Ambrose Bradley returned home that day like a man in a dream; and it was not till he had sat for a long time, thinking alone, that he completely realised what he had done. But the state of things which led to so amatory a crisis had been going on for a long time; indeed, the more his worldly prosperity increased, and the greater his social influence grew, the feebler became his spiritual resistance to the temptation against which he had fought so long.
It is the tendency of all transcendental forms of thought, even of a transcendental Christianity, to relax the moral fibre of their recipient, and to render vague and indetermined his general outlook upon life. The harshest possible Calvinism is bracing and invigorating, compared with any kind of creed with a terminology purely subjective.
Bradley’s belief was liberal in the extreme in its construction, or obliteration, of religious dogmas; it soon became equally liberal, or lax, in its conception of moral sanctions. The man still retained, and was destined to retain till the end of his days, the very loftiest conception of human duty. His conscience, in every act of existence, was the loadstone of his deeds. But the most rigid conscience, relying entirely on its own insight, is liable to corruption. Certainly Bradley’s was. He had not advanced very far along the easy path which leads to agnosticism, before he had begun to ask himself—What, after all, is the moral law? are not certain forms of self-sacrifice Quixotic and unnecessary? and, finally, why should I live a life of martyrdom, because my path was crossed in youth by an unworthy woman?
Since that nocturnal meeting after his visit to the theatre, Bradley had seen nothing of Mrs. Montmorency, but he had ascertained that she was spending the greater part of her time somewhere abroad. Further investigations, pursued through a private inquiry office, convinced him of two things: first, that there was not the faintest possibility of the lady voluntarily crossing his path again, and, second, that his secret was perfectly safe in the keeping of one whom its disclosure might possibly ruin.
Satisfied thus far of his security, he had torn that dark leaf out of his book of life, and thrown it away into the waters of forgetfulness.
Then, with his growing sense of mastery, grew Alma’s fascination.
She could not conceal, she scarcely attempted to conceal, the deep passion of worship with which she regarded him. Had he been a man ten times colder and stronger, he could scarcely have resisted the spell. As it was, he did not resist it, but drew nearer and nearer to the sweet spirit who wove it, as we have seen.
One sunny morning, about a month after the occurrence of that little love scene in Regent’s Park, Bradley rose early, packed a small hand valise, and drove off in a hansom to Victoria Station. He was quietly attired in clothes not at all clerical in cut, and without the white neckcloth or any other external badge of his profession.
Arriving at the station, he found himself just in time to catch the nine o’clock train to Russetdeane, a lonely railway station taking its name from a village three miles distant, lying on the direct line to Eastbourne and Newhaven. He took his ticket, and entered a first-class carriage as the train started. The carriage had no other occupant, and, leaning back in his seat, he was soon plunged in deep reflection.
At times his brow was knitted, his face darkened, showing that his thoughts were gloomy and disturbed enough; but ever and anon, his eyes brightened, and his features caught a gleam of joyful expectation. Whenever the train stopped, which it did very frequently, he shrank back in his corner, as if dreading some scrutinising eye; but no one saw or heeded him, and no one entered the carriage which he occupied alone.
At last, after a journey of about an hour and a half, the train stopped at Russetdeane.
It was a very lonely station indeed, quite primitive in its arrangements, and surrounded on every side by green hills and white quarries of chalk. An infirm porter and a melancholy station-master officiated on the platform, but when Bradley alighted, valise in hand, who should step smilingly up to him but Alma, prettily attired in a quiet country costume, and rosy with the sweet country air.
The train steamed away; porter and station-master standing stone still, and watching it till the last faint glimpse of it faded in the distance; then they looked at each other, seemed to awake from a trance, and slowly approached the solitary passenger and his companion.
‘Going to Russetdeane, measter?’ demanded the porter, wheezily, while the station-master looked on from the lofty heights of his superior position.
Bradley nodded, and handed over his valise.
‘I have a fly outside the station,’ explained Alma; and passing round the platform and over a wooden foot-bridge, to platform and offices on the other side, they found the fly in question—an antique structure of the postchaise species, drawn by two ill-groomed horses, a white and a roan, and driven by a preternaturally old boy of sixteen or seventeen.
‘At what hour does the next down train pass to Newhaven?’ asked Bradley, as he tipped the porter, and took his seat by Alma’s side.
‘The down-train, measter?’ repeated the old man. ‘There be one at three, and another at five. Be you a-going on?’
Bradley nodded, and the fly drove slowly away along the country road. The back of the boy’s head was just visible over the front part of the vehicle, which was vast and deep; so Bradley’s arm stole round his companion’s waist, and they exchanged an affectionate kiss.
‘I have the licence in my pocket, dearest,’ he whispered. ‘Is all arranged?’
‘Yes. The clergyman of the parish is such a dear old man, and quite sympathetic. He thinks it is an elopement, and as he ran away with his own wife, who is twenty years younger than himself, he is sympathy itself!’ ‘Did he recognise my name, when you mentioned it?’
‘Not a bit,’ answered Alma, laughing. ‘He lives too far out of the world to know anything or anybody, and, as I told you, he is eighty years of age. I really think he believes that Queen Victoria is still an unmarried lady, and he talks about Bonaparte just as if it were sixty years ago.’
‘Alma!’
‘Yes, Ambrose!’
‘You don’t mind this secret marriage?’
‘Not at all—since it is your wish.’
‘I think it is better to keep the affair private, at least for a little time. You know how I hate publicity, in a matter so sacred; and since we are all in all to each other——’
He drew her still closer and kissed her again. As he did so, he was conscious of a curious sound as of suppressed laughter, and, glancing up, he saw the eyes of the weird boy intently regarding him.
‘Well, what is it?’ cried Bradley, impatiently, while Alma shrank away blushing crimson.
The eyes of the weird boy did not droop, nor was he at all abashed. Still indulging in an internal chuckle, like the suppressed croak of a young raven, he pulled his horses up, and pointed with his whip towards the distant country prospect.
‘There be Russetdeane church spire!’ he said.
Bradley glanced impatiently in the direction so indicated, and saw, peeping through a cluster of trees, some two miles off, the spire in question.
He nodded, and ordered the boy to drive on. Then turning to Alma, he saw her eyes twinkling with merry laughter.
‘You see we are found out already!’ she whispered. ‘He thinks we are a runaway couple, and so, after all, we are.’
The carriage rumbled along for another mile, and ever and anon they caught the eyes of the weird boy, peeping backward; but being forewarned, they sat, primly enough, upon their good behaviour.
Suddenly the carriage stopped again.
‘Missis!’ croaked the weird boy.
‘Well?’ said Alma, smiling up at him.
‘Where be I a-driving to? Back to the “Wheatsheaf”?’
‘No; right to the church door,’ answered Alma, laughing.
The boy did not reply, but fixing his weather eye on Bradley, indulged in a wink of such preternatural meaning, that Alma was once more convulsed with laughter. Then, after giving vent to a prolonged whistle, he cracked his whip, and urged his horses on.
Through green lanes, sweet with hanging honeysuckle and sprinkled with flowers of early summer; past sleepy ponds, covered with emerald slime and haunted by dragon flies glittering like gold; along upland stretches of broad pasture, commanding distant views of wood-land, thorpe and river; they passed along that sunny summer day; until at last, creeping along an avenue of ashes and flowering limes, they came to the gate of an old church, where the carriage stopped.
The lovers alighted, and ordering the boy to remain in attendance, approached the church—a time-worn, rain-stained edifice half smothered in ivy, and with rooks cawing from its belfry tower.
They were evidently expected. The clerk, a little old man who walked with a stick, met them at the church door, and informed them that the clergyman was waiting for them in the vestry.
A few minutes later, the two were made man and wife—the solitary spectator of the ceremony, except the officials, being the weird boy, who had stolen from his seat, and left his horses waiting in the road, in order to see what was going on. The clergyman, ancient and time-worn as his church, mumbled a benediction, and, after subscribing their names in the register and paying the customary fees, they shook hands with him, and came again out into the sunshine.
Whatever the future might bring forth to cloud her marriage path, that bridal morning was like a dream of paradise to Alma Craik. In a private room of the old ‘Wheatsheaf,’ a room sweet with newly-cut flowers, and overlooking orchards stretching down to the banks of a pretty river, they breakfasted, or lunched, together—on simple fare, it is true, but with all things clean and pure. A summer shower passed over the orchards as they sat by the open window hand in hand; and then, as the sun flashed out again, the trees dript diamonds, and the long grass glittered with golden dew.
‘How sweet and still it is here, my darling! I wish we could stay in such a spot for ever, and never return again to the dreary city and the busy world.’
She crept to his side as he spoke, and rested her head upon his shoulder.
‘Are you happy now, dear Ambrose?’
‘Quite happy,’ he replied.
Presently a buxom serving maid tript in to say that the carriage was waiting; and, descending to the door, they found the vehicle, with Alma’s travelling trunk and the clergyman’s valise upon the box. The weird boy was still there, jubilant. Somehow or other he had procured a large white rosette, which he had pinned to the breast of his coat. Two or three sleepy village folk, whom the lews of the wedding had partially aroused from their chronic state of torpor, were clustering on the pavement; and the landlord and landlady stood at the door to wish the strange couple God speed.
Away they drove, while one of the slumberous villagers started a feeble cheer. Through the green lanes, along the grassy uplands, they passed back to the railway station, which they reached just in time to catch, as they had planned, the down train to Newhaven.
That afternoon they crossed by the tidal boat to Dieppe, where, in a brand-new hotel facing the sea, they slept that night. They were almost the only visitors, for the summer bathing season had scarcely begun, and they would have found the place cheerless enough had they been in a less happy mood of mind.
The next day found them wandering about the picturesque old town, visiting the wharves and the old churches, and strolling on the deserted esplanade which faced the sea. They thought themselves unsuspected, but somehow everyone knew their secret—that they were a married couple on their honeymoon. When they returned to the hotel to lunch, they found a bunch of orange-blossoms on the table, placed there by the hands of a sympathetic landlady.
‘We must go on farther,’ said Bradley, rather irritably. ‘I suppose the newly-married alight here often, and being experts in that sort of commodity, they recognise it at a glance.’
So that afternoon they went on to Rouen, where they arrived as the sun was setting on that town of charming bridges. When their train reached the station, a train arrived almost simultaneously from Paris, and as there was a ten minutes’ interval for both upward and downward passengers, the platform was thronged.
Bradley passed through the crowd, with Alma hanging upon his arm. He looked neither to right nor left, but seemed bent on passing out of the station; and he did not notice a dark-eyed lady by whom he was evidently recognised.
On seeing him, she started and drew back among the crowd, leading by the hand a little boy. But when he had passed she looked after him, and more particularly after his beautiful companion.
‘It is he, sure enough!’ she muttered ‘But who is that stylish party in his company? I should very much like to know.’
The lady was ‘Mrs. Montmorency,’ clad like a widow in complete weeds, and travelling with her little boy, also dressed in funeral black, from Paris to London.
Bradley and his bride were only absent from London five days; no one missed them, and of course no one suspected that they had gone away in company. Before the next Sunday came round, they were living just as before—she in her own rooms, he in the residence at Regent’s Park. This was the arrangement made between them, the clergyman’s plea being that it was better to keep their marriage secret for a time, until the New Church was more safely established in public estimation.
Quite happy in the loving secret between them, Alma had acquiesced without a word.
Their only confidant, for the time being, was Miss Combe, who was then staying at Hastings, and to whom Alma wrote in the following terms:
‘Dearest Agatha,—It is all over, and we are man and wife. No one in the world is to know but you, yet awhile. I know you will keep our secret, and rejoice in our happiness.
‘It was all decided very hastily. Ambrose thought it better to marry secretly, thinking (foolish man!) that many would misunderstand his motives, and believing that, as an unmarried person, he can better pursue the good work to which we are both devoted. After all, it matters very little. For years we have been one in soul, as you know; and what God long ago joined man could never have put asunder. Still, it is sweet to know that my hero, my apostle, my Abelard—as I call him, is entirely mine, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse. I am very happy, dear; proud and hopeful, too, as a loving wife can be.
‘Write and tell me that you are better. Surely this bright weather should complete your cure, and drive those gloomy thoughts away? In a few days I shall come and see you; perhaps we may come together. So I won’t write good bye, but au revoir!
‘Your loving friend,
‘Alma Bradley.
‘P.S.—My cousin George is back in town. Just fancy how he would scowl if he were to read the above signature.’
It so happened that George Craik, although he was not so favoured as to read his cousin’s signature as a married woman, and although he had no suspicion whatever as yet that she had entered, as she imagined, into the holy estate of matrimony, was scowling in his least amiable frame of mind about the time when Alma wrote the above letter. He had returned to London from Paris a good deal mystified, for, having procured an interview with Mrs. Montmorency, whom (as the reader knows) he had gone over to see, he had elicited nothing from that lady but a flat denial of any knowledge of or connection with his rival the clergyman.
So he came back at once, baffled but not beaten, took to the old club life, attended the different race meetings, and resumed altogether the life of a young gentleman about town.
But although he saw little of his cousin, he (as he himself figuratively expressed it ‘kept his eye upon her.’) The more he read about Bradley and his doings—which appeared shocking indeed to his unsophisticated mind—the more indignant he felt that Alma, and her fortune, should ever be thrown away on one so unworthy. Meantime he was in the unenviable position of a man surrounded by duns and debts. He had bills out in the hands of the Jews, and he saw no prospect whatever of meeting them. Having far exceeded the very liberal allowance given him by his father, he knew that there was no hope of assistance in that direction. His only chance of social resuscitation was a wealthy marriage, and with his cousin hanging like a tempting bait before him, he felt like a very Tantalus, miserable, indignant and ill-used.
His rooms were in the Albany, and here one morning his father found him, sitting over a late breakfast.
‘Well, George,’ said the baronet, standing on the hearthrug and glancing round at the highly suggestive prints which adorned the walls; ‘well, George, how long is this to last?’
The young man glanced up gloomily as he sipt his coffee.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
‘You know very well. But just look at this letter, which I have received, from a man called Tavistock, this morning.’
And he tossed it over the table to his son. George took it up, looked at it, and flushed crimson. It was a letter informing Sir George Craik that the writer held in his hands a dishonoured acceptance of his son’s for the sum of three hundred pounds, and that unless it was taken up within a week proceedings in bankruptcy would be instituted.
‘D——— the Jew!’ cried George. ‘I’ll wring his neck! He had no right to write to you!’
‘I suppose he thought it was the only way,’ returned the baronet; ‘but he is quite out in his calculations. If you suppose that I shall pay any more of your debts you are mistaken. I am quite tired of it all. You have played all your cards wrong and must take the consequences.’
George scowled more furiously than ever, but made no immediate reply. After a pause, however, he said in an injured way—‘I don’t know what you mean by playing my cards wrong. I have done my best. If my cousin Alma has given me the cold shoulder, because she has gone cranky on religion, it is no fault of mine.’
‘I am not astonished that she has thrown you over,’ cried Sir George. ‘What possible interest could a young girl of her disposition find in a fellow who bets away his last shilling, and covers his room with pictures of horses and portraits of jockeys and ballet girls? If you had had any common sense, you might at least have pretended to take some interest in her pursuits.’
‘I’m not a hypocrite,’ retorted George, ‘and I can’t talk atheism.’
‘Rubbish! You know as well as I do that Alma is a high-spirited girl, and only wants humouring. These new-fangled ideas of hers are absurd enough, but irritating opposition will never lead her to get rid of them.’
‘She’s in love with that fellow Bradley!’
‘Nothing of the kind. She is in love with her own wild fancies, which he is wise enough to humour, and you are indiscreet enough to oppose. If there had been anything serious between them, a marriage would have come off long ago; but, absurd as Alma is, she is not mad enough to throw herself away on a mere adventurer like that, without a penny in the world.’
‘What is a fellow to do?’ pleaded George, dolefully. ‘She snubs me more than ever!’
‘The more she snubs you the more you ought to pursue her. Show your devotion to her—go to the church—seem to be interested in her crotchets—and take my word for it, her sympathies will soon turn in your direction.’
Father and son continued to talk for some time in the same strain, and after an hour’s conversation Sir George went away in a better humour. George drest himself carefully, and when it was about midday hailed a cab and was driven down to the Gaiety Theatre, where he had an appointment with Miss Dottie Destrange. The occasion was one of those matinées when aspiring amateurs attempt to take critical opinion by storm, and the débutante this time was a certain Mrs. Temple Grainger, who was to appear as ‘Juliet’ in the Hunchback, and afterwards as ‘Juliet’ in the famous balcony scene of Shakespeare’s play. Mrs. Grainger, whose husband was somewhere in the mysterious limbo of mysterious husbands, called India, was well known in a certain section of society, and no less a person than His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present at her début.
George was to join Miss Destrange in the stalls, where he duly found her, and was greeted with a careless smile. The seats all round were thronged with well-known members of society; actresses, actors, critics. The Prince was already in his box, and the curtain was just ringing up.
It is no part of my business to chronicle the success or failure of Mrs. Temple Grainger; but, if cheers and floral offerings signify anything, she was in high favour with her audience. At the end of the second act, George Craik rose and surveyed the house through his opera glass. As he did so, he was conscious of a figure saluting him from one of the stage boxes, and to his surprise he recognised—Mrs. Montmorency.
She was gorgeously drest in black, and liberally painted and powdered. George bowed to her carelessly; when to his surprise she beckoned him to her.
He rose from his seat and walked over to the side of the stalls immediately underneath her box. She leant over to him, and they shook hands.
‘Will you come in?’ she said. ‘I want to speak to you.’
He nodded, passed round to the back of the box, entered, and took a seat by the lady’s side.
‘I thought you were still in Paris,’ he said.
‘I came over about a fortnight ago,’ she replied. ‘I suppose you have heard of his lordship’s death?’
‘Yes. I saw it in the papers.’
‘I waited till after the funeral, then I came away. But we won’t talk about that; I’ve hardly got over it yet. I’ve something else to say to you.’
‘Well?’
‘Do you remember a question you asked me in Paris—whether I knew anything of a clergyman of the name of Bradley who was paying his addresses to your cousin?’
‘Of course I do; and you said——’
‘That I only knew him very slightly.’
‘Pardon me, but you said you didn’t know him at all!’
‘Did I? Then I made a slight mistake.
‘I do know the person you mean by sight!’
George Craik looked at the speaker with some astonishment, for he had a good memory, and a very vivid recollection of what she had said to him during their interview.
‘I dare say I was distrait,’ she continued, with a curious smile and a flash of her dark eyes. ‘I was in such trouble about poor Ombermere. What I want to tell you is that I saw Mr. Bradley the other day at Rouen, as I was returning from Paris.’
‘At Rouen,’ repeated George Craik.
‘Yes, on the railway platform, in company with a very charming lady, who was hanging on his arm, and regarding him with very evident adoration.’
George pricked up his ears like a little terrier; he smelt mischief of some sort.
‘I fancy you must be mistaken,’ he said. ‘Bradley is not likely to have been travelling across the Channel.’
‘I am not at all mistaken,’ answered Mrs. Montmorency. ‘Mr. Bradley’s appearance is peculiar, his face especially, and I am sure it was himself. What I want to find out is, who was his companion?’
‘I hardly see what, interest that can be to you,’ observed George suspiciously, ‘since you only know him—by sight!’
‘The lady interested me. I was wondering if it could be your charming cousin.’
George started as if he had been shot.
‘My Cousin Alma! Impossible! Surely you don’t know what you are saying!’
‘Oh yes, I do. Tell me, what is your cousin like?’
After some slight further urging, George described Alma’s personal appearance as closely as possible. Mrs. Montmorency listened quietly, taking note of all the details of the description. Then she tapped George with her fan, and laughed outright.
‘Then I was right after all!’ she cried.
‘It was Miss Alma Craik—that’s her name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes; but, good heavens, it is simply impossible! Alma in company with that scoundrel, over there in France? You must be mistaken!’
But Mrs. Montmorency was quite certain that she had made no mistake in the matter. In her turn she described Alma’s appearance so minutely, so cleverly, that her companion became lost in astonished belief. When the act drop was rung up, he sat staring like one bewitched, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but gazing wildly at Mrs. Montmorency.
Suddenly he rose to go.
‘Don’t go yet,’ whispered the lady.
‘I must—I can’t stay!’ he replied. ‘I’ll find out from my cousin herself if what you have told me is true.’
‘Apres?’
‘Après!’ echoed the young man, looking-livid. ‘Why, après, I’ll have it out with the man!’
Mrs. Montmorency put her gloved hand upon his arm.
‘Don’t do anything rash, mon cher,’ she said. ‘I think you told me that you loved your cousin, and that you would give a thousand pounds to get her away from your rival?’
‘A thousand! twenty thousand! anything!’
‘Suppose I could help you?’ said Mrs. Montmorency, smiling wickedly.
‘Can you? will you? But how!’
‘You must give me time to think it over. Find out, in the first place, if what I suspect is true, and then come and tell me all about it!’
George Craik promised, and hurriedly left the theatre, without even waiting to say farewell, or make any apologies, to Miss Destrange. He was determined to call upon his cousin without a moment’s delay, and get, if possible, to the bottom of the mystery of her unaccountable appearance, accompanied by Bradley, at the Rouen railway station.
Madam, our house’s honour is in question!
I prithee, when you play at wantonness,
Remember that our blood flows clean and pure,
In one unbroken and unmuddied line,
From crystal sources. I’m your champion,
Madam, against yourself!—The Will and the Way.
George Craik was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet when he was moving with set purpose to any object.
As we have already hinted, he possessed a certain bull-dog tenacity, very dangerous to his opponents. And now all the suspicions of a nature naturally suspicious, all the spitefulness of a disposition naturally spiteful, being fully and unexpectedly aroused, his furious instinct urged him to seek, without a moment’s breathing-time, the presence of his refractory cousin.
Coupled with his jealous excitement was a lofty moral indignation.
The family credit was at stake—so at least he assured himself—and he had a perfect right to demand an explanation. Had he reflected a little, he might have known that Alma was the last person in the world to give any explanation whatever if peremptorily demanded, or to admit her cousin’s right to demand it; her spirit was stubborn as his own, and her attitude of intellectual superiority was, he should have known by old experience, quite invincible.
Quitting the theatre, he leapt into a hansom, and was driven direct to Alma’s rooms. It was by this time about five in the afternoon, and he made certain of finding his cousin at home.
He was mistaken. Miss Craik was out, and had been out the greater part of the day.
‘Do you know where I can find her?’ he asked of the domestic, a smart servant maid.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ was the reply. ‘She went out in the morning with Mr. Bradley, and has not been home to lunch.’
‘Does she dine at home?’
‘Yes, sir—at seven.’
‘Then I will wait for her.’ And so saying he walked into the drawing-room and sat down.
He had cooled a little by this time, and before Alma made her appearance he had time to cool a good deal more. Fidgetting impatiently in his chair, he began to ask himself how he could best approach the subject on which he had come. He regretted now that he had not called for his father and brought him with him; that, no doubt, would have been the most diplomatic course to adopt. The more he thought over the information he had received, the more he questioned its authenticity; and if, after all, the actress had made a mistake, as he began to suspect and fear, what a fool he would be made to look in his cousin’s eyes! The prospect of being made to appear absurd sent a thrill of horror through his blood; for this young person, as has already been seen, dreaded, above all things in the world, the shaft of ridicule.
Time slipped by, and George Craik grew more and more uneasy. At last seven o’clock struck, and Alma had not appeared.
Growling to himself like an irritable dog, the young man rose and touched the electric bell.
‘Mv cousin is very late,’ he said to the servant when she appeared.
‘Yes, sir; she is very uncertain.’
‘It is seven o’clock. You said she dined at seven.’
‘Yes, sir. But sometimes she does not return to dinner, If she is not here at the hour we don’t expect her.’
George Craik uttered an angry exclamation.
‘Where the deuce can she be?’ he cried, scowling ominously.
‘I can’t say, sir,’ returned the servant smiling. ‘Miss Craik is most uncertain, as I told you. She may be dining out—with Mr. Bradley.’
The young man seized his hat, and began striding up and down the room. Then he stopped, and seeing a curious smile still lingering on the servant’s face, said sharply:
‘What are you laughing at? This is no laughing matter. I tell you I must see my cousin!’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but——’
George moved towards the door.
‘I’ll go and look for her,’ he said. ‘If she returns before I find her, tell her I’ll come the first thing in the morning.’
And, fuming savagely, he left the house. His temper, never very amiable, was now aroused to the extreme point of irritation, and the servant’s suggestion that Alma might at that very moment be in his rival’s company roused in him a certain frenzy. It was scandalous; it was insufferable. If he could not have it out that night with her, he would seek the clergyman, and force him to some sort of an avowal. Bent on that purpose, he hurried away towards Bradley’s house.
He passed on foot round Regent’s Park, and came to the neighbourhood of the New Church and the adjoining house where Bradley dwelt. It was quite dark now, and the outskirts of the park were quite deserted. As he approached the house he saw the street-door standing open, and heard the sound of voices. He pricked up his ears and drew back into the shadow.
A light silvery laugh rose upon the air, followed by the low, deep tones of a man’s voice. Then the door was closed, and two ligures stepped out into the road, crossing to the opposite side, under the shadow of the trees.
They passed across the lamplight on the other side of the way, and he recognised his cousin’s figure, arm-in-arm with that of the clergyman. They passed on, laughing and talking merrily together.
Keeping them well at a distance, he quietly followed.
They passed round the park, following the road by which he himself had come. Happy and unsuspicious, they continued to talk as they went; and though he was not near enough to follow their conversation, he heard enough to show him that they were on the tenderest and most loving terms.
More than once he felt inclined to stride forward, confront them, and have it out with his rival; but, his courage failing him, he continued to follow like a spy. At last they reached the quiet street where Alma dwelt, and paused on the doorstep of her house.
He drew back, waited, and listened.
‘Will you not come in?’ he heard his cousin say.
He could not hear the reply, but it was accompanied by a kiss and an embrace, which made the jealous blood boil and burn along his veins.
‘Good-night, dearest!’ said Alma.
‘Good night, my darling!’ answered the deep voice of the clergyman.
Then the two seemed to embrace and kiss again, and the next moment the house door opened and closed.
George Craik stepped forward, and stood waiting on the pavement for Bradley to pass, right under the light of a street lamp. Almost immediately Bradley came up quietly, and they were face to face.
The clergyman started, and at first George Craik thought that he was recognised; but the next moment Bradley passed by, without any sign of recognition, and before the other could make up his mind what to do, he was out of sight.
George Craik looked at his watch; it was still early, and he determined at once to interview his cousin. He knocked at the door and asked for her; she heard his voice and came out into the lobby, charmingly attired in an evening dress of the ‘crushed strawberry’ tint, so much favoured by ladies of æsthetic leaning. Never had she looked more bright and beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and she looked radiantly happy.
‘Is it you, George?’ she cried. ‘What brings you so late? I hope no one is ill. My uncle——’
‘O, he’s all right!’ answered George, entering the drawing-room. ‘No one is ill, or dead, or that kind of thing; so make your mind easy. Besides, it’s only nine o’clock, and you don’t call that late, do you?’
His manner was peculiar, and she noticed that he hardly looked her in the face. Closing the room door, she stood facing him on the hearthrug, and by his side she looked a queen. The miserable young man was immediately submerged in the sense of inferiority irksome to him, and he looked at once cowed and savage.
‘Well, George, what is it?’ continued Alma. ‘I suppose it’s some new trouble about yourself. Uncle told me the other day you were rather worried about money, and I offered to help you out of it if I could.’
George threw himself on a sofa and leant forward, sucking the end of his cane.
‘It isn’t that,’ he replied. ‘If it were, you know I shouldn’t come to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have no right, Alma; you have never given me any right. I hope you don’t think me mean enough to sponge upon you because you happen, to be my cousin, and much richer than I am! But I am your cousin, after all, and I think I have a right to protect you, when I see you likely to get into trouble.’
This was quite a magnificent speech for George Craik; for anger and moral indignation had made him eloquent. Alma looked down upon him in all the pleasurable pride of her beauty, half smiling; for to her poor George was always a small boy, whose attempts to lecture her were absurd. Her arms and neck were bare, there were jewels on her neck and heaving bosom, her complexion was dazzlingly clear and bright, and altogether she looked superb. There was a large mirror opposite to her, covering half the side of the room; and within it another Alma, her counterpart, shone dimly in the faint pink light of the lamps, with their rose-coloured shades.
George Craik was obtuse in some respects, but he did not fail to notice that his cousin was unusually resplendent. She had never been extravagant in her toilette, and he had seldom seen her in such bright colours as on the present occasion. Everything about her betokened an abundant happiness, which she could scarcely conceal.
‘What do you mean by getting into trouble?’ she inquired carelessly. ‘Surely I am old enough to take care of myself.’
‘I don’t think you are,’ he answered. ‘At any rate, people are talking about you, and—and I don’t like it!’
Alma shrugged her white shoulders.
‘Why shouldn’t people talk, if it pleases them? But what are they saying?’
The ice was broken, and now was the time for George to take the plunge. He hesitated seriously for a moment, and then proceeded.
‘They are saying scandalous things, and I think you ought to know.’
‘About me, George?’
‘About you and that man Bradley.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Alma, and she laughed quite joyously.
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ cried Craik angrily. ‘It’s a matter that concerns our family, and our family honour. I tell you they couple your name with his in a way that makes a fellow shudder. That is why I came here to remonstrate with you. I heard this afternoon that you and this man were seen in Normandy together, at a time when everybody supposed you to be here in London.’
Alma started and flushed crimson. Was her secret discovered? For her own part, she did not much care; indeed, she would have rejoiced greatly to publish her great happiness to all the world; but she respected Bradley’s wishes, and was resolute in keeping silence.
The young man rose to his feet, and continued eagerly:
‘Let me tell you, Alma, that I don’t believe a word of it. I know you are indiscreet, of course; but I am sure you would never compromise yourself or us in any way. But it’s all over the place that you were seen together over at Rouen, and I want you to give me the authority to say it’s an infernal lie!’
Alma was rather disconcerted. She was at a loss how to reply. But she was so secure in her own sense of happy safety, that she was more amused than annoyed by her cousin’s indignation.
‘Suppose it were the truth. George? Where would be the harm?’
‘Good God! you don’t mean to tell me it is true!’
‘Perhaps not,’ was the quiet reply. ‘I don’t mean to answer such accusations, one way or the other.’
George Craik went livid.
‘But you don’t deny it!’
‘Certainly not. Let people talk what nonsense they please; it is quite indifferent to me.’ ‘Indifferent!’ echoed George Craik. ‘Do you know your character is at stake? Do you know they say that you are this man’s mistress?’
Even yet, Alma betrayed less anger and astonishment than one might have thought possible; for, though the infamous charge shocked her, she was too confident in her own security, in the knowledge of her happy secret, which she could at any moment publish to the world, to be greatly or deeply moved. But if the matter of her cousin’s discourse failed to disconcert her, its manner irritated her not a little. She made an eager movement towards the door as if to leave the room; but, wheeling, round suddenly, she raked him from head to foot with a broadside from her scornful eyes.
‘And I suppose you are quite ready to accept such a calumny!’ she cried scornfully.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ returned George. ‘I’m sure you’d never go as far as that!’
She gave a gesture of supreme disdain, and repeated the sense word for word with contemptuous emphasis.
‘You’re sure I’d never go as far as that! How good and kind of you to have so much faith in me! Do you know that every syllable you utter to me is an insult and an outrage, and that if Mr. Bradley heard you talk as you have done, he would give you the whipping you so richly deserve!’
Here George Craik’s self-control gave way; his face grew black as thunder, and clenching his fist, he gave vent to an angry oath.
‘D——— him! I should like to see him try it on. But I see what it is. He has dragged you down to his level at last, the infernal atheist! He thinks nothing sacred, and his New Church, as he calls it, is as foul as himself. O, I know! He preaches that marriage isn’t a sacrament at all, but only a contract to be broken by the will of either party; and as you agree with him in everything, I suppose you agree with him in that, and are his mistress after all!’ ‘That is enough!’ exclaimed Alma, who was now pale as death. ‘Leave this place at once, and never let me see your face again.’
‘I won’t go till I have spoken my mind; and don’t make any mistake; I shall speak it to him as well as to you!’
‘If you have any sense left, you will do nothing of the kind.’
‘Won’t I? Wait and see!’ returned George, perfectly beside himself with rage. ‘As for you, I wonder you have the courage to look me in the face. I followed you both to-night, and watched you; I saw you embracing and kissing, and it turned me sick with shame. There, the secret’s out! I shall speak to my father, and see what he has to say about your goings on.’
As he spoke, Alma approached him and looked him steadily in the face. She was still ghastly pale, and her voice trembled as she spoke, but her entire manner expressed, not fear, but lofty indignation.
‘It is like you to play the spy! It is just what I should have expected! Well, I hope you are satisfied. I love Mr. Bradley; I have loved him since the day we first met. Will you go now?’
George Craik seized his hat and stick, and crossed to the door, where he turned.
‘I will take care all the world knows of your shameless conduct!’ he cried. ‘You have brought disgrace upon us all. As for this man, he shall be exposed; he shall, by—! He is a scoundrel not lit to live!’
Without replying, Alma pointed to the door; and, after one last look of concentrated rage, George Craik rushed from the house. She heard the outer door close behind him, but still stood like marble, holding her hand upon her heart. Then, with a low cry, she sank shuddering into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.
The scene which we have described had tortured her delicate spirit more than she at first knew; and her cousin’s bitter taunts and reproaches, though they missed their mark at first, had struck home in the end. She was a woman of infinite sensitiveness, exceeding sweetness of disposition; and she could not bear harsh words, even from one she cordially despised. Above all, she shrank, like all good women, even the most intellectual, before the evil judgment of the world. Could it be true, as George Craik had said, that people were connecting her name infamously with that of Bradley? If so, then surely it was time to let all the world know her happiness.
She drew forth from her bosom a photographic miniature of Bradley, set in a golden locket. For a long time she looked at it intently, through a mist of loving tears. Then she kissed it fondly.
‘He loves me!’ she murmured to herself. ‘I will tell him what they are saying, and then he will know that it is time to throw away all disguise. Ah! how proud I shall be when I can stand by his side, holding his hand, and say “This is my husband!”’