Beauchamp's Career. Complete

‘But she is fretting! If Lord Romfrey would confide in her and trust to her courage, papa, it would be best.’

Colonel Halkett thought that Lord Romfrey was the judge.

Cecilia wished to leave a place where this visible torture of a human soul was proceeding, and to no purpose. She pointed out to her father, by a variety of signs, that Lady Romfrey either knew or suspected the state of affairs in Bevisham, and repeated her remarks upon Nevil’s illness. But Colonel Halkett was restrained from departing by the earl’s constant request to him to stay. Old friendship demanded it of him. He began to share his daughter’s feelings at the sight of Lady Romfrey. She was outwardly patient and submissive; by nature she was a strong healthy woman; and she attended to all her husband’s prescriptions for the regulating of her habits, walked with him, lay down for the afternoon’s rest, appeared amused when he laboured to that effect, and did her utmost to subdue the worm devouring her heart but the hours of the delivery of the letter-post were fatal to her. Her woeful: ‘No letter for me!’ was piteous. When that was heard no longer, her silence and famished gaze chilled Cecilia. At night Rosamund eyed her husband expressionlessly, with her head leaning back in her chair, to the sorrow of the ladies beholding her. Ultimately the contagion of her settled misery took hold of Cecilia. Colonel Halkett was induced by his daughter and Mrs. Devereux to endeavour to combat a system that threatened consequences worse than those it was planned to avert. He by this time was aware of the serious character of the malady which had prostrated Nevil. Lord Romfrey had directed his own medical man to go down to Bevisham, and Dr. Gannet’s report of Nevil was grave. The colonel made light of it to his daughter, after the fashion he condemned in Lord Romfrey, to whom however he spoke earnestly of the necessity for partially taking his wife into his confidence to the extent of letting her know that a slight fever was running its course with Nevil.

‘There will be no slight fever in my wife’s blood,’ said the earl. ‘I stand to weather the cape or run to wreck, and it won’t do to be taking in reefs on a lee-shore. You don’t see what frets her, colonel. For years she has been bent on Nevil’s marriage. It’s off: but if you catch Cecilia by the hand and bring her to us—I swear she loves the fellow!—that’s the medicine for my wife. Say: will you do it? Tell Lady Romfrey it shall be done. We shall stand upright again!’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, Romfrey,’ said the colonel.

‘Play at it, then! Let her think it. You’re helping me treat an invalid. Colonel! my old friend! You save my house and name if you do that. It’s a hand round a candle in a burst of wind. There’s Nevil dragged by a woman into one of their reeking hovels—so that Miss Denham at Shrapnel’s writes to Lady Romfrey—because the woman’s drunken husband voted for him at the Election, and was kicked out of employment, and fell upon the gin-bottle, and the brats of the den died starving, and the man sickened of a fever; and Nevil goes in and sits with him! Out of that tangle of folly is my house to be struck down? It looks as if the fellow with his infernal “humanity,” were the bad genius of an old nurse’s tale. He’s a good fellow, colonel, he means well. This fever will cure him, they say it sobers like bloodletting. He’s a gallant fellow; you know that. He fought to the skeleton in our last big war. On my soul, I believe he’s good for a husband. Frenchwoman or not, that affair’s over. He shall have Steynham and Holdesbury. Can I say more? Now, colonel, you go in to the countess. Grasp my hand. Give me that help, and God bless you! You light up my old days. She’s a noble woman: I would not change her against the best in the land. She has this craze about Nevil. I suppose she’ll never get over it. But there it is: and we must feed her with the spoon.’

Colonel Halkett argued stutteringly with the powerful man: ‘It’s the truth she ought to hear, Romfrey; indeed it is, if you ‘ll believe me. It ‘s his life she is fearing for. She knows half.’

‘She knows positively nothing, colonel. Miss Denham’s first letter spoke of the fellow’s having headaches, and staggering. He was out on a cruise, and saw your schooner pass, and put into some port, and began falling right and left, and they got him back to Shrapnel’s: and here it is—that if you go to him you’ll save him, and if you go to my wife you’ll save her: and there you have it: and I ask my old friend, I beg him to go to them both.’

‘But you can’t surely expect me to force my daughter’s inclinations, my dear Romfrey?’

‘Cecilia loves the fellow!’

‘She is engaged to Mr. Tuckham.’

‘I’ll see the man Tuckham.’

‘Really, my dear lord!’

‘Play at it, Halkett, play at it! Tide us over this! Talk to her: hint it and nod it. We have to round November. I could strangle the world till that month’s past. You’ll own,’ he added mildly after his thunder, ‘I’m not much of the despot Nevil calls me. She has not a wish I don’t supply. I’m at her beck, and everything that’s mine. She’s a brave good woman. I don’t complain. I run my chance. But if we lose the child—good night! Boy or girl!—boy!’

Lord Romfrey flung an arm up. The child of his old age lived for him already: he gave it all the life he had. This miracle, this young son springing up on an earth decaying and dark, absorbed him. This reviver of his ancient line must not be lost. Perish every consideration to avert it! He was ready to fear, love, or hate terribly, according to the prospects of his child.

Colonel Halkett was obliged to enter into a consultation, of a shadowy sort, with his daughter, whose only advice was that they should leave the castle. The penetrable gloom there, and the growing apprehension concerning the countess and Nevil, tore her to pieces. Even if she could have conspired with the earl to hoodwink his wife, her strong sense told her it would be fruitless, besides base. Father and daughter had to make the stand against Lord Romfrey. He saw their departure from the castle gates, and kissed his hand to Cecilia, courteously, without a smile.

‘He may well praise the countess, papa,’ said Cecilia, while they were looking back at the castle and the moveless flag that hung in folds by the mast above it. ‘She has given me her promise to avoid questioning him and to accept his view of her duty. She said to me that if Nevil should die she…’

Cecilia herself broke down, and gave way to sobs in her father’s arms.

CHAPTER XLIX. A FABRIC OF BARONIAL DESPOTISM CRUMBLE

The earl’s precautions did duty night and day in all the avenues leading to the castle and his wife’s apartments; and he could believe that he had undertaken as good a defence as the mountain guarding the fertile vale from storms: but him the elements pelted heavily. Letters from acquaintances of Nevil, from old shipmates and from queer political admirers and opponents, hailed on him; things not to be frigidly read were related of the fellow.

Lord Romfrey’s faith in the power of constitution to beat disease battled sturdily with the daily reports of his physician and friends, whom he had directed to visit the cottage on the common outside Bevisham, and with Miss Denham’s intercepted letters to the countess. Still he had to calculate on the various injuries Nevil had done to his constitution, which had made of him another sort of man for a struggle of life and death than when he stood like a riddled flag through the war. That latest freak of the fellow’s, the abandonment of our natural and wholesome sustenance in animal food, was to be taken in the reckoning. Dr. Gannet did not allude to it; the Bevisham doctor did; and the earl meditated with a fury of wrath on the dismal chance that such a folly as this of one old vegetable idiot influencing a younger noodle, might strike his House to the dust.

His watch over his wife had grown mechanical: he failed to observe that her voice was missing. She rarely spoke. He lost the art of observing himself: the wrinkling up and dropping of his brows became his habitual language. So long as he had not to meet inquiries or face tears, he enjoyed the sense of security. He never quitted his wife save to walk to the Southern park lodge, where letters and telegrams were piled awaiting him; and she was forbidden to take the air on the castle terrace without his being beside her, lest a whisper, some accident of the kind that donkeys who nod over their drowsy nose-length-ahead precautions call fatality, should rouse her to suspect, and in a turn of the hand undo his labour: for the race was getting terrible: Death had not yet stepped out of that evil chamber in Dr. Shrapnel’s cottage to aim his javelin at the bosom containing the prized young life to come, but, like the smoke of waxing fire, he shadowed forth his presence in wreaths blacker and thicker day by day: and Everard Romfrey knew that the hideous beast of darkness had only to spring up and pass his guard to deal a blow to his House the direr from all he supposed himself to have gained by masking it hitherto. The young life he looked to for renewal swallowed him: he partly lost human feeling for his wife in the tremendous watch and strain to hurry her as a vessel round the dangerous headland. He was oblivious that his eyebrows talked, that his head was bent low, that his mouth was shut, and that where a doubt had been sown, silence and such signs are like revelations in black night to the spirit of a woman who loves.

One morning after breakfast Rosamund hung on his arm, eyeing him neither questioningly nor invitingly, but long. He kissed her forehead. She clung to him and closed her eyes, showing him a face of slumber, like a mask of the dead.

Mrs. Devereux was present. Cecilia had entreated her to stay with Lady Romfrey. She stole away, for the time had come which any close observer of the countess must have expected.

The earl lifted his wife, and carried her to her sitting-room. A sunless weltering September day whipped the window-panes and brought the roar of the beaten woods to her ears. He was booted and gaitered for his customary walk to the park lodge, and as he bent a knee beside her, she murmured: ‘Don’t wait; return soon.’

He placed a cord attached to the bellrope within her reach. This utter love of Nevil Beauchamp was beyond his comprehension, but there it was, and he had to submit to it and manoeuvre. His letters and telegrams told the daily tale. ‘He’s better,’ said the earl, preparing himself to answer what his wife’s look had warned him would come.

She was an image of peace, in the same posture on the couch where he had left her, when he returned. She did not open her eyes, but felt about for his hand, and touching it, she seemed to weigh the fingers.

At last she said: ‘The fever should be at its height.’

‘Why, my dear brave girl, what ails you?’ said he.

‘Ignorance.’

She raised her eyelids. His head was bent down over her, like a raven’s watching, a picture of gravest vigilance.

Her bosom rose and sank. ‘What has Miss Denham written to-day?’

‘To-day?’ he asked her gently.

‘I shall bear it,’ she answered. ‘You were my master before you were my husband. I bear anything you think is good for my government. Only, my ignorance is fever; I share Nevil’s.’

‘Have you been to my desk at all?’

‘No. I read your eyes and your hands: I have been living on them. To-day I find that I have not gained by it, as I hoped I should. Ignorance kills me. I really have courage to bear to hear just at this moment I have.’

‘There’s no bad news, my love,’ said the earl.

‘High fever, is it?’

‘The usual fever. Gannet’s with him. I sent for Gannet to go there, to satisfy you.’

‘Nevil is not dead?’

‘Lord! ma’am, my dear soul!’

‘He is alive?’

‘Quite: certainly alive; as much alive as I am; only going a little faster, as fellows do in the jumps of a fever. The best doctor in England is by his bed. He ‘s doing fairly. You should have let me know you were fretting, my Rosamund.’

‘I did not wish to tempt you to lie, my dear lord.’

‘Well, there are times when a woman… as you are: but you’re a brave woman, a strong heart, and my wife. You want some one to sit with you, don’t you? Louise Devereux is a pleasant person, but you want a man to amuse you. I’d have sent to Stukely, but you want a serious man, I fancy.’

So much had the earl been thrown out of his plan for protecting his wife, that he felt helpless, and hinted at the aids and comforts of religion. He had not rejected the official Church, and regarding it now as in alliance with great Houses, he considered that its ministers might also be useful to the troubled women of noble families. He offered, if she pleased, to call in the rector to sit with her—the bishop of the diocese, if she liked.

‘But just as you like, my love,’ he added. ‘You know you have to avoid fretting. I’ve heard my sisters talk of the parson doing them good off and on about the time of their being brought to bed. He elevated their minds, they said. I’m sure I’ve no objection. If he can doctor the minds of women he’s got a profession worth something.’

Rosamund smothered an outcry. ‘You mean that Nevil is past hope!’

‘Not if he’s got a fair half of our blood in him. And Richard Beauchamp gave the fellow good stock. He has about the best blood in England. That’s not saying much when they’ve taken to breed as they build—stuff to keep the plasterers at work; devil a thought of posterity!’

‘There I see you and Nevil one, my dear lord,’ said Rosamund. ‘You think of those that are to follow us. Talk to me of him. Do not say, “the fellow.” Say “Nevil.” No, no; call him “the fellow.” He was alive and well when you used to say it. But smile kindly, as if he made you love him down in your heart, in spite of you. We have both known that love, and that opposition to him; not liking his ideas, yet liking him so: we were obliged to laugh—I have seen you! as love does laugh! If I am not crying over his grave, Everard? Oh!’