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diff --git a/37180-h/37180-h.htm b/37180-h/37180-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c2f60c --- /dev/null +++ b/37180-h/37180-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2667 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penelope Brandling, by Vernon Lee. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Penelope Brandling, by Vernon Lee + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Penelope Brandling + A Tale of the Welsh coast in the Eighteenth Century + +Author: Vernon Lee + +Release Date: August 23, 2011 [EBook #37180] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENELOPE BRANDLING *** + + + + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<h1>PENELOPE BRANDLING</h1> + +<h3>By</h3> + +<h2>VERNON LEE</h2> + + +<h4>A TALE OF THE WELSH COAST IN</h4> + +<h4>THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY</h4> + + +<h5>LONDON</h5> + +<h5>T. FISHER UNWIN</h5> + +<h5>PATERNOSTER SQUARE</h5> + +<h5>M CM III</h5> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h5>TO</h5> + +<h5>AUGUSTINE BULTEAU</h5> + +<h5>THIS STORY</h5> + +<h5>OF NORTHERN WRECKERS,</h5> + +<h5>IN RETURN FOR A PIECE OF PARIAN</h5> + +<h5>MARBLE PICKED UP IN THE</h5> + +<h5>MEDITERRANEAN SURF</h5> + +<h5>AT PALO</h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p>GRANDFEY, NEAR F., IN SWITZERLAND.</p> + + +<p><i>May</i> 15, 1822.</p> + +<p>Having reached an age when the morrow is more than uncertain, and +knowing how soon all verbal tradition becomes blurred and distorted, I, +Sophia Penelope, daughter of Jacques de Morat, a cadet of the Counts of +that name, sometime a captain in the service of King Louis XV., and of +Sophia Hamilton, his wife; and furthermore, widow of the late Sir +Eustace Brandling, ninth baronet, of St. Salvat's Castle, in the county +of Glamorgan, have yielded to the wishes of my dear surviving sons, and +am preparing to consign to paper, for the benefit of their children and +grandchildren, some account of those circumstances in my life which +decided that the lot of this family should so long have been cast in +foreign parts and remote colonies, instead of in its ancestral and +legitimate home.</p> + +<p>I can the better fulfil this last duty to my dear ones, living and dead, +that I have by me a journal which, as it chanced, I was in the habit of +keeping at that period; and require to draw upon my memory only for such +details as happen to be missing in that casual record of my daily life +some fifty years ago. And first of all let me explain to my children's +children that I began to keep this journal two years after my marriage +with their grandfather, with the idea of sending it regularly to my +dearest mother, from whom, for the first time in my young life, I was +separated by my husband's unexpected succession and our removal from +Switzerland to his newly-inherited estates in Wales. Let me also explain +that before this event, which took place in the spring of seventeen +hundred and seventy-two, Sir Eustace Brandling was merely a young +Englishman of handsome person, gentlemanly bearing, an uncommon +knowledge of the liberal arts and sciences, and a most blameless and +amiable temper, but with no expectations of fortune in the future, and +only a modest competence in the present. So that it was regarded in our +Canton and among our relations as a proof of my dear mother's high-flown +and romantic temper, and of the unpractical influence of the writings of +Rousseau and other philosophers, that she should have allowed her only +child to contract such a marriage. And at the time of its celebration it +did indeed appear improbable that we should ever cease residing with my +dearest mother on her little domain of Grandfey; still more that our +existence of pastoral and philosophic happiness should ever be exchanged +for the nightmare of dishonour and misery which followed it.</p> + +<p>The beginning of our calamities was, as I said, on the death of Sir +Thomas Brandling, my husband's only brother. I have preserved a most +vivid recollection of the day which brought us that news, perhaps +because, looked back upon ever after, it seemed the definite boundary of +a whole part of our life, left so quickly and utterly behind, as the +shore is left even with the first few strokes of the oars. My dear +mother and I were in the laundry, where the maids were busy putting by +the freshly ironed linen. My mother, who was ever more skilful with her +hands, as she was nimbler in her thoughts, than I, had put aside all the +most delicate pieces and the lace to dress and iron herself; while I, +who had made a number of large bundles of lavender (our garden had +never produced it in so great profusion), was standing on a chair and +placing them in the shelves of the presses, between each bale of sheets +and table linen which the maids had lifted up to me. When, looking +through the open glass door, I saw Vincent, the farm servant, hurrying +along the lime walk, and across the kitchen garden, and waving a packet +at us. He had been to the city to buy sugar, I remember, for the +raspberry jam, which my mother, an excellent cook, had decided to +sweeten a second time, for fear of its turning.</p> + +<p>"He seems very excited," said my mother, looking out. "I declare he has +a book or packet, perhaps it is the <i>Journal des Savants</i> for Eustace, +or that opera by Monsieur Gluck, which your uncle promised you. I hope +he has not forgotten the nutmegs." I write down these childish details +because I cherished them for years, as one might cherish a blade of +grass or a leaf, carelessly put as a marker in a book, and belonging to +a country one will never revisit.</p> + +<p>"It is a letter for Eustace," said my mother, "and very heavy too. I am +glad Vincent had more money than necessary, for it must have cost a lot +at the post." And going under my husband's laboratory window she asked +whether he wanted the letter at once, or would wait to open it at dinner +time. "I am only cleaning my instruments," he answered, "let me have +the letter now." His voice, as I hear it through all those years, sounds +so happy and boyish. It was altered, and it seemed at the time naturally +enough, when he presently came down to the laundry and said very +briefly, "My brother is dead ... it is supposed a stab from a drunken +sailor at Bristol. A shocking business. It is my Uncle Hubert who +writes." He had sat down by the ironing table and spoke in short, dry +sentences.</p> + +<p>There was something extraordinary about his voice, not grief, but +agitation, which somehow made it utterly impossible for me to do what +would have been natural under the circumstances, to put my arms round +his neck and tell him I shared his trouble. Instead of which every word +he uttered seemed to ward me off as with the sword's point, and to cover +himself, as a fencer covers his vitals.</p> + +<p>"Get some brandy for him, Penelope. He is feeling faint," said my +mother, tossing me her keys. I obeyed, feeling that she understood and I +did not, as often happened between us. I was a few minutes away, for I +had to cross the yard to the dwelling house, and then I found that my +mother had given me the wrong keys. I filled a glass from a jar of +cherries we had just put up, and returned to the laundry. My husband was +white, but did not look at all faint. He was leaning his elbow on the +deal table covered with blanket, and nervously folding and stretching a +ruffle which lay by the bowl of starch. When I came in he suddenly +stopped speaking, and my mother saw that I noticed it.</p> + +<p>"Eustace was saying, my dear," she said, "that he will have to +go—almost immediately—to England, on account of the property. He +wanted to go on alone, and fetch you later, when things should be a +little to rights. But I was telling him, Penelope, that I felt sure you +would recognise it as your duty to go with him from the very first, and +help him through any difficulties."</p> + +<p>My dear mother had resumed her ironing; and as she said these last +words, her voice trembled a little, and she stooped very attentively +over the cap she was smoothing.</p> + +<p>Eustace was sitting there, so unlike himself suddenly, and muttered +nervously, "I really can see no occasion, Maman, for anything of the +sort."</p> + +<p>I cannot say what possessed me; I verily think a presentiment of the +future. But I put down the plate and glass, looked from my mother to my +husband, and burst into a childish flood of tears. I heard my husband +give a little peevish "Ah!" rise, leave the room, and then bang the door +of his laboratory upstairs behind him. And then I felt my dear mother's +arms about me, and her kiss on my cheek. I mopped my eyes with my apron, +but at first I could not see properly for the tears. When I was able to +see again what struck me was the scene through the long window, open +down to the ground.</p> + +<p>It was a lovely evening, and the air full of the sweetness of lime +blossom. The low sunlight made the plaster of our big old house a pale +golden, and the old woodwork of its wooden eaves, wide and shaped like +an inverted boat, as is the Swiss fashion, of a beautiful rosy purple. +The dogs were lying on the house steps, by the great tubs of hydrangeas +and flowering pomegranates; and beyond the sanded yard I could see the +bent back of Vincent stooping among the hives in the kitchen garden. The +grass beyond was brilliant green, all powdered with hemlock flower; and +the sun made a deep track in the avenue, along which the cows were +trotting home to be milked. I felt my heart break, as once or twice I +had foolishly done as a child, and in a manner in which I have never +felt it again despite all my later miseries. I suppose it was that I was +only then really ceasing to be a child, though I had been married two +years. It was evidently in my mother's thoughts, for she followed my +glance with hers, and then said very solemnly, and kissing me again (she +had not let go of me all this while), "My poor little Penelope! you must +learn to be a woman. You will want all your strength and all your +courage to help your husband."</p> + +<p>That was really the end, or the beginning. There were some weeks of +plan-making and preparations, a bad dream which has faded away from my +memory. And then, at the beginning of August of that year—1772—my +husband and I started from Grandfey for St. Salvat's.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>I</h3> + + +<p><i>September</i> 29, 1772.</p> + +<p>This is my first night in what, henceforward, is going to be my home. +The thought should be a happy and a solemn one; but it merely goes on +and on in my head like the words of a song in some unknown language. +Eustace has gone below to his uncles; and I am alone in this great room, +and also, I imagine, in the whole wing of this great house. The wax +lights on the dressing-table, and the unsnuffed dip with which the old +housekeeper lit us through endless passages, leave all the corners dark. +But the moonlight pours in through the vast, cage-like window. The moon +is shining on a strip of sea above the tree-tops, and the noise of the +sea is quite close; a noise quite unlike that of any running water, and +methinks very melancholy and hopeless in expression. I tried to enjoy it +like a play, or a romance which one reads; and indeed, the whole +impression of this castle is marvellously romantic.</p> + +<p>When Eustace had unstrapped my packages, and in his tender manner placed +all my little properties in order, he took me in his arms, meaning +thereby to welcome me to my new home and the house of his fathers. We +were standing by the window, and I tried, foolishly it seems, to hide my +weakness of spirit (for I confess to having felt a great longing to cry) +by pointing to that piece of moonlit sea, and repeating a line of +Ossian, at the beginning of the description of the pirates crossing the +sea to the house of Erved. Foolishly, for although that passage is a +favourite with Eustace, indeed one we often read during our courtship, +he was annoyed at my thinking of such matters, I suppose, at such a +moment; and answered with that kind of irritated deprecation that is so +new to me; embracing me indeed once more, but leaving me immediately to +go to his uncles.</p> + +<p>Foolish Penelope! It is this no doubt which makes me feel lonely just +now; and I can hear you, dearest mother, chiding me laughingly, for +giving so much weight to such an incident. Eustace will return +presently, as gentle and sympathising as ever, and all will be right +with me. Meanwhile, I will note down the events of this day, so +memorable in my life.</p> + +<p>We seemed to ride for innumerable hours, I in the hired chaise, and my +husband on the horse he had bought at Bristol. The road wound endlessly +up and down, through a green country, with barely a pale patch of reaped +field, and all veiled in mist and driving rain. There seemed no villages +anywhere, only at distances of miles, a scant cottage or two of grey +stone and thatch; and once or twice during all those hours, a desolate +square tower among distant trees; and all along rough hedges and grey +walls with stones projecting like battlements. Inland mountain lines +like cliffs, dim in the rain; and at last, over the pale green fields, +the sea—quite pale, almost white. We had to ask our way more than once, +losing it again in this vague country without landmarks, where +everything appeared and disappeared in mist. I had begun to feel as if +St. Salvat's had no real existence, when Eustace rode up to the chaise +window and pointed out the top of a tower, and a piece of battlemented +wall, emerging from the misty woods, and a minute after we were at a +tall gate tower, with a broken escutcheon and a drawbridge, which +clanked up behind us so soon as we were over. We stopped in a great +castle yard, with paved paths across a kind of bowling green, and at the +steps of the house, built unevenly all round, battlemented and turreted, +with huge projecting windows made of little panes.</p> + +<p>There were a lot of men upon the steps, who surrounded the postchaise; +they were roughly and variously dressed, some like fishermen and +keepers, but none as I had hitherto seen the gentlemen of this country. +But as we stopped, another came down the steps with a masterful air, +pushed them aside, opened the chaise, lifted me out, and made me a very +fine bow as I stood quite astonished at the suddenness of his ways. He +was dressed entirely in black broadcloth, with a frizzled wig and bands, +as clergymen are dressed here, and black cloth gaiters.</p> + +<p>"May it please the fair Lady Brandling," he said, with a fine gesture, +"to accept the hearty welcome of her old Uncle Hubert, and of her other +kinsmen." The others came trooping round awkwardly, with little show of +manners. But the one called Hubert, the clergyman, gave me his arm, +waived them away, said something about my being tired from the long +ride, and swept, nay, almost carried me up the great staircase and +through the passages to the room where dinner was spread. Of this he +excused himself from partaking, alleging the lateness of the hour and +his feeble digestion; but he sat over against my husband and me while we +were eating, drank wine with me, and kept up a ceaseless flow of +conversation, rather fulsomely affable methought and packed with +needless witticisms; but which freed me from the embarrassment produced +by the novelty of the situation, by my husband's almost utter silence, +and also, I must add, by the man's own scrutinising examination of me. I +was heartily glad when, the glasses being removed, he summoned the +housekeeper, and with another very fine bow, committed me to her +charge. Eustace begged to be excused for accompanying me to my chamber, +and promised to return and drink his wine presently with his kinsmen.</p> + +<p>And now, dear mother, I have told you of our arrival at St. Salvat's; +and I have confessed to you my childish fear of I know not what. "Mere +bodily fatigue!" I hear you briskly exclaiming, and chiding me for such +childish feelings. But if you were here, dearest mother, you would take +me also in your arms, and I should know that you knew it was not all +foolishness and cowardice, that you would know what it is, for the first +time in my little life, to be without you.</p> + + +<p><i>October</i> 5, 1772.</p> + +<p>It has stopped raining at last, and Eustace, who is again the kindest +and most considerate of men, has taken me all over the castle and the +grounds, or at least a great part. St. Salvat's is even more +romantically situated than I had thought; and with its towers and +battlements hidden in deep woods, it makes one think of castles, like +that of Otranto, which one reads of in novels; nay, I was the more +reminded of the latter work of fiction (which Eustace believes to be +from the pen of the accomplished Mr. Walpole, whom we knew in Paris), +that there are, let into the stonework on either side of the porch, huge +heads of warriors, filleted and crowned with laurel, which though +purporting to be those of the Emperors Augustus and Trajan, yet look as +if they might fit into some gigantic helmet such as we read of in that +admirable tale.</p> + +<p>From the house, which has been built at various times (Eustace is of +opinion mainly in the time of the famous Cardinal Wolsey, as the +architecture, it appears, is similar to that of His Majesty's palace at +Hampton Court), into the old castle; from the house, as I say, the +gardens descend in great terraces and steps into the woods and to the +sea. The gardens are indeed very much neglected, and will require no +doubt, a considerable expenditure of labour; but I am secretly charmed +by their wild luxuriance: a great vine and a pear tree hang about the +mullioned windows almost unpruned, and the box and bay trees have grown +into thickets in the extraordinary kindliness of this warm, moist +climate. There is in the middle of the terraces, a pond all overgrown +with lilies, and with a broken leaden statue of a nymph. Here, when he +was a child, Eustace was wont to watch for the transformation into a +fairy of a great water snake which was said to have lived in that pond +for centuries; but I well remember his awakening my compassion by +telling me how, one day, his brother Thomas, wishing to displease him, +trapped the poor harmless creature and cruelly skinned it alive. "That +is the place of my poor water snake," Eustace said to-day; and it was +the first time since our coming, that he has alluded to his own or his +family's past. Poor Eustace! I am deeply touched by the evident painful +memories awakened by return to St. Salvat's, which have over-clouded his +reserved and sensitive nature, in a manner I had not noticed (thank +Heaven) since our marriage. But to return to the castle, or rather its +grounds. What chiefly delights my romantic temper are the woods in which +it is hidden, and its singular position, on an utterly isolated little +bay of this wild and dangerous coast. You go down the terraces into a +narrow ravine, lined with every manner of fern, and full of venerable +trees; past the little church of which our Uncle Hubert is the +incumbent, alongside some ruined buildings, once the quarters of the +Brandlings' troopers, across a field full of yellow bog flowers, and on +to a high wall. And on the other side of that wall, quite unexpected, is +the white, misty sea, dashing against a bit of sand and low pale rocks, +where our uncles' fishing boats are drawn up, and chafing, further off +against the sunken reefs of this murderous coast. And to the right and +the left, great clumps of wind-bent trees and sharp cliffs appear and +disappear in the faint, misty sunshine.</p> + +<p>As we stood on the sea wall, listening to the rustle of the waves, a +ship, with three masts and full sail, passed slowly at a great +distance, to my very great pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Where is she going, do you know?" I asked rather childishly.</p> + +<p>"To Bristol," answered Eustace curtly. "It is perhaps, some West +Indiaman, laden with sugar, and spirits, and coffee and cotton. All the +vessels bound for Bristol sail in front of St. Salvat's."</p> + +<p>"And is not the coast very dangerous?" I asked, for the sight of that +gallant ship had fascinated me. "Are there not wrecks sometimes along +those reefs we see there?"</p> + +<p>"Sometimes!" exclaimed Eustace sadly. "Why at seasons, almost daily. All +that wood which makes the blue flame you like so much, is the timber of +wrecked vessels, picked up along this coast."</p> + +<p>My eye rested on the boats drawn up on the sand of the little cove: +stout black boats, such as Eustace had pointed out to me at Bristol as +pilchard boats.</p> + +<p>"And when there is a wreck?" I asked, "do your uncles go out to save the +poor people with those boats?"</p> + +<p>"Alas, dear Lady Brandling," answered an unexpected voice at my elbow, +"it is not given to poor weak mortals like us to contend with the +decrees of a just, though wrathful Providence."</p> + +<p>I turned round and there stood, leaning on the sea wall, with his big +liquorice-coloured eyes fixed on me, and a smile (methought) of polite +acquiescence in shipwrecks, our uncle, the Reverend Hubert, in his fine +black coat and frizzled white wig.</p> + + +<p><i>October</i> 12, 1772.</p> + +<p>We have been here over a fortnight now, and although it feels as if I +never could grow accustomed to all this strangeness, it seems months; +and those years at Grandfey, all my life before my marriage, and before +our journey, a vivid dream.</p> + +<p>Where shall I begin? During the first week Eustace and I had our meals, +as seemed but natural, in the great hall with his uncles and his one +cousin. For two days things went decently enough. The uncles—Simon, +Edward, Gwyn, David, and the cousin, Evan, son of David, were evidently +under considerable restraint, and fear (methought) of the Reverend +Hubert, who seems somehow a creature from another planet. The latter sat +by Eustace and me, at the high end of the table; the others, and with +them the Bailiff Lloyd, at the lower. The service was rough but clean, +and the behaviour, although gloomily constrained, decent and +gentlemanly. But little by little a spirit of rebellion seemed to arise. +It began by young Evan, a sandy-haired lad of seventeen, coming to +dinner with hands unwashed and red from skinning, as he told us, an +otter; and on the Reverend Hubert bidding him go wash before appearing +in my presence, his father, David, taking his part, forcing the lad +into his chair, and saying something in the unintelligible Welsh +language, which contained some rudeness towards me, for he plainly +nodded in my direction and struck the table with his fist. At this the +Reverend Hubert got up, took the boy Evan by the shoulders and led him +to the door, without one of the party demurring. "The lovely Lady +Brandling," he said, turning to me as he resumed his place, "must +forgive this young Caliban, unaccustomed like the one of the play, to +beautiful princesses." I notice he loves to lard his speech with +literary reminiscences, and is indeed a better read person than one +would expect to meet in such a place. This was, however, only the +beginning. Uncle David appeared next night undoubtedly in liquor, and +was with difficulty constrained to decent behaviour. Simon, a heavy, +lubberly creature, arrived all covered with mud, in shirtsleeves, and +smelling vilely of stale fish. Then it was the turn of Edward, a great +black man, with a scar on his cheek, to light his pipe at table, and +pinch the Welsh serving wench as she passed, and whisper to her in Welsh +some jest which made the others roar. Eustace and Hubert, between whom I +sat at the far end, pretended not to notice, though Eustace reddened +visibly, and Hubert took an odd green colour, which seems to be the +complexion of his anger. And then while our clergyman uncle and Eustace +busily fell to discussing literature, and even (in a manner which, +under other circumstances, would have made me laugh) quoting the +classics, the conversation at the lower end became loud and violent in +Welsh.</p> + +<p>"They are discussing the likelihood of a shoal of pilchards," said +Hubert to me with a faint uneasy smile. "My brothers, I grieve to say, +dear Lady Brandling, are but country bred, and very rough diamonds; and +the Saxon, as they call our Christian language, is a difficulty to their +heathenishness."</p> + +<p>"So great a difficulty, apparently," I answered, suddenly rising from +the table, for I felt indignant with the want of spirit of my two +gentlemen, "that methinks I shall in future leave them to their +familiar Welsh, and order my meals in my parlour, where you two +gentlemen may, if you choose, have them with me." Eustace turned +crimson, bit his lip; Uncle Hubert went very green; and I own I myself +was astonished at my decision of tone and attitude: it was like an +unknown <i>me</i> speaking with my voice.</p> + +<p>Contrary to my expectation, neither Eustace nor Hubert manifested any +vexation with me. We went upstairs and sat down to cards as if nothing +had happened. But the next day Hubert brought me a long message of +apology, which I confess sounded very much of his making up, from Uncle +David. But added that he quite agreed that it was better that Eustace +and I should have our meals above, "and leave the hogs to their wash." +"Only," he said, with that politeness which I like so little (though +Heaven knows politeness ought to be a welcome drug in this place), "I +trust my dear young niece will not cast me out of the paradise I have, +after so many years, tasted of; and allow her old rough Uncle Hubert +occasionally to breathe the air of refinement she has brought to this +castle."</p> + +<p>Yet I notice he has but rarely eaten with Eustace and me; coming up, +however, to drink wine (or pretend, for he never empties his glass and +complains he has but a weak head), or play cards, or hear me sing to the +harpsichord, a performance of which he seems inordinately fond.</p> + +<p>I cannot help wondering what Eustace and he discuss, besides literature, +over their wine. For Eustace must surely intend, sooner or later, to +resume his position of master of St. Salvat's, and dispose, some way, of +the crew of Caliban uncles.</p> + + +<p><i>October</i> 18, 1772.</p> + +<p>I ought to say something to my dear mother (though I am getting doubtful +of distressing her with my small and temporary troubles) about the +domestic economy of St. Salvat's. This is odd enough, to my thinking. +The greater part of the castle is unoccupied, and from what I have seen, +quite out of repair; nor should I have deemed it possible that so many +fine dwelling-rooms could ever have been filled and choked up, as is +here the case, with lumber, and, indeed, litter, of all kinds. The +uncles, all except Hubert, are lodged in the great south wing, and I +should guess in a manner more suitable to their looks than to their +birth, while Eustace and I occupy his mother's apartments, done up in +the late reign, in the north wing looking on the sea. The centre of the +castle is taken up by the great hall, going from ground to ceiling, so +that the two halves are virtually isolated; certainly isolated so far as +I am concerned, since the fear of eavesdropping on my uncles' brawling +has already stopped my using the gallery which runs under the ceiling of +the hall, and connects my apartments with the main staircase. The dairy, +still-room, pantry, and even the kitchen are in outhouses, from which +the serving men bring in the food often in pouring rain in an incredibly +reckless manner. I say "serving men," because one of the peculiarities +of St. Salvat's (for I can scarce believe it to be an universal practice +in England or even in Wales) is the predominance of the male sex. But +let not your fancy construe this as a sign of grandeur, or conjure up +bevies of lacqueys in long coats and silver badges! Like master, like +man; the men at St. Salvat's have the same unkempt, sea-wolfish look as +the masters, are equally foul in their habits and possess even less +English. By some strange freak the cook only is not of these parts, +indeed, a mulatto, knowing only Spanish. "All good sea-faring folk, +able to man the boats on a stormy night," explained Uncle Gwyn, as if it +were quite natural that the castle of St. Salvat's should be a +headquarters of pilchard fishing! I have only seen the mulatto at a +distance, and at first believed him to be an invention of Uncle Simon's, +the wag of the family, who informed me he had him off a notorious pirate +ship, where he had learnt to grill d——d French frogs during the late +war and serve them up with capers.</p> + +<p>The small number of women servants is scarce to be regretted, judging by +the few there are. Though whether, indeed, these sluts should be judged +at all as serving women I feel inclined to doubt; for no secret is made +of the dairymaid and the laundress being the sultanas of Uncles Simon +and Gwyn, with whom they often sit to meals; while the little waiting +wench at first allotted to me was too obviously courted by the oaf Evan +to be kept in my service. Uncle Hubert had indeed thought it needful to +explain to me that the gentry of these parts all live worse than +heathens, and has attempted (but the subject gave me little +satisfaction) to confirm this by the <i>chronique galante</i> of the +neighbourhood; 'tis wonderful how quick the man is at taking a hint, and +adapting his views to his listeners', at least to mine. To come back to +the maids, if such a name can be applied here, I find the only reputable +woman in the castle (her age, and something in her manner give her a +claim to such an adjective) is Mrs. Davies, the supposed housekeeper, +who now attends on my (luckily very simple) wants. She was the +foster-mother and nurse of my brother-in-law, the late Baronet; and 'tis +plain there was no love lost betwixt Eustace and her. Indeed, I seem to +guess she may have helped to make his infancy the sad and solitary one +it was. Yet, for all this suspicion, and a confused impression (which I +can't account for) that the woman is set over us to spy, I am bound to +say that of all people here, not excepting Uncle Hubert here, Mrs. +Davies is the one most to my taste. She has been notably beautiful, and +despite considerable age, has an uncommon active and erect bearing; and +there is about her harsh, dark face, and silent, abrupt manners, +something which puts me at ease by its strength and straightforwardness. +This seems curious after saying she has been <i>set to spy</i>; but 'tis my +impression that in this heathenish country spying, aye, and I can fancy +robbing and murdering, might be done with a clean conscience as a duty +towards one's masters; and Hubert, and the memory of Sir Thomas, are the +real masters, and not Eustace and I.... Will it always be so? Things +look like it; and yet, at the bottom of my soul, I find a hope, almost +an expectation, that with God's grace I shall clean out this Augean +stable, and burn out these wasp's nests....</p> + + +<p><i>October</i> 29.</p> + +<p>On my asking about prayers, a practice I had noticed in every family +since my arrival in England, Uncle Hubert excused himself by explaining +that most of the common folk about here had followed Mr. Wesley's sect, +and for the rest few of the household understood English. The same +reason methought prevented his fulfilling his clergyman's office in +public; and when three Sundays had passed, I got to think that the +church in the glen was never opened at all. To my surprise last night, +being Saturday, the Reverend Hubert invited us very solemnly to Divine +Service the following morning; invited, for his manner was very much +that of a man requesting one's company at a concert or theatrical +entertainment. I am just returned, and I confess my astonishment. Uncle +Hubert, though in a style by no means to my taste, and with no kind of +real religious spirit, is undoubtedly a preacher of uncommon genius, nor +was there any possibility, methought, that his extempore sermon was +learned by heart. The flowing rhetorical style, more like that of Romish +divines, was of a piece also with his conversation, and he had the look +of enjoyment of one conscious of his own powers. I own the interest of +the performance (for such I felt it) was so great that it was only on +reflection I perceived the utter and almost indecent inappropriateness +thereof. Despite the lack of English, the entire household, save the +mulatto, were present, mostly asleep in constrained attitudes; and the +other uncles, all except David and Gwyn, lay snoring in their pews.</p> + +<p>My own impression was oddly disagreeable; but on the service ending, I +brought myself to compliment our uncle. "You should have been a bishop," +I said, "at your age, Uncle Hubert."</p> + +<p>He sighed deeply, "A bishop? I ought to have—I might have +been—everything, anything—save for this cursed place and my own +weakness. But doubtless," he added, hypocritically, "it is a just decree +of Providence that has decided thus. But it is hard sometimes. There are +two natures in us, occasionally, and the one vanquishes and overwhelms +the other. In me," and here he began to laugh, "the fisherman for +pilchards has got the better of the fisherman for souls."</p> + +<p>"Fishing appears to have wondrous attractions," I answered negligently.</p> + +<p>He turned and looked at me scrutinisingly. "We have all had the passion, +we Brandlings," he said, "except that superfine gentleman yonder," +nodding at Eustace. And added, in a loud, emphatic voice, "And none of +us has been a more devoted fisherman, you will admit, dear Eustace, than +your lamented father."</p> + +<p>Eustace, I thought, turned pale, but it might have been the greenish +light through the bottle-glass windows of the little church, on whose +damp floor we three were standing before the tombs of the Brandlings of +former times, quaint pyramids of kneeling figures, sons and daughters +tapering downwards from the kneeling father and mother; and recumbent +knights, obliterated by centuries in the ruined roofless chapel, so that +the dog at their feet, the sword by their side, let alone their poor +washed features, were scarce distinguishable....</p> + +<p>"They look like drowned people," I said, and indeed the green light +through the trees and the bottle glass, and the greenish damp stains all +round, made the church seem like a sea cave, with the sea moaning round +it.</p> + +<p>"Where have you seen drowned people, Penelope?" asked Eustace, and I +felt a little reproved for the horridness of my imaginings.</p> + +<p>"Nowhere," I hastily answered; "just a fancy that passed through my +head. And you said there are so many wrecks on this coast, you know."</p> + +<p>"We are all wrecks on the ocean of Time," remarked the Reverend Hubert, +"overwhelmed by its flood."</p> + +<p>"You are the bishop now," I laughed, "not the pilchard fisher," and we +went through the damp churchyard of huddled grassy mounds and crooked +gravestones under the big trees of the glen.</p> + +<p>"Eustace," I said that evening, "I wish I might not be buried down +there," and then, considering that all his ancestors were, I felt sorry.</p> + +<p>But he clasped my arm very tenderly, and exclaimed with a look of deep +pain, "For God's sake do not speak of such things, my love. Even in jest +the words make me feel faint and sick."</p> + +<p>Poor Eustace! I fear he is not well; and that what he has found at St. +Salvat's is eating into his spirits.</p> + + +<p><i>November</i> 15, 1772.</p> + +<p>I have been feeling doubtful, for some days past, whether to send my +diary regularly to my mother, lest she should be distressed (at that +great distance) by my account of this place and our life here. Yet I +felt as if something had suddenly happened, a window suddenly closed or +a door slammed in my face, when Eustace begged me to-day to be very +reserved in anything I wrote in my letters.</p> + +<p>"These country postmasters," he said, not without hesitation, "are not +to be trusted with any secrets; they are known to amuse their leisure +and entertain their gossips with the letters which pass through their +hands." He laughed, but not very naturally. "Some day," he said, "I will +be sending a special messenger to Cardiff, and then your diary—for I +know that you are keeping one—shall go to your mother. But for the +present I would not say more than needful about ... about our +surroundings, my dear Penelope."</p> + +<p>I felt childishly vexed.</p> + +<p>"'Tis that hateful Uncle Hubert;" I cried, "that reads our letters, +Eustace! I feel sure of it!"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," answered Eustace. "I tell you that it is a well-known habit +among postmasters and postmistresses in this country," and he went away +a little displeased, as I thought.</p> + +<p>My poor journal! And yet I shall continue writing it, and perhaps even +more frankly now it will be read only by me; for while I write I seem to +be talking to my dearest mother, and to be a little less solitary....</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p><i>December</i> 21, 1772.</p> + +<p>Winter has come on: a melancholy, wet and stormy winter, without the +glitter of snow and ice; and with the sea moaning or roaring by turns. I +think with longing (though I hope poor Eustace does not guess how near I +sometimes am to crying for homesickness) of our sledging parties with +the dear cheerful neighbours at Grandfey; of the skating on the ponds, +and the long walks on the crisp frozen snow, when Eustace and I would +snowball or make long slides, laughing like children. At St. Salvat's +there are no neighbours; or if there are (but the nearest large house is +ten miles off, and belongs to a noble lord who never leaves London) they +do not show themselves. I do not even know what there is or is not in +the country that lies inland; in fact, since our coming, I have never +left the grounds and park of St. Salvat's, nor gone beyond the old +fortified walls which encircle them. My very curiosity has gradually +faded. I have never pressed Hubert for the saddle horse and the equipage +(the coach-house contains only broken-down coaches of the days of King +George I.) which he promised rather vaguely to procure for me on our +first coming; I have no wish to pass beyond that drawbridge; like a +caged bird, I have grown accustomed to my prison. Since the bad weather +I have even ceased my rambles in the shrubberies and on the grass-grown +terraces: the path to the sea has been slippery with mud; besides I hate +that melancholy winter sea, always threatening or complaining.</p> + +<p>I stay within doors for days together, without pleasure or profit, +reading old plays and novels which I throw aside, or putting a few +stitches into useless tambour work; I who could formerly not live a day +within doors, nor do whatever I set to do without childish +strenuousness!</p> + +<p>These two or three days past I have been trying to find diversion in +reading the history of these parts, where the Brandlings—kings of this +part of Wales in the time of King Arthur, crusaders later, and great +barons fighting at Crecy and at Agincourt—once played so great a part, +and now they have dwindled into common smugglers, for 'tis my growing +persuasion that such is the real trade hidden under the name of pilchard +fishing—defrauders of the King's Exchequer, and who knows? for all +Hubert's rank as magistrate, no better than thieves and outlawed +ruffians.</p> + +<p>Hubert has been showing me the family archives. He lays great store by +all these deeds and papers, and one is surprised in a house so utterly +given over to neglect, to find anything in such good order. He saved the +archives himself he tells me, when (as I have always forgotten to note +down) the library of the castle was burnt down on the occasion of my +late brother-in-law's <i>wake</i>; a barbarous funereal feast habitual in +these parts, and during which a drunken guest set fire to the draperies +of the coffin. I did not ask whether the body of Sir Thomas, which had +been brought by sea from Bristol after his violent end there, had been +destroyed in this extraordinary pyre; and I judge that it was from +Eustace's silence and Hubert's evident avoidance of the point. Perhaps +he is conscious that his efforts were directed to a different object, +for it is well nigh miraculous how he should have saved those shelves +full of documents and all that number of valuable books bound with the +Brandling arms.</p> + +<p>"You must have risked your life in the flames!" I exclaimed with +admiration at the man's heroism.</p> + +<p>He bid me look at his hands, which indeed bear traces of dreadful +burning.</p> + +<p>"I care about my ancestors," he answered, "perhaps more, to say the +truth, than for my living kinsfolk. Besides," he added, "I ought to say +that I had taken the precaution to remove the most valuable books before +giving over the library to their drunken rites. As it was, they burnt +my poor dead nephew to ashes like the phoenix of the Poets, only that +he, poor lad, will not arise from them till the day of judgment!"</p> + + +<p><i>January</i> 12, 1773.</p> + +<p>A horrid circumstance has just happened, and oddly enough in that same +library which had been burnt, all but its ancient walls, at my +brother-in-law's funeral, I had persuaded Eustace to turn it into a +laboratory, for I think a certain melancholy may be due to the restless +idleness in which he has been living ever since we came here. In +building one of the furnaces the masons had to make a deep cavity in the +wall; and there, what should appear, but a number of skeletons, nine or +ten, walled up erect in the thickness of the masonry. I was taking the +air on the terrace outside, and hearing the men's exclamations, ran to +the spot. It was a ghastly sight. But my uncle Simon, who was smoking +his pipe in the great empty room, burst into uncontrollable laughter +over my horror; and going up to a little heap of mouldering bones which +had fallen out with the plaster, picked up a green and spongy shin and +brought it to me. "Here's some material for Eustace ready to hand!" he +cried with a vile oath. "Let him try whether he can bring these pretty +fellows to life again in his devil's cooking pots," and he thrust the +horrid object under my nose.</p> + +<p>At this moment Hubert appeared, and, with his wolf's eyes, took in all +at a glance.</p> + +<p>"Fie, fie," he cried, striking that horrid relic out of his brother's +hand, "are these fit sights for a lady, you hog, Simon?" and taking me +brusquely by the hand, leads me away, and, in the pantry, tries to make +me swallow a dose of brandy, with much petting and cosseting.</p> + +<p>"Our ancestors, dear Lady Brandling (for so he affects to call me), were +but rough soldiers, though princes of these parts; and the relics of +their games scarce fit for your pretty eyes. But have a sup of brandy, +my dear, 'twill set you right."</p> + +<p>I loathed the mealy-mouthed black creature, methought, worse than +drunken Simon, and worse almost than those horrid dead men.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you, uncle," I said, "my stomach is stronger than you think. +My ancestors also were soldiers—soldiers on the field of battle—though +I never heard of their bricking up their enemies in the house wall."</p> + +<p>"Nay, nay," he cried, "but that was an evil habit of those days, dear +Lady Brandling, hundreds and thousands of years ago, when we were +sovereign princes."</p> + +<p>"Hundreds and thousands of years ago?" I answered, for I hated him at +that moment, "ah well, I had thought it was scarce so far removed from +us as all that."</p> + + +<p><i>January</i> 31, 1773.</p> + +<p>A curious feeling has been tormenting me of late, of self-reproach for I +scarce know what, of lack of helpfulness, almost of disloyalty towards +my husband. Since we have been here, indeed I think ever since the first +announcement of Sir Thomas's death, Eustace has altered in his manner +towards me; a whole side of his life has, I feel, been hidden from me. +Have I a right to it? This is what has been debating in my mind. A man +may have concerns which it is no duty of his to share with a wife; not +because she is only a wife, and he a husband, for my dear Eustace's mind +is too enlightened and generous, too thoroughly imbued with the noble +doctrines of our days, to admit of such a difference. But there is one +of my mother's sayings which has worked very deeply into my mind. It was +on the eve of my wedding. "Remember, dear little Penelope," she said, +"that no degree of love, however pure, noble, and perfect, can really +make two souls into one soul. All appearance to the contrary is a mere +delusion and dangerous. Every human soul has its own nature, its +necessary laws, and demands liberty and privacy to develop them; and +were this not the case, no soul, however loving and courageous, could +ever help another, for it would have no strength, no understanding, no +life, with which to bring help. Remember this, my child, till the moment +come when you shall understand it, and, I hope, act in the light of its +comprehension."</p> + +<p>Well, methinks that ever since that day when the letter arrived which +changed our destiny, I have not merely remembered, but learned to +understand these words. So that I have fought against the soreness of +feeling that, on some matters at least, I was excluded from my husband's +confidence. After two years of such utter openness of heart as has +existed between us three—our mother, Eustace, and, younger and weaker +though I felt, myself—such free discussion of all ideas and interests, +of his scientific work, even to details which I could not grasp, after +this there is undoubtedly something strange in the absolute reserve, +indeed the utter silence, he maintains about everything concerning his +family, his property, and our position and circumstances, the more so +that, at the time of our marriage he often confided to me details +connected with it. Thus, in that past which seems already so remote, he +has often described to me this very house, these very rooms, told me his +childish solitude and terrors, and spoken quite freely of the unhappy +life of his mother by the side of his cruel and violent father, and +among his father's brutal besotted companions; he had told me of the +horrid heartlessness with which his only brother played upon his +sensitiveness and abused his weakness, and of the evil habits, the +odious scenes of intemperance and violence from which he was screened +by his poor mother, and finally saved by her generous decision to part +with him and have him educated abroad. He had mentioned the continual +brawls of his uncles. But since his succession to the property, never a +word has alluded to any of these things, nor to the knowledge he had +given me of them. Once or twice, when I have mentioned, quite naturally, +his dead brother, his mother (I am actually occupying her apartments, +sleeping in her bed, and only yesterday Eustace spent the afternoon +mending and tuning her harpsichord for me), he has let the subject drop, +or diverted the conversation in an unmistakable manner. Nay, what is +more significant, and more puzzling, Eustace has never given me a clue +to whether he knew of the arrangements, the life, we should find here; +before our arrival, he had never mentioned that the castle was, to all +intents and purposes, in the hands of his kinsmen; nor has he dropped a +word in explanation of so extraordinary a circumstance. And I have never +asked him whether he knew to what manner of life he was bringing me, +whether he intends it to continue, what are his reasons and plans. I +have respected his reserve. But have I been perfectly loyal in hiding my +wonder, my disappointment, my sorrow?</p> + + +<p><i>February</i> 5, 1773.</p> + +<p>I cannot make up my mind about Uncle Hubert. Is he our fellow-victim or +the ringleader of this usurping gang of ruffians? The more I see, the +more I hesitate upon the point. But, as time goes on, I hesitate less +and less in my dislike of him, although I own it often seems +unreasonable and ungrateful. The man not only tries to make himself +agreeable to us, but I almost think he feels kindly. He has a real +appreciation of Eustace's genius; and, indeed, it is this, most likely, +which sometimes causes me to think well, though I fear never <i>kindly</i>, +of him. It is quite wonderful how he lights up whenever he can get +Eustace (no easy matter) to speak on philosophic subjects; it is a kind +of transfiguration, and all the obliquity and fawningness about the +creature vanishes. He has a good knowledge of mathematics, Eustace tells +me, is a skilful mechanic, and would evidently enjoy assisting my +husband in his experiments if he would let him. Towards myself he has, I +do believe, a kind of sentiment, and what is worse, of paternal +sentiment! <i>Worse</i> because my whole nature recoils from him. He is most +passionately fond of music, plays fairly on the viol, and takes quite a +childish pleasure in making me sing and play. I ought indeed to be +grateful towards him, for his presence, although distasteful I think to +both of us, is a boon, in so far as it relieves the strain of feeling +that there is a secret—a something which has come between my husband +and me. Alas, alas! that the presence of a third person, of a person +such as Hubert, should ever have come to be a boon! But I dare not face +this thought. It is worse than any of the bad realities and bad +probabilities of this bad place.</p> + +<p>If only Hubert would not make me presents, forcing me thus to feel how +hugely I hate having to accept anything from him. It began (almost as a +bribe, methought) in the shape of a fine gold watch and equipage the +very day after Uncle Edward's misbehaviour. Then, some time after, a cut +of handsome Lyons brocade, enough for a gown, though Heaven knows there +is no occasion for such finery at St. Salvat's! And this evening, after +listening to me through some songs of Monsieur Piccini, and teaching me +some of the plaintive airs of the Welsh peasantry, the man drew from his +coat a fine shagreen case, which proved to contain a string of large and +very regularly shaped and sorted pearls. I felt I could not bear it. +"Are they pearls of my mother-in-law's?" I asked without thanking him, +and in a tone anything, I fear, but grateful. Instead of being angry and +turning green, as I expected, Uncle Hubert looked merely very much hurt +and answered:</p> + +<p>"Had they been heirlooms it would have been your husband, not your +uncle, to hand them you. Eustace is the head of the family, not I."</p> + +<p>"The less said about the family and its head," I answered hotly, "the +better, Uncle Hubert," and I felt sorry the moment after.</p> + +<p>"I do not deny it," he replied very quietly, in a manner which cut me to +the quick. "At any rate these pearls are <i>mine</i>, and I hope you will +accept them from me as a token of admiration and regard—or," and he +fell back into his cringing yet bantering manner which I hate so, "shall +we say, as is written on the fairing cups and saucers, 'A present for a +good girl from Bristol.'"</p> + +<p>How I hate Uncle Hubert!</p> + +<p>I had left the pearls on the harpsichord. This morning I found the green +shagreen case on the dressing table; Hubert evidently refuses to let me +off his present. But I doubt whether I shall ever muster up civility +enough to wear them. 'Tis a pity, for lack of wearing makes pearls +tarnish.</p> + +<p>I have just opened the case to look at them. This is very curious. The +case is new, has the smell of new leather; and the diamond clasp looks +recently furbished, even to a little chalk about it. But—the man must +be oddly ignorant in such matters—the pearls, seen by daylight, have +evidently not come from a jeweller's. For they are yellow, tarnished, +unworn for years; they have been lying in this house, and, heirlooms or +not, there is something wrong about them.</p> + +<p>I have been glad of a pretext, however poor, of returning them.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Hubert," I said, handing him the case, "you must put these pearls +in a box with holes in it, and put them back in the sea."</p> + +<p>I never saw so strange a look in a man's face. "Back in the sea! What do +you mean, dear Lady Brandling?" he cries. "Why do you suspect these +pearls of coming from the sea?"</p> + +<p>"All pearls <i>do</i> come from the sea, I thought, and that's why sea water +cures them when they have got tarnished from lack of wearing."</p> + +<p>He burst into an awkward laugh, "To think," he says, "that I had +actually forgotten that pearls were not a kind of stone, that they came +out of shell fish."</p> + + +<p><i>February</i> 20, 1773.</p> + +<p>God help me and forgive my ingratitude for the great, unspeakable +blessing He has given me. But this also, it would seem, is to become a +source of estrangement between me and Eustace. Ever since this great +hope has arisen in my soul, there has come with it the belief also that +this child, which he used so greatly to long for (vainly trying to hide +his disappointment out of gentleness towards me) would bring us once +more together. Perhaps it was wicked graspingness to count upon two +happinesses when one had been granted to me. Be this as it may, my +ingratitude has been horribly chastened. I told my husband this morning. +He was surprised; taken aback; but gave no sign of joy. "Are you quite +sure?" he repeated anxiously. And on my reiterating my certainty, he +merely ejaculated, "Ah ... 'tis an unfortunate moment," and added, +catching himself up, "the best will be that I send you, when the time +approaches, to Bristol or to Bath. I shall be sure of your being well +seen to there."</p> + +<p>I nearly burst into tears, not at this proposal, but at the evident +manner in which the thought of our child suggested only small +difficulties and worries to his mind. "To Bristol! to Bath!" I +exclaimed, "and you speak as if you intended leaving me there alone! But +Eustace, why should not our child be born in your house and mine?" I +felt my eyes blaze with long pent up impatience.</p> + +<p>"Because, my dear little Penelope," he answered coldly and sharply, "it +is the custom of <i>your country and mine</i> that ladies of your condition +should have every advantage of medical skill and attendance, and +therefore remove to town for such purpose."</p> + +<p>"Would it not be worth while to break through such a habit," I asked, +"to have a physician here at the proper time? Besides," I added, "I +promised, and in your presence, that should this event ever take place, +I should send for my mother."</p> + +<p>"I shall be delighted," he answered, always in the same tone, "if my +mother-in-law finds it worth while to make so great a journey as that +from Switzerland to Bath—for Bath is the more suitable place, upon +consideration. But seeing that, as I have twice said before, you will +have every care you may require, I really think the suggestion would be +a mere indiscretion—to all parties."</p> + +<p>He was busy arranging the instruments in his laboratory. I should have +left him; but I felt my heart swell and overflow, and remained standing +by him in silence.</p> + +<p>"It is too cold for you here," he said very tenderly after a moment, +"had you not better go back to your rooms?"</p> + +<p>I could not answer. But after a moment, "Eustace, Eustace!" I cried, +"don't you care? Aren't you glad? Why do you talk only of plans and +difficulties? Why do you want to send me away, to leave me all alone +when our child is born?"</p> + +<p>He gave a sigh, partly of impatience. "Do not let us discuss this again, +dear Penelope," he said, "and oblige me by not talking nonsense. Of +course I am glad; it goes without saying. And if I send you away—if I +deprive myself of the joy of being with you, believe me, it is because I +cannot help it. My presence is required here. And now," he added, +putting his arm round my waist, but with small genuine tenderness, +methought, "now let us have done with this subject, my dear, and do me +the kindness to return to your warm room."</p> + +<p>O God, O God, take pity on my loneliness! For with the dearest of +mothers, and what was once the kindest of husbands, and the joy of this +coming child, I am surely the loneliest of women!</p> + + +<p><i>February</i> 27, 1773.</p> + +<p>God forgive me, I say again, and with greater reason, for I now +recognise that my sense of loneliness and of estrangement; all my +selfish misery, has been the fruit of my own lack of courage and of +loving kindness. This child, though yet unborn, has brought me strength +and counsel; the certainty of its existence seems, in a way, to have +changed me; and I look back upon myself such as I was but a few weeks +ago, as upon some one different, an immature girl, without +responsibilities or power to help. And now I feel as if I <i>could</i> help, +and as if I must. For I am the stronger of the two. What has befallen +Eustace? I can but vaguely guess; yet this I know, that without my help +Eustace is a lost man; his happiness, his courage, his honour, going or +gone. My mother used to tell us, I remember, the legend of a clan in her +own country, where the future chieftain, on coming of age, was put into +possession of some secret so terrible that it turned him from a +light-hearted boy into a serious and joyless man. St. Salvat's has +wrought on Eustace in some similar manner. On arriving here, or, indeed, +before arriving, he has learned something which has poisoned his life +and sapped his manhood. What that something is, I can in a measure +guess, and it seems to me as if I ought to help him either to struggle +with or else to bear it, although <i>bearing it</i> seems little to my taste. +It is some time since I have seen through the silly fiction of the +pilchard fishery of St. Salvat's; and although I have not been out of my +way to manifest this knowledge, I have not hidden it, methinks, from +Eustace or even from Uncle Hubert. The rooms and rooms crammed with +apparent lumber, the going and coming of carriers' wagons (so that my +husband's cases of instruments and my new <i>pianoforte</i> arrived from +Bristol as by magic), the amount of money (the very maids gambling for +gold in the laundry) in this beggarly house; and the nocturnal and +mysterious nature of the fishing expeditions, would open the eyes even +of one as foolish and inexperienced as I; nor is any care taken to +deceive me. St. Salvat's Castle is simply the headquarters of the +smuggling business, presided over by my uncles and doubtless +constituting the chief resource of this poor untilled corner of the +world. Breaking His Majesty's laws and defrauding his Exchequer are +certainly offences; but I confess that they seem to me pardonable ones, +when one thinks of the deeds of violence by which our ancestors mostly +made their fortunes, let alone the arts of intrigue by which so many of +our polished equals increase theirs. Perhaps it was being told the +prowess of our Alpine smugglers, carrying their packs through +snow-fields and along hidden crevasses, and letting themselves down from +immeasurable rocks; perhaps it was these stories told to me in my +childhood by the farm servants which have left me thus lax in my +notions. This much I know, that the certainty of the uncles being +smugglers, even if smuggling involve, as it must, occasional acts of +violence against the officers of the Excise, does not increase the +loathing which I feel towards the uncles. Nor would this fact, taken in +itself, suffice to explain Eustace's melancholy. What preys upon his +mind must rather be the disgust and disgrace of finding his house and +property put to such uses by such men.</p> + +<p>For Eustace is a man of thought, not of action; and I can understand +that the problem how to change this order of things must weigh upon him +in proportion as he feels himself so little fitted for its solution. +With this is doubtless mingled a sense of responsibility towards me, and +perhaps (for his dreamer's conscience is most tender) of exaggerated +shame for bringing me here. If this be as I think, it is for me to help +my husband to break the bad spell which St. Salvat's has cast over him. +And I will and can! The child will help me. For no child of mine shall +ever be born into slavery and disgrace such as, I feel, is ours.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>III</h3> + + +<p><i>April</i> 10, 1773.</p> + +<p>The spring gales have begun, and with them the "fishing" as it is +called, has become constant. Rough weather, I suppose, is favourable to +the smuggling operations, as it leaves this terrible coast in the hands +of those who know every inch of its reefs and rocks and quicksands, and +who possess the only safe landing-place for miles, the little cove +beyond the churchyard in the glen.</p> + +<p>Be this as it may, these expeditions have left the castle wonderfully +peaceful; the sound of brawling no longer rises perpetually from the big +hall and the courtyards. The uncles are away for days and nights at a +time, taking with them every male creature about the place. Even Hubert, +seized, as he says, by a fit of his master passion, has not appeared for +days. The sluttish maids and the old rheumatic gardener are lodged in +the outhouses, or are taking a holiday in the neighbouring villages; and +the house has been, methinks, given over to ourselves and Mrs. Davies, +who waits assiduously in her silent manner, and no doubt keeps the +uncles informed of all our doings. It is three days that Eustace and I +have been alone together. But the knowledge of what he will not +confess, and of what I have not the courage to ask, sits between us at +meals, makes us constrained during our walks, even like the presence of +a living stranger.</p> + + +<p><i>April</i> 20, 1773.</p> + +<p>The gales have been getting worse and worse; and the sound of the sea, +the wind in the trees and chimneys, has been filling the castle with +lamentation. This evening, at the harpsichord, I could no longer hear, +or at least no longer listen to, my own voice. I shut the instrument and +sat idle by the fire, while every beam and rafter strained and groaned +like the timbers of a ship in the storm. My husband also was quite +unstrung. He walked up and down, without a word. Suddenly a thought +entered my mind; it is extraordinary and inhuman that it should not have +done so before.</p> + +<p>"I hope Hubert and the uncles are not out to-night," I said.</p> + +<p>Eustace stopped in his walking, straight before the fire and stared long +into it.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps they have returned already," he answered. "I hope so," and with +the excuse of some notes to put in order in his study, he bid me +good-night and hoped I should go to bed soon.</p> + +<p>But shall I be able to sleep on such a night!</p> + + +<p><i>April</i> 21st.</p> + +<p>I understand now. But, Good God, what new and frightful mysteries and +doubts!</p> + +<p>It was late when I went to bed last night; and, against all expectation, +I fell into a heavy sleep. I was awakened out of dreams of shipwreck by +a great light in my eyes. The moon had risen, almost full, and dispelled +the clouds. And the storm was over. Indeed, I think it was the +stillness, after so many days of raging noise, which had wakened me as +much as the moonlight. I was alone; for Eustace, these weeks past, has +slept in the closet next door, as he reads deep into the night and says +my condition requires unbroken rest. It was so beautiful and peaceful, I +seemed drawn into the light. I rose and stood in the big uncurtained +window, which, with its black mullions casting their shadows on the +floor, looked more than ever like a great glass cage. It was so lovely +and mild that I threw back a lattice and looked out: the salt smell and +the sea breeze left by the storm rushed up and met me. Beyond the trees +the moonlight was striking upon the white of the breakers, for though +the gale was over the sea was still pounding furiously upon the reefs. +My eyes had sought at first the moon, the moonlit offing; to my +amazement, they fell the next instant on a great ship quite close to +shore. She seemed in rapid movement, pitching and rolling with all her +might; but after a moment I noticed that she did not move forward, but +remained stationary above the same tree tops. She seemed enchanted, or +rather she looked like some captive creature struggling desperately to +get free. I was too much taken up by the strangeness of the sight to +reflect that no sane crew would have anchored in such a spot, and no +anchorage have held in the turmoil of such a sea. Moreover, I knew too +little of such matters to guess that the ship must have run upon one of +the reefs, and that every breaker must lift her up to crash and shiver +herself upon its sawlike edge; indeed I had no notion of any danger; and +when I saw lights on the ship, and others moving against her hull, my +only thought was that I was watching the smugglers at their work. As I +did so, a sudden doubt, of which I felt ashamed, leaped into my mind; +and, feeling indignant with myself the while, I crept to the door of the +dressing-room. Was Eustace there? I noiselessly turned the handle and +pushed open the door. I cannot say what were my feelings, whether most +of shame or of a kind of terror when, by the light of a lamp, I saw my +husband kneeling by the side of his camp bed, with his head buried in +the pillow, like a man in agony. He was completely dressed. On hearing +the door open he started to his feet and cried in a terrible voice "What +do you want with me?"</p> + +<p>I was overwhelmed with shame at my evil thoughts.</p> + +<p>"O Eustace," I answered foolishly, and without thinking of the bearing +of my words, "the ship! I only wanted to call you to look at the ship." +He paid no attention to my presence.</p> + +<p>"The ship! The ship!" he cries—"is she gone?" and rushes to the window.</p> + +<p>The ship, sure enough, was gone. Where she had been her three great +masts still projected from the water. Slowly they disappeared, and +another sharp black point, which must have been her bowsprit as she +heeled over, rose and sank in its turn.</p> + +<p>How long we stood, Eustace and I, silently watching, I cannot tell.</p> + +<p>"There were lights alongside," I exclaimed, "the uncles' boats must +have been there. There has been time to save the crew. O Eustace, let us +run down and help!"</p> + +<p>But Eustace held me very tight. "Do not be a fool, Penelope. You will +catch your death of cold and endanger the child. The people of the ship +are saved or drowned by this time."</p> + + +<p><i>June</i> 12, 1773.</p> + +<p>But a few months ago I wrote in this diary that no child of mine should +ever be born into slavery and dishonour. Alas, poor foolish Penelope! +What ill-omened words were those! And yet I cannot believe that God +would have visited their presumptuousness upon me with such horrid +irony. May God, who knows all things, must know that those words were +even more justified than I dreamed of at the time: the slavery and +dishonour surpassing my most evil apprehensions. Indeed, may it not be +that in taking away our child while yet unborn He did so in His mercy to +it and to its wretched parents? Surely. And if my husband surprised me, +some months back, by his indifference in the face of what we were about +to gain, 'tis he, perhaps, who is surprised in his turn at the strange +resignation with which I take my loss. For indeed, I am resigned, am +acquiescent, and, below the regrets which come shuddering across me, I +feel a marvellous peacefulness in the depths of my being. No! no child +should ever be born in such a house, into such a life as this....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I am still shattered in body (I understand that for days recovery was +given up as hopeless), and my mind seems misty, and like what a ghost's +might be, after so many hours of unconsciousness, and of what, had it +endured, would have been called death. But little by little shreds of +recollection are coming back to me, and I will write them down. Some +strangely sweet ones. The sense, even as life was slipping away, that +all Eustace's love and tenderness had returned; that it was he (for no +physician could be got, or was allowed, in this dreadful place) he +himself who wrestled for me with death, and brought me back to life.</p> + +<p>Moments return to my memory of surpassing, unspeakable sweetness, which +penetrated through all pain: being lifted in his arms, handled like a +child; seeing his eyes, which seemed to hold and surround me like his +arms; and hearing his words as when he thanked God, over and over again, +and almost like one demented, for having caused him to study medicine. I +felt I was re-entering life upon the strong, full tide of incomparable +love.</p> + +<p>Let me not seem ungrateful, for I am not. Most strangely there has +mingled in this great flood of life-giving tenderness the sense also of +the affection of poor Mrs. Davies. I call her <i>poor</i>, because there is, +I know not why, something oddly pathetic in her sudden devotion to me. +When I met her wild eyes grown quite tender and heard her crooning +exclamations in her unintelligible language, I had, even in the midst of +my own weakness, the sort of half pitying gratitude which we feel for +the love of an animal, of something strong and naturally savage, grown +very gentle towards one.</p> + + +<p><i>July</i> 5, 1773.</p> + +<p>Is that hideous thing true? Did it ever happen? Or is some shred of +nightmare returning ever and again out of the black depths of my +sickness? It comes and goes, and every time new doubts—hope it may be +a dream, fear it may be reality—come with it.</p> + +<p>It was three days after the shipwreck; the weather had calmed, and for +the first time I ventured abroad into the park. That much and a little +more is real, and bears in my mind the indescribable quality of +certainty. I had wandered down the glen and through the churchyard, and +I remember pausing before the great stone cross, covered with curious +basket work patterns, and wondering whether when it was made—a thousand +years ago—women about to be mothers had felt as great perplexity and +loneliness as I, and at the same time, as great joy. I crossed the piece +of boggy meadow, vivid green in the fitful sunshine, and climbed upon +the sea-wall and sat down. I was tired; and the solitude, the sunshine, +the faint silken rustle of the sea on the reefs, the salt smell—all +filled me with a languid happiness quite unspeakable. All this I know, I +am certain of, as the scratching of my pen; in fact, those moments on +the sea-wall are, in a manner, the latest thing of which I have vivid +certainty; all that came later—my illness, the news of my miscarriage, +my recovery, and even this present moment, seeming comparatively unreal. +I do not know how long I may have sat there. I was listening to the sea, +to the wind in my hair, and watching the foam running in little feathery +balls along the sand, when I heard voices, and saw three men wading +among the rocks a little way off, as if in search of something. My eyes +followed them lazily, and then I saw close under me, what I had taken at +first for a heap of seaweed and sea refuse cast upon the sand, but +which, as my eyes fixed it, became—or methought it became—something +hideous and terrible; so that for very horror I could not shriek. And +then, while my eyes were fixed on it, methought (for as I write it seems +a dream) the three men waded over in its direction, and one silently +pointed it out to the other. They came round, one turned a moment, and +instead of a human face, I saw under his looped-up hat a loosely fitting +black mask. Then they gathered round that thing the three of them, and +touched it with a boat-hook, muttering to each other. Then one stooped +down and did I know not what, stuffing, as he did so, something into the +pockets of his coat, and then put out a hand to one of his companions, +receiving back something narrow, which caught a glint of sun. They all +three stooped together; methought the water against the sands and the +pale foam heaps suddenly changed colour, but that must surely be my +nightmare.</p> + +<p>"Better like that," a voice said in English. Between them they raised +the thing up and carried it through the shallow water to a boat moored +by the rocks. And then my voice became loosened. I gave a cry, which +seemed to echo all round, and I jumped down from the sea-wall, and flew +across the meadow and tore up the glen, till I fell full length by the +neglected pond with the broken leaden nymph. For as they took <i>it</i> up, +the thing had divided in two, and somehow I had known the one was a +mother and the other a child; one was I, and the other I still carried +within me. And the voice which had said "Better like that" was Hubert's. +But as I write, I know it must have been a vision of my sickness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Eustace," I asked, "how did it begin? Did I dream—or did you find me +lying by the fountain on the terrace—the fountain of your poor water +snake?"</p> + +<p>"Forget it, dearest," Eustace said, very quietly and sweetly, and with +the old gentle truthfulness in his eyes. "You must have over-walked that +hot morning and got a sunstroke or fainted with fatigue. We did find you +by the fountain—that is to say, our good Mrs. Davies did." And Davies +merely nodded.</p> + + +<p><i>July</i> 15, 1773.</p> + +<p>Shall I ever know whether it really happened? Methinks that had I +certainty I could face, stand up to, it. But to go on sinking and +weltering in this hideous doubt!</p> + + +<p><i>August</i> 1, 1773.</p> + +<p>The certainty has come; and God in Heaven, what undreamed certainties +besides! I did not really want it, though I told myself I did. For I +felt that Mrs. Davies knew, that she was watching her opportunity to +tell me; and I, a coward, evading what I must some day learn. At last it +has come.</p> + +<p>It was this morning. This morning! It seems weeks and months ago—a +whole lifetime passed since! She was brushing my hair, one of the many +services required by my weakness, and which she performs with wonderful +tenderness. We saw one another's face, but only reflected in the mirror; +and I recognised when she was going to speak.</p> + +<p>"Lady Brandling," she said in her odd Welsh way—"Lady Brandling fell +ill because she saw some things from the sea-wall."</p> + +<p>I knew what she meant—for are not my own thoughts for ever going over +that same ground? But the sense of being surrounded by enemies, the +whole horrid mystery about this accursed place, have taught me caution +and even cunning. Davies has been as a mother to me in my illness; but I +remembered my first impression of her unfriendliness towards Eustace and +me, and of her being put to spy upon us. So I affected not to +understand; and indeed, her singular mixture of English and Welsh, her +outlandish modes of address, gave some countenance to the pretence.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, Davies?" I asked, but without looking up in the glass +for fear of meeting her eyes there. "What has the sea-wall to do with my +illness? It was not there you found me when I fainted. You told me it +was by the fountain."</p> + +<p>The old woman took a paper from her stays, and out of it a muddy piece +of linen which she spread out on the dressing-table in front of me. It +was a handkerchief of mine; and I understood that she had found it, +treasured it as a sign of what I had witnessed. The place, the moment, +might mean my death-warrant; for what I thought I saw had been really +seen.</p> + +<p>"It was on the sea-wall the morning that Lady Brandling fainted in the +shrubbery," she answered. And I felt that her eyes were on my face, +asking what I had seen that day.</p> + +<p>I made a prodigious effort over myself.</p> + +<p>"And why have you kept it in that state instead of washing it? Did +you—was it picked up then or only now? <i>I suppose some one else found +it?"</i></p> + +<p>Merciful God! how every word of that last sentence beat itself out in my +heart and throat!—and yet I heard the words pronounced lightly, +indifferently.</p> + +<p>"I picked it up myself, my lady," answered Mrs. Davies. "I went down to +the sea-wall after I had put Lady Brandling to bed. I thought she might +have left something there. I thought I should like to go there before +the others came. I thought Lady Brandling had seen something. I want +Lady Brandling to tell me truly if she saw something on the sea-wall."</p> + +<p>I felt it was a struggle, perhaps a struggle for life and death between +her and me. I took a comb in my hand, to press it and steady me; and I +looked up in the mirror and faced Davies's eyes, ready, I knew, to fix +themselves on mine. "Perhaps I may answer your question later, Davies," +I said. "But first you must answer mine: am I right in thinking that you +were set to spy upon my husband and me from the moment we first came to +St. Salvat's?"</p> + +<p>A great change came over Davies's face. Whatever her intentions, she +had not expected this, and did not know how to meet it. I felt that, +were her intentions evil, I now held her in my hands, powerless for the +time being.</p> + +<p>But to my infinite surprise, and after only a short silence, she looked +into my eyes quite simply and answered without hesitating.</p> + +<p>"Lady Brandling is right. I was set to spy on Lady Brandling at the +beginning. I did not love Lady Brandling at the beginning; her husband +was taking the place of Sir Thomas. But I love Lady Brandling now."</p> + +<p>I could have sworn that it was true, for she has shown it throughout my +illness. But I kept my counsel and answered very coldly,</p> + +<p>"It is not a question whether you love me or not, Davies. You +acknowledge that you were the spy of Mr. Hubert and his brothers. And if +you were not spying for their benefit, why were you watching me as I +came up the glen the day I was taken ill? Why did you go to the sea-wall +to see in case I had left anything behind; and why did you treasure this +handkerchief as a proof that I had been there?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Davies hesitated; but only, I believe, because she found it +difficult to make her situation clear.</p> + +<p>"Lady Brandling must try and understand," she answered. "I was not +spying for Mr. Hubert. I have not spied for Mr. Hubert for a long +while. I kept the handkerchief to show Lady Brandling that I knew what +had made her faint that day. Also to show her that others did not know. +Lady Brandling is safe. She must know that they do not yet know. If they +know what Lady Brandling perhaps shall have seen, Lady Brandling and her +husband are dead people, like the people in the ship; dead like Sir +Thomas."</p> + +<p>Dead like Sir Thomas! I repeated to myself. But I still kept my eyes +fixed on hers in the glass, where she stood behind me, brush in hand.</p> + +<p>"Davies," I said, "you must explain if I am to understand. You tell me +you love me now though you did not love me at first. You tell me you +were placed to spy over me by Mr. Hubert, and you tell me that you were +not spying for him when you went to see whether I had left anything on +the sea-wall. You have been good and kind beyond words during my +sickness, and I desire to believe in you. But I dare not. Why should I +believe that you have really changed so completely? Why should I believe +that you are with <i>me</i>, and against <i>them</i>?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Davies's face changed strangely. It seemed to me to express deep +perplexity and almost agonised helplessness. She twisted her fingers and +raised her shoulders. She was wrestling with my unbelief. Suddenly she +leaned over the dressing table close to me.</p> + +<p>"Listen," she said. "I have learned things since then. Hubert told me +lies, but I learned. I am against <i>them</i> because I know they tried to +kill my son."</p> + +<p>A look of incredulity must have passed over my face, for she added,</p> + +<p>"Aye; they only tried to kill one of my sons, Hugh, who I thought had +gone overboard, whom they thought they had drowned, but who has come and +told me. But—" and she fixed her eyes on mine, "they <i>did</i> kill my +other son; I know that now. My other son of the heart, not the belly. +And that son, my Lady, was your brother-in-law, Sir Thomas Brandling."</p> + +<p>And then Davies made a strange imperious gesture, and I must needs +listen to her talk. I have since pieced it together out of her odd +enigmatic sentences. My late brother-in-law, after years of passive +connivance in <i>their</i> doings, which paid for his debaucheries in foreign +lands, became restive, or was suspected by his uncles, and condemned by +them to death as a danger to their evil association. Sir Thomas was +decoyed home, and, according to their habit in case of mutiny, taken +out, a prisoner, to the deepest part of the channel, and drowned. The +report was spread that he had been killed in a drunken brawl at Bristol, +a show of legal proceedings was instituted by his uncle in that city +(naturally to no effect, there being no murderer there to discover), and +a corpse brought back by them for solemn burial at St. Salvat's. But +instead of being interred in the family vault, the body of the false Sir +Thomas was destroyed by the burning of the Chapel during his wake. The +suspicions of Mrs. Davies appeared to have been awakened by this fact, +and by the additional one that she was not allowed to see the corpse of +her beloved foster-son. Her own son Hugh, Sir Thomas's foster brother, +disappeared about this time; and Hubert appears to have made the +distracted mother believe that her own boy was the murderer of Sir +Thomas, and had met with death at his hands; the whole unlikely story +being further garnished for the poor credulous woman with a doubt that +the murder of her foster-son had been, in some manner, the result of a +conspiracy to bring about the succession of my husband. All this she +seems to have believed at the time of our coming, and for this reason to +have lent herself most willingly to spy upon my husband and me, in hopes +of getting the proofs of his guilt. But her suspicions gradually +changed, and her whole attitude in the matter was utterly reversed when, +a few days before the wreck of the great Indiaman and my adventure on +the sea-wall, her son, whom she believed dead, had stolen back in +disguise and told her of an expedition in which the uncles had carried a +man to the high seas, gagged and bound, and drowned him: a man who was +not one of their crew and whose stature and the colour of whose hair +answered to those of the nominal master of St. Salvat's. Her son, in an +altercation over some booty, had let out his suspicion to my uncles, and +had escaped death only by timely flight masked under accidental drowning +from a fishing boat. Since this revelation Davies's devotion to the dead +Sir Thomas had transferred itself to Eustace and me, and her one thought +had become revenge against the men who had killed her darling.</p> + +<p>Davies told me all this, as I said, in short, enigmatic sentences; and I +scarcely know whether her tale seemed to me more inevitably true or more +utterly false in its hideous complication of unlikely horrors. When she +had done:</p> + +<p>"Davies," I ask her solemnly, "you have been a spy, you have, by your +saying, been the accomplice of the most horrid criminals that ever +disgraced the world. Why should I believe one word of what you tell me?"</p> + +<p>Davies hesitated as before, then looked me full in the face "If Lady +Brandling cannot believe what it is needful that she should believe, let +her ask her husband whether I am telling her a lie. Lady Brandling's +husband knows, and he is afraid of telling <i>her</i> because he is afraid of +them." Davies had been kneeling by the dressing-table, as if to make +herself heard to me without speaking above a whisper.</p> + +<p>I mustered all my courage, for these last words touched me closer, +filled me with a far more real and nearer horror than all her hideous +tales.</p> + +<p>"Davies," I said, "kindly finish brushing my hair. When it is brushed I +can do it up myself; and you may go and wash that handkerchief."</p> + +<p>The old woman rose from her knees without a word, and finished brushing +my hair very carefully. Then she handed me the hairpins and combs +ceremoniously. As she did so she murmured beneath her breath:</p> + +<p>"Lady Brandling is a courageous lady. I love Lady Brandling for her +courage." She curtsied and withdrew. When the door was well closed on +her I felt I could bear the strain no more; I leaned my head on the +dressing table and burst into a flood of silent tears.</p> + +<p>At that moment Eustace came in. "Good God!" he said, "what is the +matter?" taking my hand and trying to raise me up.</p> + +<p>But I hid my face. "Oh, Eustace," I answered, "when I think of our +child!"</p> + +<p>But what I was saying, God help me, was not true.</p> + + +<p><i>October</i> 1, 1773.</p> + +<p>What frightful suspicions are these which I have allowed to creep +insidiously into my mind! Did he or did he not know? Does he know yet? +Every time we meet I feel my eyes seeking his face, scanning his +features, and furtively trying to read their meaning, alas! alas! as if +he were a stranger. And I spend my days piecing together bits of the +past, and every day they make a different and more perplexing pattern. I +remember his change of manner on receiving the news of his brother's +death, and the gloom which hung over him during our journey and after +our arrival here. I thought then that it was the unexpected return to +the scenes of his unhappy childhood; and that his constraint and silence +with me were due to his difficulty in dealing with the shocking state of +things he found awaiting him. It seemed natural enough that Eustace, a +thinker, a dreamer even, should feel harassed at his inability to clean +out this den of iniquity. But why have remained here? Good God, is my +husband a mere pensioner of all this hideousness, as his wretched +brother seems to have been? And even for that miserable debauched +creature the day came when he turned against his masters, and faced +death, perhaps like a gentleman. Death.... How unjust I am grown to +Eustace! I ought to try and put myself in his place, and see things as +he would see them, not with the horrified eyes of a stranger. Like me, +he may have believed at first that St. Salvat's was merely a nest of +smugglers.... Or he may have had only vague fears of worse, haunting him +like bad dreams of his childhood....</p> + +<p>Besides, this frightful trade in drowned men and their goods has, from +what Davies tells me, been for centuries the chief employment of this +dreadful coast. Whole villages, and several of the first families of the +country, practised it turn about with smuggling. Davies was ready with a +string of names, she expressed no special horror and her conscience +perhaps represents that of these people; an unlawful trade, but not +without its side of peril, commending it to barbarous minds like highway +robbery or the exploits of buccaneers, whom popular ballads treat as +heroes.</p> + +<p>But why have I recourse to such explanations? Men, even men as noble as +my husband, are marvellously swayed by all manner of notions of honour, +false and barbarous, often causing them to commit crimes in order to +screen those of their blood or of their class. Some words of Hubert's +keep recurring in my memory, to the effect that all the Brandlings were +given up to what the villain called pilchard fishing, and <i>none more +devotedly than Eustace's own father</i>. I remember and now understand the +tone in which he added "all of us Brandlings except this superfine +gentleman here." Those words meant that however great his horror of it +all, Eustace could not break loose from that complicity of silence. For +to expose the matter would be condemning all his kinsmen to a shameful +death, to the public gallows; it would be uncovering the dishonour of +his dead brother, of his father, and all his race.... What right have I +to ask my husband to do what no other man would do in his place?</p> + +<p>But perhaps he does not know, or is not certain yet.... To what a size +have I allowed my horrid suspicions to grow! Behold me finding excuses +for an offence which very likely has never been committed; and while +seemingly condoning, condemning my husband in my mind, without giving +him a chance of self-defence! What a confusion of disloyalty and +duplicity my fears have bred in my soul! Anything is better than this; I +owe it to Eustace to tell him my suspicions, and I <i>will</i> tell him.</p> + + +<p><i>November</i> 2, 1773.</p> + +<p>I have spoken. O marvellous, most unexpected reward of frankness and +loyalty, however tardy! The nightmare has vanished, leaving paradise in +my soul. For inconceivable as it seems, this day, on which I learned +that we are prisoners, already condemned most likely, and at best doomed +to die before very long, this day has been of unmixed, overflowing joy, +such as I never knew or dreamed of.</p> + +<p>Eustace, beloved, that ever I could have doubted you! And yet that very +doubt, that sin against our love is what has brought me such blissful +certainty. And even the shameful question, asked with burning cheeks, +"Did you know all?" has been redeemed, transfigured, and will remain for +ever in my soul like the initial bars of some ineffably tender and +triumphant piece of music.</p> + +<p>Let me go over it once more, our conversation, Love; feel it all over +again, feel it for ever and ever.</p> + +<p>When I had spoken those words, Eustace, you took my hand, and looked +long into my face.</p> + +<p>"My poor Penelope," you said, "what dreadful thoughts my cowardice and +want of faith have brought upon you! Why did I not recognise that your +soul was strong enough to bear the truth? You ought to have learned it +from me, as soon as I myself felt certain of it, instead of my running +the risk of your discovering it all alone, you poor, poor little +child!"</p> + +<p>Were ever those small words spoken so greatly? Has any man been such a +man in his gentleness and humility? And then you went on, beloved, and I +write down your words in order to feel them once more sinking into my +heart.</p> + +<p>"But Penelope," you said, "'twas not mere unmanly shirking, though there +may have been some of that mixed with it. My fault lies chiefly in not +having been able to do without you, dearest, not having left you safe +with your mother while I came over to this accursed place; and in +putting the suspicions I had behind me in order to bring you here. +Nothing can wipe out that, and I am paying the just price of my +weakness, and seeing you pay it!... But once here, Penelope, and once +certain of the worst, it was impossible for me to tell you the truth. +Impossible, because I knew that if you knew what I had learned, it would +be far more difficult for me to get you away, to get you to leave me +behind in this hideous place. Do you remember when I proposed sending +you to Bath for our child's birth? It seemed the last chance of saving +you, and you resisted and thought me cruel and unloving! How could I say +'Go! because your life may any day be forfeited like mine, and go alone! +because—well—because I am a hostage, a man condemned to death if he +stir, a prisoner as much as if I were chained to the walls of this +house.' Had I said that, you would have refused to go, Penelope. But +now, my dear...." And you bent down and kissed me very mournfully.</p> + +<p>"But now, Eustace," I answered, and I heard that my voice was solemn, +"but now I can stay with you, because I know as much as you do, and they +will soon know that I do so, even if they do not know yet. I may stay +with you, because I am a prisoner like you, and condemned like you. We +can live, because we have to die—together."</p> + +<p>Eustace, you folded me in your arms and I felt you sob. But I loosened +your hands and kissed them one by one, and said, "Nay, Eustace, why +should you grieve? Do we not love each other? Are we not together, +quite together, and together for always?"</p> + +<p>We are standing by the big window in my room, and as we clasped one +another, our eyes, following each other's, rested on the sea above the +tree tops. It was a silvery band under a misty silver sunset; very sweet +and solemn. Our souls, methought, were sailing in its endless +peacefulness. For the first time, I was aware of what love is; I seemed +to understand what poetry is about and what music means; death, which +hung over us, was shrunk to its true paltriness, and the eternity of +life somehow revealed all in one moment. I have known happiness. I thank +God, and beloved, I thank thee also.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>IV</h3> + + +<p>Here ends the diary kept half a century ago by the woman of twenty-two, +who was once myself. Those of whom it treats, my mother, my husband, +poor faithful Davies and the wretched villains of St. Salvat's, have +long since ceased to live, and those for whose benefit I gather together +these memories—my sons and daughters, were not yet born at the time +this diary deals with.</p> + +<p>In order to complete my story I can, therefore, seek only in my own +solitary memory; and, standing all alone, look into that far away past +which only my own eyes and heart are left to descry.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After the scene with which my diary closes, and when we could compare +all that each of us knew of our strange situation, it appeared to my +husband and me that we had everything to gain, and at all events nothing +to lose (since we knew our lives in jeopardy) by a desperate attempt to +escape from what was virtually our prison. Eustace had summed up our +position when he had said that we were hostages in the hands of the +uncles. For these villains, unconscious of any bonds of family honour, +made sure that our escape would infallibly bring about the exposure of +their infamous practices.</p> + +<p>It appears that after the murder of my brother-in-law, whom the most +violent of the gang had put to death on a mere threat of betrayal, the +uncles had taken for granted that Eustace would accept some manner of +pension as his brother had done, and like him, leave St. Salvat's in +their undisputed possession. And they had been considerably nonplussed +when my husband declared his intention of returning to Wales. The +perception of the blunder they had committed in getting rid of my +brother-in-law, made them follow the guidance of Hubert, who had opposed +the murder of Sir Thomas, if not from humanity, at all events from +prudence. It was Hubert's view that since Eustace refused to stay away, +no difficulties should be put in the way of his coming, but on the +contrary, that he be taken, so to speak, in a trap, and once at St. +Salvat's, persuaded or compelled into becoming a passive, if not an +active, accomplice. Hubert had therefore written so pressingly about the +need of putting the property to rights, of making a new start at St. +Salvat's, and of therefore bringing me and settling at once in the +place, that Eustace had judged the rumours concerning the real trade of +his kinsmen, and his own childish suspicions, to have been mere +exaggeration, and imagined that the uncles, brought to order by so +superior a man as Hubert, were perhaps even willing to abandon the +dangerous business of smuggling which had been carried on almost +avowedly during the lifetime of his father. Such was the trap laid by +Hubert; and Eustace, partly from guilelessness and partly from a sense +of duty to St. Salvat's, walked straight in, carrying me with him as an +additional pledge to evil fortune. He was scarcely in, when the door, +like the drawbridge which had risen after our entry into that frightful +place, closed and showed him he was a prisoner. It was Hubert's plan to +make use of our presence (which, moreover, put an end to his own +isolation among those besotted villains) in order to remove whatever +suspicions might exist in the outside world. The presence of a studious +and gentlemanly owner, of a young wife and possible children, was to +make people believe that a new leaf had been turned over at St. +Salvat's, and that the old former pages of its history were not so +shocking as evil reports had had it. So, during the first weeks after +our arrival, and while the brothers were being coerced into an attempt +at decent behaviour, Eustace was being importuned with every kind of +plan which should draw him into further complicity, and compromise him +along with the rest of the band. Hubert, being a clergyman, had since +his elder brother's death, also been the chief magistrate of the +district; and, shocking to relate, this wrecker and murderer had sat in +judgment on poachers and footpads. Having made use of this position to +silence any inclination to blab about St. Salvat's, he was apprehensive +of this scandal getting to headquarters, and therefore desirous of +putting in his place a man as clear of suspicion and as obviously just +as Eustace, yet whom he imagined he could always coerce in all vital +matters. But Eustace saw through this fine scheme at once, and +resolutely refused to become a magistrate in Hubert's place. This was +the first hint Hubert received that it was useless to seek an accomplice +in his nephew; and this recognition speedily grew into a fear lest +Eustace might become a positive danger, particularly if he ever learned +for certain that Sir Thomas had not been murdered at Bristol, but at St. +Salvat's. The situation was made more critical by the fact that on +discovering what manner of place the castle really was, Eustace had +declared with perfect simplicity, his intention of taking me back to my +mother. It was then he had learned in as many words, that both he and I +were prisoners, and that he, at all events, would never leave St. +Salvat's alive. Thus the terrible months had been spent in gauging the +depth of his miserable situation, in making and unmaking plans for my +escape, for sending me away without letting me guess the real reason, +all of which had been frustrated by my miscarriage and the long illness +following upon it. And meanwhile, Eustace had had to endure the constant +company of his gaoler Hubert, the wretch's occasional attempts to +compromise him in the doings of the gang; and what was horridest of all, +Hubert's very sincere pleasure in our presence and conversation, and his +ceaseless attempts to strike up some kind of friendship.</p> + +<p>Now, the discovery that I was aware of the frightful mysteries of the +place, had entirely altered our position: first, because it was probable +that the uncles now considered me as much of a danger as my husband, and +therefore as an equally indispensable hostage; and secondly, because it +was evident that I could no longer be induced to leave St. Salvat's by +myself. Our only remaining hope was flight. But how elude the vigilance +of our gaolers and overcome the obstacles they had built up around us? +Day after day, and night after night, Eustace and I went over and over +our possibilities; but they seemed to diminish, and difficulties to +increase, the more we discussed them. The house and grounds were +guarded, and our actions spied upon. We were cut off from the outer +world, for we had long since understood that our letters, even when +despatched, were intercepted and read by Hubert. But the worst +difficulty almost was the lack of money. For some months past, Hubert +had taken to doling it out only in trifling sums and on our asking for +it, and he supplied our needs and even fancies with such lavishness, +forestalling them in many instances, that a request for any considerable +sum would have been tantamount to an intimation of our intended flight. +Such were the external obstacles; I found, moreover, that there were +other ones in the character and circumstances of my poor fellow +prisoner. My husband's natural incapacity for planning active measures +and taking sudden decisions, was not at all diminished, but the reverse, +by his fear for my safety. And his indecision was aggravated by all +manner of scruples; for he considered it cowardly to leave St. Salvat's +in the undisputed possession of the villains who usurped it; and he +wavered between a wish to punish the murder of his brother and that +prejudice (which I had rightly divined) against exposing his kinsmen and +his dead father to public infamy, however well earned by them.</p> + +<p>This miserable state of doubt and fear was brought to a sudden close, as +I vaguely expected it would, by a new move on the part of our +adversaries. It was in the spring of 1774, and we had been at St. +Salvat's about eighteen months, which felt much more like as many years. +One evening after supper, as I sat in my room idly listening to the +sound, now so terrible to me, of the sea on the rocks, I was suddenly +aroused by the sound, no less frightful to my ears, of the brawling of +the uncles below. I rose in alarm, for my apartments were completely +isolated from the part of the house which they occupied, and for months +past all the intermediate doors had been kept carefully closed by the +tacit consent of both parties. The noise became greater; I could +distinguish the drunken voices of Simon and Richard, and a sharp +altercation between the other ones, and just as I had stepped, beyond my +own door, I heard a horrid yell of curses, a scuffle, and the door +opposite, which closed the main staircase, flew open, and what was my +astonishment when my husband appeared, pushed forward, or rather hurled +along by Hubert. The latter shouted to me to go back, and having thrust +Eustace into my room, he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, +slamming the doors after him. As he did so I heard the key click; he had +locked us in.</p> + +<p>My husband was in a shocking condition, his clothes torn half off him, +his hair in disorder, and the blood dripping from his arm.</p> + +<p>"Do not be frightened," he cried, "'tis merely a comedy of those filthy +villains," and he showed me that his wound was merely a long scratch. +"They want to frighten us," he added, "the drunken brutes wanted to +force me through some beastly form of initiation into their gang. +Faugh!" and he looked at his arm, which I was washing; "they did it with +a broken bottle, the hogs! And as to Hubert, and his fine saving me from +their clutches, that, I take it, was mere play-acting too, the most +sickening part of the business, and meant only to give you a scare."</p> + +<p>Eustace had thrown himself gloomily into a chair, and I had never seen +him before with such a look of disgust and indignation. I was by no +means as certain as he that no serious mischief had been intended, or +that Hubert had not saved him from real danger. But that new look in him +awoke a sudden hope in me, and I determined to strike while the iron was +hot. "Eustace," I said very gravely as I bound a handkerchief round his +arm, "if your impression is correct, this is almost the worst of our +misery. Certainly no child of mine shall ever be born into such ignominy +as this. It is high time we went. Better to die like decent folk than +allow ourselves to be hacked about by these drunken brutes and pushed +through doors by a theatrical villain like Hubert."</p> + +<p>"You are right, Penelope," he answered, burying his face in his chair. +"I have been a miserable coward." And, to my horror, I heard him sob +like a child who has been struck for the first time.</p> + +<p>That decided me. But what to do? A desperate resolution came to me. As +Davies was brushing my hair that night, I looked at her once more in +the mirror, and, assuming the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster, +"Davies," I said, "Sir Eustace and I have decided on leaving St. +Salvat's, and we are taking you with us on our travels; unless you +should prefer to betray us to Mr. Hubert, which is the best thing you +can do for yourself."</p> + +<p>What made me say those last words? Was it a desire to threaten, a +stupid, taunting spirit, or the reckless frankness of one who thought +herself doomed? Would it might have been the latter. But of all the +things which I would give some of my life to cancel, those words are the +foremost; and remorse and shame seize me as I write them.</p> + +<p>But instead of answering these, the faithful creature threw herself on +her knees and covered my hand with kisses. "All is ready," she said +after a moment, "and Lady Brandling will start on Saturday."</p> + +<p>She had been watching and planning for weeks, and had already thought +out and prepared every detail of our flight with extraordinary +ingenuity. She placed the savings of her whole lifetime at our service, +a considerable sum, and far beyond our need; and she had contrived to +communicate with her son, the one who had every good reason to bear a +grudge to the villains of St. Salvat's. My husband and I were to walk on +foot, and separately, out of the grounds; horses were to meet us at a +given point of the road, and take us, not to Swansea or Bristol, as +would be expected, but to Milford, there to embark for Ireland, a +country where all trace of us would easily be lost, and whence we could +easily re-enter England or take ship for the Continent, as circumstances +should dictate at the moment.</p> + +<p>The next Saturday had been fixed upon for our flight, because Davies +knew that the uncles would be away on an important smuggling expedition +in a distant part of the coast. The maids, very few in number, and any +of the servants left behind, Davies had undertaken to intoxicate or drug +into harmlessness. Only one evil chance remained, and that we none of us +dared to mention: what if Hubert, as is sometimes the case, should stay +behind?</p> + +<p>I do not know how I contrived to live through the three days which +separated us from Saturday; there are, apparently, moments in our lives +so strangely unlike all others, so unnatural to our whole being, that +the memory refuses to register them or even bear their trace. All I know +is that Eustace spent all his time in his laboratory, constructing +various appliances, an occupation which I explained as imposed upon +himself in order to deaden any doubts or scruples, such as were natural +to his character, for the only opposition he had made to our plan of +escape was on the score that it meant leaving St. Salvat's in the hands +of the uncles.</p> + +<p>At last came Friday night. Friday, June 26, 1774, Davies had brought us +word that the uncles had gone down to the boats, taking all the +available men with them, save an old broken-down ship's carpenter, who +lived with the keeper in the gate tower, and the husband of one of the +sluttish women, who lay sick of the quinsy in the outhouse containing +the offices. Only, only, Hubert remained! Had his suspicion been +awakened? Was he detained on business? Was he ailing? Methought it was +the first of these possibilities. For on Friday morning he came to my +apartments, which was not his wont, early in the day and offered to pay +me a visit. But Davies had the presence of mind to answer that I was +sick, and lest he should doubt it, to force me to bed at once, and +borrow certain medicines from him. After this he sought for Eustace, and +finding him busy among his chemical instruments, his suspicions, if he +had any, were quieted; and, having dined, he went down to his own small +boat, a very fast sailer, and which he managed alone, often outstripping +the heavier boats of his brothers and nephew. The ground was now clear. +My husband remained, I believe, in his laboratory; Davies went down to +supper with the maids, whom she had undertaken to drug; we were to meet +again in my room at daybreak. I cannot say for sure, but I believe I +spent that night trying to pray and waiting for daylight.</p> + +<p>The month was June and day came early;... a dull day, thin rain +streamed down continuously, hushing everything, even the sea on the +rocks becoming inaudible; only, I remember, a bird sang below my window, +and the notes he sang long ran in my ears and tormented me. I had sewn +some diamonds and some pieces of gold into my clothes, and those of my +husband and of Davies. I stuffed a few valuables, very childishly +chosen, for I took my diary, some of Eustace's love-letters, and the +little cap I had knitted for the baby who was never born, into my +pockets. And I waited. Presently Eustace came; he had a serviceable +sword, a large knife, and a pair of pistols in his great coat; he handed +me a smaller pistol, showed me that it was primed, and gave me at the +same time a little folded white paper. "You are a brave woman, +Penelope," he said, kissing me, "and I know there is no likelihood of +your using either of these things rashly or in a moment of panic. But +our enterprise is uncertain; we may possibly be parted, and I have no +right to let you fall alive into the hands of those villains." Then, he +sat down at my work-table and began drawing on a sheet of paper, while I +looked out of the window and listened to the unvarying song of that +bird. Davies did not come, and it was broad daylight. But neither of us +ventured to remark on this fact or to speak our fears. Then, after about +half an hour's fruitless waiting Eustace declared that we must have +misunderstood Davies's instructions, and insisted, much against my +wishes, upon going down to see whether she was not waiting for us below. +A secret fear had seized my husband that the old woman, whom I had now +got to trust quite absolutely, might after all have remained from first +to last a spy of Hubert's. As Eustace left he turned round and said, +"Remember what you have in your pocket, Penelope; and if I do not return +within ten minutes, come down the main staircase and sing the first bars +of '<i>Phyllis plus avare que tendre</i>' I shall be on the watch for it."</p> + +<p>I hated his foolish obstinacy: far better, I thought, have awaited +Davies in the appointed place, and together.</p> + +<p>I thought so all the more when, after some ten minutes had elapsed, a +light rap came on the wainscot door near my bed, the door leading to the +back staircase, and opposite to the one by which Eustace had taken his +departure.</p> + +<p>"Come in, Davies," I said joyfully.</p> + +<p>"It is not Davies, dear Lady Brandling," said a voice which made me feel +suddenly sick; and in came Hubert, bowing. He was dressed with uncommon +neatness, not in his fisherman's clothes, but as a clergyman, and, what +was by no means constantly the case with him, he was fresh shaven. In a +flash I understood that he had returned overnight, or perhaps not gone +away at all.</p> + +<p>"It is not Davies," he repeated, "but I have come with her excuses to +your ladyship; a sudden ailment, and one from which it is not usual to +recover at her, or indeed, any age, prevents her waiting on you. I have +been giving her some of the consolations of religion, and hearing her +confession, a practice I by no means reject as Popish," and the villain +smiled suavely. "And now, as she can no longer benefit by my presence, I +thought I would come and make her excuses, and offer myself, though +unskilful, to pack your ladyship's portmanteau in her place."</p> + +<p>"You have killed Davies!" I exclaimed, springing up from the sofa on +which I was seated. Hubert made a deprecatory gesture and forcing me +down again seated himself insolently close to me. "Fie, fie!" he said, +"those are not words for a pretty young lady to use to her old uncle. +Have you not learned your Catechism, my dear? It is said there, 'Thou +shalt not kill,' meaning thereby, kill anything save vermin. And, by the +way," continues the villain, taking my arm and preventing my rising, +"that's just what I want to talk about. I have a prejudice against +killing members of my own family, a prejudice not shared by my brothers, +worse luck to the sots, or else you would not be Lady Brandling as yet, +and that poor, silly coxcomb of a Thomas would still be enjoying his +glass and his lass. I hate a scandal, and intend to avoid one; also, I +am genuinely attached to you and to your husband, for though a milksop, +he is a man of parts and education, and I relish his conversation. Yes, +my dear. I know what you are going to ask! The precious Eustace is quite +safe, without a scratch in any part of his gentlemanly white body; and +no harm shall come to him—on one condition: That you, my pretty vixen, +for you are a <i>virago</i>, a warlike lady, my dear niece, that you swear +very solemnly that neither you nor he will ever again attempt to leave +St. Salvat's."</p> + +<p>He had taken my hand and was looking in my eyes with a villainous +expression.</p> + +<p>"What do you say to that?" he went on. "I know you to be a woman of +spirit and of honour, bound by an oath, and capable of making your +husband respect it. You have nothing to gain by refusing. You are alone +with me in this house. Your faithful Davies is as dead as a door-nail. +Your virtuous spouse is quite safe downstairs, for I have taken the +precaution to relieve him of all those dangerous swords and pistols of +his, which a learned man might hurt himself with. I give you five +minutes to make up your mind. If you accept my terms, you and Sir +Eustace Brandling shall live honoured and happy at St. Salvat's among +your obliged kinsmen. If you refuse, I shall, very reluctantly, hand +over your husband to my brothers' tender mercies when they return home +presently; and, as they do not know how to behave to a lady, I shall +myself make it a point to act as a man of refinement and a tender heart +should act towards a very pretty little shrew," and the creature dared +to touch me with his lips upon my neck.</p> + +<p>I shrank back upon the sofa half paralysed, and with not strength enough +to grow hot and crimson. Hubert rose, locked the doors, and, to my +relief, sat down to the harpsichord, on which he began to pick out a +tune. It was that very "<i>Phyllis plus avare que tendre</i>," which I had +sung to my husband and him some days before. Was it a coincidence; or +had he overheard us appoint it as a signal, and was he mocking and +torturing Eustace as well as me?</p> + +<p>"An elegant little air, egad," he says, "I wish I could remember the +second part. Don't let my strumming disturb you. You have still four +minutes to think over your answer, dear Lady Brandling." The familiar +notes aroused me from my stupor. I got up and walked slowly to the +harpsichord, at which Hubert was lolling and strumming.</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear?" he asks insolently, and the notes seemed to ooze out +from under his fingers, "have I got the tune right? Is that it?"</p> + +<p>"The tune," I answered, "is this: Mr. Hubert Brandling, in the name of +God Almighty, whose ministry you have defiled, and whose law you have +placed yourself outside, I take it upon myself to judge and put you to +death as a wrecker and a murderer." I drew Eustace's pistol from my +pocket, aimed steadily and fired. I was half stunned by the report; but +through the smoke of my own weapon, I saw Hubert reel and fall across +the harpsichord, whose jangling mingled with his short, sharp cry. Even +after fifty years, I quite understand how I did <i>that</i>, and when I +recall it all, I feel that, old as I am, I would do it over again. What +I cannot explain is what I did afterwards, nor the amazing coolness and +clearness of head which I enjoyed at that moment. For without losing a +minute I went to the harpsichord, and despite the horrid, hot trickle +all over my hands, I turned out his pockets and took his keys. Then I +left the room, locked it from the outside, and went downstairs singing +that French shepherd's song at the top of my voice. The fearful +stillness was beginning to frighten me, when, just as I felt my throat +grow dry and my voice faint, the same tune answered me in a low whistle, +from out of Hubert's study. I knew my husband's whistle, and yet the +fact of Hubert's room, the fact that Hubert had been strumming that +tune, filled me, for the first time, with horror. But I found the key on +the bunch, and unlocked the door. Eustace was seated in an arm chair, +unbound, but his clothes torn as after a scuffle.</p> + +<p>"Eustace," I said, "I—I have killed Hubert." But to my astonishment he +barely gave me time to utter the words; and starting from the chair:</p> + +<p>"Quick, quick!" he cries, "there is not a moment to lose. Another ten +minutes and we also are dead!" and seizing my arm he drags me away, down +the remaining stairs, out by the main door and then at a run across the +yard and up into the dripping shrubbery.</p> + +<p>"Eustace, Eustace!" I cried breathless, "this is not the way; we shall +be seen from the stables."</p> + +<p>"No matter," he answered hoarsely, and dragging, almost carrying, me +along, "run, Penelope, for our lives."</p> + +<p>After about five minutes of desperate and, it seemed to me, random and +mad climbing up through the wet bushes, he suddenly stopped and drew +forth his watch.</p> + +<p>"Where is Davies? At the turn of the road? Not in the house, at least, +there is no one in the house? No one except—except that dead man?"</p> + +<p>I thought that fear had made him lose his wits, and I dared not tell him +that besides that dead man, the house held also a dead woman, our poor, +faithful Davies.</p> + +<p>"She is out of danger," I answered. We had, by some miracle, found our +way to a place where the wall, which fortified St. Salvat's, was partly +broken at the top, and overgrown by bushes. With a decision I should +never have expected from him, and an extraordinary degree of strength +and agility, my husband climbed on to the wall, pulled me up, let +himself drop into the dry ditch beyond, and received me in his arms. +Then, seizing me again by the hand, we started off once more at a mad +run through the wood, stumbling and tearing ourselves against the +branches.</p> + +<p>"Up the knoll!" he repeated. "I must see! I must see!" And he seemed to +me quite mad.</p> + +<p>Once at the top of the knoll, he stopped. It was wooded all the way up, +but just here was an open space of grass burrowed by rabbits and set +with stunted junipers. It was full in sight of St. Salvat's, and if ever +there could be a dangerous place to stop in, it was this. But Eustace +pointed to the wet grass, "Sit down," he said, and sat down himself, +after looking at his watch again. "There are five minutes more," he +repeated, remaining, despite my entreaties, seated on the soft ground +among the rabbit holes, his face turned to St. Salvat's.</p> + +<p>"You are sure Davies is safe?" he asked, again drawing out his watch.</p> + +<p>"Davies is dead," I answered, counting on the effect it would have on +him, "Hubert had murdered her ... before ... I...."</p> + +<p>Eustace's eye kindled strangely. "Ah! is it so?" he cried, "Then poor +Davies will have a splendid funeral! All I regret is that that villain +should share in the honour." So saying, he started up on to his feet, +and pulling out his watch, looked from it to the towers and battlements +nestled in the trees of the hollow beneath us.</p> + +<p>"Half past seven less a minute, less half a minute, less ... Now!" he +cried.</p> + +<p>As if he had shouted a word of command, an enormous sheet of flame leapt +up into the air, like the flash at a cannon's mouth; the hill shook and +the air bellowed, and we fell back half stunned. When I could see once +more, my husband was standing at the brink of the knoll, his arms +folded, and looking calmly before him.</p> + +<p>The outline of towers and battlements had entirely disappeared; and +only the skeletons of the great trees, black and branchless, stood out +like the broken masts of wrecked vessels against the distant pale and +misty sea.</p> + +<p>"I have burnt out their nest. My house shall be polluted no more," said +my husband very quietly. And then, kissing me as we stood on the brink +of the green sward, with the rain falling gently upon us, "Come, +Penelope," he added taking my hands, "we are outlaws and felons; but we +have saved our liberty and our honour."</p> + +<p>And, hand in hand, we walked swiftly but quietly towards the high road +to Milford.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<p>The foregoing pages are sufficient record for those of my children and +grandchildren who have heard the tale from my lips, and sufficient +explanation for the remoter posterity of Eustace Brandling and myself, +of the mystery which overhung their family in the latter part of the +eighteenth century. I have only a few legal details to add.</p> + +<p>By the explosion which my husband's skill in chemistry and mechanics had +enabled him to procure and to time, all the main buildings of St. +Salvat's Castle had been utterly destroyed; hiding in their ruins the +fate alike of the faithful Davies and of the atrocious Hubert; and +hiding, for anything, that was known to the contrary, two other +presumable victims—my husband and myself. The gang of villains, +deprived of its headquarters, and deprived of its master spirit, +speedily fell to pieces. Richard and Gwyn appear to have come to a +violent end in quarrelling over the booty of the last wicked expedition; +Simon and Evan, and some of their followers ended in prison, on a charge +of pillaging the ruins and digging for treasure while the property, in +the absence of it master, was still in the hands of the law; but it is +probable that this condemnation was intended to save them from a worse +punishment, as the authorities gradually got wind of the real trade +which had been carried on in the castle.</p> + +<p>From the villains of St. Salvat's Eustace and I were now safe. But we +had taken the law into our own hands; and the justice which had been +unable to defend us while innocent, was bound to punish our acts towards +the guilty. My husband's words had been true: he and I were outlaws and +felons. Our case was privily placed before the King and his ministers, +when we had left England and had rejoined my mother in her country. In +consideration of the unusual circumstances it was decided that the +baronetcy should not lapse, nor the lands be forfeited to the Crown, but +be held over for our possible heirs, while ourselves should be accounted +as mysteriously disappeared, and forbidden to enter the kingdom. So we +wandered for many years in the new world and the old; and it was far +from St. Salvat's that our children were successively born. And it was +only on the death of my dear husband, which occurred in 1802, that a +Brandling, our eldest son, reappeared and claimed his title and +inheritance. It was the wish of my son Piers that I should accompany him +and his wife to England, and help to rebuild the home which I had helped +to destroy. But the recollection of the place had only grown in terror, +and I have ever adhered to my resolution not to set eyes on it again. I +have spent the years of my widowhood at Grandfey, my dear dead mother's +little property in Switzerland, where Eustace and I had been so happy +before he succeeded to St. Salvat's. And it is at Grandfey, among the +meadows again white with hemlock and the lime avenues again in blossom, +that I await, amid the sound of cowbells and of mountain streams, Death, +who had held me in his clutches fifty years ago in that castle hidden +among the trees above the white wailing Northern sea.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Penelope Brandling, by Vernon Lee + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENELOPE BRANDLING *** + +***** This file should be named 37180-h.htm or 37180-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/8/37180/ + +Produced by Andrea Ball, Christine Bell & Marc D'Hooghe +at http://www.freeliterature.org (From images generously +made available by the Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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