He was at once stupefied and excited by the drink he had swallowed, and lost in an intoxication of rage scarcely less confusing. The first words of the tale to which he was thus entreated to listen called up in him a passion of vindictive grief and misery more potent still. He listened with muttered curses mingling with his sobs, looking at the poor faded picture, the simpering image of his daughter who was dead—of his daughter who was murdered—of Amanda, whom he had loved better than anything in the world, and for whom he could take a terrible revenge on the people whom he hated worse than anything in the world. He sat, and sobbed, and swore, and listened. No suspicion had ever crossed his mind before—now he felt that this was not suspicion, but certainty. That girl had done it—that girl who loved Frederick—and by whom vengeance dire and dreadful could be taken upon Frederick and Frederick’s family, upon all who had slighted his child and slighted him. I cannot describe the mixture of real emotion and fictitious excitement, of passionate grief and injured self-love, of fierce desire for justice and wild vindictive personal rage which overwhelmed him. It was terrible, and it was horrible. Jane, frightened at herself, frightened at him, was not allowed to leave the place where he was; he stayed at Frederick’s house to mature his vengeance upon Frederick, and he seized upon his witness who was all-important to him, with a force entirely beyond her feeble powers of resistance. Jane, poor creature, not meaning so much harm to others as good to herself, was there and then taken out of her own hands. The harm, too terrible to think of, too fatal to forecast, was no longer problematical. She had set the storm a-going, but only heaven knew where it would end.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE THUNDERBOLT.
Longueville Hall, the principal residence of Sir Alexis Longueville, Bart., is one of the first houses of its class in the south of England. It is not of the first magnitude, but it is of the first excellence. It has always been the home of wealth—nothing about it has ever fallen into decay. The façade is pure Italian, and has been ascribed to a very great name indeed in architecture; but in the east wing, which is the oldest part of the house, there are traces (as the “Handbook” to the county will tell you) of much older work. The kitchen is a great vaulted Gothic chamber, whispering recollections of Wolsey, and guests archiepiscopal at the least, and the building has been carefully toned up or down to these relics. You can see at a glance that nothing has ever been neglected or forsaken at Longueville Hall. The Longuevilles had always been a very proud family, though Sir Alexis, by dint of being of the younger branch—not a younger son, but, what is worse, a younger nephew—had learned to veil his native haughtiness in a semblance of theoretical equality; but even he had all the pride of the Longuevilles, though he knew better than to exhibit it where there was no need of such vanities. And to all the Longuevilles their house had always been the first of houses, the one sacred shrine to which no evil was permitted to approach. They had worshipped it with a certain superstition, and the consequence was that few houses in such perfect preservation were to be found in England. Almost all that remained for Sir Alexis to do when he came into possession was the remodelling of the gardens, and the rearrangement of the picture gallery—not that either was in bad order, indeed, but that, as a connoisseur and amateur flower-gardener of the first water, it was for him one of the first necessities of life to conform these sovereign luxuries to his own fancy. Sir Alexis was luxurious in everything. He was rich, and had few claims upon him beyond those of his own tastes, and accordingly he had spared nothing in the gratification of those tastes. The house accordingly was the pride of the county, the standard of grace and of art for the whole district. “Ah, you should see Longueville,” the rural squires said, when they were told of Chatsworth or of Trentham; and when a newly-married gentleman of the district remodelled his old rooms for his bride’s arrival, furtive recollections of the reigning house were ever visible in his furniture and flower-beds. Simplicity itself came into fashion through the example of Sir Alexis; and, though the magnificence was less easy to be copied, the attempt was made out with still more eager servility. Every new detail in the great house was described and dwelt upon with unfailing interest throughout the neighbourhood, and when it was known that Sir Alexis was about to introduce that crowning novelty, that final luxury, a young and beautiful wife, the interest rose to a climax. This was a particular in which few of the rural great people could copy, in which most of them had preceded, the baronet. But still in hall, and park, and parsonage throughout the country the new Lady Longueville was looked for with almost enthusiasm. People were honestly glad that the old house was not to die out. Whatever advances democratical feeling may have made, this pleasure in the continuance of a family is, I believe, universal in England. It gave an almost personal gratification to people who had no connexion whatever with the Longuevilles—such a gratification as bystanders have in seeing an apparently failing cause or combatant pick up strength, and gain at the very end an unhoped-for triumph.
There were all kinds of rejoicings on the estate itself, and it was under triumphal arches, with ringing of bells, and sound of music, with a bodyguard of mounted tenantry, and shouts that rent the sky, that Innocent was conducted to her future home. I do not know if she understood the full meaning of such a demonstration, or took in, in the smallest degree (I do not believe it), the elevating sense of local, almost national importance, the quasi-sovereignty which such a reception might convey. But her mind was full of a kind of wondering pleasure—the phantasmagoria in this case which glided before her dreamy eyes was pleasant and bright, and amusing and pretty; and she had one strong staff of reality to support her in her husband, her perfectly kind and always attentive companion, who took complete charge of her, told her what to do, cared for her in everything, and never scolded her; conditions which made up all the Elysium Innocent had ever dreamed of. Sir Alexis had happily hit upon the right key-note at the very beginning. He had taken up, after careful thought, the position which Frederick had stumbled into by chance, and which had bound Innocent to him in absolute allegiance for so long. Sir Alexis, thinking it all carefully over, and determined to be successful in this last great venture of his life, had not been above taking a lesson, even from that attachment to Frederick, which was the only thing he resented, and the only thing he feared in his simple young wife; and the experiment had all the appearance of being triumphantly successful. After the first bewilderment and agitation inseparable from the beginning of a life so strangely new and different from all her past, Innocent had settled down with sweet docility into all the novel habits of her changed existence. The magnificence that surrounded her pleased her. She took to it naturally. The great rooms, the larger lines of drapery, the size and space about her, supplied a want which she had vaguely felt during all her life at The Elms. The want of space was the first thing which had struck her on her arrival, and during all the interval she had been conscious of it. To be sure, the magnificent perfection of Longueville was very unlike the scanty poverty and bareness of the Palazzo Scaramucci; but yet this great house was more like home to her than were the smaller crowded rooms, clothed from top to bottom, of her Aunt’s house. She had room to breathe. I think Sir Alexis was disappointed that she did not choose for herself one of the smaller rooms, to make of it her own special bower and the future domestic centre; but he was wise and very tolerant, and did not interfere. “All that will come in time,” he said to himself. He did not even ask questions about what she liked or did not like, but skilfully watched and followed the unconscious leading of her inclinations. Few men would have had the patience to do this, as few men would have been able to gratify these inclinations as they showed themselves. But Sir Alexis was capable of both.
I cannot follow out the course of this curious idyll. I suppose it is within the bounds of possibility that a man of fifty might find himself able to play the impassioned part of the young lover in an idyll of the more usual land, though I avow that to a woman approaching that period of life the possibility appears half humbling, half comical; but Sir Alexis did not attempt this particular rôle, which indeed would have been incomprehensible to Innocent. Their mutual position was of a different kind. In marrying a creature so unlike ordinary women—so undeveloped, so simple in mind and thoughts—Sir Alexis had accepted all the responsibilities of the position. He showed his love for her rather in the calm way in which a father displays his sentiments than with the passion of a young husband. Her beauty delighted him, and the pride of possessing so rare a piece of Nature to crown his collections; and her simplicity—even her pensiveness and silentness had a charm for the man of the world, whom the world had often wearied, but who found a kind of renewal in the society of this soft companion, who accepted all he said with little response but no contradiction, and who turned to him after a while as flowers turn to the sun. And it would be simple foolishness to say that Innocent loved Sir Alexis as women love their husbands; she was incapable of such a sentiment; but she had a gentle affection for him, made up of gratitude and the soft response to kindness which every gentle nature gives. She learned soon and without words the pleasant lesson that her comfort and happiness and well-being were dear to him beyond everything else, that he would neglect no indication of her wishes, no germ of inclination on her part. He took care of her whatever she did, wherever she went, he shaped all his acts and his ways to please her, or—which was just as good—he implied her acquiescence in all he wished, and told her to do what she was glad and pleased to do in obedience to him. He made her drive, he made her ride, he took her out walking, he filled her life with gentle occupation. Sometimes she would write something for him at his dictation, or at his desire—sometimes she would play for him, pleased to think she pleased him, and with growing certainty day by day that everything she did pleased him, because she did it, a certainty which is more potent in attracting and confirming affection than perhaps any other secondary influence. And haply Sir Alexis himself not only endured patiently, but enjoyed this curious placid life, which was so strangely different from the ordinary honeymoon. His pride was involved, as well as his affection. Many men dream (I believe) of training their wives into perfect accord, perfect harmony, or rather reflection of their own being; but few men have ever had such an opportunity. Innocent seemed the blank sheet on which he could write his name, the virgin wax which he could mould into any form he pleased. He did not put actual educational processes in operation, but he began to guide her towards the things that pleased him. He praised her music, and so persuaded her to cultivate that faculty, which was perhaps the only one by which she could have reached a certain kind of excellence; he read to her, not inquiring much into her opinions, hoping for little beyond impression, yet placing a certain trust in that. He talked to her, and told her stories of people and places and things, of pictures which she had a natural love for, and books which she respected with a certain awe. His object was not only to ripen and mature the pretty Innocent he was fond of, but to produce out of this germ of being the Lady Longueville, who would be the mother of his children, and mistress of his house—when his work was done.
They spent some weeks thus together, pleasant and soft and free from care. Thus all February, with its winds and chills passed over them, and March began. They had not, however, quite completed the honeymoon, when a vague, indescribable shadow fell on this tranquil sweetness. The shadow fell, not on Innocent, who, however, once or twice vaguely fancied on looking at her husband that he might be “angry,” but on Sir Alexis alone, who sat long over the newspaper one particular morning, rose pallid as a ghost from reading it,—locked it carefully away in his desk, and telegraphed immediately after to his solicitor in town. His countenance was changed when his young wife came into the room, and that was the first time that Innocent fancied he was angry, but when she asked him, he took her in his arms with more passionate fervour than he had ever shown before.—“Angry! my darling,—can I ever be angry with you?” he cried, frightening her by his vehemence. The solicitor, Mr. Pennefather, a serious man, whom Innocent had scarcely seen before, came next day, and there were very long and solemn discussions between the two men, during which she was left alone, and felt somewhat desolate, poor child; but she was perfectly satisfied when she was told it was business, and asked no questions. When Mr. Pennefather went away, the shadows seemed to pass, and all was well again. The great woods about Longueville began to thrill with the new life of spring, and to open new buds to the genial sun. They seemed an emblem of their master, who was also clothing himself with a new existence, and delights, and hopes. The green slopes of the park surrounded the pair with miles and miles of a lovely solitude, stately in immemorial splendour, yet fresh as a village common. On the terrace, which occupied the front of the house, and upon which opened the many windows of the great drawing-room which Innocent loved, great baskets of flowers were already placed. It had a southern exposure and was sheltered from the winds, and the gardeners were skilful and many. Sir Alexis took pleasure in placing these great bouquets of blossom in his young wife’s favourite walk; and if any delicate plant succumbed to the frost, there were abundant means of replacing it. In the distance the broad lawn was marked out with deep golden lines of crocuses, and waving airy anemones, and every common flower that loves the spring; for he was wise enough not to despise the common children of Nature, the sweetest and most abundant riches of the season. After the momentary cloud which had passed over their sky, he was more tender than ever, more constantly watchful over her; and much of their time was spent on this terrace, where they would sometimes sit together, sometimes wander, from one end to another, talking as they called it, which meant that Sir Alexis would talk and Innocent listen, looking up at him with docile, grateful eyes—or reading, when she was more attentive still, absorbed with the story; for it was always story, either poetry or prose. This was how they were occupied on one mild afternoon early in March. The sun slanted from the west upon the green terrace, one end of which lay in full light, while the other was turned into a chill corner of shadow by the projection of the west wing. The husband and wife were walking slowly along the sunny side, now and then making a long pause by one of the flower baskets, gay with hyacinths and hardy azaleas. Sir Alexis, with the sunshine streaming upon the crisp curls of his hair, which was getting grey, read to her one of Tennyson’s lighter and more youthful poems. I think it was “The Miller’s Daughter.” Sometimes, if he thought her attention was wandering, he would put out his hand and lay it lightly on her shoulder, holding the book from which he read in his other hand; and on these occasions Innocent turned to him with a smile, in which a faint dawning sense of amusement at his solicitude mingled with the natural dreamy sweetness. She was dressed in a gown made of white cashmere, somewhat more akin to the fashion than was her wont, yet falling in the soft, clinging folds peculiar to the material, with a grace which modern fashion scarcely permits—and a little cloak of pale blue velvet, gray-blue, with a bloom upon it such as painters love, made after the fashion of the old cloak which had been her constant wrap in Pisa. It was Sir Alexis who had disinterred the ancient garment, and had learned the associations it had to her. He was a man who thought of such trifles, and he had himself chosen with great trouble the colour of the material in which it was reproduced. Her hair had been allowed to fall down, as of old, on her shoulders. Nobody could be more strenuous on the point of appearance than was Sir Alexis on state occasions, but he liked to see his young wife look as childlike as when he saw her first. Thus she strayed along by his side, a child, yet with the mysterious maturity of wifehood in her eyes—a gentle vagrant in a world not half realized, yet one whose simple feet had trod through mysteries and wonders of life and death—the simplest of girls, yet a great lady-sovereign in a breadth of country as great as many a principality, and with power for good or evil over many a soul unborn. The evening sun slanted down upon her uncovered head, the princely house held all its windows open behind her, the afternoon bees, ready to fly home, sucked their last at the hyacinths with drowsy hum, and the soft grass felt warm under her feet. There was not a cloud upon the sky, save those which had already began to perform the final ceremonial of the sunset in the west. How peaceful the scene! Tranquil happiness in the air, soft sunshine, nothing impassioned, lofty, ecstatic, but a gentle perfection of well-being. Every line of those trees, every blade of the growing grass, seemed to bear its part in the peaceful fulness of enjoyment, which was almost too still and soft to be called by that name.
“The Miller’s Daughter!” Our poet was not the great poet we know when he wrote that soft and youthful pastoral. There was nothing in it too deep for Innocent. She listened, with her heart gently stirred, with a sense of all the peace surrounding her, and the grave, calm love that cherished her, and her own ineffable safety from all evil—smiling when her husband laid his hand upon her shoulder. There have been scenes of more exalted, more profound emotion; but none more soft, more safe, more peaceful, safe, and sure than this afternoon scene at Longueville. The very afternoon was tranquil in its slumberous peacefulness, like the girl’s heart.
They were disturbed by the sounds of wheels ringing sharply upon the gravel of the avenue, and dispersing the pebbles on all sides, as if some one in hot haste was on his way to the Hall. The avenue was invisible from the terrace; but this harsh sound offended Sir Alexis. It was no carriage, but some impertinent two-wheeled thing like a dog-cart which made this ado—he could tell as much by the sound. His brow puckered with impatience; he stopped his reading. Something of the look which had made Innocent think he was “angry,” a sharp anxiety, a sudden pallor, came over his face.
“It is some Cockney party to see Longueville, no doubt,” he said, in a voice which sounded harsh to Innocent. “But, thank heaven! they will be disappointed to-day.”
The sound ceased, but he could not resume his reading all at once.