Book: My Novel, Volume 11.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> My Novel, Volume 11.




"They'll be a comely couple, John. And I hear tell she has a power of
money. When is the marriage to be?"

"Oh, they say as soon as the election is over. A fine wedding we shall
have of it! I dare say my young Lord will be bridesman. We'll send for
our little Nora to see the gay doings!"

Out from the boughs of the old tree came the shriek of a lost spirit,--
one of those strange, appalling sounds of human agony which, once heard,
are never forgotten. It is as the wail of Hope, when SHE, too, rushes
forth from the Coffer of Woes, and vanishes into viewless space; it is
the dread cry of Reason parting from clay, and of Soul, that would wrench
itself from life! For a moment all was still--and then a dull, dumb,
heavy fall!

The parents gazed on each other, speechless: they stole close to the
pales, and looked over. Under the boughs, at the gnarled roots of the
oak, they saw--gray and indistinct--a prostrate form. John opened the
gate, and went round; the mother crept to the road-side, and there stood
still.

"Oh, wife, wife!" cried John Avenel, from under the green boughs, "it is
our child Nora! Our child! our child!"

And, as he spoke, out from the green boughs started the dark ravens,
wheeling round and round, and calling to their young!

And when they had laid her on the bed, Mrs. Avenel whispered John to
withdraw for a moment; and with set lips but trembling hands began to
unlace the dress, under the pressure of which Nora's heart heaved
convulsively. And John went out of the room bewildered, and sat himself
down on the landing-place, and wondered whether he was awake or sleeping;
and a cold numbness crept over one side of him, and his head felt very
heavy, with a loud, booming noise in his ears. Suddenly his wife stood
by his side, and said, in a very low voice,

"John, run for Mr. Morgan,--make haste. But mind--don't speak to any one
on the way. Quick, quick!"

"Is she dying?"

"I don't know. Why not die before?" said Mrs. Avenel, between her teeth;
"but Mr. Morgan is a discreet, friendly man."

"A true Blue!" muttered poor John, as if his mind wandered; and rising
with difficulty, he stared at his wife a moment, shook his head, and was
gone.

An hour or two later, a little, covered, taxed cart stopped at Mr.
Avenel's cottage, out of which stepped a young man with pale face and
spare form, dressed in the Sunday suit of a rustic craftsman; then a
homely, but pleasant, honest face bent down to him, smilingly; and two
arms emerging from under covert of a red cloak extended an infant, which
the young man took tenderly. The baby was cross and very sickly; it
began to cry. The father hushed, and rocked, and tossed it, with the air
of one to whom such a charge was familiar.

"He'll be good when we get in, Mark," said the young woman, as she
extracted from the depths of the cart a large basket containing poultry
and home-made bread.

"Don't forget the flowers that the squire's gardener gave us," said Mark
the Poet.

Without aid from her husband, the wife took down basket and nosegay,
settled her cloak, smoothed her gown, and said, "Very odd! they don't
seem to expect us, Mark. How still the house is! Go and knock; they
can't ha' gone to bed yet."

Mark knocked at the door--no answer. A light passed rapidly across the
windows on the upper floor, but still no one came to his summons. Mark
knocked again. A gentleman dressed in clerical costume, now coming from
Lansinere Park, on the opposite side of the road, paused at the sound of
Mark's second and more impatient knock, and said civilly,

"Are you not the young folks my friend John Avenel told me this morning
he expected to visit him?"

"Yes, please, Mr. Dale," said Mrs. Fairfield, dropping her courtesy.
"You remember me! and this is my dear good man!"

"What! Mark the Poet?" said the curate of Lansmere, with a smile. "Come
to write squibs for the election?"

"Squibs, sir!" cried Mark, indignantly.

"Burns wrote squibs," said the curate, mildly.

Mark made no answer, but again knocked at the door.

This time, a man, whose face, even seen by the starlight, was much
flushed, presented himself at the threshold.

"Mr. Morgan!" exclaimed the curate, in benevolent alarm; no illness here,
I hope?"

"Cott! it is you, Mr. Dale!--Come in, come in; I want a word with you.
But who the teuce are these people?"

"Sir," said Mark, pushing through the doorway, "my name is Fairfield, and
my wife is Mr. Avenel's daughter!"

"Oh, Jane--and her baby too!--Cood! cood! Come in; but be quiet, can't
you? Still, still--still as death!"

The party entered, the door closed; the moon rose, and shone calmly on
the pale silent house, on the sleeping flowers of the little garden, on
the old pollard with its hollow core. The horse in the taxed cart dozed
unheeded; the light still at times flitted across the upper windows.
These were the only signs of life, except when a bat, now and then
attracted by the light that passed across the windows, brushed against
the panes, and then, dipping downwards, struck up against the nose of the
slumbering horse, and darted merrily after the moth that fluttered round
the raven's nest in the old pollard.




CHAPTER XVIII.

All that day Harley L'Estrange had been more than usually mournful and
dejected. Indeed, the return to scenes associated with Nora's presence
increased the gloom that had settled on his mind since he had lost sight
and trace of her. Audley, in the remorseful tenderness he felt for his
injured friend, had induced L'Estrange towards evening to leave the Park,
and go into a district some miles off, on pretence that he required
Harley's aid there to canvass certain important outvoters: the change of
scene might rouse him from his reveries. Harley himself was glad to
escape from the guests at Lansmere. He readily consented to go. He
would not return that night. The outvoters lay remote and scattered, he
might be absent for a day or two. When Harley was gone, Egerton himself
sank into deep thought. There was rumour of some unexpected opposition.
His partisans were alarmed and anxious. It was clear that the Lansmere
interest, if attacked, was weaker than the earl would believe; Egerton
might lose his election. If so, what would become of him? How support
his wife, whose return to him he always counted on, and whom it would
then become him at all hazards to acknowledge? It was that day that he
had spoken to William Hazeldean as to the family living.--"Peace, at
least," thought the ambitious man,--"I shall have peace!" And the squire
had promised him the rectory if needed; not without a secret pang, for
his Harry was already using her conjugal influence in favour of her old
school-friend's husband, Mr. Dale; and the squire thought Audley would be
but a poor country parson, and Dale--if he would only grow a little
plumper than his curacy would permit him to be--would be a parson in ten
thousand. But while Audley thus prepared for the worst, he still brought
his energies to bear on the more brilliant option; and sat with his
Committee, looking into canvass-books, and discussing the characters,
politics, and local interests of every elector, until the night was well-
nigh gone. When he gained his room; the shutters were unclosed, and he
stood a few moments at the window, gazing on the moon. At that sight,
the thought of Nora, lost and afar, stole over him. The man, as we know,
had in his nature little of romance and sentiment. Seldom was it his
wont to gaze upon moon or stars. But whenever some whisper of romance
did soften his hard, strong mind, or whenever moon or stars did charm his
gaze from earth, Nora's bright Muse-like face, Nora's sweet loving eyes,
were seen in moon and star-beam, Nora's low tender voice heard in the
whisper of that which we call romance, and which is but the sound of the
mysterious poetry that is ever in the air, would we but deign to hear it!
He turned with a sigh, undressed, threw himself on his bed, and
extinguished his light. But the light of the moon would fill the room.
It kept him awake for a little time; he turned his face from the calm,
heavenly beam resolutely towards the dull blind wall, and fell asleep.
And, in the sleep, he was with Nora,--again in the humble bridal-home.
Never in his dreams had she seemed to him so distinct and life-like,--
her eyes upturned to his, her hands clasped together, and resting on his
shoulder, as had been her graceful wont, her voice murmuring meekly, "Has
it, then, been my fault that we parted? Forgive, forgive me!" And the
sleeper imagined that he answered, "Never part from me again,--never,
never!" and that he bent down to kiss the chaste lips that so tenderly
sought his own. And suddenly he heard a knocking sound, as of a hammer,
--regular, but soft, low, subdued. Did you ever, O reader, hear the
sound of the hammer on the lid of a coffin in a house of woe,--when the
undertaker's decorous hireling fears that the living may hear how he
parts them from the dead? Such seemed the sound to Audley. The dream
vanished abruptly.

He woke, and again heard the knock; it was at his door. He sat up
wistfully; the moon was gone, it was morning. "Who is there?" he cried
peevishly.

A low voice from without answered, "Hush, it is I; dress quick; let me
see you."

Egerton recognized Lady Lansmere's voice. Alarmed and surprised, he
rose, dressed in haste, and went to the door. Lady Lansmere was standing
without, extremely pale. She put her finger to her lip, and beckoned him
to follow her. He obeyed mechanically. They entered her dressing-room,
a few doors from his own chamber, and the countess closed the door.

Then laying her slight firm hand on his shoulder, she said, in suppressed
and passionate excitement,

"Oh, Mr. Egerton, you must serve me, and at once. Harley! Harley! save
my Harley! Go to him, prevent his coming back here, stay with him; give
up the election,--it is but a year or two lost in your life, you will
have other opportunities; make that sacrifice to your friend."

"Speak--what is the matter? I can make no sacrifice too great for
Harley!"

"Thanks, I was sure of it. Go then, I say, at once to Harley; keep him
away from Lansmere on any excuse you can invent, until you can break the
sad news to him,--gently, gently. Oh, how will he bear it; how recover
the shock? My boy, my boy!"

"Calm yourself! Explain! Break what news; recover what shock?"

"True; you do not know, you have not heard. Nora Avenel lies yonder, in
her father's house,--dead, dead!"

Audley staggered back, clapping his hand to his heart, and then dropping
on his knee as if bowed down by the stroke of heaven.

"My bride, my wife!" he muttered. "Dead--it cannot be!"

Lady Lansmere was so startled at this exclamation, so stunned by a
confession wholly unexpected, that she remained unable to soothe, to
explain, and utterly unprepared for the fierce agony that burst from the
man she had ever seen so dignified and cold, when he sprang to his feet,
and all the sense of his eternal loss rushed upon his heart.

At length he crushed back his emotions, and listened in apparent calm,
and in a silence broken but by quick gasps for breath, to Lady Lansmere's
account.

One of the guests in the house, a female relation of Lady Lansmere's, had
been taken suddenly ill about an hour or two before; the house had been
disturbed, the countess herself aroused, and Mr. Morgan summoned as the
family medical practitioner. From him she had learned that Nora Avenel
had returned to her father's house late on the previous evening, had been
seized with brain fever, and died in a few hours.

Audley listened, and turned to the door, still in silence. Lady Lansmere
caught him by the arm. "Where are you going? Ah, can I now ask you to
save my son from the awful news, you yourself the sufferer? And yet--
yet--you know his haste, his vehemence, if he learned that you were his
rival, her husband; you whom he so trusted! What, what would be the
result?---I tremble!"

"Tremble not,--I do not tremble! Let me go! I will be back soon, and
then,"--(his lips writhed)--"then we will talk of Harley."

Egerton went forth, stunned and dizzy. Mechanically he took his way
across the park to John Avenel's house. He had been forced to enter that
house, formally, a day or two before, in the course of his canvass; and
his worldly pride had received a shock when the home, the birth, and the
manners of his bride's parents had been brought before him. He had even
said to himself, "And is it the child of these persons that I, Audley
Egerton, must announce to the world as wife?" Now, if she had been the
child of a beggar-nay, of a felon--now if he could but recall her to
life, how small and mean would all that dreaded world appear to him!
Too late, too late! The dews were glistening in the sun, the birds were
singing overhead, life wakening all around him--and his own heart felt
like a charnel-house. Nothing but death and the dead there,--nothing!
He arrived at the door: it was open: he called; no one answered: he
walked up the narrow stairs, undisturbed, unseen; he came into the
chamber of death. At the opposite side of the bed was seated John
Avenel; but he seemed in a heavy sleep. In fact, paralysis had smitten
him; but he knew it not; neither did any one. Who could heed the strong
hearty man in such a moment? Not even the poor anxious wife! He had
been left there to guard the house, and watch the dead,--an unconscious
man; numbed, himself, by the invisible icy hand! Audley stole to the
bedside; he lifted the coverlid thrown over the pale still face. What
passed within him during the minute he stayed there who shall say? But
when he left the room, and slowly descended the stairs, he left behind
him love and youth, all the sweet hopes and joys of the household human
life, for ever and ever!

He returned to Lady Lansmere, who awaited his coming with the most
nervous anxiety.

"Now," said he, dryly, "I will go to Harley, and I will prevent his
returning hither."

"You have seen the parents. Good heavens! do they know of your
marriage?"

"No; to Harley I must own it first. Meanwhile, silence!"

"Silence!" echoed Lady Lansmere; and her burning hand rested in Audley's,
and Audley's hand was as ice.

In another hour Egerton had left the house, and before noon he was with
Harley.

It is necessary now to explain the absence of all the Avenel family,
except the poor stricken father.

Nora had died in giving birth to a child,--died delirious. In her
delirium she had spoken of shame, of disgrace; there was no holy nuptial
ring on her finger. Through all her grief, the first thought of Mrs.
Avenel was to save the good name of her lost daughter, the unblemished
honour of all the living Avenels. No matron long descended from knights
or kings had keener pride in name and character than the poor,
punctilious Calvinistic trader's wife. "Sorrow later, honour now!" With
hard dry eyes she mused and mused, and made out herplan. Jane Fairfield
should take away the infant at once, before the day dawned, and nurse it
with her own. Mark should go with her, for Mrs. Avenel dreaded the
indiscretion of his wild grief. She would go with them herself part of
the way, in order to command or reason them into guarded silence. But
they could not go back to Hazeldean with another infant; Jane must go
where none knew her; the two infants might pass as twins. And Mrs.
Avenel, though naturally a humane, kindly woman, and with a mother's
heart to infants, looked with almost a glad sternness at Jane's puny
babe, and thought to herself, "All difficulty would be over should there
be only one! Nora's child could thus pass throughout life for Jane's!"

Fortunately for the preservation of the secret, the Avenels kept no
servant,--only an occasional drudge, who came a few hours in the day, and
went home to sleep. Mrs. Avenel could count on Mr. Morgan's silence as
to the true cause of Nora's death. And Mr. Dale, why should be reveal
the dishonour of a family? That very day, or the next at furthest, she
could induce her husband to absent himself, lest he should blab out the
tale while his sorrow was greater than his pride. She alone would then
stay in the house of death until she could feel assured that all else
were hushed into prudence. Ay, she felt, that with due precautions, the
name was still safe. And so she awed and hurried Mark and his wife away,
and went with them in the covered cart, that hid the faces of all three,
leaving for an hour or two the house and the dead to her husband's
charge, with many an admonition, to which be nodded his head, and which
he did not hear. Do you think this woman was unfeeling and inhuman?
Had Nora looked from heaven into her mother's heart Nora would not have
thought so. A good name when the burial stone closes over dust is still
a possession upon the earth; on earth it is indeed our only one! Better
for our friends to guard for us that treasure than to sit down and weep
over perishable clay. And weep!---Oh, stern mother, long years were left
to thee for weeping! No tears shed for Nora made such deep furrows on
the cheeks as thine did! Yet who ever saw them flow?

Harley was in great surprise to see Egerton; more surprised when Egerton
told him that he found he was to be opposed,--that he had no chance of
success at Lansmere, and had, therefore, resolved to retire from the
contest. He wrote to the earl to that effect; but the countess knew the
true cause, and hinted it to the earl; so that, as we saw at the
commencement of this history, Egerton's cause did not suffer when Captain
Dashmore appeared in the borough; and, thanks to Mr. Hazeldean's
exertions and oratory, Audley came in by two votes,--the votes of John
Avenel and Mark Fairfield. For though the former had been removed a
little way from the town, and by medical advice, and though, on other
matters, the disease that had smitten him left him docile as a child (and
he had but vague indistinct ideas of all the circumstances connected with
Nora's return, save the sense of her loss), yet he still would hear how
the Blues went on, and would get out of bed to keep his word: and even
his wife said,

"He is right; better die of it than break his promise!" The crowd gave
way as the broken man they had seen a few days before so jovial and
healthful was brought up in a chair to the poll, and said, with his
tremulous quavering voice, "I 'm a true Blue,--Blue forever!"

Elections are wondrous things! No man who has not seen can guess how the
zeal in them triumphs over sickness, sorrow, the ordinary private life of
us!

There was forwarded to Audley, from Lansmere Park, Nora's last letter.
The postman had left it there an hour or two after he himself had gone.
The wedding-ring fell on the ground, and rolled under his feet. And
those burning, passionate reproaches, all that anger of the wounded dove,
explained to him the mystery of her return, her unjust suspicions, the
cause of her sudden death, which he still ascribed to brain fever,
brought on by excitement and fatigue. For Nora did not speak of the
child about to be born; she had not remembered it when she wrote, or she
would not have written. On the receipt of this letter, Egerton could not
remain in the dull village district,--alone, too, with Harley. He said,
abruptly, that he must go to London; prevailed on L'Estrange to accompany
him; and there, when he heard from Lady Lansmere that the funeral was
over, he broke to Harley, with lips as white as the dead, and his hand
pressed to his heart, on which his hereditary disease was fastening quick
and fierce, the dread truth that Nora was no more. The effect upon the
boy's health and spirits was even more crushing than Audley could
anticipate. He only woke from grief to feel remorse. "For," said the
noble Harley, "had it not been for my passion, my rash pursuit, would she
ever have left her safe asylum,--ever even have left her native town?
And then--and then--the struggle between her sense of duty and her love
to me! I see it all--all! But for me she were living still!"

"Oh, no!" cried Egerton, his confession now rushing to his lips.

"Believe me, she never loved you as you think. Nay, nay, hear me!
Rather suppose that she loved another, fled with him, was perhaps married
to him, and--"

"Hold!" exclaimed Harley, with a terrible burst of passion,--"you kill
her twice to me if you say that! I can still feel that she lives--lives
here, in my heart--while I dream that she loved me--or, at least, that no
other lip ever knew the kiss that was denied to mine! But if you tell me
to doubt that--you--you--" The boy's anguish was too great for his
frame; he fell suddenly back into Audley's arms; he had broken a blood-
vessel. For several days he was in great danger; but his eyes were
constantly fixed on Audley's, with wistful intense gaze. "Tell me," he
muttered, at the risk of re-opening the ruptured veins, and of the
instant loss of life,--"tell me, you did not mean that! Tell me you have
no cause to think she loved another--was another's!"

"Hush, hush! no cause--none--none! I meant but to comfort you, as I
thought,--fool that I was!--that is all!" cried the miserable friend.
And from that hour Audley gave up the idea of righting himself in his own
eyes, and submitted still to be the living lie,--he, the haughty
gentleman!

Now, while Harley was still very weak and suffering, Mr. Dale came to
London, and called on Egerton. The curate, in promising secrecy to Mrs.
Avenel, had made one condition, that it should not be to the positive
injury of Nora's living son. What if Nora were married after all? And
would it not be right, at least, to learn the name of the child's father?

Some day he might need a father. Mrs. Avenel was obliged to content
herself with these reservations. However, she implored Mr. Dale not to
make inquiries. What could they do? If Nora were married, her husband
would naturally, of his own accord, declare himself; if seduced and
forsaken, it would but disgrace her memory (now saved from stain) to
discover the father to a child of whose very existence the world as yet
knew nothing. These arguments perplexed the good curate. But Jane
Fairfield had a sanguine belief in her sister's innocence; and all her
suspicions naturally pointed to Lord L'Estrange. So, indeed, perhaps;
did Mrs. Avenel's, though she never owned them. Of the correctness of
these suspicions Mr. Dale was fully convinced; the young lord's
admiration, Lady Lansmere's fears, had been too evident to one who had
often visited at the Park; Harley's abrupt departure just before Nora's
return home; Egerton's sudden resignation of the borough before even
opposition was declared, in order to rejoin his friend, the very day of
Nora's death,--all confirmed his ideas that Harley was the betrayer or
the husband. Perhaps there might have been a secret marriage--possibly
abroad--since Harley wanted some years of his majority. He would, at
least, try to see and to sound Lord L'Estrange. Prevented this interview
by Harley's illness, the curate resolved to ascertain how far he could
penetrate into the mystery by a conversation with Egerton. There was
much in the grave repute which the latter had acquired, and the singular
and pre-eminent character for truth and honour with which it was
accompanied, that made the curate resolve upon this step. Accordingly;
he saw Egerton, meaning only diplomatically to extract from the new
member for Lansmere what might benefit the family of the voters who had
given him his majority of two.

He began by mentioning, as a touching fact, how poor John Avenel, bowed
down by the loss of his child and the malady which had crippled his limbs
and enfeebled his mind, had still risen from his bed to keep his word.
And Audley's emotions seemed to him so earnest and genuine, to show so
good a heart, that out by little and little came more: first, his
suspicions that poor Nora had been betrayed; then his hopes that there
might have been private marriage; and as Audley, with his iron self-
command, showed just the proper degree of interest, and no more, he went
on, till Audley knew that he had a child.

"Inquire no further!" said the man of the world. "Respect Mrs. Avenel's
feelings and wishes, I entreat you; they are the right ones. Leave the
rest to me. In my position--I mean as a resident of London--I can
quietly and easily ascertain more than you could, and provoke no scandal!
If I can right this--this--poor--[his voice trembled]--right the lost
mother, or the living child, sooner or later you will hear from me; if
not, bury this secret where it now rests, in a grave which slander has
not reached. But the child--give me the address where it is to be found
--in case I succeed in finding the father, and touching his heart."

"Oh, Mr. Egerton, may I not say where you may find that father--who he
is?"

"Sir!"

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.