CHAPTER XXII.--GEORGETTE FRANKLIN'S STORY.
Next day I heard the stranger's story, and it was a sad one. Georgette
Franklin--for such was her unmarried name--was the last surviving
child of George Franklin, a decayed gentleman, who dwelt in Salop,
near the Welsh border--we need not precisely say where, but within
view of the green hills of Denbigh; for the swelling undulations of
the beautiful Clwydian range formed the background to the prospect
from the windows of that quaint old house which was nearly all that
survived of his hereditary patrimony. Stoke Franklin--so named as it
occupied the site of a timber dwelling of the Saxon times, coeval
perhaps with Offa's Dyke--was still surrounded by a defensive ditch or
moat, where now no water lay, but where, in the season, the primroses
grew in golden sheets on the emerald turf. It was an isolated edifice,
built of dark-red brick, with stone corners, stone mullions to its
quaint old sunken windows, and ogee pediments or gables above them,
also of stone. From foundation to chimneys it was quaint in style,
ancient in date, and picturesque in aspect. Long lines of elms, and in
some places pollard willows, marked the boundaries of what had been
the demesne of the Franklins; but piecemeal it had passed away to more
careful neighbours, and now little remained to George Franklin but the
ground whereon the old mansion-house stood, and that sombre green
patch in God's-acre, the neighbouring churchyard, where his wife and
their four children lay, near the ancient yew, the greenery of which
had decorated the altar in the yule feasts of centuries ago, and whose
sturdy branches had furnished bow-staves for the archers who shot
under his ancestors at Bosworth, at Shrewsbury, and Flodden Field.
George Franklin was not a misanthrope; far from it; but he lived very
much alone in the old house. His oaken library, so solemnly tranquil,
with its heavy dark draperies and book-hidden walls, when the evening
sun stole through the deep mullions of the lozenged and painted
windows, was his favourite resort. And a cozy room it proved in
winter, when the adjacent meres were frozen, and the scalp of Moel
Fammau was powdered with snow. There he was wont to sit, with
Georgette by his knee, he reading and she working; a bright-faced,
brown-haired, and lively girl, whose golden canaries and green
love-birds hung in every window; for the house was quite alive with
her feathered pets, and was as full of sound as an aviary with their
voices in summer. One warm evening in autumn, when Georgette was
verging on her eighteenth year, she and her father were seated near
the house-door, under a shady chestnut-tree. The sunshine lay bright
on the greensward, and on the wilderness of flowers and shrubs that
grew close to the massive red walls of the old mansion. Mr. Franklin
was idly lingering over a book and sipping a glass of some dark and
full-bodied old port--almost the last bottle that remained in his now
but ill-replenished cellar. And a very perfect picture the old man
made. His thin but stately figure; his features so patrician in
profile; his dress somewhat old in fashion; his hands, though faded,
so shapely, with a diamond ring on one finger, _the_ diamond ring of
which we have heard so much lately; and the handsome girl who hovered
about him, attending to his little wants, varying her kind offices
with playful caresses, while her white neck and her golden-brown hair
glittered in the sunshine--all this seemed to harmonise well with the
old house that formed the background to the picture. The evening was
quiet and still. The voices of Georgette's birds, her caged canaries
and piping bullfinches, came through the open windows; but there were
no other sounds, save once or twice when the notes of a distant
hunting-horn, prolonged and sad, came on the passing wind, and then
the old man would raise his head, and his clear eye would sparkle,
"As he thought of the days that had long since gone by,
When his spirit was bold and his courage was high;"
and when he, too, had followed that sound, and ridden across the
stiffest country, neck and neck with the best horsemen in Salop and
Cheshire.
Suddenly there came a shout, and a huntsman in red, minus his black
velvet cap, was seen to clear a beech-hedge on the border of the lawn;
and ere an exclamation of annoyance or indignation could escape old
George Franklin, that his privacy should be invaded, even by a
sportsman, in this unwonted manner, a cry of terror escaped Georgette;
for it was evident that the gentleman's horse had become quite
unmanageable, as the bridle-rein had given way; and after its terrible
leap, it came tearing at a mad pace straight towards the house, and
dashing itself head foremost against a tree, hurled the rider
senseless on the ground. He rolled to the very feet of Georgette and
her father, both of whom were full of pity and compassion, the former
all the more so that the stranger was undoubtedly a handsome man, and
barely yet in the prime of life. Aid was promptly summoned, and the
village doctor, anxious to serve, for a time at least, one whom he
deemed a wealthy patient, earnestly seconded, and even enforced, the
suggestion of the hospitable George Franklin, that the sufferer, whose
head was contused, and whose shoulder-blade had narrowly escaped
fracture, should neither be removed nor disturbed. Hence he was at
once assigned a room in the old mansion, with Georgette's old Welsh
nurse, now the housekeeper, to attend him. He was a man, however, of a
strong constitution, "one of those fellows who are hard to kill," as
he phrased it; thus, on the third morning after the accident, he was
well enough to make his way to the breakfast room.
Georgette, attired in a most becoming muslin dress, and looking fresh,
rosy, and innocent, as a young girl can only look who has left her
couch after a healthy slumber to greet the sunny morning, was standing
on a chair in an oriel, attending to the wants of one of her feathered
pets; suddenly the chair slipped, and she was about to fall, when a
strong arm, in the sleeve of a scarlet hunting-coat, encircled and
supported her. This little _contretemps_ made both parties at once at
home, and on easy terms.
"Mr. Guilfoyle!" exclaimed the girl, for it was he.
"Miss Franklin, I presume?"
"Are you well already?" she asked.
"Nearly so," said he, smilingly, as he took in all the girl's beauty
at a glance, together with the pleasant view beyond the antique oriel,
where the morning sun came down on the shining leaves, covering all
the dewy ground, as it were, with drops of golden light; and the
quaint old house, he thought, seemed such a pleasant home.
"How happy papa will be!" said the young lady, colouring slightly
under his somewhat critical gray--or rather green--eye. "I should have
nursed you myself, instead of old nurse Wynne," she added, archly.
"In that case I should have been in no hurry to announce my
convalescence," said he, rather pointedly; "may I ask your name--the
first one, I mean? Somehow, I fancy that I can judge of character by
the name."
"Georgette Franklin."
"Georgette!"
"I am called after papa."
"A charming name!" he exclaimed, but in a low tone.
Naturally frank and honest, purely innocent, and assured of her own
position, and of that of her father--for though poor now, he was one
of England's old untitled aristocracy--the girl felt neither
awkwardness nor shyness with her new friend, who, though polished in
manner, easy, and not ungraceful, was a thorough man of the world, and
selfishly ready to take advantage of every place and person who came
in his way; and a very simple one, indeed, was the kind old gentleman
who now came to welcome his visitor, to express fears that he had left
his couch too soon; and critically and keenly this hawk, who was now
in the dove's nest, eyed him, and saw, by the thinness of his hair,
his spare figure and wrinkled face, "delicately lined by such
characters as a silver _stylus_ might produce upon a waxen tablet,"
that his years could not be many now; yet his keen gray eyes were full
of bright intelligence still, and were shaded by lashes as long and
silky as those of his daughter.
Hunting and breakfast were discussed together. Mr. Guilfoyle seemed,
or affected to be, an enthusiast in old English sports, professing
that he loved them for themselves and from their associations; and
quite won George Franklin's heart by stigmatising the "iron horse" of
civilisation, which was now bearing all before it; and his host seemed
to grow young again, as he recurred to the field exploits of his
earlier years, over the same ground which Mr. Guilfoyle--who had been
on a visit to the house of some friend twenty miles distant--had
hunted so recently: round beautiful Ellesmere, by Halston and Hordley,
by the flat fields of Creamore, by the base of wooded Hawkstone, where
he had made many a terrible flying leap, and away by Acton Reynald;
all this ground had Guilfoyle gone over but lately, and, as the event
proved, almost fatally for his own bones, and more fatally for his
future peace of mind, as he pretty plainly indicated to Miss Franklin
on every available opportunity, in the softest and most well-chosen
language. Though able to leave his room, he was neither permitted to
leave the house nor attempt to mount; so he wrote to his friend, had
some of his wardrobe sent over to Stoke Franklin, and, encouraged by
the hearty hospitality of its owner, took up his quarters there for an
indefinite period; at least, until his hunting friend should depart
for Madeira, whither he had promised to accompany him; for Mr.
Hawkesby Guilfoyle seemed somewhat of a cosmopolitan, and rather
peripatetic in his habits. He had been over one half the world,
according to his own accounts, and fully intended to go over the
other; so he proved a very agreeable companion to the hitherto lonely
father and daughter in that secluded mansion in Salop. Merciful it is,
indeed, that none of us can lift the veil that hides the future; thus
little could George Franklin foresee the influence this man was to
exert over the fate of his daughter and himself, when he listened to
his plausible anecdotes, or sat alone and happy in his shady old
library, communing pleasantly with his ancient favourites--with
Geoffrey Chaucer, the knightly pages of Froissart, Dame Juliana
Berners on hunting and hawking, and works, rare as manuscripts, that
came from the antique press of Caxton and De Worde. Mr. Guilfoyle
found himself in very pleasant quarters, indeed. It was ever his
principle to improve the occasion or the shining hour. Georgette was
highly accomplished, and knew more than one language; so did he; so
week after week stole pleasantly away.
By them the touching airs of Wales, the merry _chansons_ of Wronger,
were played and sung together; and she it was, and no Princess of
Catzenelnbogen, who taught him that wild German farewell, with its
burden of "Leb'wohl! Leb'wohl!" we had heard at Craigaderyn Court.
Even Petrarch was not omitted by them; for he knew, or pretended to
know, a smattering of Italian, and translated the tenderest speeches
of Laura's lover with a _point_ that caused the young girl's heart to
vibrate with new and strange emotions. And now, ever and anon, there
was a heightened flush on her soft cheek, a bright sparkle in her dark
gray eye, a lightness in all her motions; she had moments of merry
laughter, alternated by others of dreamy sadness--that yet was not all
sadness--which showed that Georgette was in love.
And Guilfoyle, in his own fashion, loved her, too; but he had learned
that of all George Franklin's once noble estate, the house alone
remained, and that at his death even it must inevitably go to the
spoiler; so, though to love Georgette was very pleasant and sweet,
matrimony with her was not to be thought of. Money was the god of
Guilfoyle's idolatry, and he thought of the wonder of his "fast"
friends when they asked, "What did he get with his wife?" and how they
should laugh if they heard he had married for love. Yet Georgette had
become besotted--there is no other word for it, save infatuated--by
him; by one who had made flippant love with strange facility to many.
By degrees he artfully strove to warp or poison the girl's mind; but
finding that instinctively her innocence took the alarm after a time,
though she long misunderstood him, he quite as artfully changed his
tactics, and spoke sorrowfully of his imperative and approaching
departure for Madeira, of the agony such a separation would cause him;
"it might be for years, and it might be for ever," and so forth,
while, reclining in tears on his breast, the girl heard him. Taking
the right time, when she was thoroughly subdued or softened by love,
and fear lest she should lose him, he prayed her to elope or consent
to a private marriage--he was not without hopes that his hunting
friend might officiate as parson. This, he urged, would keep them true
to each other until his return and their final reunion; but to this
measure she would not consent.
"Come with me, then, to Madeira; we shall be back in a month, at
latest."
"But think of dear papa--my poor old papa," replied Georgette,
piteously; "worn as he is with years and infirmity, I cannot leave him
even for so short a time; for who will soothe his pillow when I am
gone?"
"Old moth--Mrs. Wynne can do all that; at least, until we return,"
said he, almost impatiently.
"But must you really go to Madeira?" pleaded the gentle voice.
"I must, indeed: business of the first importance compels me; in fact,
my funds are there," he added, with charming candour, as his hunting
friend had promised to frank him to Funchal and back again to London.
"We shall be gone but a short time, and when we return this dear old
house shall be brighter than ever, and together we shall enliven his
old age. We shall kneel at his feet, darling Georgie, and implore--"
"Why not kneel _now_," urged Georgette, "and beg his consent and
blessing?"
"Nay, that would be inopportune, absurd, melodramatic, and all that
sort of thing. Returning, we shall be linked in the fondest affection;
returning, he will be unable to resist our united supplications. Come,
darling, come with me. Let us despise the silly rules of society, and
the cold conventionalities of this heartless world! Let us live but
for each other, Georgie; and O, how happy we shall be, when we have
passed, through the medium of romance, into the prose of wedded life;
though that life, my darling, shall not be altogether without romance
to us!"
Overcome by the intensity of her affection for this man, her first and
only lover, the poor girl never analysed the inflated sophistries he
poured into her too willing ear, but sank, half fainting with delight,
upon his shoulder. Guilfoyle clasped her fondly in his arms; he
covered her brow, her eyes--and handsome eyes they were--her lips, and
braided hair, with kisses, and in his forcible but somewhat fatuous
language, poured forth his raptures, his love, and his vows of
attachment.
Suddenly a terror came over her, and starting from his arm, she half
repulsed him, with a sudden and sorrowful expression of alarm in her
eye.
"Leave me, Hawkesby," said she, "leave me, I implore you; I cannot
desert papa, now especially, when most he needs my aid. O, I feel
faint, very faint and ill! I doubt not your love, O, doubt not mine;
but--but--'
"I must and do doubt it," said he, sadly and gloomily. "But enough of
this; to-morrow I sail from Liverpool, and _then_ all shall be at an
end."
"O God, how lonely I shall be!" wailed the girl; "I would, dear
Hawkesby, that you had never come here."
"Or had broken my neck when my horse cleared yonder hedge," said he,
as his arm again went round her, and the strong deep love with which
he had so artfully succeeded in inspiring her, triumphed over every
sentiment of filial regard, of reason, and humanity. She forgot the
old parent who doted on her; the stately old ancestral home, that was
incrusted with the heraldic honours of the past; she forgot her
position in the world, and fled with the _parvenu_ Guilfoyle.
That night the swift express from Shrewsbury to Birkenhead, as it
swept through the beautiful scenery by Chirk and Oswestry, while the
wooded Wrekin sank flat and far behind, bore her irrevocably from her
home; but her father's pale, white, and wondering face was ever and
always upbraidingly before her. As Guilfoyle had foreseen, no proper
marriage could be celebrated at Liverpool ere the ship sailed from the
Mersey. He hurried her on board, and his hunting friend--a dissipated
man of the world, ordered to Madeira for the benefit of his
health--received the pale, shrinking, and already conscience-stricken
girl in the noisy cabin of the great steamer with a critical eye and
remarkably knowing smile, while his manner, that for the time was
veiled by well-bred courtesy, might have taught the poor dove that she
was in the snares of an unscrupulous fowler.
But ere the great ship had made the half of her voyage--about six
days--in her sickness of body and soul, the girl had made a friend and
confidant of the captain, a jolly and good-hearted man, who had girls
of his own at home; and he, summoning a clergyman who chanced to be on
board, under some very decided threats compelled Guilfoyle to perform
the part he had promised; so he and Georgette were duly wedded in the
cabin, while, under sail and steam, the vessel cleft the blue waves of
the western ocean, and her ensign was displayed in honour of the
event. But there the pleasure and the honour ended, too; and Guilfoyle
soon showed himself in his true colours, as a selfish and infamous
_roué_.
"Alas!" said she, weeping, "he no longer called me the pet names I
loved so well; or made a fuss with me, and caressed me, as he was wont
to do among the pleasant woods of Stoke Franklin. I felt that, though
he was my husband, he was a lover no longer! We had not been a
fortnight at Madeira when we heard that the vessel, on board of which
we were married, had perished at sea with all on board, including her
temporary chaplain. Then it was that Mr. Guilfoyle tore from me the
sole evidence of that solemn ceremony given to me by the clergyman,
and cast it in the flames before my face, declaring that then he was
free! Of our past love I had no relic but a gold locket containing his
likeness and bearing a date, the 1st of September, the day on which we
were married, with our initials, H. H. and G., and even that he rent
from me yesterday. Alas for the treachery of which some human hearts
are capable! We were _one_ no longer now, as the old song has it:
"'That time!--'tis now "long, long ago!"
Its hopes and joys all passed away!
On life's calm tide three bubbles glow;
And pleasure, youth, and love are they,
Hope paints them bright as bright can be,
Or did, when he and I were _we!_'
As a finishing stroke to his cruelty and perfidy, he suddenly quitted
Madeira, after some gambling transaction which brought the alcalde of
Funchal and other authorities upon him. He effected his escape
disguised as a vendor of sombreros and canary birds, and got clear
off, leaving a note by the tenor of which he bequeathed me to his
friend, with whom he left me at a solitary _quinta_ among the
mountains."
Though dissipated and "fast" by nature and habit, the latter was at
heart an English gentleman; and pitying the forlorn girl abandoned in
a foreign colony under circumstances so terrible, he sent her home;
and one day, some six months after her flight, saw her once more
standing irresolutely at the closed gate of the old manor-house of
Stoke Franklin.
The latter was empty now; the windows were closed, the bird-cages hung
there no more; the golden and purple crocuses she had planted were
peeping up from the fragrant earth, untended now; the pathways were
already covered with grass and mosses; untrimmed ivy nearly hid the
now unopened door; the old vanes creaked mournfully in the wind; and
save the drowsy hum of the bees, all spoke to her hopeless,
despairing, and remorseful heart of the silence and desolation that
follow death. The odour of last year's dead leaves was heavy on the
air. After a time she learned how rapidly her father had changed in
aspect, and how he had sunk after her disappearance--her desertion of
him; and how there came a time when the fine old gentleman, whose thin
figure half stooping, with his head bent forward musingly, his scant
white hair floating over the collar of his somewhat faded coat, his
kindly but wrinkled face, his tasselled cane trailing behind him from
his folded hands, whilom so familiar in the green lanes about Stoke
Franklin, and who was always welcomed by the children that gambolled
on the village green or around the old stone cross, and the decayed
wooden stocks that stood thereby, appeared no more. A sudden illness
carried him off, or he passed away in his sleep, none knew precisely
which; and then another mound under the old yew-tree was all that
remained to mark where the last of the Franklins, the last of an old,
old Saxon line, was laid.
I promised to assist her if I could, though without the advice of a
legal friend I knew not very clearly what to do; besides, knowing what
lawyers usually are, I had never included one in the circle even of my
acquaintances. Estelle's long silence, and the late episode in the
lane, chiefly occupied my thoughts while riding back to the barracks,
where somewhat of a shock awaited me.