Mr. & Mrs. Faulconbridge

Front matter

ME. & MES. FAULCONBKIDGE. BY HAMILTON AIDE, AUTHOR OF " RITA," " CONFIDENCES," " CARR OF CARRLYON," ETC. etc. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AM) CO., 65, COENHILL. M.DCCC.LXIV. [The right of Translation is reserved!} CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. Cnxp. Paoe I. "Lady Margaret's Folly " 1 II. Gossip in a Country House 19 HI. A Revelation 29 IV. Mrs. Pendarves is Rejected 45 V. Under Orders for India Gl VI. A Walk in Stourton Park 74 VII. Treaties of Friendship 93 VIII. A Message from beyond TnE Grave 109 IX. Forebodings 127 X. Was it a Phantom ? 148 XI. Before the Play 1G1 XII. The Play 175 XIH. The EriLOGUE CONTENTS. IV Chap. Pace XIV. The Deferred Reckoning 197 XV. A Grandson's Inheritance 210 XVI. Broken Vows 231 XVn. Explanations 248 XVHI. A Catastrophe 264 XIX. The Funeral 282 XX. Renunciation MR. AND MS. FAULCONBRIDGE.

Chapter I

"LADY MARGARET'S FOLLY." In the eyes of two persons at least, Edgar Faulconbridge appeared as a different man from that day forwards. He had sketched his own portrait, and with no flattering hand. He had hidden very little ; he had sought to extenuate nothing, but such confessions never alienate sj-mpathy. The woman who listened to him, felt how large a capacity for good or evil belonged to that restless indomitable spirit : proud and wilful, yet true and tender in its affections, and VOL. II. strong in its belief of virtue. The condition of those only is hopeless -in whom that belief is dead. It became possible to reconcile the discrepant elements in this strange character — or if not all, at least many of them — with a clue, such as Lady Trevelyan now possessed, to circumstances which had helped to form it.

There was much still remaining, no doubt, which baffled scrutiny : on one point, especially, to be touched upon in a future chapter. Faulconbridge's conduct was a constant riddle to Lady Trevelyan. But this much, at least, his narrative had effected ; in place of a vague curiosity, a strong interest in the narrator rose up in Lady Trevelyan's heart. Into George's feelings with regard to Faulcon bridge since that evening, it would be premature to inquire too closely. It is probable that their skein was too tangled during the days that followed for him to have rendered a very clear account of them, even to himself. He no longer evinced an antipathy to his society, that was clear. Indeed, it would have been hard to resist Edgar's pleasant conversation, and the marked change in his manner, whenever he approached George's sofa.

However sarcastic he might be at times to others, he seemed to have conceived a liking for the young heir of Stourton, which prevented Edgar's ever being so to him. Faulconbridge was a man who would probably make but few friends in his progress through life, but those whom he singled out would find it difficult to resist the subtle charm that belongs to intellectual power. It might have almost seemed that George did at first so resist. He generally rather listened than talked himself when Edgar was with him, fixing his clear blue eyes on the olive face opposite him. In the character of the man who thus sought him, there was no doubt enough to perplex more experienced heads than Stourton's, ancl, whether from this or any other cause, the pleasure which he found in Edgar's amusing conversation seemed to be of a mixed nature.

While they were to gether, indeed, Stourton's laugh often rang merrily enough at some story of Edgar's, and he often called his cousin Di to share his entertainment ; but a very close observer might detect, in spite 19— s of this, that there was always a reaction when Edgar left. He not unfrequently then appeared moody and dejected. Edgar now spent some hours in every day with George. The rehearsals went on after a fashion, that is to say, Claude Melnotte and Pauline Deschappelles spent all the mornings, and sometimes a great part of the evenings also, in perfecting their scenes together. Faulconbridge was almost always in the room, but he generally sat apart, writing, unless specially called upon for his advice, thinking it better, apparently, to let these rehearsals take their own [quiet course, uninterrupted by suggestions of his.

At other times, however, when his wife was out, Faulcon bridge was constantly George's sole companion. It seemed difficult to believe that he had not some motive for this, beyond pure benevolence. If his object was to draw out George, and make himself master of the young heir's real character, he might be supposed to have failed, inasmuch as George talked but little, comparatively. But the intonation of a voice, the varying expression of a face, a monosyllable dropped now and then, may reveal more of the inner man than whole speeches will. The fair seeming George bore before the world, hid no dark spots to betray themselves in unwary moments. Such as he seemed, he was ; and no one could doubt, who saw the two men together, that Edgar really liked the frank, high spirited young fellow, whose nature coming into contact with his, was like a gust of keen fresh air admitted into a room from which daylight has been long excluded.

One morning when Etheridge and Wilmot were sitting with George, Faulconbridge strolled out into the great ivy-clad porch with his cigar, and sat lolling upon the steps caressing an old mastiff, while his dark eyes roamed over the range of wood before him. At this season, when all their anatomy was visible against the pale blue April sky, (for fool's day was just past,) the silver-grey stems of beech rising from an undergrowth of holly told to even more advantage, perhaps, than when laden with their summer-wealth of leaves. The sun shone luminously on them ; and here and there on the ruddy shaft of a stately Scotch fir, crowned with its compact mass of heavy blue green foliage, and between these shafts and stems were spaces of cool shadow, where the eye lost itself among the bare interlacing boughs.

In one of these a red brick temple, surrounded by white stone pillars, in the depraved taste of the last century, was indistinctly visible from the spot where Faulconbridge sat. Upon it he fixed those keen eyes of his more than once ; until his solitude was disturbed by Lady Trevelyan, who came out alone, in a garden hat, with a basket on her arm. He at once said, — "Lady Trevelyan, I have a great curiosity to see the inside of that temple. I tried to get in yesterday, but couldn't. Have you the key ? " " Sir Richard always keeps it. I will get it for you." She returned with it in two or three minutes, and continued : " Its only interest, that I know of, is its having been built under Horace Walpole's directions, when he was once staying here with Sir Richard's father. It is not pretty inside, Mr. Faulconbridge.

There is, however, a view from it. I will go as far with you. It isn't ten minutes' walk, and I am in no hurry." " Why does Sir Richard keep it so strictly locked ? " and Faulconbridge's eyes sought the answer in Lady Trevelyan's face rather than in her words. She replied, with perfect simplicity, — " I believe, because the Stourbridge people who come and picnic in the park, used to get into 'Lady Margaret's Folly,' as it is called, and did damage there, so my uncle locked it up. He dislikes the place exceedingly himself, and never goes near it. No one does, indeed, and were it not out of respect to his mother's memory, Sir Richard would pull it down, I think." "Perhaps, there may be some ugly story con nected with it ?" " Oh, it is the very reverse of romantic," said his companion, laughing.

" It is the sort of place Queen Charlotte and Miss Burney might have drunk tea in. I assure you it will not inspire you in any way. You mustn't expect it. It is simply the ugly kind of thing our grandfathers thought classical and picturesque." They turned into one of the straight alleys which Lady Margaret had adorned, some seventy years before, with stone statues ; now moss-grown, and with here and there the loss of a finger, or toe. A very affected Cupid, with his eyes bound, pulled a broken bow at all who entered his precincts. Round the waist of a pretty Psyche, not far off, a trail of ivy had clasped itself : Mars had very evidently been in the wars, and a weather-stained Bacchus looked as though he had emptied over himself the cup he was raising to his laughing lips. The drip ping of sycamore-boughs above a rush-crowned River-God had sent year after year the long trickling moisture over his breast and shoulders ; the lichens had ripened Pomona's apples into gold, and tinged Pan's hairy hoofs with grey.

At the farther end of the walk, where it terminated in " Lady Margaret's Folly," the sculptor had abandoned the region of mythology, and had grouped round the peristyle sundry Virtues, typical, no doubt, of all the noble lady, his patroness, might be supposed to possess. Here Charity, with her numerous breasts, turned benignant]}' toward Justice, blindfold with her scales ; and Chastity, in a high wind, with agitated drapery of the Bernini school, had much ado to guard her lamp from being blown out. " Love at one end and Justice at the other," exclaimed Faulconbridge, with a laugh. " I am not surprised at Sir Richard's never frequenting this walk. It is evident these statues were not erected by him. By-the-by, what a fortunate thing it is they are both blindfold. There would be something tantalizing in the impossibility of their ever reach ing each other, and being reconciled — the artist stuck them at a suspiciously long distance apart."

"Love is placed at the entrance of the walk, meaning, evidently, that every one who approached the sanctuary of its deity, Lady Margaret, was to be struck by Love's arrows. It is not exactly according to our taste, to indicate any one's perfections by allegorical figures round a summer-house ; but in that day, no doubt, it was thought a triumph of refined compliment, and really, I believe, it was as sincere and as well-merited in my grandmother's case, as it ever could be." Faulconbridge did not reply. Either intentionally or not, the lady had missed the obvious point of his satirical remark. As they came near the Virtues, however, standing in a little sun-lit space round the building, free from the drip of over-hanging boughs, and the corroding moisture of vegetation, he said gravely, — "I pray you to observe that Justice is the only figure, whether of Gods or Graces, that has not suffered at the hands of Time, here.

You saw how Love had been shattered ? shall we take it as an omen, that Justice survives Love, and shall be omnipotent over everything, sooner or later ? " "You will find that Charity has not suffered more than Justice," replied the lady, with emphasis. " Here, where Heaven's pure light and air can get to them, none have suffered much. It is so in life, I think. The more we can make our deeds fair and open before men, the less of mystery and darkness we shroud them with, the better. Look at this amusing specimen of the taste of our ancestors," she added, pointing to a small marble tablet let into the wall of the building. " This was erected to my grandmother's pet dog — the verses written, no doubt, by some poetaster protege" of hers." Faulconbridge looked up, and read these lines : — Stranger, in passing, spare the pitying tear To Fido's memory, who lieth here !

Inform most beauteous, hy nature bland, He stole the affections, while he licked the hand. A loving servant, and a faithful friend, His sorrowing mistress mourns her fav'ritc's end. Stranger, may'st thou in life a. friend have known, True as the dog who lies beneath this stone ! Lady Trevelyan unlocked the door, and they entered a damp-smelling room, with narrow attenuated windows, looking out between the columns all round upon a noble view. On two sides, this was opened by alleys cut through the woods ; on one, the old house, with its tower and gables and trim terraces, lay at the bottom of a steep acclivity; on the remaining side, the steeples and chimneys of Stourbridge were indis tinctly visible beyond a belt of trees, with the rough park intervening, and a range of blue hills beyond. The building had a certain formal ugliness that was not, perhaps, altogether as displeasing as Lady Trevelyan thought: it had character, and spoke very distinctly of the day in which it was raised, and its position would have redeemed a worse structure.

But the interior was certainly cold and uninviting. A spinet or harpsichord stood in one corner, and a pile of very musty old music books were ranged upon it. Faulconbridge took up one. The name of " Lady Margaret Stourton " in gilt letters on a label of red morocco was outside ; inside were old-fashioned sonatas of Clementi's, and concertos of Viotti's, and songs from forgotten operas full of wonderful turns and trills, with the pencil-marks yet visible from hands long since still. The decoration of the walls had been supposed to be Pompeian once, but the paint had been peeling from them for many a year. A table of English marqueterie, with very high thin legs, stood in the middle of this dreary chamber, and on the mantel-shelf were ranged some jars of old Indian china. Except a few straight-backed chairs, there was absolutely nothing else.

A periwinkle had grown up unbidden round one of the windows, and was now staring with its blue eyes straight into the room, and this was the only sign of life left about the deserted temple known as " Lady Margaret's Folly." But to Faulconbridge, at least, it was not without attraction, for he walked up and down examining everything, even opening the old spinet, and passing his fingers over its rusted strings, moved thereto, as it should seem, by some strange interest and curiosity. Lady Trevelyan watched him for several minutes. His brow was knit, his face pale. At last he came up to her. " I am somewhat imaginative," he said. " This place is by no means as uninteresting to me as you imagined. It is just suited to a scene I have been rehearsing in my own mind : I people it with the actors in a drama which I am studying.

I pictured the scene much like this, and it realizes my idea — a glim place for the perpetration of a dark deed." " Is it a play in which you are going to appear ?" asked the lady. " Yes ; a play which was acted many years ago, and is quite unknown or forgotten. I am about to revive it." ME. AND MRS. FAULCONBRIDGE. " It must be very exciting from the expression of your face; will you repeat this scene to me, Mr. Faulconbridge?" " No — no ; not to-day. I have not fully made up my mind yet, as to the part I shall play. Some day or other you shall hear it." " Do you always throw yourself with this vehe mence into the parts you perform ? You are quite pale." "I do nothing by halves. When I act I become the man I represent for the time being. When I hate, I should satisfy Dr. Johnson by hating most cordially.

When I love " " Well, Mr. Faulconbridge ? You hesitate." " It is folly for a man to talk about love, unless he is making an avowal." And he turned away. " If walls could only speak, sometimes ! " he exclaimed, after a pause, as he walked up and down the room once more. " Think what strange secrets they might often disclose ! What love, what treachery, and crime perhaps, even these four walls might bear witness to ! Who knows ? " "I have always been accused of an undue amount of imagination," said Lady Trevelyan, laughing, " but I never fancied this extremely ugly little building the scene of anything more exciting than an afternoon tea-party, with Lady Margaret for the central figure, in white with a blue riband and black spencer and powdered hair, as in Romney's picture, surrounded by her children, perhaps, and two or three Italian musi cians in periwigs.

And I hear the spinet's little wiry sound going on, and the twang of a harp, and a voice singing one of Mr. Haydn's last composi tions. It is a pretty picture, and I see it all very distinctly, but there is nothing moving or tragic about it." " We don't always know where the tragic inter sects the light and frivolous in life. Even in such a scene as you describe might lie the germs of powerful emotion. Is there not a perpetual drama going on every day round us? Under all the gaiety and laughter in the great house down there, do you think that no human passions are concealed ? The struggles of ambition and vanity, the wounds of jealousy and disappointment, above all, the secret stings of conscience, Lady Trevelyan — there is very little reality, very little happiness, perhaps, under all those masks."

" Perhaps not ; but I trust every one is not a prey to these. I quite agree with you that society is very hollow work, and that it is utterly impossible to say what goes on underneath. But there are some people who are wise enough to cultivate happiness — to make the most of every small pleasure, and not to suffer themselves to be depressed by outward things, nor to take a gloorny view of their fellow-creatures. Such are truly wise, in my opinion." "You speak as one who has not been tried, Lady Trevelyan. You live in a higher and purer atmosphere than most of those around you. The agonies of a petty vanity are as far removed from you as those of a troubled conscience, and in your peaceful, tranquil world, happiness no doubt is attainable. In the troubled waters I have lived so much in, with suffering, poverty, in justice, round me, it is harder.

Goodness may exist, and energy, and all the noblest qualities that grace human nature, but happiness — no : that can only be ' cultivated,' as you call it, under favourable circumstances." There was something morbid and unpleasing to his companion, in this young man's words. If he had suffered in much, he had at least much for which he ought to be thankful. As they left the Temple, she said, — " You have youth, and health, and talents, and are blessed with a very charming wife. If, under these conditions, you allow yourself to be de pressed by poverty, or other outward circum stances, allow me to say the fault is your own." " If a man has a heart at all, he must feel, Lady Trevelyan — feel bitterly and wrathfully, or sorrowfully, according to his temperament — any great wrong which has overshadowed the lives of those dearest to him.

You will admit that this is an ' outward circumstance ' which justifies a man's not feeling perfectly happy ? " " I do," she said, gently. " But if that man's heart incline him to wrath and bitterness, let him remember that there is nothing so likely to cause vol. ii. the stings of conscience you speak of, as the unrestrained indulgence of these feelings. The man who can forgive" an injury is, at least, nearer being happy than the man who is burning to resent one." " It is not every one who can forgive. It may be a duty we owe to the dead to expose the wicked, and further the ends of justice " " I would again remind you," — she interrupted him, with a smile, — " that Charity has stood the test of time here, quite as well as Justice, and is certainly the nobler and more God-like virtue of the two."

They had reached a cross-alley at the farther end of which Faulconbridge descried a gay party coming towards them. He bore straight forward so as to avoid them. Lady Trevelyan had her eyes bent upon the ground ; she saw no one, but walked on with her companion, who was now silent, turning over in his mind her last words. A few minutes more brought them to the house.

Chapter II. Gossip In

A COUNTRY HOUSE. On the Thursday evening Bradley Ferrers returned. Lady Trevelyan was waiting anxiously to speak to him upon a subject which was causing her some disquietude. It pained her to see that George's admiration of Mrs. Faulconbridge was now openly discussed and joked about among the guests at Stourton Towers. Not only the active malice of Mrs. Bailey, the scurrility of Carton, the "chaffing" of the young men, proclaimed how conspicuous it had become : the very ser vants, she knew, had begun to animadvert upon it. It was impossible to think ill of that sweet, modest-looking creature, but the position in which she was placed, and which she certainly did not 20—2 seem to shun, grieved Lady Trevelyan. She demurred to herself what she should do. In the course of that evening, she drew Ferrers aside.

"I want to speak to you," she said, "about your friend and his wife. There is a great deal about him I like ; he is an odd character, but I confess he interests me. There is one thing, however, I do not like at all, and I can't under stand. He doesn't seem to mind George's making himself so exceedingly conspicuous, as he has been doing, with that young and pretty wife of his. Yon know how good-natured people are ! It annoys me to hear what is said. Can't you give him a hint ? " " Faulconbridge is not a man for hints, my dear Lady Trevelyan. If I speak at all, I must speak plainly: in which case you must be prepared to find that he has packed up his things to-morrow morning, and has taken himself and his wife off. His is one of those natures that has no idea of a petty jealousy, where confidence has once been given.

If once shaken, it would be a terrible outburst. I confess that some fear of this occurred to me before I went away, but they will be here for so few days, that I think it hardly worth while to interfere. Still, if you wish it " He paused ; but Lady Trevelyan said nothing for nearly a minute, and when she did speak, it was with some hesitation. " I hardly like to say to you what I feel about it. I may be wrong — quite wrong. Mrs. Faulconbridge seems so innocent and so far from being a coquette, that I cannot believe my own instincts ; and yet they tell me every hour of the day that she is not insensible to George's ad miration ; that she does nothing to discourage it ; that — that — in short, I certainly think it most unwise of her husband to throw her so much in the boy's way. As to the pretence of rehearsals, it is all nonsense.

Perhaps your friend does not know how censorious the world is, especially to an actress. He has lived too much abroad to know much of our convention alities ; and for this, if for no better reason, I think some one ought to tell him." " So be it," replied Ferrers. " The task you give me is not a very pleasant one, but I will perform it. If he departs, as I fully expect, you must explain the fact in your own way to Sir Richard and George." " You think I am too scrupulous ? Of course, my uncle is rather pleased than otherwise to see this flirtation going on ; but I cannot help fearing it is more serious than he imagines. I certainly never saw George so much taken with any one yet. When I suggested this to Sir Richard, he only laughed, and said George had very good taste. Now, however, that they are to remain a week longer here, I am not happy about it.

Still, as your friends, Mr. Ferrers, I must leave you to act in the matter according to your own judgment. Men and women see these things dif ferently. It is only the extreme youth and inexperience of this young couple that " " Say no more, Lady Trevelyan; I'll speak to him. One learns such an abominable amount of caution in my profession that one forgets how necessary it is occasionally to commit some act of egregious folly in a friend's behalf, for which he certainly will not thank one." He laughed in his odd, jerky way ; and, as Sir Richard called to him at that moment to make up a fourth at a rubber of whist, the conversation ended there. But Bradley Ferrers' opinion of the inexpediency of attaching undue importance to the frivolous or scandalous gossip of a country house was un pleasantly confirmed before the evening was over.

The whist-table happened to be near a sofa occupied by Mrs. Bailey, and it was possible to hear very large fragments of a most unedifying conversation carried on between Carton and that lady. Ferrers tried to shut his ears as long as he possibly could, and he played his hand with a moderate amount of steadiness, until Lady Trevelyan's name, uttered in Carton's sharp, rasping treble, arrested Ferrers' attention, in spite of himself. "It is amusing to see that dragon of virtue seduced into a flirtation, and with an actor, too ! a man twenty years younger than herself, and married ! The whole thing is perfect, ain't it, Mrs. Bailey ? " " Some women have such low tastes ! " rejoined the lady. "When a woman won't accept a compliment from a man in her own station, it's always sus picious," continued Carton.

" 'Pon my life, I said something uncommonly civil to her the other day about a mole on her neck, and I thought she'd have eaten me." "Mr. Ferrers," cries Lady Bideford, "you revoked, sfr : you had the queen after all." Ferrers is covered with confusion, as with a garment, and, while he apologizes, loses two or three sentences that have passed behind him. The first words that he hears again are, — " — perfectly clear that the young parvenu's head is turned by the attention of a woman of her rank. Just look at him, Mrs. Bailey ! Gad ! it's a pity his wife ain't a jealous woman. He ! he ! " " She is otherwise employed. It is quite disgusting the way in which she lays herself out to attract Mr. Stourton. But when one lets that sort of people into one's house, what can one expect ? As to Lady Trevelyan, it is quite refreshing to find that so very superior a woman can be guilty of a flirtation ! and in such a stately way, too ; it is really quite a lesson to one !

We met them alone together yesterday in the most secluded part of the park, so deep in sentiment that they did not even see us ! Don't you hate superior women, and the airs they give themselves, Mr. Carton ? " What that gentleman's reply was, Ferrers never heard. " Mr. Ferrers, do you hear ? It is your deal, and we are waiting," shrieked Lady Bideford, and while he began scattering the cards recklessly, Mrs. Bailey was asked to sing, and the conversation with Carton came to an abrupt close. When the ladies had retired an hour later, Ferrers led Faulconbridge into the library, where they were secure from interruption. " You are new to this life, so you have not yet found out that the most infernal place for gossip in the world is an Enghsh country house. You have a young and very pretty wife, my dear fellow, and every woman whom George Stourton speaks to he is supposed to be in love with.

There is the plain, unadorned truth. Now, as I know, and you know, and your wife knows how utterly absurd all this is, it is a question for you to decide whether George shall be told that he must not make his admiration of Mrs. Faulconbridge — perfectly inno cent though it be — quite so conspicuous." To Ferrers' great surprise, Faulconbridge laughed; not long, or loud, but a pleasant little laugh, as he replied, — ■ " So really the heir of Stourton can't rehearse his love-scenes with my poor Uttle Nina (who is paid for this special purpose), but he is supposed to be enacting them in earnest, is he ? What a thing it is, to be so vastly important a personage, that all the mammas and marriageable girls watch a man's every movement, every glance of his eye ! It is almost a pity he is such a good fellow as he is, Ferrers.

The more I see him, the better I like him, and I don't feel the least afraid of trusting Nina in his society, as you may tell all our amiable friends." " I have learnt," he added more sharply, " never to consider the world's opinion in matters that concern my real happiness, and that of those I love. I have a contempt for its judg ments, which I see capriciously pronounced (and often reversed), upon the most paltry grounds. Therefore, except in perfectly indifferent matters, I never trouble my head to consult the world's opinion. In this case, poor little Nina would be rendered very uncomfortable during the re mainder of our stay here, were I to reveal to her the good-natured remarks that have been made ; I should completely paralyze her from acting naturally, when the night came ; and I should make her miserable in the meantime.