36 Adrift, As A Leaf In The Storm
NEXT morning, by the earliest train, Sir Vane Valentine goes back to Cornwall. His sister alone sits and pours out his coffee at the hurried early breakfast that precedes departure. Miss Routh is not an early bird, and Lady Valentine, usually up as early as Dorothy herself, does not appear. Sir Vane does not seek to see her to say good—by. He is nervous and ill at ease, and has no appetite. This “fraudulent plot,” this “trumped—up conspiracy” disturbs him more than he cares to show. If they persist in it, and drag it before the world, a horrible exposure will be the result. And even if their defeat is ultimately secured, the legal expenses will be something he shudders to contemplate. With what it feeds on, Sir Vane’s love of wealth grows. If their defeat should not be secured—but even in thought he cannot imagine so wild a possbility as that. Once let him get his credulous, romantic wife out of the way, safely down in the lonely, sea-girt seclusion of Flintbarrow, and the first step toward safety will have been taken. She is as wild and shy as a partridge—as ready to take flight. He will not disturb her this morning; she will come the more readily and unsuspiciously with his sister and cousin, if he does not seem too eager. After that he will know how to deal with M. Rene Macdonald. Silence reigns at the hasty meal. Miss Valentine is pleased at the invitation to return to her native Cornish wilds for a little, but Miss Valentine is not diffusive by nature, and sits grimly and silently behind the coffee-pot. Desolate, lonely, shut out from the world by far-stretching moors and leagues of dark and stormy sea, she yet loves those “thundering shores of Bude and Boss,” and would willingly resign her position as housekeeper of Manor Valentine to return thither to her peaceful life. But Vane rules it otherwise, and Vane’s will has ever been her law.
“You think your wife will be willing to go, Vane?” she asks, rather abruptly, just before he departs.
“Certainly; why not?” he returns, sharply. “A wife’s place is beside her husband. She needs a change, too, and bracing air—the visit will do her good. Sea air is native air to her; she was brought up on an island.”
“Yes,” Miss Dorothy assents, thoughtfully, “she looks as if she needed a change. She eats nothing, and fails away to a shadow. Still I doubt if Flintbarrow will help her, or if she will like the place. It is a gloomy spot, you must admit, for a young girl like her, Brother Vane.”
“She will have to accustom herself to its gloom. I shall be there to bear her company. Do you wish to leave her behind, to amuse herself flirting with Deering, Dorothy? Be kind enough not to be a fool. Here is the trap—good-by. I shall expect you all without fail, remember, on Friday afternoon.”
He leaves the room, banging the door angrily after him, jumps into the waiting trap; the groom gathers up the reins, and they drive off. Three pairs of feminine eyes watch the departure, with very different looks—Miss Dorothy Valentine, grimly, through her glasses; Miss Routh, with an inexplicable smile; and two somber blue eyes, dark and heavy-lidded from a sleepless night. Miss Routh, in the freshest and crispest of morning toilets, indulges in a stroll through the village before Iuncheon, and makes a call, in her gracious way, on the hostess of the Ratherripe Arms. As she sits by the open parlor window, framed in woodbine and roses, Mr. Macdonald, sketch—book in hand, the inevitable cigar between his lips, passes, and glances in. So! he lingers still, then! She must watch well, and discover whether another secret interview takes place before the departure for Cornwall. She hastens home and makes inquiries. Her maid, instructed for the purpose, has kept an eye on my lady’s doings. But there is little to report. My lady has not appeared at all; some tea and toast have been taken up to her, and she has declined to receive a call from Miss Valentine, under the plea of headache. The maid is positive my lady has not quitted the house the whole morning; she has sat, with her sewing; the whole forenoon in one of the rooms near, the door open, and has heard my lady talking to the housekeeper in her own sitting-room.
Luncheon hour comes; still my lady appears not. Miss Routh and Miss Valentine partake of that meal in profound silence. Miss Routh never needlessly wastes her energies in conversation with her own sex; she eats her luncheon with excellent appetite, and thinks her own thoughts, a half smile hovering around her lips. What is my lady about in the seclusion of her own room? She has no faith in the headache. The conviction is forcing itself upon her that her talk with Vane in the Willow Walk has been overheard. Dolores looked as if stricken by some desperate blow when she came in—what else could have given her that white, wild face? Well, and what then? If she goes, it means imprisonment for an indefinite period in the dreariest old house in the world; if she refuses to go, it means, of course, secret meetings with her old lover, open meetings with her new one, Colonel Deering, either way destructive for her rival. On the whole, perhaps, she half hopes it may mean refusal to go. A few of these stolen assignations in secluded nooks in the park, and—it may be possible for Vane to procure a divorce. Lucy, her maid, is a spy by nature, and the only servant in the house who dislikes Lady Valentine. Lucy will watch well, and who knows—who knows—— .
“He is very handsome,” Miss Routh thinks, a greenish, evil glitter in her brooding eyes, “and she loved him long before she knew Vane, and would have married him but for old Madam Valentine. Of course she is in love with him still, and of course, also, she hates her husband. If she overheard their conversation what more natural than that she should wish to see him again, and tell him, and seek sympathy and consolation. And Lucy will watch. How will it sound?—her old lover comes to Valentine—I surprise them in the most secluded nook of the park-land; she refuses to join her husband in Cornwall, though Dorothy and myself go; she and this lover still have private meetings in our absence. Will it be enough, colored as Lucy will color it? A divorce would free him—he hates the bond as much as she does, and once free he will marry me. As for the dead-alive story this Signore Macdonald tells, I do not believe it. Camilla, Lady Valentine! Well, since Colonel Deering is not to be captured, it must suffice. For her—she will go back to the outer darkness, with her Spanish-eyed, handsome young lover, and be heard of no more!”
Colonel Deering calls before dinner, and is invited to stay and dine en famille. He accepts—he has come for that, indeed, and for a glimpse of his enchantress. Miss Routh is maliciously willing to accommodate him. But will she appear? Yes—just as dinner is announced, Lady Valentine comes in and takes her accustomed place.
Camilla Routh looks at her curiously. She is dressed in pale pink, and if she is whiter than usual, the delicate rosy tint of her robes lends a sort of illusive glow, to eyes not too inquisitively alert. But she is very pale, and except when directly addressed scarcely speaks throughout the meal. The conversation turns on the trip to Cornwall; the colonel is profuse in his regrets that even for a few days they are to lose the ladies of Valentine, but Camilla notices that Lady Valentine holds aloof from the subject, and expresses no feeling in the matter, one way or the other. All Colonel Deering’s efforts to draw her into the general talk fails; her replies are monosyllabic, her eyes scarcely leave her plate. What is she thinking of? Camilla Routh wonders, with that pale, fixed, unsmiling face.
After dinner they stroll out into the grounds, silvery and sweet, in the starry dusk; that is to say, Colonel Deering and Miss Routh do. Dolores does not join them. She sits by one of the open windows, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, the somber look that never used to be there, that is growing habitual to them, in her blue eyes. Miss Dorothy, at another window, goes practically over the week’s housekeeping, and checks the tradespeople’s accounts. Later, when they return, Camilla goes to the piano, according to custom, but all through the musical storm that follows, and until the colonel perforce departs, she never quits her place, her eyes never leave the dim starry landscape, the whispering trees, the falling night. She is pressed by him to sing, but refuses, still in the same listless way, and the hand she gives him at parting is cold and lifeless. “It is good night, you know,” he says, holding it in his close clasp “I shall ride over to-morrow, and the day after I shall at least have the pleasure of coming to say good-speed.”
She makes no answer, and when his briefer adieus have been made to the other two ladies, and he turns for a last glance at her, he finds she has already gone.
Thus far the watchful Camilla has been foiled; there have been no further meetings with lovers, in public or in private. All next day she keeps up her system of private espionage, but with the same result. She can obtain no clew to Dolores’ hidden thoughts, and she certainly leaves the house to meet no one. Colonel Deering calls according to promise, but my lady is engaged, and does not see him. Her conduct these last two days is decorum itself. Well, time will tell; to-morrow at nine they start, and Camilla, by this, has worked herself into a fever of curiosity to know how all this is to end.
This last day is spent in packing. Lady Valentine has no maid; she has declined all successors to Jemima Ann. Miss Routh kindly presses upon her the services of Lucy; the offer is declined with cold thanks. Still not a sigh, a hint, a look to show whether it is to be Cornwall or not.
The last night comes—goes, and the morning is here. An early breakfast has been prepared. At eight o’clock Miss Routh and Miss Valentine, “booted and spurred ” for this trip, appear in the breakfast-room. One hasty glance from Camilla’s green eyes, her heart quickening expectantly its calm beating—Dolores is not there. “Where is Lady Valentine?” demands Miss Dorothy; “is she not ready? Go up, Dobson, and see. Tell her we have but just fifteen minutes for breakfast as it is. Make haste!” Dobson goes—returns, and alone. “Well ?” Miss Dorothy demands, with asperity.
“Please, ‘m,” says Dobson, breathless, “my lady’s compliments, ‘m, and she ain’t a-goin’ !”
“What!”
“Which it’s a bad headache, ‘m, and she ain’t hup. She says don’t wait for her, if you please, ‘m. She says she ain’t able to go nowheres to-day, please, ‘m.”
Miss Dorothy adjusts her double eye-glass more firmly on her Roman nose, and glances sternly at Camilla Routh. That young lady shrugs her shoulders and sips her tea, a gleam of exultation in her cat-like eyes. “What does this mean, Camilla?”
“You had better go and ask, Dorothy. You need not glare at me in that blood-freezing fashion—I have nothing to do with it. Impossible to account for the vagaries of our charming Dolores. Go up and see for yourself, if you are curious. It may be as she says, she may possibly have a headache. Meantime I will finish my breakfast.”
She pours herself a second cup of tea. But her hand shakes, and her pulse beats quick and high. Not going, after all! Miss Dorothy, much perturbed, takes the advice, and marches up to the chamber of her sister-in-law. Entering, she finds Dolores in semi-darkness, and Dolores herself, lying pale among her pillows. Her eyes are closed, her hands are clasped above her head, her fair hair is tossed about—so lying she looks so wan, so worn, so really ill, that Dorothy is startled and alarmed.
“My dear Dolores,” she exclaims, “what is this? Is it possible you are really ill?”
The blue eyes open, and look up at her. The dark circles that tell of sleepless nights surround them.
“Not really ill, only out of sorts and altogether unfitted for a railway journey. My head aches. You will please start without me. It is impossible for me to go to Cornwall to-day.”
“But Vane said——”
“I know,” quickly, “he could not foresee this. Indeed my head aches horribly; I was awake all night. Do not stay for me—with a few hours’ perfect quiet I shall do very well. There is no reason why you and Miss Routh should disappoint him. Do not lose your train by waiting here. A few hours’ repose, and I will be quite well again. Your brother will be angry if you disappoint him, you know.”
This is so true that Miss Valentine winces. She stands more thoroughly at a loss than ever before in her life. To go, or not to go, that is the question. Which will anger Vane most—to go to him and leave Dolores behind, or to remain with her, and disappoint him? His irritation is certain either way. While she stands irresolute, Camilla comes fluttering gayly to the rescue.
“Ill, Lady Valentine? So sorry. So very inopportune. Cousin Vane will be so disappointed. Still, Dorothy, it will not do for us to disappoint him as well. His wishes were most positive, you may remember, to go to-day without fail. You had better not linger. We will tell him of Dolores’ indisposition, and of course he will come for her to-morrow. So sorry to leave you quite alone—such a bore for you—but it is only for one day. Come, Dorothy, we shall certainly miss our train.”
“You really think, then, Camilla, that Vane would prefer us to go and leave Dolores?” asks the perplexed Dorothy. She has much faith in Camilla Routh’s opinion where Vane is concerned, much faith in her influence over him.
“Certainly I do,” Miss Routh responds, promptly, “I not only am sure he would prefer it, but that he will be alarmed, as well as angry, if we do not. Adieu, Dolores, cherie—be ready to come with Vane to-morrow. Now, Dorothy!” Her tone is sharp, she moves away impulsively, she hurries off the still doubtful, still disposed-to-linger Dorothy before there is time for further discussion. The carriage is at the door, they are in, and whirling rapidly to the station. There is time to get tickets, to take their places in the compartment, and no more. The door shuts upon them, the whistle shrieks, and they are flying along Cornwall-ward almost before Dorothy Valentine has had time to catch her bewildered breath.
“We have done wrong to leave her, Camilla,” she gasps, flurried and breathless. “We might have telegraphed to Vane, and waited until to-morrow. We have done wrong. Vane will be very angry.”
Miss Routh laughs—a laugh neither mirthful nor pleasant to hear. “Yes, Dorothy,” she says, sweetly, ” I think he will. But not with us. We have obeyed orders. Yes, he will be angry, and I think—I think with reason.”
“Then why,” demands Miss Valentine, with acerbity, “did you urge me to come? I would have stayed with her, but you said——”
“I said Vane had ordered us not to stay, and I said truly. We have done as commanded—he has no right or reason to find fault with us. To-morrow is but one more day—to-morrow he will return for her, and then——”
“Well—and then?” says the elder woman, struck by the strange look Camilla Routh’s face wears.
“And then he will bring her to Flintbarrow—perhaps,” answers Camilla, with her most suggestive smile.
* * * * * *
Dolores’ excuse has been something more than a mere excuse; her head does ache with a dull, persistent pain. But as the carriage rolls away she gets up and dresses not in one of her pretty, much-embroidered morning robes, but in the plainest traveling suit her wardrobe contains. For she is going on a journey to-day, though not to Cornwall—a very long journey, and Manor Valentine is to know her no more. This is the end. All she can bear she has borne; flight alone is left. Death were better than what awaits her in that desolate house down by the Cornish sea. Life by the side of Vane Valentine is at an end for all time. Outrage, insult, sneers, neglect, have been her portion from the first in this hated house—this house to which neither she nor the man who is her husband has any longer claim. To-day she quits it to return no more. She has thought it out, over and over again, during these two silent, secluded days; no one shall know whither she goes, not even Rene—least of all Rene. He is still at the village inn, she is aware; but she will neither see him nor write to him. She is going to her one faithful friend, Jemima Ann, waiting for the answer to her letter in her London lodgings, and with her she will return to America. What she will do when she gets there she does not yet know; time enough for that; at present she has but one thought, escape, before her husband comes. To-morrow night he will be here, angry, suspicious, more sullen and despotic than ever; her escape must be secured before that time. And once away, no power on earth shall compel her to return. Come what may—death itself—she will never return to this life from which she flies.
She dresses. She packs a satchel with some needful things; she takes the jewels given her by Madam Valentine, and money sufficient for all present needs. If these things are not hers, they are not at least the property of Vane Valentine. If M. Paul is their rightful owner, M. Paul is her true and generous friend. Then she rings for tea and toast, and makes an effort to eat. Strength is necessary—courage, presence of mind. Hope is rising within her. Once free, once with Jemima, once far from this house, once across the ocean, once fairly out of the power of her tyrant and Camilla Routh, and she fears nothing—neither work, nor poverty, nor homelessness. She will be free! Her heart beats at the thought. A few weeks more of this life would drive her mad.
The house is very still, in its long forenoon repose. The servants are engaged in their various duties—the watchful Lucy has gone with her mistress. No one notices the quiet figure that, vailed and cloaked, with hand-bag and shawl strap, leaves the house by a side entrance, and disappears amid the thick growth of the park-lane. She takes the short cut to the station, along which Rene came, and found her the other day—there is a London up-train at eleven-fifty. At the turn where the path branches off and the house disappears, she turns for a moment, aversion, hatred, strong in her face, and looks back. It is a leaden, sunless day, threatening rain—the gray old Manor looks grayer and more gruesome than she has ever seen it. How utterly miserable from the very first she has been there! With a shudder she turns away, pulls her vail over her face, and hurries on.
She is in excellent time. She takes her ticket, and, hidden behind her thick vail, waits. No one she knows is at the station—the village folks have seen very little of her during her brief reign at the Manor House. Presently the train rushes in; she slips into an empty carriage; a moment more and she is speeding on her London way—flying from Valentine—free!
