CHAPTER LXV.
the serpent's smile.
here came on a sudden a great quiet over Dorracleugh—the quiet of death.
There was no longer any doubt, all the country round, as to the fact that the old baronet was dead. Richard Marston had placed at all the gates notices to the effect that the funeral would not take place for a week, at soonest—that no day had yet been fixed for it, and that early notice should be given.
The slight fuss that had prevailed within doors, for the greater part of a day, had now quite subsided—and, quiet as it always was, Dorracleugh was now more silent and stirless than ever.
I could venture now to extend my walks anywhere about the place, without the risk of meeting any stranger.
If there is a melancholy there is also something sublime and consolatory in the character of the scenery that surrounds it. Every one has felt the influence of lofty mountains near. This region is all beautiful; but the very spirit of solitude and grandeur is over it.
I was just consulting with my maid about some simple provisional mourning, for which I was about to despatch her to the town, when our conference was arrested by the appearance of Richard Marston before the window.
I had my things on, for I thought it not impossible he might arrive earlier than he had the day before.
I told my maid to come again by-and-by; and I went out to meet him.
Well, we were now walking on the wild path, along the steep side of the cleugh, towards the lake. What kind of conversation is this going to be? His voice and manner are very gentle—but he looks pale and stern, like a man going into a battle. The signs are very slight, but dreadful. Oh! that the next half-hour was over! What am I about to hear?
We walked on for a time in silence.
The first thing he said was:
"You are to stay here at Dorracleugh—you must not go—but I'm afraid you will be vexed with me."
Then we advanced about twenty steps; we were walking slowly, and not a word was spoken during that time.
He began again:
"Though, after all, it need not make any real difference. There is no will, Ethel; the vicar can tell you that; he had the key, and has made search—no will; and you are left unprovided for—but that shan't affect you. I am heir-at-law, and nearest-of-kin. You know what that means. Everything he possessed, land or money, comes to me. But—I've put my foot into it; it is too late regretting. I can't marry."
There was an interval of silence—he was looking in my face.
"There! the murder's out. I knew you would be awfully vexed. So am I—miserable—but I can't. That is, perhaps, for many years."
There was another silence. I could no more have spoken than I could, by an effort of my will, have lifted the mountain at the other side of the lake from its foundation.
Perhaps he misinterpreted my silence.
"I ought to have been more frank with you, Ethel—I blame myself very much, I assure you. Can't you guess? Well, I was an awful fool—I'll tell you everything. I feel that I ought to have done so, long ago; but you know, one can't always make up one's mind to be quite frank, and tell a painful story. I am married. In an evil hour, I married a woman in every way unsuited to me—pity me. In a transitory illusion, I sacrificed my life—and, what is dearer, my love. I have not so much as seen her for years, and I am told she is not likely to live long. In the meantime I am yours only—yours entirely and irrevocably, your own. I can offer you safety here, and happiness, my own boundless devotion and adoration, an asylum here, and all the authority and rights of a wife. Ethel—dearest—you won't leave me?"
I looked up in his face, scared—a sudden look, quite unexpected. I saw a cunning, selfish face gloating down on me, with a gross, confident, wicked simper.
That odious smile vanished, his eye shrank; he looked detected or disconcerted for a moment, but he rallied.
"I say, I look on myself, in the sight of heaven, as married to you. You have pledged yourself to me by every vow that can tie woman to man; you have sworn that no obstacle shall keep us apart. That oath was not without a meaning, and you know it wasn't; and, by heaven! you shan't break my heart for nothing! Come, Ethel, be a girl of sense—don't you see we are controlled by fate? Look at the circumstances. Where's the good in quarrelling with me? Don't you see the position I'm placed in, about that miserable evidence? Don't you see that I am able and anxious to do everything for you? Could a girl in your situation do a better or a wiser thing than unite her interests with mine, indissolubly? For God's sake, where's the use of making me desperate? What do you want to drive me to? Why should you insist on making me your enemy? How do you think it's all to end?"
Could I have dreamed that he could ever have looked at me with such a countenance, and spoken to me in such a tone? I felt myself growing colder and colder; I could not move my eyes from him. His image seemed to swim before me; his harsh, frightful tones grow confused. My hands were to my temples, I could not speak; my answer was one piteous scream.
I found myself hurrying along the wild path, towards the house, with hardly a clear recollection, without one clear thought. I don't know whether he tried to detain me, or began to follow me. I remember, at the hall-door, from habit, going up a step or two, in great excitement—we act so nearly mechanically! A kind of horror seized me at sight of the half-open door. I turned and hurried down the avenue.
It was not until I had reached the "George and Dragon"—at the sleepiest hour, luckily, of the tranquil little town of Golden Friars—that I made a first effectual effort to collect my thoughts.
I was simply a fugitive. To return to Dorracleugh, where Richard Marston was now master, was out of the question. I was in a mood to accept all ill news as certain. It never entered my mind that he had intended to deceive me with respect to Sir Harry's will. Neither had he as to my actually unprovided state. Here then I stood a fugitive.
I walked up to Mr. Turnbull, the host of the "George and Dragon," whom I saw at the inn-door, and having heard his brief but genuine condolences, without half knowing what he was saying, I ordered a carriage to bring me to the railway station; and while I was waiting I wrote a note in the quiet little room, with a window looking across the lake, to the good vicar.
Mr. Turnbull was one of those heavy, comfortable persons who are willing to take everybody's business and reasons for granted. He therefore bored me with no surmises as to the reasons of my solitary excursion at so oddly chosen a time.
I think, now, that my wiser course would have been to go to the vicar, and explaining generally my objections to remaining at Dorracleugh, to have asked frankly for permission to place myself under his care until the arrival of Mr. Blount.
There were fifty other things I ought to have thought of, though I only wonder, considering the state in which my mind was at the moment, that I was able to write so coherently as I did to the vicar. I had my purse with me, containing fifty pounds, which poor Sir Harry had given me just before he left Dorracleugh. With no more than this, which I had fortunately brought down with me to the drawing-room, for the purpose of giving my maid a bank-note to take to the town to pay for my intended purchases, I was starting on my journey to London! Without luggage, or servant, or companion, or plan of any kind—inspired by the one instinct, to get as rapidly as possible out of sight and reach of Dorracleugh, and to earn my bread by my own exertions.
