The Lovels of Arden by M. E. Braddon

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"My poor Clary, how I wish I had never exacted that promise! It did no
good; it did not save Geraldine, and it seems to have made you miserable.
Good gracious me," cried Lady Laura with sudden impetuosity, "I have no
patience with the man! What is one man more than another, that there should
be so much fuss about him?"

"I must go home to Lovel," Clarissa said anxiously. "I don't know how long
I have been away from him. I lost my head, almost; and I felt that I _must_
come to you."

"Thank God you did come, you poor wandering creature! Wait a few minutes,
Clary, while I send for a cab, and put on my bonnet. I am coming with you."

"You, Lady Laura?"

"Yes, and I too," said a calm voice, that Clarissa remembered very well;
and looking up at the door of communication between the two rooms, she saw
the _portiere_ pushed aside, and Geraldine Challoner on the threshold.

"Let me come and nurse your baby, Mrs. Granger," she said gently; "I have
had a good deal of experience of that sort of thing."

"You do not know what an angel she is to the poor round Hale," said Lady
Laura; "especially to the children. And she nursed three of mine, Maud,
Ethel, and Alick--no; Stephen, wasn't it?" she asked, looking at her sister
for correction--"through the scarlatina. Nothing but her devotion could
have pulled them through, my doctor assured me. Let her come with us,
Clary."

"O, yes, yes! God bless you, Lady Geraldine, for wanting to help my
darling!"

"Norris, tell Fosset to bring me my bonnet and shawl, and fetch a cab
immediately; I can't wait for the carriage."

Five minutes afterwards, the three women were seated in the cab, and on
their way to Soho.

"You have sent for Mr. Granger, of course," said Lady Laura.

"No, not yet. I trust in God there may be no necessity; my darling will get
well; I know he will! Dr. Ormond is to see him to-morrow."

"What, Clarissa! you have not sent for your husband, although you say that
his boy is in danger?"

"If I let Mr. Granger know where I am, he will come and take my son away
from me."

"Nonsense, Clary; he can't do that. It is very shameful of you to keep him
in ignorance of the child's state." And as well as she could, amidst the
rattling of the cab, Lady Laura tried to awaken Clarissa to a sense of the
wrong she was doing. Jane Target stared in amazement on seeing her mistress
return with these two ladies.

"O, ma'am, I've been, so frightened!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't think what
was come of you."

Clarissa ran to the bed.

"He has been no worse?" she asked eagerly.

"No, ma'am. I do think, if there's any change, it is for the better."

"O thank God, thank God!" cried Clarissa hysterically, falling on her knees
by the bed. "Death shall not rob me of him! Nobody shall take him from me!"
And then, turning to Laura Armstrong, she said, "I need not send for my
husband, you see; my darling will recover."

* * * * *

CHAPTER XLVIII.

"STRANGERS YET."

Lady Laura went back to Portland-place in an hour; but Geraldine Challoner
stayed all night with the sick child. God was very merciful to Clarissa;
the angel of death passed by. In the night the fever abated, if only ever
so little; and Dr. Ormond's report next day was a cheering one. He did not
say the little one was out of danger; but he did say there was hope.

Lady Geraldine proved herself an accomplished nurse. The sick child seemed
more tranquil in her arms than even in his mother's. The poor mother felt
a little pang of jealousy as she saw that it was so; but bore the trial
meekly, and waited upon Geraldine with humble submission.

"How good you are!" she murmured once, as she watched the slim white hands
that had played chess with George Fairfax adjusting poultices--"how good
you are!"

"Don't say that, my dear Mrs. Granger. I would do as much for any
cottager's child within twenty miles of Hale; it would be hard if I
couldn't do it for my sister's friend."

"Have you always been fond of the poor?" Clarissa asked wonderingly.

"Yes," Geraldine answered, with a faint blush; "I was always fond of them.
I can get on with poor people better than with my equals sometimes, I
think; but I have visited more amongst them lately, since I have gone less
into society--since papa's death, in fact. And I am particularly fond of
children; the little things always take to me."

"My baby does, at any rate."

"Have you written or telegraphed to Mr. Granger?" Lady Geraldine asked
gravely.

"No, no, no; there can be no necessity now. Dr. Ormond says there is hope."

"Hope, yes; but these little lives are so fragile. I implore you to send to
him. It is only right."

"I will think about it, by and by, perhaps, if he should grow any worse;
but I know he is getting better. O, Lady Geraldine, have some pity upon me!
If my husband finds out where I am, he will rob me of my child."

The words were hardly spoken, when there was a loud double-knock at the
door below, a delay of some two minutes, and then a rapid step on the
stair--a step that set Clarissa's heart beating tumultuously. She sat down
by the bed, clinging to it like an animal at bay, guarding her cub from the
hunter.

The door was opened quickly, and Daniel Granger came into the room. He went
straight to the bed, and bent down to look at his child.

The boy had been light-headed in the night, but his brain was clear enough
now. He recognised his father, and smiled--a little wan smile, that went to
the strong man's heart.

"My God, how changed he is!" exclaimed Mr. Granger. "How long has he been
ill?"

"Very little more than a week, sir," Jane Target faltered from the
background.

"More than a week! and I am only told of his illness to-day, by a telegram
from Lady Laura Armstrong! I beg your pardon, Lady Geraldine; I did not see
you till this moment. I owe it to your sister's consideration that I am
here in time to see my boy before he dies."

"We have every hope of saving him," said Geraldine.

"And what a place I find him in! He has had some kind of doctor attending
him, I suppose?"

"He has had a surgeon from the neighbourhood, who seems both kind and
clever, and Dr. Ormond."

Mr. Granger seated himself at the foot of the bed, a very little way from
Clarissa, taking possession of his child, as it were.

"Do you know, Mrs. Granger, that I have scarcely rested night or day since
you left Paris, hunting for my son?" he said. And this was the first time
he acknowledged his wife's presence by word or look.

Clarissa was silent. She had been betrayed, she thought--betrayed by her
own familiar friend; and Daniel Granger had come to rob her of her child.
Come what might, she would not part with him without a struggle.

After this, there came a weary time of anxious care and watching. The
little life trembled in the balance; there were harassing fluctuations, a
fortnight of unremitting care, before a favourable issue could be safely
calculated upon. And during all that time Daniel Granger watched his boy
with only the briefest intervals for rest or refreshment. Clarissa watched
too; nor did her husband dispute her right to a place in the sick-room,
though he rarely spoke to her, and then only with the coldest courtesy.

Throughout this period of uncertainty, Geraldine Challoner was faithful
to the duty she had undertaken; spending the greatest part of her life at
Clarissa's lodgings, and never wearying of the labours of the sick-room.
The boy grew daily fonder of her; but, with a womanly instinct, she
contrived that it should be Clarissa who carried him up and down the room
when he was restless--Clarissa's neck round which the wasted little arm
twined itself.

Daniel Granger watched the mother and child sometimes with haggard eyes,
speculating on the future. If the boy lived, who was to have him? The
mother, whose guilt or innocence was an open question--who had owned to
being at heart false to her husband--or the father, who had done nothing to
forfeit the right to his keeping? And yet to part them was like plucking
asunder blossom and bud, that had grown side by side upon one common stem.
In many a gloomy reverie the master of Arden Court debated this point.

He could never receive his wife again--upon that question there seemed to
him no room for doubt. To take back to his home and his heart the woman who
had confessed her affection for another man, was hardly in Daniel Granger's
nature. Had he not loved her too much already--degraded himself almost by
so entire a devotion to a woman who had given him nothing, who had kept her
heart shut against him?

"She married Arden Court, not me," he said to himself; "and then she tried
to have Arden Court and her old lover into the bargain. Would she have run
away with him, I wonder, if he had had time to persuade her that day? _Can_
any woman be pure, when a man dares ask her to leave her husband?"

And then the locket that man wore--"From Clarissa"--was not that damning
evidence?

He thought of these things again and again, with a weary iteration--thought
of them as he watched the mother walking slowly to and fro with her baby
in her arms. _That_ picture would surely live in his mind for ever, he
thought. Never again, never any more, in all the days to come, could he
take his wife back to his heart; but, O God, how dearly he had loved her,
and how desolate his home would be without her! Those two years of their
married life seemed to be all his existence; looking back beyond that time,
his history seemed, like Viola's, "A blank, my lord." And he was to live
the rest of his life without her. But for that ever-present anxiety about
the child, which was in some wise a distraction, the thought of these
things might have driven him mad.

At last, after those two weeks of uncertainty, there came a day when Dr.
Ormond pronounced the boy out of danger--on the very high-road to recovery,
in fact.

"I would say nothing decided till I could speak with perfect certainty," he
said. "You may make yourselves quite happy now."

Clarissa knelt down and kissed the good old doctor's hand, raining tears
upon it in a passion of gratitude. He seemed to her in that moment
something divine, a supernal creature who, by the exercise of his power,
had saved her child Dr. Ormond lifted her up, smiling at her emotion.

"Come, come, my dear soul, this is hysterical," he said, in his soothing
paternal way, patting her shoulder gently as he spoke; "I always meant to
save the little fellow; though it has been a very severe bout, I admit, and
we have had a tussle for it. And now I expect to see your roses come back
again. It has been a hard time for you as well as for baby."

When Mr. Granger went out of the room with the physician presently, Dr.
Ormond said gravely,--

"The little fellow is quite safe, Mr. Granger; but you must look to your
wife now."

"What do you mean?"

"She has a nasty little hacking cough--a chest cough--which I don't like;
and there's a good deal of incipient fever about her."

"If there is anything wrong, for God's sake see to her at once!" cried
Daniel Granger. "Why didn't you speak of this before?"

"There was no appearance of fever until to-day. I didn't wish to worry her
with medicines while she was anxious about the child; indeed, I thought the
best cure for her would be the knowledge of his safety. But the cough is
worse to-day; and I should certainly like to prescribe for her, if you will
ask her to come in here and speak to me for a few minutes."

So Clarissa went into the dingy lodging-house sitting-room to see the
doctor, wondering much that any one could be interested in such an
insignificant matter as _her_ health, now that her treasure was safe. She
went reluctantly, murmuring that she was well enough--quite well now; and
had hardly tottered into the room, when she sank down upon the sofa in a
dead faint.

Daniel Granger looked on aghast while they revived her.

"What can have caused this?" he asked.

"My dear sir, you are surely not surprised," said Dr. Ormond. "Your wife
has been sitting up with her child every night for nearly a month--the
strain upon her, bodily and mental, has been enormous, and the reaction
is of course trying. She will want a good deal of care, that is all. Come
now," he went on cheerfully, as Clarissa opened her eyes, to find her head
lying on Jane Target's shoulder, and her husband standing aloof regarding
her with affrighted looks--"come now, my dear Mrs. Granger, cheer up; your
little darling is safely over his troubles."

She burst into a flood of tears.

"They will take him away from me!" she sobbed.

"Take him away from you--nonsense! What are you dreaming of?"

"Death has been merciful; but you will be more cruel," she cried, looking
at her husband. "You will take him away."

"Come, come, my dear lady, this is a delusion; you really must not give way
to this kind of thing," murmured the doctor, rather complacently. He had
a son-in-law who kept a private madhouse at Wimbledon, and began to think
Mrs. Granger was drifting that way. It was sad, of course, a sweet young
woman like that; but patients are patients, and Daniel Granger's wife would
be peculiarly eligible.

He looked at Mr. Granger, and touched his forehead significantly. "The
brain has been sorely taxed," he murmured, confidentially; "but we shall
set all that right by-and-by." This with as confident an air as if the
brain had been a clock.

Daniel Granger went over to his wife, and took her hand--it was the
first time those two hands had met since the scene in Austin's
painting-room--looking down at her gravely.

"Clarissa," he said, "on my word of honour, I will not attempt to separate
you from your son."

She gave a great cry--a shriek, that rang through the room--and cast
herself upon her husband's breast.

"O, God bless you for that!" she sobbed; "God bless--" and stopped,
strangled by her sobs.

Mr. Granger put her gently back into her faithful hand-maiden's arms.
_That_ was different. He might respect her rights as a mother; he could
never again accept her as his wife.

But a time came now in which all thought of the future was swept away by
a very present danger. Before the next night, Clarissa was raving in
brain-fever; and for more than a month life was a blank to her--or not a
blank, an age of confused agony rather, to be looked back upon with horror
by-and-by.

They dared not move her from the cheerless rooms in Soho. Lovel was sent
down to Ventnor with Lady Geraldine and a new nurse. It could do no harm to
take him away from his mother for a little while, since she was past the
consciousness of his presence. Jane Target and Daniel Granger nursed her,
with a nursing sister to relieve guard occasionally, and Dr. Ormond in
constant attendance.

The first thing she saw, when sense came back to her, was her husband's
figure, sitting a little way from-the bed, his face turned towards her,
gravely watchful. Her first reasonable words--faintly murmured in a
wondering tone--moved him deeply; but he was strong enough to hide all
emotion.

"When she has quite recovered, I shall go back to Arden," he said to
himself; "and leave her to plan her future life with the help of Lady
Geraldine's counsel. That woman is a noble creature, and the best friend
my wife can have. And then we must make some fair arrangement about the
boy--what time he is to spend with me, and what with his mother. I cannot
altogether surrender my son. In any case he is sure to love her best."

When Clarissa was at last well enough to be moved, her husband took her
down to Ventnor, where the sight of her boy, bright and blooming, and the
sound of his first syllables--little broken scraps of language, that are
so sweet to mothers' ears--had a better influence than all Dr. Ormond's
medicines. Here, too, came her father, from Nice, where he had been
wintering, having devoted his days to the pleasing duty of taking care of
himself. He would have come sooner, immediately on hearing of Clarissa's
illness, he informed Mr. Granger; but he was a poor frail creature, and to
have exposed himself to the north-cast winds of this most uncertain climate
early in April would have been to run into the teeth of danger. It was
the middle of May now, and May this year had come without her accustomed
inclemency.

"I knew that my daughter was in good hands," he said. Daniel Granger
signed, and answered nothing.

Mr. Lovel's observant eyes soon perceived that there was something amiss;
and one evening, when he and Mr. Granger were strolling on the sands
between Ventnor and Shanklin, he plainly taxed his son-in-law with the
fact.

"There is some quarrel between Clary and you," he said; "I can see that at
a glance. Why, I used to consider you a model couple--perfectly Arcadian in
your devotion--and now you scarcely speak to each other."

"There is a quarrel that must last our lives," Daniel Granger answered
moodily, and then told his story, without reservation.

"Good heavens!" cried Mr. Lovel, at the end, "there is a curse upon that
man and his race."

And then he told his own story, in a very few words, and testified to his
undying hatred of all the house of Fairfax.

After this there came a long silence, during which Clarissa's father was
meditative.

"You cannot, of course, for a moment suppose that I can doubt my daughter's
innocence throughout this unfortunate business," he said at last. "I know
the diabolical persistency of that race too well. It was like a Fairfax to
entangle my poor girl in his net--to compromise her reputation, in the hope
of profiting by his treachery. I do not attempt to deny, however, that
Clarissa was imprudent. We have to consider her youth, and that natural
love of admiration which tempts women to jeopardise their happiness and
character even for the sake of an idle flirtation. I do not pretend that my
daughter is faultless; but I would stake my life upon her purity. At
the same time I quite agree with you, Granger, that under existing
circumstances, a separation--a perfectly amicable separation, my daughter
of course retaining the society of her child--would be the wiser course for
both parties."

Mr. Granger had a sensation as of a volume of cold water dashed suddenly in
his face. This friendly concurrence of his father-in-law's took him
utterly by surprise. He had expected that Mr. Lovel would insist upon a
reconciliation, would thrust his daughter upon her husband at the point of
the sword, as it were. He bowed acquiescence, but for some moments could
find no words to speak.

"There is no other course open to me," he said at last. "I cannot tell you
how I have loved your daughter--God alone knows that--and how my every
scheme of life has been built up from that one foundation. But that is all
over now. I know, with a most bitter certainty, from her own lips, that I
have never possessed her heart."

"I can scarcely imagine that to be the case," said Mr. Lovel, "even though
Clarissa may have been betrayed into some passionate admission to that
effect. Women will say anything when they are angry."

"This was not said in anger."

"But at the worst, supposing her heart not to have been yours hitherto, it
might not be too late to win it even now. Men have won their wives after
marriage."

"I am too old to try my hand at that," replied Mr. Granger, with a bitter
smile. He was mentally comparing himself with George Fairfax, the handsome
soldier, with that indescribable charm of youth and brightness about him.

"If you were a younger man, I would hardly recommend such a separation,"
Mr. Lovel went on coolly; "but at your age--well, existence is quite
tolerable without a wife; indeed there is a halcyon calm which descends
upon a man when a woman's influence is taken out of his life, that is,
perhaps, better than happiness. You have a son and heir, and that, I should
imagine, for a man of your position, is the chief end and aim of marriage.
My daughter can come abroad with me, and we can lead a pleasant drowsy life
together, dawdling about from one famous city or salubrious watering-place
to another. I shall, as a matter of course, surrender the income you have
been good enough to allow me; but, _en revanche_, you will no doubt make
Clarissa an allowance suitable to her position as your wife."

Mr. Granger laughed aloud.

"Do you think there can ever be any question of money between us?" he
asked. "Do you think that if, by the surrender of every shilling I
possess, I could win back my faith in my wife, I should hold the loss a
heavy one?"

Mr. Lovel smiled, a quiet, self-satisfied smile, in the gloaming.

"He will make her income a handsome one," he said to himself, "and I shall
have my daughter--who is really an acquisition, for I was beginning to find
life solitary--and plenty of ready money. Or he will come after her in
three months' time. That is the result I anticipate."

They walked till a late moon had risen from the deep blue waters, and when
they went back to the house everything was settled. Mr. Lovel answered for
his daughter as freely as if he had been answering for himself. He was to
take her abroad, with his grandson and namesake Lovel, attended by Jane
Target and the new nurse, vice Mrs. Brobson, dismissed for neglect of
her charge immediately after Clarissa's flight. If the world asked any
questions, the world must be told that Mr. and Mrs. Granger had parted
by mutual consent, or that Mrs. Granger's doctor had ordered continental
travel. Daniel Granger could settle that point according to his own
pleasure; or could refuse to give the world any answer at all, if he
pleased.

Mr. Lovel told his daughter the arrangement that he had made for her next
morning.

"I am to have my son?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes, don't I tell you so? You and Lovel are to come with me. You can live
anywhere you please; you will have a fair income, a liberal one, I daresay.
You are very well off, upon my word, Clarissa, taking into consideration
the fact of your supreme imprudence--only you have lost your husband."

"And I have lost Arden Court. Does not there seem a kind of retribution in
that? I made a false vow for the love of Arden Court--and--and for your
sake, papa."

"False fiddlestick!" exclaimed Mr. Lovel, impatiently; "any reasonable
woman might have been happy in your position, and with such a man as
Granger; a man who positively worshipped you. However, you have lost all
that. I am not going to lecture you--the penalty you pay is heavy enough,
without any sermonising on my part. You are a very lucky woman to retain
custody of your child, and escape any public exposure; and I consider that
your husband has shown himself most generous."

Daniel Granger and his wife parted soon after this; parted without any sign
of compunction--there was a dead wall of pride between them. Clarissa felt
the burden of her guilt, but could not bring herself to make any avowal of
her repentance to the husband who had put her away from him,--so easily, as
it seemed to her. _That_ touched her pride a little.

On that last morning, when the carriage was waiting to convey the
travellers to Ryde, Mr. Granger's fortitude did almost abandon him at
parting with his boy. Clarissa was out of the room when he took the child
up in his arms, and put the little arms about his neck. He had made
arrangements that the boy was to spend so many weeks in every year with
him--was to be brought to him at his bidding, in fact; he was not going to
surrender his treasure entirely.

And yet that parting seemed almost as bitter as if it had been for ever. It
was such an outrage upon nature; the child who should have been so strong a
link to bind those two hearts, to be taken from him like this, and for
no sin of his. Resentment against his wife was strong in his mind at all
times, but strongest when he thought of this loss which she had brought
upon him. And do what he would, the child would grow up with a divided
allegiance, loving his mother best.

One great sob shook him as he held the boy in that last embrace, and then
he set him down quietly, as the door opened, and Clarissa appeared in her
travelling-dress, pale as death, but very calm.

Just at the last she gave her hand to her husband, and said gently,--"I am
very grateful to you for letting me take Lovel. I shall hold him always at
your disposal."

Mr. Granger took the thin cold hand, and pressed it gently.

"I am sorry there is any necessity for a divided household," he said
gravely. "But fate has been stronger than I. Good-bye."

And so they parted; Mr. Granger leaving Ventnor later in the day,
purposeless and uncertain, to moon away an evening at Ryde, trying to
arrive at some decision as to what he should do with himself.

He could not go back to Arden yet awhile, that was out of the question.
Farming operations, building projects, everything else, must go on without
him, or come to a standstill. Indeed, it seemed to him doubtful whether he
should ever go back to the house he had beautified, and the estate he had
expanded: to live there alone--as he had lived before his marriage, that is
to say, in solitary state with his daughter--must surely be intolerable His
life had been suddenly shorn of its delight and ornament He knew now, even
though their union had seemed at its best so imperfect, how much his wife
had been to him.