Love and Money Read online

  6

  It is this extraordinary action which stops us short, amazed. How could she possibly bring herself to do it? Just out of the man’s arms—a man who had been her accepted lover, for whom she had risked all to become his mistress! After all, their meetings at the hollow oak were voluntary; no woman need keep a rendezvous with a lover, from her father’s house, unless of her own free will. Was it simply that she was afraid for her life? But surely she was in less danger from fire than from Lockwood? The old story tells how she turned and ran from him, but any man can catch almost any woman, especially one clad in a long robe and kirtle, and the betrayed man’s hands about her throat would have ended her life quickly and with pain. Did she care nothing for Lockwood? Then why the hollow oak? Was it an early case of a mother with a hoard of maxims preaching down her daughter’s heart? Then why had she stayed with Lockwood now; why not call her mother when she first saw him? Was she afraid for her father? One would imagine that such a man as he kept well out of the flight of the arrows. Did she want to earn Bosville’s favour?

  Turn it how you will, the deed is very strange. Even suppose Aline to be not as I have imagined her but a coarse selfish strumpet, even so it is difficult to reconcile her previous trysts with her present betrayal. If she was the kind of woman who would commit an act of treachery for the sake of personal or family gain, why did she ever grant her favours to Lockwood, a hunted felon with nothing to offer her save danger? If on the other hand she had ever loved him, or even had a light fancy for him, what could have caused in her a revulsion of feeling so strong, so sudden, and so cruel?

  Only one thing, I think. What follows is all mere hypothesis, mere imagination, of course, but I explain the affair to myself in this way. The key to the puzzle is the death of Quarmby. That winning and light-hearted lad had courted the pretty Aline, and she, young and innocent and flattered, had taken his compliments and protestations more seriously than they deserved. They had strolled in the greenwood together, Quarmby had stolen a kiss or two, Aline had plighted her troth to him and meant it with all her heart. Then he had been dragged into the Elland murders by that horrible Lockwood, and finally he lay beneath an oak tree in the Ainleys wood, wounded and suffering, and Lockwood and Beaumont ran away and left him, and the Elland men found him and put him most cruelly to death. Lockwood ran away and left him! So Aline hated Lockwood with all her childish heart.

  Then Lockwood came to hide in Cannel Hall. He was not in the least what Aline expected, not a fierce rough overbearing ogre at all. He was kind and polite; his speech was far superior to her father’s, his manners were excellent. He was also handsome, sombre and strong. Her heart gave a strange leap the very first time she saw him, and as the days went by his lean strong hands, his crisp dark hair, the very eyelashes which lay so thick and black on his tanned cheek, made her feel weak every time she saw them. In a word, she loved him; not with the innocent unfledged liking she had felt for debonair Hugh Quarmby, but with a woman’s passion; she would do anything for Lockwood, suffer anything, follow him anywhere through any pain or toil.

  But all the time her vows to Quarmby nagged her. She had vowed, she had sworn, she had taken an oath, to be true to Quarmby, and now here she was, yielding her body to his murderer! For Lockwood, in her mind, was guilty of 28 Quarmby’s death; Lockwood had betrayed Quarmby, deserted him, abandoned him, run away safe himself and left poor Hugh to his enemies’ knives. In Lockwood’s arms, in the very moment of passion, this fearful thought of her broken vows came and tormented her almost beyond bearing —she was not, perhaps, very strong in mind, poor Aline.

  And now there was fighting again, arrows and blood and cries of wounded men, and Lockwood, all tenderness laid aside, bent his bow lustily and cried out with joy when his shaft found its mark. It was all too terrible, it reminded her too fearfully of Quarmby; her gentle mind, too long troubled by a burden too heavy for it, shook till all seemed whirling and uncertain and then it cleared and settled and Aline’s decision was made. Aline would take vengeance on Lock-wood for Quarmby’s death, just this once, and then her vows would be kept and Quarmby’s spirit would be appeased, and she could lie in Lockwood’s arms and enjoy the rapture of his love without any sense of guilt. Just this one sharp stroke with her knife, and then she could be happy!

  7

  It did not turn out like that, of course. Aline’s vengeance recoiled, as throughout this and many other stories vengeance does recoil, upon the avenger.

  For inevitably Aline’s action delivered Lockwood to his death. His loud cry of unbelieving anguish as the severed bowstring twanged and parted, his savage grief and rage as he reviled Aline for a foul faithless harlot, may have given the watching men outside a hint of what had happened; the absence of those well-aimed, piercing arrows confirmed that their quarry now lacked his best weapon of defence. They rushed into the house; their combined weight soon pushed open the solar door; Lockwood drew his dagger and sprang back against a corner and hastily snatched a chair before him; where Aline was now he neither knew nor cared. The men, twelve in all, crowded in so as to leave him no opening for escape, but stood waiting for an order; none of them were very eager to make the first attack. Lockwood crouching in his corner, panting and sweating, his mouth fixed in a snarl, his dagger clenched in his hand, was no longer a proud intelligent man who chose his course and followed it, but a wild animal at bay; wild animals are dangerous, especially when young and strong; therefore the men hung back.

  “William Lockwood, you are indicted of the death of Sir John de Elland. Yield yourself in the King’s name, and we will carry you to York for trial,” said Bosville pompously in formal style.

  “Yield thyself, Wilkin—let us have no bloodshed,” murmured Cannel feebly, from the rear.

  “Sir John killed my father,” panted Lockwood.

  “Aye—well! The justices will be mindful of that, no doubt,” said Bosville in an encouraging tone. “Let us have no more felonies and homicides—we will bind your hands and take you to York and soon there will be a gaol delivery and you can plead your cause.”

  “’Tis thy only chance of life, William,” wailed Cannel as before.

  This was true. It was a small chance amid such enemies, but against twelve of them well armed he had no other. Lockwood hesitated, then threw down his dagger.

  “Well—let it be so,” he said.

  Two men at once pulled aside the chair. Bosville’s steward produced a length of rope. Lockwood, smiling grimly, held out his hands, and the steward bound the wrists tightly together. Lockwood sighed and took a step forward, and Bosville, drawing his dagger, stabbed him strongly and neatly through the heart.

  8

  As for Adam Beaumont, when he heard of Lockwood’s death he was so struck to the heart by grief and loneliness, together with fear, that he contrived to escape out of the kingdom and get himself by ship across to France. Presently he took service with the Knights of Rhodes, a kind of Crusaders, who had fortified that island for the protection of the neighbouring seas against the Turks and were engaged against the heathen generally. Beaumont’s solid courage and good fighting qualities were much appreciated by the Knights, and he spent his life with them, fighting the heathen. He sent letters home to a friend near Huddersfield to tell of his successes, and presently died in the odour of sanctity in Rhodes, much respected.

  And Aline? What happened to the poor girl after that dreadful morning, when although, as she thought, she deserved well of the Saints since she had kept her vows, she saw her darling lover stabbed before her eyes? Ah, that we shall never know. Poor Aline. A nunnery, probably.

  Isabella, Isabella

  (1630)

  1

  “Nay. Tom! Look not so sour! Hast thou never lusted after a woman, lad?” said Sir Richard Bellomont. He threw back his handsome head and laughed very heartily.

  His young kinsman coloured to the roots of his plain light-brown hair.

  “If you would but marry, uncle,” he said stiffly, “thes
e matters would not arise between us.”

  “You speak very much to your own disadvantage, nephew Thomas,” said Sir Richard in a mock formal tone. “At present you are my heir. If I marry you might easily lose the estates of Whitland, South Crosley, Melton, Leptham and half the manor of Annotsfield.”

  “Only half?” exclaimed Thomas, startled out of his caution.

  A frown appeared between Sir Richard’s well-shaped black eyebrows.

  “Why, yes,” he said reluctantly. “I have been forced of late to part with some of my Annotsfield land to my cousin Resmond to pay my debts, having stretched my credit as far as it will go.”

  “Gaming debts?” said Thomas.

  “Even so, Tom. Come now, thou shalt chide me. Look down thy nose, lad, prim up thy mouth, and whine out some psalm about my duty to my land and name.”

  “I shall not do that, uncle Richard,” said Thomas Bellomont stolidly.

  “Why not? It’s what your mother’s sent you here to say.”

  “Perhaps because I do not like speaking to my own advantage,“ said Thomas. ”Nevertheless, to throw away the township of Annotsfield on the turn of a card seems to me—“ he paused, then blurted out: ”—unworthy of you.”

  “Unworthy of me?” said Sir Richard, affecting surprise. “Can it be that after all my follies you still hold a high opinion of your dissolute uncle?”

  Thomas was silent. The truth was he had always loved his uncle dearly. Sir Richard’s handsome aquiline face, his curling black hair and sparkling black eyes, his strong lean body, his elegant attire, his skill with horse and sword, his quick laugh and quicker courage, seemed to the young man exactly the qualities a gentleman of King Charles I’s reign should own. It was not within the power of his sober honest nature to express all this, however, so he said nothing and looked aside. Sir Richard observed him keenly, and presently laughed on a kindlier note.

  “Tha’rt a good lad, Tom,” he said. “I never could abide thy father—if he’d lived I think I should have married out of mere spite to him—but I see there is some touch of honourable mettle in his son. Well—I’ll try to keep a slice of Annotsfield for thee to inherit, Tom. Come now, let us go and see my little Isabella, of whom you disapprove so strongly.”

  He took his nephew’s arm and urged him from the room.

  Between embarrassment and curiosity Thomas was very uncomfortable. He did not know how to behave in the presence of his uncle’s mistress—he had never met a woman before who was not virtuous, and what his mother would say when he told her of the encounter he shuddered to think. On the other hand he did not relish the prospect of appearing a raw home-keeping lad in front of his uncle; he wished to seem able to take such matters as mistresses, bastards and gaming in his stride. How to do this while at the same time adhering sternly to his principles, was a difficult problem. Before he had in the least solved it he found himself in a small warm room where in front of the fire a woman sat holding on her knee a young child with copper-coloured hair, who was gurgling happily and kicking its bare toes.

  “Joanna, this is Thomas Bellomont, who is something between a nephew and a cousin to me,” said Sir Richard.

  Thomas gave what he knew was a clumsy bow. His first feeling was one of acute disappointment, for Joanna, though not much above his own age, lacked beauty and was quite as embarrassed as himself. She nodded ungracefully and muttered a greeting in a Yorkshire tone—Thomas remembered he had heard her birth was low—and made the child stand up on her lap, so that she could bury her face in its little neck. But this manoeuvre was frustrated by Sir Richard, who picked the child up from her arms into his own.

  “This is my little Isabella,” he cried—as proud, thought Thomas sourly, as if she were a legitimate offspring and heiress to half Annotsfield. “Now, my poppet! Give cousin Tom a kiss, eh?”

  He advanced the child towards his horrified nephew. But the little Isabella, frightened—as well she might be, admitted Tom crossly—by her newly acquired cousin’s long nose and scarlet cheeks, burst into tears and buried her face in her father’s shoulder.

  “There, there!” soothed Sir Richard. “Now, my darling! Now, my sweetheart! Very well! Shall we look out of the window, then, eh? There’s Rufus, see! Dost see Rufus, Isabella? Woof, woof!”

  The extraordinary spectacle of his reckless and dissipated uncle barking like a dog in order to amuse his little love-child quite disconcerted Thomas, the more so as Isabella, her tears drying away abruptly, leaned forward to look out at the dog and clutched her father’s shoulder to preserve her balance. Her small hand resting trustingly on the slashings of Sir Richard’s rich black silk doublet gave Thomas a curious feeling to which he could not put a name. He turned aside, and found that Isabella’s mother was gazing at Sir Richard with a look, Thomas discovered with a shock, which could only be called one of love. Now in his mother’s opinion a mistress was a wicked harpy who battened upon a man and drained him of his substance. It was all very disconcerting.

  “Do you mean to stay long here, sir?” enquired Joanna in her low rough tones.

  Thomas looked at her again. This time he perceived that though she was not in any sense a showy beauty, her round young face was frank and comely, her brown curls abundant, her dark blue eyes large and kind though at the moment troubled and perplexed. Her dress, too, was sober though well-appointed, and she entirely lacked that bedizenment of jewels which he had been taught to believe indispensable to women of her kind.

  “I do not know,” he replied gruffly.

  “Stay,” whispered Joanna. “Stay, Mr. Thomas.”

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  “Your uncle will be less wild while you are with him,” said Joanna.

  Their eyes met, and it was clear to Thomas that Joanna loved his uncle, desired his welfare and deplored his follies even more than Thomas did himself.

  “You mean—his gaming?” he murmured.

  “That and the rest,” said Joanna.

  “Sir John Resmond is below, sir,” announced a serving-man.

  Sir Richard turned from the window with the now smiling Isabella, and their moment of confidence was past.

  2

  “You said a thousand guineas, cousin,” said Sir Richard.

  “Pounds, cousin,” said Sir John Resmond in his smooth drawling tones.

  His square pale face, between the scanty locks of blond hair which drooped over his large ears, retained its smile, and his short solid legs, each with its foot turned out rather too far for grace, did not reveal any least movement of vexation. But it seemed to Thomas that with the first hint of opposition Sir John’s whole body had taken on the semblance of stone, and that this was a reflexion of his mind’s stony hardness.

  “Guineas!” repeated Sir Richard sharply. “Had you not said guineas, I had not parted with the land. A thousand pounds will not clear the debt.”

  “You should always game with pounds, cousin,” drawled Sir John. “Take my word for it, the settling is less uneasy so.”

  “The manner of my wagers doth not concern you,” said Sir Richard.

  “True—very true,” agreed Sir John blandly. He put his square white hands together and flipped his thumb-nails against each other thoughtfully. “Let us not quarrel over fifty pounds, cousin,” he said at length.

  Thomas looked at him in astonishment. Did he really mean to yield in the matter? Yield good gold?

  “Let me have a few more acres to round off my purchase, and you and I will not quarrel about the price,” concluded Sir John. He turned from the fire and smiled at his cousin.

  “Well—this is not cousinly in you, Resmond,” said Sir Richard, hesitating. “However—”

  “No!” said Thomas, leaning forward so that his angry young face came between them. “No, uncle! No!”

  “Here is a young gentleman with an eye to the main chance,” drawled Sir John. “He doth not intend you should diminish his inheritance, cousin Bellomont.” He spoke smoothly but a tightening of the muscles a
bout his jaw showed that he was not pleased.

  “Because I am young I am not under bond to accept insults,” said Thomas hotly.

  “Nay! I intended no insult. It is right that you should care for what may one day be yours. You were foolish else,” said Sir John.

  “The land has nothing to do with me. It is entirely your affair, uncle Richard,” said Thomas in a rage.

  He got up and stalked away towards the window. Even as he did so he knew that this withdrawal was just what Sir John had planned, but he could not bring himself to turn back for all that. Perhaps, however, his uncle too saw Resmond’s intention, for he followed Thomas, laid an arm about his shoulders, and said very soberly:

  “You do not wish me to sell more land, Tom?”

  “It is your land, uncle,” said Thomas, suddenly almost weeping. “Yours to keep or sell as you will. It is naught to do with me.”

  “That is no answer to my question. Shall I sell more, or nor

  “No,” muttered Thomas, hanging down his head.

  “I will take the thousand pounds, then, Resmond,” said Sir Richard, walking towards the fireplace.

  “As you will, cousin,” said Sir John smoothly. “My man of business is with me—he has brought the deed of conveyance and the money. Your servants put him in the next room, I fancy. Perhaps you will have him summoned.”

  Sir Richard shouted for a servant and gave the order.

  “Shall I leave you, uncle?” enquired Thomas, whose cheeks were still scarlet.

  “No, no—why should Master Thomas leave us?” said Sir John mildly. “He can act as a witness, if he will be so kind.”

  Thomas looked at him, astonished by his good-humoured tone. But Sir John’s little eyes glittered red, and he was flipping his thumb-nails against each other so that they clicked like castanets. Thomas perceived, with delight, that Sir John Resmond was exceedingly angry.