My Beautiful Neighbour

Front matter

The

Deceased Wife's Sister,

and

Chapter 1

MY

BEAUTIFUL NEIGHBOUR.

Cliffegate lies in a sloping hollow of a line of swart granite coast. When the tide is high, the waves boil on the shingle beneath the short wooden pier and lick the strings of sea-weed which hang from the perpendicular wall of the esplanade.

Cliffegate consists of a single street and a few fishermen's cottages which stray to right and left of it. At the top of the street is the church, a quaint but not inelegant pile, green in its envelopment of ivy, through which a faded clock stares like a bleared eye through matted hair. The ground shadowed by this structure is thick with graves. The stones droop with age. They resemble old garrulous women who incline to one another and whisper.

I had driven over eight miles of road from Cornpool and had halted the gig near the church. The air was tart with a smell of salt and sea-weed. The sun poured its splendour from an element radiant and deep. From an adjacent forge the regular strokes of a hammer sent a busy music that mingled with a chorus rising and falling from the open window of an alehouse parlour. Afar, the sea sang her pauseless under song.

"This will do," I mused. "I like this church with its sober colouring of grey and green; this quaint street of flint-houses and angular roofs; this air which fills my mouth with the flavour of a wine at once sweet and acid. If Elmore Court is half as good as Mr. Short affirms it, Cliffegate shall be my home."

I called to a seaman, "Will you tell me the way to Elmore Court?"

"Ay, ay," he responded. "Go round yon church and keep th' road till you coom t'a toornin'. Take it, an' you'll fetch th' house. It's stowed away oonder a big brick wall."

I thanked him, flipped the horse and started.

On passing the church the country opened. It stretched a green sweep and swell of cultivated soil. The sheen of a river made a silver thread among the meadows. Here and there the foliage of small groups of trees veiled without obliterating the red roofs and white fronts of farm-houses. The road was hard and level. The horse trotted bravely. In a quarter of an hour Elmore Court was reached.

I threw the reins to the lad who accompanied me and rang the gate-bell. A woman sauntered from the house; I saw her through the barred gate. She probably mistook the summons for that of a tradesman. Catching sight of the gig she hurried forward and swung open the gate.

"I am come," said I, "with an order from Mr. Short, of Cornpool, to inspect this house. I shall be glad if you will show me over it."

She curtseyed, and I entered.

The front grounds were large but greatly neglected. The grass had grown to the level of the marble basin in the centre of the lawn. Sticky parasites crawled round the trees and poisoned the bushes. Slender rose-trees hung their heads blushing with unfolding buds. A rich smell of decay, almost autumnal, haunted the place.

I passed in, gained the steps of the house and paused.

"This place," I said, "is much neglected. How long has it been unoccupied?"

"Nearly four years, Sir."

"So long! a poor look-out for the landlord. The garden wants a hundred pounds spent upon it. Of course that fountain doesn't play? A good hall, at all events," I continued, as I pushed open the door. It was large and arched and well-lighted at the extremity by a handsome window inlet with coloured glass. On either side were rooms. I entered them. They were at least in striking contrast with the garden; for they were newly papered, the mouldings had been regilt, and the relievos in the centre of the ceilings repaired and whitewashed. I mounted the stone stair- case, inspected the bedrooms, about which I noticed hung a faint perfume of lavender, like that which makes aromatic the atmosphere of old drawing-rooms, and pronounced myself satisfied.

I paused at a bedroom window.

"Do these grounds belong to the house?"

"Yes, Sir."

"They are well wooded at all events."

"They are beautiful in summer, Sir. You can't judge of them yet. There's enough fruit yielded to pay the rent, was you minded to sell it."

"That is an advantage to be sure. It is bad policy to spend money on other men's belongings. I am quite aware that the neglected state of these grounds has served to cheapen the rent; so I must not cavil. By the way, I see a small house through the trees yonder. Is it occupied?"

"Yes, Sir."

"A pity! I have come here to study and for quiet. Now if there are any boys in that house, I may as well abandon the notion of taking this place. For I know what boys are when they reside within a stone's throw of other people's fruit trees."

"You need have no fear of boys, Sir. The house is a mere cottage—it looks bigger than it is through the trees—and is occupied by a widow and one servant. She is an uncommonly quiet person."

"Oh, very well. And now, how goes the reputation of the place? I mean, how many house robberies are there here on an average during the year?"

"I've never heard of a robbery at Cliffegate since I've lived here, and that'll be forty years, please God, come October the tenth, my birthday," she answered, a little indignantly.

"Are you troubled with rats?"

"No, Sir."

"If I take this house then, it is your honest conviction that I shall be comfortable?"

"I am quite sure of it, Sir. The basement is in excellent order, the oven bakes nicely, there's a good boiler as draws with the best of chimneys, and the house is as dry and warm as a blanket."

Whilst she spoke I examined her. Her face was pleasant and even comely, the eye good-humoured and intelligent, the mouth firm, the teeth white and even. She had named her age, but I should have thought her younger.

"I see a wedding-ring on your finger," I remarked; "are you married?"

"I have been a widow these ten years, Sir," she answered. "My husband was a boatman, and was drowned whilst helping one bad night, in the life-boat."

"Have you any children?"

"No, Sir."

"Should I take Elmore Court, what will you do?"

"Go and live with mother at Cliffegate until I get work."

"What is your name?"

"Mrs. Williams, Sir."

"Well, now, Mrs. Williams, I am a bachelor and propose to reside in this house, which suits me, chiefly because of its repose. I shall want servants, of course, and I shall also want some one to look after them. Your appearance pleases me. You look good-tempered, you don't talk loud, and I have an idea that you can be brisk and industrious without noise. If you like, I will retain your services here as housekeeper."

She answered with a curtsey.

"I am greatly obliged to you, Sir."

"You are a woman of few words, and that pleases me. Any unnecessary chatter- ing is to me dreadful at all times; here it would be doubly dreadful. For I propose to apply myself to study, and it must therefore be your business to keep my mind free from the trifling troubles of housekeeping. My reveries must never be perplexed, my studies must never be disturbed by any intrusion of home worries. You will administer my affairs, adjust the kitchen squabbles, procure me good servants, see that my bed is aired, that my food is properly cooked, and that my books and papers are never disturbed for the tables and shelves to be dusted. You understand?"

"Quite, Sir," she answered with a faint smile; "I shall like my duties, Sir; and you may depend upon my having everything ready for your arrival whenever you choose to come."

I bade her good bye, and departed.

From the foregoing you will have no diffi- culty in concluding that I was a bachelor. Yet my celibacy was not due to the compulsion of woman's neglect or aversion. I was a bachelor of my own resolute contrivance; who had had chances, but had austerely missed them; who was deeply sensible of the advantages of matrimony, but who preferred on the whole the disadvantages of a single life. I was not cynical. Indeed I was not ugly enough to be cynical. My past, so far as love went, was a piece of white paper—a virgin blank. I could contemplate it without prejudice. Upon it fate had drawn no strange characters; no pierced heart, no weeping cupid, no stain of tear, no pensive profile disturbed its white purity. Hence Recollection was armed with no sharp weapon to prick me into grimacing at the life connubial.

Let me here briefly recur to my early life.

When my father was about eighteen years old, he took it into his head to rebel against his ill-treatment at the hands of his mother's second husband. He conceived and executed a severe reprisal, of what nature I forget, and then ran away.

Australia was in those days thinly peopled. Emigrants were needed, and to procure them grants of land were freely offered to those who were not too proud to dig for a livelihood. My father procured a grant, worked his passage out and took possession of the land. He toiled with unremitting industry for thirty years, and then found himself one of the four most opulent farmers or "squatters" of the district. Meanwhile houses had been multiplying; streets were formed; room was wanted for public buildings and public gardens; the builders found my father's acres obstructive. By perches and yards they bought up the obstruction, until his land was diminished by a third and his fortune proportionably increased. He then came to England, not to settle but to wed. His wealth procured the austere, plain spoken Colonial admission into society. The British mother speedily sniffed him out, and wreathed with smiles, submitted to the elderly gentleman the various treasures of her house. But upon the charms of her daughters he turned a blind eye; to her bland importunities a deaf ear; and finally struck resentment and envy to her bosom by pairing with a penniless orphan. At the age of fifty he returned to Australia with his young wife; and a few years after, died, leaving her a comfortable fortune of forty thousand pounds.

I was then two years old. My mother returned to England with the intention of devoting her life to my care. She rented a house near London; procured me, when I was of the proper age, good tutors; dispatched me to Winchester, and thence to Cambridge. I kept three terms, quitted college, took rooms in St. James' Street, became a member of three crack clubs, kept a couple of turn-outs, and had for a bosom friend the most dissolute baronet in the kingdom. My income was liberal. The money-lenders made prodigious efforts to get hold of me, and the air for a time was clouded with their circulars. But though I spent my allowance to the last groat, I never exceeded it.

I was not constituted for a life of pleasure. Heartless, brainless dissipation was always insipid to me. My appetite being small was soon surfeited. My sympathies, which were at first fresh and uninstructed, went bounding along with my friend on the downward path. But they presently grew reluctant. They hung heavy. They recoiled. I at last saw what manner of thing was this Idol of his which he adored and wanted me to worship. In short, he had taught me too much. He had taken me behind the scenes. I was disillusioned. Finding me no longer suited to his taste he dropped me. Our separation would have been more profitable had it been earlier.

About this time my mother died. Her death was a great blow. Even had my better instincts not before stirred rebellious beneath the wanton pressure of my gross and heavy life, they must have been animated by this appeal of death. She had loved me well, but not wisely. Upon my conduct she had imposed no restraint. Perhaps she had faith in the tuition of that better nature in me which her love divined. From the decay of folly, she believed, would come the resurrection of virtue. Now in my solitariness I lamented that she had not apprenticed me to some calling whose business would have filled with activity my lonely indolent hours. I had faith in my abilities and principles. I fancied that had I entered the lists, I might have outrun some of those racers whom I saw nearing the goal of honour, dignity and ambition. Opportunity would at least have been mine; for in my wealth I had the talisman to summon it.

The time passed in regrets. Then Resolution awoke and I was inspired. I would no longer fret my life away in vacuous remorse. I was young—not yet thirty. The spacious arena of life lay before me. Into that amphitheatre I resolved to descend and contest for fame among the numberless wrestlers.

Two avenues offered; one indeed merging into the other—Literature and Politics. To tread them to a triumphant consequence would demand labour; and labour it would be my pleasure to give. The very business of hoping would impart a zest to life.

I determined to withdraw from London, and to surrender my days and nights to study. I would choose a spot where distraction would be impossible; where fancy might stretch her wings and soar with impunity; where the absence of pleasure would give a pertinacity to diligence, and deprive idleness of its most eloquent advocate.

Chapter 2

I stood on the day of my arrival looking from the drawing-room window on the back grounds of Elmore Court. The lilacs had not yet shaken all their blossoms from the stems. The sun had not yet deepened the transparent green of the leaves. The grass was knee deep. The apple-trees were in full flower. The lilies had opened their white breasts to the ravishment of the bees. Over the sky sailed the tenderest, most pallid clouds. From the leaf-draped covert rushed a storm of song—a commingling of a thousand voices of birds. And right overhead hung a hawk, poised in the sunshine like an image of stone.

How different from the war of the streets! how different this nimble ether from the smoke-charged air of London! How sweet this murmurous repose, unthreatened by the beetle-browed organ-grinder, by the iron-throated costermonger! Who for this natural music of the trees would not forego the clamorous contortions of the opera-singer? Who for this fragrant air, this sunlighted scene, would not abandon the fevered atmosphere, the gaslit glory, the silly civilities of the London ball-room?

I welcomed the mood. I applauded the full-voiced emotion of my heart. For I wished to sympathise with nature; to interpret with reverence her symbols; to receive with homage her messages. I desired to feel my soul kindling beneath her gaze; to dilate with the power and calm of her inspirations; to ravish from her lips her thoughts, and from her eyes her visions.

I left the window and entered the library. The furnishing of this I had made my peculiar care. Handsome shelves were ranged around the room, laden with books. I had at least exercised judgment in my selection. I had rummaged the libraries of the best booksellers in London; and had culled from every branch of the tree of knowledge specimens of its choicest fruit.

Mrs. Williams had done her work well. The servants she had hired were neat and deft. The house from attic to basement was clean to purity. Looking through the window-pane was like gazing at objects through a rarified atmosphere.

I had a talk with her on the evening of my arrival.

"I suppose you know pretty well everybody here?"

"I almost think I do, Sir."

"Who are your 'quality?

"We have no titles in these parts, Sir. I doubt if the whole population of Cliffegate is five hundred souls, man and boy. We have a few genteel families living around, but they are mostly poor."

"Then there is no society?"

"Lor, no, Sir!" she replied with a smile.

"I noticed a church. You have a clergyman, of course?"

"Yes, Sir; Mr. Toulmin. He lives at the parsonage with his lady and niece. 'Tis an old square house on the south side of the church. Maybe you noticed it, Sir. Then there's Mr. Fisher the curate, and the two Miss Loaders, who play the organ and teach at the Free School."

"I see. The old story. Every little village has its group of worthies who circle round the parson. Is that the society?"

"There are two or three more families, Sir, besides the widow, your neighbour. But she's not to be counted. She keeps much to herself."

"I suppose she hasn't got over the loss of her husband?"

"I don't think it's that, Sir. Some say she's fanciful; others that she's a bit stiffish ; and I've heard it whispered she's a bit wrong"—and here Mrs. Williams significantly tapped her forehead. "But that's mere wild talk."

"What's her name?"

"Mrs. Fraser."

"I suppose the poor woman's abused because she won't make one of the parsonic satellites, eh? If that's the case, I am afraid you must expect to hear no good spoken of me. I mean to know no one—no one!" I added emphatically; "and that reminds me: should anybody call, you must say, and always say, I am out."

"Yes, Sir; but I fear you'll find it very dull."

"Not I. I have my books."

"Yet—you'll pardon me, Sir—I should be sorry if you refused to see company a little. I've often heard father, who was a bit of scholard in his way, say that the mind's like a piece of elastic that grows useless by over-stretching."

"No doubt," I answered laughing; "but don't fear that I shall overstrech my mind." And here the conversation ended.

I had proposed to set to work so soon as as I should have become familiar with the new existence I had entered on. Certainly this sober repose was a great change from the life I was used to. I knew likewise that study is best pursued in accustomed haunts. There is a distraction in novelty that makes diligence very impossible sometimes. Added to this, the crisp sunshine, the shrewd sweet air, stirred life to her innermost sources, and excited an appetite for their enjoyment abroad. I also wanted to get my grounds into order; and the gardener would demand my supervision. And there was a certain pleasure, to which I was not insensible, in contemplating my new possessions, in admiring my furniture, in disposing afresh the ornaments and contriving more striking coups d'œil.

I did not fear that my resolution of study would wax faint. I only desired to surround it with the most favourable conditions for its operation.

To a bachelor all things are possible. I who had affirmed it a bad policy to spend money on other men's belongings soon found myself growing prodigal in my orders. I hired two gardeners, when I had vowed one would suffice. They encroached upon my ignorance of their calling. They seduced me into numerous purchases. They made me improve the greenhouses. The water-supply was inconvenient; wells had to be sunk. The fountain was choked and the pipes had to come up.

All this found me profitless occupation.

From time to time cards were left on me: Mr. Toulmin's, Mr. Slark's, the curate's and others. I tossed them contemptuously aside. I had not come to Cliffegate for society. Who would leave London for a Caspian Sea of Slarks and Toulmins and curates?

When at last I set to work, I did so energetically. I kept my fancied rewards steadily in view. I was rich enough to contest for a seat in Parliament, and I was resolved to carry to that arena a mind enriched with an intimate knowledge of books and the ripe conceptions of meditation.

But a weakness which I might have anticipated soon manifested itself. I was without the experience or capacity to direct my studies. Desultory reading would but store my mind with learning that instead of brightening would lumber it—instead of accelerating would encumber its movements. The discovery was a blow. It was plain I stood in need of help. The judgment of a superior or at least a more practised intellect to direct my choice, to help me to form my opinions, and to animate my indolence, I found would be essential. The vessel, indeed, was equipped; her sails were set; a propitious breeze blew; but the helmsman was wanting.

I advertised for a companion.

Some days passed and then letters poured in on me. The insolence of want found a curious illustration in these replies. Of the hundred applicants all professed themselves as possessed of qualifications superior to those I had enumerated. But none of them satisfied me. Perhaps choice was embarrassed by quantity. I fancied, too, that I missed something in their tone—something my instincts knew but could not name.

A few days later I found a letter on my breakfast-table. The handwriting was foreign. I opened it and read:

"Berners Street, June 18th, 18—.

"Sir,—In reply to your advertisement, dated the 7th of June, I beg to offer myself as a candidate for the situation you offer. I am an Italian by birth, but I have resided long in England and flatter myself I am a complete master of the language.

"My knowledge of the learned tongues will, I trust, be illustrated by the assurance that I have published in Italian a translation of the 'Idylliums of Theocritus,' which has won the applause of many eminent foreign scholars, whose testimonies to its excellence I can produce. I have also printed an edition of the works of Apollonius Rhodius and of Coluthus Lycopolitas. I am also the author of an Italian life of Tibullus.

"Of mathematics I must avow myself ignorant, my taste never having led me to that study. But in literature, both ancient and modern, I may account myself a proficient. I have little doubt that you will find me equal to the discharge of any duties it may be your pleasure to impose. I am a poor man; and though I could earn a competence by teaching at schools and colleges, yet the situation you offer is the one that would most meet my wishes.

There was one particular reason for my replying to this letter. The writer was an Italian. It was a necessary part of my scheme that I should at least profess an acquaintance with European literature. French, German, and even Spanish (this language I could read but not speak) I knew. But I was ignorant of Italian; and of Italian it was necessary that I should be master. I had a fair idea of the wealth of that language, and of its value as a vehicle of exquisite inspirations. I knew what modern literature owed to it; and to remain ignorant of the source whence had sprung many of the chief refinements of modern thought would be to remain in- capable of properly appreciating those refinements themselves.

In my reply I told him he was at liberty to take up his residence in my house at any date that suited him. I named the income I was prepared to pay, and concluded by assuring him he would not find his time severely occupied by his duties.

Chapter 3

The evening of the Wednesday following the day on which I had posted this letter was calm and tropical in the chastened tints of the western heaven and the mild splendour of the moon, whose full orb was slowly climbing over the dark masses of the trees.

I sat at my library window overlooking the black grounds, deep in a fit of abstraction, perceiving without heeding the tardy advent of the large tremulous stars which dropped one by one in sudden orbs of silver upon the floor of the sky. From the garden the shrill grasshoppers blew their harmonies. Now and then a black moth whizzed by my ear. Afar the bark of a dog deepened the general repose by contrast; and athwart the moon at intervals passed the sombre shadow of a bat.

A depression I could not shake off had fastened upon me. Many causes had conspired to produce it. A few weeks only had passed since my arrival, and already it seemed to me ambition was sinking dejected before the presence of that steep which it had thought to climb.

Those who know what it is to have had their minds torn by the travail of desire without birth—their souls distracted with conceptions which were powerless to shape themselves, with aspirations which were dumb, and could not pronounce the language that would have bred their gratification—will understand the mood that was then on me. The genius of Dante could never have devised keener torments than the desire of ambition without the means.

Add to this that my nature was beginning to rebel against solitude: that instinct was raising its voice against the enforced monotony of my life. Impulse had recoiled, nor had I yet instructed duty to take its place. I feared I had made a mistake in compelling a too sudden transition from a life of pleasure to a calm as of death. I should have sloped the way to my wishes; not abruptly tilted them into the abyss of my scheme.

I took from a side table a lamp of slender bronze and lighted it. I draped the windows to shut out the crystal glory of the orb whose splendour made a daylight in the air, and seating myself at a table, began to read. But labour as I might to keep my attention chained to the page, the rebellious voice of thought made the effort vain. The eye indeed followed the printed lines; but the mind took no cognisance of them.

Memory was wanton to-night. She waved her hand over the past. The mist rolled away, and the familiar scene lay unfolded.

She renewed the brainless pleasures of my town-life.

She brought before me the calm, grave lineaments of my mother.

Then fancy seized the wand and sought to unveil the future. I peered into a cloud at once luminous and dark. Amid the vapour I descried shapes whose outlines I could not determine; I heard sounds whose meaning I could not interpret.

As I gazed the cloud darkened. Red lightnings leaped from its womb; and thunder muttered.

By the electric flashes I witnessed the shapes I had before noticed in attitudes convulsed and tortured. Between the intervals of the sullen thunder-groans I marked the voices I had before heard raised in sobs, and sighs, and lamentations.

Suddenly over the whole there fell a calm. The cloud opened, and in its depth I witnessed the outline of a human face, obscured at first by the gloom, so that I could not discern the lineaments, but brightening presently to a light that shone I knew not whence.

It was a face beautiful and sad. The eyes were dark, the hair yellow, the cheeks colourless as marble shone on by the moon. How exquisitely pathetic was her gaze! My heart leapt up at the sight of her spectral beauty. Then tears dimmed my eyes and I remained watching her with clasped hands. Her lips moved; she spoke; a kind of music fell on my ear. I strained to catch the sounds; but the accents were inaudible.

"Speak, that I may understand you!" I cried; "you cloud your meaning with melody. Sink your voice—I shall interpret your appeal by the movement of your lips."

The face brightened and grew brighter still, until the features faded in a brilliant light. Then like the lightning-flash it vanished: a deep darkness encompassed me. I was suffocated by the thick cold embrace. In the arms of Nightmare, that dolorous hag, I fought for breath, and thinking that I was dying, I uttered a cry.

I started and stared around me.

So vivid had been the vision, that I could not persuade myself it was unreal, and sought it yet. At the same moment, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Williams entered.

"Did you call, Sir?" she asked.

"No," I replied, still bewildered.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Sir. I thought I heard you call as I passed through the hall."

She withdrew.

I looked at the open book. The leaves were stained with tears. I rose, forcing a laugh.

"My imagination must be keen," I thought, "to conceive such a dream as that. Yet I shall owe that book a grudge for sending me to sleep and filling my slumber with such odd visions. Imagine my shedding tears!"

I approached the mirror. My face was bloodless; nor had my forced merriment driven all the bewilderment out of it.

"This is the fruit of solitude," I mused. "Reason and Imagination are natural enemies; and hence the uses of Society to give the power to Reason requisite to keep the Imagination in subjection. I must pay the penalty of seclusion, and must not complain if I find my mind growing distempered. Yet what could have evoked that face? Such a countenance I have never seen. It belongs to no experience of mine. I have not read of such a face either; for what author in his senses would give such eyes to a woman born of flesh? Such eyes as those belong to another world—a world of moonlight and dolor: where the issue of love is betrayal—where the fruition of hope is despair. Ay," I thought, pushing the fancy, "in such a world of shadow and moonlight flowers would be colourless and without perfume; the trees would stand white as a woman's brow, the air would wave to the dim shine of spectral shapes who would look on one another with eyes as hopeless and beautiful as hers!"