Revelation,
or,
A Death at Delaford
[Chapters 1-3] [Chapters 4-5] [Chapters 6-7] [Chapters 10-11] [Chapters 12-13] [Chapters 14-15] [Chapters 16-17]
Chapter Eight
My dear Mrs. Ferrars,
I write to you in a kind of desperation, and I trust that when you have read my explanation you will forgive an appeal that might by some be considered ungenerous, perhaps even ill-advised. I have just within the hour left my brother very desolate in his spirits, a mood that I believe is more frequent with him than he wishes me to see, but that he conceals with less success as the days advance. I cannot write this to Marianne; to her I send reassurances. Though she asks for the truth, I cannot tell her that the relentless strain is written in his face, that his shoulders are bowed beneath the despair that he yet struggles to keep at bay. He was confident of resolution long before now, as were we all; and he knows better than any of us that the chance of locating the guilty man decreases with every hour. I do not write, however, to heap upon you my own worries, but to plead with you to urge Marianne, without alarming her, to press her case with him--her desire to see him. He will not send for her, though he wants nothing more than to see her; but he should send for her, for she would steady and cheer him. Perhaps it is unwise to actively encourage her to defy her husband's wishes when she has never done so before--though when has she ever had cause to disagree with him, so similar are their interests and habits?--but he is my brother and I fear for him, not for his life at present but for his reason. He always demands more of himself than he demands, or accepts, of others, not understanding that those who love him want nothing more than to be allowed to help him.-- You must do what you think best with respect to your sister's state of mind, but it is my hope that you can persuade her to do as I believe she wishes to do, to disregard Christopher's selfless concerns and travel to Dorchester, if but for a day (for I know she will be reluctant to leave her child). I remember what it is, you see, for a devoted husband and wife to be torn apart--the feeling of helplessness, of constant uneasiness, the continual expectation of devastating news--and Christopher and Marianne were not permitted even a moment to confer about his situation before he was taken away. I truly believe that he would benefit from the merest sight of her, whether he himself realizes it or not. For my brother's sake, I do hope you will consider my request.
Yours in gratitude and affection,
Sarah Marchbanks
********************
"He is my brother as well, and has for much longer been my friend," said Elinor to Edward when he had read to the end of Sarah's letter. "But how I am to impress upon Marianne the necessity of visiting him without causing her anxiety, I do not know."
"As the colonel's plight is rather frequently discussed between you," Edward replied, "an opportunity will no doubt present itself. You will find a way."
An opportunity presented itself very quickly indeed, for as they exited the parsonage gate they saw Marianne, Mrs. Dashwood, and Margaret walking down the lane, also on their way to church. "I have had a letter from Sarah this morning," Marianne informed her sister and brother. "She reports that Christopher is as well as can be expected, though of course weary of confinement and uncertainty. Oh, how I wish I could see him!"
"And why should you not?" Elinor hastened to inquire, before opportunity should slip away. "Surely he would benefit from your coming, in the lifting of his spirits and the pleasant passage of several hours, even if you should return in the same day."
"I believe he would, but he does not want me to venture within the prison walls, and I do not wish to cause him any greater apprehension than he suffers already on his own account and Sarah's."
"Could you perhaps meet in the keeper's quarters, away from the cells and the yards?"
"My dear, you are very clever," said Edward. "Marianne, you must suggest it to the colonel, and if he does not at once agree I shall harass him into sense when next I visit him."
Marianne was pressing their hands with thanks, while they tried not to give any hint by a glance or a significant smile of their earlier consultation, when Mrs. Dashwood, a little ahead of them and able to see around the curve of the lane toward the church, called over her shoulder that "she hoped Edward was in good voice today."
Curiosity quickened the others' pace, but Marianne's step was slowed by the return of the foreboding with which she had awakened and which had been only thrust aside, not vanquished, by the receipt of Sarah's letter.
"Look at all the people!" Margaret cried--and indeed they crowded by the dozen around the church doors and milled in the yard and flowed out into the lane amidst a tangle of creaking carriages and snorting horses, a greater segment of the parish than had ever come to church since they had had any acquaintance with the village--"probably since before the Reformation!" Margaret exclaimed delightedly.
"They must have been arriving since long before the bells were rung," Edward said, hurrying ahead to see that his curate had brought in all the extra chairs from the vestry and store-room.
"Dear God," Marianne whispered, for she knew full well that most of them--those who were not on such intimate terms with the great house that they could properly have paid a call without a sound reason of business (which they had no doubt tried but failed to invent)--had come to look at her, perhaps in the hope of seeing her swoon under the trial of facing the entire village. Determining at once not to afford them that satisfaction, she lifted her chin and thrust her shoulders back, and walked on.
"Those must be correspondents," Margaret said, pointing to two young men standing a little apart from the throng; "--they have ink on their hands just like that man who talked to Mr. Marchbanks. I should think it very entertaining to observe people and write about them and be paid for it."
Elinor often despaired that Margaret, though now nearly seventeen years of age, yet showed very little less inclination to be inquisitive and indiscreet than she had three years previously, when she had set the equally inquisitive and indiscreet Mrs. Jennings upon the scent of a young man whose name began with an F. She gave it as her opinion that Margaret would be wiser to become a novelist, "for then she could observe and write about people without exposing the foibles of her neighbors to the world."
"But a correspondent can write equally well about his neighbors' virtues, can he not?" her sister rejoined with an air of wounded dignity. "The colonel's innocence and integrity, for example, or Marianne's bravery and forbearance. You need not think me always gossiping, Elinor."
Realizing that she had done her sister something of an injustice, that Margaret in her naïveté yet believed that indiscretion could be well-meaning, Elinor bent her efforts to an apology that was at the same time not devoid of a little counsel; and by the time they had reached the fringes of the crowd they were friends again.
The multitude fell silent as Marianne approached and made her way among them to the gates of the churchyard, no one daring to speak to her as they performed their courtesies, no one turning their eyes away; somehow she managed to smile at every body and at the same time watch her feet so she should not trip on the uneven flags of the walk and be said to have collapsed. When she had passed through the doors, she heard the buzz of conversation resume behind her, and the shuffle of dozens of pairs of shoes and boots on the stone floor as the crowd now flooded into the church and battled for seats; but she stared resolutely forward as she walked down the aisle and stepped into the family pew, drawing strength from Edward's encouraging smile before her and the consoling presence of her mother and sisters at her either side.
The enthusiasm displayed during the opening portions of the service was not very remarkable, but when Edward had finished thanking the choir and band and drawn breath to begin his sermon, pulses beat faster and breathing quickened in anticipation. His first comment, however, expressing his happiness that they were so eager to hear his thoughts on the latest game laws, caused some consternation in those who had allowed their expectation of a very different topic to entice them into an edifice with which they were in general very little acquainted. He restored himself to their favor soon enough, however, by stating that he really did intend to address that issue of most immediate concern to all the village. Among most of his listeners his opinion and assurances counted for something, and when he asserted that Colonel Brandon was a gentleman of irreproachable behavior and unbreakable word, there were many murmurs of agreement, albeit a few rather grudging from those who usually held varying opinions from Brandon's on one divisive issue or another. Even Mr. Potter and Mr. Oakley, who had recently felt his disdain for their obstinacy, in their new friendship could vigorously bob their heads. "And so it should be of some relief and comfort to you," Edward said, "that he has given me his word that he is not guilty of this crime." It may have been that most of the congregation were relieved and comforted, but Elinor, looking about, could see that some were in fact disappointed, preferring excitement to reassurance. Edward went on to explain some of the measures that were being taken, and to express his faith in Constable Parker and Mr. Haydock, the latter of whom was present and stood (without being asked) to receive the gratitude of his neighbors. Edward next pointed out, very gently--as he was hardly a disinterested party, and also from a danger of its being conjectured that Marianne had asked him to intervene--that while curiosity about a neighbor's affairs was quite natural and even justified, it could also be a torment to those who were the objects of it. He then closed with a quietly powerful sermon on courage and neighborly succor in a time of adversity; and lastly he was obliged, as the congregation compressed themselves back through the doors with an even louder buzz of discussion, to offer apology for bringing to tears the very person he had hoped to sustain with his public support and care.
"Oh Edward," said Marianne, dabbing at her eyes, "do not ask my pardon for such benevolence; I am very moved, that is all, and thankful that you are my brother. Let me but sit here a moment and compose myself, and perhaps some of them will have gone by the time I come out."
Her hope was in vain. When the family party at last emerged, they found the churchyard even more closely packed with onlookers, a gauntlet of them all the way to the gate. They were no longer silent, however; provoked into solicitude by Edward's sermon, they overwhelmed Marianne with offers of food and servants, and lodging should she have so many guests she could not accommodate them all; of advice; of the names of competent lawyers (Mr. Haydock, overhearing this, turned the color of the violets that topped Mrs. Holcombe's hat); of prayers; with promises of letters to the papers and the magistrates; and above all such generous sympathy that, though she knew that most wanted simply to stare at her for as long as they could, she felt rather more kindly disposed toward them than she had upon her arrival.
She did not feel so charitable, however, that she could see Mr. Wilverton with aplomb. He stood next his carriage with his wife and three of his daughters, about to step in; but upon their gazes meeting he hesitated, and then turned a little as if to start toward her. "I cannot encounter him now," she declared. "I have felt so wounded by his actions that I do not know what I might say to him."
"You cannot cut him in the churchyard!" protested Mrs. Dashwood.
"And why not, when he has so willingly persecuted my husband?"
"Wait--he is coming forward, and Susan with him--"
Marianne was thus forced to halt, for she would not cut Susan, and she suspected that Susan had attached herself to her father's arm with that very awareness in mind. But when they had come up to her, upon the completion of curtsies and bows all around it became quickly obvious that none of them had any idea what they should say.
It was Susan who at last broke the heavy silence. "I am sorry, Mrs. Brandon, that I have not called. I have had nothing to offer but horrified commiseration, and I did not know whether you felt that I had the right to offer it."
Marianne gave her a warm smile, glad to be shown that Susan's opinion of the matter did not match her father's. "I should have been very glad to see you, Miss Wilverton, but I understood that if your sympathies did lie with my husband and myself, you were doubtless in an awkward position within your own family." She was ignoring Mr. Wilverton very pointedly, but her attention was suddenly drawn to him by the inescapable attack of Mrs. Holcombe.
"Robert Wilverton, I have not seen a letter bearing your signature in any of the papers. I am aware that you were in the arresting party, but as I am certain you cannot approve of Lord Melgrove's indefensible treatment of Colonel Brandon, who is your friend and fellow magistrate, I cannot think that any impropriety would attend your writing in support, at the very least, of his being granted bail."
"Indefensible," murmured Mrs. Laraby, barely visible behind the violets. "Bail."
As by the end of this harangue a significant portion of the remaining parishioners had gathered about them, the entire party were now suffering a certain degree of embarrassment. Elinor was at first inclined to feel for Susan especially, but on that young lady's countenance she espied an odd little smile, almost of satisfaction, as if she shared Mrs. Holcombe's sentiments and had expressed them to her father, but had not been heeded. Mrs. Holcombe, however, would always be heeded, and Mr. Wilverton was obliged to think of some kind of answer.
"I point out, Mrs. Holcombe, that the papers have not the space to print every letter they receive--but it is true that I have not written one. Not--yet," he added slowly, and both Marianne and his daughter looked at him with amazement. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought since that very unpleasant day. Colonel Brandon is, as you say, my colleague and my friend, and I was so greatly astounded and dismayed to learn of such an unsavory incident in his recent past that I was incapable of accepting his protestations of innocence. But after some significant exertion within my own conscience I have come to accept that some gentlemen do still hold to what I consider to be rather barbaric notions of honor, and that they are no less gentlemen for doing so. I said that day to Lord Melgrove that I would vouch for the colonel's word, and this morning, through Mr. Ferrars--whose own word and judgment I trust implicitly--I have been given his word again, at a moment when I can hear it, that he is innocent of this crime." He looked directly at Marianne. "I have no reason to believe, Mrs. Brandon, that my opinion will carry more weight than any other, but for what it may be worth, Lord Melgrove and the newspapers will hear from me on the morrow."
Upon the conclusion of his speech, Susan was so brimming with filial regard that she promptly kissed his cheek, and Marianne pressed his hand in a warm renewal of friendship and respect--while Elinor privately thought that if Mr. Wilverton took as much notice of village activity and feeling as her sister Margaret, who did not even reside there, instead of focusing his attentions always on London and the nation, he would have been apprised of Edward's judgment and assurance long before now.
"May I write a letter to the newspaper, Mama?" Margaret asked.
Before Mrs. Dashwood could reply, Mrs. Holcombe interjected, "If you do, my dear, you will be thought very forward--as I am."
"Forward," whispered Mrs. Laraby.
"But I am forward--Elinor tells me so almost every day."
"Obviously that is not often enough," her sister said in a tone both wry and affectionate, and Margaret smiled very proudly.
"If your Mama permits you to write, Miss Dashwood, come to see me for advice with the wording. You must be forceful and to the point, you know, without being so vituperative as to make the readers think you a radical and thus pay no attention to you."
"Yes, ma'am, I shall come," Margaret said, clearly considering the matter well settled. "Thank you, Mrs. Holcombe!"
"And at the same time I shall loose another epistle of my own at Lord Melgrove, who has not yet responded to my first--"
********************
While Edward's urging of compassionate reserve as well as the passage of time did cause the number of callers to slacken noticeably, the succeeding days brought Marianne an alternate irritation to take the place of the first: she was now overwhelmed with correspondence, the newspaper accounts of the case making her family objects of fervent interest to relations and friends from whom they had received no news or inquiry for months or even years. Bundles of letters were forwarded to her mother from Barton, and she herself spent hours at her desk every day, sometimes with Joy dozing in her lap; she often read passages aloud to her mother and sisters when they kept her company while they worked, or even jumped up and sought them in the still-room or garden if she came across a really repugnant phrase.
That they "simply could not believe it" was the universal refrain, and their state of being shocked and appalled was always beyond their power of description; but as most lived some distance away and were not daily beset with fear and failure, they could, after sending sympathy and confidence of a speedy resolution, be full of plans for Bath or Brighton, and close with "we will surely see you in town when all this unpleasantness is but a memory." She received a note from Robert and Lucy Ferrars, who rarely wrote even to Elinor and Edward unless each wanted to complain about the other, or both wanted to complain about Mrs. Ferrars and congratulate Edward for having the good fortune to be not very often in his mother's orbit. They did not even bother being shocked and appalled, though they did profess to be confident; in truth they could not have been more satisfied with the colonel's difficulty, for their connection to the Brandons had made them valuable additions to a dinner party, even to a few great tables to which they had never before been invited.
John and Fanny Dashwood were shocked and appalled by the scandal to the family and the consequent risk to their own social prospects and those of their young Harry, more than by the insult to their brother-in-law. "We have been questioned pretty thoroughly," John wrote, "and have of course assured every body that the colonel is not the sort of man--(etc., etc.) We trust we have your assurances on that point,--(etc., etc.) Should such a situation arise again we do hope you will warn us before we read about it in the papers with the rest of the country,--(etc., etc.)" Marianne resolved not to expend her entire store of teacup missiles before their next visit.
Brandon's cousin Fanny was shocked and appalled, but brusquely confident that justice would soon prevail, and much more interested in recounting her family's recent journey to the wilds of Scotland for the purpose of trying to empty the highland streams of all their fish. His cousin Wilfrid was, in addition to being shocked and appalled, proud that he was a new grandfather, and already dreaming of a match between Wilfrid the Third and Joy. Marianne resolved to locate a law of consanguinity that would prohibit such an union.
Even Mrs. Jennings, though Marianne had no doubt that her being shocked and appalled was quite genuinely felt, was too eager to let her know the opinions of every body in Barton and half of Exeter besides for her to believe that the good woman was entirely uninterested in the incident as a subject for the gossip to which she was so cheerfully devoted. And so great was Sir John's indignation owing to Lord Melgrove's not having responded to his letter that he could not conceive of any other outcome than his friend's well-deserved triumph, and so had no need of being shocked or appalled at all.
Of all her correspondents, only two were sincerely dismayed and alarmed to the exclusion of all other emotion or concern. "I do not yet know what to feel regarding Mr. Willoughby's death," Eliza wrote. "It leaves so many things unresolved--and perhaps, as you say of yourself, I shall never decide what to feel. But I feel a pure, clear horror to know that my cousin Brandon has been accused of his murder. Though of course I did not witness their encounter I did see my cousin just before and after it; I saw his grim purpose, his determination to do what he believed was right even at the risk of his life. Only a coward could commit the act you describe, and my guardian is as far from being a coward as it is possible for a man to be. I beg you to be a regular correspondent, Mrs. Brandon, and keep me informed of what develops. In the meanwhile I shall write to my cousin at once, as you ask, in the hope that a word or two from me, and a scribble from John Brandon, might divert him a little--"
And on Wednesday she at last received a brief communication from Jonah Masters. "My dear Mrs. Brandon-- I have just this moment received yours of the 9th inst., having been away on army business. I have also now seen the newspapers, and am very anxious indeed. Of course I shall come. Mrs. Masters sends warm thanks for your concern, but she is very well and insists I depart at once. You may expect me on the heels of this letter. Your good friend, Jonah Masters."
The sergeant arrived a little before noon on the following day, surrounded by his usual air of good cheer, only a little dimmed by the circumstance that had brought him, and the fatigue of a long and swift journey. He told Mrs. Dashwood that "she grew lovelier every time he set eyes upon her," and chided Margaret for "breaking Robbie's heart when you both were here last--the poor boy can't contend with two French lads! He has sworn off women until the next assembly." Marianne expended several minutes in expressing her gratitude for his coming, until he grew very self-conscious and red in the face, and begged her to desist. "He would come for me, were I the one in a predicament."
"Of course he would, but you must allow us to be grateful nonetheless. And I say 'us,' because I wrote to him yesterday of your plan and have already had a reply from him this morning, in which he echoes my own sentiments." She had hoped that her husband would take the opportunity to suggest that she accompany Masters to Dorchester, but she was disappointed; clearly he would require a broader hint than that, or even an open suggestion after all. "I am so glad to hear that Mrs. Masters is well enough that you may leave her for a short while." The sergeant's wife was no longer in the first bloom of youth, being about thirty, and had suffered a miscarriage with her first child earlier in the year.
"She does very well, madam. You'll recall that the doctor never did like her color before, and that she continued to bleed. But this time she is as robust as ever she was, and the doctor is very pleased."
Marianne found Masters a comfortable man, who more than compensated for his lack of elegance and occasional vulgarity with a limitless capacity for friendship of the truest kind. She had ordered tea in the drawing room, and when Polly had departed, the sergeant continued with that directness Marianne always admired. "And now, tell me how does the colonel."
With a sigh she replied, "He claims he is well, but I do not believe him, for I am guilty of some equivocation to him regarding my own spirits--though you must of course never tell him so!--and there is too much reassurance in his and Sarah's letters for me to entirely trust them."
"May I ask what has been done--or would you rather I talk to Mr. Ferrars or to the lawyer?"
"No, I am well informed, and long past feeling faint at the very mention of prisons or trials." She gave him some understanding of the facts of the case, including a few pertinent details regarding her association with Willoughby, some of which, to her brief confusion, he seemed already to know. The irony was not lost on her that while every body else tried to shield her feelings and her reputation, she herself was often, willingly if not eagerly, revealing details of a past attachment and humiliation that most women would prefer to keep to themselves. She was pleased and proud to be able to apprise him, to be thus actively helpful, to be calm when talking of such awful possibilities. "Mr. Haydock is not at this moment optimistic about his ability to disprove a charge of murder, since the button has not yet been explained away, and so he places his hopes on persuading the jury to convict on the lesser charge of manslaughter. But thus far my husband refuses to allow it, because he will not admit to the slightest degree of guilt."
Masters's genial face wore a troubled frown. "To be frank, Mrs. Brandon, it don't seem to me that there's much hope of a manslaughter conviction, given that there was a previous meeting between them."
"But it is years in the past."
"Are you aware, ma'am, that the challenge weren't completely carried out?"
"Yes--my husband told me once that Mr. Willoughby--behaved in a cowardly manner and that he could not murder him."
"Aye, he could not, and I never saw a man hold himself under tighter rein."
"You were his second!" Marianne exclaimed softly. "I have always wondered. Christopher never revealed it, and I never asked."
"I had that honor, ma'am. And if I hadn't checked Mr. Willoughby's pistol with the care I did, things might have gone forward and it really would have been over and done three years ago. The colonel might not have killed the blackguard in the end, but it would have been his choice--not taken out of his hands."
"What do you mean--'had you not checked his pistol'?"
Masters looked puzzled, and a little apprehensive. "But--you yourself spoke of his cowardly behavior."
"Christopher said that he begged for mercy--I know nothing more."
"Then--you did not refer to the rifled barrel?"
"What is a rifled barrel?"
The sergeant blanched. "Oh lord, Mrs. Brandon--I thought you knew all! I am sorry to have blabbed something the colonel thought would distress you--for he'd have told you otherwise."
"You must explain it now, you know."
"But--to a lady--"
"Sergeant, I have spent a great deal of time in recent days discussing matters that ladies are not believed to be capable of discussing but actually do with little hesitation when it is necessary. Besides, your delicacy is completely feigned, and is simply a ruse in order to avoid telling me."
"That it is, ma'am," the sergeant conceded ruefully. "Well, if you insist, then--" He paused, but Marianne did not relent. Here was apparently vital information of which she was ignorant, and her questioning gaze was so intent that Masters almost could not meet it. "I'm no gunsmith, but I understand this much, that when there are grooves inside a pistol barrel as there are inside a rifle barrel--thus the term, you see--the pistol is more powerful and accurate than those with plain barrels. Rifled barrels are forbidden by the Code, and it is the duty of the seconds to examine the pistols for signs of this or any other violation. Mr. Willoughby tried to use such a pistol, and I discovered him in the attempt. It was being caught and the thought of losing his evil advantage that made him so fearful he couldn't lift a weapon. You see how a jury might be persuaded that the colonel has been angry all this while that he wasn't able to dispatch his opponent then; that he was cheated of the satisfaction he sought three years ago. If they believe that he attacked Mr. Willoughby for coming too near to you--you'll forgive me, ma'am--they'll call that murder, for though it might be a crime of passion and unpremeditated, its origin goes back a long way, and anything smelling of revenge is going to bring a conviction."
Marianne had never taken her eyes from his face. "I see," she said now, though no sound emerged from her lips. "I see. --Well then," (trying to bolster her courage with a smile) "--I suppose Joy and I must simply learn to like Australia, if we are to spend seven or fourteen years there. I have consulted with Mr. Haydock about my situation. I am free to sell my equity property, so there is no pecuniary obstacle to my making the journey with Joy and a nurse and a companion--though I fully expect my husband to object mightily--" She noted then that Masters looked stricken. "What is it, Sergeant?"
Had the particulars of the duel been the most awful information he had had to convey, Masters would have been grateful. "They don't as a rule transport murderers, Mrs. Brandon. They hang them."
At the certainty in his tone, Marianne's heart gave a sickening lurch. "But--he is a gentleman!"
"Rank won't protect him. Remember Earl Milcomb."
"But-- Of course I knew it was a possible penalty, but I assumed Christopher would be safe from it-- Mr. Haydock allowed me to assume it-- I see that I was not as well informed as I believed. Mr. Haydock is always afflicted with extreme sensitivity when talking with a lady."
"That's usually a very praiseworthy trait."
"Perhaps, but I shall have something to say to him when I am recovered enough to be angry." Her voice was weak, her vision not quite clear; she knew her knees would buckle if she tried to stand. "A petition, then, to the home secretary for mercy. All his friends and neighbors would sign it--his tenants, his general and brother officers--"
"His lawyer would certainly attempt it, but the secretary and the judge--the same judge who passed sentence, mind--would have to believe the conviction unjust. That doesn't happen often. And he could get no better than a conditional pardon, the condition being transportation for life--or worse, confinement to a hulk, and the colonel would choose the gallows before he'd want to be shut up in such a filthy, godforsaken place. At best it's a very uncertain hope, Mrs. Brandon."
"But it is a hope," Marianne cried, "and I shall cling to it. I must cling to it." Her lips quivered in an unsuccessful attempt at a smile. "Joy and I might see a kangaroo yet." The exertion of a few deep breaths steadied her a little so that she could think. "You are saying, then, that the only way to be absolutely certain of saving his life is to prove him innocent."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And to do that the real killer must be found."
"Yes, ma'am--and I swear I'll do everything in my power to find him."
********************
My dearest Christopher,
I send this by Sergeant Masters, who arrived at midday today and will be with you by the same time tomorrow. Please forgive the unsteadiness of my hand--I can hardly read what I have just written--but I have only just learned from the sergeant some information which neither you nor Mr. Haydock thought necessary to share with me. I speak of the rifled barrel, and the added motive it will give you in the minds of a jury. Mr. Haydock is too fastidious, but I know that you wanted only to protect me; all the same I wish you had not withheld such a crucial, a decisive, detail. I now truly understand the danger you face, and why it is so vital that you approve Mr. Haydock's strategy, which has thus far been so unpalatable to you. I am sure you have heard this justification from Mr. Haydock until you are heartily disgusted by it, but consider that a jury might be inclined to forgive you, to convict on the lesser charge if they are asked to do so. You need not tell me that you have done nothing for which you need beg forgiveness, but others do not know and trust you as I do and will not be so easily convinced. Christopher, it is the difference between a brief term of imprisonment with a fine--and the gallows. Sergeant Masters is very grieved that he has upset me, but I have told him he should not feel so. Do not you feel it either, for he has only freed me from a misconception, and you know that I value candor and honesty above all things. I now understand that your assured safety lies only in the apprehension of the guilty party, and though Mr. Parker is very determined, he has so far met with no success. Of course we are yet blessed with a considerable length of time, and Mr. Parker may yet save us; or perhaps it will be Sgt. Masters, who has pledged to do his all on your behalf, as the loyal friend he is. When they must return to their homes and other duties, there will then be the thief-takers--but I beg you to allow Mr. Haydock to proceed with his alternate plan. He must prepare arguments and locate witnesses, such as Willoughby's second, and to do this he requires every possible moment and also your authorization of the further expense. And of course he must be given your word that you will not undermine his efforts in the courtroom. As for me, I care only that you are freed--I care not by what means, or argument, or admission, if such a last resort is all that is left you six months hence. Please, my husband, consider the feelings of all whom you love. Think of your wife, so early perhaps a widow. Think of your darling Joy, so soon deprived of her dear father, and never knowing him. I desire more than anything that you should be exonerated, but to me it is more important, more necessary, that you be freed. If you are concerned about the opinion of your neighbors, we can remove to another part of the country, or even go abroad. Oh Christopher, I know that you will not thank me for this plea, that I risk causing you more misery than you already suffer, but I must try to impress upon you how I miss you, how I fear for you! So many avenues are open to you; I beg you do not deliberately travel that one from which there is no returning-- I cannot write more, I cannot see the paper--
In anguish,
Your faithful and devoted Marianne.
********************
Chapter Nine
"How can she ask this of me?" Brandon stared at Marianne's letter as if it were composed in a language unknown to him. "I thought her better acquainted with my character. How can she say she does not understand?" So deeply distressed was he by her plea and by the misery that had prompted it, but at the same time so very astonished to receive it, that his exclamation had burst forth before he could think to suppress it. He quickly read the letter again, as if in the hope that the words had miraculously altered, and then held it up toward Masters in disbelief. "She begs me to yield to Haydock's wishes, to allow a false and malicious accusation to stand unchallenged-- You do not seem surprised."
Masters had watched his companion's demeanor change in only moments, from so great a delight upon being presented with a letter from Marianne that he could hardly greet his good friend or express thanks for his coming, to confusion and dismay upon absorbing its contents; watched him spring up from his chair to pace about as he read, clutching the paper in hands that trembled with strong emotion. "Mrs. Brandon informed me of what she had written, and begged me to add my urgings to hers. I am very sorry that I frightened her so."
"You have merely hastened the inevitable: Haydock would have reported her inquiries to me, and should himself have explained matters to her more completely. But how she gained her fuller comprehension scarcely concerns me. That she is unable or unwilling to understand my position in this matter--I did not expect that from Marianne. From my lawyer, from my friends, even from Sarah--but not from my wife." It wounded him greatly to be the slightest disappointed in his confidence, to receive such a blow when he had come to depend always upon her favor.
"And who should question your resistance more than your wife? Mrs. Brandon loves you and does not want to be made a widow." A strange expression appeared briefly on Brandon's face, but Masters could wonder at it for only an instant before his host replied.
"There is the possibility that the grand jury will not return an indictment at all, or that the trial jury will ignore the judge's directions and acquit. In either case I would be free without having sacrificed truth and principle."
Masters appeared very dubious. "Mights and might nots are all a great gamble, and you have never been a gaming man. Why don't you allow Haydock to proceed, in case it should happen that you lose your wager?"
"So you, too, would ask me to disregard principle, to disregard honor?" Brandon's tone was very sharp. "How can you, when you have seen the lengths to which I will go to defend it?--when you have even supported me--?"
"I did support you, and so you are well aware that I value honor as much as you. My opinion should then have the greater influence. But it seems I'm more particular than you about how and why I give up my life. Confound it, Brandon, why must you be so stubborn?"
"Because I must think of my wife, and especially of my daughter, who depends upon me for her name, her status, her reputation--"
"A manslaughter conviction wouldn't leave much of a stain--it's no different from one man killing another in a boxing match or a carriage accident."
"Among those from whose friendship and society I should want Joy to benefit, it would. Wilverton, for one, though we have sat together on the bench and dined at each other's tables for years, was not rational about the matter for days after I was charged, though he had heard my oath and all my arguments in his own study. What then would strangers believe? They would point and say, 'There is Joy Brandon--the daughter of a murderer.' And I must consider Sarah and Claude and their children as well."
"The family of Earl Milcomb weren't much affected, from what I've ever heard."
"I am not an earl, nor am I more than modestly wealthy. In the eyes of some, Joy's marriage portion would be insufficient to erase any stain at all. Moreover, if I am freed there will be more children, and should I not succeed in increasing my income, less money will be available for the establishment of each in an apprenticeship or profession."
"But if you're convicted of murder the stain will be all the greater. Wouldn't you rather suffer the lesser conviction and so remain alive and with your family?"
"In hiding, as Marianne suggests? In some isolated hamlet with no society to speak of, or in exile across an ocean?"
"But alive--to win back your reputation, and to prove your innocence. While there is life, there's hope, you know."
Something like a smile flickered across Brandon's face. "You should have remained a law clerk instead of enlisting, Jonah--you would be Lord Chancellor by now."
"You cannot imagine how unspeakably dull I found it to sit at a desk all the day long, or carry papers to and fro. I must say, Brandon, my association with you has ever been anything but dull!"
Brandon glanced at the letter in his hand. "I know a lady who once held a differing view. I thank Providence daily that she revised her evaluation." There was no actual fault attached to Marianne's feeling something other than what her husband had expected, and that husband was quite foolish to behave otherwise. At last he joined Masters at the table. "I seem to remember that we have had this debate once before."
"We have at that, sir--I don't wonder I am weary of it. Will you taste the arrack, or have I lugged it all the way from St. Ives for naught?"
In addition to Marianne's disconcerting communication, Masters had brought the unqualified blessing of two bottles of the coconut liquor he acquired regularly by the case from friends still stationed in India. Brandon took a long draught, savoring the sweet fire. "You regarded very seriously your duty as my second to try to dissuade me from my purpose. I did not like to contemplate the possibility of leaving Eliza alone in the world, especially with an infant to care for--though I had made generous provision for them, it would have been no substitute for an attentive guardian--but I could not leave Willoughby unpunished. It was a point of honor--not imagined honor, not a matter of name-calling or dirtying a man's boots or some such nonsense, but a real, a devastating injury. The injury done to all my family were I to yield now would be almost as great."
Masters scowled into his glass. "You should have killed him then. They never would have convicted you."
"Under those circumstances they would. Willoughby's second would have accused me of murder."
"He'd have found no one to support his story," Masters replied staunchly. "I say if the blackguard had a weapon in his hand, it was a duel."
"The jury would have regarded it otherwise, and I would not have allowed you to perjure yourself."
"Then I wish to Heaven above I had let him cheat! You'd have dispatched him and the matter would have been over and done."
"But in that event I might not now be a proud and happy husband and father," Brandon said softly. If the duel had ended differently, he would have been guilty of hurting Marianne in the full knowledge of what he did. "Many choices risk evil as well as good; and the greater the risk, the more difficult the choice." He set his glass down hard on the table, and when he continued his tone was bitter. "It is Willoughby's effect on us all. If I had never challenged him--"
"You did what you believed was right, and only after sober consideration."
"But if I had not challenged him then, I would not have an obvious motive for murdering him now."
"And doubtless any man but you would have realized at that time that somebody would shoot the knave not a mile from his house three years later."
Brandon's mouth quirked wryly. "I grant you your point." He reached for the arrack bottle and refilled his glass. "It is good of you to come, Masters, though I cannot think what you will accomplish by your trouble."
"If I can bring you to reason, I'll count my trouble well spent."
Brandon's answering expression gave him no hope, and when the colonel directed the conversation toward a consideration of their respective duties, Masters did not resist. They talked for a while of the campaign in Egypt and the peace negotiations with Bonaparte, and the condition of the soldiers whose training Masters supervised. "You are a treasure to your regiment, Sergeant. Colonel Richmond thanks me for recommending you every time he writes."
"You were good to take an interest in my future when I couldn't tolerate that infernal heat any longer. As to your own future, sir, I wonder--can you be pardoned for the king's service if you be already in the king's service?" Masters meant to jest, but Brandon's capacity for anything but gloom had clearly been exhausted. In a more serious tone, he continued, "It's early yet. We'll find him. It's been but ten days."
Brandon was momentarily nonplussed. "Only that? It feels--rather longer." He emptied the arrack bottle into their two glasses. "Constable Parker is near to giving it up, you know. He has inquired at every hut that calls itself an alehouse or inn between here and Poole, showing a sketch taken from the body. He has found no one who has a certain memory of seeing even Willoughby, let alone any companions."
Masters made a noise of frustration in his throat. "He might have stayed with friends, then."
"Parker cannot inquire at every house in the county, nor could an army of thief-takers. But anyone whose hospitality Willoughby would enjoy ought surely to see the papers. I cannot fathom how there can be no trace of his movements!"
"Still there is time," Masters insisted, though his usually cheerful countenance was grim. He finished the last of his arrack and stood. "I'll get myself a room and come back to dine with you."
"Sarah and Claude will join us. In fact, if you stay at the Royal George you can commiserate with them every evening."
"The coach pulled up there--it's far too rich for me. I'll find a tavern close by--"
"Jonah--I wish you would allow me to install you at the George."
Masters lifted his eyebrows, considered a moment, and then gave a nod. "All right, sir, and I thank you. It don't happen often that a sergeant has quarters finer than a colonel's! But if my Anna tells me I've acquired fancy airs, I shall set the blame squarely upon you!" Chuckling to himself, he started away, but stopped and turned in the doorway of the cell. "Colonel, let me say that I do understand your feelings--as well as any man can who hasn't faced the same trouble--but I also understand what Anna would feel were she in Mrs. Brandon's place. A principle is all well and good, but you must be certain that in sticking to it you don't do a greater evil." He came to attention briefly, and then departed, the sound of his boot heels echoing against the stone.
Brandon sat quietly for a time, sipping from his glass with a pensive air. Then he removed to his desk, but when he had arranged the paper and taken pen in hand, he did not know what he should write. Reading Marianne's letter again, he felt only wretched for having caused her greater grief. At last he dipped the pen, and began.
"My love-- Please believe that I never meant to cause you pain by withholding information from you. Indeed I was not aware that your misapprehension had carried you so far as to think of accompanying your husband to Botany Bay, else I should have relieved you of it myself--though the shock of disillusionment is always very great, no matter when or from whom it comes. Never would I want you to suspect that I think you anything but strong and brave, but you were striving so hard in your letters to appear bright and unworried, in an effort to shield me from any additional misery, that I could not take away from you any dream of an outcome more bearable than that which is thus far most likely. But your letter strikes at my heart, your fear leaps off the page, and I so very much regret being the cause, if only indirectly, of your greater misery."
She need not be uneasy with regard to her own future. Though she might be deprived of his physical protection she would always enjoy Edward's and Claude's; and she would be entirely safe from financial distress, for as soon as he was able he had purchased for her a small estate worth about five hundred pounds a year. Though he had hoped to acquire a larger property at a later date, such an income would support Marianne comfortably enough after Delaford had passed to Joy and her future husband, or to his nephew Christophe should Joy, though he could hardly think of it, not survive childhood. He had no reason to believe that with such a mother Joy would not develop into a loving and dutiful daughter, but a son-in-law, even if respectful and kind, might well be an incompetent estate manager, and he wanted Marianne dependent on no one's fortune but his own.
He was glad he had not delayed making these arrangements, that he was spared by his foresight and planning any similar worry on her behalf--though he had not expected to leave her alone quite so soon as this. Once he would not have minded the cutting short of his life--but no longer. Now it was agony to think that he might never see his home again, never see Marianne again except in this cold cell or from the court-room dock, might never hold his Joy again--for he did not dare allow an infant within these walls--might never give her brother or sister-- It was thoughts such as these, he knew, that also tormented Marianne, rather than considerations of a more pragmatic nature--for though she was not the heedless, immature girl she had been, she was yet more inclined than he to act without full examination of possible consequences. She was very sincerely attached to him--though not more than that: Masters was mistaken when he asserted that she loved him, but his heart had nonetheless leapt to hear the words, to know that an intimate friend had witnessed feelings of sufficient strength to make him believe that she did. She did not love him, else she would have told him, perhaps on the first anniversary of their marriage--for him a celebration of the first year in his life of total happiness since he was a small boy--when she had been especially generous with proofs of her affection and he had thought, wondered, hoped all the day and night that she would. He had hoped that day to be able at last to read to her the sort of poem he had put away years before and only in recent months dared to read again, poems that spoke of intertwined souls, of joined hearts, of love wholly reciprocal. Thus far he had been careful to share with her only those poems that spoke of the poet's love, careful not to imply that the object of his own felt, or should feel, something more for him than she had declared. Her regard for him had certainly increased, to the extent that there were moments--as while reading together, when a sentiment might cause her to regard him steadily for the space of two or three beats of his heart, or take his hand and press it to her lips--that he was certain, he was almost certain, that she did love him--loved him, at least, as someone more necessary to her life than the dear friend she had married. He had been content to wait, to be patient, to bask in her ever-growing devotion and tenderness, intensifying with shared experience just as his love had deepened; but now it was perhaps too late for her feelings to ripen further, this crisis having stolen the time as well as the energy for such self-examination. On their anniversary she had said to him that she grew happier by the day, happier than she had thought possible. It was a declaration he had rejoiced to hear; but it was not "I love you," and now he might go to his grave without ever hearing those longed-for words from her lips. Willoughby had cheated him of this satisfaction as well.
But Willoughby could not cheat him of the elation he had known with Marianne in their brief time together. She was his life and his world, she was friend and lover, in a continually strengthening union of which for so long he had not presumed even to dream. He missed long hours of conversation with her, walking and riding with her, the feel of her body pressed against his. He missed her companionship most during the quiet nights when he woke alone and often confused, so strange were his surroundings--when he could not kiss her shoulder before trying to fall asleep again, or brush his fingertips over her hair, or hear her breathing or feel the mattress shift as she stirred, or seek solace in her sleepy but passionate embrace.
Verses came to his mind, from collections of ancient Sanskrit poetry he had discovered while in India. Having lost Eliza, he had thought never to apply them to his own experience, but they spoke to him now as never before:
My love rests in my mind
as if melted therein
or reflected or painted or sculpted
or set therein as a jewel or mortised with cement or engraved;
as if nailed thereto by Love's five arrows
or as if tightly sewn into the very threads
of its continuum of thought.1Perfumed, O wind, with the rich scent of pollen
dripping from jasmine branches dentate with opening buds,
embrace my love
whose eye half flirts, whose body bends; and then,
touch me on every limb.2Though separated by a hundred lands,
by rivers, woods, and hills,
and knowing that for all he strives
he cannot see his love;
the traveller stands on tiptoe,
stretching, and with tear-filled eyes
still gazes, lost in thought,
in her direction.3
He was startled from his reverie by angry shouts, yelps of pain, and the slamming of an iron door--Padgett confining a troublesome prisoner to his cell for the remainder of the day. Wrenched away from a green and lovely place and flung back within these bleak gray walls, he was briefly disoriented, dazed. He set to work cleaning the nib of his pen where the ink had dried to a crust. Such melancholy ruminations were the curse of too many idle hours; he must stop tormenting himself, must cease undermining his own will.
"Allow me to assure you that I do not love honor more than life--not more than life with you, my Marianne--but should I forsake my honor, your life and Joy's would be bitter and hard. You say you would not mind it, but you do not truly comprehend. You would be talked about and pointed at, pitied and shunned--not by every body and not everywhere, but you could never know when to expect it, and that expectation would fester between us and destroy the life we have made together. I do know that you value candor and honesty above all things, and I love and admire you for it. How then can you not value honor?--for an inextricable component of honor is truth. Even to save my life I cannot say I have done something I have not. Masters tells me that I should live to prove my innocence--but that will be all the more difficult if I have already confessed.
"I cannot do better than to remind you of a song you well know, for you sing it often, and it is played at all the reviews. It is 'The Girl I Left Behind Me,' and I particularly draw your attention to its last verse--
"The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning.
But should I ne'er return again
Still with thy love I'll bind me
Dishonor's breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me.4
"My beloved Marianne, I do despair of our being ever wholly of one mind on this issue, when even Masters does not entirely share my view; but I grieve to think of our opinions as being wholly opposed, and I should be a desolate, piteous creature indeed should you ever actually think ill of me. If you could but come a little nearer to my way of thinking, I should be so much easier in my mind. You know that I do not act, or speak, or think, but I first consider you and Joy. Know also that even as I hold to this position I pray that I shall be delivered safely unto home and family, for it is all I desire, all I dream of. You will ask how then can I contemplate parting from you, in a way intentionally, of my own free will; and in response I can only beg you reflect on Lovelace to Lucasta: 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not Honor more.'5
"In heartfelt apology and plea, your loving Christopher."
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1Bhavabhuti, in Sanskrit Poetry from Vidyakara's "Treasury", ed. and tr. Daniel H. H. Ingalls, Harvard University Press, 1965, rpt. 2000, p. 183. [Return]
2Bhavabhuti, in Ingalls, p. 181. [Return]
3Sri Harsa, in Ingalls, p. 182. [Return]
4Hear the music and see the complete lyrics at Lesley Nelson's Folk Music Site: The Girl I Left Behind Me. [Return]
5Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars," 1649. For the full text click here. [Return]
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Continue to Chapters 10-11