WEBVTT
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Chapter 11 of Beyond These Voices. This is a LibriVox recording.
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All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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00:00:10.839 --> 00:00:18.280
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jennifer Painter.
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00:00:19.879 --> 00:00:27.649
Beyond These Voices by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Chapter 11. It
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was Saturday and they were at River Mead. One of
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those ideal places that seem to have been raised along
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the upper Thames by an enchanter's wand, rather than by
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the vulgar arts of architect and builder, so exquisitely do
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they harmonise with the landscape that enshrines them. No hideous chimney,
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no mammoth reservoir, no thriving metropolitan high street defiled the
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neighbourhood of River Mead. All around was rustic peace, green
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meadows and blue waters, amidst which there lay gardens that
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had taken a century to make, grass walks between yew
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hedges and labyrinths of roses, and in the distance purple
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woods that melted into a purple horizon. It was a
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place that people always thought of as steeped in golden sunlight,
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but not even in the glory of a midsummer afternoon
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was River Mead quite as lovely as on such a
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night as this, when Claude and Vera strolled slowly along
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the river path in the silver light of a great
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round moon hung in the blue deep of a sky
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without a cloud. The magic of night and moonshine was
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upon everything. The mystery of light and shadow gave a
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charm to things that were commonplace by day, to the
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white balustrade in front of the drawing rooms, to the
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flight of steps and the marble vases, above which the
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lighted windows shone golden, the gaudy yellow light of indoor
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lamps shamed by the white glory of the moon. The
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windows were all open, and the voices of the card
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players travelled far in the clear air. They could even
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hear the light sound of their cards, manipulated by a
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dexterous hand. Everybody was playing bridge. Everybody was absorbed in
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the game, winning or losing, Happy or unhappy, but absorbed,
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except these two. Everybody except these two, who had been
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missing since ten o'clock, and the great stable clock had
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sounded its twelve slow sonorous strokes half an hour ago.
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They had not been wanted. The tables were all full.
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Two or three of the players had looked round the
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room once or twice, and, noting their absence... had exchanged
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the quiet smile, the almost imperceptible elevation of arched eyebrows
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with which, in a highly civilised community, characters can be killed.
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For Lady O'Campton, she who had more than once sounded
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the note of warning and who should have been on
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the alert to see danger signals, from the moment the
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tables were opened and the players seated, the world of
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men and women outside that charmed space where cards fluttered
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lightly upon smooth green cloth, four eager faces watching them
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as they fell, had ceased to exist. She was not
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a stupid woman, but she had a mind that moved slowly,
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and she could not think of two serious things at once.
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For her, Bridge was a serious thing, and from tea
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time on Saturday till this Sunday midnight, Bridge had occupied
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all her thoughts to the exclusion of every other consideration.
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Smiles might be exchanged and eyebrows raised when, on Sunday morning,
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Claude Rutherford carried off her niece two miles up the
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river to a village church, which by his account was
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a gem in early Gothic that was worth more than
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the two miles sculling a light skiff against the current.
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But Lady O'Campton was too absorbed even to wonder whether
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there was anything not quite correct in the excursion. Why
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should not people want to see the old church at Allersley?
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It was one of the lions of the neighbourhood and
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counted among the attractions of River Mead. Lady Oakhampton's cards
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on Saturday night had seemed to be dealt to her
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by a malignant fiend, an invisible devil guiding the smooth
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white hands of human dealers. She had lain awake till
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the Sunday morning bells were ringing for the early service
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to which good people were going, fresh and light of foot,
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with minds at ease. She had tossed and turned in
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her sumptuous bed, in a feverish unrest, playing her miserable
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hands over and over again, with the restless blood in
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her brain going round and round like a mill-wheel, or
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plunging backwards and forwards like a piston-rod. there had been
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no time to think of Vera and Claude, she could
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think only of Sunday evening and of her chance of revenge.
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It was not that she minded her money losses, which
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were despicable when reckoned against the price of Oakhampton's autumn sport.
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Two thousand pounds for a grouse moor and a salmon river,
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an outlay of which he talked as lightly as if
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it were a new hat. The money was nothing. He
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would give as much for an Irish setter as she
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lost in an evening. but the vexation and humiliation of
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a long evening's bad luck were too much for nerves
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that had been strained to snapping point by many seasons
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of experimental treatment all over Europe, and the mistress of
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River Mead had left her visitors to amuse themselves at
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their own sweet will until dinner time on Sunday evening,
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while their hostess slept in her easy chair by the
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open window of her morning room. soothed by the lullaby
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of the stream running down the weir, and sweet airs
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from a garden of roses, such roses as only grow
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in a riverside garden. The choice of amusements or occupations
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after luncheon on the Sunday afternoon was somewhat limited. Two
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girls and their youthful admirers played a four-handed game of croquet.
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A middle-aged spinster, who had been suspected of tricky play
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on Saturday, trudged a mile and a quarter to the
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little town where there was a church so old-fashioned as
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to provide a substantial afternoon service for adult worshippers. Most
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of the masculine guests wrote letters or read Sunday papers
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in the billiard room or slumbered in basket chairs on
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the river lawn. Vera and Claude did nothing out of
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the common in strolling up the hill to the wood
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where they lost themselves during the lazy two hours. between
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the end of a leisurely luncheon and the appearance of
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tea tables in the shady drawing room. Coming back a
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little tired after her idle afternoon, Vera sat on a
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sofa in the darkest corner of the spacious room, by
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the side of a comfortable matron, an old friend of
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her aunt's, with whom she exchanged amiable truisms and mild
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opinions upon books, plays and sermons. a kind of talk
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that demanded neither thought nor effort, while Claude sat among
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a distant group, bored to death, but smiling and courteous.
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After tea, there was the garden till dressing time. Everybody
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was in the garden, so it was only natural that
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these two should be sauntering in lanes of roses, exchanging
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light talk with other saunterers, and lingering a little at
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the crossing of the ways. where the slow drip of
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a fountain made a coolness in the sultry evening, or
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stopping at an opening in the flowery rampart to look
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across the blue water towards the grey old tower and
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listen to the pensive music of church bells. These two
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had been alone all day, without interference or espial from
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chaperone aunt, unconscious of observation. If they were observed... alone
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in this little world of summer verdure and sunlit water,
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as much alone as in a pathless wilderness. All that
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long summer day they had been alone, talking, talking, talking,
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as only lovers talk. And now, at midnight, they were
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still alone in the garden that was changed in the moonlight,
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changed from the warm glow of colour to the silvery
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paleness a mysterious shadow in which the prolific clusters of
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the felicite perpetuel looked like the ghosts of roses. If
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it were sin to love, the sin had been sinned
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from the hour in which he had drawn the confession
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of her love from the lips that he kissed for
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the first time. She had tried to hold him off,
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tried to keep those lips unprofaned by the kiss of guilt,
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They were alone in the wood on the hill that
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fatal Sunday afternoon, safe only for the moment since the
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woodland path was a favourite walk with visitors at Rivermead.
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But he had drawn her from the footpath into the
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shade of great beech trees and they were alone. He
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had kissed her and she had submitted to the guilty
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kiss and she knew that she was lost did she
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love him she whispered yes with all her heart and
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soul yes could she be happy if he left her
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forever no no no could she give up all the
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world for him as he would for her The lips
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that he had kissed were too tremulous for speech. She
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hid her face upon his breast and was dumb. The
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die is cast, he said in a low, grave voice,
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and now we have only to think of our future.
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Our future? Henceforth they were one. united by a bond
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as strong as if they had been married before the
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high altar in Westminster Abbey, with all the best people
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in London looking on and approving the bond. Nothing else
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could matter now. They belonged to each other. He was
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to command and she was to obey. It was almost
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as if, in the moment of her confession, her personal
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entity had ceased. In all those hours of delicious intimacy,
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in fond imaginings of their future life, the thought of
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her husband had never come between her and her lover.
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And tonight, when she thought of Mario Provana, it was
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only to tell herself that he had long ceased to
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care for her and that it would not hurt him
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if she were to vanish out of his life. Provana
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had been gone more than 14 days. and his cabled
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messages told her of delays and difficulties. The financial crisis
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was more serious than he had anticipated, and he would
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have to see it out. He had sent her several messages,
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but only one letter, a kind letter, such as an
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uncle might have written to a niece. But it seemed
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to her there was no love in it, not even
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such love as he had lavished on his daughter. There
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was nothing left of the love that had wrapped her
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round like summer's sunlight, the strong man's love that had
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made her so proud of having been chosen by him,
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so tranquil in the assurance of her happiness that nothing
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could change. The change had come before they had lived
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a year in that great gloomy London house, when she
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had been less than two years a wife. It was
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after parting with Claude in the garden, and creeping quietly
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up to her room in the second hour of the
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new day, while doors were beginning to open and voices
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to sound as the card players bade goodnight, it was
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in the stillness of the pretty guest chamber that Vera
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began to think of Mario Pravana and the impassioned love
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that had ended in a frozen aloofness. He had said,
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let there be no pretending. Could he have told her
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more absolutely that his love was dead and that no
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charm of sweetness in her could make it live again?
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She had made her poor little attempt to win him
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back and it had failed. What more was left but
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to be happy in her own way? End of chapter
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11
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Chapter 11 of Beyond These Voices. This is a LibriVox recording.
2
00:00:07.280 --> 00:00:10.800
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
3
00:00:10.839 --> 00:00:18.280
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jennifer Painter.
4
00:00:19.879 --> 00:00:27.649
Beyond These Voices by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Chapter 11. It
5
00:00:27.679 --> 00:00:30.820
was Saturday and they were at River Mead. One of
6
00:00:30.859 --> 00:00:34.420
those ideal places that seem to have been raised along
7
00:00:34.460 --> 00:00:38.359
the upper Thames by an enchanter's wand, rather than by
8
00:00:38.399 --> 00:00:42.399
the vulgar arts of architect and builder, so exquisitely do
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00:00:42.439 --> 00:00:47.679
they harmonise with the landscape that enshrines them. No hideous chimney,
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00:00:48.240 --> 00:00:53.200
no mammoth reservoir, no thriving metropolitan high street defiled the
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neighbourhood of River Mead. All around was rustic peace, green
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meadows and blue waters, amidst which there lay gardens that
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had taken a century to make, grass walks between yew
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hedges and labyrinths of roses, and in the distance purple
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woods that melted into a purple horizon. It was a
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place that people always thought of as steeped in golden sunlight,
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but not even in the glory of a midsummer afternoon
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was River Mead quite as lovely as on such a
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night as this, when Claude and Vera strolled slowly along
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the river path in the silver light of a great
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round moon hung in the blue deep of a sky
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without a cloud. The magic of night and moonshine was
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upon everything. The mystery of light and shadow gave a
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charm to things that were commonplace by day, to the
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white balustrade in front of the drawing rooms, to the
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flight of steps and the marble vases, above which the
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lighted windows shone golden, the gaudy yellow light of indoor
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lamps shamed by the white glory of the moon. The
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windows were all open, and the voices of the card
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players travelled far in the clear air. They could even
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hear the light sound of their cards, manipulated by a
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dexterous hand. Everybody was playing bridge. Everybody was absorbed in
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the game, winning or losing, Happy or unhappy, but absorbed,
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except these two. Everybody except these two, who had been
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missing since ten o'clock, and the great stable clock had
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sounded its twelve slow sonorous strokes half an hour ago.
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They had not been wanted. The tables were all full.
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Two or three of the players had looked round the
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room once or twice, and, noting their absence... had exchanged
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the quiet smile, the almost imperceptible elevation of arched eyebrows
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with which, in a highly civilised community, characters can be killed.
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For Lady O'Campton, she who had more than once sounded
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the note of warning and who should have been on
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the alert to see danger signals, from the moment the
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tables were opened and the players seated, the world of
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men and women outside that charmed space where cards fluttered
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lightly upon smooth green cloth, four eager faces watching them
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as they fell, had ceased to exist. She was not
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a stupid woman, but she had a mind that moved slowly,
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and she could not think of two serious things at once.
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For her, Bridge was a serious thing, and from tea
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time on Saturday till this Sunday midnight, Bridge had occupied
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all her thoughts to the exclusion of every other consideration.
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Smiles might be exchanged and eyebrows raised when, on Sunday morning,
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Claude Rutherford carried off her niece two miles up the
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river to a village church, which by his account was
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a gem in early Gothic that was worth more than
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the two miles sculling a light skiff against the current.
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But Lady O'Campton was too absorbed even to wonder whether
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there was anything not quite correct in the excursion. Why
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should not people want to see the old church at Allersley?
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It was one of the lions of the neighbourhood and
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counted among the attractions of River Mead. Lady Oakhampton's cards
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on Saturday night had seemed to be dealt to her
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by a malignant fiend, an invisible devil guiding the smooth
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white hands of human dealers. She had lain awake till
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the Sunday morning bells were ringing for the early service
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to which good people were going, fresh and light of foot,
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with minds at ease. She had tossed and turned in
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her sumptuous bed, in a feverish unrest, playing her miserable
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hands over and over again, with the restless blood in
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her brain going round and round like a mill-wheel, or
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plunging backwards and forwards like a piston-rod. there had been
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no time to think of Vera and Claude, she could
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think only of Sunday evening and of her chance of revenge.
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It was not that she minded her money losses, which
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were despicable when reckoned against the price of Oakhampton's autumn sport.
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Two thousand pounds for a grouse moor and a salmon river,
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an outlay of which he talked as lightly as if
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it were a new hat. The money was nothing. He
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would give as much for an Irish setter as she
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lost in an evening. but the vexation and humiliation of
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a long evening's bad luck were too much for nerves
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that had been strained to snapping point by many seasons
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of experimental treatment all over Europe, and the mistress of
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River Mead had left her visitors to amuse themselves at
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their own sweet will until dinner time on Sunday evening,
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while their hostess slept in her easy chair by the
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open window of her morning room. soothed by the lullaby
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of the stream running down the weir, and sweet airs
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from a garden of roses, such roses as only grow
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in a riverside garden. The choice of amusements or occupations
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after luncheon on the Sunday afternoon was somewhat limited. Two
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girls and their youthful admirers played a four-handed game of croquet.
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A middle-aged spinster, who had been suspected of tricky play
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on Saturday, trudged a mile and a quarter to the
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little town where there was a church so old-fashioned as
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to provide a substantial afternoon service for adult worshippers. Most
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of the masculine guests wrote letters or read Sunday papers
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in the billiard room or slumbered in basket chairs on
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the river lawn. Vera and Claude did nothing out of
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the common in strolling up the hill to the wood
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where they lost themselves during the lazy two hours. between
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the end of a leisurely luncheon and the appearance of
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tea tables in the shady drawing room. Coming back a
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little tired after her idle afternoon, Vera sat on a
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sofa in the darkest corner of the spacious room, by
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the side of a comfortable matron, an old friend of
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her aunt's, with whom she exchanged amiable truisms and mild
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opinions upon books, plays and sermons. a kind of talk
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that demanded neither thought nor effort, while Claude sat among
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a distant group, bored to death, but smiling and courteous.
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After tea, there was the garden till dressing time. Everybody
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was in the garden, so it was only natural that
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these two should be sauntering in lanes of roses, exchanging
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light talk with other saunterers, and lingering a little at
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the crossing of the ways. where the slow drip of
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a fountain made a coolness in the sultry evening, or
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stopping at an opening in the flowery rampart to look
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across the blue water towards the grey old tower and
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listen to the pensive music of church bells. These two
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had been alone all day, without interference or espial from
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chaperone aunt, unconscious of observation. If they were observed... alone
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in this little world of summer verdure and sunlit water,
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as much alone as in a pathless wilderness. All that
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long summer day they had been alone, talking, talking, talking,
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as only lovers talk. And now, at midnight, they were
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still alone in the garden that was changed in the moonlight,
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changed from the warm glow of colour to the silvery
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paleness a mysterious shadow in which the prolific clusters of
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the felicite perpetuel looked like the ghosts of roses. If
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it were sin to love, the sin had been sinned
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from the hour in which he had drawn the confession
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of her love from the lips that he kissed for
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the first time. She had tried to hold him off,
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tried to keep those lips unprofaned by the kiss of guilt,
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They were alone in the wood on the hill that
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fatal Sunday afternoon, safe only for the moment since the
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woodland path was a favourite walk with visitors at Rivermead.
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But he had drawn her from the footpath into the
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shade of great beech trees and they were alone. He
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had kissed her and she had submitted to the guilty
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kiss and she knew that she was lost did she
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love him she whispered yes with all her heart and
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soul yes could she be happy if he left her
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forever no no no could she give up all the
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world for him as he would for her The lips
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that he had kissed were too tremulous for speech. She
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hid her face upon his breast and was dumb. The
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die is cast, he said in a low, grave voice,
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and now we have only to think of our future.
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Our future? Henceforth they were one. united by a bond
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as strong as if they had been married before the
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high altar in Westminster Abbey, with all the best people
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in London looking on and approving the bond. Nothing else
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could matter now. They belonged to each other. He was
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to command and she was to obey. It was almost
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as if, in the moment of her confession, her personal
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entity had ceased. In all those hours of delicious intimacy,
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in fond imaginings of their future life, the thought of
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her husband had never come between her and her lover.
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And tonight, when she thought of Mario Provana, it was
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only to tell herself that he had long ceased to
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care for her and that it would not hurt him
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if she were to vanish out of his life. Provana
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had been gone more than 14 days. and his cabled
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messages told her of delays and difficulties. The financial crisis
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was more serious than he had anticipated, and he would
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have to see it out. He had sent her several messages,
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but only one letter, a kind letter, such as an
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uncle might have written to a niece. But it seemed
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to her there was no love in it, not even
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such love as he had lavished on his daughter. There
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was nothing left of the love that had wrapped her
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round like summer's sunlight, the strong man's love that had
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made her so proud of having been chosen by him,
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so tranquil in the assurance of her happiness that nothing
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could change. The change had come before they had lived
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a year in that great gloomy London house, when she
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had been less than two years a wife. It was
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after parting with Claude in the garden, and creeping quietly
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up to her room in the second hour of the
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new day, while doors were beginning to open and voices
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to sound as the card players bade goodnight, it was
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in the stillness of the pretty guest chamber that Vera
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00:12:54.389 --> 00:12:58.509
began to think of Mario Pravana and the impassioned love
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that had ended in a frozen aloofness. He had said,
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00:13:04.769 --> 00:13:08.029
let there be no pretending. Could he have told her
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00:13:08.070 --> 00:13:11.610
more absolutely that his love was dead and that no
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00:13:11.690 --> 00:13:14.539
charm of sweetness in her could make it live again?
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She had made her poor little attempt to win him
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back and it had failed. What more was left but
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to be happy in her own way? End of chapter
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11
