Creatures of clay : a novel

Front matter

CRIMES of ClAT

ADY VI OLE .

EVIL

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

II. AN OLD FRIEND - - r - - 16

III. COUSINLY AFFECTION - - - 22

Chapter I. Foiled

It was August in London, dull, hot, stifling weather, when the sky looks brazen, the prematurely faded yellow leaves begin to flutter and fall from the grimy trees in the parks, and the streets become dusty and ill-odorous. Dirty bits of paper fly up and about in the scorching sirocco-like air, everybody of any importance is out of town ; the blinds of fashionable houses are closed, and the care-takers go about in curl-papers and slippers.

On such a day a young man, morosely chewing at a cigar, sat in the window of one of the few West End clubs that was not shut up in consequence of cleaning or repairs. He had a bright, fair, young, English face, which at that instant wore an evil expression of angry despair, evidently foreign to its character. After a few moments of sullen reflection, the young man rose and walked to the chimney-piece, against which he rested his forehead gloomily.

' I say, Dick,' exclaimed another young man who was reading the paper at a little distance, ' why don't you answer ? I asked you if you knew that Evelyn Bray, the girl we met at the Milners' in the summer, that time at Henley, you know, when we had such jolly water-parties, was just married to old Sir Hilary Fenchurch ?'

' I didn't know it till you read out the news just now,' answered his friend sullenly.

' She was very good-looking,' mused the other ; ' and I suppose she thinks she has made a good thing of it, for I believe she is an orphan without a penny — seems rather a pity though, doesn't it ? He must be old enough for her father.'

' Rather a pity ! I should just think it was ; it's disgusting to see a girl sell herself like that.'

' Oh well, my dear fellow, it doesn't do to be too hard upon them, poor things ; it is their profession, you know, like the

army for me '

' A vile profession !' said Dick vindictively. ' What a bad temper you are in to-day ; what's the matter, eh ?' said the other, stretching himself more luxuriously in his deep arm-chair, and extending a languid hand to the glass of iced lemon and soda-water that stood on a little table beside him. 'Tailor sent your bill in, or lost at Goodwood, eh ?'

' Neither. I'm only sick of the folly of the life we lead ; what's the good of it all? How long will it last? Women cheat, men lie and rob you, and— it's confoundedly hot.'

' So it is, but you can't reform the world ; get as much fun as you can out of it — that's my maxim — and don't fuss yourself

' You never fussed yourself, I'm sure,' sneered Dick. ' Never. It don't pay.'

' I should like to know what does pay. Fellows grumble at the army, the navy, their wives, their people — everything.'

'At least you can't grumble. You have all that a man can want, nothing to do, splendid prospects, and a grandmother who will stand you any amount of money.'

Dick was silent. The bitterness he felt was too deep for words. Presently he quitted the club and his contented friend, who, left in solitude, dropped off into peaceful slumbers for the rest of the afternoon, and woke up, cool and refreshed, just in time for dinner. Dick, on the contrary, once in the street, walked on quickly, regardless of the heat, until he reached his lodgings, where he set to work energetically to pack a portmanteau.

Dick Carrol was a spoilt favourite of fortune. He had been brought up by an adoring grandmother, and pampered by society, who beheld in him the possible heir to a large fortune. He had scarcely ever been contradicted, and never knew what it was to receive the thing expressed by that salutary but disagreeable figure of speech, a slap in the face. Dick now, for the first time in his life, was hopelessly, stupidly, wretchedly in love. And having informed his goddess of this condition of things, which ought to have made some impression upon her heart, he was forced to read of her marriage to another, an elderly, common-place country baronet. Not only therefore was she unfaithful and unappreciative, but she was also mercenary. Dick, maddened and impetuous, resolved to revenge himself. He would wildly pursue, would taunt, upbraid and dismay her. The newspaper informed him that the happy couple were gone to Switzerland (happy couple indeed !) Dick ground his teeth : he saw it was not a large country on the map; he would scour the country, search every hotel, and find them. In this frame of mind he left England, and, soon enough, came upon the traces of his beloved and unfaithful mistress.

Meanwhile, Sir Hilary and Lady Fenchurch had been married a fortnight, and the time allotted to the honeymoon, which, according to the roving habits of the English people, they had been spending in Switzerland, was nearly exhausted. The link that bound husband and wife together was partly new and partly old. Evelyn Bray, the orphan daughter of a poor gentleman, had lived with her guardian, Sir Hilary Fenchurch, and his sister, for several years, until the time appointed for the ratification of the solemn promise Sir Hilary had made to her dying father arrived, and he had claimed her for his wife. Evelyn made no objection ; Sir Hilary was about thirty years older than herself, but he was a kindly as well as a rich man, and she had been brought up to value her future position, and to consult his habits and wishes. She was docile and gentle, not particularly imaginative, and possessed all the woman's love of luxuries and comforts. She only vaguely realized the irrevocability of the marriage tie, nor did she anticipate any great or pleasurable result from the change in her condition. Once married, Sir Hilary treated her in his usual fashion, pleasantly, considerately, with a tinge of old-fashioned courtly deference in his manner, which was rather flattering to a young creature, but with none of a lover's warmth. Evelyn was grateful to him for this concession, for the sight of an amorous middle-aged man disporting himself in fond caresses is a somewhat disagreeable spectacle, and, though Lady Fenchurch entertained a calm affection for Sir Hilary, any exhibition of passion on his part would only have alarmed and disgusted her.

Those persons who were staying in the pleasantly picturesque mountain resort where Sir Hilary and his wife elected to pass a few days observed the new-married couple walking up and down, arm in arm, in the early morning (while Sir Hilary drank a couple of glasses of some nauseous water, recommended by the doctors for his periodical attacks of gout), and noticed with surprise the happy union of December and May. Yet, as every bright thing has its reverse, so when Evelyn remained alone, and Sir Hilary took a longer or steeper pedestrian stretch, the placid expression of her face underwent a considerable change. At such times she would wander into some solitary part of the woods, nominally intent on sketching purposes, in reality a prey to disagreeable thoughts. For she then recalled to her mind an episode of the last few months which she had not confided to Sir Hilary, and which, though it left her outward circumstances unchanged, considerably modified her inner life. While on a visit to a friend, but a few weeks before her marriage, she met a handsome young man. They walked and talked together in the intimacy of countryhouse life, grew to understand and appreciate each other, until one day he told her he loved her. And she, hearing such strange and pleasant words, and for a moment forgetting the rigid future in store for her, including Sir Hilary and the comfortable settlement to which she was destined, listened eagerly. Listened to the detriment of her peace and the loss of her self-respect, yet with the lightness of her age and sex snatching at the forbidden pleasure, and drinking in the words of nattering love.

Then, woman-like, when her lover pressed her to throw off the conventional shackles that bound her, she dared not, and, true to neither, married one man while her heart was given to another. Powerless and disinclined to forget a part of which she was now ashamed, she weakly feared to speak of this to her husband. For, she argued, what was there to tell ? She had sent her lover away, assured him that what he asked was impossible, that he must never think of her, that he must never again see her — in short, all the pretty insincere vows and protestations that women hard pressed are wont to utter. She left the house, feeling she had acted honourably ; she heard no more of him, and believed he had forgotten her, yet, strangely enough, indeed, this last thought increased her regret. Occasionally, overcome by temptation, she would put down her drawing materials, and, leaning her head on her hand as she sat among the cool green ferns and mosses, think of the past with tearful sorrow ; then, after a little, remembering Sir Hilary, bestir herself and walk home, her hollow eyes and pale cheeks rising up as witnesses against her. This was certainly an uncomfortable and a useless way of passing a honeymoon, and poor Evelyn sometimes feared that Sir Hilary, plain and practical as he was, might suspect something unusual. At other times her speculations led her to wonder aimlessly where her lover might be, and if he had really consoled himself for her loss with his pretty cousin Maud, to whom the world's gossip already married him ; but when they reached this point her speculations invariably ended in tears.

Even the most heroically prudish woman does not like to feel that she is forgotten. By dint of musing over these sad and hopeless reminiscences Evelyn attained to a gentle melancholy and an uncontrollable desire to see once more, if only to take a pathetic farewell of him, the hero of her dreams. One afternoon especially, when she had plunged as usual into the recesses of the pine-woods and walked listlessly to a spot whence she could see range upon range of distant snow-capped peaks melting into a dim blue distance or standing out sharply against the clear sky, silent and wonderful in their majesty, the longing to see Dick grew more intense than ever, and she permitted her thoughts to stray back to those bright halcyon days of love-making which now seemed to her so precious, but which at the time she had not sufficiently valued. They were irrevocably gone, no longings could recall them ; why might she not therefore retrace that happy time as if it concerned some one else and not herself? Thinking thus, she mused luxuriously in a kind of melancholy rapture, and was scarcely surprised to see before her the object of her thoughts, who after severe travelling had discovered her abode, and followed her in her solitary walk. She felt pleased and yet a little frightened. Such a pursuit scarcely argued forgetfulness, and though agreeable to dream of a lover it might not be so easy to deal with him in flesh and blood. Dick left London with the intention of indulging in a series of melodramatic reproaches ; instead, as he saw the startled face of a pretty girl before him, he threw himself down beside her, and, taking her hand gently, said ' Evelyn !' Love was more prominent than reproach in this adjuration, and as to revenge he had totally forgotten its existence.

' Evelyn, why have you behaved so cruelly ? Why did you marry another man when I loved you and you knew it ?'

Youth always considers its own rights first.

'I said that our love — your love — was wrong and foolish,' stammered Evelyn.

' I can't see that ; you were not obliged to marry Sir Hilary.'

' I could not help it, our engagement had lasted so long. Papa wished it, and on his deathbed Sir Hilary promised him he would marry me, and I '

' And for some silly idea of duty you have spoilt my life and yours. I never believed you really meant it ; I thought that, if I gave you time and did not worry you, you would understand — would relent. I loved you, Evelyn, and when a io CREATURES OF CLA Y

man loves he deserves some consideration,' said Dick reproachfully.

' Indeed, I am very sorry.'

' Very sorry ! you speak like a little school-girl ; didn't you love me ?'

' Well — you said so ;' the coquette in her nature asserted itself.

' You might at least have waited a bit, have given a fellow some chance.'

' There was no use in waiting.'

' Everything would have come right if you had only waited,' he argued again impatiently.

' Yes, but I could not,' she said softly.

' You were very cruel.'

' Cruel to myself, don't you think I suffered ? but then I knew it was right'

' Right, right ! you women only think of yourselves ; what a man feels is nothing. If you had only trusted me, instead of sending me away — to read your marriage one day in a newspaper.'

' But Sir Hilary ?'

' Hang Sir Hilary ! What a situation for you ! — a prim old fellow, who will just be as fond of the Board of Guardians or of his turnips as of his wife ; who won't understand you or share your pleasures.'

' He is very kind,' she whispered, trying to palliate to her conscience the sin of hearing her husband's character discussed.

' Can you not believe that I should have been kinder ?'

Tears stood in Evelyn's eyes. She was pitying herself, and imagining what immeasurable bliss Dick's affection would have afforded her. He saw his advantage.

' Do you not know that men have strong passions, that they can feel? Ay ! as you never felt in your life, hedged in by all your tepid ideas of duty and sentiment.'

' Oh, Dick ! forgive me — forget me.'

' Forget you ! and if I cannot ? if you're the first woman I ever really loved ? — if you seem to have taken away my very heart with you? — if — oh ! I cannot bear it, Evelyn ! I came all this way just to see you, just to tell you, for once, what I think of you — of a girl who plays with a man as you did ! You shall hear! ' he emphasized, as she tried to rise. ' I loved you, and you jilted me for a rich old man.'

' Oh ! Dick ! Dick ! how can you ?' she cried, fairly frightened now, and wondering how she should get rid of him. ' I could not help it — indeed, I could not if I loved you.'

' You loved me ! — you love me still ! — you're miserable ! I'm glad you're miserable, Lady Fenchurch !'

He jumped up and stood over her, lashing himself into a rage as he spoke. Her head sank lower and lower ; she picked nervously with her fingers at the tiny grasses. She was a little ashamed, and not a little alarmed.

' Do not let us reproach each other,' she said quietly, though her heart beat fast. ' We have been rudely parted, I know ; and I assure you I have suffered bitterly ; but I will try to bear my burden, and you must try to bear yours — for my sake, please.'

Her voice faltered. He looked at her first angrily, then kindly, then triumphantly. He thought he saw the weakness in the strength she tried to assume.

' For your sake ! Women always say that.'

' The loss of a woman, after all, is nothing in a man's life. You are a noble fellow ; you are sure to do what is right ; forget '

She could say no more. The tears rushed to her eyes, yet she felt a sense of pride almost as great as if she had won a victory. He threw himself again beside her, and pressed her hand in his.

' Evelyn, these heroics are absurd. Why shouldn't we be happy ? why should our life be spoiled ? You have been married through a terrible misunderstanding ; you could not help it, I know, but you will never love Sir Hilary — never be happy. Come with me — come. I will love you and care for you !'

She put out her hands as if to keep him off, and shrank away; she had no desire to outrage society.

' No, no ! not that ; never say that again. Such things are nonsense,' she said.

' Nonsense ! Ah, I thought you could not love me,' he said gloomily. 'Yet I cannot bear to see you wretched all your life.'

' I shall not be wretched, she said, with a little forced laugh; ' I mean to enjoy myself, to be very good ; Sir Hilary is most indulgent.'

' You don't love me, and I was a fool to think so/ he said angrily.

' It must be as I said, Dick,' she answered severely ; ' you know it must.'

' Must be — must be !' muttered the young man impatiently, feeling, for the first time in his life, an impracticable barrier opposed to his wishes. ' Of course, it is for you to decide ; if you tell me of your own free will to go, I must ; but '

' I do tell you — I wish it.'

He looked at her keenly. Her voice sounded firm and clear ; she evidently meant it. His happiness was nothing to her ; she had chosen her own line, and intended to keep to it. After all, perhaps she was right ; there would be complications — and men did not die of love. Still he hesitated ; she was so beautiful ; no woman had ever appeared to him so beautiful before, and he was unaccustomed to be jilted. The circumstances were usually reversed ; girls had cared hopelessly for him, and he had never given them a thought.

' Evelyn ! Evelyn ! pray reflect ! you cannot send me away so.' No answer. She was very pale, and yet much calmer than, in his infatuation, he would have expected. He rose slowly to his feet, waiting for her to speak. ' I am going,' he said. ' Haven't you a word for me ? Won't you change your mind, darling ? I do love you so !'

She rose also, and held out her hand, turning away her head.

' Good-bye — forgive me,' she said quietly.

Then he jerked away her hand, and in another instant the crashing of the bushes told her he was gone. Pale and trembling, she steadied herself against the trunk of a pine-tree, thoroughly exhausted and unnerved. The sweet wild pink scented the air with its fragrance, and the silver tinkle of the cowbells sounded merrily from the valley, but she saw and felt nothing. Her heart seemed to stand still, and a great veil of darkness obscured her sight. How hard it had been to convince him ! what a pang it had cost her ! Presently, as in a dream, she walked on. The sun had set quite suddenly, as happens in mountainous regions, and the hills, but recently bathed in gleams of roseate light, were now a sombre violet ; a small pale evening star twinkled above, and the air was tinged with a sharp and frosty coolness. She felt benumbed morally and physically, and the chill air revived her.

When she reached home she found Sir Hilary waiting and somewhat anxious. He gently chid her for staying out so late, and her conscience smote her as she saw that he looked pale and worried. If he had but known on what a thread her future happiness still hung !

' The papers are come,' he said, looking as unlike a jealous husband as possible. ' Sit down here ; you will like to read them.'

Gladly hailing this as a relief from conversation, she sat down, until by degrees she was able to control her nervousness and the tremulous tones of her voice.

In the morning a note was handed her by the chambermaid. It contained only a few lines :

' You have willed it so. I leave to-morrow. Still I give you one chance more before I go. (I know not where, to do what ! Give myself to the devil, I suppose.) Evelyn, do you really wish me to leave you ? If not, send me a line to the hotel, where I shall wait all day.

' Yours till death,

Evelyn crumpled the paper together in her hands when she had read it. ' Why does he try to tempt me, and make me run such risks ?' she cried. ' It is cruel, shameful !' Yet many a time during that dreadfully long, hot day did she feel inclined to waver, to be a flirt, and to say, ' Come back ; do not leave me; be my friend.'

Surely, she might at least have kept him as a friend — she was innocent of all wrong-doing, and determined to continue to act honestly ; but the sight of his countenance would have been pleasant ; why need she deny herself that happiness ? Once she seized a pen and began to write, then, dropping it, buried her face in her hands. ' Oh ! how weak I am ! how wicked !' She glanced at the clock and thought the day interminable ; it was kind, at least, of Sir Hilary to leave her alone and prolong his constitutional beyond the usual limits — soon, very soon, the feverish hours would pass, and she would regain calm and quiet again.

Outside every-day life proceeded merrily — carts and carriages rattled along, drivers cracked their whips with a will, bells jingled, and dust bepowdered the red carnations at the window and flew lightly into the room.

Three o'clock, four o'clock, dusk, then evening came. Evelyn lay on the sofa. Her head ached. Meantime Dick, half mad with rage and disappointment, sat biting at a cigar, and listening to every sound in the hotel. To the very last he hoped and believed in his influence over her. She had seemed so affectionate, so pliable, before her marriage, that he could not realize the sudden change. He never considered what was to follow, or what their lives would have been in the future ; he never asked himself these questions ; he was young and sanguine, and he loved her. That was enough. Occasionally, indeed, he remorsefully remembered his grandmother, who bestowed on him a handsome allowance, whose heir he was supposed to be, and who had hitherto proved invariably indulgent to all his follies. She was old, and the shock might harm her, kill her perhaps. No, no, he said to himself; he would manage her, talk to her : old folks were not so sensitive ; she would forgive him, and they would all be happy eventually. Then as the hours flew by he grew angry. Evelyn was selfish, she did not love him ; she must always have intended to deceive him ; she told him of her engagement, certainly, but he had never believed her marriage to be so near and so irrevocable. The news dealt his hopes and his vanity a severe blow. He had undertaken a long journey, counting on his influence over her, and it had proved useless. No wonder he was angry, disappointed, and miserable.

Night merged into morning, yet she did not write. What a fool he was to have believed in, to have cared for her ! It proved that women were, as men had often said in his hearing, only heartless coquettes. Never again would he love. Then, with a great revulsion of feeling, he began to question whether his passion had been of so durable, so intense a nature. He was very young, and life with all its possibilities lay before him ; perhaps, on the whole, it was best for him so, best that she had not consented to his prayer. He was still free ! Then, almost with joy and a great longing to shake the soil of the hateful place from his feet, he departed.

The dust and hubbub of his travelling-carriage reached the room where Evelyn lay, wakefully tormenting herself with sad thoughts ; but no presentiment warned her that the crisis in her fate was passed, and that henceforth a new chapter of her life would begin.

In such rude fashion ended Evelyn's honeymoon, and in October the newly married pair returned to Oakdene — Evelyn quietly taking on pretty little matronly airs, and Sir Hilary seeming ruddy and cheerful among his partridges and his turnips.

With the kind of sensation as though she had dropped down to earth from some fair fairyland, Evelyn took up existence as she had left it, listened to Miss Fenchurch's long, pointless monologues, walked down the silent oaken galleries, passed through the unused drawing-room, shrouded in holland covers and fragrant with a faint smell of potpourri and camphor, held colloquies with the housekeeper over jams and preserves, and heard herself called distantly ' My lady ' by familiar voices who had hitherto said 'Miss Evelyn.' Everything was quite the same, and yet really everything was quite different. Miss Fenchurch formally resigned the keys and no longer made tea at breakfast, an arrangement which enabled her to knit indefatigably during the meal ; but the gust of passion had passed over Evelyn's soul, and she could not forget. To herself she was still Evelyn, not Lady Fenchurch, and no formal ceremony of resigning keys could force the fact upon her.

' She moped,' Miss Fenchurch said. ' It was sad for a married woman to sit about reading novels and dreaming away half the day. Let her take some exercise.'

' Hunting ?' suggested Sir Hilary cheerily.

' Certainly not ! what are you thinking of, my dear brother ? A married woman — most injurious to the health.' Sir Hilary subsided with a conscious chuckle.

Evelyn flamed out, ' Why not, pray ? why should I not ? I love riding, Hilary; I will go out hunting with you to-morrow.'

Miss Fenchurch shook her head, and Sir Hilary, puzzled, glanced from one to the other.

A considerable portion of Evelyn's time was occupied by the never-ending callers, who, partly impelled by curiosity and partly for want of something to do, inflicted themselves on the young bride. They had known her for years as Evelyn Bray, but Evelyn Fenchurch possessed the charm of novelty. Each person reported what kind of dress she was wearing, what wedding presents lay on the table, whether the jewellery displayed was handsome or betokened stinginess on the part of Sir Hilary, regretting that the family diamonds, of course, could only be seen to advantage at the next county ball. How Lady Fenchurch bore herself, whether she looked happy, why the marriage had been celebrated in perfect privacy in town, and whether she had improved in looks, afforded food for much gossip and a great deal of very agreeable tea-drinking. Opinions were divided as to whether she would be an addition to the county society or not. Of course, if she entertained and spent some of the money which Sir Hilary had hitherto so carefully hoarded, it would be well enough. Did he intend to stand for Parliament, and would his wife make herself popular, were the further questions the county asked itself, and to which it eagerly awaited the answers.

Chapter II. An Old Friend

Dick went into Italy, dawdled away a fortnight at Venice, took a run down to Rome, and discovered, with surprise, that foreign travel was in no ways distracting. Disgusted and sore at heart, he returned to England. The first person he stumbled up against in London was his cousin, Maud Hardfast, whose joy at meeting him was at least refreshing. Though a very handsome girl, she had not succeeded in making a match, and it occurred to her that Dick was a chance not to be thrown away. Partly owing to her own talents as an accomplished flirt, and partly to her mother's straitened circumstances, the two women were regarded by society in the light of hawks ready to swoop down on any marriageable young man, and were universally exposed to detraction by their own sex accordingly. To be ' skied ' at the Academy, to write poems which nobody will read, to breed cattle who die of pleuro-pneumonia the week before the show at which in all likelihood they must have taken prizes, are bitter things indeed, yet not more fraught with bitterness than the feelings of a hawked-about girl, who displays her wares in vain, and leaves London, season after season, ticketed 'unsaleable.' So Maud's face brightened as she beheld her cousin, and thought that there was still some hope of her obtaining a desirable husband.

' Where do you come from ? What luck to find you in town !' she said sweetly.