Chapter 2

_December_ 21, 1772.

Winter has come on: a melancholy, wet and stormy winter, without the
glitter of snow and ice; and with the sea moaning or roaring by turns. I
think with longing (though I hope poor Eustace does not guess how near I
sometimes am to crying for homesickness) of our sledging parties with
the dear cheerful neighbours at Grandfey; of the skating on the ponds,
and the long walks on the crisp frozen snow, when Eustace and I would
snowball or make long slides, laughing like children. At St. Salvat's
there are no neighbours; or if there are (but the nearest large house is
ten miles off, and belongs to a noble lord who never leaves London) they
do not show themselves. I do not even know what there is or is not in
the country that lies inland; in fact, since our coming, I have never
left the grounds and park of St. Salvat's, nor gone beyond the old
fortified walls which encircle them. My very curiosity has gradually
faded. I have never pressed Hubert for the saddle horse and the equipage
(the coach-house contains only broken-down coaches of the days of King
George I.) which he promised rather vaguely to procure for me on our
first coming; I have no wish to pass beyond that drawbridge; like a
caged bird, I have grown accustomed to my prison. Since the bad weather
I have even ceased my rambles in the shrubberies and on the grass-grown
terraces: the path to the sea has been slippery with mud; besides I hate
that melancholy winter sea, always threatening or complaining.

I stay within doors for days together, without pleasure or profit,
reading old plays and novels which I throw aside, or putting a few
stitches into useless tambour work; I who could formerly not live a day
within doors, nor do whatever I set to do without childish
strenuousness!

These two or three days past I have been trying to find diversion in
reading the history of these parts, where the Brandlings--kings of this
part of Wales in the time of King Arthur, crusaders later, and great
barons fighting at Crecy and at Agincourt--once played so great a part,
and now they have dwindled into common smugglers, for 'tis my growing
persuasion that such is the real trade hidden under the name of pilchard
fishing--defrauders of the King's Exchequer, and who knows? for all
Hubert's rank as magistrate, no better than thieves and outlawed
ruffians.

Hubert has been showing me the family archives. He lays great store by
all these deeds and papers, and one is surprised in a house so utterly
given over to neglect, to find anything in such good order. He saved the
archives himself he tells me, when (as I have always forgotten to note
down) the library of the castle was burnt down on the occasion of my
late brother-in-law's _wake_; a barbarous funereal feast habitual in
these parts, and during which a drunken guest set fire to the draperies
of the coffin. I did not ask whether the body of Sir Thomas, which had
been brought by sea from Bristol after his violent end there, had been
destroyed in this extraordinary pyre; and I judge that it was from
Eustace's silence and Hubert's evident avoidance of the point. Perhaps
he is conscious that his efforts were directed to a different object,
for it is well nigh miraculous how he should have saved those shelves
full of documents and all that number of valuable books bound with the
Brandling arms.

"You must have risked your life in the flames!" I exclaimed with
admiration at the man's heroism.

He bid me look at his hands, which indeed bear traces of dreadful
burning.

"I care about my ancestors," he answered, "perhaps more, to say the
truth, than for my living kinsfolk. Besides," he added, "I ought to say
that I had taken the precaution to remove the most valuable books before
giving over the library to their drunken rites. As it was, they burnt
my poor dead nephew to ashes like the phoenix of the Poets, only that
he, poor lad, will not arise from them till the day of judgment!"

_January_ 12, 1773.

A horrid circumstance has just happened, and oddly enough in that same
library which had been burnt, all but its ancient walls, at my
brother-in-law's funeral, I had persuaded Eustace to turn it into a
laboratory, for I think a certain melancholy may be due to the restless
idleness in which he has been living ever since we came here. In
building one of the furnaces the masons had to make a deep cavity in the
wall; and there, what should appear, but a number of skeletons, nine or
ten, walled up erect in the thickness of the masonry. I was taking the
air on the terrace outside, and hearing the men's exclamations, ran to
the spot. It was a ghastly sight. But my uncle Simon, who was smoking
his pipe in the great empty room, burst into uncontrollable laughter
over my horror; and going up to a little heap of mouldering bones which
had fallen out with the plaster, picked up a green and spongy shin and
brought it to me. "Here's some material for Eustace ready to hand!" he
cried with a vile oath. "Let him try whether he can bring these pretty
fellows to life again in his devil's cooking pots," and he thrust the
horrid object under my nose.

At this moment Hubert appeared, and, with his wolf's eyes, took in all
at a glance.

"Fie, fie," he cried, striking that horrid relic out of his brother's
hand, "are these fit sights for a lady, you hog, Simon?" and taking me
brusquely by the hand, leads me away, and, in the pantry, tries to make
me swallow a dose of brandy, with much petting and cosseting.

"Our ancestors, dear Lady Brandling (for so he affects to call me), were
but rough soldiers, though princes of these parts; and the relics of
their games scarce fit for your pretty eyes. But have a sup of brandy,
my dear, 'twill set you right."

I loathed the mealy-mouthed black creature, methought, worse than
drunken Simon, and worse almost than those horrid dead men.

"No, thank you, uncle," I said, "my stomach is stronger than you think.
My ancestors also were soldiers--soldiers on the field of battle--though
I never heard of their bricking up their enemies in the house wall."

"Nay, nay," he cried, "but that was an evil habit of those days, dear
Lady Brandling, hundreds and thousands of years ago, when we were
sovereign princes."

"Hundreds and thousands of years ago?" I answered, for I hated him at
that moment, "ah well, I had thought it was scarce so far removed from
us as all that."

_January_ 31, 1773.

A curious feeling has been tormenting me of late, of self-reproach for I
scarce know what, of lack of helpfulness, almost of disloyalty towards
my husband. Since we have been here, indeed I think ever since the first
announcement of Sir Thomas's death, Eustace has altered in his manner
towards me; a whole side of his life has, I feel, been hidden from me.
Have I a right to it? This is what has been debating in my mind. A man
may have concerns which it is no duty of his to share with a wife; not
because she is only a wife, and he a husband, for my dear Eustace's mind
is too enlightened and generous, too thoroughly imbued with the noble
doctrines of our days, to admit of such a difference. But there is one
of my mother's sayings which has worked very deeply into my mind. It was
on the eve of my wedding. "Remember, dear little Penelope," she said,
"that no degree of love, however pure, noble, and perfect, can really
make two souls into one soul. All appearance to the contrary is a mere
delusion and dangerous. Every human soul has its own nature, its
necessary laws, and demands liberty and privacy to develop them; and
were this not the case, no soul, however loving and courageous, could
ever help another, for it would have no strength, no understanding, no
life, with which to bring help. Remember this, my child, till the moment
come when you shall understand it, and, I hope, act in the light of its
comprehension."

Well, methinks that ever since that day when the letter arrived which
changed our destiny, I have not merely remembered, but learned to
understand these words. So that I have fought against the soreness of
feeling that, on some matters at least, I was excluded from my husband's
confidence. After two years of such utter openness of heart as has
existed between us three--our mother, Eustace, and, younger and weaker
though I felt, myself--such free discussion of all ideas and interests,
of his scientific work, even to details which I could not grasp, after
this there is undoubtedly something strange in the absolute reserve,
indeed the utter silence, he maintains about everything concerning his
family, his property, and our position and circumstances, the more so
that, at the time of our marriage he often confided to me details
connected with it. Thus, in that past which seems already so remote, he
has often described to me this very house, these very rooms, told me his
childish solitude and terrors, and spoken quite freely of the unhappy
life of his mother by the side of his cruel and violent father, and
among his father's brutal besotted companions; he had told me of the
horrid heartlessness with which his only brother played upon his
sensitiveness and abused his weakness, and of the evil habits, the
odious scenes of intemperance and violence from which he was screened
by his poor mother, and finally saved by her generous decision to part
with him and have him educated abroad. He had mentioned the continual
brawls of his uncles. But since his succession to the property, never a
word has alluded to any of these things, nor to the knowledge he had
given me of them. Once or twice, when I have mentioned, quite naturally,
his dead brother, his mother (I am actually occupying her apartments,
sleeping in her bed, and only yesterday Eustace spent the afternoon
mending and tuning her harpsichord for me), he has let the subject drop,
or diverted the conversation in an unmistakable manner. Nay, what is
more significant, and more puzzling, Eustace has never given me a clue
to whether he knew of the arrangements, the life, we should find here;
before our arrival, he had never mentioned that the castle was, to all
intents and purposes, in the hands of his kinsmen; nor has he dropped a
word in explanation of so extraordinary a circumstance. And I have never
asked him whether he knew to what manner of life he was bringing me,
whether he intends it to continue, what are his reasons and plans. I
have respected his reserve. But have I been perfectly loyal in hiding my
wonder, my disappointment, my sorrow?

_February_ 5, 1773.

I cannot make up my mind about Uncle Hubert. Is he our fellow-victim or
the ringleader of this usurping gang of ruffians? The more I see, the
more I hesitate upon the point. But, as time goes on, I hesitate less
and less in my dislike of him, although I own it often seems
unreasonable and ungrateful. The man not only tries to make himself
agreeable to us, but I almost think he feels kindly. He has a real
appreciation of Eustace's genius; and, indeed, it is this, most likely,
which sometimes causes me to think well, though I fear never _kindly_,
of him. It is quite wonderful how he lights up whenever he can get
Eustace (no easy matter) to speak on philosophic subjects; it is a kind
of transfiguration, and all the obliquity and fawningness about the
creature vanishes. He has a good knowledge of mathematics, Eustace tells
me, is a skilful mechanic, and would evidently enjoy assisting my
husband in his experiments if he would let him. Towards myself he has, I
do believe, a kind of sentiment, and what is worse, of paternal
sentiment! _Worse_ because my whole nature recoils from him. He is most
passionately fond of music, plays fairly on the viol, and takes quite a
childish pleasure in making me sing and play. I ought indeed to be
grateful towards him, for his presence, although distasteful I think to
both of us, is a boon, in so far as it relieves the strain of feeling
that there is a secret--a something which has come between my husband
and me. Alas, alas! that the presence of a third person, of a person
such as Hubert, should ever have come to be a boon! But I dare not face
this thought. It is worse than any of the bad realities and bad
probabilities of this bad place.

If only Hubert would not make me presents, forcing me thus to feel how
hugely I hate having to accept anything from him. It began (almost as a
bribe, methought) in the shape of a fine gold watch and equipage the
very day after Uncle Edward's misbehaviour. Then, some time after, a cut
of handsome Lyons brocade, enough for a gown, though Heaven knows there
is no occasion for such finery at St. Salvat's! And this evening, after
listening to me through some songs of Monsieur Piccini, and teaching me
some of the plaintive airs of the Welsh peasantry, the man drew from his
coat a fine shagreen case, which proved to contain a string of large and
very regularly shaped and sorted pearls. I felt I could not bear it.
"Are they pearls of my mother-in-law's?" I asked without thanking him,
and in a tone anything, I fear, but grateful. Instead of being angry and
turning green, as I expected, Uncle Hubert looked merely very much hurt
and answered:

"Had they been heirlooms it would have been your husband, not your
uncle, to hand them you. Eustace is the head of the family, not I."

"The less said about the family and its head," I answered hotly, "the
better, Uncle Hubert," and I felt sorry the moment after.

"I do not deny it," he replied very quietly, in a manner which cut me to
the quick. "At any rate these pearls are _mine_, and I hope you will
accept them from me as a token of admiration and regard--or," and he
fell back into his cringing yet bantering manner which I hate so, "shall
we say, as is written on the fairing cups and saucers, 'A present for a
good girl from Bristol.'"

How I hate Uncle Hubert!

I had left the pearls on the harpsichord. This morning I found the green
shagreen case on the dressing table; Hubert evidently refuses to let me
off his present. But I doubt whether I shall ever muster up civility
enough to wear them. 'Tis a pity, for lack of wearing makes pearls
tarnish.

I have just opened the case to look at them. This is very curious. The
case is new, has the smell of new leather; and the diamond clasp looks
recently furbished, even to a little chalk about it. But--the man must
be oddly ignorant in such matters--the pearls, seen by daylight, have
evidently not come from a jeweller's. For they are yellow, tarnished,
unworn for years; they have been lying in this house, and, heirlooms or
not, there is something wrong about them.

I have been glad of a pretext, however poor, of returning them.

"Uncle Hubert," I said, handing him the case, "you must put these pearls
in a box with holes in it, and put them back in the sea."

I never saw so strange a look in a man's face. "Back in the sea! What do
you mean, dear Lady Brandling?" he cries. "Why do you suspect these
pearls of coming from the sea?"

"All pearls _do_ come from the sea, I thought, and that's why sea water
cures them when they have got tarnished from lack of wearing."

He burst into an awkward laugh, "To think," he says, "that I had
actually forgotten that pearls were not a kind of stone, that they came
out of shell fish."

_February_ 20, 1773.

God help me and forgive my ingratitude for the great, unspeakable
blessing He has given me. But this also, it would seem, is to become a
source of estrangement between me and Eustace. Ever since this great
hope has arisen in my soul, there has come with it the belief also that
this child, which he used so greatly to long for (vainly trying to hide
his disappointment out of gentleness towards me) would bring us once
more together. Perhaps it was wicked graspingness to count upon two
happinesses when one had been granted to me. Be this as it may, my
ingratitude has been horribly chastened. I told my husband this morning.
He was surprised; taken aback; but gave no sign of joy. "Are you quite
sure?" he repeated anxiously. And on my reiterating my certainty, he
merely ejaculated, "Ah ... 'tis an unfortunate moment," and added,
catching himself up, "the best will be that I send you, when the time
approaches, to Bristol or to Bath. I shall be sure of your being well
seen to there."

I nearly burst into tears, not at this proposal, but at the evident
manner in which the thought of our child suggested only small
difficulties and worries to his mind. "To Bristol! to Bath!" I
exclaimed, "and you speak as if you intended leaving me there alone! But
Eustace, why should not our child be born in your house and mine?" I
felt my eyes blaze with long pent up impatience.

"Because, my dear little Penelope," he answered coldly and sharply, "it
is the custom of _your country and mine_ that ladies of your condition
should have every advantage of medical skill and attendance, and
therefore remove to town for such purpose."

"Would it not be worth while to break through such a habit," I asked,
"to have a physician here at the proper time? Besides," I added, "I
promised, and in your presence, that should this event ever take place,
I should send for my mother."

"I shall be delighted," he answered, always in the same tone, "if my
mother-in-law finds it worth while to make so great a journey as that
from Switzerland to Bath--for Bath is the more suitable place, upon
consideration. But seeing that, as I have twice said before, you will
have every care you may require, I really think the suggestion would be
a mere indiscretion--to all parties."

He was busy arranging the instruments in his laboratory. I should have
left him; but I felt my heart swell and overflow, and remained standing
by him in silence.

"It is too cold for you here," he said very tenderly after a moment,
"had you not better go back to your rooms?"

I could not answer. But after a moment, "Eustace, Eustace!" I cried,
"don't you care? Aren't you glad? Why do you talk only of plans and
difficulties? Why do you want to send me away, to leave me all alone
when our child is born?"

He gave a sigh, partly of impatience. "Do not let us discuss this again,
dear Penelope," he said, "and oblige me by not talking nonsense. Of
course I am glad; it goes without saying. And if I send you away--if I
deprive myself of the joy of being with you, believe me, it is because I
cannot help it. My presence is required here. And now," he added,
putting his arm round my waist, but with small genuine tenderness,
methought, "now let us have done with this subject, my dear, and do me
the kindness to return to your warm room."

O God, O God, take pity on my loneliness! For with the dearest of
mothers, and what was once the kindest of husbands, and the joy of this
coming child, I am surely the loneliest of women!

_February_ 27, 1773.

God forgive me, I say again, and with greater reason, for I now
recognise that my sense of loneliness and of estrangement; all my
selfish misery, has been the fruit of my own lack of courage and of
loving kindness. This child, though yet unborn, has brought me strength
and counsel; the certainty of its existence seems, in a way, to have
changed me; and I look back upon myself such as I was but a few weeks
ago, as upon some one different, an immature girl, without
responsibilities or power to help. And now I feel as if I _could_ help,
and as if I must. For I am the stronger of the two. What has befallen
Eustace? I can but vaguely guess; yet this I know, that without my help
Eustace is a lost man; his happiness, his courage, his honour, going or
gone. My mother used to tell us, I remember, the legend of a clan in her
own country, where the future chieftain, on coming of age, was put into
possession of some secret so terrible that it turned him from a
light-hearted boy into a serious and joyless man. St. Salvat's has
wrought on Eustace in some similar manner. On arriving here, or, indeed,
before arriving, he has learned something which has poisoned his life
and sapped his manhood. What that something is, I can in a measure
guess, and it seems to me as if I ought to help him either to struggle
with or else to bear it, although _bearing it_ seems little to my taste.
It is some time since I have seen through the silly fiction of the
pilchard fishery of St. Salvat's; and although I have not been out of my
way to manifest this knowledge, I have not hidden it, methinks, from
Eustace or even from Uncle Hubert. The rooms and rooms crammed with
apparent lumber, the going and coming of carriers' wagons (so that my
husband's cases of instruments and my new _pianoforte_ arrived from
Bristol as by magic), the amount of money (the very maids gambling for
gold in the laundry) in this beggarly house; and the nocturnal and
mysterious nature of the fishing expeditions, would open the eyes even
of one as foolish and inexperienced as I; nor is any care taken to
deceive me. St. Salvat's Castle is simply the headquarters of the
smuggling business, presided over by my uncles and doubtless
constituting the chief resource of this poor untilled corner of the
world. Breaking His Majesty's laws and defrauding his Exchequer are
certainly offences; but I confess that they seem to me pardonable ones,
when one thinks of the deeds of violence by which our ancestors mostly
made their fortunes, let alone the arts of intrigue by which so many of
our polished equals increase theirs. Perhaps it was being told the
prowess of our Alpine smugglers, carrying their packs through
snow-fields and along hidden crevasses, and letting themselves down from
immeasurable rocks; perhaps it was these stories told to me in my
childhood by the farm servants which have left me thus lax in my
notions. This much I know, that the certainty of the uncles being
smugglers, even if smuggling involve, as it must, occasional acts of
violence against the officers of the Excise, does not increase the
loathing which I feel towards the uncles. Nor would this fact, taken in
itself, suffice to explain Eustace's melancholy. What preys upon his
mind must rather be the disgust and disgrace of finding his house and
property put to such uses by such men.

For Eustace is a man of thought, not of action; and I can understand
that the problem how to change this order of things must weigh upon him
in proportion as he feels himself so little fitted for its solution.
With this is doubtless mingled a sense of responsibility towards me, and
perhaps (for his dreamer's conscience is most tender) of exaggerated
shame for bringing me here. If this be as I think, it is for me to help
my husband to break the bad spell which St. Salvat's has cast over him.
And I will and can! The child will help me. For no child of mine shall
ever be born into slavery and disgrace such as, I feel, is ours.