Briars; or, On Dangerous Ground

Front matter

>5 BRIARS cr ON DANGEROUS GROUND vol. ir. a BY THE SAME AUTHOR. CRANE COURT Crown Svo, cloth, price 6s. ' Miss Monro's picture of new men on old acres is quite delight ful. It is well written and full of interest, and there is the bright freshness of style about it which distinguished her Beautiful Lady Chichester, but still more, her present work.' — Whitehall Review. 'A prettier or more wholesome tale than Crane Court nobody need desire to read.' — Scottish Leader. 1 An excellent tone, much observation of character, and a general sense of humour, combine to make a very pleasant record of English country life.' — Morning Post 'The theme is brightly and sympathetically handled.' — Athenæum. ' Is a delightfully fresh and interesting story, and all the char acters in the story are well drawn.' — Academy.

GRIFFITH FAR^fflfOKEDEN & WELSH, London. BRIARS OR On Dangerous Ground BY A. M. MONRO AUTHOR OF 'CRANE COURT,' 'THE BEAUTIFUL LADY CHICHESTER,' ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. GRIFFITH FARRAN OKRDEN & WELSH Newbery House CHARING CROSS ROAD, LONDON AND AT SYDNEY. I'he Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are resei-vea. ■o-

Chapter I

' Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one.' Shakespeare's Sonnets. May had been as one in a dream since she had returned from the picnic that afternoon. She scarcely realised anything, except that her own heart had been laid bare to her. She loved Louis Raymond, She had loved him, without knowing it, for some time. She was not surprised now she knew it. The wonder was, that she had not known it before. Certainly it was not wonderful that she loved VOL. II. A him. She had never even imagined herself in love with Maurice, and this man was so brilliant, so fascinating, besides having the prestige of being well-known, both professionally and socially. And she had been thrown so much with him. He loved her, too. May knew that. She had felt it through every fibre of her being as she stood in the storm-swept forest, clasped in his arms.

Visions of happiness, such as she had never previously dreamed of, had been shown her in that moment. And was it not happiness enough to her to know that this man, who was made so much of by every one, and who May, with the hero-worship almost inseparable from a girl's first love, thought im measurably superior to every other man, should love her ? One thing was quite clear to her. She could never marry Maurice Dale now. The very first thing she must do to-morrow would be to break off her engagement to him. That must come to an end. She would let it be known that it was entirely her doing, and she knew it would be no grief to him. To-morrow ! But, meantime, there was this evening, and, much further than that, May's thoughts were not capable of going. At length the evening came, bringing the two Raymonds to dinner, and then May was conscious of the first jarring note in the harmony of her dreams.

Like the others, she was dazzled and amused by Louis. But his brilliancy for the first time afforded her no pleasure, and she laughed against her will. She had an indefinable but strong sensation that, had those few moments in the forest been to him what they had to her, not thus would he have looked, and talked, and jested. Not once did a smile light up the sombre depths of his restless eyes, or chase away the lines of pain about his mouth. She, loving him as she now knew she did, could not fail to be aware of his suffering. But what caused it ? She was certain he loved her. What was there between them but that nominal engage ment of hers to Maurice Dale, which he must know could be easily terminated ? Reason argued thus, but instinct told her there was something more than this. Surely never had dinner lasted so long as that one seemed to do, in spite of Louis Raymond's brilliant talk.

But at length it came to an end, and so did the short period during which she was alone with her mother in the drawing-room. When she was asked to sing, and moved to the piano, followed by Louis, she knew that a crisis in her life had come, and she could almost hear the beating of her own heart. Two hours before she had no doubts. Now, that unaccountable feeling of un easiness increased. Why was Louis so deathly pale ? Why had his voice that sharp, metallic ring ? She bent over her portfolio of music some little time, as if debating which song to select. But she finally chose one quite at random. The words were Kingsley's well-known ones, and beginning, ' Oh, that we two.' Louis stood by the open window listening with who shall say what bitterness at his heart. For him there was no merciful ignorance, no blissful doubt.

He knew that, as certainly as he stood there listening to the rich melody of her voice, ere another hour had passed he would have spoken the words that must bring to her young, happy life its first great sorrow, its first close acquaintance with pain. When she had finished, he turned his head and asked sharply, — 'What made you sing that song to-night of all songs ? ' ' I don't know,' she answered, astonished at his tone. ' It came first. Do you not like it ? ' ' On the contrary, it is only too appropriate,' he answered, and then, in low tones that seemed to breathe the very spirit of the song, he repeated the last verse, — ' " Oh ! that we two were sleeping In our nest in the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast. And our souls at home with God." ' Yes, oh ! that we two were sleeping ! ' he added, more as if speaking to himself than to her, with wide-open eyes staring out into the darkness.

She shivered with a prescience of coming pain, but she did not answer his strange speech. She was still seated at the piano, striking a chord softly now and then, the candle light falling full on her glossy hair, and the pure, graceful contour of her face and neck. ' Shall we go into the garden ? ' he said, turning to her at last, and speaking by an effort in a more ordinary tone. ' There is something I must say to you.' It had come, the moment that was to be the turning point of her life. She rose without a word, and followed him through the open window. Heed less that the short grass was still damp from the afternoon's storm, they crossed the lawn to the bench under the willow by the river's edge. Partly because her limbs were trembling under her, May sat down, but Louis moved a few paces from her, and stood close to the water, his head averted from her, and turned towards the river.

The crescent moon was high, but the sky was almost covered by masses of cloud. Now and then they parted, allowing its pale light to be seen, and showing the clear sky behind them. A chilly night-wind blew down the river, rustling and sighing among the heavy August foliage, and here and there rippling the leaden surface of the water. The air was damp and cool, and laden with the odour of earth and vegetation. It seemed as if the long, hot, still summer had ended with that day's storm, and that autumn was close at hand. ' I have a story to tell you,' began Louis, without looking at her, though he knew her eyes, growing dark and troubled, were fixed on him. ' It will not take very long, and you must hear it.' He spoke in a low, concentrated voice, but every word he uttered fell clear and distinct as a knell on the ears of the listening girl, even though his head was averted from her, and turned towards the river, flowing silently and ceaselessly towards the sea.

Its smooth flow seemed to connect itself with his narrative, and May never loved the river quite so well after that night. ' More than ten years ago,' Louis said, without further preface, ' a young man left the university, where he had just taken honours, to begin life. Never had young fellow fairer prospects before him. He possessed youth, and health, and high spirits, he had the best father in the world, and plenty of friends, who were kind enough to credit him with brains, and he was well off. He left college at the end ofthe summer term, and at once accompanied his father to a certain well-known seaside place* He had been working hard, and he now proposed to himself to enjoy a thorough holiday. And in those days he knew how to enjoy a holiday as well as any boy in England. At the large hotel in which he and his father were lodging, he met two ladies, a mother and daughter.

The girl was beautiful in no common degree. Directly he saw her his fate was sealed. This boy — he was nothing more — fell desperately in love with her at first sight.' May caught her breath with a little sound that was almost like a suppressed cry. ' He loved her wildly, passionately,' Louis went on, ' with the adoring, unreasoning love of a boy. He was dazzled by her rare beauty, and captivated by a certain power of fascination she possessed. He never doubted but that her goodness equalled her beauty. She professed to return his love in equal degree, and they became engaged. He was persuaded, not, indeed, without difficulty, but still, to his shame be it spoken, he was persuaded to keep the whole thing a secret from the father at whose hands he had never received anything but kindness. How can I make you understand his folly and madness in those days ?

It seemed as if a spell were on him, and he was bewitched. He has had to pay heavily for his weakness and folly. ' Everything was made fatally easy for him. All difficulties were smoothed away. He was of age, and the elder son of a man whose income and pro perty must inevitably come to him. Matters were hurried on, and he was allowed no time for reflec tion. After an acquaintance of six weeks, they were privately married at the parish church.' May gave a moan as of bodily anguish as he pronounced the last words. This, then, was the shadow that stood between them, blasting and blighting their lives. She covered her face with her hands, and Louis could hear her low, choking sobs. The night wind rustled drearily among the aspens and willows, and the river flowed on calmly. For a moment, a moment during which those low sobs seemed to rend his very heart-strings, Louis was silent.

Then he resumed his story. ' They were married. It was the most evil day of that young man's life. It was not long before all his illusions vanished, and he was face to face with the naked truth. Remember, he believed the woman he had married was as good and as pure as she was beautiful. He was speedily undeceived. She had married him solely on account of his pro spects and station. Once his wife, she made no further pretence of loving him. But that was not all, nor was it all that he soon discovered that a mere surface refinement of manner covered an innate coarseness and vulgarity of nature. But I cannot tell you the bitterness of the truths he learned concerning her in those first few months of his marriage. Had he known what she was, not even the glamour of her charm and beauty would have induced him to make her his wife. ' I will not pollute your ears by telling you any of the details of that married life of his.

It was a hell upon earth. It was mostly spent abroad. After their wedding, they had gone on the Continent, and now, anxious to hide his shame and misery, he kept her there. She cared for him so little, that even during that first year she made no efforts to lead an ordinarily respectable life. And, in his youth and ignorance — for he was only two-and-twenty when he knew his life was hopelessly ruined — he failed to try for his freedom when perhaps he might have obtained it. But the love he had once felt for her turned to the deadliest loathing. To the end of his life he will never forget what he then went through, when all that should be most holy to a man was made most vile.' Louis Raymond's low, quiet tones, as he related all this, expressed more than the most passionate ravings could have done.

May's sobs ceased, and she held her breath as she realised vividly what that time must have been to him, which had altered him from the high-spirited, inexperienced boy he de scribed, to the man she knew. ' At last,' Louis continued, ' his father, ever his best friend, came to his rescue. A separation was arranged, made possible by the father's generosity. They separated ; she, to lead such a life as may be imagined, except that she was careful to give him no tangible reason to rid himself of her entirely ; and he was free. Free, with that skeleton in his cupboard, that stone tied round his neck, knowing that the hopes, the joys of other men were forever denied him : knowing that, if he were fortunate and prosperous, and made wealth and fame, he must share them with this woman whom he loathed, but who was the only wife he could ever know.' He paused.

The wind sighed more loudly among the thick leaves and the tall rushes, and now and then a stifled sob broke from May. It was more for him than for herself she was crying. And still the great river flowed on placidly, just if no human hearts were breaking beside it that night. Louis went on, with bowed head and clenched hands, — ' Well, time passed, and brought, as it is usually supposed to do, something of healing, of compen sation. The man of whom I am telling you was successful in his profession, which interested him, and, as the years went on, he made both name and money, so that he was able to relieve his father from the burden imposed on him. He made many friends, and by degrees existence became a less dreary thing to him. I cannot say he grew reconciled to his lot, but he became accustomed to the restricted condi tions of his life.

He imagined he had achieved philosophy, if not contentment. His secret was well kept, and not one of his many acquaintances ever knew he was married. He was careful never to indulge in even the mildest of flirtations — not that he felt any inclination for that species of amuse ment. But one summer he went to spend part of his holiday by the river. There he became ac quainted with a girl who was all that a man might wish his wife to be — pure, and good, and lovely. Chance threw them constantly together. Without knowing it, without dreaming of such a thing, he, who had thought himself so safe, learned to love her. Almost at the very moment he made this discovery, he found out that she, too, cared for him. Ah ! I cannot tell you what that knowledge was to him.' In his agony his voice broke, and he went on hoarsely, — ' What was he to do?

What was there for him to do when he found this out, but to tell her all the truth, and go away and leave her ? ' His voice failed. The moon, appearing for a moment, showed his face white as death, and set with pain. The girl was sobbing as if her heart was broken. He made a step towards her, and held out his arms as if to take her in them, but instead, he let them drop empty by his side. 'Oh, May!' he cried, 'try to forgive me some day for having spoilt your life. I can never for give myself. But I did not mean to do it, May ; I never guessed.' Then, at last, she raised her head, and their eyes met. Each for a moment forgot his own anguish in that of the other. ' I have nothing to forgive,' she said simply. ' You could not help it. You did not know. And it is worse for you than for me. Oh, Louis, I am so sorry.' Her pity for him in that supreme moment al most unmanned him.

He could not speak. 'You are quite right,' she went on, rising. 'There is nothing to be done but to part.' As she spoke, the moon was again hidden by the clouds, and a gust of wind rippled the dull surface of the river. ' Nothing but to part,' he repeated. ' We must not meet again for a long time — not till we can meet as friends merely.' A moment's silence fell between those two, who were so near together and yet so widely severed. May shivered. ' Let us go in ; it is so cold and dark,' she said. As they crossed the lawn, they caught a glimpse of Mr Raymond and Mrs Denison sitting in the lamp-lit room, and they heard the sound of their voices. The contrast struck them simultaneously. ' They are happy,' Louis exclaimed bitterly. ' Yes ; why does all the trouble come to us ? ' May answered.

They did not go in by the drawing-room window. Instead, they went round to the door. In the lighted entrance-hall they paused a moment, and once more their eyes met. Then, without one word of farewell, one kiss, one touch, they parted, a parting that had all the finality, and more than all the bitterness of death. Henceforth their lives, despite their mutual love, must be sundered. May passed slowly upstairs to her room, and Louis, after standing with bowed head for a moment, went to the drawing - room, where his father and Mrs Denison were sitting in the warm lamp-light. Almost directly the two Raymonds left, for it was already late.

Chapter II

'My hopes were all dead — struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yes terday so blooming and glowing, they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that would never revive.' — C. Bronte. THERE was no lingering on the river, or letting the boat drift with the current, that night for Louis Raymond. He rowed as if he were in a race. It was so dark that his father could hardly see where he was steering to, and would have preferred a slower pace. He was in no particular hurry to get home. A greater contrast could hardly have been imagined than the inner feelings of these two men at that moment. Mr Raymond was full of a placid, peaceful contentment — not the unreasoning rapture of youth, but the satisfied calm of middle age.

To make use of a somewhat hackneyed parellel, his state of mind might have been aptly compared to a VOL. II. B fine October day, with plenty of mellow sunshine, and no wind. There had been dreary times and sad ones, too, in his life, but they were over now, and he was going to spend the rest of his days in the happy companionship of the woman he loved. His lonely home would now have a mistress, and he a congenial helpmeet. With her by his side, even old age would be pleasant. Peacefully and happily they would descend the valley together. While in the heart of the son, who sat face to face with him, was a deeper blackness than that of the night itself. No ray of light seemed to pene trate that darkness. Oh, if he could but have rowed on and on, to annihilation and oblivion! He was like one who has been ill and begun to recover and enjoy life again, and then has a re lapse, and is worse than he was before.

Had he lived down the bitter trouble of his early manhood, and grown accustomed to it, only for this — only that he might suffer the more cruelly now ? And it was not he alone who suffered, else it would have been easier to bear. He had the knowledge that he had brought sorrow on one who was dearer to him — God help him — than aught else on earth. The memory of May's bitter tears, of her grief stricken face, would be with him to his dying day. Neither of the two men spoke while they were on the river. Mr Raymond was too peacefully happy to feel inclined for talking, and withal too taken up trying to steer, and Louis was in no mood for conversation. The silence was only broken by the plash of the oars in the water, the faint rustling of the wind among the rushes, and the occasional cry of some night bird.

But when, having reached their destination, the father and son stood once more on the towpath, each felt the time for silence was over. ' What a desperate pace you came down at ! ' remarked Mr Raymond. 'How often am I to tell you that I do not desire a watery grave, or even a ducking? I had not time to finish my cigar.' ' Did you want to linger on the river, and dream sweet dreams of Her?' asked Louis, in a voice which he strove, not very successfully, to make natural. ' I am sorry, father, but it was cold. Well, young man, have you nothing to tell me ? ' ' Yes, Louis ; it is all right. She has consented to be my wife.' 'She has? Sensible woman! I am delighted. This is the best news I have heard for many a long day. I congratulate you, father,' said Louis heartily, holding out his hand. ' Thanks, Louis,' Mr Raymond answered, clasp ing it warmly. ' Your congratulations are just the crowning touch to my happiness.

I don't think many sons would have taken this as you have.' ' So now you will be lonely and solitary no longer. The old house at home wanted a mistress, and as I fancy I have before remarked, Mrs Deni son is one of the most charming women I know. Are you very happy, old man ? ' he added a little wistfully. Not for one moment did he grudge his father his happiness, yet he could not but feel the contrast keenly. ' Yes, Louis,' Mr Raymond answered quietly linking his arm in his son's as they paced the towpath in front of The Cottage. ' Yes, I am very happy. I don't know that I ever remember having been much happier.' ' You are a lucky man, father.' ' I know I am.' ' It does one good to hear any one own they are downright happy. I am so glad. Now you are going to prove that it is possible, after all, for a Raymond to make a happy marriage.' 'And you, Louis?

You make me talk about my affairs. You never say a word about your own. Are you still going away on Saturday ? Did you say good-bye to-night ? ' ' Don't ask me about to-night, father. I cannot talk of it. To-night I have gone through the most cruel experience of my whole life. Yes, we have parted — ' He stopped abruptly; but his father still seemed to hear the anguish that had vibrated through his voice ' Oh, Louis ! Has the worst happened that I feared ? ' ' Yes ; the very worst. She loves me, and I — -I had to tell her everything, and then we parted. Oh, my God ! ' He clenched his hands, and set his teeth as one in physical agony. 'And I, like a selfish old fool, have been prating to you of my happiness. You should have stopped me, Louis.' ' I did not want to. I like to think you are happy, old man.

Good night now. I must worry through this alone. Oh, father, I have tried to keep my head above water hitherto ; but now I feel I must give it all up, and sink.' ■ No, you won't do that. You have been brave hitherto, you will be brave still. No one can help you to-night, Louis ; but you know how gladly I would if I could.' Mr Raymond remained out a little longer ; but Louis went indoors, and shut himself into his room, to ' worry through ' his bitter trouble as best he might. Whenever, in the years to come, he thought of the little, bare cottage bedroom, with the ivy thrusting itself in at the casement window, it was with the vivid recollection of that night and the previous one, and their endless hour of pain. He had known sorrow before in his life ; but never, even in that bitter hour when he first realised the true nature of the woman he had made his wife, had he suffered as he did now.

When the two Raymonds had left, Mrs Denison remained downstairs by herself for some time, thinking over the step she had that night agreed to take. She had not much doubt of the wisdom of it as far as her happiness was concerned ; but, woman-like, she could not help considering a little what the world would say to a bride of her age. She had concluded, when May did not return to the drawing-room with Louis, that she had gone up to change her wet shoes. But as time went on, and still she did not appear, Mrs Denison began to wonder what had become of her ; so, ringing for the maid to take away the lamps, she went upstairs, and knocked at the door of her daughter's room. Receiving no answer, she went in. May had sunk down on the floor by the side of her bed when she entered her room, and she still crouched there, her head buried in her arms.

She was not crying — since she had parted from Louis she had not shed a tear — only moaning a little now and then. Mrs Denison was seriously alarmed. 'May, my darling, what is it?' she cried. 'Are you ill ? ' Then May listed her head. ' Not ill, mother,' she answered quietly. ' Only I think my heart is broken.' Amazed and disquieted, Mrs Denison knelt down on the floor beside the girl, and put her arms round her. With a long, weary sigh, May hid her white, sorrow-stricken face on her mother's shoulder, just as she had done in many a childish sorrow. ' Can you tell me about it, dear ? ' asked Mrs Denison, stroking her hair. ' It is only that I loved him. I did not know it till to-day. And to-night he told me he was married.' 'Oh, May, my poor child. You mean Louis Raymond ? Did he dare — ' ' Hush, mother, not one word against him.

He has done nothing wrong. He never thought of such a thing. It is such a sad story, mother, and it is worse for him than for me. Oh, if you had only seen how he suffered.' She shuddered. ' May, my dearest, this is hard. Oh, if I could only bear it for you. You have this bitter trouble to bear, while I — ' she paused, for not now could she tell May of her engagement. But May raised her head. ' Yes, mother,' she said quietly. ' You are going to marry Mr Raymond, and be happy.' ' I promised I would this evening. But don't let us speak of that now. I did not dream you were in trouble.' ' I am glad, mother,' said May, with the saddest of smiles. ' I am glad you are going to be happy. You cared for him years ago, didn't you ? ' ' Yes. But I cannot talk of that now. Oh, my dear one, my heart bleeds for you.' Mrs Dension helped May to undress that night, and brushed her hair, and put her to bed as if she had been a child again.

Then she left her, for May said she would rather be alone. Sad at heart, in spite of the long-deferred happiness that had come to her that evening, Mrs Denison went to her room. She felt how utterly powerless even her mother-love was to comfort her child in the great trouble that had come to her. Surely it was she, not her girl, who ought to be sorrowful and broken-hearted. May, little expecting slumber, fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, which probably saved her health or her brain after all she had gone through that day. She did not wake till it was already broad daylight, and the birds had begun their morning concert. But oh ! the dull, aching pain of that waking, of that return to the full consciousness of her trouble. It was her first real sorrow, and in many respects a first grief is always the cruelest.