Archibald Malmaison Page 11

  X.

  It was not long before the new baronet--the last of his line--began to makehis influence felt. His temper was resolute, secret, and domineering; hebore himself haughtily among the neighboring squires, never seeking toplease a friend or to conciliate an enemy. Few people liked him; manystood in awe of him. He seemed to be out of sympathy with his race; hisstrange, ambiguous history invested him with an atmosphere of doubt andmystery; his nature was not like other men's; it was even whispered thathe had powers transcending those of ordinary humanity. It is probable thathis remarkable personal beauty, which in moments of anger or energygleamed out with an almost satanic intensity, may have lent substance tothis impression; men shrunk from meeting the stern inquisition of hisblack eyes; and for women his glance possessed a sort of fascination,unconnected with his beauty. But there were other indications more directthan these. A century, or even half a century, previous to this time SirArchibald might have found it difficult to avoid the imputation ofwitchcraft. After all, was not he the descendant of his forefathers? andwhat had some of them been? "Were there not people in the neighboringvillage of Grinstead who were willing to take affidavit that the handsomeyoung baronet had the power to make himself invisible when he pleased?Nay, had not Mrs. Pennroyal herself, while she was yet a young maid,borne testimony to the fact--that he had suddenly stood before her, inbroad daylight, in a room which had the instant before been empty? Thatroom had always had a queer reputation; it was there, or thereabouts, thatmost of these strange goings-on took place. A servant, who had oncewandered in there to announce to Sir Archibald that one of his lawyers hadarrived, and was waiting to see him, had found the room vacant, though hehad seen his master enter it only ten minutes before. Thinking that hemust have gone out by the other entrance, through the stable, he was aboutto follow, when he noticed that this door was bolted on the inside. Insome bewilderment, he was on the point of retiring, when he was startledby a burst of laughter which continued for near a minute, and which,though it echoed almost in his ears, and came apparently from the very airround about him, yet sounded faint and unsubstantial as if a vast distancenevertheless intervened. Whether near or far, it was unmistakably thelaughter of Sir Archibald, but wilder and more scornful than had ever beenheard from his lips. The honest footman was now thoroughly frightened, andmade the best of his way out of the chamber; but before he could cross thenext room and reach the passage-way beyond, the living and peremptorytones of Sir Archibald himself overtook him, and brought him back withfailing knees and pallid cheeks to where the black-haired baronet wasstanding in the doorway. There he stood in flesh and blood, but cloaked,booted, and spurred, as if just returned from a journey.

  "What were you doing in this room?" demanded the baronet.

  The man faltered out his errand.

  "Hear this, once for all, and remember it," said the baronet, nor sternlynor roughly, but with a concentration of purpose in his mellow voice thatseemed to stamp the words into the hearer's soul. "No one may enter thischamber except I open the door. Else harm may happen which I could notprevent. That is all. Now send Mr. Mawgage to me."

  That was all, but it was quite enough; in fact, the difficulty thereafterwas to induce any one to venture into the room on any terms. It wasbelieved to be haunted, and that Sir Archibald was either himself theghost, or was in some way responsible for there being one.

  I have mentioned this story, to which the reader already possesses theclew, only by way of showing that Sir Archibald was making use, at thattime, of the secret which he had discovered, and was taking the surestmeans of keeping it to himself. He had occupations in the inner chamber atwhich he did not wish to be disturbed. What those occupations were heconfided to no living soul--indeed, there was no one who could have servedhim as a confidant. His life was a lonely one, if ever a lonely life therewere. Whom had he to love, or to love him? Even his mother, now enfeebledboth in body and mind, felt fear of him rather than fondness for him. Shespent much of her time playing cards with her female companion, and inworrying over the health of her pet spaniels. But did Sir Archibald loveno one?--at all events he hated somebody, and that heartily. He heldRichard Pennroyal responsible for all the ills that had fallen uponMalmaison and upon himself; and he was evidently not the man to suffer agrudge to go unrequited.

  Pennroyal, on the other hand, was not disposed to wait quietly to beattacked; he came out to meet the enemy half way. In the spring of theyear 1824--about nine months after Sir Edward's death--it was known inevery mansion and public house for twenty miles round that a great lawsuitwould by-and-by be commenced between Malmaison and Pennroyal, the questionto be decided being nothing less than the ownership of the Malmaisonestates, which Richard Pennroyal claimed, in the alleged failure of anylegitimate heir of Sir John Malmaison, deceased--the father of SirClarence--but, as Pennroyal alleged, by a left-handed marriage. I have notgone into the details of this case, and should not detain the reader overit if I had; he may, if it pleases him, read it at full length elsewhere.It is enough to observe that Pennroyal brought forward evidence to showthat he, and his father before him, had always had cognizance of the willor other document which entitled him to the property in dispute in theevent provided for; and had only been withheld from putting in their claimthereto by the repeated and solemn assurances of Sir Clarence that no suchirregularity as was suspected regarding his birth had in fact occurred.Latterly, however, from fresh information accidentally received, itappeared that Sir Clarence had either been guilty of a wilful and criminalmisstatement, or that he had been deceived. In confirmation whereof, theHonorable Richard produced documents of undoubted genuineness, showingthat an illegitimate son had been born to Sir John; and now called uponthe defendant to prove that this son had died in childhood, or that he hadnot grown up to be Sir Clarence; and furthermore, having disposed of thisdifficulty, to show the certificate of birth of a legitimate heir to SirJohn Malmaison, and to identify that heir with Sir Clarence.

  Now, there were certainly some awkward circumstances in respect of thisillegitimacy question. Sir Clarence had known that he had had a brotherborn out of wedlock; and it is possible he also knew that the documentsrelating to his own birth were not where he could put his hands upon them.He may even have been aware that, were his title to be challenged, therewould be serious technical difficulties in the way of vindicating it. Atthe same time, Sir Clarence was entirely and justly convinced that histitle was good. The history of the illegitimate son was familiar to him,and to the rest of the family, in all its details. It was not, of course,an ordinary topic of conversation, but it was an acknowledged piece offamily history. Sir John had been wild in his youth, and had made a goodmany loose connections before acceding to the baronetcy--his father, SirCharles, the same who ate the venison pasty, having lived to see his heira man of thirty. One of these connections had been with the daughter of atenant; during its progress a marriage had been arranged between JohnMalmaison and a neighboring heiress. About the time that the marriage tookplace, the tenant's daughter had a child; Clarence himself was born abouta year later. The child had lived five or six years only; after its deathits mother had gone up to London, and had not since been heard of. Thiswas all simple enough; the only trouble being that no one could tell whathad become of the certificate of Clarence's birth, or of the other'sdecease. Consequently there was an opening for an evil-disposed person toassert what the Honorable Richard was now asserting.

  Where had the Honorable Richard got his information?--of the absence,that is to say, of these papers. It was never spoken of outside thefamily. It is only proper to observe that his brother, Lord Epsom, wouldhave nothing to do with the affair, but explicitly and emphatically washedhis hands of it. But this did not deter Richard; he had got his materials,he had decided upon his plan of action, and he was bound to go throughwith it. He entertained no doubts of his success, and he probablyanticipated from it not only solid worldly advantage, but thegratification of an undisguised enmity. It would give him peculiarpleasure to au
gment his prosperity at the expense of Sir ArchibaldMalmaison.

  Considering that the outlook was so bad for him, the young baronet faced itwith commendable fortitude. People who met him regarded him withcuriosity, expecting him to appear disturbed, if not desperate. But hewore an aspect of satisfied composure, tempered only by his habitualhaughtiness. He had interviews with his lawyers, seemed neither flurriednor helpless, and altogether behaved as if his victory over his opponentwas placed beyond the possibility of a doubt. And yet, what could be hisdefence? Was he going to rely upon the title having remained so longunquestioned? Did he build his hopes upon a possible break in the chain ofPennroyal's evidence? The on-lookers could only conjecture. And now thetime when conjectures would be exchanged for certainty was at hand.

  It was the autumn of the year 1825. One cool, clear, gray afternoon SirArchibald had his horse saddled, and mounting him, rode out upon hisestate. In the course of an hour or so he found himself approaching thepond, which, as has been already stated, lay on the border-line betweenMalmaison and the lands of Richard Pennroyal. As he drew near the spot, hesaw at a distance the figure of a woman, also on horseback. It wasKate--Mrs. Pennroyal. She was riding slowly in a direction nearly oppositeto his own, so that if they kept on they would meet on the borders of thepond.

  Sir Archibald had not met this lady for many months; and when he recognizedher, his first impulse was perhaps to draw rein. Then he looked to seewhether that were her impulse likewise. But she held on her course; andhe, smiling in a defiant way, shook his bridle, and in a few moments theywere but half a dozen yards apart. There they paused, as it seemed, bymutual consent.

  How lovely she looked! Sir Archibald saw it, and ground his teeth with akind of silent rage. She should have been his.

  "Good-day, Mrs. Richard Pennroyal!"

  "Good-day, Archibald!"

  His name, coming with such gentleness and sweet familiarity from her lips,made his blood tingle. He had expected coldness and formality.

  "I had not looked forward to the honor of meeting you here," he said.

  "But we have met here before, I think." And so they had, in days upon whichArchibald now looked back as does an exile upon home. His horse movedforward a few steps, and his rider only stopped him when he was withinarm's length.

  "That seems long ago; and yet, when I look at you, I could almost believeit was but yesterday."

  "You have changed more than I," replied the lady, letting her eyes restupon him with a certain intentness. This was true enough, physicallyspeaking; the handsome boy was now a superb young man; but Archibald choseto interpret her words figuratively, and he answered bitterly:

  "You may have changed little; but that little in you has caused whateverchange you find in me."

  "It is true, then, that you are angry with me? I had hoped otherwise,"said Mrs. Pennroyal, with a sad dignity that sat well upon her.

  "Angry with you!" broke out Archibald, his face flushing. "Has it been adesire to keep my--my friendship that has caused you to--"

  Mrs. Pennroyal interrupted him, drawing herself up proudly. "Pardon me,sir, I had no intention of forcing your good-will. If you will be myenemy, please yourself, and perhaps I may learn to become yours." And sheturned her horse as she spoke. But Archibald, thus seemingly put in thewrong, and unwilling now to terminate the interview so abruptly, pressedhis heel against his horse's side, and was again beside her.

  "You misunderstand me," said he. "What could I think? You will not denythat your--that Richard Pennroyal has shown himself no friend of mine."

  "I shall deny nothing that you see fit to charge against me, sir," rejoinedthe lady, still hurt and indignant, and the more irresistible.

  Archibald reflected that she was not, perhaps, justly responsible for themalevolence of another person, even though that person were her husband;and from this thought to thinking that she might, perhaps, be inclined tosympathize against her husband and with himself, was an easy transition.This perilous fancy made his pulses throb and his eyes gleam. He caughther horse's bridle.

  "Do not go yet! Let us talk a little, since we are met."

  "What has Sir Archibald Malmaison to say to me?"

  "You called me 'Archibald' just now."

  "You called me 'Mrs. Richard Pennroyal'!"

  "Well--and so you are!" said he, between his teeth.

  "Do you think of me by that name?" she asked, turning her brown eyes on himfor a moment, and then looking away.

  "Kate!"

  She put out her beautiful hand, and he took it and carried it to his lips.Thoughts fierce and sweet flew through his mind. But Mrs. Pennroyal,having gained her immediate end (which, to do her justice, was probablynothing worse than the gratification of a coquettish whim), knew how totake care of herself. She drew her hand away.

  "There--well--you have been very unkind, Archibald. Have we not beenfriends--have we not been together from the first? How could you believethat I could wish you any harm?"

  "Ah, Kate, but you married him!"

  "Well, sir, I as good as asked you to marry me first, and you would not doit."

  "You asked me!"

  "Yes; you have forgotten. It has all been so strange, you see. I hardlyknow, even now, whether you are the Archibald I used to know."

  "But I know, very well," returned he, grimly. "And you are the wife of myenemy, the man who is trying to ruin me. Kate," he broke off suddenly,"how did Richard know that those papers were missing in our family? I toldyou once--do you remember that day? And no one knew it except you."

  Mrs. Pennroyal would perhaps have preferred not to be asked this question.But since it was asked, she was bound to make the best answer she could.

  "It was for that I wanted to see you to-day," she said, after a pause. "Ihave been to blame, Archibald; but it was ignorantly. It was longago--before all these troubles began to occur: while we were yet on goodterms. Ah me! would we were so again!"

  "You told him, then?"

  "I did not know that I was betraying a secret. From what Richard said, Ithought that he knew it, or at least suspected it; and I merely added myconfirmation. Afterward, when I found how things were going, I begged himnot to use that knowledge. But it was too late. I could not be at restuntil I had told you, and asked you to forgive me."

  Archibald would not have believed this speech, if his head only had beenconcerned in the matter. Unfortunately, such was not the case. He believedit because he ardently wished to do so; and he forgave her the moreeasily, because that implied having her hand in his again for a fewmoments.

  "If I could only see you and Richard at peace again, I should be happy,"resumed Mrs. Pennroyal, with a sigh.

  "Is it for him you fear, or for me?" inquired Archibald, smiling.

  "The danger is yours," she answered, diplomatically.

  He shook his head, still smiling: "Dismiss your anxiety, Kate. There is nodanger for me or mine. Let Richard look to himself!"

  Mrs. Pennroyal was startled. She had looked upon the Malmaison case asvirtually hopeless. This hint of the contrary gave her a strong sensation,not altogether unpleasurable. Richard was her husband, but he was notnearly so young as Archibald, and as to looks!--there there was nocomparison. Archibald was simply the finest man in England. Perhaps Mrs.Pennroyal tad never been passionately fond of her husband; and, on theother hand, she had certainly liked Archibald very much. In the presentquarrel she had felt that the propriety of being on the winning side wasnot diminished by the fact that it happened to be her husband's; but if itshould turn out that her husband's was not the winning side afterall--then there was matter for consideration. Of course, strictlyspeaking, her husband's misfortunes must be her own; but in this instancethe nominal misfortune would be his failure to ruin Archibald, and Mrs.Pennroyal thought she could sustain that. No, the sensation was certainlynot unpleasurable. But was it certain that Archibald was not mistaken?

  "I am very glad, for both our sakes," said she, at last. "I could neverhave endured to take your name and es
tates away from you. Then that notionthat the papers were lost was a mistake?"

  "I can tell you nothing more," replied Archibald, looking at her.

  "Ah, you have not forgiven me--you do not trust me!"

  He checked his horse and hers, and turned full upon her: "Kate, you are thewife of my enemy, I must remember that! If I found you playing a doublepart between him and me, I should hate you more than I hate him; and then... I should be capable of any crime. Well, I will not put it in yourpower. You will know all soon enough. Meantime, I trust you in this--tokeep silence on what I have said to-day. Let him believe that he willsucceed until he knows that he has failed. Will you promise that?"

  Mrs. Pennroyal saw no harm in making this promise, but she did not see whyshe should not make as great a favor as she could of granting it.

  "A wife should have no secrets from her husband, Archibald."

  "Have you never had a secret from him, Kate?"

  "You have no right to ask that!"

  Archibald laughed. "Are you as happy with him as the day is long?"

  She looked up for a moment, and their eyes met. "The days seem very longsometimes," she said, almost beneath her breath.

  "This day?" he demanded, bending toward her.

  "Autumn days are short, you know," she said, smiling a little, with avertedface.

  "Do you often ride out in autumn?"

  "What else can I do, when my husband is away from home? I must go now--itis late."

  "And your promise?"

  For the third time that afternoon she gave him her hand. Her color washigher than usual, and her breathing somewhat uneven. She had not passedunscathed through this interview. Archibald's was the stronger spirit, andshe felt his power--felt it, and liked to feel it! And he, as he held herwarm and delicate hand in his own, was conscious of a strange tumult inhis heart. Was fate, which he had hitherto found so adverse, going tochange at last, and yield him everything at once--revenge and love in thesame breath? A revenge consummated through love were sweet indeed.

  They parted at length, and rode away in opposite directions. This was theirfirst meeting, but it was not their last by many.