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FOXGLOVE MANOR

A Novel

By Robert W. Buchanan

In Three Volumes, Vol. I.

London

Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly

1884




FOXGLOVE MANOR.




CHAPTER XIV. BAPTISTO STAYS AT HOME.

|As Haldane sat in his study, the evening previous to the morning
fixed for his journey to London, Baptisto entered quickly and stood
before the desk at which his master was busily writing.

“Can I speak to you, senor?” Haldane looked and nodded.

“What is it, Baptisto?”

“You have arranged that I shall go with you to-morrow, but I have had
during the last few days an attack of my old vertigo. Can you possibly
dispense with my attendance, senor?” Haldane stared in surprise at the
Spaniards face, which was inscrutable as usual.

“Do you mean to say you wish to remain at home?”

“Certainly, senor.”

“Why? because you are ill? On the contrary, you look in excellent
health. No; it is impossible. I cannot get along without you.”

And Haldane returned to his papers as if the matter was ended.

Baptisto, however, did not budge, but remained in the same position,
with his dark eyes fixed upon his master.

“Do me this favour, senor. I am really indisposed, and must beg to
remain.”

Haldane laughed, for an idea suddenly occurred to him which seemed to
explain the mystery of his servant’s request.

“My good Baptisto, I think I understand the cause of your complaint,
and I am sure a little travel will do you good. It is that dark-eyed
widow of the lodge-keeper who attaches you so much to the Manor. The
warm blood of Spain still burns in your veins, and, despite your sad
experience of women, you are still impressionable. Eh? am I right?”

Baptisto quickly shook his head, with the least suspicion of a smile
upon his swarthy face.

“I am not impressionable, senor, and I do not admire your English
women; but I wish to remain all the same.”

“Nonsense!”

“Nonsense! In serious lament, senor, I beseech you to allow me to
remain.”

But Haldane was not to be persuaded at what he conceived to be a mere
whim of his servant. He still believed that Baptisto had fallen a
captive to the charms of Mrs. Feme, a little plump, dark-eyed woman,
with a large family. He had frequently of late seen the Spaniard
hanging about the lodge--on one occasion nursing and dandling the
youngest child--and he had smiled to himself, thinking that the poor
fellow’s misanthropy, or rather his misogynism, was in a fair way of
coming to an end.

Finding his master indisposed to take his request seriously, Baptisto
retired; and presently Haldane strolled into the drawing-room, where
he found his wife.

“Have you heard of the last freak of Baptisto? He actually wants to
remain at ease, instead of accompanying me in my journey.”

Ellen looked up from some embroidery, in which she was busily engaged.

“On no account!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t take him with you, I.
shall not stay in the place.”

“Dear me! said the philosopher. Surely you are not afraid of poor
Baptisto!”

“Not afraid of him exactly, but he makes me shiver. He comes and goes
like a ghost, and when you least expect him, he is at your elbow.
Then, of course, I cannot help remembering he has committed a murder!”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Haldane, laughing and throwing himself
into a chair. “My dear Ellen, you don’t believe the whole truth of
that affair. True, he surprised that Spanish wife of his with her
gallant, whom he stabbed; but I have it on excellent authority that it
was a kind of duello; the other man was armed, and so it was a fair
fight.” Ellen shuddered, and showed more nervous agitation than her
husband could quite account for.

“Take him away with you,” she cried; “take him away. If you never
bring him back, I shall rejoice. If I had been consulted, he would
never have been brought to England.”

A little later in the evening, when Haldane had returned to his
papers, which he was diligently finishing to take away with him, he
rang and summoned the Spaniard to his presence.

“Well, it is all settled. I have consulted your mistress, and she
insists in your accompanying me to-morrow.”

A sharp flash came upon Baptisto’s dark eyes. He made an angry
gesture; then controlling himself, he said in a low, emphatic voice--

“The _senora_ means it? _She_ does not wish me to remain?”

“Just so.”

“May I ask why?

“Only because she does not want you, and I do. Between ourselves, she
is not quite so certain of you as I am. She has never forgotten that
little affair in Spain.”

Again the dark eyes flashed, and again there was the same angry
gesture, instantly checked.

Haldane continued.

“You are violent sometimes, my Baptisto, and madame is a little afraid
of you. When she knows you better, as I know you, she will be aware
that you are rational; at present----”

“At present, senor,” said Baptisto, “she would rather not have me so
near. Ah, I can understand! Perhaps she has reason to be afraid.”

Something in the man’s manner, which was sinister and almost
threatening, jarred upon his master’s mind. Rising from his chair,
Haldane stood with his back to the fire, and, with a frown, regarded
the Spaniard, as, he said--

“Listen to me, Baptisto. I have noticed with great annoyance,
especially of late, that your manner to madame has been strange, not
to say sullen. You are whimsical still, and apt to take offence. If
this goes on, if you fail in respect to your mistress, and make your
presence uncomfortable in this house, we shall have to part.”

To Haldane’s astonishment, Baptisto asked an explanation, and, falling
on his knees, seized his master’s hand and kissed it eagerly,
“Senor! Senor! you don’t comprehend. You don’t think I am ungrateful,
that I do not remember? But you are wrong. I would die to save
you--yes, I would die; and I would kill with my own hand any one who
did you an injury. I am your servant, your slave--ah yes, till death.”

“Come, get up, and go and finish packing my things.”

“But, senor----”

“Get up, I say.”

The Spaniard rose, and with folded hands and bent head stood waiting.

“Get ready like a sensible fellow, and let us have no more of this
foolery. There, there, I understand. You are exciting yourself for
nothing.”

“Then, I am to go, senor?”

“Certainly.”

Early the next morning Baptisto entered the carriage with his master,
and was driven to the railway station, some seven miles away. As they
went along, Haldane noticed that the man looked very ill, and that
from time to time he put his hand to his head as if in pain. At the
railway station, while they were waiting for the train, matters looked
most serious. Suddenly the Spaniard fell forward on the platform as
if in strong convulsions, his eyes starting out of his head, his mouth
foaming. They sprinkled water on his face, chafed his hands, and with
some difficulty brought him round.

“The devil!” muttered Haldane to himself. “It looks like epilepsy!”
 Baptisto was placed on a seat, and lay back ghastly pale, as if
utterly exhausted.

“Are you better now?” asked Haldane, bending over him.

“A little better, senor.”

But seeing him so utterly helpless, and likely to have other seizure,
Haldane rapidly calculated in his own mind the inexpediency of taking
him away on a long railway journey. After all, the poor fellow had not
exaggerated his condition, when he had pleaded illness as an excuse
for remaining at home.

“After all,” said Haldane, “I think you will have to remain behind.”

Baptisto opened his eyes feebly, and stretched out his hands.

“No, senor; since you wish it, I will go.”

“You shall remain,” answered Haldane, just as the whistle of the
coming train was heard in the distance. “Perhaps, if you are better
in a day or two, you can follow; but you will go away now in the
carriage, and send over to Dr. Spruce, and he will prescribe for you.”

Baptisto did not answer, but, taking his masters hand, kissed it
gratefully. The train came up. Haldane entered a carriage, and, gazing
from the window as the train began to move on, saw Baptisto still
seated on the platform, very pale, his eyes half closed, his head
recumbent. Near him stood the station master, a railway porter, and
the groom who had driven them over from the Manor, all regarding him
with languid curiosity.

But the moment the train was gone, Baptisto began to recover. Rising
to his feet, and refusing all offers of assistance from the others,
he strolled out of the station, and quietly mounted the dog-cart. The
groom got up beside him, and they drove homeward through the green
lanes.

Now, Baptisto was a gentleman, and seldom entered or tolerated
familiarity from his fellow-servants. Had it been otherwise, the groom
might have asked the explanation of his curious conduct; for no sooner
was he mounted on the dogcart, and driving along in the fresh air,
than the Spaniard seemed to forget all about his recent illness, sat
erect like a man in perfect health, and exhibited none of the curious
symptoms which had so alarmed his master.

And when the groom, who was a thirsty individual, suggested that
they should make a detour and call at the Blue Boar Inn for a little
stimulant, chiefly as a corrective to the attack from which his
companion had just suffered, the Spaniard turned his dark eyes round
about him and actually winked. This proceeding so startled the groom
that he almost dropped the reins, for never in the whole course of his
sojourn had the foreign gent condescended to such a familiarity.

They drove round to the Blue Boar, however, and the groom consumed the
brandy, while Baptisto, who was a teetotaller, had some lemonade, and
lit his cigar. Then they drove home to the Manor, Baptisto sitting
with folded arms, completely and absolutely recovered.

About noon that day, as Mrs. Haldane moved about the conservatory,
looking after her roses, a servant announced the Rev. Mr. Santley.
Ellen flushed, a little startled at the announcement, coming so soon
after her husband’s departure, and her first impulse was to deny
herself; but before she could do so the clergyman himself appeared at
the door of the conservatory.

“You are an early visitor,” she said coldly, bending her face over the
flowers.

“It is just noon,” answered the clergyman, “and I was going home from
a sick-call. Has Mr. Haldane gone?”

“Yes. Did you wish to see him?”

“Not particularly, though I had a little commission which I might have
asked him to execute had I been in time.” Surely the man’s fall had
already begun. Ellen knew perfectly well that he was lying. In
point of fact, he had seen the dog-cart drive past on the way to the
station, and he had been unable to resist the temptation of coming
over without delay.

With face half averted, Ellen led the way into the drawing-room, and
on to the terrace beyond, from which there was a pleasant view of the
Manor, the plain, and the surrounding country. Just below the gardens
were laid out in flowerbeds and gravel walks; but the dark shrubberies
were beyond, and at a little distance, well in the shadow of the
trees, the old chapel.

There was a long silence. Ellen stood silent, gazing upon the woods
and lawn, while the clergyman stood just behind her, evidently
regarding her.

At last she could bear it no longer, but, turning quickly, exclaimed--

“Why did you come? Have you anything to say to me?”

“Nothing, Ellen, if you are angry,” replied the clergyman.

“Angry! You surely know best if I have cause. After what has passed, I
think it is better that we should not meet,” she added in a low voice.
“At least, not often.”

He saw she was agitated, and he took a certain pleasure in her
agitation, for it showed him that she was not quite unsusceptible to
the influence he might bring to bear upon her. As he stood there, his
sad eyes fixed upon her, his being conscious of every movement she
made, of every breath she drew, he felt again the deep fatality of his
passion, and silently yielded to it.

There was another long pause, which he was the first to break.

“Do you know, Ellen, I sometimes tremble for you, when I think of your
husbands opinions. In time you may learn to share them, and then we
should be further apart than ever. At present, it is my sole comfort
to know you possess that living faith without which every soul is
lost.”

“Lost?” she repeated, in a bewildering way, not looking at him.

“I don’t mean in the vulgar sense; the theological ideas of damnation
have never had my sanction, far less my sympathy. But materialism
degrades the believer, and sooner or later comes a disbelief in all
that is holy, beautiful, and sanctified. It is a humble creed, the new
creed of science, and fatal to spiritual hopes.”

“Does it matter so much what one believes, if one’s life is good?”

“It matters so much that I would rather see one I loved dead before my
feet than an avowed unbeliever. But there, I have not come to preach
to you. When does Mr. Haldane return?”

“As I told you: in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.”

“And during his absence we shall meet again, I hope?”

She hesitated and looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the distant
woods, though he stood expectantly, as if awaiting her reply, which
did not come.

“Can you not trust me?” he exclaimed. “You know I am your friend?”

“I hope so; but I think it is best that you should not come here. If
you were married, it would be different.”

“I shall not marry,” he replied impatiently. “What then? I am a
priest of God, and you may trust me fully. If our Church commenced the
confessional, you might enter it without fear, and I--I would listen
to the outpourings of your heart. Should you in your grief be afraid
to utter them?”

She moved away from him, turning her back; but betrayed herself. He
saw the bright colour mount to her neck and mantle there.

“What nonsense you talk!” she said presently, with a forced laugh.
“Are you going over to Rome?”

“I might go over to the evil place itself, Ellen, if _you_ were
there.”

There was no mistaking the words, the tone, in their diabolic
gentleness, their suavity of supreme and total self-surrender. She
felt helpless in spite of herself. The man was overmastering her, and
rapidly encroaching. She felt like a person morally stifled, and with
a strong effort tried to shake the evil influence away.

“I was right,” she said. “We must not meet.”

He smiled sadly.

“As you please. I will come, or I will go, at your will. You have only
to say to me, ‘Go and destroy yourself, obliterate yourself for ever
from my life, blot yourself out from the roll of living beings,’ and I
shall obey you.”

Her spirit revolted more and more against the steadfast, self-assured
obliquity of