CHAPTER XXXV

IN WHICH CERTAIN CHANGES MAY BE DISCERNED

Behind his white plaster of composure, Lord Fleetwood had alternately

raged and wondered during the passage of the Welsh cavalcade up Eastward:

a gigantic burlesque, that would have swept any husband of their heroine

off the scene had he failed to encounter it deferentially, preserving his

countenance and ostensibly his temper. An idiot of a woman, incurable in

her lunacy, suspects the father of the infant as guilty of designs done

to death in romances; and so she manages to set going solemnly a bigger

blazing Tom Fool's show than any known or written romance gives word of!

And that fellow, Gower Woodseer, pleads, in apology, for her husband's

confusion, physiologically, that it comes of her having been carried off

and kept a prisoner when she was bearing the child and knitting her whole

mind to ensure the child. But what sheer animals these women are, if they

take impressions in such a manner! And Mr. Philosopher argues that the

abusing of women proves the hating of Nature; names it 'the commonest

insanity, and the deadliest,' and men are 'planted in the bog of their

unclean animal condition until they do proper homage to the animal Nature

makes the woman be.' Oh, pish, sir!--as Meeson Corby had the habit of

exclaiming when Abrane's 'fiddler' argues him into a corner. The fellow

can fiddle fine things and occasionally clear sense:--'Men hating Nature

are insane. Women and Nature are close. If it is rather general to hate

Nature and maltreat women, we begin to see why the world is a mad world.'

That is the tune of the fiddler's fiddling. As for him, something

protects him. He was the slave of Countess Livia; like Abrane, Mallard,

Corby, St. Ombre, young Cressett, and the dozens. He is now her master.

Can a man like that be foolish, in saying of the Countess Carinthia, she

is 'not only quick to understand, she is in the quick of understanding'?

Gower Woodseer said it of her in Wales, and again on the day of his walk

up to London from Esslemont, after pedestrian exercise, which may heat

the frame, but cools the mind. She stamped that idea on a thoughtful

fellow.

He's a Welshman. They are all excitable,--have heads on hound's legs for

a flying figure in front. Still, they must have an object, definitely

seen by them--definite to them if dim to their neighbours; and it will

run in the poetic direction: and the woman to win them, win all classes

of them, within so short a term, is a toss above extraordinary. She is

named Carinthia--suitable name for the Welsh pantomimic procession. Or

cry out the word in an amphitheatre of Alpine crags,--it sounds at home.

She is a daughter of the mountains,--should never have left them. She is

also a daughter of the Old Buccaneer--no poor specimen of the fighting

Englishman of his day. According to Rose Mackrell, he, this Old

Buccaneer, it was, who, by strange adventures, brought the great Welsh

mines into the family! He would not be ashamed in spying through his

nautical glass, up or down, at his daughter's doings. She has not yet

developed a taste for the mother's tricks:--the mother, said to have been

a kindler. That Countess of Cressett was a romantic little fly-away bird.

Both parents were brave: the daughter would inherit gallantry. She

inherits a kind of thwarted beauty. Or it needs the situation seen in

Wales: her arms up and her unaffrighted eyes over the unappeasable growl.

She had then the beauty coming from the fathom depths, with the torch of

Life in the jaws of Death to light her: beauty of the nether kingdom

mounting to an upper place in the higher. Her beauty recognized, the name

of the man who married her is not Longears--not to himself, is the main

point; nor will it be to the world when he shows that it is not so to

himself.

Suppose he went to her, would she be trying at domination? The woman's

pitch above woman's beauty was perceived to be no intermittent beam, but

so living as to take the stamp of permanence. More than to say it was

hers, it was she. What a deadly peril brought into view was her

character-soul, some call it: generally a thing rather distasteful in

women, or chilling to the masculine temperament. Here it attracts. Here,

strange to say, it is the decided attraction, in a woman of a splendid

figure and a known softness. By rights, she should have more

understanding than to suspect the husband as guilty of designs done to

death in romances. However, she is not a craven who compliments him by

rearing him, and he might prove that there is no need for fear. But she

would be expecting explanations before the reconcilement. The bosom of

these women will keep on at its quick heaving until they have heard

certain formal words, oaths to boot. How speak them?

His old road of the ladder appeared to Fleetwood an excellent one for

obviating explanations and effecting the reconcilement without any

temporary seeming forfeit of the native male superiority. For there she

is at Esslemont now; any night the window could be scaled. 'It is my

husband.' The soul was in her voice when she said it.

He remembered that it had not ennobled her to him then; had not endeared;

was taken for a foreign example of the childish artless, imperfectly

suited to our English clime.' The tone of adorable utterances, however

much desired, is never for repetition; nor is the cast of divine sweet

looks; nor are the particular deeds-once pardonable, fitly pleaded. A

second scaling of her window--no, night's black hills girdle the scene

with hoarse echoes; the moon rushes out of her clouds grimacing. Even

Fleetwood's devil, much addicted to cape and sword and ladder, the

vulpine and the gryphine, rejected it.

For she had, by singular transformation since, and in spite of a deluging

grotesque that was antecedently incredible, she had become a personage,

counting her adherents; she could put half the world in motion on her

side. Yell those Welshmen to scorn, they were on a plane finding native

ground with as large a body of these English. His baser mind bowed to the

fact. Her aspect was entirely different; her attitude toward him as well:

insomuch that he had to chain her to her original features by the

conjuring of recollected phrases memorable for the vivid portraiture of

her foregone simplicity and her devotion to 'my husband.'

Yes, there she was at Essleinont, securely there, near him, to be seen

any day; worth claiming, too; a combatant figure, provocative of the

fight and the capture rather than repellent. The respect enforced by her

attitude awakened in him his inherited keen old relish for our

intersexual strife and the indubitable victory of the stronger, with the

prospect of slavish charms, fawning submission, marrowy spoil. Or

perhaps, preferably, a sullen submission, reluctant charms; far more

marrowy. Or who can say?--the creature is a rocket of the shot into the

fiery garland of stars; she may personate any new marvel, be an

unimagined terror, an overwhelming bewitchment: for she carries the

unexpected in her bosom. And does it look like such indubitable victory,

when the man, the woman's husband, divided from her, toothsome to the

sex, acknowledges within himself and lets the world know his utter

dislike of other women's charms, to the degree that herbal anchorites

positively could not be colder, could not be chaster: and he no forest

bird, but having the garden of the variety of fairest flowers at nod and

blush about him! That was the truth. Even Henrietta's beauty had the

effect of a princess's birthday doll admired on show by a contemptuous

boy.

Wherefore, then, did the devil in him seek to pervert this loveliest of

young women and feed on her humiliation for one flashing minute? The

taste had gone, the desire of the vengeance was extinct, personal

gratification could not exist. He spied into himself, and set it down to

one among the many mysteries.

Men uninstructed in analysis of motives arrive at this dangerous

conclusion, which spares their pride and caresses their indolence, while

it flatters the sense of internal vastness, and invites to headlong

intoxication. It allows them to think they are of such a compound, and

must necessarily act in that manner. They are not taught at the schools

or by the books of the honoured places in the libraries, to examine and

see the simplicity of these mysteries, which it would be here and there a

saving grace for them to see; as the minstrel, dutifully inclining to the

prosy in their behalf and morality's, should exhibit; he should arrest

all the characters of his drama to spring it to vision and strike

perchance the chord primarily if not continually moving them, that

readers might learn the why and how of a germ of evil, its flourishing

under rebuke, the persistency of it after the fell creative energy has

expired and pleasure sunk to be a phlegmatic dislike, almost a loathing.

This would here be done, but for signs of a barometric dead fall in Dame

Gossip's chaps, already heavily pendent. She would be off with us on one

of her whirling cyclones or elemental mad waltzes, if a step were taken

to the lecturing-desk. We are so far in her hands that we have to keep

her quiet. She will not hear of the reasons and the change of reasons for

one thing and the other. Things were so: narrate them, and let readers do

their reflections for themselves, she says, denouncing our conscientious

method as the direct road downward to the dreadful modern appeal to the

senses and assault on them for testimony to the veracity of everything

described; to the extent that, at the mention of a vile smell, it shall

be blown into the reader's nostrils, and corking-pins attack the

comfortable seat of him simultaneously with a development of surprises.

'Thither your conscientiousness leads.'

It is not perfectly visible. And she would gain information of the

singular nature of the young of the male sex in listening to the wrangle

between Lord Fleetwood and Gower Woodseer on the subject of pocket-money

for the needs of the Countess Carinthia. For it was a long and an angry

one, and it brought out both of them, exposing, of course, the more

complex creature the most. They were near a rupture, so scathing was

Gower's tone of irate professor to shirky scholar--or it might be put,

German professor to English scuffleshoe.

She is for the scene of 'Chillon John's' attempt to restore the

respiration of his bank-book by wager; to wit, that he would walk a mile,

run a mile, ride a mile, and jump ten hurdles, then score five

rifle-shots at a three hundred yards' distant target within a count of

minutes; twenty-five, she says; and vows it to have been one of the most

exciting of scenes ever witnessed on green turf in the land of wagers;

and that he was accomplishing it quite certainly when, at the first of

the hurdles, a treacherous unfolding and waving of a white flag caused

his horse to swerve and the loss of one minute, seven and twenty seconds,

before he cleared the hurdles; after which, he had to fire his shots

hurriedly, and the last counted blank, for being outside the circle of

the stated time.

So he was beaten. But a terrific uproar over the field proclaimed the

popular dissatisfaction. Presently there was a cleavage of the mob, and

behold a chase at the heels of the fellow to rival the very captain

himself for fleetness. He escaped, leaving his pole with the sheet nailed

to it, by way of flag, in proof of foul play; or a proof, as the other

side declared, of an innocently premature signalizing of the captain's

victory.

However that might be, he ran. Seeing him spin his legs at a hound's

pace, half a mile away, four countrymen attempted to stop him. All four

were laid on their backs in turn with stupefying celerity; and on rising

to their feet, and for the remainder of their natural lives, they swore

that no man but a Champion could have floored them so. This again may

have been due to the sturdy island pride of four good men knocked over by

one. We are unable to decide. Wickedness there was, the Dame says; and

she counsels the world to 'put and put together,' for, at any rate, 'a

partial elucidation of a most mysterious incident.' As to the

wager-money, the umpires dissented; a famous quarrel, that does not

concern us here, sprang out of the dispute; which was eventually, after

great disturbance 'of the country, referred to three leading sportsmen in

the metropolitan sphere, who pronounced the wager 'off,' being two to

one. Hence arose the dissatisfied third party, and the letters of this

minority to the newspapers, exciting, if not actually dividing, all

England for several months.

Now the month of December was the month of the Dame's mysterious

incident. From the date of January, as Madge Winch knew, Christopher Ines

had ceased to be in the service of the Earl of Fleetwood. At Esslemont

Park gates, one winter afternoon of a North-east wind blowing 'rum-shrub

into men for a stand against rheumatics,' as he remarked, Ines met the

girl by appointment, and informing her that he had money, and that Lord

Fleetwood was 'a black nobleman,' he proposed immediate marriage. The

hymeneal invitation, wafted to her on the breath of rum-shrub, obtained

no response from Madge until she had received evasive answers as to why

the earl dismissed him, and whence the stock of money came.

Lord Fleetwood, he repeated, was a black nobleman. She brought him to say

of his knowledge, that Lord Fleetwood hated, and had reason to hate,

Captain Levellier. 'Shouldn't I hate the man took my sweetheart from me

and popped me into the noose with his sister instead?' Madge was now

advised to be overcome by the smell of rum-shrub:--a mere fancy drink

tossed off by heroes in their idle moments, before they settle down to

the serious business of real drinking, Kit protested. He simulated

envious admiration of known heroes, who meant business, and scorned any

of the weak stuff under brandy, and went at it till the bottles were the

first to give in. For why? They had to stomach an injury from the world

or their young woman, and half-way on they shoved that young person and

all enemies aside, trampled 'em. That was what Old O'Devy signified; and

many's the man driven to his consolation by a cat of a girl, who's like

the elements in their puffs and spits at a gallant ship, that rides the

tighter and the tighter for all they can do to capsize. 'Tighter than

ever I was tight I'll be to-night, if you can't behave.'

They fell upon the smack of words. Kit hitched and huffed away,

threatening bottles. Whatever he had done, it was to establish the

petticoated hornet in the dignity of matron of a champion light-weight's

wholesome retreat of a public-house. A spell of his larkish hilarity was

for the punishment of the girl devoted to his heroical performances, as

he still considered her to be, though women are notoriously volatile, and

her language was mounting a stage above the kitchen.

Madge had little sorrow for him. She was the girl of the fiery heart, not

the large heart; she could never be devoted to more than one at a time,

and her mistress had all her heart. In relation to Kit, the thought of

her having sacrificed her good name to him, flung her on her pride of

chastity, without the reckoning of it as a merit. It was the inward

assurance of her independence: the young spinster's planting of the,

standard of her proud secret knowledge of what she is, let it be a thing

of worth or what you will, or the world think as it may. That was her

thought.

Her feeling, the much livelier animation, was bitter grief, because her

mistress, unlike herself, had been betrayed by her ignorance of the man

into calling him husband. Just some knowledge of the man! The warning to

the rescue might be there. For nothing did the dear lady weep except for

her brother's evil fortune. The day when she had intelligence from Mrs.

Levellier of her brother's defeat, she wept over the letter on her knees

long hours. 'Me, my child, my brother!' she cried more than once. She had

her suspicion of the earl then, and instantly, as her loving servant had.

The suspicion was now no dark light, but a clear day-beam to Madge. She

adopted Kit's word of Lord Fleetwood. 'A black nobleman he is! he is!'

Her mistress had written like a creature begging him for money. He did

not deign a reply. To her! When he had seen good proof she was the

bravest woman on earth; and she rushed at death to save a child, a common

child; as people say. And who knows but she saved that husband of hers,

too, from bites might have sent him out of the world barking, and all his

wealth not able to stop him!

They were in the month of March. Her dear mistress had been begging my

lord through Mr. Woodseer constantly of late for an allowance of money;

on her knees to him, as it seemed; and Mr. Woodseer was expected at

Esslemont. Her mistress was looking for him eagerly. Something her heart

was in depended on it, and only her brother could be the object, for now

she loved only him of these men; though a gentleman coming over from

Barlings pretty often would pour mines of money into her lap for half a

word.

Carinthia had walked up to Croridge in the morning to meet her brother at

Lekkatts. Madge was left guardian of the child. She liked a stroll any

day round Esslemont Park, where her mistress was beginning to strike

roots; as she soon did wherever she was planted, despite a tone of pity

for artificial waters and gardeners' arts. Madge respected them. She knew

nothing of the grandeur of wildness. Her native English veneration for

the smoothing hand of wealth led her to think Esslemont the home of all

homes for a lady with her husband beside her. And without him, too, if he

were wafted over seas and away: if there would but come a wind to do

that!

The wild North-easter tore the budded beeches. Master John Edward Russett

lay in the cradling-basket drawn by his docile donkey, Martha and Madge

to right and left of him; a speechless rustic, graduating in footman's

livery, to rear.

At slow march round by the wrinkled water, Madge saw the park gates flung

wide. A coach drove up the road along on the farther rim of the circle,

direct for the house. It stopped, the team turned leisurely and came at a

smart pace toward the carriage-basket. Lord Fleetwood was recognized.

He alighted, bidding one of his grooms drive to stables. Madge performed

her reverence, aware that she did it in clumsy style; his presence had

startled her instincts and set them travelling.

'Coldish for the youngster,' he said. 'All well, Madge?'

'Baby sleeps in the air, my lord,' she replied. 'My lady has gone to

Croridge.'

'Sharp air for a child, isn't it?'

'My lady teaches him to breathe with his mouth shut, like her father

taught her when she was little. Our baby never catches colds.'

Madge displayed the child's face.

The father dropped a glance on it from the height of skies.

'Croridge, you said?'

'Her uncle, Lord Levellier's.'

'You say, never catches cold?'

'Not our baby, my lord.'

Probably good management on the part of the mother. But the wife's

absence disappointed the husband strung to meet her, and an obtrusion of

her practical motherhood blurred the prospect demanded by his present

step.

'When do you expect her to return, Madge?'

'Before nightfall, my lord.'

'She walks?'

'Oh yes, my lady is fond of walking.'

'I suppose she could defend herself?'

'My lady walks with a good stick.'

Fleetwood weighed the chances; beheld her figure attacked, Amazonian.

'And tell me, my dear--Kit?'

I don't see more of Kit Ines.'

'What has the fellow done?'

'I'd like him to let me know why he was dismissed.'

'Ah. He kept silent on that point.'

'He let out enough.'

'You've punished him, if he's to lose a bonny sweetheart, poor devil!

Your sister Sally sends you messages?'

'We're both of us grateful, my lord.'

He lifted the thin veil from John Edward Russett's face with a loveless

hand.

'You remember the child bitten by a dog down in Wales. I have word from

my manager there. Poor little wretch has died--died raving.'

Madge's bosom went shivering up and sank. 'My lady was right. She's not

often wrong.'

'She's looking well?' said the earl, impatient with her moral

merits:--and this communication from Wales had been the decisive motive

agent in hurrying him at last to Esslemont. The next moment he heard

coolly of the lady's looking well. He wanted fervid eulogy of his wife's

looks, if he was to hear any.