A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) đ
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Abbey gates. There is a garden party of some kind, he sees, as he
strolls languidly up to the house. This gentleman, who has not attained
his majority, has a certain weary and worn-out air, as though life were
a very old story indeed, and rather a tiresome mistakeâthe ânothing
new, and nothing true, and it donât signifyâ manner to perfection.
It is a most exquisite evening. Overhead there is a sky like Italy,
golden-gray in the shadow, primrose and pink in the light, a full moon
rising over the tree-tops, a few bright stars winking facetiously down
at grim old earth, a faint breeze just stirring the roses, and clematis,
and jessamine, and honeysuckle, and wafting abroad subtle incense, and
the nightingales piping their musical, plaintive vesper song. It is
unutterably beautiful, but to all its beauty Lord Dynely is deaf and
blind. It has been a hot, stifling day, that he knows; it is rather
cooler now, that is all. What he does see is a group of fair English
girls, in robes of white, and pink, and pale green, playing croquet
under the beeches, and his tired eyes light a little at the sight.
Wherever and whenever Lord Dynely may light upon a pretty girl, or group
of them, all his earthly troubles vanish at once. It was a weakness,
many cynical friends said, inherited honestly enough from his late noble
father.
The group clicking the croquet balls did not see him, but as he drew
near, a lady standing on the terrace, gazing thoughtfully at the
twilight shadows, did, and there was a quick start, a quick uprising,
and a rush to meet him, a glad, joyful cry:
âOh, Eric! my son! my son!â
He permitted her embrace rather than returned it. It was too warm for
powerful domestic emotions of any sort, Eric thought, and then women
always went in for kissing and raptures upon the smallest provocation.
He let himself be embraced, and then gently extricated himself, and
glanced backward at the group.
âA croquet party, mother!â he said. âDo I know them? Ah, yes, I see the
Deveres and the Dorman girls? Is Franceâ? How is France? She is not
among them?â
âFrance is somewhere in the grounds. Oh, my boy! how good it seems to
have you at home againâhow anxiously I have awaited your coming. We
expected you in London at the beginning of the season.â
âWe?â his lordship says, interrogatively.
âFrance and I. Do you know, Eric, that France has been the sensation of
the season, the most admired girl in London. Lord Evergoil proposed, and
was rejected; but, Eric, you ran a great risk.â
âDid I? Of losing Miss Forrester? I could have survived it,â he answers,
coolly.
âDonât say that, Ericâyou donât mean it, I know,â Lady Dynely says,
with a singularly nervous, frightened look. âYou cannot do betterâit is
impossible. She is of one of the oldest families in the kingdom; she is
handsome, accomplished, and fascinating, and she comes into two
fortunes, her own and Mrs. Caryllâs. Eric, I shall break my heart if
you do not marry her.â
âHearts donât break, dear motherâphysicians have discovered that; it is
an exploded delusion. And as to Miss Forresterâs accomplishments and
fascinations, do you know I rather find that sort of young person hang
heavy on handâI prefer people of less superhuman acquirements. For the
fortuneâwell, I may not be a Marquis of Westminster, but the rent roll
is a noble one, and its lord need never sell himself.â
Lady Dynely has turned quite whiteâa dead, gray pallorâas she listens.
Is he going to throw over France and her fortune after all? Must she
tell him the truth in order to make him speak? Before she can turn to
him again, he speaks, more cheerfully this time.
âTime enough for all that,â he says; âdonât look so pale and terrified,
mother mine. One would think I were a pauper, reduced to heiress-hunting
or starvation. Where is France? I will go in search of her, and pay my
respects.â
âShe went down the lime walk half an hour ago with Mr. Locksley.â
âMr. Locksley? A new name. Who is Mr. Locksley?â
âMr. Locksley is an artist; he is painting Franceâs portrait. He made a
hit at the Academy this year, and I prevailed upon him to come with us
down here.â
âOh, you did! And he is received en famille, I suppose, and France
takes solitary strolls with him, does she?â responds Eric, lifting his
eyebrows. âIt seems to me, my good mother, you donât look after your
only sonâs interests so very sharply after all. The lime walk, did you
say? I will go and flush this covey at once.â
He turns away. His mother stands where he has left her and watches the
tall, slender figure, the slow, graceful walk.
âHe grows handsomer every year,â she thinks, in her love and admiration.
âGo where I will I see nothing like him. Oh, my boy! if you only knew
that you may be a very pauper indeed. That on the mercy of Terry
Dennison your whole fortune may hang. If I could only summon courage and
end all this deception, and secrecy, and suspense at once. Terry is so
good, so generous, he loves me so; he is fonder of Eric than any
brother; he would rather die than give me pain. That is my only hope. If
the sins of the father must be visited on the children, oh, let not my
darling be the one to suffer.â
A selfish, a weak prayer, but passionately earnest at least. Her darling
had faded from her view, and her tear-filled eyes turned to another
figure taller still, with all the grace and elegant languor wanting,
only manly strength and vigor in their place. His deep laugh comes to
her at the moment, clear and merry as any school-boyâs.
âTerry will have mercy,â she thinks; âhe is the soul of generosity, and
his wants are so simple, his ambitions so few. With his commission, his
five hundred a year, and the vicarâs daughter for his wife, he will ask
no more of fate. I will tell him when he returns from Lincolnshire, and
I know, I feel, all will be well. And yet,ââher eyes went wistfully
over the fair expanse of park and woodland, and glade and terrace,
flower garden and fountains, all silvered in the radiance of the summer
moonââit is a great sacrificeâa sacrifice not one man in a hundred
would make.â
Meantime Lord Dynely had strolled down the lime walk, and emerged upon a
sylvan nook, commanding a view of forest near, and the distant shining
sea. Its soft wash reached the earâthe moon left a track of radiance as
it sailed up the serene sky. And this is the picture his lordship saw:
In a dress of gauzy white, Miss Forrester sat in a rustic chair, blue
ribbons floating, trailing roses in the rich brownness of her hair, a
great bunch of lilies of the valley in her lap, another cluster in the
bosom of her dress. Her coquettish âDolly Vardenâ hat lay on the grass
beside herâher eyes were fixed, full of dreamy light, on the shining
sky and sea, and the man who lay on the sward at her feet, reading
aloud. Poetry, of course, Tennyson of course, and âMaudâ as it chanced.
âI said to the rose, âThe brief night goes
In revel, and babble, and wine;
Oh! young lord lover! what sighs are those,
For one who will never be thine,
But mine, but mine!â So I swear to the rose,
âForever and ever mine.ââ
Pleasant first words to greet Lord Dynelyâs ears, pleasant tableau
vivant to greet his eyes.
Confound the fellow! A strolling artist, too. What presumption! Good
looking, no doubt; those painting fellows, with their long hair, and
picturesque faces, and velvet blouses, always play the mischief with
women. Reading poetry, at her feet. France Forresterâsâwhom he used to
think one of the proudest girls he knew. He had fancied her pining for
him, piqued at his absence. Certainly, flirtation was a game for two to
play at. She could amuse herself very well at home, it seemed, while he
amused himself abroad.
âTaking people by surprise is a mistake, I find,â he said, advancing.
âIf I donât disturb the exercises, Miss Forrester, perhaps you will turn
round and say good-evening.â
He stood before her, holding out his hand, a smile on his lips. She half
arose, turning very pale.
âEric!â
âEric, Miss Forresterâat last. I have been standing for the last five
minutes enjoying the poetry and the very pretty picture you two make
here in the twilight. Pray present me.â
âThere is no need, Miss Forrester. Unless Lord Dynelyâs memory be of the
shortest, I think he will recall me.â
Locksley arose to his feet as he spoke, and Lord Dynely saw him for the
first time. His face lit upâa look of real pleasure came into his
eyesâhe grasped the hand of the artist with a genuine warmth, all
unusual with him.
âLocksley? My dear fellow, what a surprise this is, you know. My mother
mentioned your name, but it never occurred to me you were the man. Who
would look for you in England?â
Locksley smiled.
âMy headquarters is Italy, certainly; but I come to England,
nevertheless. I have been here two years.â
âYou have met before,â France broke in; âyou never told me, Mr.
Locksley.â
âWas it necessary? I had the pleasure of doing Lord Dynely some slight
service two years ago, and saw a good deal of him for some weeks after.
But how could I tell he would remember? Two years is a considerable
time.â
âCynical, as usualâa Diogenes without the tub and cabbage leaves. A
slight service! Yes, I should think so. He saved my life, Franceâmy
boat upset in a squall in the Bay of Naples, and only he took a header
gallantly to the rescue, the Dynely succession would then and there have
been extinct. Odd I didnât remember your name the moment I heard it, but
I am very pleased to meet you here all the same.â
They had turned, and as by one impulse, walked back towards the house.
It was quite night now, the trees making ebony shadows across the ivory
light. The croquet players had adjourned to the house, and the balls and
mallets had given place to piano music and waltzing. On the portico
steps stood Terry, whistling and looking at the moon. He came eagerly
forward with outstretched hand, his honest eyes shining with pleasure.
âDear old man!â he said, giving Ericâs delicate digit a grip that made
him wince; âglad to have you back. Thought you were never
comingâthought some old Spanish hidalgo out there had got jealous, and
pinked you under the fifth rib in some dark corner. The madre is
beside herself with delight.â
âSoftly, Terryâsoftly,â says Lord Dynely, withdrawing his hand with a
slight grimace. âA moderate amount of affection I donât object to, but
donât let the grip of the muscular hand express the emotions of the
overflowing heart. They are tripping the light fantastic in thereâshall
we join them?â
They enter the drawing-roomâthere are more greetings and a few
introductions. The lord of the land has returnedâthe seigneur of
Dynely, the master, is in the house, and his presence makes itself felt
directly. He is in excellent spiritsâthrows off his languor, forgets to
be blasïżœ, and waltzes like a student at Mabille.
France declines; it
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