A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Abbey gates. There is a garden party of some kind, he sees, as he

strolls languidly up to the house. This gentleman, who has not attained

his majority, has a certain weary and worn-out air, as though life were

a very old story indeed, and rather a tiresome mistake—the “nothing

new, and nothing true, and it don’t signify” manner to perfection.

It is a most exquisite evening. Overhead there is a sky like Italy,

golden-gray in the shadow, primrose and pink in the light, a full moon

rising over the tree-tops, a few bright stars winking facetiously down

at grim old earth, a faint breeze just stirring the roses, and clematis,

and jessamine, and honeysuckle, and wafting abroad subtle incense, and

the nightingales piping their musical, plaintive vesper song. It is

unutterably beautiful, but to all its beauty Lord Dynely is deaf and

blind. It has been a hot, stifling day, that he knows; it is rather

cooler now, that is all. What he does see is a group of fair English

girls, in robes of white, and pink, and pale green, playing croquet

under the beeches, and his tired eyes light a little at the sight.

Wherever and whenever Lord Dynely may light upon a pretty girl, or group

of them, all his earthly troubles vanish at once. It was a weakness,

many cynical friends said, inherited honestly enough from his late noble

father.

The group clicking the croquet balls did not see him, but as he drew

near, a lady standing on the terrace, gazing thoughtfully at the

twilight shadows, did, and there was a quick start, a quick uprising,

and a rush to meet him, a glad, joyful cry:

“Oh, Eric! my son! my son!”

He permitted her embrace rather than returned it. It was too warm for

powerful domestic emotions of any sort, Eric thought, and then women

always went in for kissing and raptures upon the smallest provocation.

He let himself be embraced, and then gently extricated himself, and

glanced backward at the group.

“A croquet party, mother!” he said. “Do I know them? Ah, yes, I see the

Deveres and the Dorman girls? Is France—? How is France? She is not

among them?”

“France is somewhere in the grounds. Oh, my boy! how good it seems to

have you at home again—how anxiously I have awaited your coming. We

expected you in London at the beginning of the season.”

“We?” his lordship says, interrogatively.

“France and I. Do you know, Eric, that France has been the sensation of

the season, the most admired girl in London. Lord Evergoil proposed, and

was rejected; but, Eric, you ran a great risk.”

“Did I? Of losing Miss Forrester? I could have survived it,” he answers,

coolly.

“Don’t say that, Eric—you don’t mean it, I know,” Lady Dynely says,

with a singularly nervous, frightened look. “You cannot do better—it is

impossible. She is of one of the oldest families in the kingdom; she is

handsome, accomplished, and fascinating, and she comes into two

fortunes, her own and Mrs. Caryll’s. Eric, I shall break my heart if

you do not marry her.”

“Hearts don’t break, dear mother—physicians have discovered that; it is

an exploded delusion. And as to Miss Forrester’s accomplishments and

fascinations, do you know I rather find that sort of young person hang

heavy on hand—I prefer people of less superhuman acquirements. For the

fortune—well, I may not be a Marquis of Westminster, but the rent roll

is a noble one, and its lord need never sell himself.”

Lady Dynely has turned quite white—a dead, gray pallor—as she listens.

Is he going to throw over France and her fortune after all? Must she

tell him the truth in order to make him speak? Before she can turn to

him again, he speaks, more cheerfully this time.

“Time enough for all that,” he says; “don’t look so pale and terrified,

mother mine. One would think I were a pauper, reduced to heiress-hunting

or starvation. Where is France? I will go in search of her, and pay my

respects.”

“She went down the lime walk half an hour ago with Mr. Locksley.”

“Mr. Locksley? A new name. Who is Mr. Locksley?”

“Mr. Locksley is an artist; he is painting France’s portrait. He made a

hit at the Academy this year, and I prevailed upon him to come with us

down here.”

“Oh, you did! And he is received en famille, I suppose, and France

takes solitary strolls with him, does she?” responds Eric, lifting his

eyebrows. “It seems to me, my good mother, you don’t look after your

only son’s interests so very sharply after all. The lime walk, did you

say? I will go and flush this covey at once.”

He turns away. His mother stands where he has left her and watches the

tall, slender figure, the slow, graceful walk.

“He grows handsomer every year,” she thinks, in her love and admiration.

“Go where I will I see nothing like him. Oh, my boy! if you only knew

that you may be a very pauper indeed. That on the mercy of Terry

Dennison your whole fortune may hang. If I could only summon courage and

end all this deception, and secrecy, and suspense at once. Terry is so

good, so generous, he loves me so; he is fonder of Eric than any

brother; he would rather die than give me pain. That is my only hope. If

the sins of the father must be visited on the children, oh, let not my

darling be the one to suffer.”

A selfish, a weak prayer, but passionately earnest at least. Her darling

had faded from her view, and her tear-filled eyes turned to another

figure taller still, with all the grace and elegant languor wanting,

only manly strength and vigor in their place. His deep laugh comes to

her at the moment, clear and merry as any school-boy’s.

“Terry will have mercy,” she thinks; “he is the soul of generosity, and

his wants are so simple, his ambitions so few. With his commission, his

five hundred a year, and the vicar’s daughter for his wife, he will ask

no more of fate. I will tell him when he returns from Lincolnshire, and

I know, I feel, all will be well. And yet,”—her eyes went wistfully

over the fair expanse of park and woodland, and glade and terrace,

flower garden and fountains, all silvered in the radiance of the summer

moon—“it is a great sacrifice—a sacrifice not one man in a hundred

would make.”

Meantime Lord Dynely had strolled down the lime walk, and emerged upon a

sylvan nook, commanding a view of forest near, and the distant shining

sea. Its soft wash reached the ear—the moon left a track of radiance as

it sailed up the serene sky. And this is the picture his lordship saw:

In a dress of gauzy white, Miss Forrester sat in a rustic chair, blue

ribbons floating, trailing roses in the rich brownness of her hair, a

great bunch of lilies of the valley in her lap, another cluster in the

bosom of her dress. Her coquettish “Dolly Varden” hat lay on the grass

beside her—her eyes were fixed, full of dreamy light, on the shining

sky and sea, and the man who lay on the sward at her feet, reading

aloud. Poetry, of course, Tennyson of course, and “Maud” as it chanced.

“I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes

In revel, and babble, and wine;

Oh! young lord lover! what sighs are those,

For one who will never be thine,

But mine, but mine!’ So I swear to the rose,

‘Forever and ever mine.’”

Pleasant first words to greet Lord Dynely’s ears, pleasant tableau

vivant to greet his eyes.

Confound the fellow! A strolling artist, too. What presumption! Good

looking, no doubt; those painting fellows, with their long hair, and

picturesque faces, and velvet blouses, always play the mischief with

women. Reading poetry, at her feet. France Forrester’s—whom he used to

think one of the proudest girls he knew. He had fancied her pining for

him, piqued at his absence. Certainly, flirtation was a game for two to

play at. She could amuse herself very well at home, it seemed, while he

amused himself abroad.

“Taking people by surprise is a mistake, I find,” he said, advancing.

“If I don’t disturb the exercises, Miss Forrester, perhaps you will turn

round and say good-evening.”

He stood before her, holding out his hand, a smile on his lips. She half

arose, turning very pale.

“Eric!”

“Eric, Miss Forrester—at last. I have been standing for the last five

minutes enjoying the poetry and the very pretty picture you two make

here in the twilight. Pray present me.”

“There is no need, Miss Forrester. Unless Lord Dynely’s memory be of the

shortest, I think he will recall me.”

Locksley arose to his feet as he spoke, and Lord Dynely saw him for the

first time. His face lit up—a look of real pleasure came into his

eyes—he grasped the hand of the artist with a genuine warmth, all

unusual with him.

“Locksley? My dear fellow, what a surprise this is, you know. My mother

mentioned your name, but it never occurred to me you were the man. Who

would look for you in England?”

Locksley smiled.

“My headquarters is Italy, certainly; but I come to England,

nevertheless. I have been here two years.”

“You have met before,” France broke in; “you never told me, Mr.

Locksley.”

“Was it necessary? I had the pleasure of doing Lord Dynely some slight

service two years ago, and saw a good deal of him for some weeks after.

But how could I tell he would remember? Two years is a considerable

time.”

“Cynical, as usual—a Diogenes without the tub and cabbage leaves. A

slight service! Yes, I should think so. He saved my life, France—my

boat upset in a squall in the Bay of Naples, and only he took a header

gallantly to the rescue, the Dynely succession would then and there have

been extinct. Odd I didn’t remember your name the moment I heard it, but

I am very pleased to meet you here all the same.”

They had turned, and as by one impulse, walked back towards the house.

It was quite night now, the trees making ebony shadows across the ivory

light. The croquet players had adjourned to the house, and the balls and

mallets had given place to piano music and waltzing. On the portico

steps stood Terry, whistling and looking at the moon. He came eagerly

forward with outstretched hand, his honest eyes shining with pleasure.

“Dear old man!” he said, giving Eric’s delicate digit a grip that made

him wince; “glad to have you back. Thought you were never

coming—thought some old Spanish hidalgo out there had got jealous, and

pinked you under the fifth rib in some dark corner. The madre is

beside herself with delight.”

“Softly, Terry—softly,” says Lord Dynely, withdrawing his hand with a

slight grimace. “A moderate amount of affection I don’t object to, but

don’t let the grip of the muscular hand express the emotions of the

overflowing heart. They are tripping the light fantastic in there—shall

we join them?”

They enter the drawing-room—there are more greetings and a few

introductions. The lord of the land has returned—the seigneur of

Dynely, the master, is in the house, and his presence makes itself felt

directly. He is in excellent spirits—throws off his languor, forgets to

be blas�, and waltzes like a student at Mabille.

France declines; it