The Law and the Lady, Page 3

  CHAPTER III. RAMSGATE SANDS.

  EUSTACE succeeded in quieting my alarm. But I can hardly say that hesucceeded in satisfying my mind as well.

  He had been thinking, he told me, of the contrast between his past andhis present life. Bitter remembrance of the years that had gone hadrisen in his memory, and had filled him with melancholy misgivings ofhis capacity to make my life with him a happy one. He had asked himselfif he had not met me too late--if he were not already a man soured andbroken by the disappointments and disenchantments of the past? Doubtssuch as these, weighing more and more heavily on his mind, had filledhis eyes with the tears which I had discovered--tears which he nowentreated me, by my love for him, to dismiss from my memory forever.

  I forgave him, comforted him, revived him; but there were moments whenthe remembrance of what I had seen troubled me in secret, and when Iasked myself if I really possessed my husband's full confidence as hepossessed mine.

  We left the train at Ramsgate.

  The favorite watering-place was empty; the season was just over. Ourarrangements for the wedding tour included a cruise to the Mediterraneanin a yacht lent to Eustace by a friend. We were both fond of the sea,and we were equally desirous, considering the circumstances under whichwe had married, of escaping the notice of friends and acquaintances.With this object in view, having celebrated our marriage privately inLondon, we had decided on instructing the sailing-master of the yacht tojoin us at Ramsgate. At this port (when the season for visitors was atan end) we could embark far more privately than at the popular yachtingstations situated in the Isle of Wight.

  Three days passed--days of delicious solitude, of exquisite happiness,never to be forgotten, never to be lived over again, to the end of ourlives!

  Early on the morning of the fourth day, just before sunrise, a triflingincident happened, which was noticeable, nevertheless, as being strangeto me in my experience of myself.

  I awoke, suddenly and unaccountably, from a deep and dreamless sleepwith an all-pervading sensation of nervous uneasiness which I had neverfelt before. In the old days at the Vicarage my capacity as a soundsleeper had been the subject of many a little harmless joke. From themoment when my head was on the pillow I had never known what it was toawake until the maid knocked at my door. At all seasons and times thelong and uninterrupted repose of a child was the repose that I enjoyed.

  And now I had awakened, without any assignable cause, hours before myusual time. I tried to compose myself to sleep again. The effort wasuseless. Such a restlessness possessed me that I was not even able tolie still in the bed. My husband was sleeping soundly by my side. In thefear of disturbing him I rose, and put on my dressing-gown and slippers.

  I went to the window. The sun was just rising over the calm gray sea.For a while the majestic spectacle before me exercised a tranquilizinginfluence on the irritable condition of my nerves. But ere long the oldrestlessness returned upon me. I walked slowly to and fro in the room,until I was weary of the monotony of the exercise. I took up a book, andlaid it aside again. My attention wandered; the author was powerlessto recall it. I got on my feet once more, and looked at Eustace, andadmired him and loved him in his tranquil sleep. I went back to thewindow, and wearied of the beautiful morning. I sat down before theglass and looked at myself. How haggard and worn I was already, throughawaking before my usual time! I rose again, not knowing what to do next.The confinement to the four walls of the room began to be intolerableto me. I opened the door that led into my husband's dressing-room, andentered it, to try if the change would relieve me.

  The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open on thetoilet-table.

  I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knives andscissors in one compartment, the writing materials in another. I smelledthe perfumes and pomatums; I busily cleaned and dusted the bottleswith my handkerchief as I took them out. Little by little I completelyemptied the dressing-case. It was lined with blue velvet. In one cornerI noticed a tiny slip of loose blue silk. Taking it between my fingerand thumb, and drawing it upward, I discovered that there was a falsebottom to the case, forming a secret compartment for letters and papers.In my strange condition--capricious, idle, inquisitive--it was anamusement to me to take out the papers, just as I had taken outeverything else.

  I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me; some letters,which it is needless to say I laid aside after only looking at theaddresses; and, under all, a photograph, face downward, with writing onthe back of it. I looked at the writing, and saw these words:

  "To my dear son, Eustace."

  His mother! the woman who had so obstinately and mercilessly opposedherself to our marriage!

  I eagerly turned the photograph, expecting to see a woman with a stern,ill-tempered, forbidding countenance. To my surprise, the face showedthe remains of great beauty; the expression, though remarkably firm,was yet winning, tender, and kind. The gray hair was arranged in rowsof little quaint old-fashioned curls on either side of the head, under aplain lace cap. At one corner of the mouth there was a mark, apparentlya mole, which added to the characteristic peculiarity of the face.I looked and looked, fixing the portrait thoroughly in my mind. Thiswoman, who had almost insulted me and my relatives, was, beyond alldoubt or dispute, so far as appearances went, a person possessingunusual attractions--a person whom it would be a pleasure and aprivilege to know.

  I fell into deep thought. The discovery of the photograph quieted me asnothing had quieted me yet.

  The striking of a clock downstairs in the hall warned me of the flightof time. I carefully put back all the objects in the dressing-case(beginning with the photograph) exactly as I had found them, andreturned to the bedroom. As I looked at my husband, still sleepingpeacefully, the question forced itself into my mind, What had made thatgenial, gentle mother of his so sternly bent on parting us? so harshlyand pitilessly resolute in asserting her disapproval of our marriage?

  Could I put my question openly to Eustace when he awoke? No; I wasafraid to venture that length. It had been tacitly understood between usthat we were not to speak of his mother--and, besides, he might beangry if he knew that I had opened the private compartment of hisdressing-case.

  After breakfast that morning we had news at last of the yacht. Thevessel was safely moored in the inner harbor, and the sailing-master waswaiting to receive my husband's orders on board.

  Eustace hesitated at asking me to accompany him to the yacht. It wouldbe necessary for him to examine the inventory of the vessel, and todecide questions, not very interesting to a woman, relating to chartsand barometers, provisions and water. He asked me if I would wait forhis return. The day was enticingly beautiful, and the tide was onthe ebb. I pleaded for a walk on the sands; and the landlady at ourlodgings, who happened to be in the room at the time, volunteered toaccompany me and take care of me. It was agreed that we should walkas far as we felt inclined in the direction of Broadstairs, and thatEustace should follow and meet us on the sands, after having completedhis arrangements on board the yacht.

  In half an hour more the landlady and I were out on the beach.

  The scene on that fine autumn morning was nothing less than enchanting.The brisk breeze, the brilliant sky, the flashing blue sea, thesun-bright cliffs and the tawny sands at their feet, the glidingprocession of ships on the great marine highway of the EnglishChannel--it was all so exhilarating, it was all so delightful, that Ireally believe if I had been by myself I could have danced for joy likea child. The one drawback to my happiness was the landlady's untiringtongue. She was a forward, good-natured, empty-headed woman, whopersisted in talking, whether I listened or not, and who had a habit ofperpetually addressing me as "Mrs. Woodville," which I thought a littleoverfamiliar as an assertion of equality from a person in her positionto a person in mine.

  We had been out, I should think, more than half an hour, when weovertook a lady walking before us on the beach.

  Just as we were about to pass the stranger she took her handk
erchieffrom her pocket, and accidentally drew out with it a letter, which fellunnoticed by her, on the sand. I was nearest to the letter, and I pickedit up and offered it to the lady.

  The instant she turned to thank me, I stood rooted to the spot. Therewas the original of the photographic portrait in the dressing-case!there was my husband's mother, standing face to face with me! Irecognized the quaint little gray curls, the gentle, genial expression,the mole at the corner of the mouth. No mistake was possible. His motherherself!

  The old lady, naturally enough, mistook my confusion for shyness. Withperfect tact and kindness she entered into conversation with me. Inanother minute I was walking side by side with the woman who had sternlyrepudiated me as a member of her family; feeling, I own, terriblydiscomposed, and not knowing in the least whether I ought or ought notto assume the responsibility, in my husband's absence, of telling herwho I was.

  In another minute my familiar landlady, walking on the other side ofmy mother-in-law, decided the question for me. I happened to say thatI supposed we must by that time be near the end of our walk--the littlewatering-place called Broadstairs. "Oh no, Mrs. Woodville!" cried theirrepressible woman, calling me by my name, as usual; "nothing like sonear as you think!"

  I looked with a beating heart at the old lady.

  To my unutterable amazement, not the faintest gleam of recognitionappeared in her face. Old Mrs. Woodville went on talking to young Mrs.Woodville just as composedly as if she had never heard her own namebefore in her life!

  My face and manner must have betrayed something of the agitation that Iwas suffering. Happening to look at me at the end of her next sentence,the old lady started, and said, in her kindly way,

  "I am afraid you have overexerted yourself. You are very pale--you arelooking quite exhausted. Come and sit down here; let me lend you mysmelling-bottle."

  I followed her, quite helplessly, to the base of the cliff. Some fallenfragments of chalk offered us a seat. I vaguely heard the volublelandlady's expressions of sympathy and regret; I mechanically took thesmelling-bottle which my husband's mother offered to me, after hearingmy name, as an act of kindness to a stranger.

  If I had only had myself to think of, I believe I should have provokedan explanation on the spot. But I had Eustace to think of. I wasentirely ignorant of the relations, hostile or friendly, which existedbetween his mother and himself. What could I do?

  In the meantime the old lady was still speaking to me with the mostconsiderate sympathy. She too was fatigued, she said. She had passed aweary night at the bedside of a near relative staying at Ramsgate. Onlythe day before she had received a telegram announcing that one of hersisters was seriously ill. She was herself thank God, still active andstrong, and she had thought it her duty to start at once for Ramsgate.Toward the morning the state of the patient had improved. "The doctorassures me ma'am, that there is no immediate danger; and I thought itmight revive me, after my long night at the bedside, if I took a littlewalk on the beach."

  I heard the words--I understood what they meant--but I was still toobewildered and too intimidated by my extraordinary position to be ableto continue the conversation. The landlady had a sensible suggestion tomake--the landlady was the next person who spoke.

  "Here is a gentleman coming," she said to me, pointing in the directionof Ramsgate. "You can never walk back. Shall we ask him to send a chaisefrom Broadstairs to the gap in the cliff?"

  The gentleman advanced a little nearer.

  The landlady and I recognized him at the same moment. It was Eustacecoming to meet us, as we had arranged. The irrepressible landlady gavethe freest expression to her feelings. "Oh, Mrs. Woodville, ain't itlucky? here is Mr. Woodville himself."

  Once more I looked at my mother-in-law. Once more the name failed toproduce the slightest effect on her. Her sight was not so keen as ours;she had not recognized her son yet. He had young eyes like us, andhe recognized his mother. For a moment he stopped like a manthunderstruck. Then he came on--his ruddy face white with suppressedemotion, his eyes fixed on his mother.

  "You here!" he said to her.

  "How do you do, Eustace?" she quietly rejoined. "Have _you_ heard ofyour aunt's illness too? Did you know she was staying at Ramsgate?"

  He made no answer. The landlady, drawing the inevitable inference fromthe words that she had just heard, looked from me to my mother-in-law ina state of amazement, which paralyzed even her tongue. I waited withmy eyes on my husband, to see what he would do. If he had delayedacknowledging me another moment, the whole future course of my lifemight have been altered--I should have despised him.

  He did _not_ delay. He came to my side and took my hand.

  "Do you know who this is?" he said to his mother.

  She answered, looking at me with a courteous bend of her head:

  "A lady I met on the beach, Eustace, who kindly restored to me a letterthat I dropped. I think I heard the name" (she turned to the landlady):"Mrs. Woodville, was it not?"

  My husband's fingers unconsciously closed on my hand with a grasp thathurt me. He set his mother right, it is only just to say, without onecowardly moment of hesitation.

  "Mother," he said to her, very quietly, "this lady is my wife."

  She had hitherto kept her seat. She now rose slowly and faced her son insilence. The first expression of surprise passed from her face. It wassucceeded by the most terrible look of mingled indignation and contemptthat I ever saw in a woman's eyes.

  "I pity your wife," she said.

  With those words and no more, lifting her hand she waved him back fromher, and went on her way again, as we had first found her, alone.