Her Cilded Cage.

Otago Witness, Issue 1476, 28 February 1880, Page 25

Her Cilde d Cage.

BEING THE NEW TITLE OF SPLENDID MISERY.

Substituted at the Request of the Author, MISS BRADDON. . - Chapter XXIX. Ie will not live to ba m old man. HE cottage on the road from Camelot to St. Columb was Bhut up, and Aunt Jooly had the key. It was her privilege to look in occasion ally and air the rooms, and see (hat the furniture which Mrs Peters so highly valued suffered no damage by moths or mildew, dust or vermin. People at Camelot expressed some natural wonder at this change in the_ state of affairs, and the popular opinion was that the lady had indulged too freely in " her tempers," and that Mark had plucked up a spirit and had broken the bonds that held him. Everybody knew •where the three boys had gone. Had they not been Been to depart with bag and otherwise a large deal box and a small hamper— on the roof of the St. Columb coach, early in the month of March, in care of the guard, who was accessible to the offer of cider, and not unwilling to say where he had deposited his young charges ? But no one knew precisely where Mrs Peters had betaken herself, though there was much speculative gossip floating, and several Camelot people had cousins who had seen or heard of the lady in London. One story went so far as to say that ohe had taken to the stage, and had been seen on the boards of a London theatre, singing and dancing to the admiration of an assembled multitude. There was a general idea that a young woman from Camelot, possessed of good looks and intelligence, might achieve immediate distinction in London, and succeed in any walk of life to which her fancy led her, having nothing to fear from the rivalry of metropolitan millions.

The cottage being abandoned, there was now nothing save inclination to draw Mark to Camelot ; and Mb visits to that interesting town had become few and far between. Yet he loved the place, and was never happier or more at his ease than in the stuffy billiard-room at the King's Arms. On the evening after his journey to St. Oolumb he rode into the narrow street between six and seven o'clook, and put up his horse in the old stable,

'•' I am only going to stop an hour or so, Thomas," he said to the hostler ; and then he strolled round to the front of the house, where Didcott and Nicholß were enjoying tho sunsot, and the prospect afforded by the steep slope of the atony High street, shut in by the town hall and market-place at the bottom of the hill.

His friends had been talking earnestly as he approached, but they stopped suddenly at sight of him, and the doctor began to whistle an old song dreamily, as if his thoughts were far away, while Nichols greeted the new arrival effusively, whereby it occurred, to Mark that their conversation had been about him.

" What a stranger you are, old fellow !" said the vet.

" I've been extra busy for the last few months."

"And you haven't much inducement to ride this way now, eh 1 Well, never mind that. How's the Squire 1 " "You had better ask Didcott. He knows more than I do."

" Didcott never talks of a patient. Now if I have a curious case in farriery, I go talking of it everywhere." " I don't think there's much amiss with my brother bodily," said Mark ; "a heavy cold and a little low fever. That's all, isn't it, Didcott ?" " That's about all there is in his present illness," answered the surgeon. " His present illness ! " echoed Mark ; " why, he never was laid up before, within my memory ! He's as strong as a horse — or I should say as strong as a horse ought to be ; for my experience of horses is that they are the weakest things in creation."

" Yes, he has great vigour — a fine sinewy frame. But I fancy he has been a little out of sorts for the last month or so, has he not, Mark ? " " He has been dull, certainly— gloomy and out of sorts ; but I did not put that down to his health."

" What else can disturb him ? "

" Well, I don't know. I doubt if he is altogether comfortable in his mind about that young wife of his. She is very sweet, and behaves uncommonly well ; but I don't believe she's happy, and I think Vyvyan sees that she isn't, and perhaps that preys upon him. It's like having a bird in a cage, you see. The fonder you are of the bird, the harder it must hurt you if you see the poor thing beating its breast against the wires and pining to be free." " I can't cut it so fine as that, Mark," said the matter-of-fact family practitioner, who had been ground so hard against the actualities of life that the keen edge of his feelings had been somewhat blunted. " Your sister-in-law has got a splendid home and a fine position in the county, and she ought to be grateful to the man to whom she owes them. It's all bosh to talk about a woman being unhappy under such circumstances. My wife may be unhappy when all the children want boots, and there isn't a shot in the locker, but for a woman who— Bah ! Mrs Penruth had better make much of her husband and her home while she has them. She won't have either of them for ever, perhaps." The three men were standing quite alone in front of the inn-door ; no one within hearing ; the sharp click of the balls sounding now and then from the open window of the billiard-room. There was a significance in the doctor's speech which struck Mark— the " I could an' if I would " tone which is always unmistakeable in a man who possesses somebody else's secret, and only asks to be tempted to betray it. " Do you mean to say that my brother is not a long-lived man ? " asked Mark. " Your father was not a long-lived man."

"My father died of heart-disease. I have just as much need to be frightened at that as Vyvyan has. " " 0, you're sound enough," exclaimed Nichols. " I'd warrant you any day."

" My brother looks everyway sounder, and is better built for strength and speed than I am," answered Mark, watching Didcott's face, which had assumed a Sphinx-like impenetrability. " Come and smoke a cigar with me, old fellow," said the doctor, hooking his arm through Mark's. " We'll join you in the billiard-room presently, Nichols. You can ask Marston to let us have our revenge for that licking he gave us the last time Pen ruth was here."

"All right," answered Nichols, who saw that confidences were about to be exchanged. Didcott and Mark walked up the hill, away from the market-place and its distractions, which at this evening hour generally took the shape of a vagabond pig or an adventurous Oochin-Ohina hen and chickens. Mark gave his friend a cigar and lighted one for himself, while they strolled for a little way in silence, and r then Didcott spoke. "I don't want to alarm you unduly, Mark," he began, "but I believo that, sooner or later, your brother will go off just as your poor father did." Mark's heart gave a sudden leap, as if it also had gone wrong. Was it sorrow, surprise, pleasure, that so stirred and shook within him ? He • could not tell. For a moment he only knew that he was startled.

."What ground have you' for saying that r

"The best possible ground. I have used the stethoscope and I know the extent of the mischief. I should have liked your brother to have had a second opinion, out he will not see any one. He told me to say nothing to your Biater or you ; but I feel that you ought to know the truth.

It will make you more considerate^ more thoughtful with your brother." " Of course, of course," assented Mark. " Poor Vyvyan ! And I thought that he had such a powerful constitution. Sooner or later, you say, this complaint must kill him. Do you mean that he may live to be an old man, and^ go off suddenly at the end of a long life ?" " Hardly. I have heard of such cases, but they are rare. Your brother's attack was sharp— very sharp— and I fancy he has had such attacks frequently of late. I am afraid that the end cannot be far off. It might be a question of months, a year or two perhaps, but he wiU'not live to be an old man."

" Poor Vyvyan !" " Yes, poor fellow, rather hard upon him, isn't it ? I hope he won't leave the estate to that young wife of his, a stranger in the county." " I don't think he will. He has provided for her handsomely by a marriage settlement. She has a life interest in the Hallworthy estate. " " Quite enough too. Very handsome of your brother. " Well, Mark, I suppose there will b9 grand doings at the place when you are master?" " I shall keep a good stud of hunters and twelve couple of harriers— you may be sure of that. People shall not have to go 15 uriles fora day's sport. But, God knows. I've no desire to shorten Vyvyan's life. I wish there was nothing the matter with him, poor fellow." Mark said this in all honesty ; yet when he waa riding across the moor that night, he could not keep his imagination from forecasting the day when his brother's estate should be his. Fancy overleaped all the gloomy details of death and burial. Tyvyan's figure disappeared from the picture as if the very ground had opened and swallowed him up alive, and Mark saw himself lord of the good old house, the capacious stables. He planned everything—the quality of his hunters, the men he would have for huntsman and feeder, the pedigree of his hounds. It was late when he came within sight of the lighted windows of Place, and fell down, like Alnashcar, from the altitude to which his imagination had carried him, and remembered who and. where he was. The lamp burned dimly in his brother's room, dimly in the hall. The rest of the windows were dark. - He went into the stable yard, gave his horse to the sleepy helper, who wa3 on the watch for him, and then went in at the back door. It was an unusual thing for him to abandon his horae thus carelessly to hireling hands, and the helper was the lowest drudge in the stable j but to-night Mark's mind was big with weighty thoughts. He could not stop to see that his favourite Pepper was properly bedded down. Molly, otherwise Mrs Morris, was in the sick-room. Mark knew pretty well where to find her at this hour. Every one else would have gone to bed, and her office of night-watcher would have begun. During her husband's illness, Mrs Penruth had occupied a bedroom on the other side of her dressing-room. It was near enough for her to be within call. Mark opened the door aoftly, and peeped in. The nurse was sitting by the fire musing, with her arms folded, and her feet on the fender. Tho curtains on the big fourpost bed were drawn on the side nearest the light. "Asleep?" whispered- Mark, with a glance towards the bed. Mrs Morris nodded " yes ;" whereupon Mark beckoned, and she followed him out into the corridor.

A lamp was burning near, and the dim light showed Mark's pale and agitated countenance. " What is the matter I" asked Molly, eagerly. " Haa anything happened ?" "" Yes, I have heard something ; something awful, " he answered, looking cautiously up and down the corridor. " Are they all in bed 1" "An hour ago. What is it, Mark? What have you heard ?" asked the woman breathlessly. " I have heard something from Didcott —about my brother," said Mark, grasping her by the arm. ' It was Molly's face that paled now ; her lips trembled momentarily, and then grew " What has he got to say V* she asked, in her hard, matter-of-fact tone. v He does not think that Vyvyan can lire manyyears perhaps not many months. He has my father's complaint, heart* disease. Didcott has found it out. He ia doomed, poor fellow. And you will have your wish Molly, sooner than you or I could ever have hoped. We shall be master and mistress here, little woman, vnbss Vyvyan should make a will in his wife's favour." " Not much chance of that while I am here." " What could you do to prevent it ? " A good deal. I know > things that would turn your brother against his wife, and rightly too ,• and if it was needful I should tell him what I know. Whatever chance she had a month ago has gone now."

" Why so V " Because your brother wouldn't care to leave this place to his wife's Indian lover \ and if he left it to her it would come to that. What do you say to the gentleman being in Cornwall — close by — at Romeport? Do you suppose your brother would like to know that ?" "The man haa a right to be in Cornwall if he chooses," answered Mark. " There's no treason in that."

" Isn't there ? Do you suppose he haa any motive for coming to Cornwall except the hope of seeing her 1 He has seen her onoe s and no doubt he will see her again,

But never mind that. Make your mind easy about your, brother's will. That shall be all right, "j Tel) me eveything Didoott said. How long has he known about this complaint of your brother's V " Only within the last month. He may have suspected it before, because, you see, my father died in the same way." " Yes, yes ; I understand. Heart disease ? And he may go off any day, suddenly ?» "I am afraid so. And I say, Molly, if he does, and if your time for becoming mistress here should come soon, don't you think you'll find yourself in a very awkward position ? You will be recognised by everybody here as the woman who crept into the house disguised as a servant." "I shall manage matters somehow, Mark. I have kept myself so close— l never talk to anyone but your sister — that no one would know me if I were to take off my cap and alter my hair. You hardly knew me that night at the cottage. " ;%" Well, IJjniust confess you've made an uncommon guy of yourself ; but still — " "We are not obliged to begin life at Place immediately. We can go to London for a year or so, and get rid of all the old servants while we are away." v . Get rid of the servants ? Why I should'nt know myself amongst a lob of strange faces !"

" That's because you are so narrowminded, Mark," answered Molly contemptuously. ''But don't you bother your poor brains about me ; I shall brazen things out you may depend upon it." " You're such a clever woman, it would be difficult for anyone to put you in a hole," said Mark ; "but I can't say I like the way we are going on just now." " Is'nt it something gained to have got the blind side of your sister V "My sister hasn't any blind side, Molly. She likes you as a servant ; but she would turn against you to-morrow if she knew the truth."

"Let her turn; turn and turn out at the same time. When you are once owner of Place we can do without her."

" I don't feel very eager for that day," said Mark, forgetting his castle-building of half an hour ago. "I can't bring myself to wish my brother in his grave." " No, nor to wish your wife righted. You have no more feeling than a jellyfish. Goodnight." Mrs Morris emphasised this leave-tak-ing with an indignant flounce of her petticoats, and went back.to her duty in the sick-room,

Chapter XXX. Saoner or Later. ■

The cold and fever passed away, cured by rest, warmth, and demulcent diet, or by Mr Didcott's saline draughts and daily seni tiny of the patient's tongue. Vyvyan was able to get about again, and Mrs Morris was released from her night-watching. But the master of Place was not the man he had been before his illness. Everybody in the household saw the change in him, and each commented upon it after his or her fashion.

It was not forgotten in that household how Vyvyan's lather had fallen down dead in the little study one winter evening, after playing the host at an audit dinner, and riding 15 miles through wind and rain, a Btalwart hearty-looking man in the prime of life. In this case there had been no warniag— hale and vigorous to-day, and measured for his coffin to-mor-row ; but in his son's face the old servants fancied they saw a prophetic look, the forecast of doom.

The master's horses Btood idle in their stalls, or were exercised when arrived at a stage of dangerous ferocity, by a groom ; but Vyvyan went no more upon his accustomed round of inspection. Plough and harrow went over the naked hills, but he was not by to see. He sat by the fire in his study, idly skimming yesterday's papers, and waiting for his sentence to be fulfilled. He had made up his mind that he was shortly to die, and life had lost all zest for him. He felt only the agony of regret at parting with the land he had loved so well and oared for so sedulously — the farms and the manors, whose catalogue was graven on his heart. The keeneat sting of death was in the surrender of thoae — of these and of the wife who had never loved him.

He had suffered from an occasional return of the heart attack, sometimes in a atronger, sometimes in a weaker form ; but let it come when it would, after a short interval or a long one, the character of the seizure was always the same— the same death-like faintness, the same dull action of the labouring heart. The nature of the malady was unmistakable. "My father had no such warning," Yyvyan aaid to himself, " I ought to conmyself favoured. Yet I think if I were going to be blown from the muzzle of a gun, I would rather stand with my back to it and let the shot come unawares, than enjoy the privilege of looking into the cannon's mouth for a week or two before my'fflesh and bonea were scattered into space." It was not only that these attacks were painful and exhausting when they came. The effect upon his spirits and his nerves was worse than the bodily evil. The physical ailment passed away, and left him, to all appearance, no worse a man than before it came ; but the mental suffering was lasting. Vyvyan lived in hourly dread of an attack, and at every severer seizure he told himself , "This is the end." Recovery brought no sense of relief. It was like being dragged out of a river by the hair of his head, only to be flung in again a little later. Better to have made an end of it, since the end must oorae sooner or later,

Sooner or later— that was the tune td which his life was set in these dar 1 autumnal days. The old clock in the hal i ticked " sooner or later " The same wor ds sounded in the falling of the ashe on the hearth, in the sighing of the wind among the trees. Sooner or later ! " I had better make my will," he said to himself one morning. "It must be done, sooner or later. I've been an orderly man all my life, and I don't want to die with my affairs in confusion." He sent for Marston, the Oamelofc aolicitor, who attended to much of hia local business, and the two were closeted together for a long morning. The will was just and not ungenerous. It gave the land to Mark, in the event of the testator dying without children. It gave the quarries to Priscilla, who was well off without them. It gave annuities to some old servants, legacies to others, large sums to county charities, mementoes of more or less value to a few old friends. To hia wife the Squire bequeathed his mother's jewels, which reposed comfortably in the Launceston bank, and had not been seen by mortal eyes for the last twenty years, in token of hia affection ; and he renounced for his heirs, executors, and assigns all power of appointment over the reversionary interest in the Hallworthy estate. He knew that Major Leland had been at Place, that he was still in the neighbourhood, and might be seen from time to time riding a thick-set hunter over the moor, and riding like a man who held his life at a pin's fee. Priscilla had taken care to acquaint her brother with his rival's visit ; but she had not expatiated upon the meeting between Barbara and her former lover. It was enough that Vyvyan should know they had met. " And will meet again, no doubt/ he told himself. " Why should Ibe angry or wretched because he is near ? Oan X part them for ever— for a year even ? I shall be in my grave, and they will be happy together, before the world is a year older. I know that she will behave with womanly dignity and respect to my name. She will not marry in undue haste. She will not expose herself to scandal before marriage. She will do her duty to me dead, as she has done her duty to me living." When he had made his will he tried to resign himself, or at the .least to accustom himself to the idea that Mark would soon be master of the land, and sitting in his place. Mark had been very steady of late. He spenthis evenings in the gloomy old house, sitting by the hearth, with his famous liver-and-white spaniel, which was supposed to be a most perfect thing in spaniels, lying at his feet. He made feeble efforts to read the London papers, after devouring the local jour* nals ; but the drama of London life, political and social, was to him as far off. and as uninteresting as might have been a tragedy enacted in the planet Neptune. Mark's mind was essentially local, He could not push his ideas across the boundary line of his daily life, the figures which had made the sum of his existence from boyhood— his own and his neigh* hours' horses, his own and his neigh* bours' dogs. If he tried to picture to himself a foreign racecourse, he fancied the horses of a different kind from those that ran at home— half zebra, or with a touch of the camel. The continent of Europe wm to his mind a nebulous world. His only idea of strange lands was that they contained nothing natural or civilised, and could offer no form of life worth living.

The long autumn evenings at Place hung heavily upon the whole family, Vyvyan sat brooding by the fire ; Barbara sitting near him, ready to talk if he pleased, silent when he waa silent. Priscilla travelled slowly along the endless path of a Penelope's web, in the shape of a wool-work border for a set of win-dow-curtains, in which every water-lily was the labour of a week. Mark longed exceedingly for some one who would play cribbage with him ; or for a family circle sociable enough for all fours ; oi? for a billiard-table ; and having none of these amusements, pulled the spaniel's ears and yawned behind hia limp local paper. And all this time George Leland was aitting alone in the comfortable parlour at the Waterloo Inn, Rock port, where the last of the tourists had departed, and where he had the hoit3e to himself. He stayed, though he knew that it was idle and foolish in him to stay there. He cherished no evil design, he nursed no wicked hope ; but life, blighted and maimed though it was, taated sweeter to him while he was near Barbara.

(To be eontimuA— Commenced in No. 1452.