A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) 📖

know it? And as I didn’t expect even your

society, Mr. Locksley—I came away. They left by the early train this

morning.”

 

“They—who?”

 

“Lady Dynely and Eric. Oh, you don’t know, then—I thought perhaps she

had told you over your chessmen last evening. Yes, they started for

Lincolnshire this morning—to be gone a week at the least; and I am

queen regent, monarch of all I survey, until their return. The first use

I make of my liberty is to spend a whole long day at dear old

Caryllynne. It is not nearly so ancient nor so stately as the Abbey, but

I love it a hundred times more. Have you ever been there, Mr. Locksley?”

 

She looked up at him, half wondering at the dark gravity of his face.

 

“I have been there, Miss Forrester.”

 

“Indeed! Strange that Mrs. Matthews, the housekeeper, told me nothing

about it.”

 

“I have not been in the house.”

 

“Then you have missed an artistic treat. The Caryll picture gallery is

the pride of the neighborhood; there is nothing like it in the whole

country. Mrs. Caryll, as I have told you, is really a devotee of art,

and always was. There are Cuyp’s, and Wouverman’s, and Sir Joshua’s

portrait, and sunsets by Turner, and sunrises by Claude Lorraine, a

gallery of modern and a gallery of Venetian art. Oh, you really must see

it, and at once. I shall drive you over and play cicerone. Nothing I

like so well as showing the dear, romantic old Manor.”

 

“You are most kind, Miss Forrester,” he said, with a sort of effort,

“but it is quite impossible. I mean,” seeing her look of surprise, “that

as I leave Devonshire to-morrow, I will have no time. Wandering artists

don’t keep valets, so I must attend to the packing of my own

portmanteau, and that, with some letters to write, will detain me until

midnight.”

 

He was not looking at her, else he might have seen and possibly

understood the swift, startled pallor that came over her face.

 

“You are going away?” she said, slowly.

 

“The portrait is finished, my work here is done. I owe Lady Dynely and

you, Miss Forrester, many thanks for your kind efforts to render my

sojourn agreeable.”

 

“If Lady Dynely were here,” Miss Forrester answered, her color

returning, and in her customary gay manner, “she would say the thanks

were due you, for helping to while away two poor women’s long, dull

evenings. Isn’t it rather a pity to go before she returns? She will

regret it extremely, I know.”

 

“If I had known of this sudden departure, I would have made my adieux to

her ladyship last night. May I further trespass on your great kindness,

Miss Forrester, and charge you with my farewell?”

 

She bent her head and set her lips a little as she cut the ponies

sharply with her whip. It had come upon her almost like a blow, this

sudden revelation, but her pride and thorough training hid all sign.

 

“Artists are like gypsies—ever on the wing—that I know of old. And

whither do you go, Mr. Locksley? Back to the green lanes and rural quiet

and the inspiring surroundings of old Brompton.”

 

“Farther still,” he said, with a smile; “to Spain. I have roamed almost

over every quarter of the habitable globe in my forty years of life, but

Spain is still a terra incognita. I have had an intense desire ever

since I gave myself up wholly to art to make a walking tour over the

country. One should find a thousand subjects there for brush and

pencil.”

 

“To Spain,” she repeated, mechanically; “and then?”

 

“Well, I can hardly say. I shall devote a year at least to Spain, and

then most probably I shall return to Rome and make it my headquarters

for life.”

 

There was dead silence. The ponies bowled swiftly along; the road that

led to the village had long been passed. Neither noticed it. The

thoughtful gravity had deepened on his face. Her hands grasped the reins

tightly, her lips were set in a certain rigid line. Her voice, when she

spoke again, had lost somewhat of its clear, vibrating ring.

 

“You picture a very delightful future, Mr. Locksley; I almost envy you.

Oh, no need to look incredulous—the Bohemian life is the freest,

brightest, happiest on earth, but it is not for me. What I waylaid you

for—to return to first principles—is this. I have had a letter from my

dear old guardian, Mrs. Caryll, and she begs me to send her a duplicate

of my portrait. She has one, but that was painted five years ago, and I

have been chanting the praises of your handiwork until she is seized

with a longing for a copy. You flatter me so charmingly on canvas, Mr.

Locksley, that I really should like to gratify her if it were possible

to procure her the copy. But I suppose all that is out of the question

now.”

 

“Mrs. Caryll shall have the copy. I trust she is well. I saw her so

often in Rome,” he said, half apologetically, “that I take an interest

in her naturally.”

 

“She is as well as she is ever likely to be,” France answered, rather

sadly, “and so lonely without me that I think of throwing over

everything and going back to join her. I should infinitely prefer it,

but she will not hear of it and neither will Lady Dynely. I must remain,

it seems, and run the round of Vanity Fair whether I wish it or not. I

ought not to complain—I did enjoy last season. Come what will,” with

a half laugh, “I have been blessed.”

 

“Mrs. Caryll has no intention then of returning to England?”

 

“She will never return. It is full of bitter associations for her. It

would break her heart to see poor old Caryllynne.”

 

“She still takes her son’s wrongdoing so much to heart—she is still so

bitter against him? Pardon me, Miss Forrester, I have heard that story,

of course.”

 

“There is no apology needed. You will wonder, perhaps when I tell you,

you remind us all of him. That is the secret of Lady Dynely’s interest

in you from the first.”

 

The clear, penetrating, hazel eyes were fixed full on his face. That

trained face never moved a muscle.

 

“As to being bitter against him,” pursued France, “it is just the

reverse. It is remorse for her own cruelty that drives her nearly to

despair at times. For she was cruel to him, poor fellow, when he came to

her in his great trouble and shame—most cruel, most unmotherly. He came

to her in his sorrow and humiliation, and she drove him from her with

bitter scorn and anger. That is the thought that blights her life,

that has preyed upon her health, that makes the thought of home horrible

to her. She drove him from her into poverty and exile here, and here she

will never return. A thousand times she has said to me, that, to look

upon his face once more, to hold him in her arms, to hear him say he

forgave her, she would give up her very life, give up all things except

her hope of Heaven.”

 

“She has said that?”

 

She was too wrapped in her subject to heed his husky voice, to mark the

change that had come over his face.

 

“Again and again. The hope of seeing him once more is the sole hope that

keeps her alive.”

 

“She thinks that he is still living?”

 

“She thinks it. Every year since that time, with the exception of the

two last, he has sent her some remembrance. A line, a trinket, a flower,

a token of some sort to let her know he still exists. Those tokens have

come to her from every quarter of the globe. India, Africa, America, and

all countries of Europe. There is never an address—merely the post-mark

to denote whence they came, and his name in his own familiar hand. Ah!

if we but knew where to look for him—where to find him, I believe I

would travel the wide earth over, if at the end I could find Gordon

Caryll.”

 

“Miss Forrester! you would do this?”

 

“A hundred times more than this! He was my hero, Mr. Locksley, as far

back as I can remember. There is no one, in all the world, I long so to

see.”

 

“And yet the day that finds him robs you of a fortune.”

 

She looked up at him indignantly, impetuous tears in her eyes, an

excited flush on either dusk cheek, more beautiful than he had ever seen

her.

 

“A fortune! Mr. Locksley, do you think no better of me than that? Oh!

what would a million fortunes be to the joy of seeing him once more—of

restoring him to his mother! Caryllynne is not mine—only held in trust.

One day or other, I feel, Gordon Caryll will return, and then ‘the king

shall have his own again!’”

 

What was it she read in the face of the man looking down at her?

Something more than intense admiration surely, though she read that

there plainly enough. It brought her down from her heroics, from

cloudland to earth, from romance to her sober senses. She pulled up the

ponies sharply.

 

“We must go back,” she said, in a constrained tone. “I have passed the

turning to the village. As you insist upon going at once to the inn, I

suppose a ‘wilful man must have his way.’”

 

He touched the reins lightly with his hand, and checked her in the act

of turning.

 

“Excuse me, Miss Forrester; I have changed my mind. I resist no longer.

Since you are so kind as to be my guide, I will gladly go with you to

Caryllynne and see the picture.”

 

She looked at him again—rather haughtily it seemed.

 

“You are quite sure it is your wish, Mr. Locksley, and not a matter of

politeness? You are quite sure it will not inconvenience you at all?”

 

“Quite sure, Miss Forrester. I wish to go.”

 

She turned without a word and drove off. The distance was short. In a

few minutes the great Manor gates were reached, and not an instant too

soon. The summer storm, threatening all day, was upon them at last. As

they passed beneath the lofty arch of masonry, two great drops splashed

upon their faces.

 

They sped up the avenue, beneath the dark waving trees, at full speed. A

groom came out to take the horses. Two or three old servants, on board

wages, still kept up the place. Not an instant too soon; the rain was

beginning to fall heavily and fast, and a sharp flash of blue lightning

cut the dark air.

 

“Hurry! hurry!” was Miss Forrester’s cry, as, laughing and breathless,

she ran up the steps. “Welcome to Caryllynne, Mr. Locksley!”

 

He removed his hat with a certain reverence, as though he stood in a

church; emotion on his face she could not read. She led the way into the

vast tiled hall, the black and white marble flooring covered with skins

of wild beasts.

 

Mrs. Mathews, the housekeeper, came forward to receive her young lady.

 

“We have come to see the pictures, Mrs. Mathews,” Miss Forrester said,

“and, as we appear to be storm-bound for some hours, I think I must ask

you to give us some lunch. This is Mr. Locksley, and as Mr. Locksley has

not dined, pray give us something that will serve as a substitute.”

 

Sixteen years ago Mrs. Mathews had been housekeeper