Revelation,
or,
A Death at Delaford

[Chapters 1-3] [Chapters 4-5] [Chapters 6-7] [Chapters 8-9] [Chapters 10-11] [Chapters 14-15] [Chapters 16-17]

Chapter Twelve

"It is a very beautiful house," Margaret said, peering eagerly out of the window as the carriage turned into the drive of Allenham Court.

"Yes, it is," her sister replied. "Very beautiful." And it might have been mine.

The memory of her sole previous visit to this house was vivid in Marianne's mind. Deprived of the expedition Colonel Brandon had arranged to Whitwell, she and Willoughby had made their own outing. A lovely autumn day, like today; Willoughby's curricle as swift as the breeze, her eyes watering in the wind; their shared laughter when his hat blew off and skittered away from the groom as he chased it down--such a perfect combination of mood and event could hardly have been dreamed. It had been a day of bliss, totally free of any care--for she had not known then the reason for the colonel's sudden departure. Willoughby had brought her up this drive with pride, full of praise for the design of the venerable house and the park, and pausing so that she might enjoy his favorite views; but also full of plans for the improvement of the windows and the sweep, and a complete rebuilding of the stables where Queen Mab, the horse she had been unable to accept from him, might one day have welcomed her. He had shown her over every portion of the house except the apartments of his elderly cousin, commenting on the generally pleasing dimensions of the rooms and assuring Marianne that when the house was his own he would lose no time in replacing all the furnishings, which were every bit as elderly as his cousin. Having purchased new draperies and several chairs herself since her marriage, she now had a clearer notion of the staggering sum that would be required to revive every room at Allenham.

Her thoughts had not turned so steadily on Willoughby since she had learned of his death nearly a fortnight before, her constant anxiety for her husband, now fully comprehended, leaving her neither time nor energy to spare him a thought. But here where they had been happy together, she felt she owed him some measure of grief. Walking through the house and the gardens, they had brimmed with plans and expectations spoken and unspoken. Their behavior had been most indiscreet, but as they had not been conscious of indiscretion, or possibly had even been stimulated by it, the luster of the day was not shadowed by concern for what others might say. She had believed herself in the company of the man who would be her husband, and on that day perhaps he had really loved her; but now it was bittersweet to remember that day in the full knowledge of her good fortune in having avoided marriage to him. She had loved him then, unrestrainedly, but her experiences with him would have been of the kind that wear away at love, that destroy it with selfishness and disrespect. Even had there been no Eliza in his past, there would have been expenses and debts in his future: a man who does not live within his means at six or seven hundred a year does not learn economy when his means increase. And there had been one Eliza; she could never have felt secure of there not being others--and other John Brandons. Would Willoughby have been less indifferent toward his legitimate children? And what example would he have set for them, being himself idle, profligate, and undisciplined?--for a man's character is pretty generally fixed by the age of five-and-twenty. Of course such marriages were contracted every day--she could point to examples all about her; but that was not the sort of marriage on which she had determined for herself, not the sort of union on which she cared to bestow mind, body, and heart. With that sort of union was she blessed now, and she would not lose it, would not lose the man who had given it to her, if it were in her power to save him.

She had anticipated Elinor's initial appalled objection to her scheme, and had almost reached the escape of the carriage by the time her sister, her arms burdened with Rosalind, caught up with her to remonstrate.

"You cannot be going to Allenham!"

"Yes, I can. I have a carriage and post horses, and a coachman and postilion to drive them--"

"Marianne--" (in exasperation)--

"Well--and why not? Constable Parker believes that Mrs. Smith was not surprised by Willoughby's having met an untimely and--and violent end. She must therefore know something of his habits and his acquaintance, and as Mr. Parker cannot be in two places at once, even should he be inclined to journey to Allenham a second time, I have resolved to make further inquiries myself."

"But surely Mr. Parker asked all necessary questions, and if Mrs. Smith had subsequently recalled any relevant information she would have written to him as he requested."

"Why should she ponder the matter further, when thanks to Lord Melgrove and Mr. Humphries she believes the guilty man already apprehended? My purpose is to insist otherwise--with far more conviction than Mr. Parker could ever display--and urge her to consider who among Willoughby's acquaintance might have better reason than Christopher for doing away with him. You need not concern yourself with my safety, for the roads are good and the weather is fine, and I doubt whether Mrs. Smith will set the dogs upon me."

"I do not think of danger; I think of impropriety."

"Impropriety! Can you truly think I care that people will point to me? They will say, 'here is a woman trying to save her husband.' I will not regret being talked about in that fashion. Neither would you, if your being an object of interest or even derision would save Edward from some awful fate. Christopher would not shrink from any course for my sake, and I shall not for his. Do not talk to me of impropriety when my husband's life is at stake!"

Elinor could not but admire her sister's fierce courage, even while suffering qualms about the rash behavior to which it might lead her. "His life is not at stake today--you must calm yourself if you can. You have never been introduced to Mrs. Smith--she might not receive you. Write to her first. She is said to be very old-fashioned; if you offend her she might never talk to you at all. And I question whether Margaret should accompany you--"

"Mama has given her permission, Elinor," Margaret said rather importantly, "and it is not for you to contradict her."

Elinor drew breath to reply, but Marianne quickly averted any prolonged dispute between her sisters; every moment spent in argument was a moment she was not on her way. "Willoughby said she is old-fashioned; I should not trust his judgment of anybody's character except possibly his own. Oh, I could not bear the wait. Besides, if I should write and she refuse or not respond, then my giving offense upon going would be assured--for I would go, regardless of her silence or refusal. She will find it more difficult to deny a caller already on her doorstep, especially such a caller as I, with my reason for coming. I have written a note to send in with my card, explaining my motivation. I know he was her cousin and her heir, but if there is any compassion in her heart, she must yet be able to feel for me. Oh Elinor, though I am happy in my discovery I am also in agony that I have reached it too late-- I must do all I can to save him--" Her handkerchief being incapable of absorbing any more tears, she stuffed it into her reticule and withdrew another. "Please do not delay me further. Despite everything you can say against it, I will go, and if I hurry I can perhaps bring some useful information to Mr. Haydock and yet reach Dorchester this evening. Perhaps I will see Christopher before we sleep tonight. Oh, that I may have good news for him!"

"I believe that one particular piece of good news you convey will carry him through many more days or weeks of uncertainty," Elinor said with great affection. She voiced no more protest, and sent them down the lane with her most generous blessings.

Marianne hardly knew how she had borne the passage of the hours. Though she beseeched George and the postilion for all the speed that was safe--she would be hindered indeed should they lame a horse--it seemed to her agitated perceptions that the miles rolled away in a leisurely fashion as if they took a pleasant Sunday drive, far too slowly to give her peace.

Neither was she granted peace by her companion. She had intended to bring Polly with her, but Margaret, upon hearing her instructions to the maid, begged to come in her stead, and Marianne had consented. She soon, however, had reason to regret her indulgence, for Margaret kept up a constant nervous chatter. "I really do feel that Elinor is at times overly attentive to etiquette, do not you, Marianne? And why she must so often lecture and censure me as if I were still but ten years old I cannot understand. I know that she is good and kind and has only my welfare at heart, but really one does get so tired of being told what to so when one is almost grown up! I do hope she will cease her matronly scrutiny once I am married--but she has not yet ceased with you, has she?--"

After a mile or two of such complaint, which Marianne wished her sister would keep to herself though she did agree with some portion of it, Margaret then proceeded to a commentary upon the reason for their expedition. "I hope that if my husband ever is in difficulty I am the one to rescue him. Perhaps I shall marry Philippe, and he will steal into France to recover La Tonnelle and be captured by the Bonapartists. Or perhaps I shall marry Christophe, and he will join the navy and be captured by a French frigate--"

"Margaret!--must you prattle so? This is not a game!"

Margaret's surprise at this stinging attack was very quickly succeeded by injured dignity. "I know it is not a game! Can you believe that I regard revolution as an amusement, or that I find enjoyment in Colonel Brandon's situation?"

"No, of course not, but--"

"Marianne, are you not excited to be helping your husband? Is it not a relief to be acting, rather than always waiting for news?"

"Well, yes--yes, it is. And I do feel something like excitement, I suppose. I am sorry I snapped at you. I am overwrought, and easily irritated. --I must confess that I do feel very clever and resourceful for having thought of a way to help Christopher without disregarding his wishes--though I will disregard them when I go to see him tonight or tomorrow. But he will forgive me that transgression when he hears what I will tell him."

Noting the significance in her smile, Margaret was all curiosity. "What will you tell him? You said to Elinor that you have made a discovery--"

"Oh, merely a something between a husband and wife."

Margaret's boundless romanticism soon erased any mild disgruntlement that she might have felt in consequence of her sister's secrecy. "I hope I will soon have a husband with whom to share a something."

"Wait for the right husband, dear Margaret, and try to recognize him when he appears somewhat more quickly than I did."

Margaret sat back in her seat and pondered this tender advice for a little while. Presently she said,

"You have seemed older to me since Mama and I arrived. You remind me of Mrs. Holcombe."

"Mrs. Holcombe!"

"Yes. She always looks as though she is daring anybody to cross her, and that is the expression you have worn all this morning."

Recalling Mrs. Holcombe's investigation of Mr. Haydock's competence, her letters to Lord Melgrove and to the newspapers, and her demand for an explanation of Mr. Wilverton's reticence, Marianne decided that to be compared with Mrs. Holcombe under the present circumstances was very far from being an insult; overbearing that lady might be, but her principles were exacting, and her courage admirable.

Glad once again that she had brought her sister as her companion rather than a maid, with whom she could not talk as freely and thus distract herself a little from the thought of her destination and the reason for her impatience to arrive, she entered into Margaret's earlier fanciful musings by saying, "La Tonnelle was sold, you know, not confiscated; and I understood Christophe to say recently that he wants to follow his uncle into the army."

Thus challenged, Margaret exerted herself. "Then perhaps I shall marry one of those newspaper correspondents, and he will be kidnapped by highwaymen and I shall ransom him--"

They proceeded eagerly to attach Margaret in succession to a desert Bedouin with a camel, an explorer of the South Seas, a privateer cruising the Mediterranean, a rajah with gold and jewels and an elephant, and a dozen other deliriously romantic gentlemen who led sufficiently perilous lives that their being in need of rescue at least once by a brave and ingenious consort was a certainty. This exercise occupied nearly an hour and eight or ten miles with genuine amusement, but by the time they reached the village of Allenham they had long since exhausted their supply of adventurers, and Marianne was wishing for the company of a maid after all, though a different maid from her own: Mrs. Jennings's Betty, who had once been a useful source of information about the household she would soon encounter for the second time in her life.

All was quiet as they slowed to a halt in the sweep, as quiet as it had been during her previous visit. She would have expected a greater amount of activity after the death of the heir to the estate--callers, guests, lawyers, and not least a horde of hopeful and fawning relations; her own house had hardly known a moment's tranquility. But Mrs. Smith was old and infirm, and perhaps conducted all her business by post, or even entrusted it to her steward or housekeeper. A stableboy dashed out to be ready in case he were wanted, and it struck her that he wore no mourning ribbon, nor did the footman who accepted her card and note from George at the door. She would not expect Mrs. Smith's servants to be prostrate with grief, but she would expect so proper a lady to require some acknowledgment of her loss throughout her household.

This mild puzzlement gave her but a moment's respite, however, from her general agony of suspense. Her palms perspired inside her gloves and her heart raced, but she willed herself calm so that Margaret would not worry, as she had during the periods of their journey when her sister's emotions had escaped her governance and tears had seeped continually from her eyes. Would Mrs. Smith consent to see her? All Elinor's admonitions returned to her in force. She was inclined to overstep the bounds of correct behavior, had once prided herself on that trait, but had since learned the value of curbing its most extreme manifestations; had she now done her husband's cause irreparable harm by gratifying her own craving for haste? The minutes crept along, while George was patient at the door, and the postilion and groom gossiped with the stableboy as they watered the horses. Elinor was surely correct; even now Mrs. Smith must be instructing her footman to eject her impudent visitor, or writing an irate letter of dismissal--

The door opened again and the footman conferred with George, who returned to the carriage with a smile. "Mrs. Smith's compliments, ma'am, and will you please to come up to her sitting room?"

Marianne's sigh of relief was almost a sob. She pressed Margaret's hands and then descended from the carriage, her legs shaking so badly that she was very glad to cling to George's hand. The invitation not having extended to her, it was Margaret's lot to wait in the carriage; and she could not decide whether she should be more offended by the exclusion, regretful that she was deprived of the opportunity to support her sister, or relieved that she had been spared what promised to be an awkward scene. When the front door had closed behind Marianne, she flung herself back into her seat and wished that she had emulated Elinor's sensible practice of always bringing her work-bag so as to make profitable use of such unexpected waits as this.

Marianne followed the wigged and liveried footman up the stairs and down a wide and musty hall, toward the very sitting room that Willoughby had implied would be her own. She blushed to think of talking with Mrs. Smith there, but the footman turned into the adjoining wing and she was much relieved. All the furnishings yet looked old and dilapidated, but they did not provoke in her a feeling of offense or superiority as they had when she had viewed them as an intolerant and arrogant girl. The generally staid atmosphere, however, did speak of the character of the lady to whom she would in a moment be introduced: a lady who valued economy above fashion, and who possessed principle enough to disinherit Willoughby for his refusing to marry the girl whom he had seduced and abandoned. Her principle had been sufficiently flexible, however, to allow her to relent after he had married a lady of good fortune and family; nor had this lady of principle ever herself offered aid to Eliza or her child.

She was shown to a door; she was announced. Formal greetings were exchanged, courtesies made and received, and she was directed to a chair. Mrs. Smith was small and frail, rather birdlike and very wrinkled; but there was in her open countenance, particularly in her lively eyes, a resemblance to Willoughby that Marianne found inexpressibly poignant. Tears threatened once again--this time, if only in this place at this moment, for the one of the men she had loved who was beyond earthly troubles. Silenced by heartache and confusion, she could not at once speak--and was not at all certain, in any case, that it was her place to do so, she having come here, after all, to pry--and so it fell to Mrs. Smith to begin the conversation.

"I was very surprised to receive your card and note, Mrs. Brandon. I should have thought you and your husband constantly occupied with lawyers and magistrates and newspapers in recent days. I am at a loss as to how I can possibly be of assistance to you at this late date, but you are most welcome to ask me anything you like."

Marianne had intended to begin her share of the dialogue with condolences and an apology for disturbing her hostess during a time of sorrow, but the callousness of this opening, the complete insensitivity it demonstrated, incensed her and returned to her the power of speech. "Surprised! Surprised that a wife should attempt to uncover any scrap of information that might free her innocent husband? The names of Mr. Willoughby's friends in this part of the country, of the establishments he frequented--that is all I wished to obtain from you, if you know them. But perhaps you have no pity for the sufferings of others. How can you, when you display not the slightest bit of grief for your own loss? I have seen no sign of mourning in this household, not even the smallest bit of black on your own clothing, Madam. I am well aware, perhaps more so than most, that Mr. Willoughby was a weak and selfish young man, but he was your relation, and a regular guest in your house. Do you feel no sadness that he is dead? Is there nothing of his memory that you wish to honor? Oh!--I see now that it was hopeless--it was folly to seek aid in this place! I should never have come--far better that I had gone to Dorchester--to my husband--" Her tears were now primarily of defeat and disappointment, that all her effort had been futile; and her annoyance that she should succumb to them before an unsympathetic stranger only made them flow all the harder.

Mrs. Smith was silent in the face of her attack, though her shock and anger were obvious. She motioned to the footman, who, following the custom of an earlier era, had never left the room. "Mrs. Brandon, I must ask you to excuse me for a brief time--please forgive me. I hope that you will consent to be entertained by Mrs. Willoughby in the parlor."

For a moment Marianne feared that she might faint. Mrs. Willoughby! Mrs. Willoughby here? She had not intended to say one word to Sophia Willoughby ever in her life, though she had seen her two or three times at parties in Barton since first beholding her across that fateful room in London. To be alone with Willoughby's widow, to be forced to be polite, to commiserate with the woman who had dictated so hateful a letter to her--she could not imagine a greater ordeal. But the thought of her husband gave her courage; for him she could slay dragons. She steadied herself with a deep breath. "I should be pleased to meet Mrs. Willoughby."

By the time she had reached the downstairs parlor in the main portion of the house, she had realized that Mrs. Smith might by her desertion actually have granted her a favor, though it were unintentional. An opportunity to talk with the one person who would be best informed as to Willoughby's friends and habits, who could perhaps explain his movements during the final hours of his life, whose own whereabouts had been so mysteriously unaccounted for--she could not have asked for a greater benefaction. All the same, it was with trepidation that she entered the room, with a qualm that she rested her eyes upon the lady who looked up from her desk with the usual curiosity at the opening of a door, and then with utter astonishment at the announcement of her visitor's name.

If there had ever been any doubt that Sophia would be able to connect the name Mrs. Marianne Brandon with the memory of a distraught girl pleading for the attentions of her own fiancé in a crowded card room, the newspaper accounts had removed it, the correspondents having located a great many willing informants, who had rushed to explain that the wife of the accused had once been so publicly attached to the deceased that they had been thought to be engaged. Her cold glare told Marianne that she had read those accounts thoroughly. She was not a handsome woman, though fine hair, good teeth, and smooth skin lent her some attraction, and were embellished as far as possible by the exquisite cut of her gown, the dressing of her hair, and, Marianne was certain, the faintest dusting of rouge upon her cheeks. She curtsied, and after a moment Mrs. Willoughby rose and did the same, though her disdainful air did not promise any great candor or civility in the forthcoming conversation. And what encouragement had she for being civil? She had been confronted unexpectedly with the wife of the man charged with the murder of her husband, the woman who might somehow, if only by her very existence, have enticed Willoughby into a foolhardy excursion to Delaford. But as Sophia, strange as it seemed, would be a natural ally in her investigation--for surely she must want punished the man who had actually committed the crime--Marianne knew that she must persuade her of Christopher's innocence, or at the very least instill sufficient doubt that Sophia would be willing to discuss the matter with her.

"Please forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Willoughby. Mrs. Smith requested that I wait for her here."

A delicate eyebrow lifted. "Did she? Then I suppose you had better sit down, as this is yet her house and she may offer its hospitality to whomever she likes."

Marianne blanched at this coarse insult, and for some moments had very great difficulty in conjuring a shred of empathy with the woman who had issued it. Again she relied on a deep breath to calm herself--several deep breaths, if truth be told, for if her throat and lungs were occupied with inhalation they could not articulate the ire roiling within her. She must appease if she could, for without appeasement there would be no assistance.

At last she accepted the chair that Sophia had so grudgingly indicated. "Please allow me to offer my condolences for the loss of your husband, Mrs. Willoughby. I do assure you--I beg you believe--that it was not my husband who killed him. Colonel Brandon is a man of integrity and self-restraint; he would never act in so cowardly or vicious a manner."

She was unable to decipher the expression on Sophia's face. It contained something of bewilderment, but also of calculation; of surprise, but also understanding. It came to her suddenly that Sophia also wore no mourning at all, when she, with her attention to fashion, could be expected to purchase a new black dress for the occasion. Was it possible, then, that she had only just arrived at Allenham, and had therefore only recently learned of her husband's fate? So soon, then, to be compelled to converse with the woman to whom he had been so warmly attached--such a blow to her heightened feelings--could anything have been more cruel? And yet--her composure was remarkable, so striking that it put Marianne in mind of a comment from Mrs. Jennings, that Sophia "would perhaps not consider herself very unfortunate--she has the dignity and freedom of widowhood, and no longer any danger that her husband will spend or wager her fortune away." Willoughby had described his wife in the most ungenerous language, and Marianne began to wonder whether he had not perhaps been more fair than she and Elinor had surmised. But if Sophia possessed a heart at all, surely it could be touched by her own obvious suffering. She had been fond enough of her husband to be exceedingly jealous of him; perhaps she could recognize a more profound emotion even in a woman she despised.

In the absence of courtesy on the part of her hostess, Marianne decided to be direct, in the hope at least of ending their shared discomfort as quickly as possible. "It is very evident that we can be secure in our mutual dislike, Mrs. Willoughby, but I hope you will nonetheless admit of there being between us the possibility of mutual trust. I entreat you to permit me the further intrusion of inquiring as to Mr. Willoughby's friends and habits, in the hope of learning some information that might be useful to those pursuing my husband's case. I know it is a great deal to ask of you, especially at this time, but speed is essential if there is to be any hope of catching the guilty man. I do not apologize for any offense I may give you; where my husband's safety is at stake I know no modesty or inhibition. Please, Mrs. Willoughby--will you help me?"

Sophia frowned, seeming really disconcerted by this appeal. Marianne thought she could detect a softening of her features, perhaps even a wistfulness, as if in being shown that her jealousy, at least on Marianne's account, had no longer any justification, she was capable of admiring and honoring an attachment founded on a more noble emotion. In Sophia's expression was also something that Marianne could not name with certainty, almost a smug satisfaction or a bitter pleasure, but she had the sense that that feeling was directed inward--a private contemplation or insight. She could not trouble herself, however, with the complexities of Sophia's thoughts; she wanted to know only whether she could depend upon Sophia's help. If not, she would take her leave of Mrs. Smith and start for Dorchester, where she would find solace and joy, if also further anguish, in her husband's embrace.

Sophia's reply came at last, and to Marianne's surprise it was in a tone of greater respect and frankness, from which some of her earlier defensiveness had disappeared. "Mrs. Brandon--I must tell you now, before you say anything more--"

At that moment they became aware of voices outside the door, and Sophia subsided with an air of having been forestalled. Marianne's attention was divided between an urgent desire that she complete her information before they should be interrupted, and curiosity regarding who might have accompanied Mrs. Smith downstairs--for one of the newcomers was certainly she.

As the door opened, words could abruptly be distinguished. "Cousin, will you allow me to explain the delay--"

Marianne began to tremble, for the voice sounded to her ears familiar--but it was of course impossible, incredible, unimaginable. A man was entering the room; she saw a shoulder, a boot, a hand. More than that was blocked by the door, but the form and step, the shape of the calf and fingers, seemed known to her. Her gaze, unblinking, was riveted; Sophia, though at her side, now absolutely forgotten.

"It is not to me that you owe an explanation," Mrs. Smith said, her tone very sharp, and her little hand pushed the door fully open.

Marianne gasped. The man froze, the color draining from his face. "Good God!--Marianne--"

Marianne was perfectly assured that for the space of several breaths her heart ceased to beat. The man was Willoughby--and he was, unless sight, hearing, and reason had all deserted her, very much alive.

********************

Chapter Thirteen

"Willoughby," she said, but she could make no sound at all and only mouthed his name, could not speak because the room was roaring and whirling all around her. She had risen to her feet--though she could not have said at what moment she had done so--and now her legs gave way and she half sat, half fell into her chair. Her lips moved again. "Willoughby."

All at once he was kneeling before her, and she gasped again when his hands--warm, living hands--closed about hers and began to rub the feeling back into them. "Sophia--your salts!" in the voice she knew so well-- The salts were passed beneath her nose--the biting aroma shocked her from her swoon--the room steadied and her foggy vision cleared.

She clutched at his hands, at last able to force a sound from her throat. "Willoughby! God in heaven!--but, how--"

"Well, it was all a great mistake, of course," he said, laughing. "The dead man found at Delaford obviously was not I."

She was obliged to release one hand so that she could fumble in her reticule for a handkerchief with which to mop up tears of joy. "But--he--he was in possession of your cards and card-case--your watch, which is engraved with your name--your seal--"

Without letting go her hand he reached for a chair and pulled it close so that he could sit facing her. "I will tell you how I believe it happened." The color had returned to his cheeks; he was yet halfway to laughter, delighted and touched by her genuine pleasure and relief at seeing him restored to the living. "I had business in Bridport, and upon its conclusion I was invited to a whist club, where I was beset with very bad luck and lost a few valuables to a fellow named Brownlow."

"And so this Mr. Brownlow was mistaken for you! But how could that be? Let me see-- Constable Parker has a sketch, that he has been showing up and down the turnpike--but I never saw it--I did not want to look upon it. My husband was not consulted immediately because the evidence implicated him, and so he never saw the--the body. Edward did, but you and he had never met! Oh, Willoughby! What a perfectly horrible series of lost chances it has been-- But it is all over now--oh!--it is all over! Oh--but was the man then a friend of yours?" (trying and failing to summon an appropriate gravity).

"No, merely a business associate, but a pleasant gentleman and hardly deserving of such a fate. The man I suspect of killing him, I had only that evening met. He had lost even more heavily than I, and was badly in liquor and very angry to be so thoroughly outplayed. I begin to wonder if he is not rather a practiced criminal--he seems to have left behind every item that could be traced to me, and thus to him. Brownlow's own card-case and so forth were not engraved, that I recall, and could be sold with little risk."

It occurred to Marianne that Willoughby did not seem at all surprised or dismayed that a man with whom he had associated, however briefly, might be discovered to be a murderer. Was he then accustomed to gaming with such men? "Perhaps when you give his name and description to the authorities they will recognize him. --But Willoughby--Constable Parker interviewed every body in this house. It was he who informed them of your--your supposed death. How is it that they did not know the truth?"

"I do not find it necessary to inform this house or Combe of my every movement; my business in Bridport was not long foreseen, and so nobody but my own party knew I had gone there. As to why I was late in arriving here--I had begun to feel ill earlier in that day, but mistakenly thought it a minor indisposition. By evening I was suffering from headache and some dizziness, and it was that, I suppose, caused me to neglect to remove my cards from the case when I handed it over to Brownlow. I fell from my horse on my way back to the inn and injured my head and shoulder, and lay no more than half-conscious for above a week."

"Your being in liquor yourself doubtless had nothing whatever to do with your forgetfulness or your fall." Sophia's barb startled them; her continued presence had not been noted by either.

Willoughby glared at her but did not deny the charge, and Marianne received the distinct impression that she enjoyed humiliating him in front of someone whose opinion he valued more than her own. "My good wife," he sneered in retaliation, "tended me lovingly from the moment I staggered back to the inn until I could leave my bed, sparing only several hours each day for her own shopping and touring and walking the sea-paths." He shifted in his seat so that his good wife would not be visible even from the corner of his eye; but Sophia merely smiled, and leaned a little to one side to reclaim her view. "I did not see a newspaper in all that time, and then what do you think?--the innkeeper asked whether I were a relation of the John Willoughby who had been murdered at Delaford! And then, of course, I sent for all the papers that could be had--"

Marianne brought up her hands to touch his face, heedless for a moment of her tears. "Oh Willoughby, I am so glad to see you--my heart is full to bursting-- It will all be over now! You will explain everything to the magistrates and my husband will be freed--" A sudden coldness washed over her; her hands fell away and he could not catch them. "Willoughby--when exactly did you see the papers?"

His glance, suddenly guilty, darted in the direction of his cousin and then back again. "Not long ago, Marianne, I swear to you--only a few days. I was ill, you see, as feeble as a baby--"

"He has been in my house these last two days, and saw the papers two days before," Mrs. Smith said in her stern, reedy voice. Marianne could hardly tear her eyes away from Willoughby, but as she was keenly interested in Mrs. Smith's every word she cast repeated quick looks at her, and this seemed to be felt by the lady to be sufficient attention. "He drove into the sweep with no warning, rather enjoying the effect of his resurrection upon the household--hoping, no doubt, that I would expire from the shock." Willoughby's face was frozen and flushed. "Mrs. Brandon, I owe you, and especially your husband, an apology--indeed, several apologies. Mr. Willoughby promised he would rectify the situation at once, but as I have long known that I can place more faith in my servants than in him, I should have given the matter my personal attention. I would also have been wiser, as events have proved, to have instructed my lawyer to oversee the case in Delaford more closely; had he seen the body the error would have been discovered at once. I was swayed, however, by Lord Melgrove's assurance that the culprit had been already apprehended. I also offer apology for my earlier reticence--had I not been so angry with Mr. Willoughby I would have thought to prepare you for the sight of him. But as all these grievances pale before his offenses, I give you leave to abuse him as you see fit. You will remain here, Willoughby, until Mrs. Brandon chooses to dismiss you. I believe your charm will succeed as little with her as it has with me. And now," she said, rising with the footman's aid from the chair she had occupied while Marianne recovered, "we shall leave you to the tête-à-tête that I suspect he now desires rather less than he did only a few moments ago. Come, Sophia!"

Sophia obeyed without hesitation, though her irritation at being torn away from this fascinating encounter was obvious. "It is my hope," she said to them, "that you both will find the remaining portion of your conversation as enlightening as the first," and swept out.

Mrs. Smith, much hampered in her movements by age and infirmity and thus slower to exit though she was closer to the door, turned a last time toward Marianne. "I perfectly understand that this house will long hold distressing memories for you, Mrs. Brandon, but I should very much like to see you again, and to be introduced to your husband, should you be moved to call the next time you visit your mother at Barton."

Marianne could hardly stammer a reply, but the good lady did not seem to expect one. With a last scowl at Willoughby, she hobbled from the room, holding for balance to the footman's arm.

"The harridan and the martinet," Willoughby said bitterly, "in combination against me. Are you acquainted with any other man thus doubly afflicted, Marianne? Mrs. Smith was so indignant that she invaded my rooms, sank her fingers into my arm, and did not release it until she had made certain I could not escape the censure she imagined I would receive from you. She even came downstairs before dinner-time!" He had stood as his wife and cousin passed from the room, and now, with a sigh of relief, resumed his seat and at the same time pulled it nearer. "But we are alone together now--we have not been alone since so very long ago at Barton. Oh Marianne, how great a pleasure it is to see you! Had I known such a visit would result, I might have arranged a shooting in Delaford Turnpike for the purpose of prompting it!"

Marianne said nothing, preferring to study the countenance that had formerly been so dear, while the character that lay behind it was more exposed with Willoughby's every word. In the necessity of clear thought, her amazement had subsided quickly, though she would be at liberty to feel it in even larger measure at a later hour. She had not seen Willoughby at such an intimate distance since their accidental meeting in London two years and a half before. The signs of dissipation were written in his face, of too much drink and not enough sleep, of too much coming and going hither and yon, to town and friends and relations, for the purpose of avoiding societal responsibility and conjugal discord at Combe. His words shocked her, as did his apparent assumption that his cousin was mistaken in her interpretation of their guest's feelings; his air was that of a child who knows he has done wrong but believes all possibility of punishment safely behind him.

"Willoughby--" she said, when her silence had extended far enough that he was growing puzzled by it, "how much longer would you have waited before coming forward?"

"Oh, a few days--no more." For an instant a trace of savage amusement darkened his expression. "The colonel wanted humbling, I always thought. And Sophia, you know, was not averse, still nursing her old resentment against you."

Marianne was not exempt from a flare of anger toward Sophia for allowing her to talk on and on, offering condolence and apology and alliance when all three were wholly superfluous. She suspected that Sophia had wanted to test her feelings, to determine whether Marianne were any threat to such domestic contentment as she enjoyed, wanted to observe her reaction to her first sight of Willoughby returned to the world. And yet, she had been going to reveal all--Marianne was certain of it. Was she, after all, less a stranger to conscience than her husband?

"The scheme was yours, then, and not hers. You devised it yourself, rather than obeying her order, as you did at least once before."

Willoughby blanched, but then seemed to seize on this criticism as an indication of something more pleasing. "Your sister told you, then, of my visit to Cleveland when you were so ill."

"She promised you she would, and my sister keeps her word." Marianne would not be diverted, however, by reminders of the past. "Your wife being in some way attached to you, I am glad for her that she was spared the belief that you were dead. You were cruel not to warn Mrs. Smith."

"Cruel to disappoint my cousin in her pleasure with regard to my untimely death?"

"Pleasure!" was Marianne's appalled response.

His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "Satisfaction, then. She has a low opinion of me and was, I doubt not, glad to be proven right. She warns me often of the company I keep."

"Yes--according to Constable Parker she did not seem surprised by your apparent fate. But have you ever given her reason to have other than a low opinion of you?"

A sound escaped his lips, perhaps an uncertain beginning to a laugh, and he drew a little back from her. "This is a strange mood, Marianne--"

"Four days," she said, very quietly. "Four days longer than necessary--that might have extended into a week or a fortnight--you have allowed my husband to be locked away in that awful place in fear for his life, allowed his name to be bandied in the papers, his expenses to mount--and to you it is all a jest."

She could see that her icy fury was at last beginning to penetrate his consciousness. "You do not consider what I felt to read the newspaper accounts. For what I knew, Colonel Brandon might really have fired the shot, and I had been merely fortunate that he had mistaken Brownlow for me."

Marianne sprang to her feet. "You dare to say that of him? You might cheat in an affair of honor, Mr. Willoughby, but he would die before he shot a man in the back!"

In a sudden agitation, Willoughby jumped up in his turn and paced a few steps away. "I should have expected your husband," with a sneer, "to share that detail with you, the papers having avoided anything that smells of libel."

"An assertion is not libelous when it is true; but Colonel Brandon did not tell me, nor has he spoken to the papers--I learned it from another source entirely. Nor did he tell us of his meeting with you or the reason for it until you had already demonstrated your cowardice by your engagement to Miss Grey. He has repeatedly chosen to spare my feelings and what of a gentleman's dignity you possess, and this is how you repay him. You are fortunate that he is the man of honor you are not--another guardian might have killed you no matter how you grovelled."

"Such strong feeling, Marianne!" He forced a lively smile, in an attempt to disguise his being really disconcerted by her knowing so much of his disgrace, and badly shaken by her hostility. "I only wished a little revenge, attended by no real suffering."

"No real suffering! You have kept him from his home, his wife, and his child; you have kept him in fear of the gallows, in danger of mortal illness--"

"May I remind you," with a burst of indignation, "that he very readily put me in fear for my life."

"Not readily. You left him no choice. Once I did not fully understand his challenge of you, but I have a daughter now, and if any man ever subject her to the degradation to which you subjected Miss Williams, I will myself put the pistol into my husband's hand. --And your life was in less danger than his, was it not, until you were caught?" A sudden curiosity struck her. "I wonder were your wife and cousin aware of that incident, and in Mrs. Willoughby's case the reason for it, before they saw the newspaper accounts of my husband's case?" His expression, at once angry and mortified, betrayed him. "John Brandon is indeed your son--his resemblance to you is marked. Oh yes, the colonel has given him his name--you may look startled, for of course you would not know, as you have taken no interest in him."

"You know that I cannot acknowledge him, even if he be mine. The insult to my wife--she would forbid it--" His voice trailed away.

"You mean you will not acknowledge him. Mrs. Willoughby could not prevent your doing what is right were you determined upon it. But he has already a better guardian than you could ever be." He offered no reply, seeming to understand the futility of it, and she took leave of the subject. Though she then resumed her seat, he did not rejoin her, but remained standing in the center of the room. "Did you never think of me, Willoughby, when you designed your heartless plan? Did you never consider that you would hurt me as well? If you were capable of genuine feeling, you would have spared every hour of my suffering you could, even if you cared nothing for my husband's."

"You?" he replied, in a tone that told her he had not thought of her at all. "How could it hurt you?"

"He is my husband, Willoughby!"

With some genuine pain he said, "I am aware of that, Marianne." And then, with something like a sniff of repugnance, "Well--were you not relieved to be rid of him for a time?"

"Rid of him?"

"Yes, I thought-- You do not mean to say-- Marianne--you are not actually fond of him?"

She was at first incredulous; and then calm with a new perception. "If you believe I could marry a man without feeling for him something approaching affection, then you never had any real knowledge of my heart, or my soul."

"Do not say that, Marianne. Do not say that. If I had not married Sophia-- If I had married you, secured you to myself before--"

"--before I learned of Eliza? I could never have been content with you in the full knowledge of your ruthless behavior toward Eliza. I could never have esteemed you as I do Colonel Brandon, or put my trust in your character as I do in his. And what if Mrs. Smith had not regarded a penniless girl, though from a good family, as a suitable wife for you? In that case she would not have reinstated you, and then your debts would have multiplied, and with them your resentment toward me. It is a bleak portrait of a marriage, is it not? As long as all were well, we might have known some measure of felicity. But life consists of a series of tests, Willoughby, one of which, a significant one, you had already failed before we had ever met. Knowing what I know now, of you and of myself, I am irrevocably convinced that in the course of years I could never have been as happy with you as I will be with my husband."

Willoughby appeared stunned. "I had heard-- But--Mrs. Jennings and Sir John see only what they wish to believe-- I was confident you had allowed yourself to be persuaded by your sister--"

"How little you truly know us, then, to think Elinor so cold as to urge me into a marriage of pecuniary convenience, and to think I would so betray my own heart, simply because you married with such a shallow inducement. We are different now; were we always? Our tastes are similar, but our characters--? Did you think I could never learn to appreciate Colonel Brandon's courage, his compassion, his steadfastness, his protectiveness?--all those virtues for which you both dislike and envy him." She had during the past three years given some thought to what she might say to him should she ever be presented with the opportunity; she did not speak in anger, however, but in simple, incontrovertible explanation. "I was but a girl when I loved you--when I participated in your disparagement of him. You encouraged the worst aspects of my character, and it shames me to remember it; he encourages the best, and I take pride in his thinking me worthy of his regard. The longer I know him the more clearly I see your flaws. You were formed at five-and-twenty, while at only seventeen I still could mature; and I matured a great deal in consequence of my experience with you."

"You sound very like your sister, who used so often to reproach me as you do now."

"If I do, I am glad, for I have learned to appreciate her merits, as well, far better than I once did. You have a conscience, I know, and it pricks you on occasion. It was your conscience that made you come to Cleveland, and made you express such sincere repentance to Elinor. It is your conscience that makes you so obviously aware of the wrong you have done now. And so I can be confident that you will understand when I say, that though I have long since forgiven you for the harm you did me, I shall never forgive you for the harm you have done my husband."

"My God," he said softly, "you are magnificent in his defense! I would never have thought to see that look upon your face when talking of him. Is it possible-- Can you--love him, Marianne?"

"The extent of my feelings for my husband is none of your concern, but--" She wished she could say it first to Christopher, but at the same time she was elated simply to say it. "--I do." Her chin lifted. "Yes, I do love him."

"Then--I truly have lost you--" as if, despite all, he had not ever quite believed it until he was shown it by her.

She could not be unmoved by the genuine desolation in his face, for she knew that he did possess a heart as well as a conscience, though he might consult it as seldom. She did feel, in general, a certain measure of regret for his situation, for she had once loved him and she could see that he was unhappy; but as his unhappiness was all his own doing, she could not conjure any actual sympathy, and at that moment wanted only to be on her way to the man who, though he did not yet know it, could count her whole heart among his riches.

She allowed his lament to pass without comment. "Mr. Willoughby, can I trust you to do at once whatever is necessary to begin to correct this situation, or must I accompany you?"

His lips tightened at this jab, but knowing it to be just he did not protest, and went to the door and called for a servant to order his carriage immediately. Returning, he obtained from her the location of Melgrove Lodge, and then said, "A matter of hours should end it. I must obtain a letter verifying my identity from a local magistrate and convey it to Lord Melgrove, who should then be willing to take my deposition and agree to bail until further details are confirmed. I promise you, Marianne, I shall make all haste."

"And when that is done, you will write to the papers and explain?"

"I assure you I will make amends." His voice was toneless, his movements lacking their usual vitality. "What will you do now?"

"I shall stop a moment at Delaford to tell every body what has happened, and then proceed to Dorchester."

"It will be nightfall before you arrive."

"Perhaps, but I might yet see my husband before the doors are locked, if only for a moment. I must try. I shall at least be with him as early as possible tomorrow morning." At last she smiled again, and it was evident in his face that he knew her smile was not for him. As she started for the door and her waiting carriage, he offered his arm; she did not take it, but rather drew a little farther away from him. Her final words to him were: "Mr. Willoughby, should we ever again find ourselves in conversation, I would ask that you address me properly as 'Mrs. Brandon.'"

He blinked, and gave a nod, and they parted.

********************

Continue to Chapters 14-15

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