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Irene Iddesleigh

<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.</h3> Mocking Angel! The trials of a tortured throng are naught when weighed in the balance of future anticipations. The living sometimes learn the touchy tricks of the traitor, the tardy, and the tempted; the dead have evaded the flighty earthly future, and form to swell the retinue of retired rights, the righteous school of the invisible, and the rebellious roar of raging nothing. The night was dark and tempestuous; the hill rather inclined to be steep; the clouds were bathed in wrinkled furrows of vapoury smoke; the traffic on the quiet and lonely roads surrounding Dunfern Mansion was utterly stopped, and nature seemed a block of obstruction to the eye of the foreigner who drudged so wearily up the slope that led to the home of Mrs. Durand, who had been confined to bed 175 for the past three years, a sufferer from rheumatism. Perceiving the faint flicker of light that occasionally flung its feeble rays against the dim fanlight of faithful Fanny’s home—the aged sister of the late Tom Hepworth—the two-fold widowed wanderer, with trembling step, faltered to the door of uncertain refuge, and, tapping against it with fingers cold and stiff, on such a night of howling wind and beating rain, asked, in weakened accents, the woman who opened to her the door, “If she could be allowed to remain for the night?”—a request that was granted through charity alone. After relieving herself of some outer garments, and partaking of the slight homely fare kindly ordered by Mrs. Durand, the widow of Oscar Otwell and Sir John Dunfern warmed herself and dried her saturated clothing before going to bed. She had just arrived the day previous, and hastened to take up her abode as near her former home of exquisiteness as she could, without detection. On extinguishing the light before retiring, and casting one glance in the direction of the little window, the innumerable recollections of the abundant 176 past swept across the mind of the snowy-haired widow, and were further augmented by the different starlike lights which shone from the numerous windows in Dunfern Mansion, directly opposite where she lay. A couple of days found her almost rested after such a trying night as that on which she arrived, and observing the sharpest reticence lest she might be known, she nerved herself to appear next day at Dunfern Mansion, to accomplish the last wish of her late lover and husband, for whom she ventured so much and gained so little, and particularly to try and see her son. The morning was warm and fine; numerous birds kept chirping outside the little cottage of Mrs. Durand. The widow, with swollen eyes and face of faded fear, prepared herself for the trying moment, which she was certain of achieving. Partaking of a very slight breakfast, she told Mrs. Durand not to expect her for dinner. Marching down the hill’s face, she soon set foot on the main road that led direct to Dunfern Mansion. Being admitted by Nancy Bennet, a prim old dame, who had been in charge of the lodge for 177 the last eighteen years, the forlorn widow, whose heart sank in despair as she slowly walked up the great and winding avenue she once claimed, reached the huge door through which she had been unconsciously carried by Marjory Mason a good many years ago. Gently ringing the bell, the door was attended by a strange face. Reverently asking to have an interview with Sir John Dunfern, how the death-like glare fell over the eyes of the disappointed as the footman informed her of his demise! “Madam, if you cast your eyes thence—[here the sturdy footman pointed to the family graveyard, lying quite adjacent, and in which the offcast of effrontery had oftentimes trodden]—you can with ease behold the rising symbol of death which the young nobleman, Sir Hugh Dunfern, has lavishly and unscrupulously erected to his fond memory.” The crushed hopes of an interview with the man she brought with head of bowed and battered bruises, of blasted untruths and astounding actions, to a grave of premature solitude were further crumbled to atoms in an instant. They were driven beyond retention, never again to be fostered with feverish fancy. After 178 the deplorable news of her rightful husband’s death had been conveyed to the sly and shameless questioner, who tried hard to balance her faintish frame unobserved, she asked an interview with Sir Hugh Dunfern. This also was denied, on the ground of absence from home. Heavily laden with the garb of disappointment did the wandering woman of wayward wrong retrace her footsteps from the door for ever, and leisurely walked down the artistic avenue of carpeted care, never more to face the furrowed frowns of friends who, in years gone by, bestowed on her the praises of poetic powers. Forgetful almost of her present movements, the dangerous signal of widowhood was seen to float along the family graveyard of the Dunferns. Being beforehand <ins class = "mycorr" title = "text unchanged">acquaint</ins> with the numerous and costly tombstones erected individually, regardless of price, the wearied and sickly woman of former healthy tread was not long in observing the latest tablet, of towering height, at the north-east end of the sacred plot. There seemed a touchy stream of gilded letters carefully cut on its marble face, and on reading them 179 with watery eye and stooping form, was it anything remarkable that a flood of tears bathed the verdure that peeped above the soil? The lines were these:— <div class = "verse"> <h5>I.</h5> The hand of death hath once more brought The lifeless body here to lie, Until aroused with angels’ voice, Which <ins class = "authcorr" title = "corrected by author from ‘call’">calls</ins> it forth, no more to die. <h5>II.</h5> This man, of health and honest mind, Had troubles great to bear whilst here, Which cut him off, in manhood’s bloom, To where there’s neither frown nor tear. <h5>III.</h5> His life was lined with works of good For all who sought his affluent aid; His life-long acts of charity Are sure to never pass unpaid. <h5>IV.</h5> Sir John Dunfern, whose noble name Is heard to echo, far and <ins class = "mycorr" title = "; for ,">wide,</ins> In homes of honour, truth, and right, With which he here lies side by side. <h5>V.</h5> The wings of love and lasting strength Shall flap above his hollow bed; Angelic sounds of sweetest strain Have chased away all tears he shed. 180 <h5>VI.</h5> Then, when the glorious morn shall wake Each member in this dust of ours, To give to each the sentence sure Of everlasting Princely Power— <h5>VII.</h5> He shall not fail to gain a seat Upon the bench of gloried right, To don the crown of golden worth Secured whilst braving Nature’s fight. </div> After carefully reading these lines the figure of melting woe sat for a long time in silence until a footstep came up from behind, which alarmed her not a little. Looking up she beheld the face of a youth whose expression was very mournful, and asking after her mission, was informed she had been casting one last look on the monument of her lamented husband. “Mighty Heavens!” exclaimed Sir Hugh Dunfern, “are you the vagrant who ruined the very existence of him whom you now profess to have loved? You, the wretch of wicked and wilful treachery, and formerly the wife of him before whose very bones you falsely kneel! Are you the confirmed traitoress of the trust reposed in you by my late lamented, dearest, 181 and most noble of fathers? Are you aware that the hypocrisy you manifested once has been handed down to me as an heirloom of polluted possession, and stored within this breast of mine, an indelible stain for life, or, I might say, during your known and hated existence? “False woman! Wicked wife! Detested mother! Bereft widow! “How darest thou set foot on the premises your chastity should have protected and secured! What wind of transparent touch must have blown its blasts of boldest bravery around your poisoned person and guided you within miles of the mansion I proudly own? “What spirit but that of evil used its influence upon you to dare to bend your footsteps of foreign tread towards the door through which they once stole unknown? Ah, woman of sin and stray companion of tutorism, arise, I demand you, and strike across that grassy centre as quickly as you can, and never more make your hated face appear within these mighty walls. I can never own you; I can never call you mother; I cannot extend the assistance your poor, poverty-stricken attire of false don silently 182 requests; neither can I ever meet you on this side the grave, before which you so pityingly kneel!” Speechless and dogged did the dishonoured mother steal for ever from the presence of her son, but not before bestowing one final look at the brightened eye and angry countenance of him who loaded on her his lordly abuse. The bowed form of former stateliness left for ever the grounds she might have owned without even daring to offer one word of repentance or explanation to her son. Walking leisurely along the road that reached Dilworth Castle, how the trying moments told upon her who shared in pangs of insult and poverty!—how the thoughts of pleasant days piled themselves with parched power upon the hilltop of remembrance and died away in the distance! The whirling brain became more staid as she heard the approach of horses’ feet, and stopping to act the part of Lot’s wife, gave such a haggard stare at the driver of the vehicle as caused him to make a sudden halt. Asking her to have a seat, the weary woman gladly mounted upon its cushion with thankfulness, and alighted on reaching its journey’s end, about three miles from 183 Audley Hall. The drive was a long one, and helped to rest the tired body of temptation. Returning thanks to the obliging driver, she marched wearily along until she reached the home of her first refuge after flight. Perceiving the yellow shutters firmly bolted against the light admitters of Audley Hall, she feared disappointment was also awaiting her. Knocking loudly twice before any attempt was made to open the door, there came at last an aged man with halting step and shaking limb. “Is Major Iddesleigh at home?” asked the saddened widow. “Oh, madam, he has been dead almost twelve years, and since then no one has occupied this Hall save myself, who am caretaker. The Marquis of Orland was deceived by his nephew, who sold it in an underhand manner to the major, and he resolved that never again would he allow it to be occupied since the major’s death by any outsider.” “You are rather lonely,” said the widow. “Yes, yes,” replied he; “but I have always been accustomed living alone, being an old bachelor, and wish to remain so. It is better to live a life of singleness 184 than torture both body and soul by marrying a woman who doesn’t love you, like the good Sir John Dunfern—a nobleman who lived only some miles from this, and who died lately broken-hearted—who became so infatuated with an upstart of unknown parentage, who lived in Dilworth Castle, with one Lord Dilworth, the previous owner, that he married her <ins class = "authcorr" title = "corrected by author from ‘ofthand’">offhand</ins>, and, what was the result, my good woman?—why she eventually ran off with a poor tutor! and brought the hairs of hoary whiteness of Sir John Dunfern to the grave much sooner than in all probability they would have, had he remained like me.” Facing fumes of insult again, thought the listener. And asking after Major Iddesleigh’s will, eagerly awaited his reply. Placing one hand upon her shoulder, and pointing with the other, “Behold,” said he, “yonder church? that was his last will—Iddesleigh Church. It was only when the jaws of death gaped for their prey that the major was forced to alter his will, having had it previously prepared in favour of his niece, whose whereabouts could never be traced until after his death.” “Enough—enough, I must go,” said the 185 painful listener, and thanking the old man for his information, which, like her son’s, had screwed its bolts of deadly weight more deeply down on the lid of abstract need, turned her back on Audley Hall for ever. <ANTIMG src = "images/pg185.png" width = "261" height = "86" alt = "decoration"> 186   <ANTIMG src = "images/pg186.png" width = "430" height = "81" alt = "decoration"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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