at Laughton; andas if conscious of what it brought forth, it rose dreary and sunless.One heavy mist covered all the landscape, and a raw, drizzling rain fellpattering through the yellow leaves.

  Madame Dalibard, pleading her infirmities, rarely left her room beforenoon, and Varney professed himself very irregular in his hours ofrising; the breakfast, therefore, afforded no social assembly to thefamily, but each took that meal in the solitude of his or her ownchamber. Percival, in whom all habits partook of the healthfulness andsimplicity of his character, rose habitually early, and that day, inspite of the weather, walked forth betimes to meet the person chargedwith the letters from the post. He had done so for the last three orfour days, impatient to hear from his mother, and calculating that itwas full time to receive the expected answer to his confession and hisprayer. He met the messenger at the bottom of the park, not far fromGuy's Oak. This day he was not disappointed. The letter-bag containedthree letters for himself,--two with the foreign postmark, the third inArdworth's hand. It contained also a letter for Madame Dalibard, and twofor Varney.

  Leaving the messenger to take these last to the Hall, Percival, with hisown prizes, plunged into the hollow of the glen before him, and, seatinghimself at the foot of Guy's Oak, through the vast branches of which therain scarcely came, and only in single, mournful drops, he opened firstthe letter in his mother's hand, and read as follows:--

  MY DEAR, DEAR SON,--How can I express to you the alarm your letter hasgiven to me! So these, then, are the new relations you have discovered!I fondly imagined that you were alluding to some of my own family, andconjecturing who, amongst my many cousins, could have so captivatedyour attention. These the new relations,--Lucretia Dalibard, HelenMainwaring! Percival, do you not know ---- No, you cannot know thatHelen Mainwaring is the daughter of a disgraced man, of one who (morethan suspected of fraud in the bank in which he was a partner) left hiscountry, condemned even by his own father. If you doubt this, you havebut to inquire at ----, not ten miles from Laughton, where the elderMainwaring resided. Ask there what became of William Mainwaring. AndLucretia, you do not know that the dying prayer of her uncle, Sir MilesSt. John, was that she might never enter the house he bequeathed toyour father. Not till after my poor Charles's death did I know the exactcause for Sir Miles's displeasure, though confident it was just; butthen amongst his papers I found the ungrateful letter which betrayedthoughts so dark and passions so unwomanly that I blushed for my sexto read it. Could it be possible that that poor old man's prayers wereunheeded, that that treacherous step could ever cross your threshold,that that cruel eye, which read with such barbarous joy the ravages ofdeath on a benefactor's face, could rest on the hearth by which yourfrank, truthful countenance has so often smiled away my tears, I shouldfeel indeed as if a thunder-cloud hung over the roof. No, if you marrythe niece, the aunt must be banished from your house. Good heavens! andit is the daughter of William Mainwaring, the niece and ward of LucretiaDalibard, to whom you have given your faithful affection, whom yousingle from the world as your wife! Oh, my son,--my beloved, my solesurviving child,--do not think that I blame you, that my heart doesnot bleed while I write thus; but I implore you on my knees to pause atleast, to suspend this intercourse till I myself can reach England. Andwhat then? Why, then, Percival, I promise, on my part, that I will seeyour Helen with unprejudiced eyes, that I will put away from me, asfar as possible, all visions of disappointed pride,--the remembrance offaults not her own,--and if she be as you say and think, I will take herto my heart and call her 'Daughter.' Are you satisfied? If so, come tome,--come at once, and take comfort from your mother's lip. How I longto be with you while you read this; how I tremble at the pain I sorudely give you! But my poor sister still chains me here, I dare notleave her, lest I should lose her last sigh. Come then, come; we willconsole each other.

  Your fond (how fond!) and sorrowing mother,

  MARY ST. JOHN. SORRENTO, October 3, 1831.

  P.S.--You see by this address that we have left Pisa for this place,recommended by our physician; hence an unhappy delay of some days in myreply. Ah, Percival, how sleepless will be my pillow till I hear fromyou!

  Long, very long, was it before St. John, mute and overwhelmed with thesudden shock of his anguish, opened his other letters. The first wasfrom Captain Greville.

  What trap have you fallen into, foolish boy? That you would get intosome silly scrape or another, was natural enough. But a scrape for life,sir,--that is serious! But--God bless you for your candour, my Percival;you have written to us in time--you are old-fashioned enough to thinkthat a mother's consent is necessary to a young man's union; and youhave left it in our power to save you yet. It is not every boyish fancythat proves to be true love. But enough of this preaching; I shalldo better than write scolding letters,--I shall come and scold you inperson. My servant is at this very moment packing my portmanteau, thelaquais-de-place is gone to Naples for my passport. Almost as soon asyou receive this I shall be with you; and if I am a day or two laterthan the mail, be patient: do not commit yourself further. Break yourheart if you please, but don't implicate your honour. I shall come atonce to Curzon Street. Adieu! H. GREVILLE.

  Ardworth's letter was shorter than the others,--fortunately so, forotherwise it had been unread:--

  If I do not come to you myself the day after you receive this, dearPercival,--which, indeed, is most probable,--I shall send you my proxy,in one whom, for my sake, I know that you will kindly welcome. He willundertake my task, and clear up all the mysteries with which, I trust,my correspondence has thoroughly bewildered your lively imagination.Yours ever, JOHN ARDWORTH. GRAY'S INN.

  Little indeed did Percival's imagination busy itself with the mysteriesof Ardworth's correspondence. His mind scarcely took in the sense of thewords over which his eye mechanically wandered.

  And the letter which narrated the visit of Madame Dalibard to thehouse thus solemnly interdicted to her step was on its way to hismother,--nay, by this time would almost have reached her! Greville wason the road,--nay, as his tutor's letter had been forwarded from London,might perhaps be in Curzon Street that day. How desirable to see himbefore he could reach Laughton, to prepare him for Madame Dalibard'svisit, for Helen's illness, explain the position in which he wasinvolved, and conciliate the old soldier's rough, kind heart to his loveand his distress.

  He did not dread the meeting with Greville,--he yearned for it. Heneeded an adviser, a confidant, a friend. To dismiss abruptly his guestsfrom his house,--impossible; to abandon Helen because of her father'scrime or her aunt's fault (whatever that last might be, and no cleardetail of it was given),--that never entered his thoughts! Pure andunsullied, the starry face of Helen shone the holier for the cloudaround it. An inexpressible and chivalrous compassion mingled with hislove and confirmed his faith. She, poor child, to suffer for the deedsof others,--no. What availed his power as man, and dignity as gentleman,if they could not wrap in their own shelter the one by whom such shelterwas now doubly needed? Thus, amidst all his emotions, firm and resolvedat least on one point, and beginning already to recover the hope of hissanguine nature, from his reliance on his mother's love, on the promisesthat softened her disclosures and warnings, and on his convictionthat Helen had only to be seen for every scruple to give way, Percivalwandered back towards the house, and coming abruptly on the terrace, heencountered Varney, who was leaning motionless against the balustrades,with an open letter in his hand. Varney was deadly pale, and there wasthe trace of some recent and gloomy agitation in the relaxed musclesof his cheeks, usually so firmly rounded. But Percival did not heed hisappearance as he took him gravely by the arm, and leading him into thegarden, said, after a painful pause,--

  "Varney, I am about to ask you two questions, which your closeconnection with Madame Dalibard may enable you to answer, but in which,from obvious motives, I must demand the strictest confidence. You willnot hint to her or to Helen w
hat I am about to say?"

  Varney stared uneasily on Percival's serious countenance, and gave thepromise required.

  "First, then, for what offence was Madame Dalibard expelled her uncle'shouse,--this house of Laughton?

  "Secondly, what is the crime with which Mr. Mainwaring, Helen's father,is charged?"

  "With regard to the first," said Varney, recovering his composure, "Ithought I had already told you that Sir Miles was a proud man, and thatin consequence of discovering a girlish flirtation between his nieceLucretia (now Madame Dalibard) and Mainwaring, who afterwards jilted herfor Helen's mother, he altered his will; 'expelled her his house' is tooharsh a phrase. This is all I know. With regard to the second question,no crime was ever brought home to William Mainwaring; he was suspectedof dealing improperly with the funds of the bank, and he repaid thealleged deficit by the sacrifice of all he possessed."

  "This is the truth?" exclaimed Percival, joyfully.

  "The plain truth, I believe; but why these questions at this moment? Ah,you too, I see, have had letters,--I understand. Lady Mary gives thesereasons for withholding her consent."

  "Her consent is not withheld," answered Percival; "but shall I own it?Remember, I have your promise not to wound and offend Madame Dalibard bythe disclosure: my mother does refer to the subjects I have alluded to,and Captain Greville, my old friend and tutor, is on his way to England;perhaps to-morrow he may arrive at Laughton."

  "Ha!" said Varney, startled, "to-morrow! And what sort of a man is thisCaptain Greville?"

  "The best man possible for such a case as mine,--kind-hearted, yetcool, sagacious; the finest observer, the quickest judge ofcharacter,--nothing escapes him. Oh, one interview will suffice to showhim all Helen's innocent and matchless excellence."

  "To-morrow! this man comes to-morrow!"

  "All that I fear is,--for he is rather rough and blunt in hismanner,--all that I fear is his first surprise, and, dare I saydispleasure, at seeing this poor Madame Dalibard, whose faults, I fear,were graver than you suppose, at the house from which her uncle--towhom, indeed, I owe this inheritance--"

  "I see, I see!" interrupted Varney, quickly. "And Madame Dalibard is themost susceptible of women,--so well-born and so poor, so gifted and sohelpless; it is natural. Can you not write, and put off this CaptainGreville for a few days,--until, indeed, I can find some excuse forterminating our visit?"

  "But my letter may be hardly in time to reach him; he may be in townto-day."

  "Go then to town at once; you can be back late at night, or at leastto-morrow. Anything better than wounding the pride of a woman on whom,after all, you must depend for free and open intercourse with Helen."

  "That is exactly what I thought of; but what excuse--"

  "Excuse,--a thousand! Every man coming of age into such a property hasbusiness with his lawyers. Or why not say simply that you want to meeta friend of yours who has just left your mother in Italy? In short, anyexcuse suffices, and none can be offensive."

  "I will order my carriage instantly."

  "Right!" exclaimed Varney; and his eye followed the receding form ofPercival with a mixture of fierce exultation and anxious fear. Then,turning towards the window of the turret-chamber in which MadameDalibard reposed, and seeing it still closed, he muttered an impatientoath; but even while he did so, the shutters were slowly opened, and afootman, stepping from the porch, approached Varney with a message thatMadame Dalibard would see him in five minutes, if he would then have thegoodness to ascend to her room.

  Before that time was well expired, Varney was in the chamber. MadameDalibard was up and in her chair; and the unwonted joy which hercountenance evinced was in strong contrast with the sombre shade uponher son-in-law's brow, and the nervous quiver of his lip.

  "Gabriel," she said, as he drew near to her, "my son is found!"

  "I know it," he answered petulantly. "You! From whom?"

  "From Grabman."

  "And I from a still better authority,--from Walter Ardworth himself. Helives; he will restore my child!" She extended a letter while she spoke.He, in return, gave her, not that still crumpled in his hand, but onewhich he drew from his breast. These letters severally occupied both,begun and finished almost in the same moment.

  That from Grabman ran thus:--

  DEAR JASON,--Toss up your hat and cry 'hip, hip!' At last, from personto person, I have tracked the lost Vincent Braddell. He lives still! Wecan maintain his identity in any court of law. Scarce in time for thepost, I have not a moment for further particulars. I shall employ thenext two days in reducing all the evidence to a regular digest, which Iwill despatch to you. Meanwhile, prepare, as soon as may be, to putme in possession of my fee,--5000 pounds; and my expedition meritssomething more. Yours, NICHOLAS GRABMAN.

  The letter from Ardworth was no less positive:--

  MADAM,--In obedience to the commands of a dying friend, I took chargeof his infant and concealed its existence from his mother,--yourself.On returning to England, I need not say that I was not unmindful of mytrust. Your son lives; and after mature reflection I have resolved torestore him to your arms. In this I have been decided by what I haveheard, from one whom I can trust, of your altered habits, your decorouslife, your melancholy infirmities, and the generous protection you havegiven to the orphan of my poor cousin Susan, my old friend Mainwaring.Alfred Braddell himself, if it be permitted to him to look down and readmy motives, will pardon me, I venture to feel assured, this departurefrom his injunctions. Whatever the faults which displeased him, theyhave been amply chastised. And your son, grown to man, can no longer beendangered by example, in tending the couch, or soothing the repentanceof his mother.

  These words are severe; but you will pardon them in him who gives youback your child. I shall venture to wait on you in person, with suchproofs as may satisfy you as to the identity of your son. I count onarriving at Laughton to-morrow. Meanwhile, I simply sign myself bya name in which you will recognize the kinsman to one branch of yourfamily, and the friend of your dead husband. J. WALTER ARDWORTH.

  CRAVEN HOTEL, October, 1831.

  "Well, and are you not rejoiced?" said Lucretia, gazing surprised onVarney's sullen and unsympathizing face.

  "No! because time presses; because, even while discovering your son,you may fail in securing his heritage; because, in the midst of yourtriumph, I see Newgate opening to myself. Look you, I too have had mynews,--less pleasing than yours. This Stubmore (curse him!) writes meword that he shall certainly be in town next month at farthest, and thathe meditates, immediately on his arrival, transferring the legacy fromthe Bank of England to an excellent mortgage of which he has heard. Wereit not for this scheme of ours, nothing would be left for me but flightand exile."

  "A month,--that is a long time. Do you think, now that my son is found,and that son like John Ardworth (for there can be no doubt that mysurmise was right), with genius to make station the pedestal tothe power I dreamed of in my youth, but which my sex forbade me toattain,--do you think I will keep him a month from his inheritance?Before the month is out, you shall replace what you have taken, andbuy your trustee's silence, if need be, either from the sums you haveinsured, or from the rents of Laughton."

  "Lucretia," said Varney, whose fresh colours had grown livid, "what isto be done must be done at once. Percival St. John has heard from hismother. Attend." And Varney rapidly related the questions St. John hadput to him, the dreaded arrival of Captain Greville, the danger ofso keen an observer, the necessity, at all events, of abridging theirvisit, the urgency of hastening the catastrophe to its close.

  Lucretia listened in ominous and steadfast silence.

  "But," she said at last, "you have persuaded St. John to give this manthe meeting in London,--to put off his visit for the time. St. John willreturn to us to-morrow. Well, and if he finds his Helen is no more! Twonights ago I, for the first time, mingled in the morning draught thatwhich has no antidote and no cure. This night two drops more, and St.John will return to find that Death is in the house
before him. Andthen for himself,--the sole remaining barrier between my son and thisinheritance,--for himself, why, grief sometimes kills suddenly; andthere be drugs whose effect simulates the death-stroke of grief."

  "Yet, yet, this rapidity, if necessary, is perilous. Nothing in Helen'sstate forbodes sudden death by natural means. The strangeness of twodeaths, both so young; Greville in England, if not here,--hastening downto examine, to inquire. With such prepossessions against you, there mustbe an inquest."

  "Well, and what can be discovered? It was I who shrank before,--it isI who now urge despatch. I feel as in my proper home in these halls. Iwould not leave them again but to my grave. I stand on the hearth of myyouth; I fight for my rights and my son's! Perish those who oppose me!"

  A fell energy and power were in the aspect of the murderess as she thusspoke; and while her determination awed the inferior villany of Varney,it served somewhat to mitigate his fears.

  As in more detail they began to arrange their execrable plans, Percival,while the horses were being harnessed to take him to the nearestpost-town, sought Helen, and found her in the little chamber whichhe had described and appropriated as her own, when his fond fancy hadsketched the fair outline of the future.

  This room had been originally fitted up for the private devotions of theRoman Catholic wife of an ancestor in the reign of Charles II; and ina recess, half veiled by a curtain, there still stood that holy symbolwhich, whether Protestant or Roman Catholic, no one sincerely penetratedwith the solemn pathos of sacred history can behold unmoved,--the Crossof the Divine Agony. Before this holy symbol Helen stood in earnestreverence. She did not kneel (for the forms of the religion in whichshe had been reared were opposed to that posture of worship before thegraven image), but you could see in that countenance, eloquent at oncewith the enthusiasm and the meekness of piety, that the soul was filledwith the memories and the hopes which, age after age, have consoled thesufferer and inspired the martyr. The soul knelt to the idea, if theknee bowed not to the image, embracing the tender grandeur of thesacrifice and the vast inheritance opened to faith in the redemption.

  The young man held his breath while he gazed. He was moved, and he wasawed. Slowly Helen turned towards him, and, smiling sweetly, held outto him her hand. They seated themselves in silence in the depth of theoverhanging casement; and the mournful character of the scene without,where dimly, through the misty rains, gloomed the dark foliage of thecedars, made them insensibly draw closer to each other in the instinctof love when the world frowns around it. Percival wanted the courage tosay that he had come to take farewell, though but for a day, and Helenspoke first.

  "I cannot guess why it is, Percival, but I am startled at the change Ifeel in myself--no, not in health, dear Percival; I mean in mind--duringthe last few months,--since, indeed, we have known each other. Iremember so well the morning in which my aunt's letter arrived at thedear vicarage. We were returning from the village fair, and my goodguardian was smiling at my notions of the world. I was then so giddyand light and thoughtless, everything presented itself to me in suchgay colours, I scarcely believed in sorrow. And now I feel as if I wereawakened to a truer sense of nature,--of the ends of our being here; Iseem to know that life is a grave and solemn thing. Yet I am not lesshappy, Percival. No, I think rather that I knew not true happiness tillI knew you. I have read somewhere that the slave is gay in his holidayfrom toil; if you free him, if you educate him, the gayety vanishes,and he cares no more for the dance under the palm-tree. But is he lesshappy? So it is with me!"

  "My sweet Helen, I would rather have one gay smile of old, the arch,careless laugh which came so naturally from those rosy lips, than hearyou talk of happiness with that quiver in your voice,--those tears inyour eyes."

  "Yet gayety," said Helen, thoughtfully, and in the strain of her pure,truthful poetry of soul, "is only the light impression of the presentmoment,--the play of the mere spirits; and happiness seems a forethoughtof the future, spreading on, far and broad, over all time and space."

  "And you live, then, in the future at last; you have no misgivings now,my Helen? Well, that comforts me. Say it, Helen,--say the future will beours!"

  "It will, it will,--forever and forever," said Helen, earnestly; and hereyes involuntarily rested on the Cross.

  In his younger spirit and less imaginative nature Percival did notcomprehend the depth of sadness implied in Helen's answer; taking itliterally, he felt as if a load were lifted from his heart, and kissingwith rapture the hand he held, he exclaimed: "Yes, this shall soon, oh,soon be mine! I fear nothing while you hope. You cannot guess how thosewords have cheered me; for I am leaving you, though but for a few hours,and I shall repeat those words, for they will ring in my ear, in myheart, till we meet again."

  "Leaving me!" said Helen, turning pale, and her clasp on his handtightening. Poor child, she felt mysteriously a sentiment of protectionin his presence.

  "But at most for a day. My old tutor, of whom we have so oftenconversed, is on his way to England,--perhaps even now in London. He hassome wrong impressions against your aunt; his manner is blunt and rough.It is necessary that I should see him before he comes hither,--you knowhow susceptible is your aunt's pride,--just to prepare him for meetingher. You understand?"

  "What impressions against my aunt? Does he even know her?" asked Helen.And if such a sentiment as suspicion could cross that candid innocenceof mind, that sentiment towards this stern relation whose arms had neverembraced her, whose lips had never spoken of the past, whose history wasas a sealed volume, disturbed and disquieted her.

  "It is because he has never known her that he does her wrong. Some oldstory of her indiscretion as a girl, of her uncle's displeasure,--whatmatters now?" said Percival, shrinking sensitively from one disclosurethat might wound Helen in her kinswoman. "Meanwhile, dearest, you willbe prudent,--you will avoid this damp air, and keep quietly at home, andamuse yourself, sweet fancier of the future, in planning how to improvethese old halls when they and their unworthy master are your own. Godbless you, God guard you, Helen!"

  He rose, and with that loyal chivalry of love which felt respect themore for the careless guardianship to which his Helen was intrusted, herefrained from that parting kiss which their pure courtship warranted,for which his lip yearned. But as he lingered, an irresistible impulsemoved Helen's heart. Mechanically she opened her arms, and her head sankupon his shoulder. In that embrace they remained some moments silent,and an angel might unreprovingly have heard their hearts beat throughthe stillness.

  At length Percival tore himself from those arms which relaxed theirimploring hold reluctantly; she heard his hurried step descend thestairs, and in a moment more the roll of the wheels in the courtwithout; a dreary sense, as of some utter desertion, some everlastingbereavement, chilled and appalled her. She stood motionless, as ifturned to stone, on the floor; suddenly the touch of something warm onher hand, a plaining whine, awoke her attention; Percival's favouritedog missed his master, and had slunk for refuge to her. The dreadsentiment of loneliness vanished in that humble companionship; andseating herself on the ground, she took the dog in her arms, and bendingover it, wept in silence.