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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75412-0.txt b/75412-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70100d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75412-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5425 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75412 *** + + + + + + Transcriber’s Note + Italic text displayed as: _italic_ + + + + + THE FATAL THREE + + A Novel + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + “LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,” “VIXEN,” + “ISHMAEL,” “MOHAWKS,” + ETC. + + + IN THREE VOLUMES + VOL. III. + + + LONDON + SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. + STATIONERS’ HALL COURT + + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + +Book the Third. + +ATROPOS; OR THAT WHICH MUST BE. + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. A WRECKED LIFE 3 + + II. IN THE MORNING OF LIFE 20 + + III. THE RIFT IN THE LUTE 44 + + IV. DARKNESS 62 + + V. THE GRAVE ON THE HILL 82 + + VI. PAMELA CHANGES HER MIND 95 + + VII. AS THE SANDS RUN DOWN 117 + + VIII. “HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?” 152 + + IX. LITERA SCRIPTA MANET 188 + + X. MARKED BY FATE 217 + + XI. LIKE A TALE THAT IS TOLD 232 + + + + +BOOK THE THIRD. + +ATROPOS; OR THAT WHICH MUST BE. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WRECKED LIFE. + + +Monsieur Leroy was interested in his visitor, and in nowise hastened +her departure. He led her through the garden of the asylum, anxious +that she should see that sad life of the shattered mind in its milder +aspect. The quieter patients were allowed to amuse themselves at +liberty in the garden, and here Mildred saw the woman who fancied +herself the Blessed Virgin, and who sat apart from the rest, with a +crown of withered anemones upon her iron-gray locks. + +The doctor stopped to talk to her in the Niçois language, describing +her hallucination to Mildred in his broken English between whiles. + +“She is one of my oldest cases, and mild as a lamb,” he said. “She is +what superstition had made her. She might have been a happy wife as a +mother but for that fatal influence. Ah, here comes a lady of a very +different temper, and not half so easy a subject!” + +A woman of about sixty advanced towards them along the dusty gravel +path between the trampled grass and the dust-whitened orange-trees, a +woman who carried her head and shoulders with the pride of an empress, +and who looked about her with defiant eyes, fanning herself with a +large Japanese paper fan as she came along, a fan of vivid scarlet and +cheap gilt paper, which seemed to intensify the brightness of her great +black eyes, as she waved it to and fro before her haggard face: a woman +who must once have been beautiful. + +“Would you believe that lady was prima donna at La Scala nearly forty +years ago?” asked the doctor, as he and Mildred stood beside the path, +watching that strange figure, with its theatrical dignity. + +The massive plaits of grizzled black hair were wound, coronet-wise, +about the woman’s head. Her rusty black velvet gown trailed in the +dust, threadbare long ago, almost in tatters to-day: a gown of a +strange fashion, which had been worn upon the stage—Leonora’s or +Lucrezia’s gown, perhaps, once upon a time. + +At sight of the physician she stopped suddenly, and made him a sweeping +curtsy, with all the exaggerated grace of the theatre. + +“Do you know if they open this month at the Scala?” she asked, in +Italian. + +“Indeed, my dear, I have heard nothing of their doings.” + +“They might have begun their season with the new year,” she said, with +a dictatorial air. “They always did in my time. Of course you know that +they have tried to engage me again. They wanted me for Amina, but I had +to remind them that I am not a light soprano. When I reappear it shall +be as Lucrezia Borgia. There I stand on my own ground. No one can touch +me there.” + +She sang the opening bars of Lucrezia’s first scena. The once glorious +voice was rough and discordant, but there was power in the tones even +yet, and real dramatic fire in the midst of exaggeration. Suddenly +while she was singing she caught the expression of Mildred’s face +watching her, and she stopped at a breath, and grasped the stranger by +both hands with an excited air. + +“That moves you, does it not?” she exclaimed. “You have a soul for +music. I can see that in your face. I should like to know more of you. +Come and see me whenever you like, and I will sing to you. The doctor +lets me use his piano sometimes, when he is in a good humour.” + +“Say rather when you are reasonable, my good Maria,” said Monsieur +Leroy, laying a fatherly hand upon her shoulder; “there are days when +you are not to be trusted.” + +“I am to be trusted to-day. Let me come to your room and sing to her,” +pointing to Mildred with her fan. “I like her face. She has the eyes +and lips that console. Her husband is lucky to have such a wife. Let me +sing to her. I want her to understand what kind of woman I am.” + +“Would it bore you too much to indulge her, madame?” asked the doctor +in an undertone. “She is a strange creature, and it will wound her +if you refuse. She does not often take a fancy to any one; but she +frequently takes dislikes, and those are violent.” + +“I shall be very happy to hear her,” answered Mildred. “I am in no +hurry to return to Nice.” + +The doctor led the way back to his house, the singer talking to Mildred +with an excited air as they went, talking of the day when she was first +soprano at Milan. + +“Everybody envied me my success,” she said. “There were those who +said I owed everything to _him_, that he made my voice and my +style. Lies, madame, black and bitter lies. I won all the prizes +at the Conservatoire. He was one master among many. I owed him +nothing—nothing—nothing!” + +She reiterated the word with acrid emphasis, and an angry furl of her +fan. + +“Ah, now you are beginning the old strain!” said the doctor, with a +good-humoured shrug of his shoulders. “If this goes on there shall be +no piano for you to-day. I will have no grievances; grievances are the +bane of social intercourse. If you come to my _salon_ it must be to +sing, not to reopen old sores. We all have our wounds as well as you, +signorina, but we keep them covered up.” + +“I am dumb,” said the singer meekly. + +They went into the doctor’s private sitting-room. Three sides of the +room were lined with books, chiefly of a professional or scientific +character. A cottage piano stood in a recess by the fireplace. The +woman flew to the instrument with a rapturous eagerness, and began to +play. Her hands were faintly tremulous with excitement, but her touch +was that of a master as she played the symphony to the finale of “La +Cenerentola.” + +“Has she no piano in her own room?” asked Mildred in a whisper. + +“No, poor soul. She is one of our pauper patients. The State provides +for her, but it does not give her a private room or a piano. I let her +come here two or three times a week for an hour or so, when she is +reasonable.” + +Mildred wondered if it would be possible for her, as a stranger, to +provide a room and a piano for this friendless enthusiast. She would +have been glad out of her abundance to have lightened a suffering +sister’s fate, and she determined to make the proposition to the doctor. + +The singer played snatches of familiar music—Rossini, Donizetti, +Bellini—operatic airs which Mildred knew by heart. She wandered from +one scena to another, and her voice, though it had lost its sweetness +and sustaining power, was still brilliantly flexible. She sang with +a rapturous unconsciousness of her audience, Mildred and the doctor +sitting quietly at each side of the hearth, where a single pine log +smouldered on the iron dogs above a heap of white ashes. + +Presently the music changed to a gayer, lighter strain, and she began +an airy cavatina, all coquetry and grace. That joyous melody was +curiously familiar to Mildred’s ear. + +“Where did I hear that music?” she said aloud. “It seems as if it were +only the other day, and yet it is nearly two years since I was at the +opera.” + +The singer left the cavatina unfinished, and wandered into another +melody. + +“Ah, I know now!” exclaimed Mildred; “that is Paolo Castellani’s +music!” + +The woman started up from the piano as if the name had wounded her. + +“Paolo Castellani!” she cried. “What do you know of Paolo Castellani?” + +Dr. Leroy went over to her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder heavily. + +“Now we are in for a scene,” he muttered to Mildred. “You have +mentioned a most unlucky name.” + +“What has she to do with Signor Castellani?” + +“He was her cousin. He trained her for the stage, and she was the +original in several of his operas. She was his slave, his creature, and +lived only to please him. I suppose she expected him to marry her, poor +soul; but he knew better than that. He contrived to fascinate a French +girl, a consumptive, who was travelling in Italy for her health, with a +wealthy father. He married the Frenchwoman; and I believe that marriage +broke Maria’s heart.” + +The singer had seated herself at the piano again, and was playing +with rapid and brilliant finger, running up and down the keys in wild +excitement. Mildred and the physician were standing by the window, +talking in lowered voices, unheeded by Maria Castellani. + +“Was it that event which wrecked her mind?” asked Mildred, deeply +interested. + +“No, it was some years afterwards that her brain gave way. She had a +brilliant career before her at the time of Castellani’s desertion; +and she bore the blow with the courage of a Roman. So long as her +voice lasted, and the public were constant to her, she contrived +to bear up against that burning sense of wrong which has been the +distinguishing note of her mind ever since she came here. But the +first breath of failure froze her. She felt her voice decaying while +she was comparatively a young woman. Her glass told her that she was +losing her beauty, that she was beginning to look old and haggard. +Her managers told her more. They gave her the cold shoulder, and put +newer singers above her head. Then despair took hold of her; she became +gloomy and irritable, difficult and capricious in her dealings with her +fellow-artists; and then came the end, and she was brought here. She +had saved no money. She had been reckless even beyond the habits of +her profession. She was friendless. There was nobody interested in her +fate—” + +“Not even Signor Castellani?” + +“Castellani—Paolo Castellani? _Pas si bête._ The man was a compound of +selfishness and treachery. She was not likely to get pity from him. The +very fact that he had used her badly made her loathsome to him. I doubt +if he ever inquired what became of her. If any one had asked him about +her, he would have said that she had dropped through—a worn-out voice, +a faded beauty—_que voulez-vous_?” + +“She had no other friends—no ties?” + +“None. She was an orphan at twelve years old, without a son. Castellani +paid for her education, and traded upon her talent. He trained her to +sing in his own operas, and in that light, fanciful music she was at +her best; though it is her delusion now that she excelled in the grand +style. I believe he absorbed the greater part of her earnings, until +they quarrelled. Some time after his marriage there was a kind of +reconciliation between them. She appeared in a new opera—his last and +worst. Her voice was going, his talent had began to fail. It was the +beginning of the end.” + +“Has Signor Castellani’s son shown no interest in this poor creature’s +fate?” + +“No; the son lives in England, I believe, for the most part. I doubt if +he knows anything about Maria.” + +The singer had reverted to that familiar music. She sang the first +part of an aria, a melody disguised with over-much fioritura, light, +graceful, unmeaning. + +“That is in his last opera,” she said, rising from the piano, with a +more rational air. “The opera was almost a failure; but I was applauded +to the echo. His genius had forsaken him. Follies, follies, falsehoods, +crimes. He could not be true to any one or anything. He was as false +to his wife as he had been false to me, and to his proud young English +signorina; ah, well! who can doubt that he lied to _her_?” + +She fell into a meditative mood, standing by the piano, touching a note +now and then. + +“Young and handsome and rich. Would she have accepted degradation with +open eyes? No, no, no. He lied to her as he had lied to me. He was made +up of lies.” + +Her eyes grew troubled, and her lips worked convulsively. Again the +doctor laid his strong broad hand upon her shoulder. + +“Come, Maria,” he said in Italian; “enough for to-day. Madame has been +pleased with your singing.” + +“Yes, indeed, signora. You have a noble voice. I should be very glad if +I could do anything to be of use to you; if I could contribute to your +comfort in any way.” + +“O, Maria is happy enough with us, I hope,” said the doctor cheerily. +“We are all fond of her when she is reasonable. But it is time she went +to her dinner. _A rivederci, signora._” + +Maria accepted her dismissal with a good grace, saluted Mildred and +the doctor with her stage curtsy, and withdrew. One side of Monsieur +Leroy’s house opened into the garden, the other into a courtyard +adjoining the high-road. + +“Poor soul! I should be so glad to pay for a piano and a private +sitting-room for her, if I might be allowed to do so,” said Mildred, +when the singer was gone. + +“You are too generous, madame; but I doubt if it would be good for +her to accept your bounty. She enjoys the occasional use of my piano +intensely. If she had one always at her command, she would give up +her life to music, which exercises too strong an influence upon her +disordered brain to be indulged in _ad libitum_. Nor would a private +apartment be an advantage in her case. She is too much given to +brooding over past griefs; and the society of her fellow-sufferers, the +friction and movement of the public life, are good for her.” + +“What did she mean by her talk of an English girl—some story of +wrong-doing? Was it all imaginary?” + +“I believe there was some scandal at Milan; some flirtation, or +possibly an intrigue, between Castellani and one of his English pupils; +but I never heard the details. Maria’s jealousy would be likely to +exaggerate the circumstances; for I believe she adored her cousin to +the last, long after she knew that he had never cared for her, except +as an element in his success.” + +Mildred took leave of the doctor, after thanking him for his +politeness. She left a handful of gold for the benefit of the poor +patients, and left Dr. Leroy under the impression that she was one of +the sweetest women he had ever met. Her pensive beauty, her low and +musical voice, the clear and resolute purpose of every word and look, +were in his mind indications of the perfection of womanhood. + +“It is not often that Nature achieves such excellence,” mused the +doctor. “It is a pity that perfection should be short-lived; yet I +cannot prognosticate length of years for this lady.” + + * * * * * + +Pamela’s spirits were decidedly improving. She talked all dinner-time, +and gave a graphic description of her afternoon in the tennis-court +behind the Cercle de la Méditerranée. + +“I am to see the club-house some morning before the members begin +to arrive,” she said. “It is a perfectly charming club. There is a +theatre, which serves as a ballroom on grand occasions. There is to be +a dance next week; and Lady Lochinvar will chaperon me, if you don’t +mind.” + +“I shall be most grateful to Lady Lochinvar, dear. Believe me, if I am +a hermit, I don’t want to keep you in melancholy seclusion. I am very +glad for you to have pleasant friends.” + +“Mrs. Murray is delightful. She begged me to call her Jessie. She is +going to take me for a drive before lunch to-morrow, and we are to do +some shopping in the afternoon. The shops here are simply lovely.” + +“Almost as nice as Brighton?” + +“Better. They have more _chic_; and I am told they are twice as dear.” + +“Was Mr. Stuart at the tennis-court?” + +“Yes, he plays there every afternoon when he is not at Monte Carlo.” + +“That does not sound like a very useful existence.” + +“Perhaps you will say _he_ is an adventurer,” exclaimed Pamela, with +a flash of temper; and then repenting in a moment, she added: “I beg +your pardon, aunt; but you are really wrong about Mr. Stuart. He looks +after Lady Lochinvar’s estate. He is invaluable to her.” + +“But he cannot do much for the estate when he is playing tennis here or +gambling at Monte Carlo.” + +“O, but he does. He answers no end of letters every morning. Lady +Lochinvar says he is a most wonderful young man. He attends to her +house accounts here. I am afraid she would be very extravagant if she +were not well looked after. She has no idea of business. Mr. Stuart has +even to manage her dressmakers.” + +“Then one may suppose he is really useful—even at Nice. Has he any +means of his own, or is he entirely dependent on his aunt?” + +“O, he has an income of his own—a modest income, Mrs. Murray says, +hardly enough for him to get along easily in a cavalry regiment, +but quite enough for him as a civilian; and his aunt will leave him +everything. His expectations are splendid.” + +“Well, Pamela, I will not call _him_ an adventurer, and I shall be +pleased to make his acquaintance, if he will call upon me.” + +“He is dying to know you. May Mrs. Murray bring him to tea to-morrow +afternoon?” + +“With pleasure.” + + + + +CHAPTER II + +IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. + + +George Greswold succumbed to Fate. He had done all he could do in the +way of resistance. He had appealed against his wife’s decision; he had +set love against principle or prejudice, and principle, as Mildred +understood it, had been too strong for love; so there was nothing left +for the forsaken husband but submission. He went back to the home in +which he had once been happy, and he sat down amidst the ruins of his +domestic life; he sat by his desolate hearth through the long dull +wintry months, and he made no effort to bring brightness or variety +into his existence. He made no stand against unmerited misfortune. + +“I am too old to forget,” he told himself; “that lesson can only be +learnt in youth.” + +A young man might have gone out as a wanderer—might have sought +excitement and distraction amidst strange cities and strange races +of men; might have found forgetfulness in danger and hardship, the +perils of unexplored deserts, the hazards of untrodden mountains, the +hairbreadth escapes of savage life, pestilence, famine, warfare. George +Greswold felt no inclination for any such adventure. The mainspring of +life had snapped, and he admitted to himself that he was a broken man. + +He sat by the hearth in his gloomy library day after day, and night +after night, until the small hours. Sometimes he took his gun in the +early morning, and went out with a leash of dogs for an hour or two of +solitary shooting among his own covers. He tramped his copses in all +weathers and at all hours, but he rarely went outside his own domain; +nor did he ever visit his cottagers or small tenantry, with whom he had +been once so familiar a friend. All interest in his estate had gone +from him after his daughter’s death. He left everything to the new +steward, who was happily both competent and honest. + +His books were his only friends. Those studious habits acquired years +before, when he was comparatively a poor man, stood by him now. His +one distraction, his only solace, was found in the contents of those +capacious bookshelves, three-fourths of which were filled with volumes +of his own selection, the gradual accumulation of his sixteen years of +ownership. His grandfather’s library, which constituted the remaining +fourth, consisted of those admirable standard works, in the largest +possible number of volumes, which formed an item in the furniture +of a respectable house during the last century, and which, from the +stiffness of their bindings and the unblemished appearance of their +paper and print, would seem to have enjoyed an existence of dignified +retirement from the day they left the bookseller’s shop. + +But for those long tramps in the wintry copses, where holly and ivy +showed brightly green amidst leafless chestnuts and hazels—but for +those communings with the intellect of past and present in the long +still winter evenings, George Greswold’s brain must have given way +under the burden of an undeserved sorrow. As it was, he contrived to +live on, peacefully, and even with an air of contentment. His servants +surprised him in no paroxysm of grief. He startled them with no strange +exclamations. His manner gave no cause for alarm. He accepted his +lot in silence and submission. His days were ordered with a simple +regularity, so far as the service of the house went. His valet and +butler agreed that he was in all things an admirable master. + +The idea in the household was that Mrs. Greswold had “taken to +religion.” That seemed the only possible explanation for a parting +which had been preceded by no domestic storms, for which there was +no apparent cause in the conduct of the husband. That idea of the +wife having discovered an intrigue of her husband’s, which Louisa +had discussed in the housekeeper’s room at Brighton, was no longer +entertained in the servants’-hall at Enderby. + +“If there had been anything of that kind, something would have come +out by this time,” said the butler, who had a profound belief in the +ultimate “coming out” of all social mysteries. + +George Greswold was not kept in ignorance of his wife’s movements. +Pamela had been shrewd enough to divine that her uncle would be glad +to hear from her in order to hear of Mildred, and she had written to +him from time to time, giving him a graphic account of her own and her +aunt’s existence. + +There had been only one suppression. The young lady had not once +alluded to Castellani’s share in their winter life at Pallanza. She +had a horror of arousing that dragon of suspicion which she knew to +lurk in the minds of all uncles with reference to all agreeable young +men. George Greswold had not heard from his niece for more than a +fortnight, when there came a letter, written the day after Mildred’s +visit to the madhouse, and full of praises of Lady Lochinvar and the +climate of Nice. That letter was the greatest shock that Greswold had +received since his wife had left him, for it told him that she was in +a place where she could scarcely fail to discover all the details of +his wretched story. He had kept it locked from her, he had shut himself +behind a wall of iron, he had kept a silence as of the grave; and now +she from whom he had prayed that his fatal story might be for ever +hidden was certain to learn the worst. + +“Aunt went to lunch with Lady Lochinvar the day after our arrival,” +wrote Pamela. “She spent a long morning with her, and then went for a +drive somewhere in the environs, and was out till nearly dinner-time. +She looked so white and fagged when she came back, poor dear, and I +am sure she had done too much for one day. Lady Lochinvar asked me to +dinner, and took me to the new Opera-house, which is lovely. Her nephew +was with us—rather plain, and with no taste for music (he said he +preferred _Madame Angot_ to _Lohengrin_), but enormously clever, I am +told, in a solid, practical kind of way.” + +_Und so weiter_, for three more pages. + +Mildred had been with Lady Lochinvar—with Lady Lochinvar, who knew all; +who had seen him and his wife together; had received them both as her +friends; had been confided in, he knew, by that fond, jealous wife; +made the recipient of tearful doubts and hysterical accusations. Vivien +had owned as much to him. + +She had been with Lady Lochinvar, who must know the history of his +wife’s death and the dreadful charge brought against him; who must know +that he had been an inmate of the great white barrack on the road to +St. André; who in all probability thought him guilty of murder. All the +barriers had fallen now; all the floodgates had opened. He saw himself +hateful, monstrous, inhuman, in the eyes of the woman he adored. + +“She loved her sister with an inextinguishable love,” he thought, +“and she sees me now as her sister’s murderer—the cold-blooded, cruel +husband, who made his wife’s existence miserable, and ended by killing +her in a paroxysm of brutal rage: that is the kind of monster I must +seem in my Mildred’s eyes. She will look back upon my stubborn silence, +my gloomy reserve, and she will see all the indications of guilt. My +own conduct will condemn me.” + +As he sat by his solitary hearth in the cold March evening, the +large reading-lamp making a circle of light amidst the gloom, George +Greswold’s mind travelled over the days of his youth, and the period of +that fatal marriage which had blighted him in the morning of his life, +which blighted him now in life’s meridian, when, but for this dark +influence, all the elements of happiness were in his hand. + +He looked back to the morning of life, and saw himself full of +ambitions plans and aspiring dreams, well content to be the younger +son, to whom it was given to make his own position in the world, +scorning the idle days of a fox-hunting squire, resolute to become +an influence for good among his fellow-men. He had never envied his +brother the inheritance of the soil; he had thought but little of his +own promised inheritance of Enderby. + +Unhappily that question of the succession to the Enderby estate had +been a sore point with Squire Ransome. He adored his elder son, who +was like him in character and person, and he cared very little for +George, whom he considered a bookish and unsympathetic individual; a +young man who hardly cared whether there were few or many foxes in the +district, whether the young partridges throve, or perished by foul +weather or epidemic disease—a young man who took no interest in the +things that filled the lives of other people. In a word, George was not +a sportsman; and that deficiency made him an alien to his father’s +race. There had never been a Ransome who was not “sporting” to the core +of his heart until the appearance of this pragmatical Oxonian. + +Without being in any manner scientific or a student of evolution, +Mr. Ransome had a fixed belief in heredity. It was the duty of the +son to resemble the father; and a son who was in all his tastes and +inclinations a distinct variety stamped himself as undutiful. + +“I don’t suppose the fellow can help it,” said Mr. Ransome testily; +“but there’s hardly a remark he makes which doesn’t act upon my nerves +like a nutmeg-grater.” + +Nobody would have given the Squire credit for possessing very sensitive +nerves, but everybody knew he had a temper, and a temper which +occasionally showed itself in violent outbreaks—the kind of temper +which will dismiss a household at one fell swoop, send a stud of horses +to Tattersall’s on the spur of the moment, tear up a lease on the point +of signature, or turn a son out of doors. + +The knowledge that this unsportsmanlike son of his would inherit the +fine estate of Enderby was a constant source of vexation to Squire +Ransome of Mapledown. The dream of his life was that Mapledown and +Enderby should be united in the possession of his son Randolph. The two +properties would have made Randolph rich enough to hope for a peerage, +and that idea of a possible peerage dazzled the Tory squire. His family +had done the State some service; had sat for important boroughs; had +squandered much money upon contested elections; had been staunch in +times of change and difficulty. There was no reason why a Ransome +should not ascend to the Upper House, in these days when peerages are +bestowed so much more freely than in the time of Pitt and Fox. The two +estates would have made an important property under one ownership; +divided, they were only respectable. And what the Squire most keenly +felt was the fact that Enderby was by far the finer property, and that +his younger son must ultimately be a much richer man than his brother. +The Sussex estate had dwindled considerably in those glorious days +of contested elections and party feeling; the Hampshire estate was +intact. Mr. Ransome could not forgive his wife for her determination +that the younger son should be her heir. He always shuffled uneasily +upon his seat in the old family pew when the 27th chapter of Genesis +was read in the Sunday morning service. He compared his wife to +Rebecca. He asked the Vicar at luncheon on one of those Sundays what +he thought of the conduct of Rebecca and Jacob in that very shady +transaction, and the Vicar replied in the orthodox fashion, favouring +Jacob just as Rebecca had favoured him. + +“I can’t understand it,” exclaimed the Squire testily; “the whole +business is against my idea of honour and honesty. I wouldn’t have +such a fellow as Jacob for my steward if he were the cleverest man +in Sussex. And look you here, Vicar. If Jacob was right, and knew he +was right, why the deuce was he so frightened the first time he met +Esau after that ugly business? Take my word for it, Jacob was a sneak, +and Providence punished him rightly with a desolate old age and a +quarrelsome family.” + +The Vicar looked down at his plate, sighed gently, and held his peace. + +The time came when the growing feeling of aversion on the father’s part +showed itself in outrage and insult which the son could not endure. +George remonstrated against certain acts of injustice in the management +of the estate. He pleaded the cause of tenant against landlord—a dire +offence in the eyes of the Tory Squire. There came an open rupture; and +it was impossible for the younger son to remain any longer under the +father’s roof. His mother loved him devotedly, but she felt that it was +better for him to go; and so it was settled, in loving consultation +between mother and son, that he should carry out a long-cherished wish +of his Oxford days, and explore all that was historical and interesting +in Southern Europe, seeing men and cities in a leisurely way, and +devoting himself to literature in the meantime. He had already written +for some of the high-class magazines; and he felt that it was in him to +do well as a writer of the serious order—critic, essayist, and thinker. + +His mother gave him three hundred a year, which, for a young man of +his simple habits, was ample. He told himself that he should be able +to earn as much again by his pen; and so, after a farewell of decent +friendliness to his father and his brother Randolph, and tenderest +parting with his mother, he set out upon his pilgrimage, a free agent, +with the world all before him. He explored Greece—dwelling fondly upon +all the old traditions, the old histories. He made the acquaintance +of Dr. Schliemann, and entered heart and soul into that gentleman’s +views. This occupied him more than a year, for those scenes exercised +a potent fascination upon a mind to which Greek literature was the +supreme delight. He spent a month at Constantinople, and a winter in +Corfu and Cyprus; he devoted a summer to Switzerland, and did a little +mountaineering; and during all his wanderings he contrived to give a +considerable portion of his time to literature. + +It was after his Swiss travels that he went to Italy, and established +himself in Florence for a quiet winter. He hired an apartment on a +fourth floor of a palace overlooking the Arno, and here, for the first +time since he had left England, he went a little into general society. +His mother had sent him letters of introduction to old friends of her +own, English and Florentine; he was young, handsome, and a gentleman, +and he was received with enthusiasm. Had he been fond of society he +might have been at parties every night; but he was fonder of books and +of solitude, and he took very little advantage of people’s friendliness. + +The few houses to which he went were houses famous for good music, and +it was in one of these houses that he met Vivien Faux. + +It was in the midst of a symphony by Beethoven, while he was standing +on the edge of the crowd which surrounded the open space given to the +instrumentalists, that he first saw the woman who was to be his wife. +She was sitting in the recess of a lofty window, quite apart from the +throng—a pale, dark-eyed girl, with roughened hair carelessly heaped +above her low, broad forehead. Her slender figure and sloping shoulders +showed to advantage in a low-necked black gown, without a vestige of +ornament. She wore neither jewels nor flowers, at an assembly where +gems were sparkling and flowers breathing sweetness upon every feminine +bosom. Her thin, white arms hung loosely in her lap; her back was +turned to the performers, and her eyes were averted from the crowd. She +looked the image of _ennui_ and indifference. + +He found his hostess directly the symphony was over, and asked her to +introduce him to the young lady in black velvet yonder, sitting alone +in the window. + +“Have you been struck by Miss Faux’s rather singular appearance?” asked +Signora Vicenti. “She is not so handsome as many young ladies who are +here to-night.” + +“No, she is not handsome, but her face interests me. She looks as if +she had suffered some great disappointment.” + +“I believe her whole life has been a disappointment. She is an orphan, +and, as far as I can ascertain, a friendless orphan. She has good +means, but there is a mystery about her position which places her in +a manner apart from other girls of her age. She has no relations to +whom to refer, no family home to which to return. She is here with some +rather foolish people—an English artist and his wife, who cannot do +very much for her, and I believe she keenly feels her isolation. It +makes her bitter against other girls, and she loses friends as fast as +she makes them. People won’t put up with her tongue. Well, Mr. Ransome, +do you change your mind after that?” + +“On the contrary, I feel so much the more interested in the young lady.” + +“Ah, your interest will not last. However, I shall be charmed to +introduce you.” + +They went across the room to that distant recess where Miss Faux was +still seated, her hair and attitude unchanged since George Ransome +first observed her. She started with a little look of surprise when +Signora Vicenti and her companion approached; but she accepted the +introduction with a nonchalant air, and she replied to Ransome’s +opening remarks with manifest indifference. Then by degrees she grew +more animated, and talked about the people in the room, ridiculing +their pretensions, their eccentricities, their costume. + +“You are not an _habitué_ here?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing +you before to-night.” + +“No; it is the first of Signora Vicenti’s parties that I have seen.” + +“Then I conclude it will be the last.” + +“Why?” + +“O, no sensible person would come a second time. The music is tolerable +if one could hear it anywhere else, but the people are odious.” + +“Yet I conclude this is not your first evening here?” + +“No; I come every week. I have nothing else to do with myself but to go +about to houses I hate, and mix with people who hate me.” + +“Why should they hate you?” + +“O, we all hate each other, and want to overreach one another. Envy and +malice are in the air. Picture to yourself fifty manœuvring mothers +with a hundred marriageable daughters, most of them portionless, and +about twenty eligible men. Think how ferocious the competition must be!” + +“But you are independent of all that; you are outside the arena.” + +“Yes; I have nothing to do with their slavemarket, but they hate me +all the same; perhaps because I have a little more money than most +of them; perhaps because I am nobody—a waif and stray—able to give no +account of my existence.” + +She spoke of her position with a reckless candour that shocked him. + +“There is something to bear in every lot,” he said, trying to be +philosophical. + +“I suppose so, but I only care about my own burden. Please, don’t +pretend that you do either. I should despise a man who pretended not to +be selfish.” + +“Do you think that all men are selfish?” + +“I have never seen any evidence to the contrary. The man I thought the +noblest and the best did me the greatest wrong it was possible to do +me, in order to spare himself trouble.” + +Ransome was silent. He would not enter into the discussion of a past +history of which he was ignorant, and which was doubtless full of pain. + +After this he met her very often, and while other young men avoided +her on account of her bitter tongue, he showed a preference for her +society, and encouraged her to confide in him. She went everywhere, +chaperoned by Mr. Mortimer, a dreary twaddler, who was for ever +expounding theories of art which he had picked up, parrot-wise, in a +London art-school thirty years before. His latest ideas were coeval +with Maclise and Mulready. Mrs. Mortimer was by way of being an +invalid, and sat and nursed her neuralgia at home, while her husband +and Miss Faux went into society. + +It was at the beginning of spring that an American lady of wealth and +standing invited the Mortimers and their _protégée_ to a picnic, to +which Mr. Ransome was also bidden; and it was this picnic which sealed +George Ransome’s fate. Pity for Vivien’s lonely position had grown into +a sincere regard. He had discovered warm feelings under that cynical +manner, a heart capable of a profound affection. She had talked to him +of a child, a kind of adopted sister, whom she had passionately loved, +and from whom she had been parted by the selfish cruelty of the little +girl’s parents. + +“My school-life in England had soured me before then,” she said, “and +I was not a very amiable person even at fifteen years old; but _that_ +cruelty finished me. I have hated my fellow-creatures ever since.” + +He pleaded against this wholesale condemnation. + +“You were unlucky,” he said, “in encountering unworthy people.” + +“Ah, but one of those people, the child’s father, had seemed to me the +best of men. I had believed in him as second only to God in benevolence +and generosity. When _he_ failed I renounced my belief in human +goodness.” + +Unawares, George Ransome had fallen into the position of her confidant +and friend. From friendship to love was an easy transition; and a few +words, spoken at random during a ramble on an olive-clad hill, bound +him to her for ever. Those unpremeditated words loosed the fountain of +tears, and he saw the most scornful of women, the woman who affected an +absolute aversion for his sex, and a contempt for those weaker sisters +who waste their love upon such vile clay—he saw her abandon herself to +a passion of tears at the first word of affection which he had ever +addressed to her. He had spoken as a friend rather than as a lover; but +those tears bound him to her for life. He put his arm round her, and +pillowed the small pale face upon his breast, the dark impassioned eyes +looking up at him drowned in tears. + +“You should not have said those words,” she sobbed. “You cannot +understand what it is to have lived as I have lived—a creature +apart—unloved—unvalued. O, is it true?—do you really care for me?” + +“With all my heart,” he answered, and in good faith. + +His profound compassion took the place of love; and in that moment +he believed that he loved her as a man should love the woman whom he +chooses for his wife. + +They were married within a month from that March afternoon; and for +some time their married life was happy. He wished to take her to +England, but she implored him to abandon that idea. + +“In England everybody would want to know who I am,” she said. “I should +be tortured by questions about ‘my people.’ Abroad, society is less +exacting.” + +He deferred to her in this, as he would have done in any other matter +which involved her happiness. They spent the first half-year of their +married life in desultory wanderings in the Oberland and the Engadine, +and then settled at Nice for the winter. + +Here Mrs. Ransome met Lady Lochinvar, whom she had known at Florence, +and was at once invited to the Palais Montano; and here for the first +time appeared those clouds which were too soon to darken George +Ransome’s domestic horizon. + +There were many beautiful women at Nice that winter: handsome Irish +girls, vivacious Americans, Frenchwomen, and Englishwomen; and among +so many who were charming there were some whom George Ransome did not +scruple to admire, with as much frankness as he would have admired +a face by Guido or Raffaelle. He was slow to perceive his wife’s +distrust, could hardly bring himself to believe that she could be +jealous of him; but he was not suffered to remain long in this happy +ignorance. A hysterical outburst one night after their return from a +ball at the Club-house opened the husband’s eyes. The demon of jealousy +stood revealed; and from that hour the angel of domestic peace was +banished from George Ransome’s hearth. + +He struggled against that evil influence. He exercised patience, +common sense, forbearance; but in vain. There were lulls in the +storm sometimes, delusive calms; and he hoped the demon was +exorcised. And then came a worse outbreak; more hysterics; despairing +self-abandonment; threats of suicide. He bore it as long as he could, +and ultimately, his wife’s health offering an excuse for such a step, +he proposed that they should leave Nice, and take a villa in the +environs, in some quiet spot where they might live apart from all +society. + +Vivien accepted the proposition with rapture; she flung herself at her +husband’s feet, and covered his hands with tearful kisses. + +“O, if I could but believe that you still love me, that you are not +weary of me,” she exclaimed, “I should be the happiest woman in the +universe.” + +They spent a week of halcyon peace, driving about in quest of their +new home. They explored the villages within ten miles of Nice, they +breakfasted at village restaurants, in the sunny March noontide, and +finally they settled upon a villa at St. Jean, within an hour’s drive +of the great white city, and to this new home they went at the end of +the month, after bidding adieu to their friends in Nice. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE RIFT IN THE LUTE. + + +The villa was built on a ledge of ground between the road and the +sea. There was a stone terrace in front of the windows of _salon_ and +dining-room, below which the ground shelved steeply down to the rocks +and the blue water. The low irregular-shaped house was screened from +the road by a grove of orange and lemon trees, with a peach or a cherry +here and there to give variety of colour. In one corner there was a +whole cluster of peach-trees, which made a mass of purplish-pinky +bloom. The ridges of garden sloping down from the stone terrace were +full of white stocks and scarlet anemones. Clusters of red ranunculus +made spots of flame in the sun, and the young leaves in the long hedge +of Dijon roses wove an interlacing screen of crimson, through which the +sun shone as through old ruby glass in a cathedral window. Everywhere +there was a feast of perfume and colour and beauty. The little bay, +the curving pier, the white-sailed boats, which, seen from the height +above, looked no bigger than the gulls skimming across the blue; the +quaint old houses of Villefranche on a level with the water, and rising +tier above tier to the crest of the hill—pink and blue houses, white +and cream-coloured houses, with pea-green shutters and red roofs. Far +away to the left, the jutting promontory and the tall white lighthouse; +and away southward, the sapphire sea, touched with every changing light +and shadow. And this lovely little world at George Ransome’s feet, this +paradise in miniature, was all the lovelier because of the great rugged +mountain-wall behind it, the bare red and yellow hills baked in the +sunlight of ages, the strange old-world villages yonder high up on the +stony flanks of the hills, the far-away church towers, from which faint +sound of bells came now and again as if from fairyland. + +It was a delicious spot this little village of St. Jean, to which +the Niçois came on Sundays and holidays, to eat bouillabaisse at the +rustic tavern or to picnic in the shade of century-old olives and old +carouba-trees, which made dark masses of foliage between the road and +the sea. George Ransome loved the place, and could have been happy +there if his wife would only have allowed him; but those halcyon days +which marked the beginning of their retirement were too soon ended; and +clouds lowered again over the horizon—clouds of doubt and discontent. +There are women to whom domestic peace, a calm and rational happiness, +is an impossibility, and Vivien was one of these women. + +From the beginning her suspicious nature had been on the watch for some +hidden evil. She had a fixed idea that the Fates had marked her for +misery, and she would not open her heart to the sunlight of happiness. + +Was her husband unkind to her? No, he was all kindness; but to her +his kindness seemed only a gentleman-like form of toleration. He had +married her out of pity; and it was pity that made him kind. Other +women were worshipped. It was her fate to be tolerated by a man she +adored. + +She could never forget her own passionate folly, her own unwomanly +forwardness. She had thrown herself into his arms—she who should +have waited to be wooed, and should have made herself precious by the +difficulty with which she was won. + +“How can he help holding me cheap?” she asked herself—“I who cost him +nothing, not even an hour of doubt? From the hour we first met he must +have known that I adored him.” + +Once when he was rowing her about the bay in the westering sunlight, +while the fishermen were laying down their lines, or taking up their +baskets here and there by the rocks, she asked him suddenly, + +“What did you think of me, George, the first time you saw me—that night +at Signora Vicenti’s party? Come, be candid. You can afford to tell +me the truth now. Your fate is sealed; you have nothing to lose or to +gain.” + +“Do you think I would tell you less or more than the truth under any +circumstances, Viva?” he asked gravely. + +“O, you are horribly exact, I know!” she answered, with an impatient +movement of her slender sloping shoulders, not looking at him, but +with her dark dreamy eyes gazing far off across the bay towards the +distant point where the twin towers of Monaco Cathedral showed faint +in the distance, “but perhaps if the truth sounded very rude you might +suppress it—out of pity.” + +“I don’t think the truth need sound rude.” + +“Well,” still more impatiently, “what impression did I make upon you?” + +“You must consider that there were at least fifty young ladies in +Signora Vicenti’s _salons_ that evening.” + +“And about thirty old women; and I was lost in the crowd.” + +“Not quite lost. I remember being attracted by a young lady who sat in +a window niche apart—” + +“Like ‘Brunswick’s fated chieftain.’ Pray go on.” + +“And who seemed a little out of harmony with the rest of the company. +Her manner struck me as unpleasantly ironical, but her small pale face +interested me, and I even liked the mass of towzled hair brushed up +from her low square forehead. I liked her black velvet gown, without +any colour or ornament. It set off the thin white shoulders and long +slender throat.” + +“Did you think I was rich or poor, somebody or nobody?” + +“I thought you were a clever girl, soured by some kind of +disappointment.” + +“And you felt sorry for me. Say you felt sorry for me!” she cried, her +eyes coming back from the distant promontory, and fixing him suddenly, +bright, keen, imperious in their eager questioning. + +“Yes, I confess to feeling very sorry for you.” + +“Did I not know as much? From the very first you pitied me. Pity, pity! +What an intolerable burden it is! I have bent under it all my life.” + +“My dear Viva, what nonsense you talk! Because I had mistaken ideas +about you that first night, when we were strangers—” + +“You were not mistaken. I was soured. I had been disappointed. My +thoughts were bitter as gall. I had no patience with other girls who +had so many blessings that I had never known. I saw them making light +of their advantages, peevish, ill-tempered, self-indulgent; and I +scorned them. Contempt for others was the only comfort of my barren +life. And so my vinegar tongue disgusted you, did it not?” + +“I was not disgusted—concerned and interested, rather. Your +conversation was original. I wanted to know more of you.” + +“Did you think me pretty?” + +“I was more impressed by your mental gifts than your physical—” + +“That is only a polite way of saying you thought me plain.” + +“Viva, you know better than that. If I thought of your appearance +at all during that first meeting, be assured I thought you +interesting—yes, and pretty. Only prettiness is a poor word to express +a face that is full of intellect and originality.” + +“You thought me pale, faded, haggard, old for my age,” she said +decisively. “Don’t deny it. You must have seen what my glass had been +telling me for the last year.” + +“I thought your face showed traces of suffering.” + +This was one of many such conversations, full of keen questioning on +her part, with an assumed lightness of manner which thinly veiled the +irritability of her mind. She had changed for the worse since they left +Nice; she had grown more sensitive, more suspicious, more irritable. +She was in a condition of health in which many women are despondent or +irritable—in which with some women life seems one long disgust, and all +things are irksome, even the things that have been pleasantest and most +valued before—even the aspect of a lovely landscape, the phrases of a +familiar melody, the perfume of a once favourite flower. He tried to +cheer her by talking of their future, the time to come when there would +be a new bond between them, a new interest in their lives; but she saw +all things in a gloomy atmosphere. + +“Who knows?” she said. “I may die, perhaps; or you may love your child +better than you have ever loved me, and then I should hate it.” + +“Viva, you cannot doubt that my love for our child will strengthen my +love for you.” + +“Will it?” she asked incredulously. “God knows it needs strengthening.” + +This was hard upon a man whose tenderness and indulgence had been +boundless, who had done all that chivalry and a sense of duty can do to +atone for the lack of love. He had tried his uttermost to conceal the +one bitter truth that love was wanting: but those keen eyes of hers had +seen the gap between them, that sensitive ear had discovered the rift +in the lute. + +One afternoon they climbed the hill to the breezy common on which the +lighthouse stands, and dawdled about in the sunshine, gathering the +pale gray rosemary bloom and the perfumed thyme which grow among those +hollows and hillocks in such wild luxuriance. They were sauntering near +the carriage-road, talking very little—she feeble and tired, although +it was her own fancy to have walked so far—when they saw a carriage +driving towards them—a large landau, with the usual bony horses and +shabby jingling harness, and the usual sunburnt good-tempered driver. + +Two girls in white gowns and Leghorn hats were in the carriage, with +an elderly woman in black. Their laps were full of wild flowers, and +branches of wild cherry and pear blossom filled the leather hood +at the back of the carriage. They were talking and laughing gaily, +all animation and high spirits, as they drew near; and at sight of +George Ransome one of them waved her hand in greeting, and called to +the driver to stop. They were two handsome Irish girls who had made a +sensation at the Battle of Flowers six weeks before. They were spoken +of by some people as the belles of Nice. Mr. Ransome had pelted them +with Parma violets and yellow rosebuds on the Promenade des Anglais, +as they drove up and down in a victoria embowered in white stocks and +narcissi. He had waltzed with them at the Cercle de la Méditerranée and +the Palais Montano; had admired them frankly and openly, not afraid to +own even to a jealous wife that he thought them beautiful. + +Delia Darcy, the elder and handsomer of the two, leaned over the +carriage-door to shake hands with him, while Vivien stood aloof, on a +grassy knoll above the road, looking daggers. What right had they to +stop their carriage and waylay her husband? + +“Who would have thought of finding you in this out-of-the-way spot?” +exclaimed Miss Darcy; “we fancied you had left the Riviera. Are you +stopping at Monte Carlo?” + +“No, I have taken a villa at St. Jean.” + +“Is that near here?” + +“Very near. You must have skirted the village in driving up here. And +has Nice been very gay since we left?” + +“No; people have been going away, and we have missed you dreadfully at +the opera, and at dances, and at Rumpelmeyer’s. What could have induced +you to bury yourself alive in a village?” she asked vivaciously, with +that sparkling manner which gives an air of flirtation to the most +commonplace talk. + +“My wife has been out of health, and it has suited us both to live +quietly.” + +“Poor Mrs. Ransome—poor you!” exclaimed Miss Darcy, with a sigh. “O, +there she is! How do you do, Mrs. Ransome?” gesticulating with a pretty +little hand in a long wrinkled tan glove. “Do come and talk to us.” + +Mrs. Ransome bowed stiffly, but did not move an inch. She stood +picking a branch of rosemary to shreds with nervous restless fingers, +scattering the poor pale blue-gray blossoms as if she were sprinkling +them upon a corpse. The two girls took no further notice of her, but +both bent forward, talking to Ransome, rattling on about this ball and +the other ball, and a breakfast, and sundry afternoon teas, and the +goings-on—audacious for the most part—of all the smart people at Nice. +They had worlds to tell him, having taken it into their heads that he +was a humorist, a cynic, who delighted in hearing of the follies of +his fellow-man. He stood with his hat off, waiting for the carriage +to drive on, inwardly impatient of delay, knowing with what jealous +feelings Vivien had always regarded Delia Darcy, dreading a fit of +ill-temper when the Irish girls should have vanished by and by below +the sandy edge of the common. He listened almost in silence, giving +their loquacity no more encouragement than good manners obliged. + +“Why don’t you come to the next dance at the Cercle de la +Méditerranée?” said Delia coaxingly; “there are so few good dancers +left, and your step is just the one that suits me best. There are to +be amateur theatricals to begin with—scenes from _Much Ado_; and I am +to be Beatrice. Won’t that tempt you?” she asked, with the insolence +of an acknowledged beauty, spoiled by the laxer manners of a foreign +settlement, lolling back in the carriage, and smiling at him with +brilliant Irish gray eyes, under the shadow of her Leghorn hat, with a +great cluster of daffodils just above her forehead, the yellow bloom +showing vividly against her dark hair. + +The other sister was only a paler reflection of this one, and echoed +her speeches, laughing when she laughed. + +“Surely you will come to see Delia act Beatrice?” she said. “I can’t +tell you how well she does it. Sir Randall Spofforth is the Benedict.” + +“My dears, we shall have no time to dress for dinner!” expostulated the +duenna, feeling that this kind of thing had lasted long enough. “_En +avant, cocher._” + +“Won’t you come?” pleaded the pertinacious Delia; “it is on the +twenty-ninth, remember—next Thursday week.” + +The carriage rolled slowly onward. + +“I regret that I shall not be there,” said Ransome decisively. + +Delia shook her parasol at him in pretended anger. + +He rejoined his wife. She stood surrounded by the shreds of rosemary +and thyme which she had plucked and scattered while he was talking. She +was very pale; and he knew only too well that she was very angry. + +“Come, Viva, it is time we turned homeward,” he said. + +“Yes, the sun has gone down, has it not?” she exclaimed mockingly, as +she looked after the carriage, which sank below the ragged edge of +heather and thyme yonder, as if it had dropped over the cliff. + +“Why, my love, the sun is above our heads!” + +“Is it? _Your_ sun is gone down, anyhow. She is very lovely, is she +not?” + +The question was asked with sudden eagerness, as if her life depended +upon the reply. She was walking quickly in her agitation, going down +the hill much faster than she had mounted it. + +“Yes, they are both handsome girls, feather-headed, but remarkably +handsome,” her husband answered carelessly. + +“But Delia is the lovelier. _She_ is your divinity.” + +“Yes, she is the lovelier. The other seems a copy by an inferior hand.” + +“And she is so fond of you. It was cruel to refuse her request, when +she pleaded so hard.” + +“How can you be so foolish or so petty, Vivien? Is it impossible for +me to talk for five minutes with a handsome girl without unreasonable +anger on your part?” + +“Do you expect me to be pleased or happy when I see your admiration of +another woman—admiration you do not even take the trouble to conceal? +Do you suppose I can ever forget last winter—how I have seen you +dancing with that girl night after night? Yes, I have had to sit and +watch you. I was not popular, I had few partners; and it is bad form to +dance more than once with one’s husband. I have seen her in your arms, +with her head almost lying on your shoulder, again and again, as if it +were her natural place. ‘What a handsome couple!’ I have heard people +say; ‘are they engaged?’ Do you think _that_ was pleasant for me?” + +“You had but to say one word, and I would have left off dancing for +ever.” + +“Another sacrifice—like your marriage.” + +“Vivien, you would provoke a saint.” + +“Yes, it is provoking to be chained to one woman when you are dying for +another.” + +“How much oftener am I to swear to you that I don’t care a straw for +Miss Darcy?” + +“Never again,” she answered. “I love you too well to wish you to swear +a lie.” + +They had come down from the common by this time, and were now upon a +pathway nearer home—a narrow footpath on the edge of the cliff opposite +Beaulieu; the gently-curving bay below them, and behind and above them +orchards and gardens, hill and lighthouse. It was one of their chosen +walks. They had paced the narrow path many an afternoon when the twin +towers of Monaco showed dark in the shadow of sundown. + +“Vivien, I think you are the most difficult creature to live with that +ever a man had for his wife,” said Ransome, stung to the quick by her +persistent perversity. + +“I am difficult to live with, am I?” she cried. “Why don’t you go a +step further—why don’t you say at once that you wish I were dead?” she +cried, with a wild burst of passion. “Say that you wish me dead.” + +“I own that when you torment me, as you are doing to-day, I have +sometimes thought of death—yours or mine—as the only escape from mutual +misery,” he answered gloomily. + +He had been sauntering a few paces in front of her along the narrow +path between the olive-garden and the edge of the cliff, she following +slowly—both in a desultory way, and talking to each other without +seeing each other’s face. The cliff sank sheer below the pathway, with +only a narrow margin of rushy grass between the footpath and the brink +of the precipice. It was no stupendous depth, no giddy height from +which the eye glanced downward, sickening at the horror of the gulf. +One looked down at the jewel-bright waves and the many-hued rocks, the +fir-trees growing out of the crags, without a thought of danger; and +yet a false step upon those sunburnt rushes might mean instant death. + +He came to a sudden standstill after that last speech, and stood +leaning with both hands upon his stick, angry, full of gloom, feeling +that he had said a cruel thing, yet not repenting of his cruelty. He +stood there expectant of her angry answer; but there was only silence. + +Silence, and then a swift rushing sound, like the flight of a great +bird. He looked round, and saw that he was alone! + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +DARKNESS. + + +She had flung herself over the cliff. That rustling noise was the +sound of her gown as it brushed against the rushes and seedling firs +that clothed the precipice with verdure. He looked over the cliff, and +saw her lying among the rocks, a white motionless figure, mangled and +crushed, dumb and dead, his victim and his accuser. + +His first impulse was to fling himself over the edge where she had cast +away her life a minute ago; but common sense overcame that movement of +despair. A few yards further towards the point the side of the cliff +was less precipitous. There were jutting ledges of rock and straggling +bushes by which a good climber might let himself down to the beach, +not without hazard, but with a fair chance of safety. As he scrambled +downward he saw a fisherman’s boat shooting across the bay, and he +thought that his wife’s fall had been seen from the narrow strip of +sandy shore yonder towards Beaulieu. + +She was lying on her side among the low wet slabs of rock, the blue +water lapping round her. There was blood upon her face, and on one +mangled arm, from which the muslin sleeve was ripped. Her gown had +caught in the bushes, and was torn to shreds; and the water flowing so +gently in and out among her loosened hair was tinged with blood. + +Her eyes were wide open, staring wildly, and they had a glassy look +already. He knew that she was dead. + +“Did you see her fall?” he asked the men in the boat, as they came near. + +“No,” said one. “I heard the gulls scream, and I knew there was +something. And then I looked about and saw something white lying there, +under the cliff.” + +They lifted her gently into the boat, and laid her on a folded sail +at the bottom, as gently and as tenderly as if she were still capable +of feeling, as if she were not past cure. George Ransome asked no +question, invited no opinion. He sat in the stern of the boat, dumb +and quiet. The horror of this sudden doom had paralysed him. What had +he done that this thing should happen, this wild revenge of a woman’s +passionate heart which made him a murderer? What had he done? Had he +not been patient and forbearing, indulgent beyond the common indulgence +of husbands to fretful wives? Had he not blunted the edge of wrath +with soft answers? Had he not been affectionate and considerate even +when love was dead? And yet because of one hard speech, wrung from his +irritated nerves, this wild creature had slain herself. + +The two fishermen looked at him curiously. He saw the dark southern +eyes watching him; saw gravity and restraint upon those fine olive +faces which had been wont to beam with friendly smiles. He knew that +they suspected evil, but he was in no mood to undeceive them. He sat in +an apathetic silence, motionless, stupefied almost, while the men rowed +slowly round the point in the golden light of sundown. He scarcely +looked at that white still figure lying at the bottom of the boat, the +face hidden under a scarlet kerchief which one of the men had taken +from his neck. He sat staring at the rocky shore, the white gleaming +lighthouse, the long ridge of heathy ground on the crest of the hill, +the villas, the gardens with their glow of light and colour, the dark +masses of foliage clustering here and there amidst the bright-hued +rocks. He looked at everything except his dead wife, lying almost at +his feet. + + * * * * * + +There was an inquiry that evening before the Juge d’Instruction at +Villefranche, and he was made to give an account of his wife’s death. +He proved a very bad witness. The minute and seemingly frivolous +questions addled his brain. He told the magistrate how he had looked +round and found the path empty: but he could not say how his wife +had fallen—whether she had flung herself over the edge or had fallen +accidentally, whether her foot had slipped unawares, whether she had +fallen face forward, or whether she had dropped backwards from the edge +of the cliff. + +“I tell you again that I did not see her fall,” he protested +impatiently. + +“Did you usually walk in advance of your wife?” asked the Frenchman. +“It was not very polite to turn your back upon a lady.” + +“I was worried, and out of temper.” + +“For what reason?” + +“My wife’s unhappy jealousy created reasons where there were none. The +people who know me know that I was not habitually unkind to her.” + +“Yet you gave her an answer which so maddened her that she flung +herself over the cliff in her despair?” + +“I fear that it was so,” he answered, with the deepest distress +depicted in his haggard face. “She was in a nervous and irritable +condition. I had always borne that fact in mind until that moment. +She stung me past endurance by her groundless jealousies. I had been +a true and loyal husband to her from the hour of our marriage. I had +never wronged her by so much as a thought; and yet I could not talk +to a pretty peasant-girl, or confess my admiration for any woman I +met in society, without causing an outbreak of temper that was almost +madness. I bore with her long and patiently. I remembered that the +circumstances of her childhood and youth had been adverse, that her +nature had been warped and perverted; I forgave all faults of temper in +a wife who loved me; but this afternoon—almost for the first time since +our marriage—I spoke unkindly, cruelly perhaps. I have no wish to avoid +interrogation, or to conceal any portion of the truth.” + +“You did not push her over the cliff?” + +“I did not. Do I look like a murderer, or bear the character of a man +likely to commit murder?” + +The examination went on, with cruel reiteration of almost the same +questions. The Juge d’Instruction was a hard-headed legal machine, +who believed that the truth might be wrung out of any criminal by +persistent questioning. He suspected Ransome, or deemed it his duty to +suspect him, and he ordered him to be arrested on leaving the court; so +George Ransome passed the night after his wife’s death in the lock-up +at Villefranche. + +What a night that was for a man to live through! He sat on a stone +bench, listening to the level plish-plash of that tideless sea ever so +far beneath him. He heard the footsteps going up and down the steep +stony street of that wonderful old seaport; he heard the scream of the +gulls and the striking of the clock on the crest of the hill as he sat +motionless, with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, +brooding over that swift, sudden horror of yesterday. + +Could it have been an accident? Did she step backwards unawares and +slip over the edge? No; he remembered where she was standing when he +last looked at her, some distance from the side of the cliff, standing +among the heather and wild thyme which grew down to the edge of the +little path. She must have made a rapid rush to the brink after that +fatal speech of his. She had flung her life away in a single impulse +of blind, mad anger—or despair. She had not paused for an instant to +take thought. Alas! he knew her so well; he had so often seen those +sudden gusts of passion; the rush of crimson to the pale small face; +the quivering lips striving impotently for speech; the fury in the +dark eyes, and the small nervous hands clenched convulsively. He had +seen her struggle with the demon of anger, and had seen the storm pass +swifter than a tempest-driven cloud across the moon. Another moment +and she would burst into tears, fling her arms round his neck, and +implore him to forgive her. + +“I love you too well ever to know happiness,” she said. + +That was her favourite apology. + +“It is only people without passions who can be happy,” she told him +once. “I sometimes think that you belong to that family.” + +And she was dead; she whose undisciplined love had so plagued and tried +him, she was dead; and he felt himself her murderer. + +Alas! doubly a murderer, since she had perished just at that time when +her life should have been most precious to him, when he should have +made any sacrifice to secure her peace. He who had seen all the evils +of a fretful temper exhibited in her character had yet been weak enough +to yield to a moment of anger, and to insult the woman whom he ought to +have cherished. + +A long-familiar line of Byron’s haunted his brain all through the +night, and mixed itself with that sound of footsteps on the street of +stairs, and the scream of the gulls, and the flapping of the waves +against the stone quay. + + “She died, but not alone—” + +She who was to have been the mother of his first-born child was lying +dead in the white-walled villa where they had once been happy. + +Hush! In the soft clear light of an April morning he heard the tolling +of the church bell, solemn, slow, measured, at agonising intervals, +which left an age of expectancy between the heavy strokes of the +clapper. + +_Vivos voco, mortuos plango._ + +They bury their dead at daybreak in that fair land of orange and +lemon groves. In the early morning of the first day after death, the +hastily-fashioned coffin was carried out into the sunshine, and the +funeral procession wound slowly up the hill towards the graveyard +near the church of Villefranche. George Ransome knew how brief is the +interval between death and burial on that southern shore, and he had +little doubt that the bell was tolling for her whose heart was beating +passionately when the sun began to sink. + +So soon! Her grave would be filled in and trodden down before they let +him out of prison. + +It had never seemed to him that he was to stay long in captivity, or +that there could be any difficulty in proving his innocence of any +part in the catastrophe, except that fatal part of having upset the +balance of a weak mind, and provoked a passionate woman to suicide. As +for the confinement of the past night, he had scarcely thought about +it. He had a curious semi-consciousness of time and place which was a +new experience to him. He found himself forgetting where he was and +what had happened. There were strange gaps in his mind—intervals of +oblivion—and then there were periods in which he sat looking at the +slanting shaft of sunlight between the window and the ground, and +trying to count the motes that danced in that golden haze. + +The day passed strangely, too—sometimes at railroad pace, sometimes +with a ghastly slowness. Then came a night in which sleep never visited +his eyelids—a night of bodily and mental restlessness, the greater part +of which he spent in futile efforts to open the heavily-bolted door, +or to drag the window-bars from their stone sockets. His prison was a +relic of the Middle Ages, and Hercules himself could not have got out +of it. + +In all those endeavours he was actuated by a blind impulse—a feverish +desire to be at large again. Not once during that night did he think +of his dead wife in her new-made grave on the side of the hill. He had +forgotten why they had shut him up in that stony chamber—or rather had +imagined another reason for his imprisonment. + +He was a political offender—had been deeply concerned in a plot to +overthrow Victor Emanuel, and to create a Republic for Italy. He +himself was to be President of that Republic. He felt all the power to +rule and legislate for a great nation. He compared himself with Solon +and with Pericles, to the disadvantage of both. There was a greatness +in him which neither of those had ever attained. + +“I should rule them as God Himself,” he thought. “It would be a golden +age of truth and justice—a millennium of peace and plenty. And while +the nations are waiting for me I am shut up here by the treachery of +France.” + +Next morning he was taken before the Juge d’Instruction for the second +time. The two fishermen who picked up his wife’s corpse were present as +witnesses; also his wife’s maid, and the three other servants; also his +wife’s doctor. + +He was again questioned severely, but this time nothing could induce +him to give a direct answer to any question. He raved about the Italian +Republic, of which he was to be chief. He told the French magistrate +that France had conspired with the Italian tyrant to imprison and +suppress him. + +“Every other pretence is a subterfuge,” he said. “My popularity in +Italy is at the root of this monstrous charge. There will be a rising +of the whole nation if you do not instantly release me. For your own +sake, sir, I warn you to be prompt.” + +“This man is pretending to be mad,” said the magistrate. + +“I fear there is more reality than pretence about the business,” said +the doctor. + +He took Ransome to the window, and looked at his eyes in the strong +white light of noon. Then he went over to the magistrate, and they +whispered together for some minutes, while the prisoner sat staring at +the floor and muttering to himself. + +After that there came a long dark interval in George Ransome’s life—a +waking dream of intolerable length, but not unalloyed misery; for the +hallucinations which made his madness buoyed him up and sustained +him during some part of that dark period. He talked with princes +and statesmen; he was not alone in the madhouse chamber, or in the +madhouse garden, or in that great iron cage where even the most +desperate maniacs were allowed to disport themselves in the air and +the sunlight as in a gymnasium. He was surrounded by invisible friends +and flatterers, by public functionaries who quailed before his glance +and were eager to obey his commands. Sometimes he wrote letters and +telegrams all day long upon any scraps of paper which his keepers would +give him; sometimes he passed whole days in a dreamy silence with arms +folded, and abstracted gaze fixed on the distant hill-tops, like +Napoleon at St. Helena, brooding over the future of nations. + +By and by there came a period of improvement, or what was called +improvement by the doctors, but which to the patient seemed a time of +strange blankness and disappointment. All those busy shadows which +had peopled his life, his senators and flatterers, had abandoned him; +he was alone in that strange place amidst a strange people, most of +whom seemed to be somewhat wrong in their heads. He was able to read +the newspapers now, and was vexed to find that his speeches were +unreported, his letters and manifestoes unpublished; disappointed to +find that Victor Emanuel was still King of Italy and the new Republic +still a web of dreams. + +His temper was very fitful at this time, and he had intervals of +violence. One morning he found himself upon the hills, digging with +half-a-dozen other men, young and old, dressed pretty much like +himself. It was in the early summer morning, before the sun had made +the world too hot for labour. It was rapture to him to be there, +digging and running about on the dewy hillside, in an amphitheatre of +mountains, high above the stony bed of the Paillon. The air was full +of sweet odours, orange and lemon bloom, roses and lilies, from the +gardens and orchards below. He felt that earth and sky were rapturously +lovely, that life was a blessing and a privilege beyond all words. He +had not the consciousness of a single care, or even a troubled memory. +His quarrel with his father, his self-imposed exile, his marriage and +its bitter disillusions, his wife’s tragical fate: all were forgotten. +He felt as a sylph might feel—a creature without earthly obligations, +revelling in the glory of Nature. + +This new phase of being lasted so long as the hills and the sky wore +their aspect of novelty. It was succeeded by a period of deepest +depression, a melancholy which weighed him down like a leaden burden. +He sat in the madhouse garden apart from the rest, brooding over the +darkness of life. He had no hopes, no desires. + +Gradually memory began to return. He asked why his wife did not come to +see him. “She used to be so fond of me,” he said, “foolishly fond of +me; and now she deserts me.” + +Then he talked of going home again. The image of his latest +dwelling-place had gradually shaped itself in his mind. He saw the +hedges of pale amber roses, the carouba-trees, dark against the +glittering blue of the sea, which shone through every opening in the +branches like a background of lapis lazuli, and the rugged mountains +rising above the low curving shore steeply towards the sky, with +patches of olive here and there on their stony flanks, but for the most +part bare and barren, reddish-yellow, steeped in sunlight. + +Yes, he remembered every feature of that lovely and varied scene. The +village of Eza yonder on the mountain-road—a cluster of stony dwellings +perched upon rocky foundations, hardly to be distinguished from the +rough crags upon which they were built—and higher still, in a cleft +of those yellow hills, Turbia, and its cloven towers, the birthplace +of Roman Emperors. How lovely it all was, and how pleasant it had +been to lounge in his garden, where the light looked dazzling on beds +of white gilly-flowers, and where the blue summer sea smiled in the +far distance, with a faint purple cloud yonder on the horizon which +represented Corsica! + +Why had he ever left that familiar home? Why could he not return to it? + +“Get me a carriage,” he said to one of the attendants; “I want to go +home immediately. My wife is waiting for me.” + +It is not customary to make explanations to patients even in the +best-regulated asylums. Nobody answered him; nobody explained anything +to him. He found himself confronted with a dogged silence. He wore +himself out in an agony of impatience, like a bird beating itself to +death against its bars. He languished in a miserable ignorance, piecing +his past life together bit by bit, with a strange interweaving of +fancies and realities, until by slow degrees the fancies dropped out of +the web and left him face to face with the truth. + +At last the record of the past was complete. He knew that his wife +was dead, and remembered how she had died. He knew that he had been a +prisoner, first in gaol and then in a lunatic asylum; but he did not +acknowledge to himself that he had been mad. He remembered the bell +tolling in the saffron light of dawn; he remembered the magistrate’s +exasperating questions; he remembered everything. + +After this he sank into a state of sullen despair, and silence and +apathy were accepted as the indications of cure. He was told by the +head physician that he could leave the institution whenever he pleased. +There was an account against him as a private patient, which had been +guaranteed by his landlord, who knew him to be a man of some means. His +German man-servant had been to the asylum many times to inquire about +him. The doctor recommended him to travel—in Switzerland—until the end +of the autumn, and to take his servant as his attendant and courier. +“Change of air and scene will be of inestimable advantage to you,” said +the doctor; “but it would not be wise for you to travel alone.” + +“What month is it?” + +“August—the twenty-second.” + +“And my wife died early in April,” he said. “Only a few months; and I +feel as if I had been in this place a century.” + +He took the doctor’s advice. He cared very little where he went or +what became of him. Life and the world, his own individuality, and the +beautiful earth around and about him were alike indifferent to him. He +went back to the villa at St. Jean, and to the garden he had loved so +well in the bright fresh spring-time. All things had an overgrown and +neglected look in the ripeness of expiring summer; too many flowers, +a rank luxuriance of large leaves and vivid blossoms—fruit rotting in +the long grass—an odour of decaying oranges, the waste of the last +harvest. He went up to the graveyard on the hill above the harbour. It +was not a picturesque burial-place. The cemetery at Cimies was far more +beautiful. The cemetery at Nice was in a grander position. + +He felt sorry that she should lie here, amidst the graves of sailors +and fishermen—as even if after death she were slighted and hardly used. + +He was summoned back to England early in the following year to his +mother’s death-bed. Neither she nor any of his family had known the +miserable end of his married life. They knew only that he had married, +and had lost his wife after a year of marriage. Hazard had not brought +any one belonging to him in contact with any of those few people who +knew the details of that tragical story. + +His mother’s death made him rich and independent, but until the hour he +met Mildred Fausset his life was a blank. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE GRAVE ON THE HILL. + + +After that visit to the great white barrack on the road to St. André, +Mildred felt that her business at Nice was finished, there was nothing +more for her to learn. She knew all the sad story now—all, except +those lights and shadows of the picture which only the unhappy actor +in that domestic tragedy could have told her. The mystery of the past +had unfolded itself, stage by stage, from that Sunday afternoon when +César Castellani came to Enderby Manor, and out of trivial-seeming +talk launched a thunderbolt. The curtain was lifted. There was no more +to be done. And yet Mildred lingered at Nice, loving the place and +its environs a little for their own beauty, and feeling a strange and +sorrowful interest in the scene of her husband’s misfortunes. + +There was another reason for remaining in the gay white city in the +fact that Lady Lochinvar had taken a fancy to Miss Ransome, and that +the young lady seemed to be achieving a remarkably rapid cure of her +infatuation for the Italian. It may have been because at the Palais +Montano she met a good many Italians, and that the charm of that +nationality became less potent with familiarity. There was music, too, +at the Palais, and to spare, according to Mr. Stuart, who was not an +enthusiast, and was wont to shirk his aunt’s musical reunions. + +Mildred was delighted to see her husband’s niece entering society under +such agreeable auspices. She went out with her occasionally, just +enough to make people understand that she was not indifferent to her +niece’s happiness; and for the rest, Lady Lochinvar and Mrs. Murray +were always ready to chaperon the frank, bright girl, who was much +admired by the best people, and was never at a loss for partners at +dances, whoever else might play wallflower. + +Mrs. Greswold invited Mr. and Mrs. Murray and Malcolm Stuart to a quiet +little dinner at the Westminster, and the impression the young man +made upon Mildred’s mind was altogether favourable. He was certainly +not handsome, but his plainness was of an honest Scottish type, and +his freckled complexion and blue eyes, sandy hair and moustache, +were altogether different from the traditionary Judas colouring of +Castellani’s auburn beard and hazel eyes. Truth and honesty beamed in +the Scotchman’s open countenance. He looked every inch a soldier and a +gentleman. + +That he admired Pamela was obvious to the most unobservant eye; that +she affected to look down upon him was equally obvious; but it might +be that her good-humoured scorn of him was more pretence than reality. +She made light of him openly as one of that inferior race of men whose +minds never soar above the stable, the gunroom, or the home-farm, and +whose utmost intellectual ingenuity culminates in the invention of a +salmon-fly or the discovery of a new fertiliser for turnip-fields. + +“You are just like my brother-in-law, Henry Mountford,” she told him. + +“From the air with which you say that, I conclude Sir Henry Mountford +must be a very inferior person.” + +“Not at all. He is the kind of man whom all other men seem to respect. +I believe he is one of the best shots in England. His bags are written +about in the newspapers; and I wonder there are any pigeons left in the +world, considering the way he has slaughtered them.” + +“I saw him shoot at Monte Carlo the year before last.” + +“Yes; he went there and back in a week on purpose to shoot. Imagine any +man coming to this divine Riviera, this land of lemon-groves and palms, +and roses and violets, just to slaughter pigeons!” + +“He won the Grand Prix. It was a pretty big feather in his cap,” said +Mr. Stuart. “Am I to conclude that you dislike sporting men?” + +“I prefer men who cultivate their minds.” + +“Ah, but a man who shoots well and rides straight, and can play a +big salmon, and knows how to manage a farm, cannot be altogether an +imbecile. I never knew a really fine rider yet who was a fool. Good +horsemanship needs so many qualities that fools don’t possess; and to +be a crack shot, I assure you that a man must have some brains and a +good deal of perseverance; and perseverance is not a bad thing in its +way, Miss Ransome.” + +He looked at her with a certain significance in his frank blue eyes, +looked at her resolutely, as some bold young Vandal or Visigoth might +have looked at a Roman maiden whom he meant to subjugate. + +“I did not say that sportsmen were fools,” she answered sharply. “I +only say that the kind of man I respect is the man whose pleasures are +those of the intellect—who is in the front rank among the thinkers of +his age—who—” + +“Reads Darwin and the German metaphysicians, I suppose. I tried Darwin +to see if he would help me in my farming, but I can’t say I got very +much out of him in that line. There’s more in old Virgil for an +agriculturist. I’m not a reading man, you see, Miss Ransome. I find by +the time I’ve read the daily papers my thirst for knowledge is pretty +well satisfied. There’s such a lot of information in the London papers, +and when you add the _Figaro_ and the _New York Herald_, there’s not +much left for a man to learn. I generally read the Quarterlies—as a +duty—to discover how many dull books have enriched the world during the +previous three months.” + +“That’s a great deal more reading than my brother-in-law gets through. +He makes a great fuss about his _Times_ every morning; but I believe +he seldom goes beyond the births, marriages, and deaths, or a report +of a billiard match. He reads the _Field_, as a kind of religion, and +_Baily’s Magazine_; and I think that’s all.” + +“Do you like men who write books, Miss Ransome, as well as men who read +them?” + +Pamela crimsoned to the roots of her hair at this most innocent +question. Malcolm Stuart marked that blush with much perplexity. + +“When one is interested in a book one likes to know the author,” she +replied, with cautious vagueness. + +“Do you know many writers?” + +“Not many—in fact, only one.” + +“Who is he?” + +“Mr. Castellani, the author of _Nepenthe_.” + +“_Nepenthe?_—ah, that’s a novel people were talking about some time +ago. My aunt was full of it, because she fancied it embodied some of +her own ideas. She wanted me to read it. I tried a few chapters,” said +Malcolm, making a wry face. “Sickly stuff.” + +“People who are not in the habit of reading the literature of +imagination can hardly understand such a book as _Nepenthe_,” replied +Pamela severely. “They are out of touch with the spirit and the +atmosphere of the book.” + +“One has to be trained up to that kind of thing, I suppose. One must +forget that two and two make four, in order to get into the proper +frame of mind, eh? Is the author of _Nepenthe_ an interesting man?” + +He was shrewd enough to interpret the blush aright. The author of +_Nepenthe_ was a person to be dreaded by any aspirant to Miss Ransome’s +favour. + +“He is like his book,” answered Pamela briefly. + +“Is he a young man?” + +“I don’t know your idea of youth. He is older than my aunt—about +five-and-thirty.” + +Stuart was just thirty. One point in his favour, anyhow, he told +himself, not knowing that to a romantic girl years may be interesting. + +“Handsome?” + +“_That_ is always a matter of opinion. He is just the kind of man who +ought to have written _Nepenthe_. That is really all I can tell you,” +said Pamela, with some irritation. “I believe Lady Lochinvar knew Mr. +Castellani when he was a very young man. She can satisfy your curiosity +about him.” + +“I am not curious. Castellani? An Italian, I suppose, one of my aunt’s +innumerable geniuses. She has a genius for discovering geniuses. When I +see her with a new one, I am always reminded of a child with a little +coloured balloon. So pretty—till it bursts!” + +Pamela turned her back upon him in a rage, and went over to the +piano to talk to Mrs. Murray, who was preparing to sing one of her +_répertoire_ of five Scotch ballads. + +“Shall it be ‘Gin a body’ or ‘Huntingtower’?” she asked meekly; and +nobody volunteering a decisive opinion, she chirruped the former +coquettish little ballad, and put a stop to social intercourse for +exactly four minutes and a half. + +After that evening Mr. Stuart knew who his rival was, and with what +kind of influence he had to contend. An author, a musical man, a +genius! Well, he had very few weapons with which to fight such an +antagonist, he who was neither musical, nor literary, nor gifted with +any of the graces which recommend a lover to a sentimental girl. +But he was a man, and he meant to win her. He admired her for her +frank young prettiness, so unsophisticated and girlish, and for that +perfect freshness and truthfulness of mind which made all her thoughts +transparent. He was too much a man of the world to ignore the fact +that Miss Ransome of Mapledown would be a very good match for him, +or that such a marriage would strengthen his position in his aunt’s +esteem. Women bow down to success. Encouraged by these considerations, +Mr. Stuart pursued the even tenor of his way, and was not disheartened +by the idea of the author of _Nepenthe_, more especially as that +attractive personage was not on the ground. He had one accomplishment +over and above the usual outdoor exercises of a country gentleman. He +could dance, and he was Pamela’s favourite partner wherever she went. +No one else waltzed as well. Not even the most gifted of her German +acquaintance; not even the noble Spaniards who were presented to her. + +He had another and still greater advantage in the fact that he was +often in the young lady’s society. She was fond of Lady Lochinvar, and +spent a good deal of her life at the Palais Montano, where, with Mrs. +Murray’s indefatigable assistance, there were tennis-parties twice a +week. That charming garden, with its numerous summer-houses, made a +kind of club for the privileged few who were permitted _les petites +entrées_. + +While Pamela was enjoying the lovely springtide amongst people whose +only thought was of making the best of life, and getting the maximum +of sunshine, Mildred Greswold spent her days in sad musings upon an +irrevocable past. It was her melancholy pleasure to revisit again and +again the place in which her husband had lived, the picturesque little +village under the shadow of the tall cliff, every pathway which he must +have trodden, every point from which he must have gazed across the bay, +seaward or landward in his troubled reveries. + +She dwelt with morbid persistence on the thought of those two lives, +both dear to her, yet in their union how terrible a curse! She +revisited the villa until the old caretaker grew to look upon her as a +heaven-sent benefactress, and until the village children christened her +the English Madonna, that pensive look recalling the face of the statue +in the church yonder, so mildly sad, a look of ineffable sweetness +tinged with pain. She sat for hours at a stretch in the sunlit garden, +amongst such flowers as must have been blooming there in those closing +hours of Fay’s wedded life, when the shadow of her cruel fate was +darkening round her, though she knew it not. She talked to people +who had known the English lady. Alas! they were all dubious in their +opinions. None would answer boldly for the husband’s innocence. They +shrugged their shoulders—they shook their heads. Who could say? Only +the good God would ever know the truth about that story. + +The place to which she went oftenest in those balmy afternoons was the +burial-ground on the hill, where Fay’s grave, with its white marble +cross, occupied one of the highest points in the enclosure, and stood +out sharp and clear against the cloudless sapphire. + +The inscription on that marble was of the briefest: + + “VIVIEN RANSOME. + Died April 24th, 1868. + Eternally lamented.” + +Below the cross stretched the grass mound, without shrub or flower. +It was Mildred’s task to beautify this neglected grave. She brought a +florist from the neighbourhood to carry out her own idea, and on her +instruction he removed the long, rank grass from the mound, and planted +a cross of roses, eight feet long, dwarf bush-roses closely planted, +Gloire de Dijon and Maréchal Niel. + +She remembered how Fay had revelled in the rose-garden at The Hook, +where midsummer was a kind of carnival of roses. Here the roses would +bloom all the year round, and there would be perpetual perfume and +blossom and colour above poor Fay’s cold dust. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +PAMELA CHANGES HER MIND. + + +Lucifer himself, after his fall, could not have felt worse than César +Castellani when he followed Mildred Greswold to Nice, as he did within +a week after she left Pallanza. + +He went to Nice partly because he was an idle man, and had no desire +to go back to English east winds just when the glory of the southern +springtide was beginning. He was tolerably well furnished with money, +and Nice was as good to him as any other place, while the neighbourhood +of Monte Carlo was always an attraction. He followed in Mildred’s +footsteps, therefore; but he had no idea of forcing himself upon her +presence for some time to come. He knew that his chances were ruined in +that quarter for the time being, if not for ever. + +This was his first signal overthrow. Easy conquests had so demoralised +him that he had grown to consider all conquests easy. He had unlimited +faith in the charm of his own personality—his magnetic power, as he +called it: and, behold! his magnetic power had failed utterly with this +lovely, lonely woman, who should have turned to him in her desolation +as the flowers turn to the sun. + +For once in his life he had overrated himself and his influence; and in +so doing he had lost the chance of a very respectable alliance. + +“Fifteen hundred a year would be at least bread and cheese,” he +reflected, “and to marry an English heiress of a good old family would +solidify my position in society. The girl is pretty enough, and I could +twist her round my finger. She would bore me frightfully; but every man +must suffer something. There is always a discord somewhere amidst the +harmony of life; and if one’s teeth are not too often set on edge by +that false note, one should be content.” + +He remembered how contemptuously he had rejected the idea of such a +marriage in his talk with Miss Fausset, and how she had been set upon +it. + +“I should stand ever so much better with her if I married well, and +solidified myself into British respectability. I might naturalise +myself, and go into Parliament perhaps, if that would please the good +soul at Brighton. What will she leave me when she dies, I wonder? +She is muter than the Sphinx upon that point. And will she ever die? +Brighton is famous for pauper females of ninety and upwards. A woman +like Miss Fausset, who lives in cotton-wool, and who has long done with +the cares and passions of life, might go well into a second century. +I don’t see any brilliancy in the prospect _there_; but so long as I +please her and do well in the world she will no doubt be generous.” + +He told himself that it was essential he should make some concession to +Miss Fausset’s prejudices now that he had failed with Mildred. So long +as he had hoped to win that nobler prize he had been careless how he +jeopardised the favour of his elderly patroness. But now he felt that +her favour was all in all to him, and that the time for trifling was +past. + +She had been very generous to him during the years that had gone by +since she first came to his aid almost unasked, and helped him to pay +his college debts. She had come to the rescue many times since that +juvenile entanglement, and her patience had been great. Yet she had not +failed to remonstrate with him at every fresh instance of folly and +self-indulgent extravagance. She had talked to him with an unflinching +directness; she had refused further help; but somehow she had always +given way, and the cheque had been written. + +Again and again she had warned him that there were limits even to her +forbearance. + +“If I saw you working earnestly and industriously, I should not mind, +even if you were a failure,” said his benefactress severely. + +“I have worked, and I have produced a book which was _not_ a failure,” +replied César, with his silkiest air. + +“One book in a decade of so-called literary life! Did the success of +that book result in the payment of one single debt?” + +“Dearest lady, would you have a man waste his own earnings—the +first-fruits of his pen—the grains of fairy gold that filtered through +the mystic web of his fancy—would you have him fritter away that sacred +product upon importunate hosiers or vindictive bootmakers? _That_ +money was altogether precious to me. I kept it in my waistcoat pocket +as long as ever I could. The very touch of the coin thrilled me. I +believe cabmen and crossing-sweepers had most of it in the long-run,” +he concluded, with a remorseful sigh. + +Miss Fausset had borne with his idleness and his vanity, as indulgent +mothers bear with their sons; but he felt that she was beginning +to tire of him. There were reasons why she should always continue +forbearing; but he wanted to insure himself something better than +reluctant subsidies. + +These considerations being taken into account, Mr. Castellani was fain +to own to himself that he had been a fool in rejecting the substance +for the shadow, however alluring the lovely shade might be. + +“But I loved her,” he sighed; “I loved her as I had never loved until I +saw her fair Madonna face amidst the century-old peace of her home. She +filled my life with a new element. She purified and exalted my whole +being. And she is thrice as rich as that prattling girl!” + +He ground his teeth at the remembrance of his failure. There had +been no room for doubt. Those soft violet eyes had been transformed +by indignation, and had flashed upon him with angry fire. That fair +Madonna face had whitened to marble with suppressed passion. Not by one +glance, not by one tremor in the contemptuous voice, had the woman he +loved acknowledged his influence. + +He put up at the Cosmopolitan, got in half-a-dozen French novels of +the most advanced school from Galignani’s Library, and kept himself +very close for a week or two; but he contrived to find out what the +ladies at the Westminster were doing through Albrecht the courier, +who believed him to be Miss Ransome’s suitor, and was inclined to be +communicative, after being copiously treated to bocks, or _petits +verres_, as the case might be. + +From Albrecht, Castellani heard how Miss Ransome spent most of her +time at the Palais Montano, or gadding about with her ladyship and +Mrs. Murray; how, in Albrecht’s private opinion, the balls and other +dissipations of Nice were turning that young lady’s head; how Mrs. +Greswold went for lonely drives day after day, and would not allow +Albrecht to show her the beauties of the neighbourhood, which it +would have been alike his duty and pleasure to have done. He had +ascertained that her favourite, and, indeed, habitual, drive was to +St. Jean, where she was in the habit of leaving the fly at the little +inn while she strolled about the village in a purposeless manner. All +this appeared to Albrecht as eccentric and absurd, and beneath a lady +of Mrs. Greswold’s position. She would have employed her time to more +advantage in going on distant excursions in a carriage and pair, and +in lunching at remote hotels, where Albrecht would have been sure of a +_bonne main_ from a gratified landlord, as well as his commission from +the livery-stable. + +Castellani heard with displeasure of Pamela’s dancings and junketings, +and he told himself that it was time to throw himself across her +pathway. He had not been prepared to find that she could enjoy life +without him. Her admiration of him had been so transparent, her +sentimental fancy so naïvely revealed, that he had believed himself the +sultan of her heart, having only to throw the handkerchief whenever it +might suit him to claim his prey. Much as he prided himself upon his +knowledge of human nature, as exemplified in the softer sex, he had +never estimated the fickleness of a shallow sentimental character like +Pamela’s. No man with a due regard to the value and dignity of his sex +could conceive the ruthless rapidity with which a young lady of this +temperament will transfer her affections and her large assortment of +day-dreams and romantic fancies from one man to another. No man could +conceive her capacity for admiring in Number Two all those qualities +which were lacking in Number One. No man could imagine the exquisite +adaptability of girlhood to surrounding circumstances. + +Had Castellani taken Miss Ransome when she was in the humour, he would +have found her the most amiable and yielding of wives; a model English +wife, ready to adapt herself in all things to the will and the pleasure +of her husband; unselfish, devoted, unassailable in her belief in +her husband as the first and best of men. But he had not seized his +opportunity. He had allowed nearly a month to go by since his defeat +at Pallanza, and he had allowed Pamela to discover that life might be +endurable, nay, even pleasant, without him. + +And now, hearing that the young lady was gadding about, and divining +that such gadding was the high-road to forgetfulness, Mr. Castellani +made up his mind to resume his sway over Miss Ransome’s fancy without +loss of time. He called upon a dashing American matron whom he had +visited in London and Paris, and who was now the occupant of a villa +on the Promenade des Anglais, and in her drawing-room he fell in with +several of his London acquaintances. He found, however, that his +American friend, Mrs. Montagu W. Brown, had not yet succeeded in being +invited to the Palais Montano, and only knew Lady Lochinvar and Miss +Ransome by sight. + +“Her ladyship is too stand-offish for my taste,” said Mrs. Montagu +Brown, “but the girl seems friendly enough—no style—not as we Americans +understand style. I am told she ranks as an heiress on this side, but +at the last ball at the Cercle she wore a frock that I should call dear +at forty dollars. That young Stuart is after her, evidently. I hope you +are going to the dance next Tuesday, Mr. Castellani? I want some one +nice to talk to now my waltzing days are over.” + +Castellani protested that Mrs. Montagu Brown was in the very heyday of +a dancer’s age, and would be guilty of gross cruelty to terpsichorean +society in abandoning that delightful art. + +“You make me tired,” said Mrs. Montagu Brown, with perfect good-humour. +“There are plenty of women who don’t know when they’re old, but I +calculate every woman knows when she weighs a hundred and sixty pounds. +When my waist came to twenty-six inches I knew it was time to leave off +waltzing; and I was pretty good at it, too, in my day, I can tell you.” + +“With that carriage you must have been divine,” replied César; “and I +believe the cestus of the Venus de Milo must measure over twenty-six +inches.” + +“The Venus de Milo has no more figure than the peasant-women one sees +on the promenade, women who seem as if they set their faces against +the very idea of a waist. Be sure you get a card for Tuesday. I hate a +dude; but I love to have some smart men about me wherever I go.” + +“I shall be there,” said Castellani, bending over his hostess and +imparting a confidential pressure to her fat white hand by way of +leave-taking, before he slipped silently from the room. + +He had studied the art of departure as if it were a science: never +lingered, never hummed and hawed; never said he must go and didn’t; +never apologised for going so soon while everybody was pining to get +rid of him. + +The next day there was a battle of flowers; not the great floral fête +before the sugar-plum carnival, but an altogether secondary affair, +pleasant enough in the balmy weather of advancing spring. + +Every one of any importance was on the promenade, and among the best +carriages appeared Lady Lochinvar’s barouche, decorated with white +camellias and carmine carnations. She had carefully eschewed that +favourite mixture of camellias and Parma violets which has always a +half-mourning or funereal air. Malcolm Stuart and Miss Ransome sat side +by side on the front seat with a great basket of carnations on their +knees, with which they pelted their acquaintance, while Lady Lochinvar, +in brown velvet and ostrich plumage, reposed at her ease in the back +of the spacious carriage, and enjoyed the fun without any active +participation. + +It was Pamela’s first experience in flower-fights, and to her the scene +seemed enchanting. The afternoon was peerless. She wore a white gown, +as if it had been midsummer, and white gowns were the rule in most of +the carriages. The sea was at its bluest, the pink walls and green +shutters, white walls and red roofs, the orange-trees, cactus and palm, +made up a picture of a city in fairyland, taken as a background to a +triple procession of carriages all smothered in Parma violets, Dijon +roses, camellias, and narcissus, with here and there some picturesque +coach festooned with oranges and lemons amidst tropical foliage. + +The carriages moved at a foot-pace; the pavements were crowded with +smart people, who joined in the contest. Pamela’s lap was full of +bouquets, which fell from her in showers as she stood up every now and +then to fling a handful of carnations into a passing carriage. + +Presently, while she was standing thus, flushed and sparkling, she saw +a familiar figure on the footpath by the sea, and paled suddenly at the +sight. + +It was César Castellani, sauntering slowly along, in a short coat of +light-coloured cloth, and a felt hat of exactly the same delicate +shade. He came to the carriage-door. There was a block at the moment, +and he had time to talk to the occupants. + +“How do you do, Lady Lochinvar? You have not forgotten me, I hope—César +Castellani—though it is such ages since we met?” + +He only lifted his hat to Lady Lochinvar, waiting for her recognition, +but he held out his hand to Pamela. + +“How do you like Nice, Miss Ransome? As well as Pallanza, I hope?” + +“Ever so much better than Pallanza.” + +There was a time when that coat and hat, the _soupçon_ of dark blue +velvet waistcoat just showing underneath the pale buff collar, the +loose China silk handkerchief carelessly fastened with a priceless +intaglio, the gardenia and pearl-gray gloves, would have ensnared +Pamela’s fancy: but that time was past. She thought that César’s +costume looked effeminate and underbred beside the stern simplicity of +Mr. Stuart’s heather-mixture _complet_. The scales had fallen from her +eyes; and she recognised the bad taste and the vanity involved in that +studied carelessness, that artistic combination of colour. + +She remembered what Mildred had said of Mr. Castellani, and she was +deliberately cold. Lady Lochinvar was gracious, knowing nothing to the +Italian’s discredit. + +“I remember you perfectly,” she said. “You have changed very little +in all these years. Be sure you come and see me. I am at home at five +almost every afternoon.” + +The carriage moved on, and Pamela sat in an idle reverie for the next +ten minutes, although the basket of carnations was only half empty. + +She was thinking how strange it was that her heart beat no faster. +Could it be that she was cured—and so soon? It was even worse than +a cure; it was a positive revulsion of feeling. She was vexed with +herself for ever having exalted that over-dressed foreigner into +a hero. She felt she had been un-English, unwomanly even, in her +exaggerated admiration of an exotic. And then she glanced at Malcolm +Stuart, and averted her eyes with a conscious blush on seeing him +earnestly observant of her. + +He was plain, certainly. His features had been moulded roughly, but +they were not bad features. The lines were rather good, in fact, and +it was a fine manly countenance. He was fair and slightly freckled, as +became a Scotchman; his eyes were clear and blue, but could be compared +to neither sapphires nor violets, and his eyelashes were lighter than +any cultivated young lady could approve. The general tone of his +hair and complexion was ginger; and ginger, taken in connection with +masculine beauty, is not all one would wish. But then ginger is not +uncommon in the service, and it is a hue which harmonises agreeably +with Highland bonnets and tartan. No doubt Mr. Stuart had looked +really nice in his uniform. He had certainly appeared to advantage in +a Highland costume at the fancy ball the other night. Some people had +pronounced him the finest-looking man in the room. + +And, again, good looks are of little importance in a man. A plainish +man, possessed of all the manly accomplishments, a dead shot and a +crack rider, can always appear to advantage in English society. Pamela +was beginning to think more kindly of sporting men, and even of Sir +Henry Mountford. + +“I’m sure Mr. Stuart would get on with him,” she thought, dimly +foreseeing a day when Sir Henry and her new acquaintance would be +brought together somehow. + +César Castellani took immediate advantage of Lady Lochinvar’s +invitation. He presented himself at the Palais Montano on the following +afternoon, and he found Pamela established there as if she belonged to +the house. It was she who poured out the tea, and dispensed those airy +little hot cakes, which were a kind of idealised galette, served in +the daintiest of doyleys, embroidered with Lady Lochinvar’s cipher and +coronet. + +Mr. and Mrs. Murray were there, and Malcolm Stuart, the chief charm of +whose society seemed to consist in his exhibition of an accomplished +Dandie Dinmont which usurped the conversation, and which Castellani +would have liked to inocculate then and there with the most virulent +form of rabies. Pamela squatted on a little stool at the creature’s +feet, and assisted in showing him off. She had acquired a power over +him which indicated an acquaintance of some standing. + +“What fools girls are!” thought Castellani. + +His conquests among women of maturer years had been built upon rock as +compared with the shifting quicksand of a girl’s fancy. He began to +think the genus girl utterly contemptible. + +“He has but one fault,” said Pamela, when the terrier had gone through +various clumsy evolutions in which the bandiness of his legs and the +length of his body had been shown off to the uttermost. “He cannot +endure Box, and Box detests him. They never meet without trying to +murder each other, and I’m very much afraid,” bending down to kiss the +broad hairy head, “that Dandie is the stronger.” + +“Of course he is. Box is splendid for muscle, but weight must tell in +the long-run,” replied Mr. Stuart. + +“My grandmother had a Dandie whose father belonged to Sir Walter +Scott,” began Mrs. Murray: “he was simply a per-r-r-fect dog, and my +mamma—” + +Castellani fled from this inanity. He went to the other end of the +room, where Lady Lochinvar was listening listlessly to Mr. Murray, laid +himself out to amuse her ladyship for the next ten minutes, and then +departed without so much as a look at Pamela. + +“The spell is broken,” he said to himself, as he drove away. “The girl +is next door to an idiot. No doubt she will marry that sandy Scotchman. +Lady Lochinvar means it, and a silly-pated miss like that can be led +with a thread of floss silk. _Moi je m’en fiche._” + + * * * * * + +About a week after Mr. Castellani’s reappearance Mildred Greswold +received a letter from Brighton, which made a sudden change in her +plans. + +It was from Mr. Maltravers the Incumbent of St. Edmund’s: + + “St. Edmund’s Vicarage. + + “Dear Mrs. Greswold,—After our thoroughly confidential conversations + last autumn I feel justified in addressing you upon a subject which + I know is very near to your heart, namely, the health and welfare, + spiritual as well as bodily, of your dear aunt and my most valued + parishioner, Miss Fausset. The condition of that dear lady has given + me considerable uneasiness during the last few months. She has refused + to take her hand from the plough; she labours as faithfully as ever + in the Lord’s vineyard; but I see with deepest regret that she is no + longer the woman she was, even a year ago. The decay has been sudden, + and it has been rapid. Her strength begins to fail her, though she + will hardly admit as much, even to her medical attendant, and her + spirits are less equable than of old. She has intervals of extreme + depression, against which the efforts of friendship, the power of + spiritual consolation, are unavailing. + + “I feel it my duty to inform you, as one who has a right to be + interested in the disposal of Miss Fausset’s wealth, that my + benefactress has consummated the generosity of past years by a + magnificent gift. She has endowed her beloved Church of St. Edmund + with an income which, taken in conjunction with the pew-rents, an + institution which I hope hereafter to abolish, raises the priest + of the temple from penury to comfort, and affords him the means of + helping the poor of his parish with his alms as well as with his + prayers and ministrations. This munificent gift closes the long + account of beneficence betwixt your dear aunt and me. I have nothing + further to expect from her for my church or for myself. It is fully + understood between us that this gift is final. You will understand, + therefore, that I am disinterested in my anxiety for this precious + life. + + “You, dear Mrs. Greswold, are your aunt’s only near relative, and + it is but right you should be the companion and comforter of her + declining days. That the shadow of the grave is upon her I can but + fear, although medical science sees but slight cause for alarm. A + year ago she was a vigorous woman, spare of habit certainly, but with + a hardness of bearing and manner which promised a long life. To-day + she is a broken woman, nervous, fitful, and, I fear, unhappy, though I + can conceive no cause for sadness in the closing years of such a noble + life as hers has been, unselfish, devoted to good works and exalted + thoughts. If you can find it compatible with your other ties to come + to Brighton, I would strongly recommend you to come without loss of + time, and I believe that the change which you will yourself perceive + in my valued friend will fully justify the course I take in thus + addressing you.—I am ever, dear Mrs. Greswold, your friend and servant, + + “SAMUEL MALTRAVERS.” + +Mildred gave immediate orders to courier and maid, her trunks were +to be packed that afternoon, a _coupé_ was to be taken in the Rapide +for the following day, and the travellers were to go straight through +to Paris. But when she announced this fact to Pamela the damsel’s +countenance expressed utmost despondency. + +“Upon my word, aunt, you have a genius for taking one away from a place +just when one is beginning to be happy!” she exclaimed in irrepressible +vexation. + +She apologised directly after upon hearing of Miss Fausset’s illness. + +“I am a horrid ill-tempered creature,” she said; “but I really am +beginning to adore Nice. It is a place that grows upon one.” + +“What if I were to leave you with Lady Lochinvar? She told me the other +day that she would like very much to have you to stay with her. You +might stay till she leaves Nice, which will be in about three weeks’ +time, and you could travel with her to Paris. You could go from Paris +to Brighton very comfortably, with Peterson to take care of you. +Perhaps you would not mind leaving Nice when Lady Lochinvar goes?” + +Pamela sparkled and blushed at the suggestion. + +“I should like it very much, if Lady Lochinvar is in earnest in asking +to have me.” + +“I am sure she is in earnest. There is only one stipulation I must +make, Pamela. You must promise me not to renew your intimacy with Mr. +Castellani.” + +“With all my heart, aunt. My eyes have been opened. He is thoroughly +bad style.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AS THE SANDS RUN DOWN. + + +Mildred was in Brighton upon the third day after she left Nice. She had +sent no intimation of her coming to her aunt, lest her visit should +be forbidden. A nervous invalid is apt to have fancies, and to resent +anything that looks like being taken care of. She arrived, therefore, +unannounced, left her luggage at the station, and drove straight to +Lewes Crescent, where the butler received her with every appearance of +surprise. + +It was early in the afternoon, and Miss Fausset was sitting in her +accustomed chair in the back drawing-room, near the fire, with her +book-table on her right hand. The balmy spring-time which Mildred had +left at Nice had not yet visited Brighton, where the season had been +exceptionally cold, and where a jovial north-easter was holding his +revels all over Kemp Town, and enlivening the cold gray sea. A pleasant +bracing day for robust health and animal spirits; but not altogether +the kind of atmosphere to suit an elderly spinster suffering from +nervous depression. + +Miss Fausset started up, flushed with surprise, at Mildred’s entrance. +Her niece had kept her acquainted with her movements, but had told her +nothing of the drama of her existence since she left Brighton. + +“My dear child, I am very glad to see you back,” she said gently. “You +are come to stay with me for a little while, I hope, before—” + +She hesitated, and looked at Mildred earnestly. + +“Are you reconciled to your husband?” she asked abruptly, as if with +irrepressible anxiety. + +“Reconciled?” echoed Mildred; “we have never quarrelled. He is as dear +to me to-day as he was the day I married him—dearer for all the years +we spent together. But we are parted for ever. You know that it must be +so, and you know why.” + +“I hoped that time would have taught you common sense.” + +“Time has only confirmed my resolution. Do not let us argue the point, +aunt. I know that you mean kindly, but I know that you are false to +your own principles—to all the teaching of your life—when you argue on +the side of wrong.” + +Miss Fausset turned her head aside impatiently. She had sunk back into +her chair after greeting Mildred, and her niece perceived that she, who +used to sit erect as a dart, in the most uncompromising attitude, was +now propped up with cushions, against which her wasted figure leaned +heavily. + +“How have you got through the winter, aunt?” Mildred asked presently. + +“Not very well. It has tried me more than any other winter I can +remember. It has been a long weary winter. I have been obliged to give +up the greater part of my district work. I held on as long as ever I +could, till my strength failed me. And now I have to trust the work to +others. I have my lieutenants—Emily Newton and her sister—who work for +me. You remember them, perhaps. Earnest good girls. They keep me _en +rapport_ with my poor people; but it is not like personal intercourse. +I begin to feel what it is to be useless—to cumber the ground.” + +“My dear aunt, how can you talk so? Your life has been so full of +usefulness that you may well afford to take rest now that your health +is not quite so good as it has been. Even in your drawing-room here +you are doing good. It is only right that young people should carry +out your instructions, and work for you. I have heard, too, of your +munificent gift to St. Edmund’s.” + +“It is nothing, my dear. When all is counted, it is nothing. I have +tried to lead a righteous life. I have tried to do good; but now +sitting alone by this fire day after day, night after night, it all +seems vain and empty. There is no comfort in the thought of it all, +Mildred. I have had the praise of men, but never the approval of my own +conscience.” + +There was a brief silence, Mildred feeling it vain to argue against +her aunt’s tone of self-upbraiding, unable to fathom the mind which +prompted the words. + +“Then you are not going back to your husband?” Miss Fausset asked +abruptly, as if in utter forgetfulness of all that had been said; and +then suddenly recollecting herself, “you have made up your mind, you +say. Well, in that case you can stay with me—make this your home. You +may take up my work, perhaps—by and by.” + +“Yes, aunt, I hope I may be able to do so. My life has been idle and +useless since my great sorrow. I want to learn to be of more use in the +world; and you can teach me, if you will.” + +“I will, Mildred. I want you to be happy. I have made my will. You will +inherit the greater part of my fortune.” + +“My dear aunt, I don’t want—” + +“No, you are rich enough already, I know; but I should like you to have +still larger means, to profit by my death. You will use your wealth +for the good of others, as I have tried—feebly tried—to use mine. You +will be rich enough to found a sisterhood, if you like—the Sisters of +St. Edmund. I have done all I mean to do for the Church. Mr. Maltravers +knows that.” + +“Dear aunt, why should we talk of these things? You have many years of +life before you, I hope.” + +“No, Mildred, the end is not far off. I feel worn out and broken. I am +a doomed woman.” + +“But you have had no serious illness since I was here?” + +“No, no, nothing specific; only languor and shattered nerves, want of +appetite, want of sleep: the sure indications of decay. My doctor can +find no name for my malady. He tries one remedy after another, until I +weary of his experiments. I am glad you have come to me, Mildred; but I +should be gladder if you were going back to your husband.” + +“O, aunt, why do you say things which you know must torture me?” + +“Because I am worried by your folly. Well, I will say no more. You +will stay with me and comfort me, if you can. What have you done with +Pamela?” + +Mildred told her aunt about Lady Lochinvar’s invitation. + +“Ah! she is with Lady Lochinvar. A very frivolous person, I suppose. +Your husband’s niece is a well-meaning silly girl; sure to get into +mischief of some kind. Is she still in love with César Castellani?” + +“I think not—I hope not. I believe she is cured of that folly.” + +“You call it a folly? Well, perhaps you are right. It may be +foolishness for a girl to follow the blind instinct of her heart.” + +“For an impulsive girl like Pamela.” + +“Yes, no doubt she is impulsive, generous, and uncalculating; a girl +hardly to be trusted with her own fate,” said Miss Fausset, with a +sigh, and then she lapsed into silence. + +Mr. Maltravers had not exaggerated the change in her. It was only too +painfully evident. Her manner and bearing had altered since Mildred +had seen her last. Physically and mentally her nature seemed to have +relaxed and broken down. It was as if the springs that sustained the +human machine had snapped. The whole mechanism was out of gear. She who +had been so firm of speech and meaning, who had been wont to express +herself with a cold and cutting decisiveness, was now feeble and +wailing, repeating herself, harping upon the same old string, obviously +forgetful of that which had gone before. + +Mildred felt that she would be only doing her duty in taking up her +abode in the great dull house, and trying to soothe the tedium of +decay. She could do very little, perhaps, but the fact of near kindred +would be in itself a solace, and for her own part she would have the +sense of duty done. + +“I will stay with you as long as you will have me, aunt,” she said +gently. “Albrecht is below. May I send to the station for my luggage?” + +“Of course, and your rooms shall be got ready immediately. The house +will be yours before very long, perhaps. It would be strange if you +could not make it your home!” + +She touched a spring on her book-table, which communicated with the +electric-bell, and Franz appeared promptly. + +“Tell them to get Mrs. Greswold’s old rooms ready at once, and send +Albrecht to the station for the luggage,” ordered Miss Fausset, with +something of her old decisiveness. “Louisa is with you, I suppose?” she +added to her niece. + +“Louisa is at the station, looking after my things. Albrecht leaves me +to-day. He has been a good servant, and I think he has had an easy +place. I have not been an eager traveller.” + +“No; you seem to have taken life at a slow pace. What took you to Nice? +It is not a place I should have chosen if I wanted quiet.” + +Mildred hesitated for some moments before she replied to this question. + +“You know one part of my sorrow, aunt; and I think I might trust you +with the whole of that sad story. I went to Nice because it was the +place where my husband lived with his first wife—where my unhappy +sister died.” + +“She died at Nice?” repeated Miss Fausset, with an abstracted air, as +if her power of attention, which had revived for a little just now, +were beginning to flag. + +“She died there, under the saddest circumstances. I am heart-broken +when I think of her and that sad fate. My own dear Fay, how hard that +your loving heart should be an instrument of self-torture! She was +jealous of her husband—causelessly, unreasonably jealous—and she killed +herself in a paroxysm of despair!” + +The awfulness of this fact roused Miss Fausset from her apathy. She +started up from amongst her cushions, staring at Mildred in mute +horror, and her wasted hands trembled as they grasped the arm of her +chair. + +“Surely, surely that can’t be true!” she faltered. “It is too dreadful! +People tell such lies—an accident, perhaps, exaggerated into a suicide. +An overdose of an opiate!” + +“No, no; it was nothing like that. There is no doubt. I heard it from +those who knew. She flung herself over the edge of the cliff; she +was walking with her husband—my husband, George Greswold—then George +Ransome; they were walking together; they quarrelled; he said something +that stung her to the quick, and she threw herself over the cliff. It +was the wild impulse of a moment, for which an all-merciful God would +not hold her accountable. She was in very delicate health, nervous, +hysterical, and she fancied herself unloved, betrayed, perhaps. Ah, +aunt, think how hardly she had been used—cast off, disowned, sent out +alone into the world—by those who should have loved and protected her. +Poor, poor Fay! My mother sent her away from The Hook where she was so +happy. My mother’s jealousy drove her out—a young girl, so friendless, +so lonely, so much in need of love. It was my mother’s doing; but my +father ought not to have allowed it. If she was weak he was strong, and +Fay was his daughter. It was his duty to protect her against all the +world. You know how I loved my father; you know that I reverence his +memory; but he played a coward’s part when he sent Fay out of his house +to please my mother.” + +She was carried away by her passionate regret for that ill-used girl +whose image had never lost its hold upon her heart. + +“Not a word against your father, Mildred. He was a good man. He never +failed in affection or in duty. He acted for the best according to his +lights in relation to that unhappy girl—unhappy—ill-used—yes, yes, yes. +He did his best, Mildred. He must not be blamed. But it is dreadful to +think that she killed herself.” + +“Had you heard nothing of her fate, aunt? My father must have been +told, surely. There must have been some means of communication. He +must have kept himself informed about her fate, although she was +banished, given over to the care of strangers. If he had owned a dog +which other people took care of for him he would have been told when +the dog died.” + +Miss Fausset felt the unspeakable bitterness of this comparison. + +“You must not speak like that of your father, Mildred. You ought to +know that he was a good man. Yes, he knew, of course, when that poor +girl died, but it was not his business to tell other people. I only +heard incidentally that she had married, and that she died within a +year of her marriage. I heard no more. It was the end of a sad story.” + +Again there was an interval of silence. It was six o’clock; the sun was +going down over the sea beyond the West Pier, and the lawn, and the +fashionable garden where the gay world congregates; and this eastern +end of the long white seafront was lapsing into grayness, through +which a star shone dimly here and there. It looked a cold, dull world +after the pink hotel and the green shutters, the dusty palms and the +turquoise sea of the Promenade des Anglais; but Mildred was glad to +be in England, glad to be so much nearer him whose life companion she +could never be again. + +Franz brought her some tea presently, and informed her that her rooms +were ready, and that Louisa had arrived with the luggage. Albrecht had +left his humble duty for his honoured mistress, and was gone. + +“When your father died, you looked through his papers and letters, no +doubt?” said Miss Fausset presently, after a pause in the conversation. + +“Yes, aunt, I looked through my dear father’s letters, and arranged +everything with our old family solicitor, Mr. Cresswell,” answered +Mildred, surprised at a question which seemed to have no bearing upon +anything that had gone before. + +“And you found no documents relating to—that unhappy girl?” + +“Not a line—not a word. But I had not expected to find anything. The +history of her birth was the one dark secret of my father’s life—he +would naturally leave no trace of the story.” + +“Naturally, if he were wiser than most people. But I have observed +that men of business have a passion for preserving documents, even +when they are worthless. People keep compromising papers with the idea +of destroying them on their death-beds, or when they feel the end is +near; and then death comes without warning, and the papers remain. Your +father’s end was somewhat sudden.” + +“Sadly sudden. When he left Enderby in the autumn he was in excellent +health. The shooting had been better than usual that year, and I think +he had enjoyed it as much as the youngest of our party. And then +he went back to London, and the London fogs—caught cold, neglected +himself, and we were summoned to Parchment Street to find him dying of +inflammation of the lungs. It was terrible—such a brief farewell, such +an irreparable loss.” + +“I was not sent for,” said Miss Fausset severely. “And yet I loved your +father dearly.” + +“It was wrong, aunt; but we hoped against hope almost to the last. +It was only within a few hours of the end that we knew the case was +hopeless, and to summon you would have been to give him the idea +that he was dying. George and I pretended that our going to him was +accidental. We were so fearful of alarming him.” + +“Well, I daresay you acted for the best; but it was a heavy blow for me +to be told that he was gone—my only brother—almost my only friend.” + +“Pray don’t say that, aunt. I hope you know that I love you.” + +“My dear, you love me because I am your father’s sister. You consider +it your duty to love me. My brother loved me for my own sake. He was a +noble-hearted man.” + +Miss Fausset and her niece dined together _tête-à-tête_, and spent +the evening quietly on each side of the hearth, with their books and +work, the kind of work which encourages pensive brooding, as the needle +travels slowly over the fabric. + +“I wonder you have no pets, aunt—no favourite dog.” + +“I have never cared for that kind of affection, Mildred. I am of too +hard a nature, perhaps. My heart does not open itself to dogs and cats, +and parrots are my abomination. I am not like the typical spinster. +My only solace in the long weary years has been in going among people +who are more unhappy than myself. I have put myself face to face with +sordid miseries, with heavy life-long burdens; and I have asked myself, +What is _your_ trouble compared with these?” + +“Dear aunt, it seems to me that your life must have been particularly +free from trouble and care.” + +“Perhaps, in its outward aspect. I am rich, and I have been looked +up to. But do you think those long years of loneliness—the aimless, +monotonous pilgrimage through life—have not been a burden? Do you think +I have not—sometimes, at any rate—envied other women their children and +their husbands—the atmosphere of domestic love, even with its attendant +cares and sorrows? Do you suppose that I could live for a quarter of +a century as I have lived, and not feel the burden of my isolation? I +have made people care for me through their self-interest. I have made +people honour me, because I have the means of helping them. But who is +there who cares for me, Gertrude Fausset?” + +“You cannot have done so much for others without being sincerely loved +in return.” + +“With a kind of love, perhaps—a love that has been bought.” + +“Why did you never marry, aunt?” + +“Because I was an heiress and a good match, and distrusted every man +who wanted to marry me. I made a vow to myself, before my twentieth +birthday, that I would never listen to words of love or give +encouragement to a lover; and I most scrupulously kept that vow. I was +called a handsome woman in those days; but I was not an attractive +woman at any time. Nature had made me of too hard a clay.” + +“It was a pity that you should keep love at arm’s length.” + +“Far better than to have been fooled by shams, as I might have been. +Don’t say any more about it, Mildred. I made my vow, and I kept it.” + +Mildred resigned herself quietly to the idea of the dull slow life in +Lewes Crescent. This duty of solacing her aunt’s declining days was the +only duty that remained to her, except that wider duty of caring for +the helpless and the wretched. And she told herself that there could be +no better school in which to learn how to help others than the house of +Miss Fausset, who had given so much of her life to the poor. + +She had been told to consider her aunt’s house as her own, and that +she was at liberty to receive Pamela there as much and as often as she +liked. She did not think that Pamela would be long without a settled +home. Mr. Stuart’s admiration and Lady Lochinvar’s wishes had been +obvious; and Mildred daily expected a gushing letter from the fickle +damsel, announcing her engagement to the Scotchman. + +At four o’clock on the day after Mildred’s arrival, Miss Fausset’s +friends began to drop in for afternoon tea and talk, and Mildred was +surprised to see how her aunt rallied in that long-familiar society. +It seemed as if the praises and flatteries of these people acted upon +her like strong wine. The languid attitude, the weary expression of +the pale drawn face, were put aside. She sat erect again; her eyes +brightened, her ear was alert to follow three or four conversations +at a time; nothing escaped her. Mildred began to think that she +had lived upon the praises of men rather than upon the approval of +conscience—that these assiduities and flatteries of a very commonplace +circle were essential to her happiness. + +Mr. Maltravers came after the vesper service, full of life and +conversation, vigorous, self-satisfied, with an air of Papal dominion +and Papal infallibility, so implicitly believed in by his flock that +he had learned to believe as implicitly in himself. The flock was +chiefly feminine, and worshipped without limit or reservation. There +were husbands and sons, brothers and nephews, who went to church with +their womenkind on Sunday; but these were for the most part without +enthusiasm for Mr. Maltravers. Their idea of public worship went +scarcely beyond considering Sunday morning service a respectable +institution, not to be dispensed with lightly. + +Mr. Maltravers welcomed Mildred with touching friendliness. + +“I knew you would not fail your aunt in the hour of need,” he said; +“and now I hope you are going to stay with her, and to take up her +work when she lays it down, so that the golden thread of womanly +charity may be unbroken.” + +“I hope I may be able to take up her work. I shall stay with her as +long as she needs me.” + +“That is well. You found her sadly changed, did you not?” + +“Yes, she is much changed. Yet how bright she looks this afternoon! +what interest she takes in the conversation!” + +“The flash of the falchion in the worn-out scabbard,” said Mr. +Maltravers. + +A layman might have said sword, but Mr. Maltravers preferred falchion, +as a more picturesque word. Half the success of his preaching had lain +in the choice of picturesque words. There were sceptics among his +masculine congregation who said there were no ideas in his sermons; +only fine words, romantic similes—a perpetual recurrence of fountains +and groves, sunset splendours and roseate dawns, golden gates and +starry canopies, seas of glass, harps of gold. But if his female +worshippers felt better and holier after listening to him, what could +one ask more?—and they all declared that it was so. They came out of +church spiritualised, overflowing with Christian love, and gave their +pence eagerly to the crossing-sweepers on their way home. + +The dropping in and the tea-drinking went on for nearly two hours. +Mr. Maltravers took four cups of tea, and consumed a good deal of +bread-and-butter, abstaining from the chocolate biscuits and the +poundcake which the ladies of the party affected; abstaining on +principle, as saints and eremites of old abstained from high living. +He allowed himself to enjoy the delicate aroma of the tea and the +delicately-cut bread-and-butter. He was a bachelor, and lived poorly +upon badly-cooked food at his vicarage. His only personal indulgence +was in the accumulation of a theological library, in which all the +books were of a High Church cast. + +When the visitors were all gone Miss Fausset sank back into her chair, +white and weary-looking, and Mildred left her to take a little nap +while she went up to her own room, half boudoir, half dressing-room, a +spacious apartment, with a fine seaview. Here she sat in a reverie, +and watched the fading sky and the slow dim stars creeping out one by +one. + +Was she really to take up her aunt’s work, to live in a luxurious +home, a lonely loveless woman, and to go out in a methodical, almost +mechanical way so many times a week, to visit among the poor? Would +such a life as that satisfy her in all the long slow years? + +The time would come, perhaps, when she would find peace in such a +life—when her heart would know no grief except the griefs of others; +when she would have cast off the fetters of selfish cares and selfish +yearnings, and would stand alone, as saints and martyrs and holy +women of old had stood—alone with God and His poor. There were women +she knew, even in these degenerate days, who so lived and so worked, +seeking no guerdon but the knowledge of good done in this world, and +the hope of the crown immortal. Her day of sacrifice had not yet +come. She had not been able to dissever her soul from the hopes and +sorrows of earth. She had not been able to forget the husband she had +forsaken—even for a single hour. When she knelt down to pray at night, +when she awoke in the morning, her thoughts were with him. “How does he +bear his solitude? Has he learnt to forget me and to be happy?” Those +questions were ever present to her mind. + +And now at Brighton, knowing herself so near him, her heart yearned +more than ever for the sight of the familiar face, for the sound of +the beloved voice. She pored over the time-table, and calculated the +length of the journey—the time lost at Portsmouth and Bishopstoke—every +minute until the arrival at Romsey; and then the drive to Enderby. She +pictured the lanes in the early May—the hedgerows bursting into leaf, +the banks where the primroses were opening, the tender young ferns +just beginning to uncurl their feathery fronds, the spearpoints of the +hartstongue shooting up amidst rank broad docks, and lords and ladies, +and the flower on the leafless blackthorn making patches of white +amongst the green. + +How easy it was to reach him! how natural it would seem to hasten to +him after half a year of exile! and yet she must not. She had pledged +herself to honour the law; to obey the letter and the spirit of that +harsh law which decreed that her sister’s husband could not be hers. + +She knew that he was at Enderby, and she had some ground for supposing +that he was well, and even contented. She had seen the letters which +he had written to his niece. He had written about the shooting, his +horses, his dogs; and there had been no word to indicate that he was +out of health, or in low spirits. Mildred had pored over those brief +letters, forgetting to return them to their rightful owner, cherishing +them as if they made a kind of link between her and the love she had +resigned. + +How firm the hand was!—that fine and individual penmanship which she +had so admired in the past—the hand in which her first love-letter +had been written. It was but little altered in fifteen years. She +recalled the happy hour when she received that first letter from her +affianced husband. He had gone to London a day or two after their +betrothal, eager to make all arrangements for their marriage, impatient +for settlements and legal machinery which should make their union +irrevocable, full of plans for immediate improvements at Enderby. + +She remembered how she ran out into the garden to read that first +letter—a long letter, though they had been parted less than a day when +it was written. She had gone to the remotest nook in that picturesque +riverside garden, a rustic bower by the water’s edge, an osier arbour +over which her own hands had trained the Céline Forestieri roses. +They were in flower on that happy day—clusters of pale yellow bloom, +breathing perfume round her as she sat beneath the blossoming arch and +devoured her lover’s fond words. O, how bright life had been then for +both of them!—for her without a cloud. + +He was well—that was something to know; but it was not enough. Her +heart yearned for fuller knowledge of his life than those letters gave. +Wounded pride might have prompted that cheerful tone. He might wish her +to think him happy and at ease without her. He thought that she had +used him ill. It was natural, perhaps, that he should think so, since +he could not see things as she saw them. He had not her deep-rooted +convictions. She thought of him and wondered about him till the desire +for further knowledge grew into an aching pain. She must write to +some one; she must do something to quiet this gnawing anxiety. In her +trouble she thought of all her friends in the neighbourhood of Enderby; +but there was none in whom she could bring herself to confide except +Rollinson, the curate. She had thought first of writing to the doctor, +but he was something of a gossip, and would be likely to prattle to +his patients about her letter, and her folly in forsaking so good a +husband. Rollinson she felt she might trust. He was a thoughtful young +man, despite his cheery manners and some inclination to facetiousness +of a strictly clerical order. He was one of a large family, and had +known trouble, and Mildred had been especially kind to him and to +the sisters who from time to time had shared his apartments at the +carpenter’s, and had revelled in the gaieties of Enderby parish, the +penny-reading at the schoolhouse, the sale of work for the benefit of +the choir, and an occasional afternoon for tea and tennis at the Manor. +Those maiden sisters of the curate’s had known and admired Lola, and +Mr. Rollinson had been devoted to her from his first coming to the +parish, when she was a lovely child of seven. + +Mildred wrote fully and frankly to the curate. + + “I cannot enter upon the motive of our separation,” she wrote, “except + so far as to tell you that it is a question of principle which + has parted us. My husband has been blameless in all his domestic + relations, the best of husbands, the noblest of men. Loving him with + all my heart, trusting and honouring him as much as on my wedding-day, + I yet felt it my duty to leave him. I should not make this explanation + to any one else at Enderby, but I wish you to know the truth. If + people ever question you about my reasons you can tell them that it + is my intention ultimately to enter an Anglican Sisterhood, or it + may be to found a Sisterhood, and to devote my declining years to + my sorrowing fellow-creatures. This is my fixed intention, but my + vocation is yet weak. My heart cleaves to the old home and all that I + lost in leaving it. + + “And now, my kind friend, I want you to tell me how my husband fares + in his solitude. If he were ill and unhappy he would be too generous + to complain to me. Tell me how he is in health and spirits. Tell me + of his daily life, his amusements, occupations. There is not the + smallest detail which will not interest me. You see him, I hope, + often; certainly you are likely to see him oftener than any one else + in the parish. Tell me all you can, and be assured of my undying + gratitude.—Ever sincerely yours, + + MILDRED GRESWOLD.” + +Mr. Rollinson’s reply came by return of post: + + “I am very glad you have written to me, dear Mrs. Greswold. Had I + known your address, I think I should have taken the initiative, + and written to you. Believe me, I respect your motive for the act + which has, I fear, cast a blight upon a good man’s life; and I will + venture to say no more than that the motive should be a very strong + one which forces you to persevere in a course that has wrecked your + husband’s happiness, and desolated one of the most delightful and most + thoroughly Christian homes I had ever the privilege of entering. I + look back and recall what Enderby Manor was, and I think what it is + now, and I can hardly compare those two pictures without tears. + + “You ask me to tell you frankly all I can tell about your husband’s + mode of life, his health and spirits. All I can tell is summed up + in four words: his heart is broken. In my deep concern about his + desolate position, in my heartfelt regard for him, I have ventured + to force my society upon him sometimes when I could not doubt it was + unwelcome. He received me with all his old kindness of manner; but + I am sympathetic enough to know when a man only endures my company, + and I know that his feeling was at best endurance. But I believe + that he trusts me, and that he was less upon his guard with me than + he is with other acquaintances. I have seen him put on an appearance + of cheerfulness with other people. I have heard him talk to other + people as if life had in nowise lost its interest for him. With me + he dropped the mask. I saw him brooding by his hearth, as he broods + when he is alone. I heard his involuntary sighs. I saw the image of a + shipwrecked existence. Indeed, Mrs. Greswold, there is nothing else + that I can tell you if you would have me truthful. You have broken + his heart. You have sacrificed your love to a principle, you say. You + should be very sure of your principle. You ask me as to his habits + and occupations. I believe they are about as monotonous as those of + a galley-slave. He walks a great deal—in all weathers and at all + hours—but rarely beyond his own land. I don’t think he often rides; + and he has not hunted once during the season. He did a little shooting + in October and November, quite alone. He has had no staying visitor + within his doors since you left him. + + “I have reason to know that he goes to the churchyard every evening + at dusk, and spends some time beside your daughter’s grave. I have + seen him there several times when it was nearly dark, and he had no + apprehension of being observed. You know how rarely any one enters our + quiet little burial-ground, and how complete a solitude it is at that + twilight hour. I am about the only passer-by, and even I do not pass + within sight of the old yew-tree above your darling’s resting-place, + unless I go a little out of my way between the vestry-door and the + lych-gate. I have often gone out of my way to note that lonely figure + by the grave. Be assured, dear Mrs. Greswold, that in sending you this + gloomy picture of a widowed life I have had no wish to distress you. I + have exaggerated nothing. I wish you to know the truth; and if it lies + within your power—without going against your conscience—to undo that + which you have done, I entreat you to do so without delay. There may + not be much time to be lost.—Believe me, devotedly and gratefully your + friend, + + FREDERICK ROLLINSON.” + +Mildred shed bitter tears over the curate’s letter. How different the +picture it offered from that afforded by George Greswold’s own letters, +in which he had written cheerily of the shooting, the dogs and horses, +the changes in the seasons, and the events of the outer world! That +frank easy tone had been part of his armour of pride. He would not +abase himself by the admission of his misery. He had guessed, no doubt, +that his wife would read those letters, and he would not have her know +the extent of the ruin she had wrought. + +She thought of him in his solitude, pictured him beside their child’s +grave, and the longing to look upon him once more—unseen by him, if it +could be so—became irresistible. She determined to see with her own +eyes if he were as unhappy as Mr. Rollinson supposed. She, who knew him +so well, would be better able to judge by his manner and bearing—better +able to divine the inner workings of his heart and mind. It had been a +habit of her life to read his face, to guess his thoughts before they +found expression in words. He had never been able to keep a secret from +her, except that one long-hidden story of the past; and even there she +had known that there was something. She had seen the shadow of that +abiding remorse. + +“I am going to leave you for two days, aunt,” she said rather abruptly, +on the morning after she received Rollinson’s letter. “I want to look +at Lola’s grave. I shall go from here to Enderby as fast as the train +will take me; spend an hour in the churchyard; go on to Salisbury for +the night; and come back to you to-morrow afternoon.” + +“You mean that you are going back to your husband?” + +“No, no. I may see him, perhaps, by accident. I shall not enter the +Manor House. I am going to the churchyard—nowhere else.” + +“You would be wiser if you went straight home. Remember, years hence, +when I am dead and gone, that I told you as much. You must do as you +like—stay at an inn at Salisbury, while your own beautiful home is +empty, or anything else that is foolish and wrong-headed. You had +better let Franz go with you.” + +“Thanks, aunt; I would not take him away on any account. I can get on +quite well by myself.” + +She left Brighton at midday, lost a good deal of time at the two +junctions, and drove to within a few hundred yards of Enderby Church +just as the bright May day was melting into evening. There was a +path across some meadows at the back of the village that led to the +churchyard. She stopped the fly by the meadow-gate, and told the man +to drive round to Mr. Rollinson’s lodgings, and wait for her there; +and then she walked slowly along the narrow footpath, between the long +grass, golden with buttercups in the golden evening. + +It was a lovely evening. There was a little wood of oaks and chestnuts +on her left hand as she approached the churchyard, and the shrubberies +of Enderby Manor were on her right. The trees she knew so well—her own +trees—the tall mountain-ash and the clump of beeches, rose above the +lower level of lilacs and laburnums, acacia and rose maple. There was +a nightingale singing in the thick foliage yonder—there was always a +nightingale at this season somewhere in the shrubbery. She had lingered +many a time with her husband to listen to that unmistakable melody. + +The dark foliage of the churchyard made an inky blot midst all that +vernal greenery. Those immemorial yews, which knew no change with the +changing years, spread their broad shadows over the lowly graves, and +made night in God’s acre while it was yet day in the world outside. +Mildred went into the churchyard as if into the realm of death. The +shadows closed round her on every side, and the change from light to +gloom chilled her as she walked slowly towards the place where her +child was lying. + +Yes, he was there, just as the curate had told her. He stood leaning +against the long horizontal branch of the old yew, looking down at the +marble which bore his daughter’s name. He was very pale, and his sunken +eyes and hollow cheeks told of failing health. He stood motionless, in +a gloomy reverie. His wife watched him from a little way off; she stood +motionless as himself—stood and watched him till the beating of her +heart sounded so loud in her own ears that she thought he too must hear +that passionate throbbing. + +She had thought when she set out on her journey that it would be +sufficient for her just to see him, and that having seen him she would +go away and leave him without his ever knowing that she had looked upon +him. But now the time had come it was not enough. The impulse to draw +nearer and to speak to him was too strong to be denied: she went with +tottering footsteps to the side of the grave, and called him by his +name: + +“George! George!” holding out her hands to him piteously. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +“HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?” + + +The marble countenance scarcely changed as he looked up at her. He took +no notice of the outstretched hands. + +“What brings you here, Mildred?” he asked coldly. + +“I heard that you were ill; I wanted to see for myself,” she faltered. + +“I am not ill, and I have not been ill. You were misinformed.” + +“I was told you were unhappy.” + +“Did you require to be told that? You did not expect to hear that I +was particularly happy, I suppose? At my age men have forgotten how to +forget.” + +“It would be such a relief to my mind if you could find new +occupations, new interests, as I hope to do by and by—a wider horizon. +You are so clever. You have so many gifts, and it is a pity to bury +them all here.” + +“My heart is buried here,” he answered, looking down at the grave. + +“Your heart, yes; but you might find work for your mind—a noble career +before you—in politics, in philanthropy.” + +“I am not ambitious, and I am too old to adapt myself to a new life. +I prefer to live as I am living. Enderby is my hermitage. It suits me +well enough.” + +There was a silence after this—a silence of despair. Mildred knelt on +the dewy grass, and bent herself over the marble cross, and kissed the +cold stone. She could reach no nearer than that marble to the child she +loved. Her lips lingered there. Her heart ached with a dull pain, and +she felt the utter hopelessness of her life more keenly than she had +felt it yet. If she could but die there, at his feet, and make an end! + +She rose after some minutes. Her husband’s attitude was unchanged; but +he looked at her now, for the first time, with a direct and earnest +gaze. + +“What took you to Nice?” he asked. + +“I wanted to know—all about my unhappy sister.” + +“And you are satisfied—you know all; and you think as some of my +neighbours thought of me. You believe that I killed my wife.” + +“George, can you think so meanly of me—your wife of fourteen years?” + +“You spare me, then, so far, in spite of circumstantial evidence. You +do not think of me as a murderer?” + +“I have never for a moment doubted your goodness to that unhappy girl,” +she answered, with a stifled sob. “I am sorry for her with all my +heart; but I cannot blame you.” + +“There you are wrong. I was to blame. You know that I do not easily +lose my temper—to a woman, least of all; but that day I lost control +over myself—lost patience with her just when she was in greatest +need of my forbearance. She was nervous and hysterical. I forgot her +weakness. I spoke to her cruelly—lashed and goaded by her causeless +jealousies—so persistent, so irritating—like the continual dropping +of water. How I have suffered for that moment of anger God alone can +know. If remorse can be expiation, I have expiated that unpremeditated +sin!” + +“Yes, yes, I know how you have suffered. Your dreams have told me.” + +“Ah, those dreams! You can never imagine the agony of them. To fancy +her walking by my side, bright and happy, as she so seldom was upon +this earth, and to tell myself that I had never been unkind to her, +that her suicide was a dream and a delusion, and then to feel the dull +cold reality creep back into my brain, and to know that I was guilty +of her death. Yes, I have held myself guilty. I have never paltered +with my conscience. Had I been patient to the end, she might have +lived to be the happy mother of my child. Her whole life might have +been changed. I never loved her, Mildred. Fate and her own impulsive +nature flung her into my arms; but I accepted the charge; I made myself +responsible to God and my own conscience for her well-being.” + +Mildred’s only answer was a sob. She stretched out her hand, and laid +it falteringly upon the hand that hung loose across the branch of the +yew, as if in token of trustfulness. + +“Did you find out anything more in your retrospective gropings—at +Nice?” he asked, with a touch of bitterness. + +She was silent. + +“Did you hear that I was out of my mind after my wife’s death?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did that shock you? Did it horrify you to know you had lived fourteen +years with a _ci-devant_ lunatic?” + +“George, how can you say such things! I could perfectly understand +how your mind was affected by that dreadful event—how the strongest +brain might be unhinged by such a sorrow. I can sympathise with you, +and understand you in the past as I can in the present. How can you +forget that I am your wife, a part of yourself, able to read all your +thoughts?” + +“I cannot forget that you have been my wife; but your sympathy and your +affection seem very far off now—as remote almost as that tragedy which +darkened my youth. It is all past and done with—the sorrow and pain, +the hope and gladness. I have done with everything—except my regret for +my child.” + +“Can you believe that I feel the parting less than you, George?” she +asked piteously. + +“I don’t know. The parting is your work. You have the satisfaction +of self-sacrifice—the pride which women who go to church twice a day +have in renouncing earthly happiness. They school themselves first in +trifles—giving up this and that—theatres, fiction, cheerful society—and +then their ambition widens. These petty sacrifices are not enough, +and they renounce a husband and a home. If the husband cannot see the +necessity, and cannot kiss the rod, so much the worse for him. His +wife has the perverted pride of an Indian widow who flings her young +life upon the funeral pile, jubilant at the thought of her own exalted +virtue.” + +“Would you not sacrifice your happiness to your conscience, George, if +conscience spoke plainly?” Mildred asked reproachfully. + +“I don’t know. Human love might be too strong for conscience. God +knows I would not have sacrificed you to a scruple—to a law made by +man. God’s laws are different. There is no doubt about them.” + +The evening was darkening. The nightingale burst out suddenly into loud +melody, more joyous than her reputation. Mildred could see the lights +in the house that had been her home. The lamp-light in the drawing-room +shone across the intervening space of lawn and shrubberies; the broad +window shone vividly at the end of a vista, like a star. O lovely room, +O happy life; so far off, so impossible for evermore! + +“Good-night and good-bye,” Mildred sighed, holding out her hand. + +“Good-bye,” he answered, taking the small cold hand, only to let it +drop again. + +He made no inquiry as to how she had come there, or whither she was +going. She had appeared to him suddenly as a spirit in the soft +eventide, and he let her go from him unquestioned, as if she had been +a spirit. She felt the coldness of her dismissal, and yet felt that it +could be no otherwise. She must be all to him or nothing. After love +so perfect as theirs had been there could be no middle course. + +She went across the meadow by the way she had come, and through the +village street, where all the doors were closed at this hour, and +paraffin-lamps glowed brightly in parlour-windows. Dear little humble +street, how her heart yearned over it as she went silently by like a +ghost, closely veiled, a slender figure dressed in black! She had been +very fond of her villagers, had entered into their lives and been a +brightening influence for most of them, she and her child. Lola had +been familiar with every creature in the place, from the humpbacked +cobbler at the corner to the gray-haired postmaster in the white +half-timbered cottage yonder, where the letter-boxes were approached +by a narrow path across a neat little garden. Lola had entered into +all their lives, and had been glad and sorry with them with a power of +sympathy which was the only precocious element in her nature. She had +been a child in all things except charity; there she had been a woman. + +There was a train for Salisbury in half-an-hour, and there was a later +train at ten o’clock. Mildred had intended to travel at the earlier +hour, but she felt an irresistible inclination to linger in the beloved +place where her happiness was buried. She wanted to see some one who +would talk to her of her husband, and she knew that the curate could +be trusted; so she determined upon waiting for the later train, in the +event of her finding Mr. Rollinson at home. + +The paraffin-lamp in the parlour over the carpenter’s shop was +brighter than any other in the village, and Mr. Rollinson’s shadow was +reflected on the blind, with the usual tendency towards caricature. +The carpenter’s wife, who opened the door, was an old friend of Mrs. +Greswold’s, and was not importunate in her expressions of surprise and +pleasure. + +“Please do not mention to any one that I have been at Enderby, Mrs. +Mason,” Mildred said quietly. “I am only here for an hour or two on +my way to Salisbury. I should like to see Mr. Rollinson, if he is +disengaged.” + +“Of course he is, ma’am, for you. He’ll be overjoyed to see you, I’m +sure.” + +Mrs. Mason bustled up the steep little staircase, followed closely by +Mildred. She flung open the door with a flourish, and discovered Mr. +Rollinson enjoying a tea-dinner, with the _Times_ propped up between +his plate and the teapot. + +He started to his feet at sight of his visitor like a man distraught, +darted forward and shook hands with Mildred, then glanced despairingly +at the table. For such a guest he would have liked to have had turtle +and ortolans; but a tea-dinner, a vulgar tea-dinner—a dish of pig’s +trotters, a couple of new-laid eggs, and a pile of buttered toast! He +had thought it a luxurious meal when he sat down to it, five minutes +ago, very sharp set. + +“My dear Mrs. Greswold, I am enchanted. You have been travelling? Yes. +If—if you would share my humble collation—but you are going to dine at +the Manor, no doubt.” + +“No; I am not going to the Manor. I should be very glad of a cup of +tea, if I may have one with you.” + +“Mrs. Mason, a fresh teapot, directly, if you please.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And could you not get some dinner for Mrs. Greswold? A sole and a +chicken, a little asparagus. I saw a bundle in the village the day +before yesterday,” suggested the curate feebly. + +“On no account. I could not eat any dinner. I will have an egg and +a little toast, if you please,” said Mildred, seeing the curate’s +distressed look, and not wishing to reject his hospitality. + +“Will you really, now? Mrs. Mason’s eggs are excellent; and she +makes toast better than any one else in the world, I think,” replied +Rollinson, flinging his napkin artfully over the trotters, and with a +side glance at Mrs. Mason which implored their removal. + +That admirable woman grasped the situation. She whisked off the dish, +and the curate’s plate with its litter of bones and mustard. She swept +away crumbs, tidied the tea-tray, brought a vase of spring flowers from +a cheffonier to adorn the table, lighted a pair of wax candles on the +mantelpiece, and gave a touch of elegance to the humble sitting-room, +while Mildred was taking off her mantle and bonnet, and sinking wearily +into Mr. Rollinson’s easy-chair by the hearth, where a basket of +fir-cones replaced the winter fire. + +She felt glad to be with this old familiar friend—glad to breathe the +very air of Enderby after her six months’ exile. + +“Your letter frightened me,” she said, when she was alone with the +curate. “I came to look at my husband. I could not help coming.” + +“Ah, dear Mrs. Greswold, if you could only come back for good—nothing +else is of any use. Have you seen him?” + +“Yes,” she sighed. + +“And you find him sadly changed?” + +“Sadly changed. I wish you would try to rouse him—to interest him in +farming—building—politics—anything. He is so clever; he ought to have +so many resources.” + +“For his mind, perhaps; but not for his heart. You are doing all you +can to break that.” + +Mildred turned her head aside with a weary movement, as of a creature +at bay. + +“Don’t talk about it. You cannot understand. You look up to Clement +Cancellor, I think. You would respect his opinion.” + +“Yes; he is a good man.” + +“He is—and he approves the course I have taken. He is my confidant and +my counsellor.” + +“You could have no better adviser in a case of conscience—yet I can but +regret my friend’s ruined life, all the same. But I will say no more, +Mrs. Greswold. I will respect your reserve.” + +Mrs. Mason came bustling in with a tea-tray, on which her family +teapot—the silver teapot that had been handed down from generation to +generation since the days of King George the Third—and her very best +pink and gold china sparkled and glittered in the lamp-light. The toast +and eggs might have tempted an anchorite, and Mildred had eaten nothing +since her nine-o’clock breakfast. The strong tea revived her like +good old wine, and she sat resting and listening with interest to Mr. +Rollinson’s account of his parishioners, and the village chronicle of +the last six months. How sweet it was to hear the old familiar names, +to be in the old place, if only for a brief hour! + +“I wonder if they miss me?” she speculated. “They never seemed quite +the same—after—after the fever.” + +“Ah, but they know your value now. They have missed you sadly, and they +have missed your husband’s old friendly interest in their affairs. He +has given me _carte blanche_, and there has been no one neglected, +nothing left undone; but they miss the old personal relations, the +friendship of past days. You must not think that the poor care only for +creature comforts and substantial benefits.” + +“I have never thought so. And now tell me all you can about my husband. +Does he receive no one?” + +“No one. People used to call upon him for a month or two after you +left, but he never returned their visits, he declined all invitations, +and he made his friends understand pretty clearly that he had done +with the outside world. He rarely comes to the eleven-o’clock service +on Sundays, but he comes to the early services, and I believe he walks +into Romsey sometimes for the evening service. He has not hardened his +heart against his God.” + +“Do you see him often?” + +“About once a week. I take him my report of the sick and poor. I +believe he is as much interested in that as he can be in anything; +but I always feel that my society is a burden to him, in spite of his +courteousness. I borrow a book from him sometimes, so as to have an +excuse for spending a few minutes with him when I return it.” + +“You are a good man, Mr. Rollinson, a true friend,” said Mildred, in a +low voice. + +“Would to God that my friendship could do more for him! Unhappily it +can do so little.” + +The fly came back for Mildred at nine o’clock. She had telegraphed from +Brighton to the inn at Salisbury where she was to spend the night, +and her room was ready for her when she arrived there at half-past +ten: a spacious bedroom with a four-post bed, in which she lay broad +awake all night, living over and over again that scene beside the +grave, and seeing her husband’s gloomy face, and its mute reproach. +She knew that she had done wrong in breaking in upon his solitude, she +who renounced the tie that bound her to him; and yet there had been +something gained. He knew now that under no stress of evidence could +she ever believe him guilty of his wife’s death. He knew that his last +and saddest secret was revealed to her, and that she was loyal to him +still—loyal although divided. + +She went to the morning service at the Cathedral. She lingered about +the grave old Close, looking dreamily in at the gardens which had such +an air of old-world peace. She was reluctant to leave Salisbury. It was +near all that she had loved and lost. The place had the familiar air of +the district in which she had lived so long—different in somewise from +all other places, or seeming different by fond association. + +She telegraphed to her aunt that she might be late in returning, and +lingered on till three o’clock in the afternoon, and then took the +train, which dawdled at three or four stations before it came to +Bishopstoke—the familiar junction where the station-master and the +superintendents knew her, and asked after her husband’s health, giving +her a pain at her heart with each inquiry. She would have been glad to +pass to the Portsmouth train unrecognised, but it was not to be. + +“You have been in the South all the winter, I hear, ma’am. I hope it +was not on account of your health?” + +“Yes,” she faltered, “partly on that account,” as she hurried on to the +carriage which the station-master opened for her with his own hand. + +His face was among her home faces. She had travelled up and down the +line very often in the good days that were gone—with her husband and +Lola, and their comfort had been cared for almost as if they had been +royal personages. + +It was night when she reached Brighton, and Franz was on the platform +waiting for her, and the irreproachable brougham was drawn up close +by, the brown horse snorting, and with eyes of fire, not brooking the +vicinity of the engine, though too grand a creature to know fear. + +She found Miss Fausset in low spirits. + +“I have missed you terribly,” she said. “I am a poor creature. I used +to think myself independent of sympathy or companionship—but that is +all over now. When I am alone for two days at a stretch I feel like a +child in the dark.” + +“You have lived too long in this house, aunt, I think,” Mildred +answered gently. “Forgive me if I say that it is a dull house.” + +“A dull house? Nonsense, Mildred! It is one of the best houses in +Brighton.” + +“Yes, yes, aunt, but it is dull, all the same. The sun does not shine +into it; the colouring of the furniture is gray and cold—” + +“I hate gaudy colours.” + +“Yes, but there are beautiful colours that are not gaudy—beautiful +things that warm and gladden one. The next room,” glancing back at the +front drawing-room and its single lamp, “is full of ghosts. Those long +white curtains, those faint gray walls, are enough to kill you.” + +“I am not so fanciful as that.” + +“Ah, but you are fanciful, perhaps without knowing it. The influence +of this dull gray house may have crept into your veins and depressed +you unawares. Will you go to the Italian Lakes with me next September, +aunt? Or, better, will you go to the West of England with me next +week—to the north coast of Cornwall, which will be lovely at this +season? I am sure you want change. This monotonous life is killing you.” + +“No, no, Mildred. There is nothing amiss with my life. It suits me well +enough, and I am able to do good.” + +“Your lieutenants could carry on all that while you were away.” + +“No; I like to be here; I like to organise, to arrange. I can feel that +my life is not useless, that my talent is placed at interest.” + +“It could all go on, aunt; it could indeed. The change to new scenes +would revive you.” + +“No. I am satisfied where I am. I am among people whom I like, and who +like and respect me.” + +She dwelt upon the last words with unction, as if there were tangible +comfort in them. + +Mildred sighed and was silent. She had felt it her duty to try and +rouse her aunt from the dull apathy into which she seemed gradually +sinking, and she thought that the only chance of revival was to remove +her from the monotony of her present existence. + +Later on in the evening the fire had been lighted in the inner +drawing-room, Miss Fausset feeling chilly, in spite of the approach of +summer, and aunt and niece drew near the hearth for cheerfulness and +comfort. The low reading-lamp spread its light only over Miss Fausset’s +book-table and the circle in which it stood. The faces of both women +were in shadow, and the lofty room with its walls of books was full of +shadows. + +“You talk so despondently of life sometimes, aunt, as if it had been +all disappointment,” said Mildred, after a long silence, in which they +had both sat watching the fire, each absorbed by her own thoughts; +“yet your girlhood must have been bright. I have heard my dear father +say how indulgent his father was, how he gave way to his children in +everything.” + +“Yes, he was very indulgent; too indulgent perhaps. I had my own way +in everything; only—one’s own way does not always lead to happiness. +Mine did not. I might have been a happier woman if my father had been a +tyrant.” + +“You would have married, perhaps, in that case, to escape from an +unhappy home. I wish you would tell me more about your girlish years, +aunt. You must have had many admirers when you were young, and amongst +them all there must have been some one for whom you cared—just a +little. Would it hurt you to talk to me about that old time?” + +“Yes, Mildred. There are some women who can talk about such +things—women who can prose for hours to their granddaughters or their +nieces—simpering over the silliness of the past—boasting of conquests +which nobody believes in; for it is very difficult to realise the fact +that an old woman was ever young and lovely. I am not of that temper, +Mildred. The memory of my girlhood is hateful to me.” + +“Ah, then there was some sad story—some unhappy attachment. I was sure +it must have been so,” said Mildred, in a low voice. “But tell me of +that happier time before you went into society—the time when you were +in Italy with your governess, studying at the Conservatoire at Milan. I +thought of you so much when I was at Milan the other day.” + +“I have nothing to tell about that time. I was a foreigner in a strange +city, with an elderly woman who was paid to take care of me, and whose +chief occupation was to take care of herself: a solicitor’s widow, +whose health required that she should winter in the South, and who +contrived to make my father pay handsomely for her benefit.” + +“And you were not happy at Milan?” + +“Happy! no. I got on with my musical education—that was all I cared +for.” + +“Had you no friends—no introductions to nice people?” + +“No. My chaperon made my father believe that she knew all the best +families in Milan, but her circle resolved itself into a few third-rate +musical people who gave shabby little evening-parties. You bore me to +death, Mildred, when you force me to talk of that time, and of that +woman, whom I hated.” + +“Forgive me, aunt, I will ask no more questions,” said Mildred, with a +sigh. + +She had been trying to get nearer to her kinswoman, to familiarise +herself with that dim past when this fading life was fresh and full +of hope. It seemed to her as if there was a dead wall between her +and Miss Fausset—a barrier of reserve which should not exist between +those who were so near in blood. She had made up her mind to stay with +her aunt to the end, to do all that duty and affection could suggest, +and it troubled her that they should still be strangers. After this +severe repulse she could make no further attempt. There was evidently +no softening influence in the memory of the past. Miss Fausset’s +character, as revealed by that which she concealed rather than by that +which she told, was not beautiful. Mildred could but think that she had +been a proud, cold-hearted young woman, valuing herself too highly to +inspire love or sympathy in others; electing to be alone and unloved. + +After this, time went by in a dull monotony. The same people came to +see Miss Fausset day after day, and she absorbed the same flatteries, +accepted the same adulation, always with an air of deepest humility. +She organised her charities, she listened to every detail about the +circumstances, and even the mental condition and spiritual views of +her poor. Mildred discovered before long that there was a leaven of +hardness in her benevolence. She could not tolerate sin, she weighed +every life in the same balance, she expected exceptional purity amidst +foulest surroundings. She was liberal of her worldly goods; but her +mind was as narrow as if she had lived in a remote village a hundred +years ago. Mildred found herself continually pleading for wrong-doers. + +The only event or excitement which the bright June days brought with +them was the arrival of Pamela Ransome, who was escorted to Brighton by +Lady Lochinvar herself, and who had been engaged for the space of three +weeks to Malcolm Stuart, with everybody’s consent and approval. + +“I wrote to Uncle George the very day I was engaged, aunt, as well as +to you; and he answered my letter in the sweetest way, and he is going +to give me a grand piano,” said Pamela, all in a breath. + +Lady Lochinvar explained that, much as she detested London, she +had felt it her solemn duty to establish herself there during her +nephew’s engagement, in order that she might become acquainted with +Pamela’s people, and assist her dear boy in all his arrangements for +the future. When a young man marries a nice girl with an estate +worth fifteen hundred a year—allowing for the poor return made by +land nowadays—everything ought to go upon velvet. Lady Lochinvar was +prepared to make sacrifices, or, in other words, to contribute a +handsome portion of that fortune which she intended to bequeath to her +nephew. She could afford to be generous, having a surplus far beyond +her possible needs, and she was very fond of Malcolm Stuart, who had +been to her as a son. + +“I was quite alone in the world when my husband died,” she told +Mildred. “My father and my own people were all gone, and I should +have been a wretched creature without Malcolm. He was the only son of +Lochinvar’s favourite sister, who went off in a decline when he was +eight years old, and he had been brought up at the Castle. So it is +natural, you see, that I should be fond of him and interested in his +welfare.” + +Pamela kissed her, by way of commentary. + +“I think you are quite the dearest thing in the world,” she said, +“except Aunt Mildred.” + +It may be seen from this remark that the elder and younger lady +were now on very easy terms. Mildred had stayed in Paris with Lady +Lochinvar, and a considerable part of her trousseau, the outward and +visible part, had been chosen in the _ateliers_ of fashionable Parisian +dressmakers and man milliners. The more humdrum portion of the bride’s +raiment was to be obtained at Brighton, where Pamela was to spend a +week or two with her aunt before she went to London to stay with the +Mountfords, who had taken a house in Grosvenor Gardens, from which +Pamela was to be married. + +“And where do you think we are to be married, aunt?” exclaimed Pamela +excitedly. + +“At St. George’s?” + +“Nothing so humdrum. We are going to be married in the Abbey—in +Westminster Abbey—the burial-place of heroes and poets. I happened +to say one day when Malcolm and I were almost strangers—it was at +Rumpelmeyer’s, sitting outside in the sun, eating ices—that I had +never seen a wedding in the Abbey, and that I should love to see one; +and Malcolm said we must try and manage it some day—meaning anybody’s +wedding, of course, though he pretends now that he always meant to +marry me there himself.” + +“Presumptious on his part,” said Mildred, smiling. + +“O, young men are horribly presumptious; they know they are in a +minority—there is so little competition—and a plain young man, too, +like Malcolm. But I suppose he knows he is nice,” added Pamela +conclusively. + +“Don’t you think it will be lovely for me to be married in the Abbey?” +she asked presently. + +“I think, dear, in your case I would rather have been married from my +own house, and in a village church.” + +“What, in that poky little church at Mapledown? I believe it is one +of the oldest in England, and it is certainly one of the ugliest. Sir +Henry Mountford suggested making a family business of it; but Rosalind +and I were both in favour of the Abbey. We shall get much better +notices in the society papers,” added Pamela, with a business-like air, +as if she had been talking about the production of a new play. + +“Well, dear, as I hope you are only to be married once in your life, +you have a right to choose your church.” + +Pamela was bitterly disappointed presently when her aunt refused to be +present at her wedding. + +“I will spend an hour with you on your wedding morning, and see you in +your wedding-gown, if you like, Pamela; but I cannot go among a crowd +of gay people, or share in any festivity. I have done with all those +things, dear, for ever and ever.” + +Pamela’s candid eyes filled with tears. She felt all the more sorry for +her aunt, because her own cup of happiness was overflowing. She looked +round the silver-gray drawing-room, and her eyes fixed themselves on +the piano which _he_ had played, so often, so often, in the tender +twilight, in the shadowy evening when that larger room was left almost +without any light save that which came through the undraped archway +yonder. But Castellani was no longer a person to be thought of in +italics. From the moment Pamela’s eyes had opened to the excellence of +Mr. Stuart’s manly and straightforward character, they had also become +aware of the Italian’s deficiencies. She had realised the fact that he +was a charlatan; and now she looked wonderingly at the piano, at a loss +to understand the intensity of bygone emotions, and inclined to excuse +herself upon the ground of youthful foolishness. + +“What a silly romantic wretch I must have been!” she thought; “a +regular Rosa Matilda! As if the happiness of life depended upon one’s +husband having an ear for music!” + +Mildred was by no means unsympathetic about the trousseau, although +she herself had done with all interest in fashion and finery. She +drove about to the pretty Brighton shops with Pamela, and exercised +a restraining influence upon that young lady’s taste, which inclined +to the florid. She sympathised with the young lady’s anxiety about +her wedding-gown, which was to be made by a certain Mr. Smithson, a +_faiseur_ who held potent sway over the ladies of fashionable London, +and who gave himself more airs than a Prime Minister. Mr. Smithson +had consented to make Miss Ransome a wedding-gown—despite her social +insignificance and the pressure of the season—provided that he were +not worried about the affair. + +“If I have too many people calling upon me, or am pestered with +letters, I shall throw the thing up,” he told Lady Mountford one +morning, when she took him some fine old rose-point for the petticoat. +“Yes, this lace is pretty good. I suppose you got it in Venice. I have +seen Miss Ransome, and I know what kind of gown she can wear. It will +be sent home the day before the wedding.” + +With this assurance, haughtily given, Lady Mountford and her sister had +to be contented. + +“If I were your sister I would let a woman in Tottenham Court Road make +my gowns rather than I would stand such treatment,” said Sir Henry; +at which his wife shrugged her shoulders and told him he knew nothing +about it. + +“The cut is everything,” she said. “It is worth putting up with +Smithson’s insolence to know that one is the best-dressed woman in the +room.” + +“But if Smithson dresses all the other women—” + +“He doesn’t. There are very few who have the courage to go to him. His +manners are so humiliating—he as good as told me I had a hump—and his +prices are enormous.” + +“And yet you call me extravagant for giving seventy pounds for a barb!” +cried Sir Henry; “a bird that might bring me a pot of money in prizes.” + + * * * * * + +The grand question of trousseau and wedding-gown being settled, there +remained only a point of minor importance—the honeymoon. Pamela was in +favour of that silly season being spent in some rustic spot, far from +the madding crowd, and Pamela’s lover was of her opinion in everything. + +“We have both seen the best part of the Continent,” said Pamela, taking +tea in Mildred’s upstairs sitting-room, which had assumed a brighter +and more home-like aspect in her occupation than any other room in +Miss Fausset’s house; “we don’t want to rush off to Switzerland or the +Pyrenees; we want just to enjoy each other’s society and to make our +plans for the future. Besides, travelling is so hideously unbecoming. +I have seen brides with dusty hats and smuts on their faces who would +have been miserable if they had only known what objects they were.” + +“I think you and Mr. Stuart are very wise in your choice, dear,” +answered Mildred. “England in July is delicious. Have you decided where +to go?” + +“No, we can’t make up our minds. We want to find a place that is +exquisitely pretty—yet not too far from London, so that we may run up +to town occasionally and see about our furnishing. Sir Henry offered +us Rainham, but as it is both ugly and inconvenient I unhesitatingly +refused. I don’t want to spend my honeymoon in a place pervaded by +prize pigeons.” + +“What do you think of the neighbourhood of the Thames, Pamela?” asked +Mildred thoughtfully. “Are you fond of boating?” + +“Fond! I adore it. I could live all my life upon the river.” + +“Really! I have been thinking that if you and Mr. Stuart would like to +spend your honeymoon at The Hook it is just the kind of place to suit +you. The house is bright and pretty, and the gardens are exquisite.” + +Pamela’s face kindled with pleasure. + +“But, dear aunt, you would never think—” she began. + +“The place is at your service, my dear girl. It will be a pleasure +for me to prepare everything for you. I cannot tell you how dearly I +love that house, or how full of memories it is for me. The lease of my +father’s house in Parchment Street was sold after his death, and I only +kept a few special things out of the furniture, but at The Hook nothing +has been altered since I was a child.” + +Pamela accepted the offer with rapture, and wrote an eight-page letter +to her lover upon the subject, although he was coming to Brighton next +day, and was to dine in Lewes Crescent. Mildred was pleased at being +able to give so much pleasure to her husband’s niece. It may be also +that she snatched at an excuse for revisiting a spot she fondly loved. + +She offered to take Pamela with her, to explore the house and gardens, +and discuss any small arrangements for the bride’s comfort, but +against this Miss Ransome protested. + +“I want everything to be new to us,” she said, “all untrodden ground, +a delicious surprise. I am sure the place is lovely; and I want to +know no more about it than I know of fairyland. I haven’t the faintest +notion what a Hook can be in connection with the Thames. It may be a +mountain or a glacier, for anything I know to the contrary; but I am +assured it is delightful. Please let me know nothing more, dearest +aunt, till I go there with Malcolm. It is adorable of you to hit +upon such a splendid idea. And it will look very well in the society +papers,” added Pamela, waxing business-like. “‘Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm +Stuart!’ (O, how queer that sounds!) ‘are to spend their honeymoon +at The Hook, the riverside residence of the bride’s aunt.’ I wonder +whether they will say ‘the well-known residence’?” mused Pamela. + +Mildred went up to town with Miss Ransome and her betrothed at the +end of the young lady’s visit. Miss Fausset had been coldly gracious, +after her manner, had allowed Mr. Stuart to come to her house whenever +he pleased, and had given up the rarely-used front drawing-room to +the lovers, who sat and whispered and tittered over their own little +witticisms, by the distant piano, and behaved altogether like those +proverbial children of whom we are told in our childhood, who are +seen but not heard. Mildred lunched in Grosvenor Gardens, and went to +Chertsey by an afternoon train. The housekeeper who had once ruled over +both Mr. Fausset’s houses, subject to interference from Bell, was now +caretaker at The Hook, with a housemaid under her. She was an elderly +woman, but considerably Bell’s junior, and she was an admirable cook +and manager. A telegram two days before had told her to expect her +mistress, and the house was in perfect order when Mrs. Greswold arrived +in the summer twilight. All things had been made to look as if the +place were in family occupation, though no one but the two servants had +been living there since Mr. Fausset’s death. The familiar aspect of the +rooms smote Mildred with a sudden unexpected pain. There were the old +lamps burning on the tables, the well-remembered vases—her mother’s +choice, and always artistic in form and colour—filled with the old June +flowers from garden and hothouse. Her father’s chair stood in its old +place in the bay-window in front of the table at which he used to write +his letters sometimes, looking out at the river between whiles. Mrs. +Dawson had put a lamp in his study, a small room opening out of the +drawing-room, and with windows on two sides, and both looking towards +the river, which he had loved so well. The windows were open in the +twilight, and the rose-garden was like a sea of bloom. + +In her father’s room nothing was altered. As it had been in the last +days he had lived there, so it was now. + +“I haven’t moved so much as a penholder, ma’am,” said Dawson tearfully. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +LITERA SCRIPTA MANET. + + +The house and grounds were in such perfect order that there was very +little to be done in the way of preparation for the honeymoon visitors. +Even the pianos had been periodically tuned, and the clocks had been +regularly wound. Two or three servants would have to be engaged for the +period, and that was all; and even this want Mrs. Dawson proposed to +supply without going off the premises. + +The housemaid had a sister, who was an accomplished parlourmaid +and carver; the under-gardener’s eldest daughter was pining for a +preliminary canter in the kitchen, and the gardener’s wife was a +retired cook, and would be delighted to take all the rougher part of +the cooking, while Mrs. Dawson devoted her art to those pretty tiny +kickshaws in which she excelled. There were peaches ripening in the +peach-house, and the apricots were going to be a show. There was wine +in the cellar that would have satisfied an alderman on his honeymoon. +Mildred’s business at The Hook might have been completed in a day, yet +she lingered there for a week, and still lingered on, loving the place +with a love which was mingled with pain, yet happier there than she +could have been anywhere else in the world, she thought. + +The chief gardener rowed her about the river, never going very far from +home, but meandering about the summer stream, by flowery meadows, and +reedy eyots, and sometimes diverging into a tributary stream, where the +shallow water seemed only an excuse for wild flowers. He had rowed her +up and down those same streams when she was a child with streaming hair +and he was the under-gardener. He had rowed her about in that brief +summer season when Fay was her companion. + +She revisited all those spots in which she had wandered with her lover. +She would land here or there along the island, and as she remembered +each particular object in the landscape, her feet seemed to grow +light again, with the lightness of joyous youth, as they touched the +familiar shore. It was almost as if her youth came back to her. + +Thus it was that she lingered from day to day, loth to leave the +beloved place. She wrote frankly to her aunt, saying how much good +the change of air and scene had done her, and promising to return to +Brighton in a few days. She felt that it was her duty to resume her +place beside that fading existence; and yet it was an infinite relief +to her to escape from that dull gray house, and the dull gray life. +She acknowledged to herself that her aunt’s life was a good life, full +of unselfish work and large charity, and yet there was something that +repelled her, even while she admired. It was too much like a life lived +up to a certain model, adjusted line by line to a carefully-studied +plan. There was a lack of spontaneity, a sense of perpetual effort. +The benevolence which had made Enderby village like one family in the +sweet time that was gone had been of a very different character. There +had been the warmth of love and sympathy in every kindness of George +Greswold’s, and there had been infinite pity for wrong-doers. Miss +Fausset’s almsgiving was after the fashion of the Pharisee of old, and +it was upon the amount given that she held herself justified before +God, not upon the manner of giving. + +In those quiet days, spent alone in her old home, Mildred had chosen to +occupy Mr. Fausset’s study rather than the large bright drawing-room. +The smaller room was more completely associated with her father. It +was here—seated in the chair before the writing-table, where she was +sitting now—that he had first talked to her of George Greswold, and had +discussed her future life, questioning his motherless girl with more +than a father’s tenderness about the promptings of her own heart. She +loved the room and all that it contained for the sake of the cherished +hands that had touched these things, and the gentle life that had been +lived here. There had been but one error in his life, she thought—his +treatment of Fay. + +“He ought not to have sent her away,” she thought; “he saw us happy +together, his two daughters, and he ought not to have divided us, and +sent her away to a loveless life among strangers. If he had only been +frank and straightforward with my mother she might have forgiven all.” + +Might, perhaps. Mildred was not sure upon that point; but she felt very +sure that it was her father’s duty to have braved all consequences +rather than to have sent his unacknowledged child into exile. That fact +of not acknowledging her seemed in itself such a tremendous cruelty +that it intensified every lesser wrong. + +Mrs. Dawson understood her mistress’s fancy for her father’s room, +and Mildred’s meals were served here, at a Sutherland-table in the +bay-window, from which she could see the boats go by, Mrs. Dawson +having a profound belief in the efficacy of the boats as a cure for low +spirits. + +“People sometimes tell me it must be dull at The Hook,” she said; “but, +lor! they don’t know how many boats go by in summer-time. It’s almost +as gay as Bond Street.” + +Mildred lived alone with old memories in the flower-scented room, where +the Spanish blinds made a cool and shadowy atmosphere, while the roses +outside were steeped in sunshine. Those few days were just the most +perfect summer days of the year. She felt sorry that they had not been +reserved for Pamela’s honeymoon. Such sunshine was almost wasted on +her, whose heart was so full of sadness. + +It was her last afternoon at The Hook, or the afternoon which she meant +to be her last, having made up her mind to go back to Brighton and duty +on the following day, and she had a task before her, a task which she +had delayed from day to day, just as she had delayed her return to her +aunt. + +She had to put away those special and particular objects which had +belonged to her father and mother, and had been a part of their lives. +These were too sacred to be left about now that strangers were to +occupy the rooms of the dead. Hitherto no stranger had entered those +rooms since John Fausset’s death, nothing had been removed or altered. +No documents relating to property or business of any kind had been +kept at The Hook. Mr. Fausset’s affairs had all been put in perfect +order after his wife’s death, and there had been no ransacking for +missing title-deeds or papers of any kind. It had been understood that +all papers and letters of importance were either with Mr. Fausset’s +solicitors or at the house in Parchment Street, and thus the household +gods had been undisturbed in the summer retreat by the river. + +Mildred had spent the morning in her mother’s rooms, putting away all +those dainty trifles and prettinesses which had gathered round the +frivolous, luxurious life, as shells and bright-coloured weeds gather +among the low rocks on the edge of the sea. She had placed everything +carefully in a large closet in her mother’s dressing-room, covered +with much tissue-paper, secure from dust and moth; and now she began +the same kind of work in her father’s room, the work of removing all +those objects which had been especially his: the old-fashioned silver +inkstand, the well-worn scarlet morocco blotting-book, with his crest +on the cover, and many inkspots on the leather lining inside, his +penholders and penknives, and a little velvet pen-wiper which she had +made for him when she was ten years old, and which he had kept on his +table ever afterwards. + +She looked round the room thoughtfully for a place of security for +these treasures. She had spent a good deal of time in rearranging her +father’s books, which careful and conscientious dusting had reduced to +a chaotic condition. Now every volume was in its place, just as he had +kept them in the old days when it had been her delight to examine the +shelves and to carry away a book of her father’s choosing. + +The bookcases were by Chippendale, with fretwork cornices and mahogany +panelling. The lower part was devoted to cupboards, which her father +had always kept under lock and key, but which she supposed to contain +only old magazines, pamphlets, and newspapers, part of that vast mass +of literature which is kept with a view to being looked at some day, +and which finally drifts unread to the bourne of all waste paper, and +is ground into pulp again, and rolls over the endless web again, and +comes back upon the world printed with more intellectual food for the +million of skippers and skimmers. + +Yes, one of those mahogany panelled cupboards would serve Mildred’s +purpose admirably. She selected a key from one of the bunches in her +key-box, and opened the cupboard nearest the door. + +It was packed tight with _Army Lists_, _New Monthly Magazines_, +and _Edinburgh Reviews_—packed so well that there was scarcely an +interstice that would hold a pin. She opened the next cupboard. +_Sporting Magazine_, _Blackwood_, _Ainsworth_, and a pile of pamphlets. +No room there. + +She opened the third, and found it much more loosely packed, with odd +newspapers, and old Prayer Books and Bibles: shabby, old-fashioned +books, which had served for the religious exercises of several +generations of Faussets, and had been piously preserved by the owner +of The Hook. There was room here perhaps for the things in the +writing-table, if all these books and papers were rearranged and +closely packed. + +Mildred began her work patiently. She was in no hurry to have done with +her task; it brought her nearer to her beloved dead. She worked slowly, +dreamily almost, her thoughts dwelling on the days that were gone. + +She took out the Prayer Books and Bibles one by one, looking at a +fly-leaf now and then. John Fausset, from his loving mother, on the day +of his confirmation, June 17, 1835; Lucy Jane Fausset, with her sister +Maria’s love, April 3, 1804; Mark Fausset, in memory of little Charlie, +December 1, 1807. Such inscriptions as these touched her, with their +reminiscences of vanished affection, of hearts long mingled with the +dust. + +She put the books on one side in a little pile on the carpet, as she +knelt before the open cupboard, and then she began to move the loose +litter of newspapers. The _Morning Herald_, the _Morning Chronicle_, +the _Sun_. Even _these_ were of the dead. + +The cupboard held much more than she had expected. Behind the +newspapers there were two rows of pigeons-holes, twenty-six in all, +filled—choke-full, some of them—with letters, folded longwise, in a +thoroughly business-like manner. + +Old letters, old histories of the family heart and mind, how much they +hold to stir the chords of love and pain! Mildred’s hand trembled as +she stretched it out to take one of those letters, idly, full of morbid +curiosity about those relics of a past life. + +She never knew whether it had been deliberation or hazard which guided +her hand to the sixth pigeon-hole, but she thought afterwards that +her eye must have been caught by a bit of red ribbon—a spot of bright +colour—and that her hand followed her eye mechanically. However this +may have been, the first thing that she took from the mass of divers +correspondence in the twenty-six pigeon-holes was a packet of about +twenty letters tied with a red ribbon. + +Each letter was carefully indorsed “M. F.” and a date. Some were +on foreign paper, others on thick gilt-edged note. A glance at the +uppermost letter showed her a familiar handwriting—her aunt’s, but +very different from Miss Fausset’s present precise penmanship. The +writing here was more hurried and irregular, bolder, larger, and more +indicative of impulse and emotion. + +No thought of possible wrong to her aunt entered Mildred’s mind as +she untied the ribbon and seated herself in a low chair in front of +the bookcase, with the letters loose in her lap. What secrets could +there be in a girl’s letters to her elder brother which the brother’s +daughter might not read, nearly forty years after they were written? +What could there be in that yellow paper, in that faded ink, except +the pale dim ghosts of vanished fancies, and thoughts which the thinker +had long outlived? + +“I wonder whether my aunt would care to read these old letters?” mused +Mildred. “It would be like calling up her own ghost. She must have +almost forgotten what she was like when she wrote them.” + +The first letter was from Milan, full of enthusiasm about the Cathedral +and the Conservatoire, full of schemes for work. She was practising six +hours a day, and taking nine lessons a week—four for piano, two for +singing, three for harmony. She was in high spirits, and delighted with +her life. + + “I should practise eight hours a day if Mrs. Holmby would let me,” she + wrote, “but she won’t. She says it would be too much for my health. + I believe it is only because my piano annoys her. I get up at five + on these summer mornings, and practise from six to half-past eight; + then coffee and rolls, and off to the Conservatoire; then a drive + with Mrs. Holmby, who is too lazy to walk much; and then lunch. After + lunch vespers at the Cathedral, and then two hours at the piano + before dinner. An hour and a half between dinner and tea, which we + take at nine. Sometimes one of Mrs. Holmby’s friends drops in to tea. + You needn’t be afraid: the men are all elderly, and not particularly + clean. They take snuff, and their complexions are like mahogany; but + there is one old man, with bristly gray hair standing out all over + his head like a brush, who plays the ’cello divinely, and who reminds + me of Beethoven. I am learning the ‘Sonate Pathétique,’ and I play + Bach’s preludes and fugues two hours a day. We went to La Scala the + night before last; but I was disappointed to find they were playing + a trumpery modern opera by a Milanese composer, who is all the rage + here.” + +Two or three letters followed, all in the same strain, and then came +signs of discontent. + + “I have no doubt Mrs. Holmby is a highly respectable person, and I + am sure you acted for the best when you chose her for my chaperon, + but she is a lump of prejudice. She objects to the Cathedral. ‘We are + fully justified in making ourselves familiar with its architectural + beauties,’ she said, in her pedantic way, ‘but to attend the services + of that benighted church is to worship in the groves of Baal.’ I told + her that I had found neither groves nor idols in that magnificent + church, and that the music I heard there was the only pleasure which + reconciled me to the utter dulness of my life at Milan—I was going + to say my life with her, but thought it better to be polite, as I am + quite in her power till you come to fetch me. + + “Don’t think that I am tired of the Conservatoire, after teasing you + so to let me come here, or even that I am home-sick. I am only tired + of Mrs. Holmby; and I daresay, after all, she is no worse than any + other chaperon would be. As for the Conservatoire, I adore it, and I + feel that I am making rapid strides in my musical education. My master + is pleased with my playing of the ‘Pathétique,’ and I am to take the + ‘Eroica’ next. What a privilege it is to know Beethoven! He seems to + me now like a familiar friend. I have been reading a memoir of him. + What a sad life—what a glorious legacy he leaves the world which + treated him so badly! + + “I play Diabelli’s exercises for an hour and a half every morning, + before I look at any other music.” + +In the next letter Mildred started at the appearance of a familiar name. + + “Your kind suggestion about the Opera House has been followed, + and we have taken seats at La Scala for two nights a week. Signor + Castellani’s opera is really very charming. I have heard it now three + times, and liked it better each time. There is not much learning in + the orchestration; but there is a great deal of melody all through + the opera. The Milanese are mad about it. Signor Castellani came to + see Mrs. Holmby one evening last week, introduced by our gray-haired + ’cello-player. He is a clever-looking man, about five-and-thirty, with + a rather melancholy air. He writes his librettos, and is something of + a poet. + + “We have made a compromise about the Cathedral. I am to go to vespers + if I like, as my theological opinions are not in Mrs. Holmby’s + keeping. She will walk with me to the Cathedral, leave me at the + bottom of the steps, do her shopping or take a gentle walk, and return + for me when the service is over. It only lasts three-quarters of an + hour, and Mrs. Holmby always has shopping of some kind on her hands, + as she does all her own marketing, and buys everything in the smallest + quantities. I suppose by this means she makes more out of your + handsome allowance for my board—or fancies she does.” + +There were more letters in the same strain, and Castellani’s name +appeared often in relation to his operas; but there was no further +mention of social intercourse. The letters grew somewhat fretful in +tone, and there were repeated complaints of Mrs. Holmby. There were +indications of fitful spirits—now enthusiasm, now depression. + + “I have at least discovered that I am no genius,” she wrote. “When + I attempt to improvise, the poverty of my ideas freezes me; and yet + music with me is a passion. Those vesper services in the Cathedral are + my only consolation in this great dull town. + + “No, dear Jack, I am not home-sick. I have to finish my musical + education. I am tired of nothing, except Mrs. Holmby.” + +After this there was an interval. The next letter was dated six months +later. It was on a different kind of paper, and it was written from +Evian, on the Lake of Geneva. Even the character of the penmanship had +altered. It had lost its girlish dash, and something of its firmness. +The strokes were heavier, but yet bore traces of hesitation. It was +altogether a feebler style of writing. + +The letter began abruptly: + + “I know that you have been kind to me, John—kinder, more merciful than + many brothers would have been under the same miserable circumstances; + but nothing you can do can make me anything else than what I have + made myself—the most wretched of creatures. When I walk about in this + quiet place, alone, and see the beggars holding out their hands to me, + maimed, blind, dumb perhaps, the very refuse of humanity, I feel that + their misery is less than mine. _They_ were not brought up to think + highly of themselves, and to look down upon other people, as I was. + _They_ were never petted and admired as I was. They were not brought + up to think honour the one thing that makes life worth living—to + feel the sting of shame worse than the sting of death. They fall + into raptures if I give them a franc—and all the wealth of the world + would not give me one hour of happiness. You tell me to forget my + misery. Forget—now! No, I have no wish to leave this place. I should + be neither better nor happier anywhere else. It is very quiet here. + There are no visitors left now in the neighbourhood. There is no one + to wonder who I am, or why I am living alone here in my tiny villa. + The days go by like a long weary dream, and there are days when the + gray lake and the gray mountains are half hidden in mist, and when all + Nature seems of the same colour as my own life. + + “I received the books you kindly chose for me, a large parcel. There + is a novel among them which tells almost my own story. It made me shed + tears for the first time since you left me at Lausanne. Some people + say they find a relief in tears, but my tears are not of that kind. I + was ill for nearly a week after reading that story. Please don’t send + me any more novels. If they are about happy people they irritate me; + if they are sorrowful stories they make me just a shade more wretched + than I am always. If you send me books again let them be the hardest + kind of reading you can get. I hear there is a good book on natural + history by a man called Darwin. I should like to read that.—Gratefully + and affectionately your sister, + + M. F.” + +This letter was dated October. The next was written in November from +the same address. + + “No, my dear John, your fears were unfounded, I have not been ill. I + wish I had been—sick unto death! I have been too wretched to write, + that was all. Why should I distress you with a reiteration of my + misery—and I _cannot_ write, or think about anything else? I have no + doubt Darwin’s book is good, but I could not interest myself in it. + The thought of my own misery comes between me and every page I read. + + “You ask me what I mean to do with my life when my dark days are over. + To that question there can but be one answer. I mean, so far as it + is possible, to forget. I shall go down to my grave burdened with my + dismal secret; but I shall exercise every faculty I possess to keep + that secret to the end. _He_ is not likely to betray me. The knowledge + of his own baseness will seal his lips. + + “Your suggestion of a future home in some quiet village, either in + England or abroad, is kindly meant, I know, but I shudder at the mere + idea of such a life. To pass as a widow; to have to answer every + prying acquaintance—the doctor, the clergyman—people who would force + themselves upon me, however secluded my life might be; to devote + myself to a duty which in every hour of my existence would remind me + of my folly and of my degradation: I should live like the galley-slave + who drags his chain at every step. + + “You tell me that the tie which would be a sorrow in the beginning + might grow into a blessing. That could never be. You know very little + of a woman’s nature when you suggest such a possibility. What _can_ + your sex know of a woman’s agony under such circumstances as mine? + _You_ are never made to feel the sting of dishonour.” + +A light began to dawn on Mildred as she read this second letter from +Evian. The first might mean anything—an engagement broken off, a +proud girl jilted by a worthless lover, the sense of degradation that +a woman feels in having loved unwisely—in having wasted confidence and +affection upon an unworthy object: Mildred had so interpreted that +despairing letter. But the second revealed a deeper wound, a darker +misery. + +There were sentences that stood out from the context with unmistakable +meaning. “When my dark days are over”—“to pass as a widow”—“to devote +myself to a duty which would remind me of my folly and my degradation.” + +That suggestion of a secluded life—of a care which should grow into a +blessing—could mean only one thing. The wretched girl who wrote that +letter was about to become a mother, under conditions which meant +life-long dishonour. + +White as marble, and with hands that trembled convulsively as they held +the letter, Mildred Greswold read on, hurriedly, eagerly, breathlessly, +to the last line of the last letter. She had no scruples, no sense of +wrong-doing. The secret hidden in that little packet of letters was a +secret which she had a right to know—she above all other people, she +who had been cheated and fooled by false imaginings. + +The third letter from Evian was dated late in January: + + “I have been very ill—dangerously, I believe—but my doctor took + unnecessary trouble to cure me. I am now able to go out of doors + again, and I walk by the lake for half-an-hour every day in the + morning sun. The child thrives wonderfully, I am told; but if there is + to be a change of nurses, as there must be—for this woman here must + lose sight of her charge and of me when I leave this place—the change + cannot be made too soon. If Boulogne is really the best place you + can think of, your plan would be to meet me with the nurse at Dijon, + where we can take the rail. We shall post from here to that town. I am + very sorry to inflict so much trouble upon you, but it is a part of + my misery to be a burden to you as well as to myself. When once this + incubus is safely disposed of, I shall be less troublesome to you. + + “No, my dear John, there is no relenting, no awakening of maternal + love. For me that must remain for ever a meaningless phrase. For me + there can be nothing now or ever more, except a sense of aversion and + horror—a shrinking from the very image of the child that must never + call me mother, or know the link between us. All that can possibly be + done to sever that link I shall do; and I entreat you, by the love of + past years, to help me in so doing. My only chance of peace in the + future is in total severance. Remember that I am prepared to make any + sacrifice that can secure the happiness of this wretched being, that + can make up to her—” + +“That can make up to _her_!” + +Mildred’s clutch tightened upon the letter. This was the first mention +of the infant’s sex. + + “—For the dishonour to which she is born. I will gladly devote half + my fortune to her maintenance and her future establishment in life, + if she should grow up and marry. Remember also that I have sworn to + myself never to entertain any proposal of marriage, never to listen to + words of love from any man upon earth. You need have no fear of future + embarrassment on my account. I shall never give a man the right to + interrogate my past life. I resign myself to a solitary existence—but + not to a life clouded with shame. When I go back to England and resume + my place in society, I shall try to think of this last year of agony + as if it were a bad dream. You alone know my secret, and you can + help me if you will. My prayer is that from the hour I see the child + transferred to the new nurse at Dijon, I shall never look upon its + face again. The nurse can go back to her home as fast as the train + will carry her, and I can go back to London with you.” + +The next letter was written seven years later, and addressed from +Kensington Gore: + + “I suppose I ought to answer your long letter by saying that I am glad + the child has good health, that I rejoice in her welfare, and so on. + But I cannot be such a hypocrite. It hurts me to write about her; it + hurts me to think of her. My heart hardens itself against her at every + suggestion of her quickness, or her prettiness, or any other merit. To + me she can be nothing except—disgrace. I burnt your letter the instant + it was read. I felt as if some one was looking over my shoulder as + I read it. I dared not go down to lunch for fear Mrs. Winstanley’s + searching eyes should read my secret in my face. I pretended a + headache, and stayed in my room till our eight-o’clock dinner, when + I knew I should be safe in the dim religious light which my chaperon + affects as the most flattering to wrinkles and pearl-powder. + + “But I am not ungrateful, my dear John. I am touched even by your + kindly interest in that unfortunate waif. I have no doubt you have + done wisely in placing her with the good old lady at Barnes, and that + she is very happy running about the Common. I am glad I know where + she is, so that I may never drive that way, if I can possibly help + it. Your old lady must be rather a foolish woman, I should think, to + change Fanny into Fay, on the strength of the child’s airy movements + and elfin appearance; but as long as this person knows nothing of her + charge’s history her silliness cannot matter.” + +A letter of a later date was addressed from Lewes Crescent. + + “I am horrified at what you have done. O, John, how could you be so + reckless, so forgetful of my reiterated entreaties to keep that + girl’s existence wide apart from mine or yours? And you have actually + introduced her into your own house as a relation; and you actually + allow her to be called by your name! Was ever such madness? You + stultify all that has been done in the past. You open the door to + questionings and conjectures of the most dreadful kind. No, I will + not see her. You must be mad to suggest such a thing. My feeling + about her to-day is exactly the same as my feeling on the day she was + born—disgust, horror, dread. I will never—willingly—look upon her face. + + “Do you remember those words in _Bleak House_? ‘Your mother, Esther, + is your disgrace, and you were hers.’ So it is with that girl and me. + Can love be possible where there is this mutual disgrace? + + “For God’s sake, get the girl out of your house as soon as you can! + Send her to some good school abroad—France, Germany, where you like, + and save me from the possibility of discovery. My secret has been + kept—my friends look up to me. I have outlived the worst part of my + misery, and have learnt to take some interest in life. I could not + survive the discovery of my wretched story.” + +A later letter was briefer and more business-like. + + “I fully concur in the settlement you propose, and would as willingly + make the sum 40,000_l._ as 30,000_l._ Remember that, so far as money + can go, I am anxious to do the _uttermost_. I hope she will marry + soon, and marry well, and that she may lead a happy and honourable + life under a new name—a name that she can bear without a blush. I + should be much relieved if she could continue to live abroad.” + +This was the last letter in the bundle tied with red ribbon. In +the same pigeon-hole Mildred found the draft of a deed of gift, +transferring 30,000_l._ India Stock to Fanny Fausset, otherwise Vivien +Faux, on her twenty-first birthday, and with the draft there were +several letters from a firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields +relating to the same deed of gift. + +The last of the letters fell from Mildred’s lap as she sat with her +hands clasped before her face, dazed by this sudden light which altered +the aspect of her life. + +“Fool, fool, fool!” she cried. + +The thought of all she had suffered, and of the suffering she had +inflicted on the man she loved, almost maddened her. She had condemned +her father—her generous, noble-hearted father—upon evidence that had +seemed to her incontrovertible. She had believed in a stain upon that +honourable life—had believed him a sinner and a coward. And Miss +Fausset knew all that she had forfeited by that fatal misapprehension, +and yet kept her shameful secret, caring for her own reputation more +than for two blighted lives. + +She remembered how she had appealed to her aunt to solve the mystery +of Fay’s parentage, and how deliberately Miss Fausset had declared her +ignorance. She had advised her niece to go back to her husband, but +that was all. + +Mildred gathered the letters together, tied them with the faded ribbon, +and then went to her father’s writing-table and wrote these lines, in a +hand that trembled with indignation: + + “I know all the enclosed letters can tell me. You have kept your + secret at the hazard of breaking two hearts. I know not if the wrong + you have done me can ever be set right; but this I know, that I shall + never again enter your house, or look upon your face, if I can help + it. I am going back to my husband, never again to leave him, if he + will let me stay. + + MILDRED GRESWOLD.” + +She packed the letters securely in one of the large banker’s envelopes +out of her father’s desk. She sealed the packet with her father’s +crest, intending to register and post it with her own hands on her way +to Romsey; and then, with a heart that beat with almost suffocating +force, she consulted the time-table, and tried to match trains between +Reading and Basingstoke. + +There was a train from Chertsey to Reading at five. She might catch +that and be home—home—home—how the word thrilled her! some time before +midnight. She would have gone back if it had been to arrive in the dead +of night. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +MARKED BY FATE. + + +It was nearly ten o’clock when Mildred drove through the village of +Enderby, and saw the lights burning in the familiar cottage windows, +the post-office, and the little fancy shop where Lola had been so +constant a purchaser in the days gone by. Her eyes were full of tears +as she looked at the humble street: happy tears, for her heart thrilled +with hope as she drew near home. + +“He cannot withhold his forgiveness,” she told herself. “He knows that +I acted for conscience’ sake.” + +Five minutes more and she was standing in the hall, questioning +the footman, who stared at her with a bewildered air, as the most +unexpected of visitors. + +“Is your master at home?” she asked. + +“Yes, ma’am, master’s in the library. Shall I announce you?” + +“No, no—I can find him. Help my maid to take my things to my room.” + +“Yes, ma’am. Have you dined, or shall I tell cook to get something +ready?” + +“No, no. I have dined,” she answered hurriedly, and went on to the +library, to that very room in which she had made the fatal discovery of +Fay’s identity with her husband’s first wife. + +He was sitting in the lamp-light, just as he was sitting that night +when she fell fainting at his feet. The windows were open to the summer +night, books were scattered about on the table, and heaped on the floor +by his side. Whatever comfort there may be in such company, he had +surrounded himself with that comfort. He took no notice of the opening +of the door, and she was kneeling at his feet before he knew that she +was in the room. + +“Mildred, what does this mean? Have we not parted often enough?” + +“There was no reason for our parting—except my mistaken belief. I am +here to stay with you till my death, if you will have me, George. Be +merciful to me, my dearest! I have acted for conscience’ sake. I have +been fooled, deluded by appearances which might have deceived any one, +however wise. Forgive me, George; forgive me for the sake of all I have +suffered in doing what I thought to be my duty!” + +He lifted her from her knees, took her to his heart without a word, and +kissed her. There was a silence of some moments, in which each could +hear the throbbing of the other’s heart. + +“You were wrong after all, then,” he said at last; “Vivien was not your +half-sister?” + +“She was not.” + +“Whose child was she?” + +“You must not ask me that, George. It is a secret which I ought not +to tell even to you. She was cruelly used, poor girl, more cruelly +even than I thought she had been when I believed she was my father’s +daughter. I have undeniable evidence as to her parentage. She was my +blood-relation, but she was not my sister.” + +“How did you make the discovery?” + +“By accident—this afternoon at The Hook. I found some papers and +letters of my father’s in a cupboard below the bookcase. I knew +nothing of their existence—should never have thought of searching for +private papers there, for I had heard my father often say that he +kept only magazines and pamphlets—things he called rubbish—in those +cupboards. I wanted to put away some things, and I stumbled on a packet +of letters which revealed the secret of Fay’s birth. I can come back to +my duty with a clear conscience. May I stay with you, George?” + +“May you? Well, yes; I suppose so,” with another kiss and a tender +little laugh. “One cannot make a broken vase new again, but we may pick +up the pieces and stick them together again somehow. You have taken a +good many years out of my life, Mildred, and I doubt if you can give +them back to me. I feel twenty years older than I felt before the +beginning of this trouble; but now all is known, and you are my wife +again—well, there may be a few years of gladness for us yet. We will +make the most of them.” + + * * * * * + +All things dropped back into the old grooves at Enderby Manor. Mrs. +Greswold and her husband were seen together at church on the Sunday +morning after Mildred’s return, much to the astonishment of the +congregation, who immediately began to disbelieve in all their own +convictions and assertions of the past half-year, and to opine that the +lady had only been in the South for her health, more especially as it +was known that Miss Ransome had been her travelling companion. + +“If she had quarrelled with her husband, she would hardly have had her +husband’s niece with her all the time,” said Mrs. Porter, the doctor’s +wife. + +“But if there was no quarrel, why did he shut himself up like a hermit, +and look so wretched if one happened to meet him?” asked somebody else. + +“Well, there she is, anyhow, and she looks out of health, so you may +depend some London physician ordered her abroad. They might as well +have consulted Porter, who ought to know her constitution by this time. +He’d have ordered her to Ventnor for the winter, and saved them both a +good deal of trouble; but there, people never think they can be cured +without going to Cavendish Square.” + +Mildred’s strength seemed to fail her more in the happiness of that +unhoped-for reunion than it had ever done during her banishment. +She wanted to do so much at Enderby: to visit about among her +shabby-genteel old ladies and her cottagers as in the cloudless time +before Lola’s death; to superintend her garden; to visit old friends +whose faces were endeared by fond association with the past; to be +everywhere with her husband: walking with him in the copses, riding +about the farms, and on the edge of the forest, in the dewy summer +mornings. She wanted to do all these things, and she found that her +strength would not let her. + +“I hope that my health is not going to give way, just when I am so +happy,” she said to her husband one day, when she felt almost fainting +after their morning ride. + +He took alarm instantly, and sent off for Mr. Porter, though Mildred +made light of her feelings next moment. The family practitioner sounded +her with the usual professional gravity, but his face grew more serious +as he listened to the beating of her heart. He affected, however, to +think very little of her ailments, talked of nerves, and suggested +bromide of something, as if it were infallible; but when George +Greswold went out into the hall with him he owned that all was not +right. + +“The heart is weak,” he said. “I hope there may be no organic mischief, +but—” + +“You mean that I shall lose her,” interrupted Greswold, in a husky +whisper. + +His own heart was beating like the tolling of a church bell—beating +with the dull, heavy stroke of despair. + +“No, no. I don’t think there’s any immediate danger, but I should like +you to take higher advice—Clark or Jenner, perhaps.” + +“Of course. I will send for some one at once.” + +“The very thing to alarm her. She ought to be kept free from all +possible anxiety or excitement. Don’t let her ride—except in the +quietest way—or walk far enough to fatigue herself. You might take her +up to town for a few days on the pretence of seeing picture-galleries +or something, and then coax her to consult a physician, just for _your_ +satisfaction. Make as light as you can of her complaint.” + +“Yes, yes. I understand. O, God, that it should be so, after all; when +I thought I had come to the end of sorrow!” This in an undertone. “For +pity’s sake, Porter, tell me the worst! You think it a bad case?” + +Porter shook his head, tried to speak, grasped George Greswold’s hand, +and made for the door. Mr. and Mrs. Greswold had been his patients and +friends for the last fifteen years, and in his rough way he was devoted +to them. + +“See Jenner as soon as you can,” he said. “It is a very delicate case. +I would rather not hazard an opinion.” + +George Greswold went out to the lawn where he had sat on the Sunday +evening before Lola’s death. It had been summer then, and it was summer +now—the time of roses, before the song of the nightingale had ceased +amidst the seclusion of twilit branches. He sat down upon the bench +under the cedar, and gave himself up to his despair. He had tasted +again the sweet cup of domestic peace—he had been gladdened again by +the only companionship that had ever filled his heart, and now in the +near future he saw the prospect of another parting, and this time +without hope on earth. Once again he told himself that he was marked +out by Fate. + +“I suppose it must always be so,” he thought; “in the lots that fall +from the urn there must be some that are all of one colour—black—black +as night.” + +Mildred came out to the lawn with him, followed by Kassandra, who had +deserted the master for the mistress since her return, as if in a +delight mixed with fear lest she should again depart. + +“What has become of you, George? I thought you were coming back to the +morning-room directly, and it is nearly an hour since Mr. Porter went +away.” + +“I came into the garden—to—to see your new shrubbery.” + +“Did you really? how good of you! It is hardly to be called a new +shrubbery—only a little addition to the old one. It will give an idea +of distance when the shrubs are good enough to grow tall and thick. +Will you come with me and tell me what you think of it?” + +“Gladly, dear, if it will not tire you.” + +“Tire me to walk to the shrubbery! No, I am not quite so bad as that, +though I find I am a bad walker compared with what I used to be. I +daresay I am out of training. I could walk any distance at Brighton +last autumn. A long walk on the road to Rottingdean was my only +distraction; but at Pallanza I began to flag, and the hotel people were +always suggesting drives, so I got out of the habit of walking.” + +He had his hand through her arm, and drew her near him as they +sauntered across the lawn, with a hopeless wonder at the thought that +she was here at his side, close to his heart, all in all to him to-day, +and that the time might soon come when she would have melted out of +his life as that fair daughter had done, when the grave under the tree +should mean a double desolation, an everlasting despair. + +“Is there _any_ world where we shall be together again?” he asked +himself. “What is immortality worth to me if it does not mean reunion? +To go round upon the endless wheel of eternity, to be fixed into the +universal life, to be a part of the Creator Himself! Nothing in a life +to come can be gain to me if it do not give me back what I have lost.” + +They dawdled about the shrubbery, man and wife, arm linked with arm, +looking at the new plantings one by one; she speculating how many years +each tree would take to come to perfection. + +“They will make a very good effect in three or four years, George. +Don’t you think so? That _Picea nobilis_ will fill the open space +yonder. We have allowed ten feet clear on every side. The golden brooms +grow only too quickly. How serious you look! Are you thinking of +anything that makes you anxious?” + +“I am thinking of Pamela and her sweetheart. I should like to make Lady +Lochinvar’s acquaintance before the marriage.” + +“Shall I ask her here?” + +“She could hardly come, I fancy, while the wedding is on the _tapis_. +I propose that you and I should go up to London to-morrow, put up at +our old hotel—we shall be more independent there than at Grosvenor +Gardens—and spend a few days quietly, seeing a good deal of the +picture-galleries, and a little of our new connections—and of Rosalind +and her husband, whom we don’t often see. Would you like to do that, +Mildred?” + +“I like anything you like. I delight in seeing pictures with you, and +I shall be glad to see Rosalind; and if Pamela really wishes us to +be present at her wedding, I think we ought to be there, don’t you, +George?” + +“If you would like it dearest; if—” + +He left the sentence unfinished, fearing to betray his apprehension. +Till he had consulted the highest authorities in the land he felt that +he could know but little of that hidden malady which paled her cheek +and gave heaviness to the pathetic eyes. + + * * * * * + +They were in Cavendish Square, husband and wife, on the morning after +their arrival in town, by special appointment with the physician. +Mildred submitted meekly to a careful consultation—only for his own +satisfaction, her husband told her, making light of his anxiety. + +“I want you to be governed by the best possible advice, dearest, in the +care of your health.” + +“You don’t think there is danger, George; that I am to be taken away +from you, just when all our secrets and sorrows are over?” + +“Indeed, no, dearest! God grant you may be spared to me for many happy +years to come!” + +“There is no reason, I think, that it should not be so. Mr. Porter said +my complaint was chiefly nervous. He would not wonder at my nerves +being in a poor way if he knew how I suffered in those bitter days of +banishment.” + +The examination was long and serious, yet conducted by the physician +with such gentle _bonhomie_ as not to alarm the patient. When it was +over, he dismissed her with a kindly smile, after advice given upon +very broad lines. + +“After the question of diet, which I have written for you here,” he +said, handing her half a sheet of paper, “the only other treatment I +can counsel is self-indulgence. Never walk far enough to feel tired, or +fast enough to be out of breath. Live as much as possible in the open +air, but let your life out of doors be the sweet idleness of the sunny +South, rather than our ideal bustling, hurrying British existence. +Court repose—tranquillity for body and mind in all things.” + +“You mean that I am to be an invalid for the rest of my life, as my +poor mother was for five years before her death?” + +“At what age did your mother die?” + +“Thirty-four. For a long time the doctors would hardly say what was the +matter with her. She suffered terribly from palpitation of the heart, +as I have done for the last six months; but the doctors made light of +it, and told my father there was very little amiss. Towards the end +they changed their opinion, and owned that there was organic disease. +Nothing they could do for her seemed of much use.” + +Mildred went back to the waiting-room while her husband had an +interview with the doctor; an interview which left him but the faintest +hope—only the hope of prolonging a fading life. + +“She may last for years, perhaps,” said the physician, pitying the +husband’s silent agony, “but it would be idle to disguise her state. +She will never be strong again. She must not ride, or drive, or occupy +herself in any way that can involve violent exertion, or a shock to the +nerves. Cherish her as a hothouse flower, and she may be with you for +some time yet.” + +“God bless you, even for that hope,” said Greswold, and then he spoke +of his niece’s wedding, and the wish for Mildred’s presence. + +“No harm in a wedding, I think, if you are careful of her: no +over-exertion, no agitating scenes. The wedding may cheer her, and +prevent her brooding on her own state. Good-day. I shall be glad to +know the effect of my prescription, and to see Mrs. Greswold again in a +month or two, if she is strong enough to come to London. If you want me +at any time in the country—” + +“You will come, will you not? Remember she is all that is precious to +me upon this earth. If I lose her I lose everything.” + +“Send for me at any time. If it is possible for me to go to you I will +go.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +LIKE A TALE THAT IS TOLD. + + +Pamela’s wedding was one of the most successful functions of the London +season; and the society papers described the ceremony with a fulness +of detail which satisfied even the bride’s avidity for social fame. +Mr. Smithson sent her gown just an hour before it had to make its +reverence before the altar in the Abbey; and Pamela, who had been in an +almost hysterical agony for an hour-and-a-half, lest she should have +no gown in which to be married, owned, as she pirouetted before the +chevalglass, that the fit was worth the suspense. + +The ladies who write fashion articles in the two social arbiters +were rapturous about Mr. Smithson’s _chef-d’œuvre_, and gave glowing +accounts of certain trousseau gowns which they had been privileged +to review at an afternoon tea in Grosvenor Gardens a week before the +event. Pamela’s delight in these paragraphs was intensified by the +idea that César Castellani would read them, though it is hardly likely +that listless skimmer of modern literature went so deep as fashion +articles. + +“He will see at least that if he had married me he would not have +married quite a nobody,” said Pamela, in a summer reverie upon the blue +water in front of The Hook, where she and her husband dawdled about in +a punt nearly all day, expatiating upon each other’s merits. And so +floats this light bark gaily into a safe and placid haven, out of reach +of privateer or pirate such as the incomparable Castellani. + + * * * * * + +It was not until after Pamela’s wedding, and nearly a month after +Mildred’s discovery of the letters in the bookcase, that Miss Fausset +made any sign; but one August morning her reply came in the shape of a +letter, entreating Mildred to go to her, as an act of charity to one +whose sands had nearly run out. + +“I will not sue to you _in formâ pauperis_,” she wrote, “so I do not +pretend that I am a dying woman; but I believe I have not very long +to live, and before my voice is mute upon earth I want to tell you +the history of one year of my girlhood. I want you to know that I am +not altogether the kind of sinner you may think me. I will not write +that history, and if you refuse to come to me, I must die and leave it +untold, and in that case my death-bed will be miserable.” + +Mildred’s gentle heart could not harden itself against such an appeal +as this. She told her husband only that her aunt was very ill and +ardently desired to see her; and after some discussion it was arranged +that she should travel quietly to Brighton, he going with her. He +suggested that they should stop in Miss Fausset’s house for a night or +two, but Mildred told him she would much prefer to stay at an hotel; so +it was decided that they should put up at the quiet hotel on the East +Cliff, where Mr. Greswold had taken Pamela nearly a year before. + +Mildred’s health had improved under the physician’s _régime_; and her +husband felt hopeful as they travelled together through the summer +landscape, by that line which she had travelled in her desolation—the +level landscape with glimpses of blue sea and stretches of gray beach +or yellow sand, bright in the August noontide. + +George Greswold had respected Mildred’s reserve, and had never urged +her to enlighten him as to the secret of his first wife’s parentage; +but he had his ideas upon the subject, and, remembering his interview +with the solicitor and that gentleman’s perturbation at the name of +Fausset, he was inclined to think that the pious lady of Lewes Crescent +might not be unconcerned in the mystery. And now this summons to +Brighton seemed to confirm his suspicions. + +He went no further than Miss Fausset’s threshold, and allowed his wife +to go to her aunt alone. + +“I shall walk up and down and wait till you come out again,” he said, +“so I hope that you won’t stay too long.” + +He was anxious to limit an interview which might involve agitation for +Mildred. He parted from her almost reluctantly at the doorway of the +gloomy house, with its entrance-hall of the pattern of forty years +ago, furnished with barometer, umbrella-stand, and tall chairs, all +in Spanish mahogany, and with never a picture or a bust, bronze or +porcelain, to give light and colour to the scene. + +Miss Fausset had changed for the worse even in the brief interval since +Mildred had last seen her. She was sitting in the back drawing-room as +usual, but her table and chair had been wheeled into the bay-window, +which commanded a garden with a single tree and a variety of house-tops +and dead walls. + +“So you have come,” she said, without any form of greeting. “I hardly +expected so much from you. Sit down there, if you please. I have a good +deal to tell you.” + +“I had intended never to enter your house again, aunt. But I could not +refuse to hear anything you have to say in your own justification. Only +there is one act of yours which you can never justify—either to me or +to God.” + +“What is that, pray?” + +“Your refusal to tell me the secret of Fay’s birth, when my happiness +and my husband’s depended upon my knowing it.” + +“To tell you that would have been to betray my own secret. Do you +think, after keeping it for nine-and-thirty years, I was likely to +surrender it lightly? I would sooner have cut my tongue out. I did what +I could for you. I told you to ignore idle prejudice and to go back to +your husband. I told you what was due from you to him, over and above +all sanctimonious scruples. You would not listen to me, and whatever +misery you have suffered has been misery of your own creation.” + +“Do not let us talk any more about it, aunt. I can never think +differently about the wrong you have done me. Had I not found those +letters—by the merest accident, remember—I might have gone down to my +grave a desolate woman. I might have died in a foreign land, far away +from the only voice that could comfort me in my last hours. No; my +opinion of your guilty silence can never change. You were willing to +break two hearts rather than hazard your own reputation; and yet you +must have known that I would keep your secret, that I should sympathise +with the sorrow of your girlhood,” added Mildred, in softened tones. + +Miss Fausset was slow in replying. Mildred’s reproaches fell almost +unheeded upon her ear. It was of herself she was thinking, with all +the egotism engendered by a lonely old age, without ties of kindred or +friendship, with no society but that of flatterers and parasites. + +“I asked you if you had found any letters of your father’s relating to +that unhappy girl,” she said. “I always feared his habit of keeping +letters—a habit he learnt from my father. Yet I hoped that he would +have burnt mine, knowing, as he did, that the one desire of my life was +to obliterate that hideous past. Vain hope. I was like the ostrich. +If I hid my secret in England, it was known in Italy. The man who +destroyed my life was a traitor to the core of his heart, and he +betrayed me to his son. He told César how he had fascinated a rich +English girl, and fooled her with a mock marriage; and fifteen years +ago the young man presented himself to me with the full knowledge of +that dark blot upon my life—to me, here, where I had held my head +so high. He let me know the full extent of his knowledge in his own +subtle fashion; but he always treated me with profound respect—he +pretended to be fond of me; and, God help me, there was a charm for +me in the very sound of his voice. The man who cheated me out of my +life’s happiness was lying in his grave: death lessens the bitterness +of hatred, and I could not forget that I had once loved him.” + +The tears gathered slowly in the cold gray eyes, and rolled slowly down +the hollow cheeks. + +“Yes, I loved him, Mildred—loved him with a foolish, inexperienced +girl’s romantic love. I asked no questions. I believed all he told +me. I flung myself blindfold into the net. His genius, his grace, +his fire—ah, you can never imagine the charm of _his_ manner, the +variety of his talent, compared with which his son’s accomplishments +are paltry. You see me now a hard, elderly woman. As a girl I was +warm-hearted and impetuous, full of enthusiasm and imagination, while +I loved and believed in my lover. My whole nature changed after that +great wrong—my heart was frozen.” + +There was a silence of some moments, and then Miss Fausset continued +in short agitated sentences, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the +double eyeglass which she wore on a slender gold chain: + +“It was his genius I worshipped. He was at the height of his success. +The Milanese raved about him as a rival to Donizetti; his operas +were the rage. Can you wonder that I, a girl passionately fond of +music, was carried away by the excitement which was in the very air +I breathed? I went to the opera night after night. I heard that +fascinating music till its melodies seemed interwoven with my being. I +suppose I was weak enough to let the composer see how much I admired +him. He had quarrelled with his wife; and the quarrel—caused by his +own misconduct—had resulted in a separation which was supposed to be +permanent. There may have been people in Milan who knew that he was a +married man, but my chaperon did not; and he was careful to suppress +the fact from the beginning of our acquaintance. + +“Yes, no doubt he found out that I was madly in love with him. He +pretended to be interested in my musical studies. He advised and taught +me. He played the violin divinely, and we used to play _concertante_ +duets during the long evenings, while my chaperon dozed by the fire, +caring very little how I amused myself, so long as I did not interfere +with her comfort. She was a sensual, selfish creature, given over to +self-indulgence, and she let me have my own way in everything. He +used to join me at the Cathedral at vespers. How my heart thrilled +when I found him there, sitting in the shadowy chancel in the gray +November light! for I knew it was for my sake he went there, not from +any religious feeling. Our hands used to meet and clasp each other +almost unconsciously when the music moved us as it went soaring up to +the gorgeous roof, in the dim light of the hanging lamps before the +altar. I have found myself kneeling with my hand in his when I came out +of a dream of Paradise to which that exquisite music had lifted me. +Yes, I loved him, Mildred; I loved him as well as ever you loved your +husband—as passionately and unselfishly as woman ever loved. I rejoiced +in the thought that I was rich, for his sake. I planned the life that +we were to live together; a life in which I was to be subordinate to +him in all things—his adoring slave. I suppose most girls have some +such dream. God help them, when it ends as mine did!” + +Again there was a silence—a chilling muteness upon Mildred’s part. How +could she be sorry for this woman who had never been sorry for others; +who had let her child travel from the cradle to the grave without one +ray of maternal love to light her dismal journey! She remembered Fay’s +desolate life and blighted nature—Fay, who had a heart large enough +for a great unselfish love. She remembered her aunt’s impenetrable +silence when a word would have restored happiness to a ruined home; +she remembered, and her heart was hardened against this proud, selfish +woman, whose life had been one long sacrifice to the world’s opinion. + +“I loved him, Mildred, and I trusted him as I would have trusted any +man who had the right to call himself a gentleman,” pursued Miss +Fausset, eager to justify herself in the face of that implacable +silence. “I had been brought up, after the fashion of those days, in +a state of primeval innocence. I had never, even in fiction, been +allowed to come face to face with the cruel realities of life. I +was educated in an age which thought _Jane Eyre_ an improper novel, +and which restricted a young woman’s education to music and modern +languages; the latter taught so badly, for the most part, as to be +useless when she travelled. My knowledge of Italian would just enable +me to translate a libretto when I had it before me in print, or to ask +my way in the streets; but it was hardly enough to make me understand +the answer. It never entered into my mind to doubt Paolo Castellani +when he told me that, although we could not, as Papist and Protestant, +be married in any church in Milan, we could be united by a civil +marriage before a Milanese authority, and that such a marriage would +be binding all the world over. Had I been a poor girl I might of my +own instinct have suspected treachery; but I was rich and he was poor, +and he would be a gainer by our marriage. Servants and governesses had +impressed me with the sense of my own importance, and I knew that I +was what is called a good match. So I fell into the trap, Mildred, as +foolishly as a snared bird. I crept out of the house one morning after +my music-lesson, found my lover waiting for me with a carriage close +by, went with him to a dingy office in a dingy street, but which had a +sufficiently official air to satisfy my ignorance, and went through a +certain formula, hearing something read over by an elderly man of grave +appearance, and signing my name to a document after Paolo had signed +his. + +“It was all a sham and a cheat, Mildred. The old man was a Milanese +attorney, with no more power to marry us than he had to make us +immortal. The paper was a deed-of-gift by which Paolo Castellani +transferred some imaginary property to me. The whole thing was a farce; +but it was so cleverly planned that the cheat was effected without +the aid of an accomplice. The old man acted in all good faith, and +my blind confidence and ignorance of Italian accepted a common legal +formality as a marriage. I went from that dark little office into the +spring sunshine happy as ever bride went out of church, kissed and +complimented by a throng of approving friends. I cared very little +as to what my brother might think of this clandestine marriage. He +would have refused his consent beforehand, no doubt, but he would +reconcile himself to the inevitable by and by. In any event, I should +be independent of his control. My fortune would be at my own disposal +after my one-and-twentieth birthday—mine, to throw into my husband’s +lap. + +“That is nearly the end of my story, Mildred. We went from Milan to +Como, and after a few days at Bellagio crossed the St. Gothard, and +sauntered from one lovely scene to another till we stopped at Vevay. +For just six weeks I lived in a fool’s paradise; but by that time my +brother had traced us to Vevay—having learnt all that could be learnt +about Castellani at Milan before he started in pursuit of us. He came, +and my dream ended. I knew that I was a dishonoured woman, and that +all my education, my innate pride in myself, and my fortune had done +for me, was to place me as low as the lowest creature in the land. I +left Vevay within an hour of that revelation a broken-hearted woman. +I never saw my destroyer’s face again. You know all, Mildred, now. +Can you wonder that I shrank with abhorrence from the offspring of my +disgrace—that I refused ever to see her after I had once released +myself from the hateful tie?” + +“Yes, I do wonder; I must always wonder that you were merciless to +her—that you had no pity for that innocent life.” + +“Ah, you are your father’s daughter. He wished me to hide myself in +some remote village so that I might taste the sweets of maternal +affection, enjoy the blessed privilege of rearing a child who at every +instant of her life would remind me of the miserable infatuation that +had blighted my own. No, Mildred, I was not made for such an existence +as that. I have tried to do good to others; I have laboured for God’s +Church and God’s poor. That has been my atonement.” + +“It would have been a better atonement to have cared for your own flesh +and blood; but with your means and opportunities you might have done +both. I loved Fay, remember, aunt. I cannot forget how bright and happy +she might have been. I cannot forget the wrongs that warped her nature.” + +“You are very hard, Mildred, hard to a woman whose days are numbered.” + +“Are not my days numbered, aunt?” cried Mildred, with a sudden burst +of passion. “Was not my heart broken when I left this house last year +to go into loneliness and exile, abandoning a husband I adored? That +parting was my deathblow. In all the long dreary days that have gone by +since then my hold upon life has been loosening. You might have saved +me that agony. You might have sent me back to my home rejoicing—and you +would not. You cared more for your own pride than for my happiness. You +might have made your daughter’s life happy—and you would not. You cared +more for the world’s esteem than for her welfare. As you sacrificed +her, your daughter, you have sacrificed me, your niece. I know that I +am doomed. Just when God has given me back the love that makes life +precious, I feel the hand of death upon me, and know that the hour of +parting is near.” + +“I have been a sinner, Mildred; but I have suffered—I have suffered. +You ought not to judge me. You have never known shame.” + +That last appeal softened Mildred’s heart. She went over to her aunt’s +chair, and leant over her and kissed her. + +“Let the past be forgotten,” she said, “and let us part in love.” + +And so, a quarter of an hour later, they parted, never to meet again on +earth. + +Miss Fausset died in the early winter, cut off by the first frost, +like a delicate flower. She had made no change in the disposal of her +property, and her death made Mildred Greswold a very rich woman. + +“My aunt loved the poor,” said Mildred, when she and her husband spoke +of this increase of wealth. “We are both so much richer than our needs, +George. We have lived in sunshine for the most part. When I am gone I +should like you to do some great thing for those who live in shadow.” + +“My beloved, I shall remain upon this earth only to obey your will.” + +He lived just long enough to keep his promise. The Greswold Hospital +remains, a monument of thoughtful beneficence, in one of the most +wretched neighbourhoods south of the Thames; but George Greswold and +his race are ended like a tale that is told. + + * * * * * + +César Castellani, enriched by a legacy from Miss Fausset, contrives +still to flourish, and still to wear a gardenia in the button-hole of +an artistic coat; but fashions change quickly in the realm of light +literature, and the star of the author of _Nepenthe_ is sunk in the +oblivion that engulfs ephemeral reputations. Castellani is still +received in certain drawing-rooms; but it is in the silly circles alone +that he is believed in as a man who has only missed greatness because +he is too much of an artist to be a steadfast worker. + + +THE END. + + + LONDON: + ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. + + + + +CHEAP UNIFORM EDITION + +OF + +MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS. + + + At all Booksellers’, price 2s., picture covers; 2s. 6d., cloth gilt, + uniform with the Cheap Edition of Miss BRADDON’S other Novels, + + +LIKE AND UNLIKE + +BY THE AUTHOR OF + +“Lady Audley’s Secret,” “Mohawks,” &c. + + +_OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._ + +“Everybody who cares about a novel with a good plot so well worked +out that the excitement is kept up through the three volumes, and +culminates with the last chapter of the story, must ‘Like’ and can +never again ‘Unlike’ this the latest and certainly one of the best of +Miss Braddon’s novels. Miss Braddon is our most dramatic novelist. Her +method is to interest the reader at once with the very first line, just +as that Master-Dramatist of our time Dion Boucicault would rivet the +attention of an audience by the action at the opening of the piece, +even before a line of the dialogue had been spoken. This authoress +never wastes her own time and that of her reader by giving up any +number of pages at the outset to a minute description of scenery, to a +history of a certain family, to a wearisome account of the habits and +customs of the natives, or to explaining peculiarities in manners and +dialect which are to form one of the principal charms of the story. +No: Miss Braddon is dramatic just as far as the drama can assist +her, and then she is the genuine novelist. A few touches present her +characters living before the reader, and the story easily develops +itself in, apparently, the most natural manner possible. ‘Like and +Unlike’ will make many people late for dinner, and will keep a number +of persons up at night when they ought to be soundly sleeping. These +are two sure tests of a really well-told sensational novel. _Vive_ Miss +Braddon!”—_Punch_, October 15th, 1887. + +“The author of ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ still keeps her place among the +most thrilling and fascinating writers of sensational fiction. Her new +novel, ‘Like and Unlike,’ has the best qualities of her best work. +The style is as clear and nervous as ever, the plot constructed and +developed with the same admirable skill, the interest as intense, and +the effect on the imagination as powerful. There is at the same time +more evident in this than in some former works of Miss Braddon’s a +higher purpose than merely to amuse and thrill the reader. The dramatic +element is strong in this tale, but it is the story that speaks; the +author never for a moment stops in her narrative to offer a word of +comment or enforce its moral. None the less powerfully does it preach +the vanity of vanities of the selfish pursuit of pleasure, the misery +that is the end of heartlessness, the retribution that follows sins +great and small, and also the omnipotence in noble natures of penitence +and love. It would not be fair to the reader to take away from that +ignorance of the future which is necessary to the keenest enjoyment of +Miss Braddon’s stories. ‘Like and Unlike’ deals with both country and +town life. There are pure and noble characters in it, and others light +and vain and vicious, and the currents of life of the two classes are +intermingled beneficently and tragically. The title has reference to +the twin brothers, who play a leading—one of them the leading—part in +the drama. Their characters are admirably ‘delineated and contrasted,’ +and the moral significance of Valentine’s career is as great as its +interest is absorbing. Madge is also a powerful creation. The Deverill +girls and the other society characters are vividly portrayed. The story +begins quietly, and for a time the reader believes that Miss Braddon +is for once not going to be sensational. He finds by and by that this +is a mistake, and is intensely interested by the gradual, natural, and +apparently inevitable way in which, out of very ordinary materials, the +structure of a powerful plot rises. This will rank among the best of +Miss Braddon’s novels.”—_Scotsman_, October 3, 1887. + + + _When announcing a recent Novel (“Phantom Fortune”), Messrs. Tillotson + & Son published the following statement in their great coterie of + newspapers_: + +“In announcing the issue of another story from the pen of this gifted +author, it seems scarcely necessary to write anything like an elaborate +notice of her previous successes on the field of light literature. It +is now many years ago since ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ brought Miss Braddon +the fame which lasts all time; and numerous as have been the stories +produced by her facile pen since then, her genius has lost none of +its brilliance nor her skill its cunning. Years have not weakened her +marvellous powers of imagination, nor familiarity with her productions +diminished the sparkling freshness of her infinite variety. Her later +works, as competent critics readily aver, exhibit higher and better +qualities than her earlier, because bringing to bear long experience, a +ripened understanding, and a mature judgment upon her brilliant genius, +her unrivalled skill in the construction of plots, and her marvellous +talent for depicting human nature under incessant changes of character +and circumstances. + +“A glance at the earlier chapters of the story upon which Miss Braddon +is now engaged (‘Phantom Fortune’), and which we shall shortly place +before our readers, abundantly justifies language of the loftiest +eulogy. Almost at its very opening we are introduced to characters and +scenes of absorbing interest. Around distinguished personages in the +political and diplomatic world gather lords and ladies of the highest +rank of beauty and fashion. Indian affairs and Indian princes figure +conspicuously. The Cabinet at home and the India Office are in a +flutter of excitement consequent upon extraordinary rumours affecting +an Anglo-Indian official of high rank, who suddenly returns to England, +another Warren Hastings, to defend himself before the Imperial +Parliament, but mysteriously dies on his arrival in this country, after +painful interviews with his accomplished wife, a person of exalted rank +and station. With a skill all Miss Braddon’s own, she portrays not the +outer and conventional ways of Society only, but also the inner life of +the lords and ladies who constitute the leading characters, drawn by +her masterly hand. As the story proceeds it may be expected to develop +one of the strongest of Miss Braddon’s strong plots, and to maintain +her almost boundless sway in the domain of fiction.” + + +_FURTHER OPINIONS OF THE PRESS._ + + _From amongst reviews of Miss Braddon’s recent works, which would + occupy a large volume if published in extenso, we select the following + pithy extracts_: + + +JUST AS I AM. + +“Miss Braddon’s novel, ‘Just as I am,’ is as fresh, as wholesome, +as enthralling, as amusing as any of the stories with which, for a +series of years, she has proved her title as Queen of the Circulating +Library.”—_The World._ + +“Equals in skilful design and powerful execution any of Miss Braddon’s +previous works.”—_Daily Telegraph._ + +“The story may be added to her lengthy list of successes.”—_Court +Journal._ + +“From the pen of the most accomplished author of the day, a lady who +is perhaps the most facile and voluminous writer of fiction.”—_Court +Circular._ + + +ASPHODEL. + +“The most charming novel that Miss Braddon has ever produced.”—_Vanity +Fair._ + +“Deeply interesting and extremely well written.”—_Morning Post._ + +“A sound and healthy story; in one word, a true woman’s book.”—_Morning +Advertiser._ + +“The style is wonderfully easy and fluent; the conversations are +brilliant, pointed, and vigorous. The early scenes are charming.”—_The +Athenæum._ + +“Full of genuine human interest.”—_The Scotsman._ + + +MOUNT ROYAL. + +“The worthy work of a thorough artist.”—_Morning Post._ + +“Replete with all the freshness and charm which she has taught the +public to expect from her.”—_Daily Telegraph._ + +“Miss Braddon’s romantic spirit has been in no way quenched, but in +this last novel its brighter rays are tempered by experience.”—_Daily +Chronicle._ + +“Miss Braddon has given us a story which, while it adds to her fame as +an authoress, increases our indebtedness to her; the healthy tone of +‘Mount Royal’ is not one of its least charms.”—_Pictorial World._ + +“The story can be followed with the keenest interest.”—_St. James’s +Gazette._ + +“Contains many sparkling passages and many happy thoughts.”—_Sheffield +Daily Telegraph._ + +“The novel is without doubt a good and a bright one.”—_Manchester +Courier._ + + +TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. + +“Contains more elements of success than a dozen ordinary +novels.”—_Bradford Observer._ + +“The latest addition to Miss Braddon’s unparalleled series of brilliant +novels.”—_Court Journal._ + +“Sustains the fame which Miss Braddon has achieved as one of the first +of living novelists.”—_Newcastle Daily Chronicle._ + +“Her work, take it for all in all, is the best we get.”—_Sunday Times._ + + +A STRANGE WORLD. + +“Has a fresh and fascinating interest.”—_Daily Telegraph._ + +“Brimful of life and movement, and that life and movement of a +thoroughly healthy kind.”—_World._ + +“In the construction of a plot Miss Braddon is unrivalled.”—_Court +Journal._ + + +DEAD MEN’S SHOES. + +“Bright writing, and a story which never flags.”—_Scotsman._ + +“A work of good moral purpose and of skilful execution.”—_Pictorial +World._ + +“Full of life and interest, vivid in characterisation, abounds in +pleasant and accurate description.”—_Sunday Times._ + + +WEAVERS AND WEFT. + +“It is eminently attractive reading.”—_Whitehall Review._ + +“An undeniable amount of entertaining reading in the book.”—_Athenæum._ + +“Like a gleam of sunshine in dreary weather.”—_News of the World._ + + +LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. + +CHEAP EDITION OF + +MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS. + +In Two-Shilling Volumes, Uniform. + +ALWAYS IN PRINT. + +_Also in cloth, 2s. 6d.; and in vellum, 3s. 6d._ + + 1. LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET. + 2. HENRY DUNBAR. + 3. ELEANOR’S VICTORY. + 4. AURORA FLOYD. + 5. JOHN MARCHMONT’S LEGACY. + 6. THE DOCTOR’S WIFE. + 7. ONLY A CLOD. + 8. SIR JASPER’S TENANT. + 9. TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. + 10. LADY’S MILE. + 11. LADY LISLE. + 12. CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. + 13. BIRDS OF PREY. + 14. CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. + 15. RUPERT GODWIN. + 16. RUN TO EARTH. + 17. DEAD SEA FRUIT. + 18. RALPH THE BAILIFF. + 19. FENTON’S QUEST. + 20. LOVELS OF ARDEN. + 21. ROBERT AINSLEIGH. + 22. TO THE BITTER END. + 23. MILLY DARRELL. + 24. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS. + 25. LUCIUS DAVOREN. + 26. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. + 27. LOST FOR LOVE. + 28. A STRANGE WORLD. + 29. HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE. + 30. DEAD MEN’S SHOES. + 31. JOSHUA HAGGARD. + 32. WEAVERS AND WEFT. + 33. AN OPEN VERDICT. + 34. VIXEN. + 35. THE CLOVEN FOOT. + 36. THE STORY OF BARBARA. + 37. JUST AS I AM. + 38. ASPHODEL. + 39. MOUNT ROYAL. + 40. GOLDEN CALF. + 41. PHANTOM FORTUNE. + 42. FLOWER AND WEED. + 43. ISHMAEL. + 44. WYLLARD’S WEIRD. + 45. UNDER THE RED FLAG. + 46. ONE THING NEEDFUL. + 47. MOHAWKS. + + * * * * * + + 48. CUT BY THE COUNTY. + + _Price One Shilling._ + +“No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. The +most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome illness is +brightened, by any one of her books.” + + _Extract from a very eloquent and excellent Sermon preached by the + Rev. W. Benham, B.D., on March 4th, 1883, at St. Stephen’s Church, + South Kensington._ + +“I have undertaken to speak freely concerning our social life and +habits, and therefore I shall not shrink from speaking about two +subjects not often mentioned within the walls of a church—I mean +‘sensational novels,’ as they are called, and the drama. great outcry +is made against the former, which I am afraid is not very sincere, +considering that those who make the outcry go on reading them. That +the writers depict startling and sometimes horrible scenes no one will +deny, but I am not aware that there is any more harm in that than in +reading the last report of the ‘Dublin Police News.’ What lies at the +foundation of such novels is the craving after reality as against false +sentiment. Who is the worse for reading ‘Hamlet,’ or ‘Othello,’ or +‘Macbeth’? There are horrors enough in these. What young man should +not be the better for admiring Ophelia or Desdemona? I know an aged +living prelate, whose praise is widely spread in the Church for his +contributions to sacred literature, and who is venerated by all who +love him for his piety and saintliness, who declares that the writings +of the chief of these novelists—I mean Miss Braddon—are among the best +of the works of fiction. Judge for yourselves. I hold that her books +are _the very contrast_ of the few French sensation novels that I have +read, whose philosophy might be summed up in the scoffer’s words, ‘Let +us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.’” + + +LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + pg 113 Changed: my benfactress has consummated the generosity + to: my benefactress has consummated the generosity + + pg 218 Changed: He was sittting in the lamp-light + to: He was sitting in the lamp-light + + pg 226 Changed: Tire me to walk to the shubbery + to: Tire me to walk to the shrubbery + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75412 *** diff --git a/75412-h/75412-h.htm b/75412-h/75412-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4862660 --- /dev/null +++ b/75412-h/75412-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7316 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Fatal Three Vol. III | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} + +hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%;} +hr.r25 {width: 25%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 37.5%; margin-right: 37.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } + +.tdl {text-align: left; padding-left: 1em; line-height: 1.5em;} +.tdr {text-align: right; padding-left: 1em;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; + color: #A9A9A9; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.fs70 {font-size: 70%} +.fs80 {font-size: 80%} +.fs90 {font-size: 90%} +.fs120 {font-size: 120%} +.fs150 {font-size: 150%} +.fs200 {font-size: 200%} + +.no-indent {text-indent: 0em;} +.bold {font-weight: bold;} +.wsp {word-spacing: 0.3em;} + +h2 {font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.6em; word-spacing: .3em;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75412 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 85%"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover"> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>THE FATAL THREE</h1> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent bold fs150 wsp">A Novel</p> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp fs90">BY THE AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp">“LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,” “VIXEN,”<br> +“ISHMAEL,” “MOHAWKS,”<br> +<span class="fs70">ETC.</span></p> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp">IN THREE VOLUMES<br> +<span class="fs80">VOL. III.</span></p> + +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp"><span class="fs80">LONDON</span><br> +SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.<br> +<span class="fs70">STATIONERS’ HALL COURT</span></p> + +<hr class="r5"> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp fs70">[<em>All rights reserved</em>] +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent fs70"> +LONDON:<br> +ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS_OF_VOL_III">CONTENTS OF VOL. III.</h2> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 10%"> +<img src="images/decoration.jpg" alt="Decoration"> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent bold">Book the Third.</p> + +<p class="center no-indent">ATROPOS; OR THAT WHICH MUST BE.</p> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdr fs70">CHAP.</td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr fs70">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">I.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Wrecked Life</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">II.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In the Morning of Life</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">III.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Rift in the Lute</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">IV.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Darkness</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">V.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Grave on the Hill</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VI.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Pamela changes Her Mind</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">As the Sands run Down</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">VIII.</span></td> +<td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">How should I greet Thee?</span>”</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">IX.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Litera Scripta manet</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">X.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Marked by Fate</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">XI.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Like a Tale that is Told</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent fs90">BOOK THE THIRD.</p> + +<hr class="r5"> + +<p class="center no-indent">ATROPOS; OR THAT WHICH MUST BE.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br> +<span class="fs70">A WRECKED LIFE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Monsieur Leroy</span> was interested in his visitor, and +in nowise hastened her departure. He led her +through the garden of the asylum, anxious that she +should see that sad life of the shattered mind in its +milder aspect. The quieter patients were allowed to +amuse themselves at liberty in the garden, and here +Mildred saw the woman who fancied herself the +Blessed Virgin, and who sat apart from the rest, +with a crown of withered anemones upon her iron-gray +locks.</p> + +<p>The doctor stopped to talk to her in the Niçois +language, describing her hallucination to Mildred in +his broken English between whiles.</p> + +<p>“She is one of my oldest cases, and mild as a +lamb,” he said. “She is what superstition had +made her. She might have been a happy wife as a +mother but for that fatal influence. Ah, here comes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> +a lady of a very different temper, and not half so +easy a subject!”</p> + +<p>A woman of about sixty advanced towards them +along the dusty gravel path between the trampled +grass and the dust-whitened orange-trees, a woman +who carried her head and shoulders with the pride +of an empress, and who looked about her with +defiant eyes, fanning herself with a large Japanese +paper fan as she came along, a fan of vivid scarlet +and cheap gilt paper, which seemed to intensify the +brightness of her great black eyes, as she waved it +to and fro before her haggard face: a woman who +must once have been beautiful.</p> + +<p>“Would you believe that lady was prima donna +at La Scala nearly forty years ago?” asked the +doctor, as he and Mildred stood beside the path, +watching that strange figure, with its theatrical +dignity.</p> + +<p>The massive plaits of grizzled black hair were +wound, coronet-wise, about the woman’s head. Her +rusty black velvet gown trailed in the dust, threadbare +long ago, almost in tatters to-day: a gown of +a strange fashion, which had been worn upon the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> +stage—Leonora’s or Lucrezia’s gown, perhaps, once +upon a time.</p> + +<p>At sight of the physician she stopped suddenly, +and made him a sweeping curtsy, with all the +exaggerated grace of the theatre.</p> + +<p>“Do you know if they open this month at the +Scala?” she asked, in Italian.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, my dear, I have heard nothing of their +doings.”</p> + +<p>“They might have begun their season with the +new year,” she said, with a dictatorial air. “They +always did in my time. Of course you know that +they have tried to engage me again. They wanted +me for Amina, but I had to remind them that I am +not a light soprano. When I reappear it shall be as +Lucrezia Borgia. There I stand on my own ground. +No one can touch me there.”</p> + +<p>She sang the opening bars of Lucrezia’s first +scena. The once glorious voice was rough and discordant, +but there was power in the tones even yet, +and real dramatic fire in the midst of exaggeration. +Suddenly while she was singing she caught the +expression of Mildred’s face watching her, and she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> +stopped at a breath, and grasped the stranger by +both hands with an excited air.</p> + +<p>“That moves you, does it not?” she exclaimed. +“You have a soul for music. I can see that in +your face. I should like to know more of you. +Come and see me whenever you like, and I will sing +to you. The doctor lets me use his piano sometimes, +when he is in a good humour.”</p> + +<p>“Say rather when you are reasonable, my good +Maria,” said Monsieur Leroy, laying a fatherly hand +upon her shoulder; “there are days when you are +not to be trusted.”</p> + +<p>“I am to be trusted to-day. Let me come to +your room and sing to her,” pointing to Mildred +with her fan. “I like her face. She has the eyes +and lips that console. Her husband is lucky to +have such a wife. Let me sing to her. I want her +to understand what kind of woman I am.”</p> + +<p>“Would it bore you too much to indulge her, +madame?” asked the doctor in an undertone. “She +is a strange creature, and it will wound her if you +refuse. She does not often take a fancy to any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> +one; but she frequently takes dislikes, and those +are violent.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be very happy to hear her,” answered +Mildred. “I am in no hurry to return to Nice.”</p> + +<p>The doctor led the way back to his house, the +singer talking to Mildred with an excited air as they +went, talking of the day when she was first soprano +at Milan.</p> + +<p>“Everybody envied me my success,” she said. +“There were those who said I owed everything to +<em>him</em>, that he made my voice and my style. Lies, +madame, black and bitter lies. I won all the prizes +at the Conservatoire. He was one master among +many. I owed him nothing—nothing—nothing!”</p> + +<p>She reiterated the word with acrid emphasis, +and an angry furl of her fan.</p> + +<p>“Ah, now you are beginning the old strain!” +said the doctor, with a good-humoured shrug of his +shoulders. “If this goes on there shall be no +piano for you to-day. I will have no grievances; +grievances are the bane of social intercourse. If +you come to my <em>salon</em> it must be to sing, not to +reopen old sores. We all have our wounds as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> +well as you, signorina, but we keep them covered +up.”</p> + +<p>“I am dumb,” said the singer meekly.</p> + +<p>They went into the doctor’s private sitting-room. +Three sides of the room were lined with books, +chiefly of a professional or scientific character. A +cottage piano stood in a recess by the fireplace. +The woman flew to the instrument with a rapturous +eagerness, and began to play. Her hands were +faintly tremulous with excitement, but her touch +was that of a master as she played the symphony +to the finale of “La Cenerentola.”</p> + +<p>“Has she no piano in her own room?” asked +Mildred in a whisper.</p> + +<p>“No, poor soul. She is one of our pauper +patients. The State provides for her, but it does +not give her a private room or a piano. I let her +come here two or three times a week for an hour or +so, when she is reasonable.”</p> + +<p>Mildred wondered if it would be possible for her, +as a stranger, to provide a room and a piano for +this friendless enthusiast. She would have been +glad out of her abundance to have lightened a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> +suffering sister’s fate, and she determined to make +the proposition to the doctor.</p> + +<p>The singer played snatches of familiar music—Rossini, +Donizetti, Bellini—operatic airs which Mildred +knew by heart. She wandered from one scena +to another, and her voice, though it had lost its +sweetness and sustaining power, was still brilliantly +flexible. She sang with a rapturous unconsciousness +of her audience, Mildred and the doctor +sitting quietly at each side of the hearth, where a +single pine log smouldered on the iron dogs above +a heap of white ashes.</p> + +<p>Presently the music changed to a gayer, lighter +strain, and she began an airy cavatina, all coquetry +and grace. That joyous melody was curiously +familiar to Mildred’s ear.</p> + +<p>“Where did I hear that music?” she said aloud. +“It seems as if it were only the other day, and +yet it is nearly two years since I was at the opera.”</p> + +<p>The singer left the cavatina unfinished, and +wandered into another melody.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I know now!” exclaimed Mildred; “that +is Paolo Castellani’s music!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> + +<p>The woman started up from the piano as if the +name had wounded her.</p> + +<p>“Paolo Castellani!” she cried. “What do you +know of Paolo Castellani?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Leroy went over to her, and laid his hand +upon her shoulder heavily.</p> + +<p>“Now we are in for a scene,” he muttered to +Mildred. “You have mentioned a most unlucky +name.”</p> + +<p>“What has she to do with Signor Castellani?”</p> + +<p>“He was her cousin. He trained her for the +stage, and she was the original in several of his +operas. She was his slave, his creature, and lived +only to please him. I suppose she expected him to +marry her, poor soul; but he knew better than that. +He contrived to fascinate a French girl, a consumptive, +who was travelling in Italy for her health, +with a wealthy father. He married the Frenchwoman; +and I believe that marriage broke Maria’s +heart.”</p> + +<p>The singer had seated herself at the piano again, +and was playing with rapid and brilliant finger, +running up and down the keys in wild excitement.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> +Mildred and the physician were standing by the +window, talking in lowered voices, unheeded by +Maria Castellani.</p> + +<p>“Was it that event which wrecked her mind?” +asked Mildred, deeply interested.</p> + +<p>“No, it was some years afterwards that her +brain gave way. She had a brilliant career before +her at the time of Castellani’s desertion; and she +bore the blow with the courage of a Roman. So +long as her voice lasted, and the public were constant +to her, she contrived to bear up against that burning +sense of wrong which has been the distinguishing +note of her mind ever since she came here. But the +first breath of failure froze her. She felt her voice +decaying while she was comparatively a young +woman. Her glass told her that she was losing her +beauty, that she was beginning to look old and haggard. +Her managers told her more. They gave +her the cold shoulder, and put newer singers above +her head. Then despair took hold of her; she +became gloomy and irritable, difficult and capricious +in her dealings with her fellow-artists; and then +came the end, and she was brought here. She had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> +saved no money. She had been reckless even beyond +the habits of her profession. She was friendless. +There was nobody interested in her fate—”</p> + +<p>“Not even Signor Castellani?”</p> + +<p>“Castellani—Paolo Castellani? <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Pas si bête.</i> +The man was a compound of selfishness and treachery. +She was not likely to get pity from him. +The very fact that he had used her badly made her +loathsome to him. I doubt if he ever inquired +what became of her. If any one had asked him about +her, he would have said that she had dropped +through—a worn-out voice, a faded beauty—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">que +voulez-vous</i>?”</p> + +<p>“She had no other friends—no ties?”</p> + +<p>“None. She was an orphan at twelve years +old, without a son. Castellani paid for her education, +and traded upon her talent. He trained her +to sing in his own operas, and in that light, fanciful +music she was at her best; though it is her delusion +now that she excelled in the grand style. I +believe he absorbed the greater part of her earnings, +until they quarrelled. Some time after his marriage +there was a kind of reconciliation between them.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> +She appeared in a new opera—his last and worst. +Her voice was going, his talent had began to fail. +It was the beginning of the end.”</p> + +<p>“Has Signor Castellani’s son shown no interest +in this poor creature’s fate?”</p> + +<p>“No; the son lives in England, I believe, for +the most part. I doubt if he knows anything about +Maria.”</p> + +<p>The singer had reverted to that familiar music. +She sang the first part of an aria, a melody disguised +with over-much fioritura, light, graceful, +unmeaning.</p> + +<p>“That is in his last opera,” she said, rising +from the piano, with a more rational air. “The +opera was almost a failure; but I was applauded to +the echo. His genius had forsaken him. Follies, +follies, falsehoods, crimes. He could not be true to +any one or anything. He was as false to his wife as +he had been false to me, and to his proud young +English signorina; ah, well! who can doubt that he +lied to <em>her</em>?”</p> + +<p>She fell into a meditative mood, standing by the +piano, touching a note now and then.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> + +<p>“Young and handsome and rich. Would she +have accepted degradation with open eyes? No, no, +no. He lied to her as he had lied to me. He was +made up of lies.”</p> + +<p>Her eyes grew troubled, and her lips worked convulsively. +Again the doctor laid his strong broad +hand upon her shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Come, Maria,” he said in Italian; “enough +for to-day. Madame has been pleased with your +singing.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed, signora. You have a noble voice. +I should be very glad if I could do anything to be of +use to you; if I could contribute to your comfort in +any way.”</p> + +<p>“O, Maria is happy enough with us, I hope,” +said the doctor cheerily. “We are all fond of her +when she is reasonable. But it is time she went to +her dinner. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">A rivederci, signora.</i>”</p> + +<p>Maria accepted her dismissal with a good grace, +saluted Mildred and the doctor with her stage curtsy, +and withdrew. One side of Monsieur Leroy’s house +opened into the garden, the other into a courtyard +adjoining the high-road.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<p>“Poor soul! I should be so glad to pay for a +piano and a private sitting-room for her, if I might +be allowed to do so,” said Mildred, when the singer +was gone.</p> + +<p>“You are too generous, madame; but I doubt if +it would be good for her to accept your bounty. She +enjoys the occasional use of my piano intensely. If +she had one always at her command, she would give +up her life to music, which exercises too strong an +influence upon her disordered brain to be indulged +in <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad libitum</i>. Nor would a private apartment be an +advantage in her case. She is too much given to +brooding over past griefs; and the society of her +fellow-sufferers, the friction and movement of the +public life, are good for her.”</p> + +<p>“What did she mean by her talk of an English +girl—some story of wrong-doing? Was it all +imaginary?”</p> + +<p>“I believe there was some scandal at Milan; +some flirtation, or possibly an intrigue, between +Castellani and one of his English pupils; but I +never heard the details. Maria’s jealousy would be +likely to exaggerate the circumstances; for I believe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> +she adored her cousin to the last, long after she +knew that he had never cared for her, except as an +element in his success.”</p> + +<p>Mildred took leave of the doctor, after thanking +him for his politeness. She left a handful of gold +for the benefit of the poor patients, and left Dr. +Leroy under the impression that she was one of the +sweetest women he had ever met. Her pensive +beauty, her low and musical voice, the clear and +resolute purpose of every word and look, were in his +mind indications of the perfection of womanhood.</p> + +<p>“It is not often that Nature achieves such +excellence,” mused the doctor. “It is a pity that +perfection should be short-lived; yet I cannot prognosticate +length of years for this lady.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Pamela’s spirits were decidedly improving. She +talked all dinner-time, and gave a graphic description +of her afternoon in the tennis-court behind the +Cercle de la Méditerranée.</p> + +<p>“I am to see the club-house some morning +before the members begin to arrive,” she said. “It +is a perfectly charming club. There is a theatre,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +which serves as a ballroom on grand occasions. +There is to be a dance next week; and Lady Lochinvar +will chaperon me, if you don’t mind.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be most grateful to Lady Lochinvar, +dear. Believe me, if I am a hermit, I don’t want +to keep you in melancholy seclusion. I am very +glad for you to have pleasant friends.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Murray is delightful. She begged me to +call her Jessie. She is going to take me for a drive +before lunch to-morrow, and we are to do some +shopping in the afternoon. The shops here are +simply lovely.”</p> + +<p>“Almost as nice as Brighton?”</p> + +<p>“Better. They have more <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chic</i>; and I am told +they are twice as dear.”</p> + +<p>“Was Mr. Stuart at the tennis-court?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he plays there every afternoon when he +is not at Monte Carlo.”</p> + +<p>“That does not sound like a very useful existence.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you will say <em>he</em> is an adventurer,” +exclaimed Pamela, with a flash of temper; and then +repenting in a moment, she added: “I beg your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +pardon, aunt; but you are really wrong about Mr. +Stuart. He looks after Lady Lochinvar’s estate. +He is invaluable to her.”</p> + +<p>“But he cannot do much for the estate when +he is playing tennis here or gambling at Monte +Carlo.”</p> + +<p>“O, but he does. He answers no end of letters +every morning. Lady Lochinvar says he is a most +wonderful young man. He attends to her house +accounts here. I am afraid she would be very extravagant +if she were not well looked after. She has +no idea of business. Mr. Stuart has even to manage +her dressmakers.”</p> + +<p>“Then one may suppose he is really useful—even +at Nice. Has he any means of his own, or is +he entirely dependent on his aunt?”</p> + +<p>“O, he has an income of his own—a modest +income, Mrs. Murray says, hardly enough for him +to get along easily in a cavalry regiment, but quite +enough for him as a civilian; and his aunt will +leave him everything. His expectations are splendid.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Pamela, I will not call <em>him</em> an adventurer,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +and I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance, +if he will call upon me.”</p> + +<p>“He is dying to know you. May Mrs. Murray +bring him to tea to-morrow afternoon?”</p> + +<p>“With pleasure.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br> +<span class="fs70">IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">George Greswold</span> succumbed to Fate. He had +done all he could do in the way of resistance. He +had appealed against his wife’s decision; he had set +love against principle or prejudice, and principle, as +Mildred understood it, had been too strong for love; +so there was nothing left for the forsaken husband +but submission. He went back to the home in which +he had once been happy, and he sat down amidst +the ruins of his domestic life; he sat by his desolate +hearth through the long dull wintry months, and he +made no effort to bring brightness or variety into his +existence. He made no stand against unmerited +misfortune.</p> + +<p>“I am too old to forget,” he told himself; “that +lesson can only be learnt in youth.”</p> + +<p>A young man might have gone out as a wanderer—might +have sought excitement and distraction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> +amidst strange cities and strange races of men; +might have found forgetfulness in danger and hardship, +the perils of unexplored deserts, the hazards +of untrodden mountains, the hairbreadth escapes of +savage life, pestilence, famine, warfare. George +Greswold felt no inclination for any such adventure. +The mainspring of life had snapped, and he admitted +to himself that he was a broken man.</p> + +<p>He sat by the hearth in his gloomy library day +after day, and night after night, until the small +hours. Sometimes he took his gun in the early +morning, and went out with a leash of dogs for an +hour or two of solitary shooting among his own +covers. He tramped his copses in all weathers and +at all hours, but he rarely went outside his own +domain; nor did he ever visit his cottagers or small +tenantry, with whom he had been once so familiar a +friend. All interest in his estate had gone from +him after his daughter’s death. He left everything +to the new steward, who was happily both competent +and honest.</p> + +<p>His books were his only friends. Those studious +habits acquired years before, when he was comparatively<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +a poor man, stood by him now. His one +distraction, his only solace, was found in the contents +of those capacious bookshelves, three-fourths +of which were filled with volumes of his own selection, +the gradual accumulation of his sixteen years +of ownership. His grandfather’s library, which constituted +the remaining fourth, consisted of those +admirable standard works, in the largest possible +number of volumes, which formed an item in the +furniture of a respectable house during the last +century, and which, from the stiffness of their bindings +and the unblemished appearance of their paper +and print, would seem to have enjoyed an existence +of dignified retirement from the day they left the +bookseller’s shop.</p> + +<p>But for those long tramps in the wintry copses, +where holly and ivy showed brightly green amidst +leafless chestnuts and hazels—but for those communings +with the intellect of past and present in +the long still winter evenings, George Greswold’s +brain must have given way under the burden of an +undeserved sorrow. As it was, he contrived to live +on, peacefully, and even with an air of contentment.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> +His servants surprised him in no paroxysm of grief. +He startled them with no strange exclamations. His +manner gave no cause for alarm. He accepted his +lot in silence and submission. His days were ordered +with a simple regularity, so far as the service of the +house went. His valet and butler agreed that he +was in all things an admirable master.</p> + +<p>The idea in the household was that Mrs. Greswold +had “taken to religion.” That seemed the +only possible explanation for a parting which had +been preceded by no domestic storms, for which +there was no apparent cause in the conduct of the +husband. That idea of the wife having discovered +an intrigue of her husband’s, which Louisa had +discussed in the housekeeper’s room at Brighton, +was no longer entertained in the servants’-hall at +Enderby.</p> + +<p>“If there had been anything of that kind, something +would have come out by this time,” said the +butler, who had a profound belief in the ultimate +“coming out” of all social mysteries.</p> + +<p>George Greswold was not kept in ignorance of +his wife’s movements. Pamela had been shrewd<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +enough to divine that her uncle would be glad to +hear from her in order to hear of Mildred, and she +had written to him from time to time, giving him a +graphic account of her own and her aunt’s existence.</p> + +<p>There had been only one suppression. The young +lady had not once alluded to Castellani’s share in +their winter life at Pallanza. She had a horror of +arousing that dragon of suspicion which she knew to +lurk in the minds of all uncles with reference to all +agreeable young men. George Greswold had not +heard from his niece for more than a fortnight, when +there came a letter, written the day after Mildred’s +visit to the madhouse, and full of praises of Lady +Lochinvar and the climate of Nice. That letter was +the greatest shock that Greswold had received since +his wife had left him, for it told him that she was +in a place where she could scarcely fail to discover +all the details of his wretched story. He had kept +it locked from her, he had shut himself behind a +wall of iron, he had kept a silence as of the grave; +and now she from whom he had prayed that his fatal +story might be for ever hidden was certain to learn +the worst.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> + +<p>“Aunt went to lunch with Lady Lochinvar the +day after our arrival,” wrote Pamela. “She spent +a long morning with her, and then went for a drive +somewhere in the environs, and was out till nearly +dinner-time. She looked so white and fagged when +she came back, poor dear, and I am sure she had +done too much for one day. Lady Lochinvar asked +me to dinner, and took me to the new Opera-house, +which is lovely. Her nephew was with us—rather +plain, and with no taste for music (he said he preferred +<em>Madame Angot</em> to <em>Lohengrin</em>), but enormously +clever, I am told, in a solid, practical kind of way.”</p> + +<p><i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Und so weiter</i>, for three more pages.</p> + +<p>Mildred had been with Lady Lochinvar—with +Lady Lochinvar, who knew all; who had seen him +and his wife together; had received them both as +her friends; had been confided in, he knew, by that +fond, jealous wife; made the recipient of tearful +doubts and hysterical accusations. Vivien had owned +as much to him.</p> + +<p>She had been with Lady Lochinvar, who must +know the history of his wife’s death and the dreadful +charge brought against him; who must know that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> +he had been an inmate of the great white barrack on +the road to St. André; who in all probability thought +him guilty of murder. All the barriers had fallen +now; all the floodgates had opened. He saw himself +hateful, monstrous, inhuman, in the eyes of the +woman he adored.</p> + +<p>“She loved her sister with an inextinguishable +love,” he thought, “and she sees me now as her +sister’s murderer—the cold-blooded, cruel husband, +who made his wife’s existence miserable, and ended +by killing her in a paroxysm of brutal rage: that is +the kind of monster I must seem in my Mildred’s +eyes. She will look back upon my stubborn silence, +my gloomy reserve, and she will see all the indications +of guilt. My own conduct will condemn +me.”</p> + +<p>As he sat by his solitary hearth in the cold +March evening, the large reading-lamp making a +circle of light amidst the gloom, George Greswold’s +mind travelled over the days of his youth, and the +period of that fatal marriage which had blighted +him in the morning of his life, which blighted him +now in life’s meridian, when, but for this dark<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> +influence, all the elements of happiness were in his +hand.</p> + +<p>He looked back to the morning of life, and saw +himself full of ambitions plans and aspiring dreams, +well content to be the younger son, to whom it was +given to make his own position in the world, scorning +the idle days of a fox-hunting squire, resolute to +become an influence for good among his fellow-men. +He had never envied his brother the inheritance of +the soil; he had thought but little of his own promised +inheritance of Enderby.</p> + +<p>Unhappily that question of the succession to the +Enderby estate had been a sore point with Squire +Ransome. He adored his elder son, who was like +him in character and person, and he cared very little +for George, whom he considered a bookish and unsympathetic +individual; a young man who hardly +cared whether there were few or many foxes in the +district, whether the young partridges throve, or +perished by foul weather or epidemic disease—a +young man who took no interest in the things that +filled the lives of other people. In a word, George +was not a sportsman; and that deficiency made him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> +an alien to his father’s race. There had never been +a Ransome who was not “sporting” to the core of +his heart until the appearance of this pragmatical +Oxonian.</p> + +<p>Without being in any manner scientific or a +student of evolution, Mr. Ransome had a fixed belief +in heredity. It was the duty of the son to resemble +the father; and a son who was in all his tastes and +inclinations a distinct variety stamped himself as +undutiful.</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose the fellow can help it,” said +Mr. Ransome testily; “but there’s hardly a remark +he makes which doesn’t act upon my nerves like a +nutmeg-grater.”</p> + +<p>Nobody would have given the Squire credit for +possessing very sensitive nerves, but everybody knew +he had a temper, and a temper which occasionally +showed itself in violent outbreaks—the kind of +temper which will dismiss a household at one fell +swoop, send a stud of horses to Tattersall’s on the +spur of the moment, tear up a lease on the point +of signature, or turn a son out of doors.</p> + +<p>The knowledge that this unsportsmanlike son<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +of his would inherit the fine estate of Enderby was +a constant source of vexation to Squire Ransome of +Mapledown. The dream of his life was that Mapledown +and Enderby should be united in the possession +of his son Randolph. The two properties +would have made Randolph rich enough to hope for +a peerage, and that idea of a possible peerage dazzled +the Tory squire. His family had done the State +some service; had sat for important boroughs; had +squandered much money upon contested elections; +had been staunch in times of change and difficulty. +There was no reason why a Ransome should not +ascend to the Upper House, in these days when +peerages are bestowed so much more freely than in +the time of Pitt and Fox. The two estates would +have made an important property under one ownership; +divided, they were only respectable. And +what the Squire most keenly felt was the fact that +Enderby was by far the finer property, and that his +younger son must ultimately be a much richer man +than his brother. The Sussex estate had dwindled +considerably in those glorious days of contested elections +and party feeling; the Hampshire estate was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> +intact. Mr. Ransome could not forgive his wife for +her determination that the younger son should be +her heir. He always shuffled uneasily upon his seat +in the old family pew when the 27th chapter of +Genesis was read in the Sunday morning service. +He compared his wife to Rebecca. He asked the +Vicar at luncheon on one of those Sundays what he +thought of the conduct of Rebecca and Jacob in that +very shady transaction, and the Vicar replied in the +orthodox fashion, favouring Jacob just as Rebecca +had favoured him.</p> + +<p>“I can’t understand it,” exclaimed the Squire +testily; “the whole business is against my idea of +honour and honesty. I wouldn’t have such a fellow +as Jacob for my steward if he were the cleverest man +in Sussex. And look you here, Vicar. If Jacob was +right, and knew he was right, why the deuce was he +so frightened the first time he met Esau after that +ugly business? Take my word for it, Jacob was a +sneak, and Providence punished him rightly with a +desolate old age and a quarrelsome family.”</p> + +<p>The Vicar looked down at his plate, sighed gently, +and held his peace.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>The time came when the growing feeling of aversion +on the father’s part showed itself in outrage and +insult which the son could not endure. George +remonstrated against certain acts of injustice in the +management of the estate. He pleaded the cause of +tenant against landlord—a dire offence in the eyes +of the Tory Squire. There came an open rupture; +and it was impossible for the younger son to remain +any longer under the father’s roof. His mother +loved him devotedly, but she felt that it was better +for him to go; and so it was settled, in loving consultation +between mother and son, that he should +carry out a long-cherished wish of his Oxford days, +and explore all that was historical and interesting +in Southern Europe, seeing men and cities in a +leisurely way, and devoting himself to literature in +the meantime. He had already written for some of +the high-class magazines; and he felt that it was in +him to do well as a writer of the serious order—critic, +essayist, and thinker.</p> + +<p>His mother gave him three hundred a year, +which, for a young man of his simple habits, was +ample. He told himself that he should be able to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +earn as much again by his pen; and so, after a +farewell of decent friendliness to his father and his +brother Randolph, and tenderest parting with his +mother, he set out upon his pilgrimage, a free +agent, with the world all before him. He explored +Greece—dwelling fondly upon all the old traditions, +the old histories. He made the acquaintance of Dr. +Schliemann, and entered heart and soul into that +gentleman’s views. This occupied him more than +a year, for those scenes exercised a potent fascination +upon a mind to which Greek literature was the +supreme delight. He spent a month at Constantinople, +and a winter in Corfu and Cyprus; he +devoted a summer to Switzerland, and did a little +mountaineering; and during all his wanderings he +contrived to give a considerable portion of his time +to literature.</p> + +<p>It was after his Swiss travels that he went to +Italy, and established himself in Florence for a +quiet winter. He hired an apartment on a fourth +floor of a palace overlooking the Arno, and here, for +the first time since he had left England, he went a +little into general society. His mother had sent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> +him letters of introduction to old friends of her own, +English and Florentine; he was young, handsome, +and a gentleman, and he was received with enthusiasm. +Had he been fond of society he might have +been at parties every night; but he was fonder of +books and of solitude, and he took very little advantage +of people’s friendliness.</p> + +<p>The few houses to which he went were houses +famous for good music, and it was in one of these +houses that he met Vivien Faux.</p> + +<p>It was in the midst of a symphony by Beethoven, +while he was standing on the edge of the crowd +which surrounded the open space given to the instrumentalists, +that he first saw the woman who +was to be his wife. She was sitting in the recess +of a lofty window, quite apart from the throng—a +pale, dark-eyed girl, with roughened hair carelessly +heaped above her low, broad forehead. Her slender +figure and sloping shoulders showed to advantage in +a low-necked black gown, without a vestige of ornament. +She wore neither jewels nor flowers, at an +assembly where gems were sparkling and flowers +breathing sweetness upon every feminine bosom.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> +Her thin, white arms hung loosely in her lap; her +back was turned to the performers, and her eyes +were averted from the crowd. She looked the image +of <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ennui</i> and indifference.</p> + +<p>He found his hostess directly the symphony was +over, and asked her to introduce him to the young +lady in black velvet yonder, sitting alone in the +window.</p> + +<p>“Have you been struck by Miss Faux’s rather +singular appearance?” asked Signora Vicenti. “She +is not so handsome as many young ladies who are +here to-night.”</p> + +<p>“No, she is not handsome, but her face interests +me. She looks as if she had suffered some great +disappointment.”</p> + +<p>“I believe her whole life has been a disappointment. +She is an orphan, and, as far as I can ascertain, +a friendless orphan. She has good means, but +there is a mystery about her position which places +her in a manner apart from other girls of her age. +She has no relations to whom to refer, no family +home to which to return. She is here with some +rather foolish people—an English artist and his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> +wife, who cannot do very much for her, and I believe +she keenly feels her isolation. It makes her bitter +against other girls, and she loses friends as fast +as she makes them. People won’t put up with her +tongue. Well, Mr. Ransome, do you change your +mind after that?”</p> + +<p>“On the contrary, I feel so much the more +interested in the young lady.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, your interest will not last. However, I +shall be charmed to introduce you.”</p> + +<p>They went across the room to that distant recess +where Miss Faux was still seated, her hair and attitude +unchanged since George Ransome first observed +her. She started with a little look of surprise when +Signora Vicenti and her companion approached; but +she accepted the introduction with a nonchalant air, +and she replied to Ransome’s opening remarks with +manifest indifference. Then by degrees she grew +more animated, and talked about the people in the +room, ridiculing their pretensions, their eccentricities, +their costume.</p> + +<p>“You are not an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">habitué</i> here?” she asked. “I +don’t remember seeing you before to-night.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<p>“No; it is the first of Signora Vicenti’s parties +that I have seen.”</p> + +<p>“Then I conclude it will be the last.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“O, no sensible person would come a second +time. The music is tolerable if one could hear it +anywhere else, but the people are odious.”</p> + +<p>“Yet I conclude this is not your first evening +here?”</p> + +<p>“No; I come every week. I have nothing else +to do with myself but to go about to houses I hate, +and mix with people who hate me.”</p> + +<p>“Why should they hate you?”</p> + +<p>“O, we all hate each other, and want to overreach +one another. Envy and malice are in the air. +Picture to yourself fifty manœuvring mothers with a +hundred marriageable daughters, most of them portionless, +and about twenty eligible men. Think +how ferocious the competition must be!”</p> + +<p>“But you are independent of all that; you are +outside the arena.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I have nothing to do with their slavemarket, +but they hate me all the same; perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> +because I have a little more money than most of +them; perhaps because I am nobody—a waif and +stray—able to give no account of my existence.”</p> + +<p>She spoke of her position with a reckless candour +that shocked him.</p> + +<p>“There is something to bear in every lot,” he +said, trying to be philosophical.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so, but I only care about my own +burden. Please, don’t pretend that you do either. +I should despise a man who pretended not to be +selfish.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think that all men are selfish?”</p> + +<p>“I have never seen any evidence to the contrary. +The man I thought the noblest and the best did me +the greatest wrong it was possible to do me, in order +to spare himself trouble.”</p> + +<p>Ransome was silent. He would not enter into +the discussion of a past history of which he was +ignorant, and which was doubtless full of pain.</p> + +<p>After this he met her very often, and while other +young men avoided her on account of her bitter +tongue, he showed a preference for her society, and +encouraged her to confide in him. She went everywhere,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> +chaperoned by Mr. Mortimer, a dreary twaddler, +who was for ever expounding theories of art which +he had picked up, parrot-wise, in a London art-school +thirty years before. His latest ideas were +coeval with Maclise and Mulready. Mrs. Mortimer +was by way of being an invalid, and sat and nursed +her neuralgia at home, while her husband and Miss +Faux went into society.</p> + +<p>It was at the beginning of spring that an +American lady of wealth and standing invited the +Mortimers and their <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">protégée</i> to a picnic, to which +Mr. Ransome was also bidden; and it was this picnic +which sealed George Ransome’s fate. Pity for +Vivien’s lonely position had grown into a sincere +regard. He had discovered warm feelings under +that cynical manner, a heart capable of a profound +affection. She had talked to him of a child, a kind +of adopted sister, whom she had passionately loved, +and from whom she had been parted by the selfish +cruelty of the little girl’s parents.</p> + +<p>“My school-life in England had soured me +before then,” she said, “and I was not a very +amiable person even at fifteen years old; but <em>that</em><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> +cruelty finished me. I have hated my fellow-creatures +ever since.”</p> + +<p>He pleaded against this wholesale condemnation.</p> + +<p>“You were unlucky,” he said, “in encountering +unworthy people.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but one of those people, the child’s +father, had seemed to me the best of men. I had +believed in him as second only to God in benevolence +and generosity. When <em>he</em> failed I renounced my +belief in human goodness.”</p> + +<p>Unawares, George Ransome had fallen into the +position of her confidant and friend. From friendship +to love was an easy transition; and a few words, +spoken at random during a ramble on an olive-clad +hill, bound him to her for ever. Those unpremeditated +words loosed the fountain of tears, and he saw +the most scornful of women, the woman who affected +an absolute aversion for his sex, and a contempt for +those weaker sisters who waste their love upon such +vile clay—he saw her abandon herself to a passion +of tears at the first word of affection which he had +ever addressed to her. He had spoken as a friend +rather than as a lover; but those tears bound him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> +her for life. He put his arm round her, and pillowed +the small pale face upon his breast, the +dark impassioned eyes looking up at him drowned +in tears.</p> + +<p>“You should not have said those words,” she +sobbed. “You cannot understand what it is to have +lived as I have lived—a creature apart—unloved—unvalued. +O, is it true?—do you really care for +me?”</p> + +<p>“With all my heart,” he answered, and in good +faith.</p> + +<p>His profound compassion took the place of love; +and in that moment he believed that he loved her as +a man should love the woman whom he chooses +for his wife.</p> + +<p>They were married within a month from that +March afternoon; and for some time their married +life was happy. He wished to take her to England, +but she implored him to abandon that idea.</p> + +<p>“In England everybody would want to know who +I am,” she said. “I should be tortured by questions +about ‘my people.’ Abroad, society is less +exacting.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> + +<p>He deferred to her in this, as he would have done +in any other matter which involved her happiness. +They spent the first half-year of their married life in +desultory wanderings in the Oberland and the Engadine, +and then settled at Nice for the winter.</p> + +<p>Here Mrs. Ransome met Lady Lochinvar, whom +she had known at Florence, and was at once invited +to the Palais Montano; and here for the first time +appeared those clouds which were too soon to darken +George Ransome’s domestic horizon.</p> + +<p>There were many beautiful women at Nice that +winter: handsome Irish girls, vivacious Americans, +Frenchwomen, and Englishwomen; and among so +many who were charming there were some whom +George Ransome did not scruple to admire, with as +much frankness as he would have admired a face by +Guido or Raffaelle. He was slow to perceive his +wife’s distrust, could hardly bring himself to believe +that she could be jealous of him; but he was not +suffered to remain long in this happy ignorance. +A hysterical outburst one night after their return +from a ball at the Club-house opened the husband’s +eyes. The demon of jealousy stood revealed; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> +from that hour the angel of domestic peace was +banished from George Ransome’s hearth.</p> + +<p>He struggled against that evil influence. He +exercised patience, common sense, forbearance; but +in vain. There were lulls in the storm sometimes, +delusive calms; and he hoped the demon was exorcised. +And then came a worse outbreak; more +hysterics; despairing self-abandonment; threats of +suicide. He bore it as long as he could, and ultimately, +his wife’s health offering an excuse for such +a step, he proposed that they should leave Nice, and +take a villa in the environs, in some quiet spot where +they might live apart from all society.</p> + +<p>Vivien accepted the proposition with rapture; +she flung herself at her husband’s feet, and covered +his hands with tearful kisses.</p> + +<p>“O, if I could but believe that you still love me, +that you are not weary of me,” she exclaimed, “I +should be the happiest woman in the universe.”</p> + +<p>They spent a week of halcyon peace, driving about +in quest of their new home. They explored the +villages within ten miles of Nice, they breakfasted +at village restaurants, in the sunny March noontide,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> +and finally they settled upon a villa at St. Jean, +within an hour’s drive of the great white city, and +to this new home they went at the end of the month, +after bidding adieu to their friends in Nice.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br> +<span class="fs70">THE RIFT IN THE LUTE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> villa was built on a ledge of ground between +the road and the sea. There was a stone terrace in +front of the windows of <em>salon</em> and dining-room, +below which the ground shelved steeply down to the +rocks and the blue water. The low irregular-shaped +house was screened from the road by a grove of +orange and lemon trees, with a peach or a cherry +here and there to give variety of colour. In one +corner there was a whole cluster of peach-trees, +which made a mass of purplish-pinky bloom. The +ridges of garden sloping down from the stone +terrace were full of white stocks and scarlet anemones. +Clusters of red ranunculus made spots of +flame in the sun, and the young leaves in the long +hedge of Dijon roses wove an interlacing screen of +crimson, through which the sun shone as through +old ruby glass in a cathedral window. Everywhere<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> +there was a feast of perfume and colour and beauty. +The little bay, the curving pier, the white-sailed +boats, which, seen from the height above, looked no +bigger than the gulls skimming across the blue; +the quaint old houses of Villefranche on a level with +the water, and rising tier above tier to the crest of +the hill—pink and blue houses, white and cream-coloured +houses, with pea-green shutters and red +roofs. Far away to the left, the jutting promontory +and the tall white lighthouse; and away southward, +the sapphire sea, touched with every changing light +and shadow. And this lovely little world at George +Ransome’s feet, this paradise in miniature, was all +the lovelier because of the great rugged mountain-wall +behind it, the bare red and yellow hills baked in +the sunlight of ages, the strange old-world villages +yonder high up on the stony flanks of the hills, the +far-away church towers, from which faint sound of +bells came now and again as if from fairyland.</p> + +<p>It was a delicious spot this little village of St. +Jean, to which the Niçois came on Sundays and +holidays, to eat bouillabaisse at the rustic tavern or +to picnic in the shade of century-old olives and old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> +carouba-trees, which made dark masses of foliage +between the road and the sea. George Ransome +loved the place, and could have been happy there if +his wife would only have allowed him; but those +halcyon days which marked the beginning of their +retirement were too soon ended; and clouds +lowered again over the horizon—clouds of doubt and +discontent. There are women to whom domestic +peace, a calm and rational happiness, is an impossibility, +and Vivien was one of these women.</p> + +<p>From the beginning her suspicious nature had +been on the watch for some hidden evil. She had a +fixed idea that the Fates had marked her for misery, +and she would not open her heart to the sunlight of +happiness.</p> + +<p>Was her husband unkind to her? No, he was +all kindness; but to her his kindness seemed only +a gentleman-like form of toleration. He had married +her out of pity; and it was pity that made him +kind. Other women were worshipped. It was her +fate to be tolerated by a man she adored.</p> + +<p>She could never forget her own passionate folly, +her own unwomanly forwardness. She had thrown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> +herself into his arms—she who should have waited +to be wooed, and should have made herself precious +by the difficulty with which she was won.</p> + +<p>“How can he help holding me cheap?” she +asked herself—“I who cost him nothing, not even +an hour of doubt? From the hour we first met he +must have known that I adored him.”</p> + +<p>Once when he was rowing her about the bay in +the westering sunlight, while the fishermen were +laying down their lines, or taking up their baskets +here and there by the rocks, she asked him suddenly,</p> + +<p>“What did you think of me, George, the first +time you saw me—that night at Signora Vicenti’s +party? Come, be candid. You can afford to tell +me the truth now. Your fate is sealed; you have +nothing to lose or to gain.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think I would tell you less or more +than the truth under any circumstances, Viva?” he +asked gravely.</p> + +<p>“O, you are horribly exact, I know!” she answered, +with an impatient movement of her slender +sloping shoulders, not looking at him, but with her +dark dreamy eyes gazing far off across the bay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> +towards the distant point where the twin towers of +Monaco Cathedral showed faint in the distance, +“but perhaps if the truth sounded very rude you +might suppress it—out of pity.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think the truth need sound rude.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” still more impatiently, “what impression +did I make upon you?”</p> + +<p>“You must consider that there were at least +fifty young ladies in Signora Vicenti’s <em>salons</em> that +evening.”</p> + +<p>“And about thirty old women; and I was lost +in the crowd.”</p> + +<p>“Not quite lost. I remember being attracted +by a young lady who sat in a window niche +apart—”</p> + +<p>“Like ‘Brunswick’s fated chieftain.’ Pray go +on.”</p> + +<p>“And who seemed a little out of harmony with +the rest of the company. Her manner struck me +as unpleasantly ironical, but her small pale face +interested me, and I even liked the mass of towzled +hair brushed up from her low square forehead. I +liked her black velvet gown, without any colour or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +ornament. It set off the thin white shoulders and +long slender throat.”</p> + +<p>“Did you think I was rich or poor, somebody or +nobody?”</p> + +<p>“I thought you were a clever girl, soured by +some kind of disappointment.”</p> + +<p>“And you felt sorry for me. Say you felt sorry +for me!” she cried, her eyes coming back from the +distant promontory, and fixing him suddenly, bright, +keen, imperious in their eager questioning.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I confess to feeling very sorry for you.”</p> + +<p>“Did I not know as much? From the very +first you pitied me. Pity, pity! What an intolerable +burden it is! I have bent under it all my life.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Viva, what nonsense you talk! Because +I had mistaken ideas about you that first +night, when we were strangers—”</p> + +<p>“You were not mistaken. I was soured. I +had been disappointed. My thoughts were bitter as +gall. I had no patience with other girls who had so +many blessings that I had never known. I saw +them making light of their advantages, peevish, ill-tempered, +self-indulgent; and I scorned them. Contempt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> +for others was the only comfort of my barren +life. And so my vinegar tongue disgusted you, did +it not?”</p> + +<p>“I was not disgusted—concerned and interested, +rather. Your conversation was original. I wanted +to know more of you.”</p> + +<p>“Did you think me pretty?”</p> + +<p>“I was more impressed by your mental gifts +than your physical—”</p> + +<p>“That is only a polite way of saying you thought +me plain.”</p> + +<p>“Viva, you know better than that. If I thought +of your appearance at all during that first meeting, +be assured I thought you interesting—yes, and +pretty. Only prettiness is a poor word to express +a face that is full of intellect and originality.”</p> + +<p>“You thought me pale, faded, haggard, old for +my age,” she said decisively. “Don’t deny it. You +must have seen what my glass had been telling me +for the last year.”</p> + +<p>“I thought your face showed traces of suffering.”</p> + +<p>This was one of many such conversations, full +of keen questioning on her part, with an assumed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> +lightness of manner which thinly veiled the irritability +of her mind. She had changed for the worse +since they left Nice; she had grown more sensitive, +more suspicious, more irritable. She was in a condition +of health in which many women are despondent +or irritable—in which with some women life seems +one long disgust, and all things are irksome, +even the things that have been pleasantest and most +valued before—even the aspect of a lovely landscape, +the phrases of a familiar melody, the perfume of a +once favourite flower. He tried to cheer her by +talking of their future, the time to come when there +would be a new bond between them, a new interest +in their lives; but she saw all things in a gloomy +atmosphere.</p> + +<p>“Who knows?” she said. “I may die, perhaps; +or you may love your child better than you have +ever loved me, and then I should hate it.”</p> + +<p>“Viva, you cannot doubt that my love for our +child will strengthen my love for you.”</p> + +<p>“Will it?” she asked incredulously. “God +knows it needs strengthening.”</p> + +<p>This was hard upon a man whose tenderness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> +and indulgence had been boundless, who had done +all that chivalry and a sense of duty can do to atone +for the lack of love. He had tried his uttermost to +conceal the one bitter truth that love was wanting: +but those keen eyes of hers had seen the gap between +them, that sensitive ear had discovered the +rift in the lute.</p> + +<p>One afternoon they climbed the hill to the breezy +common on which the lighthouse stands, and dawdled +about in the sunshine, gathering the pale gray +rosemary bloom and the perfumed thyme which +grow among those hollows and hillocks in such +wild luxuriance. They were sauntering near the +carriage-road, talking very little—she feeble and +tired, although it was her own fancy to have walked +so far—when they saw a carriage driving towards +them—a large landau, with the usual bony horses +and shabby jingling harness, and the usual sunburnt +good-tempered driver.</p> + +<p>Two girls in white gowns and Leghorn hats were +in the carriage, with an elderly woman in black. +Their laps were full of wild flowers, and branches of +wild cherry and pear blossom filled the leather hood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> +at the back of the carriage. They were talking and +laughing gaily, all animation and high spirits, as +they drew near; and at sight of George Ransome +one of them waved her hand in greeting, +and called to the driver to stop. They were two +handsome Irish girls who had made a sensation at +the Battle of Flowers six weeks before. They were +spoken of by some people as the belles of Nice. +Mr. Ransome had pelted them with Parma +violets and yellow rosebuds on the Promenade des +Anglais, as they drove up and down in a victoria +embowered in white stocks and narcissi. He had +waltzed with them at the Cercle de la Méditerranée +and the Palais Montano; had admired them frankly +and openly, not afraid to own even to a jealous wife +that he thought them beautiful.</p> + +<p>Delia Darcy, the elder and handsomer of the two, +leaned over the carriage-door to shake hands with +him, while Vivien stood aloof, on a grassy knoll above +the road, looking daggers. What right had they to +stop their carriage and waylay her husband?</p> + +<p>“Who would have thought of finding you in this +out-of-the-way spot?” exclaimed Miss Darcy; “we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> +fancied you had left the Riviera. Are you stopping +at Monte Carlo?”</p> + +<p>“No, I have taken a villa at St. Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Is that near here?”</p> + +<p>“Very near. You must have skirted the village +in driving up here. And has Nice been very gay +since we left?”</p> + +<p>“No; people have been going away, and we have +missed you dreadfully at the opera, and at dances, +and at Rumpelmeyer’s. What could have induced +you to bury yourself alive in a village?” she asked +vivaciously, with that sparkling manner which gives +an air of flirtation to the most commonplace talk.</p> + +<p>“My wife has been out of health, and it has +suited us both to live quietly.”</p> + +<p>“Poor Mrs. Ransome—poor you!” exclaimed +Miss Darcy, with a sigh. “O, there she is! How +do you do, Mrs. Ransome?” gesticulating with a +pretty little hand in a long wrinkled tan glove. +“Do come and talk to us.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ransome bowed stiffly, but did not move +an inch. She stood picking a branch of rosemary to +shreds with nervous restless fingers, scattering the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> +poor pale blue-gray blossoms as if she were sprinkling +them upon a corpse. The two girls took no +further notice of her, but both bent forward, talking +to Ransome, rattling on about this ball and the other +ball, and a breakfast, and sundry afternoon teas, and +the goings-on—audacious for the most part—of all +the smart people at Nice. They had worlds to tell +him, having taken it into their heads that he was a +humorist, a cynic, who delighted in hearing of the +follies of his fellow-man. He stood with his hat off, +waiting for the carriage to drive on, inwardly impatient +of delay, knowing with what jealous feelings +Vivien had always regarded Delia Darcy, dreading a +fit of ill-temper when the Irish girls should have +vanished by and by below the sandy edge of the +common. He listened almost in silence, giving their +loquacity no more encouragement than good manners +obliged.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you come to the next dance at the +Cercle de la Méditerranée?” said Delia coaxingly; +“there are so few good dancers left, and your step +is just the one that suits me best. There are to be +amateur theatricals to begin with—scenes from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> +<em>Much Ado</em>; and I am to be Beatrice. Won’t that +tempt you?” she asked, with the insolence of an +acknowledged beauty, spoiled by the laxer manners +of a foreign settlement, lolling back in the carriage, +and smiling at him with brilliant Irish gray eyes, +under the shadow of her Leghorn hat, with a great +cluster of daffodils just above her forehead, the +yellow bloom showing vividly against her dark +hair.</p> + +<p>The other sister was only a paler reflection of +this one, and echoed her speeches, laughing when +she laughed.</p> + +<p>“Surely you will come to see Delia act Beatrice?” +she said. “I can’t tell you how well she does it. +Sir Randall Spofforth is the Benedict.”</p> + +<p>“My dears, we shall have no time to dress for +dinner!” expostulated the duenna, feeling that this +kind of thing had lasted long enough. “<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">En avant, +cocher.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Won’t you come?” pleaded the pertinacious +Delia; “it is on the twenty-ninth, remember—next +Thursday week.”</p> + +<p>The carriage rolled slowly onward.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>“I regret that I shall not be there,” said Ransome +decisively.</p> + +<p>Delia shook her parasol at him in pretended +anger.</p> + +<p>He rejoined his wife. She stood surrounded by +the shreds of rosemary and thyme which she had +plucked and scattered while he was talking. She +was very pale; and he knew only too well that she +was very angry.</p> + +<p>“Come, Viva, it is time we turned homeward,” +he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, the sun has gone down, has it not?” she +exclaimed mockingly, as she looked after the carriage, +which sank below the ragged edge of heather +and thyme yonder, as if it had dropped over the +cliff.</p> + +<p>“Why, my love, the sun is above our heads!”</p> + +<p>“Is it? <em>Your</em> sun is gone down, anyhow. She +is very lovely, is she not?”</p> + +<p>The question was asked with sudden eagerness, +as if her life depended upon the reply. She was +walking quickly in her agitation, going down the +hill much faster than she had mounted it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, they are both handsome girls, feather-headed, +but remarkably handsome,” her husband +answered carelessly.</p> + +<p>“But Delia is the lovelier. <em>She</em> is your divinity.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she is the lovelier. The other seems a +copy by an inferior hand.”</p> + +<p>“And she is so fond of you. It was cruel to +refuse her request, when she pleaded so hard.”</p> + +<p>“How can you be so foolish or so petty, Vivien? +Is it impossible for me to talk for five minutes with +a handsome girl without unreasonable anger on your +part?”</p> + +<p>“Do you expect me to be pleased or happy when +I see your admiration of another woman—admiration +you do not even take the trouble to conceal? +Do you suppose I can ever forget last winter—how I +have seen you dancing with that girl night after +night? Yes, I have had to sit and watch you. I +was not popular, I had few partners; and it is bad +form to dance more than once with one’s husband. +I have seen her in your arms, with her head almost +lying on your shoulder, again and again, as if it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> +were her natural place. ‘What a handsome couple!’ +I have heard people say; ‘are they engaged?’ Do +you think <em>that</em> was pleasant for me?”</p> + +<p>“You had but to say one word, and I would have +left off dancing for ever.”</p> + +<p>“Another sacrifice—like your marriage.”</p> + +<p>“Vivien, you would provoke a saint.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is provoking to be chained to one woman +when you are dying for another.”</p> + +<p>“How much oftener am I to swear to you that I +don’t care a straw for Miss Darcy?”</p> + +<p>“Never again,” she answered. “I love you too +well to wish you to swear a lie.”</p> + +<p>They had come down from the common by this +time, and were now upon a pathway nearer home—a +narrow footpath on the edge of the cliff opposite +Beaulieu; the gently-curving bay below them, and +behind and above them orchards and gardens, hill +and lighthouse. It was one of their chosen walks. +They had paced the narrow path many an afternoon +when the twin towers of Monaco showed dark in the +shadow of sundown.</p> + +<p>“Vivien, I think you are the most difficult creature<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +to live with that ever a man had for his wife,” +said Ransome, stung to the quick by her persistent +perversity.</p> + +<p>“I am difficult to live with, am I?” she cried. +“Why don’t you go a step further—why don’t you +say at once that you wish I were dead?” she cried, +with a wild burst of passion. “Say that you wish +me dead.”</p> + +<p>“I own that when you torment me, as you are +doing to-day, I have sometimes thought of death—yours +or mine—as the only escape from mutual +misery,” he answered gloomily.</p> + +<p>He had been sauntering a few paces in front of +her along the narrow path between the olive-garden +and the edge of the cliff, she following slowly—both +in a desultory way, and talking to each other without +seeing each other’s face. The cliff sank sheer below +the pathway, with only a narrow margin of rushy +grass between the footpath and the brink of the +precipice. It was no stupendous depth, no giddy +height from which the eye glanced downward, sickening +at the horror of the gulf. One looked down +at the jewel-bright waves and the many-hued rocks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> +the fir-trees growing out of the crags, without a +thought of danger; and yet a false step upon those +sunburnt rushes might mean instant death.</p> + +<p>He came to a sudden standstill after that last +speech, and stood leaning with both hands upon his +stick, angry, full of gloom, feeling that he had said +a cruel thing, yet not repenting of his cruelty. He +stood there expectant of her angry answer; but there +was only silence.</p> + +<p>Silence, and then a swift rushing sound, like the +flight of a great bird. He looked round, and saw +that he was alone!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br> +<span class="fs70">DARKNESS.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">She</span> had flung herself over the cliff. That rustling +noise was the sound of her gown as it brushed +against the rushes and seedling firs that clothed the +precipice with verdure. He looked over the cliff, +and saw her lying among the rocks, a white motionless +figure, mangled and crushed, dumb and dead, +his victim and his accuser.</p> + +<p>His first impulse was to fling himself over the +edge where she had cast away her life a minute ago; +but common sense overcame that movement of despair. +A few yards further towards the point the +side of the cliff was less precipitous. There were +jutting ledges of rock and straggling bushes by +which a good climber might let himself down to the +beach, not without hazard, but with a fair chance of +safety. As he scrambled downward he saw a fisherman’s +boat shooting across the bay, and he thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> +that his wife’s fall had been seen from the narrow +strip of sandy shore yonder towards Beaulieu.</p> + +<p>She was lying on her side among the low wet +slabs of rock, the blue water lapping round her. +There was blood upon her face, and on one mangled +arm, from which the muslin sleeve was ripped. Her +gown had caught in the bushes, and was torn to +shreds; and the water flowing so gently in and out +among her loosened hair was tinged with blood.</p> + +<p>Her eyes were wide open, staring wildly, and +they had a glassy look already. He knew that she +was dead.</p> + +<p>“Did you see her fall?” he asked the men in the +boat, as they came near.</p> + +<p>“No,” said one. “I heard the gulls scream, +and I knew there was something. And then I looked +about and saw something white lying there, under +the cliff.”</p> + +<p>They lifted her gently into the boat, and laid her +on a folded sail at the bottom, as gently and as +tenderly as if she were still capable of feeling, as if +she were not past cure. George Ransome asked no +question, invited no opinion. He sat in the stern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> +of the boat, dumb and quiet. The horror of this +sudden doom had paralysed him. What had he done +that this thing should happen, this wild revenge of +a woman’s passionate heart which made him a murderer? +What had he done? Had he not been +patient and forbearing, indulgent beyond the common +indulgence of husbands to fretful wives? Had +he not blunted the edge of wrath with soft answers? +Had he not been affectionate and considerate even +when love was dead? And yet because of one hard +speech, wrung from his irritated nerves, this wild +creature had slain herself.</p> + +<p>The two fishermen looked at him curiously. He +saw the dark southern eyes watching him; saw +gravity and restraint upon those fine olive faces +which had been wont to beam with friendly smiles. +He knew that they suspected evil, but he was in no +mood to undeceive them. He sat in an apathetic +silence, motionless, stupefied almost, while the men +rowed slowly round the point in the golden light of +sundown. He scarcely looked at that white still +figure lying at the bottom of the boat, the face hidden +under a scarlet kerchief which one of the men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> +had taken from his neck. He sat staring at the +rocky shore, the white gleaming lighthouse, the long +ridge of heathy ground on the crest of the hill, the +villas, the gardens with their glow of light and +colour, the dark masses of foliage clustering here +and there amidst the bright-hued rocks. He looked +at everything except his dead wife, lying almost at +his feet.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>There was an inquiry that evening before the +Juge d’Instruction at Villefranche, and he was made +to give an account of his wife’s death. He proved +a very bad witness. The minute and seemingly +frivolous questions addled his brain. He told the +magistrate how he had looked round and found the +path empty: but he could not say how his wife had +fallen—whether she had flung herself over the edge +or had fallen accidentally, whether her foot had +slipped unawares, whether she had fallen face forward, +or whether she had dropped backwards from +the edge of the cliff.</p> + +<p>“I tell you again that I did not see her fall,” he +protested impatiently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>“Did you usually walk in advance of your wife?” +asked the Frenchman. “It was not very polite to +turn your back upon a lady.”</p> + +<p>“I was worried, and out of temper.”</p> + +<p>“For what reason?”</p> + +<p>“My wife’s unhappy jealousy created reasons +where there were none. The people who know me +know that I was not habitually unkind to her.”</p> + +<p>“Yet you gave her an answer which so maddened +her that she flung herself over the cliff in her despair?”</p> + +<p>“I fear that it was so,” he answered, with the +deepest distress depicted in his haggard face. “She +was in a nervous and irritable condition. I had +always borne that fact in mind until that moment. +She stung me past endurance by her groundless +jealousies. I had been a true and loyal husband to her +from the hour of our marriage. I had never wronged +her by so much as a thought; and yet I could not +talk to a pretty peasant-girl, or confess my admiration +for any woman I met in society, without causing +an outbreak of temper that was almost madness. I +bore with her long and patiently. I remembered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> +that the circumstances of her childhood and youth +had been adverse, that her nature had been warped +and perverted; I forgave all faults of temper in a +wife who loved me; but this afternoon—almost +for the first time since our marriage—I spoke unkindly, +cruelly perhaps. I have no wish to avoid +interrogation, or to conceal any portion of the truth.”</p> + +<p>“You did not push her over the cliff?”</p> + +<p>“I did not. Do I look like a murderer, or bear +the character of a man likely to commit murder?”</p> + +<p>The examination went on, with cruel reiteration +of almost the same questions. The Juge d’Instruction +was a hard-headed legal machine, who believed +that the truth might be wrung out of any criminal +by persistent questioning. He suspected Ransome, +or deemed it his duty to suspect him, and he +ordered him to be arrested on leaving the court; so +George Ransome passed the night after his wife’s +death in the lock-up at Villefranche.</p> + +<p>What a night that was for a man to live through! +He sat on a stone bench, listening to the level plish-plash +of that tideless sea ever so far beneath him. +He heard the footsteps going up and down the steep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> +stony street of that wonderful old seaport; he heard +the scream of the gulls and the striking of the clock +on the crest of the hill as he sat motionless, with +his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, +brooding over that swift, sudden horror of yesterday.</p> + +<p>Could it have been an accident? Did she step +backwards unawares and slip over the edge? No; +he remembered where she was standing when he +last looked at her, some distance from the side of +the cliff, standing among the heather and wild +thyme which grew down to the edge of the little +path. She must have made a rapid rush to the +brink after that fatal speech of his. She had flung +her life away in a single impulse of blind, mad +anger—or despair. She had not paused for an +instant to take thought. Alas! he knew her so +well; he had so often seen those sudden gusts of +passion; the rush of crimson to the pale small face; +the quivering lips striving impotently for speech; +the fury in the dark eyes, and the small nervous +hands clenched convulsively. He had seen her +struggle with the demon of anger, and had seen the +storm pass swifter than a tempest-driven cloud across<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> +the moon. Another moment and she would burst +into tears, fling her arms round his neck, and +implore him to forgive her.</p> + +<p>“I love you too well ever to know happiness,” +she said.</p> + +<p>That was her favourite apology.</p> + +<p>“It is only people without passions who can be +happy,” she told him once. “I sometimes think +that you belong to that family.”</p> + +<p>And she was dead; she whose undisciplined +love had so plagued and tried him, she was dead; +and he felt himself her murderer.</p> + +<p>Alas! doubly a murderer, since she had perished +just at that time when her life should have been +most precious to him, when he should have made +any sacrifice to secure her peace. He who had seen +all the evils of a fretful temper exhibited in her +character had yet been weak enough to yield to a +moment of anger, and to insult the woman whom he +ought to have cherished.</p> + +<p>A long-familiar line of Byron’s haunted his +brain all through the night, and mixed itself with +that sound of footsteps on the street of stairs, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> +the scream of the gulls, and the flapping of the +waves against the stone quay.</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80"> +“She died, but not alone—”<br> +</p> + +<p class="no-indent">She who was to have been the mother of his first-born +child was lying dead in the white-walled villa +where they had once been happy.</p> + +<p>Hush! In the soft clear light of an April morning +he heard the tolling of the church bell, solemn, +slow, measured, at agonising intervals, which left +an age of expectancy between the heavy strokes of +the clapper.</p> + +<p><i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Vivos voco, mortuos plango.</i></p> + +<p>They bury their dead at daybreak in that fair +land of orange and lemon groves. In the early +morning of the first day after death, the hastily-fashioned +coffin was carried out into the sunshine, +and the funeral procession wound slowly up the hill +towards the graveyard near the church of Villefranche. +George Ransome knew how brief is the +interval between death and burial on that southern +shore, and he had little doubt that the bell was +tolling for her whose heart was beating passionately +when the sun began to sink.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> + +<p>So soon! Her grave would be filled in and +trodden down before they let him out of prison.</p> + +<p>It had never seemed to him that he was to stay +long in captivity, or that there could be any difficulty +in proving his innocence of any part in the catastrophe, +except that fatal part of having upset the +balance of a weak mind, and provoked a passionate +woman to suicide. As for the confinement of the +past night, he had scarcely thought about it. He had +a curious semi-consciousness of time and place which +was a new experience to him. He found himself +forgetting where he was and what had happened. +There were strange gaps in his mind—intervals of +oblivion—and then there were periods in which +he sat looking at the slanting shaft of sunlight +between the window and the ground, and trying +to count the motes that danced in that golden +haze.</p> + +<p>The day passed strangely, too—sometimes at +railroad pace, sometimes with a ghastly slowness. +Then came a night in which sleep never visited his +eyelids—a night of bodily and mental restlessness, +the greater part of which he spent in futile efforts to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> +open the heavily-bolted door, or to drag the window-bars +from their stone sockets. His prison was a relic +of the Middle Ages, and Hercules himself could not +have got out of it.</p> + +<p>In all those endeavours he was actuated by a +blind impulse—a feverish desire to be at large again. +Not once during that night did he think of his dead +wife in her new-made grave on the side of the hill. +He had forgotten why they had shut him up in that +stony chamber—or rather had imagined another +reason for his imprisonment.</p> + +<p>He was a political offender—had been deeply +concerned in a plot to overthrow Victor Emanuel, +and to create a Republic for Italy. He himself +was to be President of that Republic. He felt all +the power to rule and legislate for a great nation. +He compared himself with Solon and with Pericles, +to the disadvantage of both. There was a +greatness in him which neither of those had ever +attained.</p> + +<p>“I should rule them as God Himself,” he thought. +“It would be a golden age of truth and justice—a +millennium of peace and plenty. And while the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> +nations are waiting for me I am shut up here by the +treachery of France.”</p> + +<p>Next morning he was taken before the Juge +d’Instruction for the second time. The two fishermen +who picked up his wife’s corpse were present +as witnesses; also his wife’s maid, and the three +other servants; also his wife’s doctor.</p> + +<p>He was again questioned severely, but this time +nothing could induce him to give a direct answer to +any question. He raved about the Italian Republic, +of which he was to be chief. He told the French +magistrate that France had conspired with the +Italian tyrant to imprison and suppress him.</p> + +<p>“Every other pretence is a subterfuge,” he said. +“My popularity in Italy is at the root of this +monstrous charge. There will be a rising of the +whole nation if you do not instantly release me. +For your own sake, sir, I warn you to be prompt.”</p> + +<p>“This man is pretending to be mad,” said the +magistrate.</p> + +<p>“I fear there is more reality than pretence about +the business,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>He took Ransome to the window, and looked at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> +his eyes in the strong white light of noon. Then +he went over to the magistrate, and they whispered +together for some minutes, while the prisoner sat +staring at the floor and muttering to himself.</p> + +<p>After that there came a long dark interval in +George Ransome’s life—a waking dream of intolerable +length, but not unalloyed misery; for the hallucinations +which made his madness buoyed him up +and sustained him during some part of that dark +period. He talked with princes and statesmen; he +was not alone in the madhouse chamber, or in the +madhouse garden, or in that great iron cage where +even the most desperate maniacs were allowed to disport +themselves in the air and the sunlight as in a +gymnasium. He was surrounded by invisible friends +and flatterers, by public functionaries who quailed +before his glance and were eager to obey his commands. +Sometimes he wrote letters and telegrams +all day long upon any scraps of paper which his +keepers would give him; sometimes he passed whole +days in a dreamy silence with arms folded, and +abstracted gaze fixed on the distant hill-tops, like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +Napoleon at St. Helena, brooding over the future of +nations.</p> + +<p>By and by there came a period of improvement, +or what was called improvement by the doctors, but +which to the patient seemed a time of strange blankness +and disappointment. All those busy shadows +which had peopled his life, his senators and flatterers, +had abandoned him; he was alone in that strange +place amidst a strange people, most of whom seemed +to be somewhat wrong in their heads. He was able +to read the newspapers now, and was vexed to find +that his speeches were unreported, his letters and +manifestoes unpublished; disappointed to find that +Victor Emanuel was still King of Italy and the new +Republic still a web of dreams.</p> + +<p>His temper was very fitful at this time, and he +had intervals of violence. One morning he found +himself upon the hills, digging with half-a-dozen +other men, young and old, dressed pretty much like +himself. It was in the early summer morning, before +the sun had made the world too hot for labour. It +was rapture to him to be there, digging and running +about on the dewy hillside, in an amphitheatre of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> +mountains, high above the stony bed of the Paillon. +The air was full of sweet odours, orange and lemon +bloom, roses and lilies, from the gardens and orchards +below. He felt that earth and sky were rapturously +lovely, that life was a blessing and a privilege beyond +all words. He had not the consciousness of a single +care, or even a troubled memory. His quarrel with +his father, his self-imposed exile, his marriage and +its bitter disillusions, his wife’s tragical fate: all were +forgotten. He felt as a sylph might feel—a creature +without earthly obligations, revelling in the glory of +Nature.</p> + +<p>This new phase of being lasted so long as the +hills and the sky wore their aspect of novelty. It +was succeeded by a period of deepest depression, a +melancholy which weighed him down like a leaden +burden. He sat in the madhouse garden apart +from the rest, brooding over the darkness of life. +He had no hopes, no desires.</p> + +<p>Gradually memory began to return. He asked +why his wife did not come to see him. “She used +to be so fond of me,” he said, “foolishly fond of me; +and now she deserts me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p> + +<p>Then he talked of going home again. The image +of his latest dwelling-place had gradually shaped +itself in his mind. He saw the hedges of pale +amber roses, the carouba-trees, dark against the +glittering blue of the sea, which shone through +every opening in the branches like a background +of lapis lazuli, and the rugged mountains rising +above the low curving shore steeply towards the +sky, with patches of olive here and there on their +stony flanks, but for the most part bare and barren, +reddish-yellow, steeped in sunlight.</p> + +<p>Yes, he remembered every feature of that lovely +and varied scene. The village of Eza yonder on the +mountain-road—a cluster of stony dwellings perched +upon rocky foundations, hardly to be distinguished +from the rough crags upon which they were built—and +higher still, in a cleft of those yellow hills, +Turbia, and its cloven towers, the birthplace of +Roman Emperors. How lovely it all was, and how +pleasant it had been to lounge in his garden, where +the light looked dazzling on beds of white gilly-flowers, +and where the blue summer sea smiled in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> +the far distance, with a faint purple cloud yonder +on the horizon which represented Corsica!</p> + +<p>Why had he ever left that familiar home? Why +could he not return to it?</p> + +<p>“Get me a carriage,” he said to one of the +attendants; “I want to go home immediately. My +wife is waiting for me.”</p> + +<p>It is not customary to make explanations to +patients even in the best-regulated asylums. Nobody +answered him; nobody explained anything to +him. He found himself confronted with a dogged +silence. He wore himself out in an agony of impatience, +like a bird beating itself to death against +its bars. He languished in a miserable ignorance, +piecing his past life together bit by bit, with a +strange interweaving of fancies and realities, until +by slow degrees the fancies dropped out of the web +and left him face to face with the truth.</p> + +<p>At last the record of the past was complete. He +knew that his wife was dead, and remembered how +she had died. He knew that he had been a prisoner, +first in gaol and then in a lunatic asylum; but he +did not acknowledge to himself that he had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> +mad. He remembered the bell tolling in the +saffron light of dawn; he remembered the magistrate’s +exasperating questions; he remembered +everything.</p> + +<p>After this he sank into a state of sullen despair, +and silence and apathy were accepted as the indications +of cure. He was told by the head physician +that he could leave the institution whenever he +pleased. There was an account against him as a +private patient, which had been guaranteed by his +landlord, who knew him to be a man of some means. +His German man-servant had been to the asylum +many times to inquire about him. The doctor +recommended him to travel—in Switzerland—until +the end of the autumn, and to take his servant as +his attendant and courier. “Change of air and +scene will be of inestimable advantage to you,” said +the doctor; “but it would not be wise for you to +travel alone.”</p> + +<p>“What month is it?”</p> + +<p>“August—the twenty-second.”</p> + +<p>“And my wife died early in April,” he said.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> +“Only a few months; and I feel as if I had been +in this place a century.”</p> + +<p>He took the doctor’s advice. He cared very +little where he went or what became of him. Life +and the world, his own individuality, and the beautiful +earth around and about him were alike indifferent +to him. He went back to the villa at St. Jean, +and to the garden he had loved so well in the bright +fresh spring-time. All things had an overgrown +and neglected look in the ripeness of expiring summer; +too many flowers, a rank luxuriance of large +leaves and vivid blossoms—fruit rotting in the long +grass—an odour of decaying oranges, the waste of +the last harvest. He went up to the graveyard on +the hill above the harbour. It was not a picturesque +burial-place. The cemetery at Cimies was far +more beautiful. The cemetery at Nice was in a +grander position.</p> + +<p>He felt sorry that she should lie here, amidst the +graves of sailors and fishermen—as even if after +death she were slighted and hardly used.</p> + +<p>He was summoned back to England early in the +following year to his mother’s death-bed. Neither<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> +she nor any of his family had known the miserable +end of his married life. They knew only that he +had married, and had lost his wife after a year +of marriage. Hazard had not brought any one +belonging to him in contact with any of those few +people who knew the details of that tragical story.</p> + +<p>His mother’s death made him rich and independent, +but until the hour he met Mildred Fausset +his life was a blank.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br> +<span class="fs70">THE GRAVE ON THE HILL.</span></h2> +</div> + + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">After</span> that visit to the great white barrack on the +road to St. André, Mildred felt that her business at +Nice was finished, there was nothing more for her +to learn. She knew all the sad story now—all, +except those lights and shadows of the picture +which only the unhappy actor in that domestic +tragedy could have told her. The mystery of the +past had unfolded itself, stage by stage, from that +Sunday afternoon when César Castellani came to +Enderby Manor, and out of trivial-seeming talk +launched a thunderbolt. The curtain was lifted. +There was no more to be done. And yet Mildred +lingered at Nice, loving the place and its environs a +little for their own beauty, and feeling a strange and +sorrowful interest in the scene of her husband’s misfortunes.</p> + +<p>There was another reason for remaining in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> +gay white city in the fact that Lady Lochinvar had +taken a fancy to Miss Ransome, and that the young +lady seemed to be achieving a remarkably rapid cure +of her infatuation for the Italian. It may have been +because at the Palais Montano she met a good many +Italians, and that the charm of that nationality +became less potent with familiarity. There was +music, too, at the Palais, and to spare, according to +Mr. Stuart, who was not an enthusiast, and was +wont to shirk his aunt’s musical reunions.</p> + +<p>Mildred was delighted to see her husband’s niece +entering society under such agreeable auspices. She +went out with her occasionally, just enough to make +people understand that she was not indifferent to +her niece’s happiness; and for the rest, Lady Lochinvar +and Mrs. Murray were always ready to chaperon +the frank, bright girl, who was much admired by +the best people, and was never at a loss for partners +at dances, whoever else might play wallflower.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greswold invited Mr. and Mrs. Murray and +Malcolm Stuart to a quiet little dinner at the Westminster, +and the impression the young man made +upon Mildred’s mind was altogether favourable. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> +was certainly not handsome, but his plainness was +of an honest Scottish type, and his freckled complexion +and blue eyes, sandy hair and moustache, +were altogether different from the traditionary Judas +colouring of Castellani’s auburn beard and hazel +eyes. Truth and honesty beamed in the Scotchman’s +open countenance. He looked every inch a soldier +and a gentleman.</p> + +<p>That he admired Pamela was obvious to the +most unobservant eye; that she affected to look +down upon him was equally obvious; but it might +be that her good-humoured scorn of him was more +pretence than reality. She made light of him openly +as one of that inferior race of men whose minds never +soar above the stable, the gunroom, or the home-farm, +and whose utmost intellectual ingenuity culminates +in the invention of a salmon-fly or the +discovery of a new fertiliser for turnip-fields.</p> + +<p>“You are just like my brother-in-law, Henry +Mountford,” she told him.</p> + +<p>“From the air with which you say that, I conclude +Sir Henry Mountford must be a very inferior +person.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + +<p>“Not at all. He is the kind of man whom all +other men seem to respect. I believe he is one of +the best shots in England. His bags are written +about in the newspapers; and I wonder there are +any pigeons left in the world, considering the way +he has slaughtered them.”</p> + +<p>“I saw him shoot at Monte Carlo the year before +last.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; he went there and back in a week on +purpose to shoot. Imagine any man coming to this +divine Riviera, this land of lemon-groves and +palms, and roses and violets, just to slaughter +pigeons!”</p> + +<p>“He won the Grand Prix. It was a pretty big +feather in his cap,” said Mr. Stuart. “Am I to +conclude that you dislike sporting men?”</p> + +<p>“I prefer men who cultivate their minds.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but a man who shoots well and rides +straight, and can play a big salmon, and knows how +to manage a farm, cannot be altogether an imbecile. +I never knew a really fine rider yet who was a fool. +Good horsemanship needs so many qualities that +fools don’t possess; and to be a crack shot, I assure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> +you that a man must have some brains and a good +deal of perseverance; and perseverance is not a bad +thing in its way, Miss Ransome.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her with a certain significance in +his frank blue eyes, looked at her resolutely, as +some bold young Vandal or Visigoth might have +looked at a Roman maiden whom he meant to subjugate.</p> + +<p>“I did not say that sportsmen were fools,” she +answered sharply. “I only say that the kind of +man I respect is the man whose pleasures are those +of the intellect—who is in the front rank among the +thinkers of his age—who—”</p> + +<p>“Reads Darwin and the German metaphysicians, +I suppose. I tried Darwin to see if he would help +me in my farming, but I can’t say I got very +much out of him in that line. There’s more in old +Virgil for an agriculturist. I’m not a reading man, +you see, Miss Ransome. I find by the time I’ve +read the daily papers my thirst for knowledge is +pretty well satisfied. There’s such a lot of information +in the London papers, and when you add the +<cite>Figaro</cite> and the <cite>New York Herald</cite>, there’s not much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> +left for a man to learn. I generally read the +Quarterlies—as a duty—to discover how many dull +books have enriched the world during the previous +three months.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a great deal more reading than my +brother-in-law gets through. He makes a great fuss +about his <cite>Times</cite> every morning; but I believe he +seldom goes beyond the births, marriages, and deaths, +or a report of a billiard match. He reads the <cite>Field</cite>, +as a kind of religion, and <cite>Baily’s Magazine</cite>; and +I think that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“Do you like men who write books, Miss Ransome, +as well as men who read them?”</p> + +<p>Pamela crimsoned to the roots of her hair at +this most innocent question. Malcolm Stuart +marked that blush with much perplexity.</p> + +<p>“When one is interested in a book one likes to +know the author,” she replied, with cautious vagueness.</p> + +<p>“Do you know many writers?”</p> + +<p>“Not many—in fact, only one.”</p> + +<p>“Who is he?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Castellani, the author of <em>Nepenthe</em>.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<p>“<em>Nepenthe?</em>—ah, that’s a novel people were talking +about some time ago. My aunt was full of it, +because she fancied it embodied some of her own +ideas. She wanted me to read it. I tried a few +chapters,” said Malcolm, making a wry face. “Sickly +stuff.”</p> + +<p>“People who are not in the habit of reading +the literature of imagination can hardly understand +such a book as <em>Nepenthe</em>,” replied Pamela severely. +“They are out of touch with the spirit and the +atmosphere of the book.”</p> + +<p>“One has to be trained up to that kind of thing, +I suppose. One must forget that two and two make +four, in order to get into the proper frame of mind, +eh? Is the author of <em>Nepenthe</em> an interesting +man?”</p> + +<p>He was shrewd enough to interpret the blush +aright. The author of <em>Nepenthe</em> was a person to be +dreaded by any aspirant to Miss Ransome’s favour.</p> + +<p>“He is like his book,” answered Pamela briefly.</p> + +<p>“Is he a young man?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know your idea of youth. He is older +than my aunt—about five-and-thirty.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span></p> + +<p>Stuart was just thirty. One point in his favour, +anyhow, he told himself, not knowing that to a +romantic girl years may be interesting.</p> + +<p>“Handsome?”</p> + +<p>“<em>That</em> is always a matter of opinion. He is just +the kind of man who ought to have written <em>Nepenthe</em>. +That is really all I can tell you,” said Pamela, with +some irritation. “I believe Lady Lochinvar knew +Mr. Castellani when he was a very young man. She +can satisfy your curiosity about him.”</p> + +<p>“I am not curious. Castellani? An Italian, I +suppose, one of my aunt’s innumerable geniuses. +She has a genius for discovering geniuses. When +I see her with a new one, I am always reminded +of a child with a little coloured balloon. So pretty—till +it bursts!”</p> + +<p>Pamela turned her back upon him in a rage, and +went over to the piano to talk to Mrs. Murray, who +was preparing to sing one of her <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">répertoire</i> of five +Scotch ballads.</p> + +<p>“Shall it be ‘Gin a body’ or ‘Huntingtower’?” +she asked meekly; and nobody volunteering a decisive +opinion, she chirruped the former coquettish little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> +ballad, and put a stop to social intercourse for +exactly four minutes and a half.</p> + +<p>After that evening Mr. Stuart knew who his +rival was, and with what kind of influence he had to +contend. An author, a musical man, a genius! +Well, he had very few weapons with which to fight +such an antagonist, he who was neither musical, nor +literary, nor gifted with any of the graces which +recommend a lover to a sentimental girl. But he +was a man, and he meant to win her. He admired +her for her frank young prettiness, so unsophisticated +and girlish, and for that perfect freshness and truthfulness +of mind which made all her thoughts transparent. +He was too much a man of the world +to ignore the fact that Miss Ransome of Mapledown +would be a very good match for him, or that such a +marriage would strengthen his position in his aunt’s +esteem. Women bow down to success. Encouraged +by these considerations, Mr. Stuart pursued the even +tenor of his way, and was not disheartened by the +idea of the author of <em>Nepenthe</em>, more especially +as that attractive personage was not on the ground.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> +He had one accomplishment over and above the +usual outdoor exercises of a country gentleman. +He could dance, and he was Pamela’s favourite +partner wherever she went. No one else waltzed as +well. Not even the most gifted of her German +acquaintance; not even the noble Spaniards who were +presented to her.</p> + +<p>He had another and still greater advantage in +the fact that he was often in the young lady’s +society. She was fond of Lady Lochinvar, and +spent a good deal of her life at the Palais Montano, +where, with Mrs. Murray’s indefatigable assistance, +there were tennis-parties twice a week. That charming +garden, with its numerous summer-houses, +made a kind of club for the privileged few who were +permitted <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">les petites entrées</i>.</p> + +<p>While Pamela was enjoying the lovely springtide +amongst people whose only thought was of making +the best of life, and getting the maximum of sunshine, +Mildred Greswold spent her days in sad +musings upon an irrevocable past. It was her +melancholy pleasure to revisit again and again the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> +place in which her husband had lived, the picturesque +little village under the shadow of the tall +cliff, every pathway which he must have trodden, +every point from which he must have gazed across +the bay, seaward or landward in his troubled reveries.</p> + +<p>She dwelt with morbid persistence on the +thought of those two lives, both dear to her, yet in +their union how terrible a curse! She revisited +the villa until the old caretaker grew to look upon +her as a heaven-sent benefactress, and until the +village children christened her the English Madonna, +that pensive look recalling the face of the statue in +the church yonder, so mildly sad, a look of ineffable +sweetness tinged with pain. She sat for hours at a +stretch in the sunlit garden, amongst such flowers +as must have been blooming there in those closing +hours of Fay’s wedded life, when the shadow of her +cruel fate was darkening round her, though she +knew it not. She talked to people who had known +the English lady. Alas! they were all dubious +in their opinions. None would answer boldly for +the husband’s innocence. They shrugged their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> +shoulders—they shook their heads. Who could say? +Only the good God would ever know the truth +about that story.</p> + +<p>The place to which she went oftenest in those +balmy afternoons was the burial-ground on the hill, +where Fay’s grave, with its white marble cross, +occupied one of the highest points in the enclosure, +and stood out sharp and clear against the cloudless +sapphire.</p> + +<p>The inscription on that marble was of the briefest:</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80"> +“<span class="smcap">Vivien Ransome.</span><br> +Died April 24th, 1868.<br> +Eternally lamented.”<br> +</p> + +<p class="no-indent">Below the cross stretched the grass mound, without +shrub or flower. It was Mildred’s task to beautify +this neglected grave. She brought a florist from +the neighbourhood to carry out her own idea, and +on her instruction he removed the long, rank grass +from the mound, and planted a cross of roses, eight +feet long, dwarf bush-roses closely planted, Gloire +de Dijon and Maréchal Niel.</p> + +<p>She remembered how Fay had revelled in the +rose-garden at The Hook, where midsummer was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> +kind of carnival of roses. Here the roses would +bloom all the year round, and there would be perpetual +perfume and blossom and colour above poor +Fay’s cold dust.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br> +<span class="fs70">PAMELA CHANGES HER MIND.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Lucifer</span> himself, after his fall, could not have +felt worse than César Castellani when he followed +Mildred Greswold to Nice, as he did within a week +after she left Pallanza.</p> + +<p>He went to Nice partly because he was an idle +man, and had no desire to go back to English east +winds just when the glory of the southern springtide +was beginning. He was tolerably well furnished +with money, and Nice was as good to him as any +other place, while the neighbourhood of Monte +Carlo was always an attraction. He followed in +Mildred’s footsteps, therefore; but he had no idea +of forcing himself upon her presence for some time +to come. He knew that his chances were ruined +in that quarter for the time being, if not for ever.</p> + +<p>This was his first signal overthrow. Easy +conquests had so demoralised him that he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> +grown to consider all conquests easy. He had unlimited +faith in the charm of his own personality—his +magnetic power, as he called it: and, behold! +his magnetic power had failed utterly with this +lovely, lonely woman, who should have turned to +him in her desolation as the flowers turn to the sun.</p> + +<p>For once in his life he had overrated himself +and his influence; and in so doing he had lost the +chance of a very respectable alliance.</p> + +<p>“Fifteen hundred a year would be at least bread +and cheese,” he reflected, “and to marry an English +heiress of a good old family would solidify my +position in society. The girl is pretty enough, and +I could twist her round my finger. She would bore +me frightfully; but every man must suffer something. +There is always a discord somewhere amidst the +harmony of life; and if one’s teeth are not too often +set on edge by that false note, one should be content.”</p> + +<p>He remembered how contemptuously he had rejected +the idea of such a marriage in his talk with +Miss Fausset, and how she had been set upon it.</p> + +<p>“I should stand ever so much better with her if +I married well, and solidified myself into British<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> +respectability. I might naturalise myself, and go +into Parliament perhaps, if that would please the +good soul at Brighton. What will she leave me +when she dies, I wonder? She is muter than the +Sphinx upon that point. And will she ever die? +Brighton is famous for pauper females of ninety and +upwards. A woman like Miss Fausset, who lives +in cotton-wool, and who has long done with the +cares and passions of life, might go well into a +second century. I don’t see any brilliancy in the +prospect <em>there</em>; but so long as I please her and do +well in the world she will no doubt be generous.”</p> + +<p>He told himself that it was essential he should +make some concession to Miss Fausset’s prejudices +now that he had failed with Mildred. So long as +he had hoped to win that nobler prize he had been +careless how he jeopardised the favour of his elderly +patroness. But now he felt that her favour was all +in all to him, and that the time for trifling was past.</p> + +<p>She had been very generous to him during the +years that had gone by since she first came to his +aid almost unasked, and helped him to pay his college +debts. She had come to the rescue many times<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> +since that juvenile entanglement, and her patience +had been great. Yet she had not failed to remonstrate +with him at every fresh instance of folly and +self-indulgent extravagance. She had talked to him +with an unflinching directness; she had refused +further help; but somehow she had always given +way, and the cheque had been written.</p> + +<p>Again and again she had warned him that there +were limits even to her forbearance.</p> + +<p>“If I saw you working earnestly and industriously, +I should not mind, even if you were a failure,” +said his benefactress severely.</p> + +<p>“I have worked, and I have produced a book +which was <em>not</em> a failure,” replied César, with his +silkiest air.</p> + +<p>“One book in a decade of so-called literary life! +Did the success of that book result in the payment +of one single debt?”</p> + +<p>“Dearest lady, would you have a man waste his +own earnings—the first-fruits of his pen—the grains +of fairy gold that filtered through the mystic web of +his fancy—would you have him fritter away that +sacred product upon importunate hosiers or vindictive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> +bootmakers? <em>That</em> money was altogether +precious to me. I kept it in my waistcoat pocket +as long as ever I could. The very touch of the coin +thrilled me. I believe cabmen and crossing-sweepers +had most of it in the long-run,” he concluded, +with a remorseful sigh.</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset had borne with his idleness and his +vanity, as indulgent mothers bear with their sons; +but he felt that she was beginning to tire of him. +There were reasons why she should always continue +forbearing; but he wanted to insure himself something +better than reluctant subsidies.</p> + +<p>These considerations being taken into account, +Mr. Castellani was fain to own to himself that he +had been a fool in rejecting the substance for the +shadow, however alluring the lovely shade might be.</p> + +<p>“But I loved her,” he sighed; “I loved her as +I had never loved until I saw her fair Madonna face +amidst the century-old peace of her home. She +filled my life with a new element. She purified and +exalted my whole being. And she is thrice as rich +as that prattling girl!”</p> + +<p>He ground his teeth at the remembrance of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> +failure. There had been no room for doubt. Those +soft violet eyes had been transformed by indignation, +and had flashed upon him with angry fire. That +fair Madonna face had whitened to marble with suppressed +passion. Not by one glance, not by one +tremor in the contemptuous voice, had the woman +he loved acknowledged his influence.</p> + +<p>He put up at the Cosmopolitan, got in half-a-dozen +French novels of the most advanced school from +Galignani’s Library, and kept himself very close for +a week or two; but he contrived to find out what the +ladies at the Westminster were doing through +Albrecht the courier, who believed him to be Miss +Ransome’s suitor, and was inclined to be communicative, +after being copiously treated to bocks, or <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petits +verres</i>, as the case might be.</p> + +<p>From Albrecht, Castellani heard how Miss Ransome +spent most of her time at the Palais Montano, +or gadding about with her ladyship and Mrs. Murray; +how, in Albrecht’s private opinion, the balls and +other dissipations of Nice were turning that young +lady’s head; how Mrs. Greswold went for lonely +drives day after day, and would not allow Albrecht to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> +show her the beauties of the neighbourhood, which +it would have been alike his duty and pleasure to +have done. He had ascertained that her favourite, +and, indeed, habitual, drive was to St. Jean, where +she was in the habit of leaving the fly at the little +inn while she strolled about the village in a purposeless +manner. All this appeared to Albrecht as +eccentric and absurd, and beneath a lady of Mrs. +Greswold’s position. She would have employed her +time to more advantage in going on distant excursions +in a carriage and pair, and in lunching at +remote hotels, where Albrecht would have been sure +of a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bonne main</i> from a gratified landlord, as well as +his commission from the livery-stable.</p> + +<p>Castellani heard with displeasure of Pamela’s +dancings and junketings, and he told himself that it +was time to throw himself across her pathway. He +had not been prepared to find that she could enjoy +life without him. Her admiration of him had been +so transparent, her sentimental fancy so naïvely +revealed, that he had believed himself the sultan of +her heart, having only to throw the handkerchief +whenever it might suit him to claim his prey. Much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> +as he prided himself upon his knowledge of human +nature, as exemplified in the softer sex, he had +never estimated the fickleness of a shallow sentimental +character like Pamela’s. No man with a due +regard to the value and dignity of his sex could conceive +the ruthless rapidity with which a young lady +of this temperament will transfer her affections and +her large assortment of day-dreams and romantic +fancies from one man to another. No man could +conceive her capacity for admiring in Number Two +all those qualities which were lacking in Number +One. No man could imagine the exquisite adaptability +of girlhood to surrounding circumstances.</p> + +<p>Had Castellani taken Miss Ransome when she +was in the humour, he would have found her the +most amiable and yielding of wives; a model English +wife, ready to adapt herself in all things to the +will and the pleasure of her husband; unselfish, +devoted, unassailable in her belief in her husband as +the first and best of men. But he had not seized +his opportunity. He had allowed nearly a month to +go by since his defeat at Pallanza, and he had allowed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> +Pamela to discover that life might be endurable, nay, +even pleasant, without him.</p> + +<p>And now, hearing that the young lady was gadding +about, and divining that such gadding was +the high-road to forgetfulness, Mr. Castellani made +up his mind to resume his sway over Miss Ransome’s +fancy without loss of time. He called upon a dashing +American matron whom he had visited in London +and Paris, and who was now the occupant of a villa +on the Promenade des Anglais, and in her drawing-room +he fell in with several of his London acquaintances. +He found, however, that his American friend, +Mrs. Montagu W. Brown, had not yet succeeded in +being invited to the Palais Montano, and only knew +Lady Lochinvar and Miss Ransome by sight.</p> + +<p>“Her ladyship is too stand-offish for my taste,” +said Mrs. Montagu Brown, “but the girl seems +friendly enough—no style—not as we Americans +understand style. I am told she ranks as an heiress +on this side, but at the last ball at the Cercle +she wore a frock that I should call dear at forty +dollars. That young Stuart is after her, evidently. +I hope you are going to the dance next Tuesday, Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> +Castellani? I want some one nice to talk to now +my waltzing days are over.”</p> + +<p>Castellani protested that Mrs. Montagu Brown +was in the very heyday of a dancer’s age, and would +be guilty of gross cruelty to terpsichorean society in +abandoning that delightful art.</p> + +<p>“You make me tired,” said Mrs. Montagu +Brown, with perfect good-humour. “There are +plenty of women who don’t know when they’re old, +but I calculate every woman knows when she weighs +a hundred and sixty pounds. When my waist came +to twenty-six inches I knew it was time to leave off +waltzing; and I was pretty good at it, too, in my +day, I can tell you.”</p> + +<p>“With that carriage you must have been divine,” +replied César; “and I believe the cestus of the +Venus de Milo must measure over twenty-six inches.”</p> + +<p>“The Venus de Milo has no more figure than +the peasant-women one sees on the promenade, +women who seem as if they set their faces against +the very idea of a waist. Be sure you get a card for +Tuesday. I hate a dude; but I love to have some +smart men about me wherever I go.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> + +<p>“I shall be there,” said Castellani, bending over +his hostess and imparting a confidential pressure to +her fat white hand by way of leave-taking, before he +slipped silently from the room.</p> + +<p>He had studied the art of departure as if it were +a science: never lingered, never hummed and hawed; +never said he must go and didn’t; never apologised +for going so soon while everybody was pining to get +rid of him.</p> + +<p>The next day there was a battle of flowers; not +the great floral fête before the sugar-plum carnival, +but an altogether secondary affair, pleasant enough in +the balmy weather of advancing spring.</p> + +<p>Every one of any importance was on the promenade, +and among the best carriages appeared +Lady Lochinvar’s barouche, decorated with white +camellias and carmine carnations. She had carefully +eschewed that favourite mixture of camellias +and Parma violets which has always a half-mourning +or funereal air. Malcolm Stuart and Miss Ransome +sat side by side on the front seat with a great basket +of carnations on their knees, with which they pelted +their acquaintance, while Lady Lochinvar, in brown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> +velvet and ostrich plumage, reposed at her ease in +the back of the spacious carriage, and enjoyed the +fun without any active participation.</p> + +<p>It was Pamela’s first experience in flower-fights, +and to her the scene seemed enchanting. The afternoon +was peerless. She wore a white gown, as if it +had been midsummer, and white gowns were the +rule in most of the carriages. The sea was at its +bluest, the pink walls and green shutters, white +walls and red roofs, the orange-trees, cactus and palm, +made up a picture of a city in fairyland, taken as +a background to a triple procession of carriages all +smothered in Parma violets, Dijon roses, camellias, +and narcissus, with here and there some picturesque +coach festooned with oranges and lemons amidst +tropical foliage.</p> + +<p>The carriages moved at a foot-pace; the pavements +were crowded with smart people, who joined +in the contest. Pamela’s lap was full of bouquets, +which fell from her in showers as she stood up every +now and then to fling a handful of carnations into a +passing carriage.</p> + +<p>Presently, while she was standing thus, flushed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> +and sparkling, she saw a familiar figure on the footpath +by the sea, and paled suddenly at the sight.</p> + +<p>It was César Castellani, sauntering slowly along, +in a short coat of light-coloured cloth, and a felt hat +of exactly the same delicate shade. He came to the +carriage-door. There was a block at the moment, +and he had time to talk to the occupants.</p> + +<p>“How do you do, Lady Lochinvar? You have +not forgotten me, I hope—César Castellani—though +it is such ages since we met?”</p> + +<p>He only lifted his hat to Lady Lochinvar, waiting +for her recognition, but he held out his hand to +Pamela.</p> + +<p>“How do you like Nice, Miss Ransome? As +well as Pallanza, I hope?”</p> + +<p>“Ever so much better than Pallanza.”</p> + +<p>There was a time when that coat and hat, the +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">soupçon</i> of dark blue velvet waistcoat just showing +underneath the pale buff collar, the loose China silk +handkerchief carelessly fastened with a priceless +intaglio, the gardenia and pearl-gray gloves, would +have ensnared Pamela’s fancy: but that time was +past. She thought that César’s costume looked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> +effeminate and underbred beside the stern simplicity +of Mr. Stuart’s heather-mixture <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">complet</i>. The scales +had fallen from her eyes; and she recognised the +bad taste and the vanity involved in that studied +carelessness, that artistic combination of colour.</p> + +<p>She remembered what Mildred had said of Mr. +Castellani, and she was deliberately cold. Lady +Lochinvar was gracious, knowing nothing to the +Italian’s discredit.</p> + +<p>“I remember you perfectly,” she said. “You +have changed very little in all these years. Be sure +you come and see me. I am at home at five almost +every afternoon.”</p> + +<p>The carriage moved on, and Pamela sat in an +idle reverie for the next ten minutes, although the +basket of carnations was only half empty.</p> + +<p>She was thinking how strange it was that her +heart beat no faster. Could it be that she was +cured—and so soon? It was even worse than a +cure; it was a positive revulsion of feeling. She +was vexed with herself for ever having exalted that +over-dressed foreigner into a hero. She felt she had +been un-English, unwomanly even, in her exaggerated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> +admiration of an exotic. And then she glanced +at Malcolm Stuart, and averted her eyes with a +conscious blush on seeing him earnestly observant +of her.</p> + +<p>He was plain, certainly. His features had been +moulded roughly, but they were not bad features. +The lines were rather good, in fact, and it was a fine +manly countenance. He was fair and slightly +freckled, as became a Scotchman; his eyes were +clear and blue, but could be compared to neither +sapphires nor violets, and his eyelashes were lighter +than any cultivated young lady could approve. The +general tone of his hair and complexion was ginger; +and ginger, taken in connection with masculine +beauty, is not all one would wish. But then ginger +is not uncommon in the service, and it is a hue +which harmonises agreeably with Highland bonnets +and tartan. No doubt Mr. Stuart had looked really +nice in his uniform. He had certainly appeared +to advantage in a Highland costume at the fancy ball +the other night. Some people had pronounced +him the finest-looking man in the room.</p> + +<p>And, again, good looks are of little importance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +in a man. A plainish man, possessed of all the +manly accomplishments, a dead shot and a crack +rider, can always appear to advantage in English +society. Pamela was beginning to think more +kindly of sporting men, and even of Sir Henry +Mountford.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure Mr. Stuart would get on with him,” +she thought, dimly foreseeing a day when Sir Henry +and her new acquaintance would be brought together +somehow.</p> + +<p>César Castellani took immediate advantage of +Lady Lochinvar’s invitation. He presented himself +at the Palais Montano on the following afternoon, +and he found Pamela established there as if +she belonged to the house. It was she who poured +out the tea, and dispensed those airy little hot cakes, +which were a kind of idealised galette, served in +the daintiest of doyleys, embroidered with Lady +Lochinvar’s cipher and coronet.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Murray were there, and Malcolm +Stuart, the chief charm of whose society seemed to +consist in his exhibition of an accomplished Dandie +Dinmont which usurped the conversation, and which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> +Castellani would have liked to inocculate then and +there with the most virulent form of rabies. Pamela +squatted on a little stool at the creature’s feet, and +assisted in showing him off. She had acquired a +power over him which indicated an acquaintance of +some standing.</p> + +<p>“What fools girls are!” thought Castellani.</p> + +<p>His conquests among women of maturer years +had been built upon rock as compared with the +shifting quicksand of a girl’s fancy. He began to +think the genus girl utterly contemptible.</p> + +<p>“He has but one fault,” said Pamela, when the +terrier had gone through various clumsy evolutions +in which the bandiness of his legs and the length +of his body had been shown off to the uttermost. +“He cannot endure Box, and Box detests him. +They never meet without trying to murder each +other, and I’m very much afraid,” bending down to +kiss the broad hairy head, “that Dandie is the +stronger.”</p> + +<p>“Of course he is. Box is splendid for muscle, +but weight must tell in the long-run,” replied Mr. +Stuart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> + +<p>“My grandmother had a Dandie whose father +belonged to Sir Walter Scott,” began Mrs. Murray: +“he was simply a per-r-r-fect dog, and my +mamma—”</p> + +<p>Castellani fled from this inanity. He went to +the other end of the room, where Lady Lochinvar +was listening listlessly to Mr. Murray, laid himself +out to amuse her ladyship for the next ten minutes, +and then departed without so much as a look at +Pamela.</p> + +<p>“The spell is broken,” he said to himself, as he +drove away. “The girl is next door to an idiot. +No doubt she will marry that sandy Scotchman. +Lady Lochinvar means it, and a silly-pated miss +like that can be led with a thread of floss silk. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Moi +je m’en fiche.</i>”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About a week after Mr. Castellani’s reappearance +Mildred Greswold received a letter from Brighton, +which made a sudden change in her plans.</p> + +<p>It was from Mr. Maltravers the Incumbent of +St. Edmund’s:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="right"> +<span style="padding-right: 1em">“St. Edmund’s Vicarage.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>“Dear Mrs. Greswold,—After our thoroughly +confidential conversations last autumn I feel justified +in addressing you upon a subject which I know +is very near to your heart, namely, the health and +welfare, spiritual as well as bodily, of your dear +aunt and my most valued parishioner, Miss Fausset. +The condition of that dear lady has given me considerable +uneasiness during the last few months. +She has refused to take her hand from the plough; +she labours as faithfully as ever in the Lord’s vineyard; +but I see with deepest regret that she is no +longer the woman she was, even a year ago. The +decay has been sudden, and it has been rapid. Her +strength begins to fail her, though she will hardly +admit as much, even to her medical attendant, and +her spirits are less equable than of old. She has +intervals of extreme depression, against which the +efforts of friendship, the power of spiritual consolation, +are unavailing.</p> + +<p>“I feel it my duty to inform you, as one who +has a right to be interested in the disposal of Miss +Fausset’s wealth, that my benefactress has consummated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> +the generosity of past years by a magnificent +gift. She has endowed her beloved Church of +St. Edmund with an income which, taken in conjunction +with the pew-rents, an institution which I +hope hereafter to abolish, raises the priest of the +temple from penury to comfort, and affords him the +means of helping the poor of his parish with his +alms as well as with his prayers and ministrations. +This munificent gift closes the long account of beneficence +betwixt your dear aunt and me. I have +nothing further to expect from her for my church +or for myself. It is fully understood between us +that this gift is final. You will understand, therefore, +that I am disinterested in my anxiety for this +precious life.</p> + +<p>“You, dear Mrs. Greswold, are your aunt’s only +near relative, and it is but right you should be the +companion and comforter of her declining days. +That the shadow of the grave is upon her I can but +fear, although medical science sees but slight cause +for alarm. A year ago she was a vigorous woman, +spare of habit certainly, but with a hardness of bearing +and manner which promised a long life. To-day<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> +she is a broken woman, nervous, fitful, and, I fear, +unhappy, though I can conceive no cause for sadness +in the closing years of such a noble life as hers has +been, unselfish, devoted to good works and exalted +thoughts. If you can find it compatible with your +other ties to come to Brighton, I would strongly +recommend you to come without loss of time, and +I believe that the change which you will yourself +perceive in my valued friend will fully justify the +course I take in thus addressing you.—I am ever, +dear Mrs. Greswold, your friend and servant,</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap" style="padding-right: 1em">“Samuel Maltravers.”</span><br> +</p> +</div> + +<p>Mildred gave immediate orders to courier and +maid, her trunks were to be packed that afternoon, +a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coupé</i> was to be taken in the Rapide for the following +day, and the travellers were to go straight +through to Paris. But when she announced this +fact to Pamela the damsel’s countenance expressed +utmost despondency.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, aunt, you have a genius for +taking one away from a place just when one is +beginning to be happy!” she exclaimed in irrepressible +vexation.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<p>She apologised directly after upon hearing of +Miss Fausset’s illness.</p> + +<p>“I am a horrid ill-tempered creature,” she said; +“but I really am beginning to adore Nice. It is a +place that grows upon one.”</p> + +<p>“What if I were to leave you with Lady Lochinvar? +She told me the other day that she would +like very much to have you to stay with her. You +might stay till she leaves Nice, which will be in +about three weeks’ time, and you could travel with +her to Paris. You could go from Paris to Brighton +very comfortably, with Peterson to take care of you. +Perhaps you would not mind leaving Nice when +Lady Lochinvar goes?”</p> + +<p>Pamela sparkled and blushed at the suggestion.</p> + +<p>“I should like it very much, if Lady Lochinvar +is in earnest in asking to have me.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure she is in earnest. There is only +one stipulation I must make, Pamela. You must +promise me not to renew your intimacy with Mr. +Castellani.”</p> + +<p>“With all my heart, aunt. My eyes have been +opened. He is thoroughly bad style.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br> +<span class="fs70">AS THE SANDS RUN DOWN.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Mildred</span> was in Brighton upon the third day after +she left Nice. She had sent no intimation of her +coming to her aunt, lest her visit should be forbidden. +A nervous invalid is apt to have fancies, +and to resent anything that looks like being taken +care of. She arrived, therefore, unannounced, left +her luggage at the station, and drove straight to +Lewes Crescent, where the butler received her with +every appearance of surprise.</p> + +<p>It was early in the afternoon, and Miss Fausset +was sitting in her accustomed chair in the back +drawing-room, near the fire, with her book-table on +her right hand. The balmy spring-time which Mildred +had left at Nice had not yet visited Brighton, +where the season had been exceptionally cold, and +where a jovial north-easter was holding his revels all +over Kemp Town, and enlivening the cold gray sea. +A pleasant bracing day for robust health and animal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> +spirits; but not altogether the kind of atmosphere +to suit an elderly spinster suffering from nervous +depression.</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset started up, flushed with surprise, +at Mildred’s entrance. Her niece had kept her +acquainted with her movements, but had told her +nothing of the drama of her existence since she left +Brighton.</p> + +<p>“My dear child, I am very glad to see you +back,” she said gently. “You are come to stay +with me for a little while, I hope, before—”</p> + +<p>She hesitated, and looked at Mildred earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Are you reconciled to your husband?” she +asked abruptly, as if with irrepressible anxiety.</p> + +<p>“Reconciled?” echoed Mildred; “we have never +quarrelled. He is as dear to me to-day as he was +the day I married him—dearer for all the years we +spent together. But we are parted for ever. You +know that it must be so, and you know why.”</p> + +<p>“I hoped that time would have taught you common +sense.”</p> + +<p>“Time has only confirmed my resolution. Do +not let us argue the point, aunt. I know that you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> +mean kindly, but I know that you are false to your +own principles—to all the teaching of your life—when +you argue on the side of wrong.”</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset turned her head aside impatiently. +She had sunk back into her chair after greeting +Mildred, and her niece perceived that she, who used +to sit erect as a dart, in the most uncompromising +attitude, was now propped up with cushions, against +which her wasted figure leaned heavily.</p> + +<p>“How have you got through the winter, aunt?” +Mildred asked presently.</p> + +<p>“Not very well. It has tried me more than any +other winter I can remember. It has been a long +weary winter. I have been obliged to give up the +greater part of my district work. I held on as long +as ever I could, till my strength failed me. And +now I have to trust the work to others. I have my +lieutenants—Emily Newton and her sister—who work +for me. You remember them, perhaps. Earnest +good girls. They keep me <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en rapport</i> with my poor +people; but it is not like personal intercourse. I +begin to feel what it is to be useless—to cumber +the ground.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> + +<p>“My dear aunt, how can you talk so? Your life +has been so full of usefulness that you may well +afford to take rest now that your health is not quite +so good as it has been. Even in your drawing-room +here you are doing good. It is only right that +young people should carry out your instructions, +and work for you. I have heard, too, of your +munificent gift to St. Edmund’s.”</p> + +<p>“It is nothing, my dear. When all is counted, +it is nothing. I have tried to lead a righteous life. +I have tried to do good; but now sitting alone by +this fire day after day, night after night, it all +seems vain and empty. There is no comfort in the +thought of it all, Mildred. I have had the praise of +men, but never the approval of my own conscience.”</p> + +<p>There was a brief silence, Mildred feeling it vain +to argue against her aunt’s tone of self-upbraiding, +unable to fathom the mind which prompted the +words.</p> + +<p>“Then you are not going back to your husband?” +Miss Fausset asked abruptly, as if in utter +forgetfulness of all that had been said; and then +suddenly recollecting herself, “you have made up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> +your mind, you say. Well, in that case you can +stay with me—make this your home. You may +take up my work, perhaps—by and by.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, aunt, I hope I may be able to do so. My +life has been idle and useless since my great sorrow. +I want to learn to be of more use in the world; and +you can teach me, if you will.”</p> + +<p>“I will, Mildred. I want you to be happy. I +have made my will. You will inherit the greater +part of my fortune.”</p> + +<p>“My dear aunt, I don’t want—”</p> + +<p>“No, you are rich enough already, I know; +but I should like you to have still larger means, to +profit by my death. You will use your wealth for +the good of others, as I have tried—feebly tried—to +use mine. You will be rich enough to found a +sisterhood, if you like—the Sisters of St. Edmund. +I have done all I mean to do for the Church. Mr. +Maltravers knows that.”</p> + +<p>“Dear aunt, why should we talk of these things? +You have many years of life before you, I hope.”</p> + +<p>“No, Mildred, the end is not far off. I feel +worn out and broken. I am a doomed woman.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> + +<p>“But you have had no serious illness since I +was here?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, nothing specific; only languor and +shattered nerves, want of appetite, want of sleep: +the sure indications of decay. My doctor can find +no name for my malady. He tries one remedy after +another, until I weary of his experiments. I am +glad you have come to me, Mildred; but I should +be gladder if you were going back to your husband.”</p> + +<p>“O, aunt, why do you say things which you +know must torture me?”</p> + +<p>“Because I am worried by your folly. Well, I +will say no more. You will stay with me and comfort +me, if you can. What have you done with +Pamela?”</p> + +<p>Mildred told her aunt about Lady Lochinvar’s +invitation.</p> + +<p>“Ah! she is with Lady Lochinvar. A very +frivolous person, I suppose. Your husband’s niece +is a well-meaning silly girl; sure to get into mischief +of some kind. Is she still in love with César +Castellani?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<p>“I think not—I hope not. I believe she is +cured of that folly.”</p> + +<p>“You call it a folly? Well, perhaps you are +right. It may be foolishness for a girl to follow the +blind instinct of her heart.”</p> + +<p>“For an impulsive girl like Pamela.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, no doubt she is impulsive, generous, and +uncalculating; a girl hardly to be trusted with her +own fate,” said Miss Fausset, with a sigh, and then +she lapsed into silence.</p> + +<p>Mr. Maltravers had not exaggerated the change +in her. It was only too painfully evident. Her +manner and bearing had altered since Mildred had +seen her last. Physically and mentally her nature +seemed to have relaxed and broken down. It was +as if the springs that sustained the human machine +had snapped. The whole mechanism was out of +gear. She who had been so firm of speech and +meaning, who had been wont to express herself +with a cold and cutting decisiveness, was now feeble +and wailing, repeating herself, harping upon the +same old string, obviously forgetful of that which +had gone before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<p>Mildred felt that she would be only doing her +duty in taking up her abode in the great dull house, +and trying to soothe the tedium of decay. She +could do very little, perhaps, but the fact of near +kindred would be in itself a solace, and for her own +part she would have the sense of duty done.</p> + +<p>“I will stay with you as long as you will have +me, aunt,” she said gently. “Albrecht is below. +May I send to the station for my luggage?”</p> + +<p>“Of course, and your rooms shall be got ready +immediately. The house will be yours before very +long, perhaps. It would be strange if you could not +make it your home!”</p> + +<p>She touched a spring on her book-table, which +communicated with the electric-bell, and Franz +appeared promptly.</p> + +<p>“Tell them to get Mrs. Greswold’s old rooms +ready at once, and send Albrecht to the station for +the luggage,” ordered Miss Fausset, with something +of her old decisiveness. “Louisa is with you, I +suppose?” she added to her niece.</p> + +<p>“Louisa is at the station, looking after my +things. Albrecht leaves me to-day. He has been a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> +good servant, and I think he has had an easy place. +I have not been an eager traveller.”</p> + +<p>“No; you seem to have taken life at a slow +pace. What took you to Nice? It is not a place I +should have chosen if I wanted quiet.”</p> + +<p>Mildred hesitated for some moments before she +replied to this question.</p> + +<p>“You know one part of my sorrow, aunt; and +I think I might trust you with the whole of that +sad story. I went to Nice because it was the place +where my husband lived with his first wife—where +my unhappy sister died.”</p> + +<p>“She died at Nice?” repeated Miss Fausset, +with an abstracted air, as if her power of attention, +which had revived for a little just now, were beginning +to flag.</p> + +<p>“She died there, under the saddest circumstances. +I am heart-broken when I think of her +and that sad fate. My own dear Fay, how hard +that your loving heart should be an instrument of +self-torture! She was jealous of her husband—causelessly, +unreasonably jealous—and she killed +herself in a paroxysm of despair!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> + +<p>The awfulness of this fact roused Miss Fausset +from her apathy. She started up from amongst her +cushions, staring at Mildred in mute horror, and +her wasted hands trembled as they grasped the arm +of her chair.</p> + +<p>“Surely, surely that can’t be true!” she faltered. +“It is too dreadful! People tell such lies—an +accident, perhaps, exaggerated into a suicide. An +overdose of an opiate!”</p> + +<p>“No, no; it was nothing like that. There is no +doubt. I heard it from those who knew. She flung +herself over the edge of the cliff; she was walking +with her husband—my husband, George Greswold—then +George Ransome; they were walking together; +they quarrelled; he said something that stung her +to the quick, and she threw herself over the cliff. +It was the wild impulse of a moment, for which an +all-merciful God would not hold her accountable. +She was in very delicate health, nervous, hysterical, +and she fancied herself unloved, betrayed, perhaps. +Ah, aunt, think how hardly she had been used—cast +off, disowned, sent out alone into the world—by +those who should have loved and protected her.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> +Poor, poor Fay! My mother sent her away from +The Hook where she was so happy. My mother’s +jealousy drove her out—a young girl, so friendless, +so lonely, so much in need of love. It was my +mother’s doing; but my father ought not to have +allowed it. If she was weak he was strong, and Fay +was his daughter. It was his duty to protect her +against all the world. You know how I loved my +father; you know that I reverence his memory; +but he played a coward’s part when he sent Fay out +of his house to please my mother.”</p> + +<p>She was carried away by her passionate regret +for that ill-used girl whose image had never lost its +hold upon her heart.</p> + +<p>“Not a word against your father, Mildred. He +was a good man. He never failed in affection or in +duty. He acted for the best according to his lights +in relation to that unhappy girl—unhappy—ill-used—yes, +yes, yes. He did his best, Mildred. He +must not be blamed. But it is dreadful to think +that she killed herself.”</p> + +<p>“Had you heard nothing of her fate, aunt? +My father must have been told, surely. There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> +must have been some means of communication. He +must have kept himself informed about her fate, +although she was banished, given over to the care of +strangers. If he had owned a dog which other +people took care of for him he would have been told +when the dog died.”</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset felt the unspeakable bitterness of +this comparison.</p> + +<p>“You must not speak like that of your father, +Mildred. You ought to know that he was a good +man. Yes, he knew, of course, when that poor girl +died, but it was not his business to tell other people. +I only heard incidentally that she had married, +and that she died within a year of her marriage. I +heard no more. It was the end of a sad story.”</p> + +<p>Again there was an interval of silence. It was +six o’clock; the sun was going down over the sea +beyond the West Pier, and the lawn, and the +fashionable garden where the gay world congregates; +and this eastern end of the long white seafront +was lapsing into grayness, through which a +star shone dimly here and there. It looked a cold, +dull world after the pink hotel and the green shutters,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> +the dusty palms and the turquoise sea of the +Promenade des Anglais; but Mildred was glad to +be in England, glad to be so much nearer him whose +life companion she could never be again.</p> + +<p>Franz brought her some tea presently, and informed +her that her rooms were ready, and that +Louisa had arrived with the luggage. Albrecht +had left his humble duty for his honoured mistress, +and was gone.</p> + +<p>“When your father died, you looked through his +papers and letters, no doubt?” said Miss Fausset +presently, after a pause in the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Yes, aunt, I looked through my dear father’s +letters, and arranged everything with our old family +solicitor, Mr. Cresswell,” answered Mildred, surprised +at a question which seemed to have no bearing +upon anything that had gone before.</p> + +<p>“And you found no documents relating to—that +unhappy girl?”</p> + +<p>“Not a line—not a word. But I had not expected +to find anything. The history of her birth +was the one dark secret of my father’s life—he +would naturally leave no trace of the story.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> + +<p>“Naturally, if he were wiser than most people. +But I have observed that men of business have a +passion for preserving documents, even when they +are worthless. People keep compromising papers +with the idea of destroying them on their death-beds, +or when they feel the end is near; and then +death comes without warning, and the papers remain. +Your father’s end was somewhat sudden.”</p> + +<p>“Sadly sudden. When he left Enderby in the +autumn he was in excellent health. The shooting +had been better than usual that year, and I think he +had enjoyed it as much as the youngest of our party. +And then he went back to London, and the London +fogs—caught cold, neglected himself, and we were +summoned to Parchment Street to find him dying +of inflammation of the lungs. It was terrible—such +a brief farewell, such an irreparable loss.”</p> + +<p>“I was not sent for,” said Miss Fausset severely. +“And yet I loved your father dearly.”</p> + +<p>“It was wrong, aunt; but we hoped against +hope almost to the last. It was only within a few +hours of the end that we knew the case was hopeless, +and to summon you would have been to give<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> +him the idea that he was dying. George and I pretended +that our going to him was accidental. We +were so fearful of alarming him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I daresay you acted for the best; but it +was a heavy blow for me to be told that he was +gone—my only brother—almost my only friend.”</p> + +<p>“Pray don’t say that, aunt. I hope you know +that I love you.”</p> + +<p>“My dear, you love me because I am your father’s +sister. You consider it your duty to love me. My +brother loved me for my own sake. He was a noble-hearted +man.”</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset and her niece dined together <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>, +and spent the evening quietly on each side of +the hearth, with their books and work, the kind of +work which encourages pensive brooding, as the +needle travels slowly over the fabric.</p> + +<p>“I wonder you have no pets, aunt—no favourite +dog.”</p> + +<p>“I have never cared for that kind of affection, +Mildred. I am of too hard a nature, perhaps. My +heart does not open itself to dogs and cats, and +parrots are my abomination. I am not like the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> +typical spinster. My only solace in the long weary +years has been in going among people who are more +unhappy than myself. I have put myself face to face +with sordid miseries, with heavy life-long burdens; +and I have asked myself, What is <em>your</em> trouble compared +with these?”</p> + +<p>“Dear aunt, it seems to me that your life +must have been particularly free from trouble and +care.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, in its outward aspect. I am rich, and +I have been looked up to. But do you think those +long years of loneliness—the aimless, monotonous +pilgrimage through life—have not been a burden? +Do you think I have not—sometimes, at any rate—envied +other women their children and their husbands—the +atmosphere of domestic love, even with +its attendant cares and sorrows? Do you suppose +that I could live for a quarter of a century as I +have lived, and not feel the burden of my isolation? +I have made people care for me through their self-interest. +I have made people honour me, because I +have the means of helping them. But who is there +who cares for me, Gertrude Fausset?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<p>“You cannot have done so much for others without +being sincerely loved in return.”</p> + +<p>“With a kind of love, perhaps—a love that has +been bought.”</p> + +<p>“Why did you never marry, aunt?”</p> + +<p>“Because I was an heiress and a good match, +and distrusted every man who wanted to marry me. +I made a vow to myself, before my twentieth birthday, +that I would never listen to words of love or +give encouragement to a lover; and I most scrupulously +kept that vow. I was called a handsome +woman in those days; but I was not an attractive +woman at any time. Nature had made me of too +hard a clay.”</p> + +<p>“It was a pity that you should keep love at +arm’s length.”</p> + +<p>“Far better than to have been fooled by shams, +as I might have been. Don’t say any more about +it, Mildred. I made my vow, and I kept it.”</p> + +<p>Mildred resigned herself quietly to the idea of +the dull slow life in Lewes Crescent. This duty of +solacing her aunt’s declining days was the only duty +that remained to her, except that wider duty of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> +caring for the helpless and the wretched. And she +told herself that there could be no better school in +which to learn how to help others than the house of +Miss Fausset, who had given so much of her life to +the poor.</p> + +<p>She had been told to consider her aunt’s house +as her own, and that she was at liberty to receive +Pamela there as much and as often as she liked. +She did not think that Pamela would be long without +a settled home. Mr. Stuart’s admiration and +Lady Lochinvar’s wishes had been obvious; and +Mildred daily expected a gushing letter from the +fickle damsel, announcing her engagement to the +Scotchman.</p> + +<p>At four o’clock on the day after Mildred’s arrival, +Miss Fausset’s friends began to drop in for afternoon +tea and talk, and Mildred was surprised to see how +her aunt rallied in that long-familiar society. It +seemed as if the praises and flatteries of these people +acted upon her like strong wine. The languid attitude, +the weary expression of the pale drawn face, +were put aside. She sat erect again; her eyes +brightened, her ear was alert to follow three or four<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> +conversations at a time; nothing escaped her. Mildred +began to think that she had lived upon the +praises of men rather than upon the approval of +conscience—that these assiduities and flatteries of +a very commonplace circle were essential to her +happiness.</p> + +<p>Mr. Maltravers came after the vesper service, full +of life and conversation, vigorous, self-satisfied, with +an air of Papal dominion and Papal infallibility, so +implicitly believed in by his flock that he had learned +to believe as implicitly in himself. The flock was +chiefly feminine, and worshipped without limit or +reservation. There were husbands and sons, brothers +and nephews, who went to church with their womenkind +on Sunday; but these were for the most part +without enthusiasm for Mr. Maltravers. Their idea +of public worship went scarcely beyond considering +Sunday morning service a respectable institution, not +to be dispensed with lightly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Maltravers welcomed Mildred with touching +friendliness.</p> + +<p>“I knew you would not fail your aunt in the +hour of need,” he said; “and now I hope you are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> +going to stay with her, and to take up her work +when she lays it down, so that the golden thread of +womanly charity may be unbroken.”</p> + +<p>“I hope I may be able to take up her work. I +shall stay with her as long as she needs me.”</p> + +<p>“That is well. You found her sadly changed, +did you not?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she is much changed. Yet how bright she +looks this afternoon! what interest she takes in the +conversation!”</p> + +<p>“The flash of the falchion in the worn-out scabbard,” +said Mr. Maltravers.</p> + +<p>A layman might have said sword, but Mr. Maltravers +preferred falchion, as a more picturesque +word. Half the success of his preaching had lain in +the choice of picturesque words. There were sceptics +among his masculine congregation who said there +were no ideas in his sermons; only fine words, +romantic similes—a perpetual recurrence of fountains +and groves, sunset splendours and roseate +dawns, golden gates and starry canopies, seas of +glass, harps of gold. But if his female worshippers +felt better and holier after listening to him, what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> +could one ask more?—and they all declared that it +was so. They came out of church spiritualised, +overflowing with Christian love, and gave their +pence eagerly to the crossing-sweepers on their way +home.</p> + +<p>The dropping in and the tea-drinking went on +for nearly two hours. Mr. Maltravers took four cups +of tea, and consumed a good deal of bread-and-butter, +abstaining from the chocolate biscuits and the poundcake +which the ladies of the party affected; abstaining +on principle, as saints and eremites of old +abstained from high living. He allowed himself to +enjoy the delicate aroma of the tea and the delicately-cut +bread-and-butter. He was a bachelor, and lived +poorly upon badly-cooked food at his vicarage. His +only personal indulgence was in the accumulation of +a theological library, in which all the books were of +a High Church cast.</p> + +<p>When the visitors were all gone Miss Fausset +sank back into her chair, white and weary-looking, +and Mildred left her to take a little nap while she +went up to her own room, half boudoir, half dressing-room, +a spacious apartment, with a fine seaview.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> +Here she sat in a reverie, and watched the +fading sky and the slow dim stars creeping out one +by one.</p> + +<p>Was she really to take up her aunt’s work, to +live in a luxurious home, a lonely loveless woman, +and to go out in a methodical, almost mechanical +way so many times a week, to visit among the poor? +Would such a life as that satisfy her in all the long +slow years?</p> + +<p>The time would come, perhaps, when she would +find peace in such a life—when her heart would +know no grief except the griefs of others; when she +would have cast off the fetters of selfish cares and +selfish yearnings, and would stand alone, as saints +and martyrs and holy women of old had stood—alone +with God and His poor. There were women she +knew, even in these degenerate days, who so lived +and so worked, seeking no guerdon but the knowledge +of good done in this world, and the hope of the +crown immortal. Her day of sacrifice had not yet +come. She had not been able to dissever her soul +from the hopes and sorrows of earth. She had not +been able to forget the husband she had forsaken—even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> +for a single hour. When she knelt down to +pray at night, when she awoke in the morning, her +thoughts were with him. “How does he bear his +solitude? Has he learnt to forget me and to be +happy?” Those questions were ever present to her +mind.</p> + +<p>And now at Brighton, knowing herself so near +him, her heart yearned more than ever for the sight +of the familiar face, for the sound of the beloved +voice. She pored over the time-table, and calculated +the length of the journey—the time lost at Portsmouth +and Bishopstoke—every minute until the +arrival at Romsey; and then the drive to Enderby. +She pictured the lanes in the early May—the +hedgerows bursting into leaf, the banks where the +primroses were opening, the tender young ferns just +beginning to uncurl their feathery fronds, the spearpoints +of the hartstongue shooting up amidst rank +broad docks, and lords and ladies, and the flower on +the leafless blackthorn making patches of white +amongst the green.</p> + +<p>How easy it was to reach him! how natural it +would seem to hasten to him after half a year of exile!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> +and yet she must not. She had pledged herself to +honour the law; to obey the letter and the spirit of +that harsh law which decreed that her sister’s husband +could not be hers.</p> + +<p>She knew that he was at Enderby, and she had +some ground for supposing that he was well, and +even contented. She had seen the letters which he +had written to his niece. He had written about the +shooting, his horses, his dogs; and there had been +no word to indicate that he was out of health, or in +low spirits. Mildred had pored over those brief +letters, forgetting to return them to their rightful +owner, cherishing them as if they made a kind of +link between her and the love she had resigned.</p> + +<p>How firm the hand was!—that fine and individual +penmanship which she had so admired in +the past—the hand in which her first love-letter +had been written. It was but little altered in fifteen +years. She recalled the happy hour when she received +that first letter from her affianced husband. +He had gone to London a day or two after their +betrothal, eager to make all arrangements for their +marriage, impatient for settlements and legal machinery<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> +which should make their union irrevocable, +full of plans for immediate improvements at Enderby.</p> + +<p>She remembered how she ran out into the garden +to read that first letter—a long letter, though they +had been parted less than a day when it was written. +She had gone to the remotest nook in that picturesque +riverside garden, a rustic bower by the +water’s edge, an osier arbour over which her own +hands had trained the Céline Forestieri roses. They +were in flower on that happy day—clusters of pale +yellow bloom, breathing perfume round her as she +sat beneath the blossoming arch and devoured her +lover’s fond words. O, how bright life had been +then for both of them!—for her without a cloud.</p> + +<p>He was well—that was something to know; +but it was not enough. Her heart yearned for +fuller knowledge of his life than those letters gave. +Wounded pride might have prompted that cheerful +tone. He might wish her to think him happy and +at ease without her. He thought that she had used +him ill. It was natural, perhaps, that he should +think so, since he could not see things as she saw +them. He had not her deep-rooted convictions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> +She thought of him and wondered about him till the +desire for further knowledge grew into an aching +pain. She must write to some one; she must do +something to quiet this gnawing anxiety. In her +trouble she thought of all her friends in the neighbourhood +of Enderby; but there was none in whom +she could bring herself to confide except Rollinson, +the curate. She had thought first of writing to the +doctor, but he was something of a gossip, and would +be likely to prattle to his patients about her letter, +and her folly in forsaking so good a husband. Rollinson +she felt she might trust. He was a thoughtful +young man, despite his cheery manners and some +inclination to facetiousness of a strictly clerical order. +He was one of a large family, and had known trouble, +and Mildred had been especially kind to him and to +the sisters who from time to time had shared his +apartments at the carpenter’s, and had revelled in +the gaieties of Enderby parish, the penny-reading +at the schoolhouse, the sale of work for the benefit +of the choir, and an occasional afternoon for tea and +tennis at the Manor. Those maiden sisters of the +curate’s had known and admired Lola, and Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> +Rollinson had been devoted to her from his first +coming to the parish, when she was a lovely child of +seven.</p> + +<p>Mildred wrote fully and frankly to the curate.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I cannot enter upon the motive of our separation,” +she wrote, “except so far as to tell you that +it is a question of principle which has parted us. +My husband has been blameless in all his domestic +relations, the best of husbands, the noblest of men. +Loving him with all my heart, trusting and honouring +him as much as on my wedding-day, I yet felt +it my duty to leave him. I should not make this +explanation to any one else at Enderby, but I wish +you to know the truth. If people ever question you +about my reasons you can tell them that it is my +intention ultimately to enter an Anglican Sisterhood, +or it may be to found a Sisterhood, and to +devote my declining years to my sorrowing fellow-creatures. +This is my fixed intention, but my vocation +is yet weak. My heart cleaves to the old home +and all that I lost in leaving it.</p> + +<p>“And now, my kind friend, I want you to tell +me how my husband fares in his solitude. If he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> +were ill and unhappy he would be too generous to +complain to me. Tell me how he is in health and +spirits. Tell me of his daily life, his amusements, +occupations. There is not the smallest detail which +will not interest me. You see him, I hope, often; +certainly you are likely to see him oftener than any +one else in the parish. Tell me all you can, and be +assured of my undying gratitude.—Ever sincerely +yours,</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap" style="padding-right: 1em">Mildred Greswold.”</span><br> +</p> +</div> + +<p>Mr. Rollinson’s reply came by return of post:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I am very glad you have written to me, dear +Mrs. Greswold. Had I known your address, I think +I should have taken the initiative, and written to +you. Believe me, I respect your motive for the act +which has, I fear, cast a blight upon a good man’s +life; and I will venture to say no more than that the +motive should be a very strong one which forces +you to persevere in a course that has wrecked your +husband’s happiness, and desolated one of the most +delightful and most thoroughly Christian homes I +had ever the privilege of entering. I look back and +recall what Enderby Manor was, and I think what it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> +is now, and I can hardly compare those two pictures +without tears.</p> + +<p>“You ask me to tell you frankly all I can +tell about your husband’s mode of life, his health +and spirits. All I can tell is summed up in four +words: his heart is broken. In my deep concern +about his desolate position, in my heartfelt regard +for him, I have ventured to force my society upon +him sometimes when I could not doubt it was +unwelcome. He received me with all his old kindness +of manner; but I am sympathetic enough to +know when a man only endures my company, and I +know that his feeling was at best endurance. But +I believe that he trusts me, and that he was less +upon his guard with me than he is with other +acquaintances. I have seen him put on an appearance +of cheerfulness with other people. I have heard +him talk to other people as if life had in nowise lost +its interest for him. With me he dropped the mask. +I saw him brooding by his hearth, as he broods +when he is alone. I heard his involuntary sighs. +I saw the image of a shipwrecked existence. Indeed, +Mrs. Greswold, there is nothing else that I can tell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> +you if you would have me truthful. You have +broken his heart. You have sacrificed your love to +a principle, you say. You should be very sure of +your principle. You ask me as to his habits and +occupations. I believe they are about as monotonous +as those of a galley-slave. He walks a great deal—in +all weathers and at all hours—but rarely beyond +his own land. I don’t think he often rides; and he +has not hunted once during the season. He did a +little shooting in October and November, quite alone. +He has had no staying visitor within his doors since +you left him.</p> + +<p>“I have reason to know that he goes to the +churchyard every evening at dusk, and spends some +time beside your daughter’s grave. I have seen him +there several times when it was nearly dark, and he +had no apprehension of being observed. You know +how rarely any one enters our quiet little burial-ground, +and how complete a solitude it is at that +twilight hour. I am about the only passer-by, and +even I do not pass within sight of the old yew-tree +above your darling’s resting-place, unless I go a +little out of my way between the vestry-door and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> +lych-gate. I have often gone out of my way to note +that lonely figure by the grave. Be assured, dear +Mrs. Greswold, that in sending you this gloomy +picture of a widowed life I have had no wish to +distress you. I have exaggerated nothing. I wish +you to know the truth; and if it lies within your +power—without going against your conscience—to +undo that which you have done, I entreat you to do +so without delay. There may not be much time to +be lost.—Believe me, devotedly and gratefully your +friend,</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap" style="padding-right: 1em">Frederick Rollinson.”</span><br> +</p> +</div> +<br> + +<p>Mildred shed bitter tears over the curate’s letter. +How different the picture it offered from that afforded +by George Greswold’s own letters, in which he had +written cheerily of the shooting, the dogs and horses, +the changes in the seasons, and the events of the +outer world! That frank easy tone had been part of +his armour of pride. He would not abase himself +by the admission of his misery. He had guessed, +no doubt, that his wife would read those letters, and +he would not have her know the extent of the ruin +she had wrought.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> + +<p>She thought of him in his solitude, pictured him +beside their child’s grave, and the longing to look +upon him once more—unseen by him, if it could +be so—became irresistible. She determined to see +with her own eyes if he were as unhappy as Mr. +Rollinson supposed. She, who knew him so well, +would be better able to judge by his manner and +bearing—better able to divine the inner workings +of his heart and mind. It had been a habit of her +life to read his face, to guess his thoughts before +they found expression in words. He had never been +able to keep a secret from her, except that one long-hidden +story of the past; and even there she had +known that there was something. She had seen +the shadow of that abiding remorse.</p> + +<p>“I am going to leave you for two days, aunt,” +she said rather abruptly, on the morning after she +received Rollinson’s letter. “I want to look at +Lola’s grave. I shall go from here to Enderby as +fast as the train will take me; spend an hour in the +churchyard; go on to Salisbury for the night; and +come back to you to-morrow afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that you are going back to your +husband?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> + +<p>“No, no. I may see him, perhaps, by accident. +I shall not enter the Manor House. I am going to +the churchyard—nowhere else.”</p> + +<p>“You would be wiser if you went straight home. +Remember, years hence, when I am dead and gone, +that I told you as much. You must do as you like—stay +at an inn at Salisbury, while your own +beautiful home is empty, or anything else that is +foolish and wrong-headed. You had better let Franz +go with you.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks, aunt; I would not take him away on +any account. I can get on quite well by myself.”</p> + +<p>She left Brighton at midday, lost a good deal of +time at the two junctions, and drove to within a few +hundred yards of Enderby Church just as the bright +May day was melting into evening. There was a +path across some meadows at the back of the +village that led to the churchyard. She stopped the +fly by the meadow-gate, and told the man to drive +round to Mr. Rollinson’s lodgings, and wait for her +there; and then she walked slowly along the narrow +footpath, between the long grass, golden with buttercups +in the golden evening.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> + +<p>It was a lovely evening. There was a little wood +of oaks and chestnuts on her left hand as she +approached the churchyard, and the shrubberies of +Enderby Manor were on her right. The trees she +knew so well—her own trees—the tall mountain-ash +and the clump of beeches, rose above the lower level +of lilacs and laburnums, acacia and rose maple. +There was a nightingale singing in the thick foliage +yonder—there was always a nightingale at this +season somewhere in the shrubbery. She had lingered +many a time with her husband to listen to that +unmistakable melody.</p> + +<p>The dark foliage of the churchyard made an inky +blot midst all that vernal greenery. Those immemorial +yews, which knew no change with the changing +years, spread their broad shadows over the lowly +graves, and made night in God’s acre while it was +yet day in the world outside. Mildred went into the +churchyard as if into the realm of death. The +shadows closed round her on every side, and the +change from light to gloom chilled her as she +walked slowly towards the place where her child was +lying.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p> + +<p>Yes, he was there, just as the curate had told +her. He stood leaning against the long horizontal +branch of the old yew, looking down at the marble +which bore his daughter’s name. He was very pale, +and his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks told of failing +health. He stood motionless, in a gloomy reverie. +His wife watched him from a little way off; she +stood motionless as himself—stood and watched him +till the beating of her heart sounded so loud in her +own ears that she thought he too must hear that +passionate throbbing.</p> + +<p>She had thought when she set out on her +journey that it would be sufficient for her just to see +him, and that having seen him she would go away +and leave him without his ever knowing that she +had looked upon him. But now the time had come +it was not enough. The impulse to draw nearer and +to speak to him was too strong to be denied: she +went with tottering footsteps to the side of the grave, +and called him by his name:</p> + +<p>“George! George!” holding out her hands to +him piteously.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br> +<span class="fs70">“HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?”</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> marble countenance scarcely changed as he +looked up at her. He took no notice of the outstretched +hands.</p> + +<p>“What brings you here, Mildred?” he asked +coldly.</p> + +<p>“I heard that you were ill; I wanted to see for +myself,” she faltered.</p> + +<p>“I am not ill, and I have not been ill. You +were misinformed.”</p> + +<p>“I was told you were unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“Did you require to be told that? You did not +expect to hear that I was particularly happy, I +suppose? At my age men have forgotten how to +forget.”</p> + +<p>“It would be such a relief to my mind if you +could find new occupations, new interests, as I hope +to do by and by—a wider horizon. You are so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> +clever. You have so many gifts, and it is a pity to +bury them all here.”</p> + +<p>“My heart is buried here,” he answered, looking +down at the grave.</p> + +<p>“Your heart, yes; but you might find work for +your mind—a noble career before you—in politics, +in philanthropy.”</p> + +<p>“I am not ambitious, and I am too old to adapt +myself to a new life. I prefer to live as I am living. +Enderby is my hermitage. It suits me well enough.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence after this—a silence of despair. +Mildred knelt on the dewy grass, and bent +herself over the marble cross, and kissed the cold +stone. She could reach no nearer than that marble +to the child she loved. Her lips lingered there. +Her heart ached with a dull pain, and she felt the +utter hopelessness of her life more keenly than she +had felt it yet. If she could but die there, at his +feet, and make an end!</p> + +<p>She rose after some minutes. Her husband’s +attitude was unchanged; but he looked at her now, +for the first time, with a direct and earnest gaze.</p> + +<p>“What took you to Nice?” he asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> + +<p>“I wanted to know—all about my unhappy +sister.”</p> + +<p>“And you are satisfied—you know all; and you +think as some of my neighbours thought of me. +You believe that I killed my wife.”</p> + +<p>“George, can you think so meanly of me—your +wife of fourteen years?”</p> + +<p>“You spare me, then, so far, in spite of circumstantial +evidence. You do not think of me as a +murderer?”</p> + +<p>“I have never for a moment doubted your goodness +to that unhappy girl,” she answered, with a +stifled sob. “I am sorry for her with all my heart; +but I cannot blame you.”</p> + +<p>“There you are wrong. I was to blame. You +know that I do not easily lose my temper—to a +woman, least of all; but that day I lost control over +myself—lost patience with her just when she was in +greatest need of my forbearance. She was nervous +and hysterical. I forgot her weakness. I spoke to +her cruelly—lashed and goaded by her causeless +jealousies—so persistent, so irritating—like the +continual dropping of water. How I have suffered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> +for that moment of anger God alone can know. If +remorse can be expiation, I have expiated that unpremeditated +sin!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, I know how you have suffered. Your +dreams have told me.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, those dreams! You can never imagine +the agony of them. To fancy her walking by my +side, bright and happy, as she so seldom was upon +this earth, and to tell myself that I had never been +unkind to her, that her suicide was a dream and a +delusion, and then to feel the dull cold reality creep +back into my brain, and to know that I was guilty of +her death. Yes, I have held myself guilty. I have +never paltered with my conscience. Had I been +patient to the end, she might have lived to be the +happy mother of my child. Her whole life might +have been changed. I never loved her, Mildred. +Fate and her own impulsive nature flung her into +my arms; but I accepted the charge; I made myself +responsible to God and my own conscience for her +well-being.”</p> + +<p>Mildred’s only answer was a sob. She stretched +out her hand, and laid it falteringly upon the hand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> +that hung loose across the branch of the yew, as if +in token of trustfulness.</p> + +<p>“Did you find out anything more in your retrospective +gropings—at Nice?” he asked, with a touch +of bitterness.</p> + +<p>She was silent.</p> + +<p>“Did you hear that I was out of my mind after +my wife’s death?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Did that shock you? Did it horrify you to +know you had lived fourteen years with a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ci-devant</i> +lunatic?”</p> + +<p>“George, how can you say such things! I +could perfectly understand how your mind was +affected by that dreadful event—how the strongest +brain might be unhinged by such a sorrow. I can +sympathise with you, and understand you in the +past as I can in the present. How can you forget +that I am your wife, a part of yourself, able to read +all your thoughts?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot forget that you have been my wife; +but your sympathy and your affection seem very far +off now—as remote almost as that tragedy which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> +darkened my youth. It is all past and done with—the +sorrow and pain, the hope and gladness. I have +done with everything—except my regret for my +child.”</p> + +<p>“Can you believe that I feel the parting less than +you, George?” she asked piteously.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. The parting is your work. You +have the satisfaction of self-sacrifice—the pride which +women who go to church twice a day have in renouncing +earthly happiness. They school themselves +first in trifles—giving up this and that—theatres, +fiction, cheerful society—and then their ambition +widens. These petty sacrifices are not enough, and +they renounce a husband and a home. If the husband +cannot see the necessity, and cannot kiss the +rod, so much the worse for him. His wife has the +perverted pride of an Indian widow who flings her +young life upon the funeral pile, jubilant at the +thought of her own exalted virtue.”</p> + +<p>“Would you not sacrifice your happiness to your +conscience, George, if conscience spoke plainly?” +Mildred asked reproachfully.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. Human love might be too strong<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> +for conscience. God knows I would not have sacrificed +you to a scruple—to a law made by man. +God’s laws are different. There is no doubt about +them.”</p> + +<p>The evening was darkening. The nightingale +burst out suddenly into loud melody, more joyous +than her reputation. Mildred could see the lights +in the house that had been her home. The lamp-light +in the drawing-room shone across the intervening +space of lawn and shrubberies; the broad +window shone vividly at the end of a vista, like a +star. O lovely room, O happy life; so far off, so +impossible for evermore!</p> + +<p>“Good-night and good-bye,” Mildred sighed, +holding out her hand.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” he answered, taking the small cold +hand, only to let it drop again.</p> + +<p>He made no inquiry as to how she had come +there, or whither she was going. She had appeared +to him suddenly as a spirit in the soft eventide, and +he let her go from him unquestioned, as if she had +been a spirit. She felt the coldness of her dismissal, +and yet felt that it could be no otherwise. She must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> +be all to him or nothing. After love so perfect as +theirs had been there could be no middle course.</p> + +<p>She went across the meadow by the way she had +come, and through the village street, where all the +doors were closed at this hour, and paraffin-lamps +glowed brightly in parlour-windows. Dear little +humble street, how her heart yearned over it as she +went silently by like a ghost, closely veiled, a slender +figure dressed in black! She had been very fond of +her villagers, had entered into their lives and been a +brightening influence for most of them, she and her +child. Lola had been familiar with every creature in +the place, from the humpbacked cobbler at the corner +to the gray-haired postmaster in the white half-timbered +cottage yonder, where the letter-boxes were +approached by a narrow path across a neat little +garden. Lola had entered into all their lives, and +had been glad and sorry with them with a power of +sympathy which was the only precocious element in +her nature. She had been a child in all things +except charity; there she had been a woman.</p> + +<p>There was a train for Salisbury in half-an-hour, +and there was a later train at ten o’clock. Mildred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> +had intended to travel at the earlier hour, but she +felt an irresistible inclination to linger in the beloved +place where her happiness was buried. She +wanted to see some one who would talk to her of her +husband, and she knew that the curate could be +trusted; so she determined upon waiting for the +later train, in the event of her finding Mr. Rollinson +at home.</p> + +<p>The paraffin-lamp in the parlour over the carpenter’s +shop was brighter than any other in the +village, and Mr. Rollinson’s shadow was reflected on +the blind, with the usual tendency towards caricature. +The carpenter’s wife, who opened the door, was an old +friend of Mrs. Greswold’s, and was not importunate +in her expressions of surprise and pleasure.</p> + +<p>“Please do not mention to any one that I have +been at Enderby, Mrs. Mason,” Mildred said quietly. +“I am only here for an hour or two on my way to +Salisbury. I should like to see Mr. Rollinson, if +he is disengaged.”</p> + +<p>“Of course he is, ma’am, for you. He’ll be +overjoyed to see you, I’m sure.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mason bustled up the steep little staircase,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> +followed closely by Mildred. She flung open the +door with a flourish, and discovered Mr. Rollinson +enjoying a tea-dinner, with the <cite>Times</cite> propped up +between his plate and the teapot.</p> + +<p>He started to his feet at sight of his visitor like +a man distraught, darted forward and shook hands +with Mildred, then glanced despairingly at the table. +For such a guest he would have liked to have had +turtle and ortolans; but a tea-dinner, a vulgar tea-dinner—a +dish of pig’s trotters, a couple of new-laid +eggs, and a pile of buttered toast! He had thought +it a luxurious meal when he sat down to it, five +minutes ago, very sharp set.</p> + +<p>“My dear Mrs. Greswold, I am enchanted. You +have been travelling? Yes. If—if you would share +my humble collation—but you are going to dine at +the Manor, no doubt.”</p> + +<p>“No; I am not going to the Manor. I should +be very glad of a cup of tea, if I may have one with +you.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Mason, a fresh teapot, directly, if you +please.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> + +<p>“And could you not get some dinner for Mrs. +Greswold? A sole and a chicken, a little asparagus. +I saw a bundle in the village the day before yesterday,” +suggested the curate feebly.</p> + +<p>“On no account. I could not eat any dinner. I +will have an egg and a little toast, if you please,” +said Mildred, seeing the curate’s distressed look, and +not wishing to reject his hospitality.</p> + +<p>“Will you really, now? Mrs. Mason’s eggs are +excellent; and she makes toast better than any +one else in the world, I think,” replied Rollinson, +flinging his napkin artfully over the trotters, and +with a side glance at Mrs. Mason which implored +their removal.</p> + +<p>That admirable woman grasped the situation. +She whisked off the dish, and the curate’s plate with +its litter of bones and mustard. She swept away +crumbs, tidied the tea-tray, brought a vase of spring +flowers from a cheffonier to adorn the table, lighted +a pair of wax candles on the mantelpiece, and gave +a touch of elegance to the humble sitting-room, +while Mildred was taking off her mantle and bonnet, +and sinking wearily into Mr. Rollinson’s easy-chair<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> +by the hearth, where a basket of fir-cones replaced +the winter fire.</p> + +<p>She felt glad to be with this old familiar friend—glad +to breathe the very air of Enderby after her +six months’ exile.</p> + +<p>“Your letter frightened me,” she said, when +she was alone with the curate. “I came to look +at my husband. I could not help coming.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, dear Mrs. Greswold, if you could only +come back for good—nothing else is of any use. +Have you seen him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she sighed.</p> + +<p>“And you find him sadly changed?”</p> + +<p>“Sadly changed. I wish you would try to rouse +him—to interest him in farming—building—politics—anything. +He is so clever; he ought to have so +many resources.”</p> + +<p>“For his mind, perhaps; but not for his heart. +You are doing all you can to break that.”</p> + +<p>Mildred turned her head aside with a weary +movement, as of a creature at bay.</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk about it. You cannot understand.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> +You look up to Clement Cancellor, I think. You +would respect his opinion.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; he is a good man.”</p> + +<p>“He is—and he approves the course I have +taken. He is my confidant and my counsellor.”</p> + +<p>“You could have no better adviser in a case of +conscience—yet I can but regret my friend’s ruined +life, all the same. But I will say no more, Mrs. +Greswold. I will respect your reserve.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mason came bustling in with a tea-tray, on +which her family teapot—the silver teapot that had +been handed down from generation to generation +since the days of King George the Third—and her +very best pink and gold china sparkled and glittered +in the lamp-light. The toast and eggs might +have tempted an anchorite, and Mildred had eaten +nothing since her nine-o’clock breakfast. The strong +tea revived her like good old wine, and she sat +resting and listening with interest to Mr. Rollinson’s +account of his parishioners, and the village chronicle +of the last six months. How sweet it was to hear +the old familiar names, to be in the old place, if only +for a brief hour!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> + +<p>“I wonder if they miss me?” she speculated. +“They never seemed quite the same—after—after +the fever.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but they know your value now. They +have missed you sadly, and they have missed your +husband’s old friendly interest in their affairs. He +has given me <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">carte blanche</i>, and there has been no +one neglected, nothing left undone; but they miss the +old personal relations, the friendship of past days. +You must not think that the poor care only for +creature comforts and substantial benefits.”</p> + +<p>“I have never thought so. And now tell me +all you can about my husband. Does he receive no +one?”</p> + +<p>“No one. People used to call upon him for a +month or two after you left, but he never returned +their visits, he declined all invitations, and he made +his friends understand pretty clearly that he had done +with the outside world. He rarely comes to +the eleven-o’clock service on Sundays, but he comes +to the early services, and I believe he walks into +Romsey sometimes for the evening service. He has +not hardened his heart against his God.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p> + +<p>“Do you see him often?”</p> + +<p>“About once a week. I take him my report of +the sick and poor. I believe he is as much interested +in that as he can be in anything; but I always feel +that my society is a burden to him, in spite of +his courteousness. I borrow a book from him sometimes, +so as to have an excuse for spending a few +minutes with him when I return it.”</p> + +<p>“You are a good man, Mr. Rollinson, a true +friend,” said Mildred, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“Would to God that my friendship could do more +for him! Unhappily it can do so little.”</p> + +<p>The fly came back for Mildred at nine o’clock. +She had telegraphed from Brighton to the inn at +Salisbury where she was to spend the night, and her +room was ready for her when she arrived there +at half-past ten: a spacious bedroom with a four-post +bed, in which she lay broad awake all night, living +over and over again that scene beside the grave, and +seeing her husband’s gloomy face, and its mute +reproach. She knew that she had done wrong +in breaking in upon his solitude, she who renounced +the tie that bound her to him; and yet there had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> +been something gained. He knew now that under +no stress of evidence could she ever believe him +guilty of his wife’s death. He knew that his last +and saddest secret was revealed to her, and that she +was loyal to him still—loyal although divided.</p> + +<p>She went to the morning service at the Cathedral. +She lingered about the grave old Close, looking +dreamily in at the gardens which had such an air of +old-world peace. She was reluctant to leave Salisbury. +It was near all that she had loved and lost. +The place had the familiar air of the district in which +she had lived so long—different in somewise from all +other places, or seeming different by fond association.</p> + +<p>She telegraphed to her aunt that she might be +late in returning, and lingered on till three o’clock in +the afternoon, and then took the train, which dawdled +at three or four stations before it came to Bishopstoke—the +familiar junction where the station-master and +the superintendents knew her, and asked after her +husband’s health, giving her a pain at her heart with +each inquiry. She would have been glad to pass +to the Portsmouth train unrecognised, but it was +not to be.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p> + +<p>“You have been in the South all the winter, I +hear, ma’am. I hope it was not on account of your +health?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she faltered, “partly on that account,” +as she hurried on to the carriage which the station-master +opened for her with his own hand.</p> + +<p>His face was among her home faces. She had +travelled up and down the line very often in the good +days that were gone—with her husband and Lola, +and their comfort had been cared for almost as if +they had been royal personages.</p> + +<p>It was night when she reached Brighton, and +Franz was on the platform waiting for her, and the +irreproachable brougham was drawn up close by, the +brown horse snorting, and with eyes of fire, not +brooking the vicinity of the engine, though too grand +a creature to know fear.</p> + +<p>She found Miss Fausset in low spirits.</p> + +<p>“I have missed you terribly,” she said. “I am +a poor creature. I used to think myself independent +of sympathy or companionship—but that is all over +now. When I am alone for two days at a stretch I +feel like a child in the dark.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> + +<p>“You have lived too long in this house, aunt, +I think,” Mildred answered gently. “Forgive me +if I say that it is a dull house.”</p> + +<p>“A dull house? Nonsense, Mildred! It is one +of the best houses in Brighton.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, aunt, but it is dull, all the same. +The sun does not shine into it; the colouring of the +furniture is gray and cold—”</p> + +<p>“I hate gaudy colours.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but there are beautiful colours that are not +gaudy—beautiful things that warm and gladden one. +The next room,” glancing back at the front drawing-room +and its single lamp, “is full of ghosts. Those +long white curtains, those faint gray walls, are enough +to kill you.”</p> + +<p>“I am not so fanciful as that.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but you are fanciful, perhaps without +knowing it. The influence of this dull gray house +may have crept into your veins and depressed you +unawares. Will you go to the Italian Lakes with +me next September, aunt? Or, better, will you go +to the West of England with me next week—to the +north coast of Cornwall, which will be lovely at this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> +season? I am sure you want change. This monotonous +life is killing you.”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Mildred. There is nothing amiss with +my life. It suits me well enough, and I am able to +do good.”</p> + +<p>“Your lieutenants could carry on all that while +you were away.”</p> + +<p>“No; I like to be here; I like to organise, to +arrange. I can feel that my life is not useless, that +my talent is placed at interest.”</p> + +<p>“It could all go on, aunt; it could indeed. +The change to new scenes would revive you.”</p> + +<p>“No. I am satisfied where I am. I am among +people whom I like, and who like and respect me.”</p> + +<p>She dwelt upon the last words with unction, as +if there were tangible comfort in them.</p> + +<p>Mildred sighed and was silent. She had felt it +her duty to try and rouse her aunt from the dull +apathy into which she seemed gradually sinking, and +she thought that the only chance of revival was to +remove her from the monotony of her present existence.</p> + +<p>Later on in the evening the fire had been lighted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> +in the inner drawing-room, Miss Fausset feeling +chilly, in spite of the approach of summer, and aunt +and niece drew near the hearth for cheerfulness and +comfort. The low reading-lamp spread its light only +over Miss Fausset’s book-table and the circle in +which it stood. The faces of both women were in +shadow, and the lofty room with its walls of books +was full of shadows.</p> + +<p>“You talk so despondently of life sometimes, +aunt, as if it had been all disappointment,” said +Mildred, after a long silence, in which they had both +sat watching the fire, each absorbed by her own +thoughts; “yet your girlhood must have been +bright. I have heard my dear father say how indulgent +his father was, how he gave way to his children +in everything.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he was very indulgent; too indulgent perhaps. +I had my own way in everything; only—one’s +own way does not always lead to happiness. Mine +did not. I might have been a happier woman if +my father had been a tyrant.”</p> + +<p>“You would have married, perhaps, in that case, +to escape from an unhappy home. I wish you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> +would tell me more about your girlish years, aunt. +You must have had many admirers when you were +young, and amongst them all there must have been +some one for whom you cared—just a little. Would +it hurt you to talk to me about that old time?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Mildred. There are some women who +can talk about such things—women who can prose +for hours to their granddaughters or their nieces—simpering +over the silliness of the past—boasting +of conquests which nobody believes in; for it is very +difficult to realise the fact that an old woman was ever +young and lovely. I am not of that temper, Mildred. +The memory of my girlhood is hateful to me.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, then there was some sad story—some +unhappy attachment. I was sure it must have been +so,” said Mildred, in a low voice. “But tell me of +that happier time before you went into society—the +time when you were in Italy with your governess, +studying at the Conservatoire at Milan. I thought +of you so much when I was at Milan the other +day.”</p> + +<p>“I have nothing to tell about that time. I was +a foreigner in a strange city, with an elderly woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> +who was paid to take care of me, and whose chief +occupation was to take care of herself: a solicitor’s +widow, whose health required that she should winter +in the South, and who contrived to make my father +pay handsomely for her benefit.”</p> + +<p>“And you were not happy at Milan?”</p> + +<p>“Happy! no. I got on with my musical education—that +was all I cared for.”</p> + +<p>“Had you no friends—no introductions to nice +people?”</p> + +<p>“No. My chaperon made my father believe +that she knew all the best families in Milan, but +her circle resolved itself into a few third-rate musical +people who gave shabby little evening-parties. +You bore me to death, Mildred, when you force me +to talk of that time, and of that woman, whom I +hated.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, aunt, I will ask no more questions,” +said Mildred, with a sigh.</p> + +<p>She had been trying to get nearer to her kinswoman, +to familiarise herself with that dim past +when this fading life was fresh and full of hope. +It seemed to her as if there was a dead wall between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> +her and Miss Fausset—a barrier of reserve which +should not exist between those who were so +near in blood. She had made up her mind to stay +with her aunt to the end, to do all that duty and +affection could suggest, and it troubled her that they +should still be strangers. After this severe repulse +she could make no further attempt. There was +evidently no softening influence in the memory of +the past. Miss Fausset’s character, as revealed by +that which she concealed rather than by that which +she told, was not beautiful. Mildred could but +think that she had been a proud, cold-hearted young +woman, valuing herself too highly to inspire love or +sympathy in others; electing to be alone and +unloved.</p> + +<p>After this, time went by in a dull monotony. +The same people came to see Miss Fausset day after +day, and she absorbed the same flatteries, accepted +the same adulation, always with an air of deepest +humility. She organised her charities, she listened +to every detail about the circumstances, and even the +mental condition and spiritual views of her poor. Mildred +discovered before long that there was a leaven of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> +hardness in her benevolence. She could not tolerate +sin, she weighed every life in the same balance, she +expected exceptional purity amidst foulest surroundings. +She was liberal of her worldly goods; but +her mind was as narrow as if she had lived in a +remote village a hundred years ago. Mildred found +herself continually pleading for wrong-doers.</p> + +<p>The only event or excitement which the bright +June days brought with them was the arrival of +Pamela Ransome, who was escorted to Brighton by +Lady Lochinvar herself, and who had been engaged +for the space of three weeks to Malcolm Stuart, with +everybody’s consent and approval.</p> + +<p>“I wrote to Uncle George the very day I was +engaged, aunt, as well as to you; and he answered +my letter in the sweetest way, and he is going to +give me a grand piano,” said Pamela, all in a breath.</p> + +<p>Lady Lochinvar explained that, much as she +detested London, she had felt it her solemn duty to +establish herself there during her nephew’s engagement, +in order that she might become acquainted +with Pamela’s people, and assist her dear boy in all +his arrangements for the future. When a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> +man marries a nice girl with an estate worth fifteen +hundred a year—allowing for the poor return made +by land nowadays—everything ought to go upon +velvet. Lady Lochinvar was prepared to make +sacrifices, or, in other words, to contribute a handsome +portion of that fortune which she intended to +bequeath to her nephew. She could afford to be +generous, having a surplus far beyond her possible +needs, and she was very fond of Malcolm Stuart, +who had been to her as a son.</p> + +<p>“I was quite alone in the world when my husband +died,” she told Mildred. “My father and my +own people were all gone, and I should have been a +wretched creature without Malcolm. He was the +only son of Lochinvar’s favourite sister, who went +off in a decline when he was eight years old, and he +had been brought up at the Castle. So it is natural, +you see, that I should be fond of him and interested +in his welfare.”</p> + +<p>Pamela kissed her, by way of commentary.</p> + +<p>“I think you are quite the dearest thing in the +world,” she said, “except Aunt Mildred.”</p> + +<p>It may be seen from this remark that the elder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> +and younger lady were now on very easy terms. +Mildred had stayed in Paris with Lady Lochinvar, +and a considerable part of her trousseau, the outward +and visible part, had been chosen in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ateliers</i> of +fashionable Parisian dressmakers and man milliners. +The more humdrum portion of the bride’s raiment +was to be obtained at Brighton, where Pamela was +to spend a week or two with her aunt before she +went to London to stay with the Mountfords, who +had taken a house in Grosvenor Gardens, from which +Pamela was to be married.</p> + +<p>“And where do you think we are to be married, +aunt?” exclaimed Pamela excitedly.</p> + +<p>“At St. George’s?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing so humdrum. We are going to be +married in the Abbey—in Westminster Abbey—the +burial-place of heroes and poets. I happened to say +one day when Malcolm and I were almost strangers—it +was at Rumpelmeyer’s, sitting outside in the +sun, eating ices—that I had never seen a wedding +in the Abbey, and that I should love to see one; and +Malcolm said we must try and manage it some day—meaning +anybody’s wedding, of course, though he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> +pretends now that he always meant to marry me +there himself.”</p> + +<p>“Presumptious on his part,” said Mildred, +smiling.</p> + +<p>“O, young men are horribly presumptious; they +know they are in a minority—there is so little competition—and +a plain young man, too, like Malcolm. +But I suppose he knows he is nice,” added Pamela +conclusively.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think it will be lovely for me to be +married in the Abbey?” she asked presently.</p> + +<p>“I think, dear, in your case I would rather have +been married from my own house, and in a village +church.”</p> + +<p>“What, in that poky little church at Mapledown? +I believe it is one of the oldest in England, +and it is certainly one of the ugliest. Sir Henry +Mountford suggested making a family business of +it; but Rosalind and I were both in favour of the +Abbey. We shall get much better notices in the +society papers,” added Pamela, with a business-like +air, as if she had been talking about the production +of a new play.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, dear, as I hope you are only to be married +once in your life, you have a right to choose your +church.”</p> + +<p>Pamela was bitterly disappointed presently when +her aunt refused to be present at her wedding.</p> + +<p>“I will spend an hour with you on your wedding +morning, and see you in your wedding-gown, if you +like, Pamela; but I cannot go among a crowd of gay +people, or share in any festivity. I have done with +all those things, dear, for ever and ever.”</p> + +<p>Pamela’s candid eyes filled with tears. She felt +all the more sorry for her aunt, because her own cup +of happiness was overflowing. She looked round +the silver-gray drawing-room, and her eyes fixed +themselves on the piano which <em>he</em> had played, so +often, so often, in the tender twilight, in the shadowy +evening when that larger room was left almost without +any light save that which came through the +undraped archway yonder. But Castellani was no +longer a person to be thought of in italics. From +the moment Pamela’s eyes had opened to the excellence +of Mr. Stuart’s manly and straightforward +character, they had also become aware of the Italian’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> +deficiencies. She had realised the fact that he was +a charlatan; and now she looked wonderingly at the +piano, at a loss to understand the intensity of bygone +emotions, and inclined to excuse herself upon +the ground of youthful foolishness.</p> + +<p>“What a silly romantic wretch I must have +been!” she thought; “a regular Rosa Matilda! As +if the happiness of life depended upon one’s husband +having an ear for music!”</p> + +<p>Mildred was by no means unsympathetic about +the trousseau, although she herself had done with +all interest in fashion and finery. She drove about +to the pretty Brighton shops with Pamela, and exercised +a restraining influence upon that young lady’s +taste, which inclined to the florid. She sympathised +with the young lady’s anxiety about her wedding-gown, +which was to be made by a certain Mr. +Smithson, a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">faiseur</i> who held potent sway over the +ladies of fashionable London, and who gave himself +more airs than a Prime Minister. Mr. Smithson +had consented to make Miss Ransome a wedding-gown—despite +her social insignificance and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> +pressure of the season—provided that he were not +worried about the affair.</p> + +<p>“If I have too many people calling upon me, or +am pestered with letters, I shall throw the thing +up,” he told Lady Mountford one morning, when +she took him some fine old rose-point for the petticoat. +“Yes, this lace is pretty good. I suppose +you got it in Venice. I have seen Miss Ransome, +and I know what kind of gown she can wear. It +will be sent home the day before the wedding.”</p> + +<p>With this assurance, haughtily given, Lady +Mountford and her sister had to be contented.</p> + +<p>“If I were your sister I would let a woman in +Tottenham Court Road make my gowns rather than +I would stand such treatment,” said Sir Henry; at +which his wife shrugged her shoulders and told him +he knew nothing about it.</p> + +<p>“The cut is everything,” she said. “It is worth +putting up with Smithson’s insolence to know that +one is the best-dressed woman in the room.”</p> + +<p>“But if Smithson dresses all the other women—”</p> + +<p>“He doesn’t. There are very few who have the +courage to go to him. His manners are so humiliating—he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> +as good as told me I had a hump—and his +prices are enormous.”</p> + +<p>“And yet you call me extravagant for giving +seventy pounds for a barb!” cried Sir Henry; “a +bird that might bring me a pot of money in prizes.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The grand question of trousseau and wedding-gown +being settled, there remained only a point of +minor importance—the honeymoon. Pamela was +in favour of that silly season being spent in some +rustic spot, far from the madding crowd, and +Pamela’s lover was of her opinion in everything.</p> + +<p>“We have both seen the best part of the Continent,” +said Pamela, taking tea in Mildred’s upstairs +sitting-room, which had assumed a brighter +and more home-like aspect in her occupation than +any other room in Miss Fausset’s house; “we don’t +want to rush off to Switzerland or the Pyrenees; we +want just to enjoy each other’s society and to make +our plans for the future. Besides, travelling is so +hideously unbecoming. I have seen brides with +dusty hats and smuts on their faces who would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> +been miserable if they had only known what objects +they were.”</p> + +<p>“I think you and Mr. Stuart are very wise in +your choice, dear,” answered Mildred. “England +in July is delicious. Have you decided where to +go?”</p> + +<p>“No, we can’t make up our minds. We want to +find a place that is exquisitely pretty—yet not too +far from London, so that we may run up to town +occasionally and see about our furnishing. Sir +Henry offered us Rainham, but as it is both ugly +and inconvenient I unhesitatingly refused. I don’t +want to spend my honeymoon in a place pervaded by +prize pigeons.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think of the neighbourhood of +the Thames, Pamela?” asked Mildred thoughtfully. +“Are you fond of boating?”</p> + +<p>“Fond! I adore it. I could live all my life upon +the river.”</p> + +<p>“Really! I have been thinking that if you and +Mr. Stuart would like to spend your honeymoon at +The Hook it is just the kind of place to suit you.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> +The house is bright and pretty, and the gardens are +exquisite.”</p> + +<p>Pamela’s face kindled with pleasure.</p> + +<p>“But, dear aunt, you would never think—” she +began.</p> + +<p>“The place is at your service, my dear girl. It +will be a pleasure for me to prepare everything for +you. I cannot tell you how dearly I love that house, +or how full of memories it is for me. The lease of +my father’s house in Parchment Street was sold +after his death, and I only kept a few special things +out of the furniture, but at The Hook nothing has +been altered since I was a child.”</p> + +<p>Pamela accepted the offer with rapture, and wrote +an eight-page letter to her lover upon the subject, +although he was coming to Brighton next day, and +was to dine in Lewes Crescent. Mildred was pleased +at being able to give so much pleasure to her husband’s +niece. It may be also that she snatched +at an excuse for revisiting a spot she fondly +loved.</p> + +<p>She offered to take Pamela with her, to explore +the house and gardens, and discuss any small<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> +arrangements for the bride’s comfort, but against this +Miss Ransome protested.</p> + +<p>“I want everything to be new to us,” she said, +“all untrodden ground, a delicious surprise. I am +sure the place is lovely; and I want to know no more +about it than I know of fairyland. I haven’t the +faintest notion what a Hook can be in connection +with the Thames. It may be a mountain or a +glacier, for anything I know to the contrary; but I +am assured it is delightful. Please let me know +nothing more, dearest aunt, till I go there with +Malcolm. It is adorable of you to hit upon such a +splendid idea. And it will look very well in the +society papers,” added Pamela, waxing business-like. +“‘Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Stuart!’ (O, how +queer that sounds!) ‘are to spend their honeymoon +at The Hook, the riverside residence of the bride’s +aunt.’ I wonder whether they will say ‘the well-known +residence’?” mused Pamela.</p> + +<p>Mildred went up to town with Miss Ransome +and her betrothed at the end of the young lady’s +visit. Miss Fausset had been coldly gracious, after +her manner, had allowed Mr. Stuart to come to her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> +house whenever he pleased, and had given up the +rarely-used front drawing-room to the lovers, who +sat and whispered and tittered over their own little +witticisms, by the distant piano, and behaved +altogether like those proverbial children of whom +we are told in our childhood, who are seen but not +heard. Mildred lunched in Grosvenor Gardens, +and went to Chertsey by an afternoon train. The +housekeeper who had once ruled over both Mr. +Fausset’s houses, subject to interference from Bell, +was now caretaker at The Hook, with a housemaid +under her. She was an elderly woman, but considerably +Bell’s junior, and she was an admirable +cook and manager. A telegram two days before +had told her to expect her mistress, and the house +was in perfect order when Mrs. Greswold arrived in +the summer twilight. All things had been made to +look as if the place were in family occupation, though +no one but the two servants had been living +there since Mr. Fausset’s death. The familiar aspect +of the rooms smote Mildred with a sudden unexpected +pain. There were the old lamps burning on +the tables, the well-remembered vases—her mother’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> +choice, and always artistic in form and colour—filled +with the old June flowers from garden and +hothouse. Her father’s chair stood in its old place +in the bay-window in front of the table at which +he used to write his letters sometimes, looking out +at the river between whiles. Mrs. Dawson had +put a lamp in his study, a small room opening out +of the drawing-room, and with windows on two sides, +and both looking towards the river, which he had +loved so well. The windows were open in the twilight, +and the rose-garden was like a sea of bloom.</p> + +<p>In her father’s room nothing was altered. As it +had been in the last days he had lived there, so it +was now.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t moved so much as a penholder, +ma’am,” said Dawson tearfully.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br> +<span class="fs70">LITERA SCRIPTA MANET.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">The</span> house and grounds were in such perfect order +that there was very little to be done in the way of +preparation for the honeymoon visitors. Even the +pianos had been periodically tuned, and the clocks +had been regularly wound. Two or three servants +would have to be engaged for the period, and that +was all; and even this want Mrs. Dawson proposed +to supply without going off the premises.</p> + +<p>The housemaid had a sister, who was an accomplished +parlourmaid and carver; the under-gardener’s +eldest daughter was pining for a preliminary +canter in the kitchen, and the gardener’s wife was a +retired cook, and would be delighted to take all the +rougher part of the cooking, while Mrs. Dawson +devoted her art to those pretty tiny kickshaws in +which she excelled. There were peaches ripening +in the peach-house, and the apricots were going to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> +be a show. There was wine in the cellar that would +have satisfied an alderman on his honeymoon. +Mildred’s business at The Hook might have been +completed in a day, yet she lingered there for a +week, and still lingered on, loving the place with a +love which was mingled with pain, yet happier there +than she could have been anywhere else in the +world, she thought.</p> + +<p>The chief gardener rowed her about the river, +never going very far from home, but meandering +about the summer stream, by flowery meadows, +and reedy eyots, and sometimes diverging into a +tributary stream, where the shallow water seemed +only an excuse for wild flowers. He had rowed her +up and down those same streams when she was a +child with streaming hair and he was the under-gardener. +He had rowed her about in that brief +summer season when Fay was her companion.</p> + +<p>She revisited all those spots in which she had +wandered with her lover. She would land here or +there along the island, and as she remembered each +particular object in the landscape, her feet seemed +to grow light again, with the lightness of joyous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> +youth, as they touched the familiar shore. It was +almost as if her youth came back to her.</p> + +<p>Thus it was that she lingered from day to day, +loth to leave the beloved place. She wrote frankly +to her aunt, saying how much good the change of +air and scene had done her, and promising to return +to Brighton in a few days. She felt that it was her +duty to resume her place beside that fading existence; +and yet it was an infinite relief to her to +escape from that dull gray house, and the dull gray +life. She acknowledged to herself that her aunt’s +life was a good life, full of unselfish work and large +charity, and yet there was something that repelled +her, even while she admired. It was too much like +a life lived up to a certain model, adjusted line by +line to a carefully-studied plan. There was a lack +of spontaneity, a sense of perpetual effort. The +benevolence which had made Enderby village like +one family in the sweet time that was gone had been +of a very different character. There had been the +warmth of love and sympathy in every kindness of +George Greswold’s, and there had been infinite pity +for wrong-doers. Miss Fausset’s almsgiving was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> +after the fashion of the Pharisee of old, and it +was upon the amount given that she held herself +justified before God, not upon the manner of +giving.</p> + +<p>In those quiet days, spent alone in her old home, +Mildred had chosen to occupy Mr. Fausset’s study +rather than the large bright drawing-room. The +smaller room was more completely associated with +her father. It was here—seated in the chair before +the writing-table, where she was sitting now—that +he had first talked to her of George Greswold, and +had discussed her future life, questioning his motherless +girl with more than a father’s tenderness about +the promptings of her own heart. She loved the +room and all that it contained for the sake of the +cherished hands that had touched these things, and +the gentle life that had been lived here. There had +been but one error in his life, she thought—his treatment +of Fay.</p> + +<p>“He ought not to have sent her away,” she +thought; “he saw us happy together, his two +daughters, and he ought not to have divided us, and +sent her away to a loveless life among strangers.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> +If he had only been frank and straightforward with +my mother she might have forgiven all.”</p> + +<p>Might, perhaps. Mildred was not sure upon that +point; but she felt very sure that it was her father’s +duty to have braved all consequences rather than +to have sent his unacknowledged child into exile. +That fact of not acknowledging her seemed in itself +such a tremendous cruelty that it intensified every +lesser wrong.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dawson understood her mistress’s fancy for +her father’s room, and Mildred’s meals were served +here, at a Sutherland-table in the bay-window, from +which she could see the boats go by, Mrs. Dawson +having a profound belief in the efficacy of the boats +as a cure for low spirits.</p> + +<p>“People sometimes tell me it must be dull at +The Hook,” she said; “but, lor! they don’t know +how many boats go by in summer-time. It’s almost +as gay as Bond Street.”</p> + +<p>Mildred lived alone with old memories in the +flower-scented room, where the Spanish blinds made +a cool and shadowy atmosphere, while the roses outside +were steeped in sunshine. Those few days<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> +were just the most perfect summer days of the year. +She felt sorry that they had not been reserved for +Pamela’s honeymoon. Such sunshine was almost +wasted on her, whose heart was so full of sadness.</p> + +<p>It was her last afternoon at The Hook, or the +afternoon which she meant to be her last, having +made up her mind to go back to Brighton and duty +on the following day, and she had a task before her, +a task which she had delayed from day to day, just +as she had delayed her return to her aunt.</p> + +<p>She had to put away those special and particular +objects which had belonged to her father and mother, +and had been a part of their lives. These were too +sacred to be left about now that strangers were to +occupy the rooms of the dead. Hitherto no stranger +had entered those rooms since John Fausset’s death, +nothing had been removed or altered. No documents +relating to property or business of any kind +had been kept at The Hook. Mr. Fausset’s affairs +had all been put in perfect order after his wife’s +death, and there had been no ransacking for missing +title-deeds or papers of any kind. It had been +understood that all papers and letters of importance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> +were either with Mr. Fausset’s solicitors or at the +house in Parchment Street, and thus the household +gods had been undisturbed in the summer retreat by +the river.</p> + +<p>Mildred had spent the morning in her mother’s +rooms, putting away all those dainty trifles and +prettinesses which had gathered round the frivolous, +luxurious life, as shells and bright-coloured weeds +gather among the low rocks on the edge of the sea. +She had placed everything carefully in a large closet +in her mother’s dressing-room, covered with much +tissue-paper, secure from dust and moth; and now +she began the same kind of work in her father’s +room, the work of removing all those objects which +had been especially his: the old-fashioned silver +inkstand, the well-worn scarlet morocco blotting-book, +with his crest on the cover, and many inkspots +on the leather lining inside, his penholders +and penknives, and a little velvet pen-wiper which +she had made for him when she was ten years old, +and which he had kept on his table ever afterwards.</p> + +<p>She looked round the room thoughtfully for a +place of security for these treasures. She had spent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> +a good deal of time in rearranging her father’s +books, which careful and conscientious dusting had +reduced to a chaotic condition. Now every volume +was in its place, just as he had kept them in the old +days when it had been her delight to examine the +shelves and to carry away a book of her father’s +choosing.</p> + +<p>The bookcases were by Chippendale, with fretwork +cornices and mahogany panelling. The lower +part was devoted to cupboards, which her father had +always kept under lock and key, but which she supposed +to contain only old magazines, pamphlets, and +newspapers, part of that vast mass of literature +which is kept with a view to being looked at some +day, and which finally drifts unread to the bourne of +all waste paper, and is ground into pulp again, and +rolls over the endless web again, and comes back +upon the world printed with more intellectual food +for the million of skippers and skimmers.</p> + +<p>Yes, one of those mahogany panelled cupboards +would serve Mildred’s purpose admirably. She +selected a key from one of the bunches in her key-box, +and opened the cupboard nearest the door.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> + +<p>It was packed tight with <cite>Army Lists</cite>, <cite>New Monthly Magazines</cite>, +and <cite>Edinburgh Reviews</cite>—packed so well +that there was scarcely an interstice that would hold +a pin. She opened the next cupboard. <cite>Sporting +Magazine</cite>, <cite>Blackwood</cite>, <cite>Ainsworth</cite>, and a pile of +pamphlets. No room there.</p> + +<p>She opened the third, and found it much more +loosely packed, with odd newspapers, and old Prayer +Books and Bibles: shabby, old-fashioned books, +which had served for the religious exercises of +several generations of Faussets, and had been +piously preserved by the owner of The Hook. +There was room here perhaps for the things in the +writing-table, if all these books and papers were +rearranged and closely packed.</p> + +<p>Mildred began her work patiently. She was in +no hurry to have done with her task; it brought her +nearer to her beloved dead. She worked slowly, +dreamily almost, her thoughts dwelling on the days +that were gone.</p> + +<p>She took out the Prayer Books and Bibles one +by one, looking at a fly-leaf now and then. John +Fausset, from his loving mother, on the day of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> +confirmation, June 17, 1835; Lucy Jane Fausset, +with her sister Maria’s love, April 3, 1804; Mark +Fausset, in memory of little Charlie, December 1, +1807. Such inscriptions as these touched her, with +their reminiscences of vanished affection, of hearts +long mingled with the dust.</p> + +<p>She put the books on one side in a little pile on +the carpet, as she knelt before the open cupboard, +and then she began to move the loose litter of +newspapers. The <cite>Morning Herald</cite>, the <cite>Morning +Chronicle</cite>, the <cite>Sun</cite>. Even <em>these</em> were of the dead.</p> + +<p>The cupboard held much more than she had +expected. Behind the newspapers there were two +rows of pigeons-holes, twenty-six in all, filled—choke-full, +some of them—with letters, folded longwise, +in a thoroughly business-like manner.</p> + +<p>Old letters, old histories of the family heart and +mind, how much they hold to stir the chords of love +and pain! Mildred’s hand trembled as she stretched +it out to take one of those letters, idly, full of +morbid curiosity about those relics of a past life.</p> + +<p>She never knew whether it had been deliberation +or hazard which guided her hand to the sixth pigeon-hole,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> +but she thought afterwards that her eye must +have been caught by a bit of red ribbon—a spot of +bright colour—and that her hand followed her eye +mechanically. However this may have been, the +first thing that she took from the mass of divers +correspondence in the twenty-six pigeon-holes was +a packet of about twenty letters tied with a red +ribbon.</p> + +<p>Each letter was carefully indorsed “M. F.” and +a date. Some were on foreign paper, others on +thick gilt-edged note. A glance at the uppermost +letter showed her a familiar handwriting—her +aunt’s, but very different from Miss Fausset’s present +precise penmanship. The writing here was more +hurried and irregular, bolder, larger, and more +indicative of impulse and emotion.</p> + +<p>No thought of possible wrong to her aunt entered +Mildred’s mind as she untied the ribbon and seated +herself in a low chair in front of the bookcase, with +the letters loose in her lap. What secrets could +there be in a girl’s letters to her elder brother which +the brother’s daughter might not read, nearly forty +years after they were written? What could there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> +be in that yellow paper, in that faded ink, except +the pale dim ghosts of vanished fancies, and thoughts +which the thinker had long outlived?</p> + +<p>“I wonder whether my aunt would care to read +these old letters?” mused Mildred. “It would be +like calling up her own ghost. She must have +almost forgotten what she was like when she wrote +them.”</p> + +<p>The first letter was from Milan, full of enthusiasm +about the Cathedral and the Conservatoire, full of +schemes for work. She was practising six hours a +day, and taking nine lessons a week—four for piano, +two for singing, three for harmony. She was in +high spirits, and delighted with her life.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I should practise eight hours a day if Mrs. +Holmby would let me,” she wrote, “but she won’t. +She says it would be too much for my health. I +believe it is only because my piano annoys her. I get +up at five on these summer mornings, and practise +from six to half-past eight; then coffee and rolls, +and off to the Conservatoire; then a drive with +Mrs. Holmby, who is too lazy to walk much; and +then lunch. After lunch vespers at the Cathedral,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> +and then two hours at the piano before dinner. An +hour and a half between dinner and tea, which we +take at nine. Sometimes one of Mrs. Holmby’s +friends drops in to tea. You needn’t be afraid: the +men are all elderly, and not particularly clean. +They take snuff, and their complexions are like +mahogany; but there is one old man, with bristly +gray hair standing out all over his head like a brush, +who plays the ’cello divinely, and who reminds me +of Beethoven. I am learning the ‘Sonate Pathétique,’ +and I play Bach’s preludes and fugues two hours a +day. We went to La Scala the night before last; +but I was disappointed to find they were playing a +trumpery modern opera by a Milanese composer, +who is all the rage here.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Two or three letters followed, all in the same +strain, and then came signs of discontent.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have no doubt Mrs. Holmby is a highly +respectable person, and I am sure you acted for the +best when you chose her for my chaperon, but she is +a lump of prejudice. She objects to the Cathedral. +‘We are fully justified in making ourselves familiar +with its architectural beauties,’ she said, in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> +pedantic way, ‘but to attend the services of that +benighted church is to worship in the groves of +Baal.’ I told her that I had found neither groves +nor idols in that magnificent church, and that the +music I heard there was the only pleasure which +reconciled me to the utter dulness of my life at Milan—I +was going to say my life with her, but thought +it better to be polite, as I am quite in her power till +you come to fetch me.</p> + +<p>“Don’t think that I am tired of the Conservatoire, +after teasing you so to let me come here, or +even that I am home-sick. I am only tired of Mrs. +Holmby; and I daresay, after all, she is no worse +than any other chaperon would be. As for the Conservatoire, +I adore it, and I feel that I am making +rapid strides in my musical education. My master +is pleased with my playing of the ‘Pathétique,’ and +I am to take the ‘Eroica’ next. What a privilege +it is to know Beethoven! He seems to me now like +a familiar friend. I have been reading a memoir of +him. What a sad life—what a glorious legacy he +leaves the world which treated him so badly!</p> + +<p>“I play Diabelli’s exercises for an hour and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> +half every morning, before I look at any other +music.”</p> +</div> + +<p>In the next letter Mildred started at the appearance +of a familiar name.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Your kind suggestion about the Opera House +has been followed, and we have taken seats at La +Scala for two nights a week. Signor Castellani’s +opera is really very charming. I have heard it now +three times, and liked it better each time. There +is not much learning in the orchestration; but there +is a great deal of melody all through the opera. +The Milanese are mad about it. Signor Castellani +came to see Mrs. Holmby one evening last week, +introduced by our gray-haired ’cello-player. He is +a clever-looking man, about five-and-thirty, with a +rather melancholy air. He writes his librettos, +and is something of a poet.</p> + +<p>“We have made a compromise about the Cathedral. +I am to go to vespers if I like, as my +theological opinions are not in Mrs. Holmby’s keeping. +She will walk with me to the Cathedral, leave +me at the bottom of the steps, do her shopping or +take a gentle walk, and return for me when the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> +service is over. It only lasts three-quarters of an +hour, and Mrs. Holmby always has shopping of some +kind on her hands, as she does all her own marketing, +and buys everything in the smallest quantities. I +suppose by this means she makes more out of your +handsome allowance for my board—or fancies she +does.”</p> +</div> + +<p>There were more letters in the same strain, and +Castellani’s name appeared often in relation to his +operas; but there was no further mention of social +intercourse. The letters grew somewhat fretful in +tone, and there were repeated complaints of Mrs. +Holmby. There were indications of fitful spirits—now +enthusiasm, now depression.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have at least discovered that I am no genius,” +she wrote. “When I attempt to improvise, the +poverty of my ideas freezes me; and yet music with +me is a passion. Those vesper services in the +Cathedral are my only consolation in this great dull +town.</p> + +<p>“No, dear Jack, I am not home-sick. I have +to finish my musical education. I am tired of +nothing, except Mrs. Holmby.”</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p>After this there was an interval. The next +letter was dated six months later. It was on a +different kind of paper, and it was written from +Evian, on the Lake of Geneva. Even the character +of the penmanship had altered. It had lost its +girlish dash, and something of its firmness. +The strokes were heavier, but yet bore traces of +hesitation. It was altogether a feebler style of +writing.</p> + +<p>The letter began abruptly:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I know that you have been kind to me, John—kinder, +more merciful than many brothers would +have been under the same miserable circumstances; +but nothing you can do can make me anything else +than what I have made myself—the most wretched +of creatures. When I walk about in this quiet +place, alone, and see the beggars holding out their +hands to me, maimed, blind, dumb perhaps, the +very refuse of humanity, I feel that their misery is +less than mine. <em>They</em> were not brought up to think +highly of themselves, and to look down upon other +people, as I was. <em>They</em> were never petted and +admired as I was. They were not brought up to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> +think honour the one thing that makes life worth +living—to feel the sting of shame worse than the +sting of death. They fall into raptures if I give +them a franc—and all the wealth of the world would +not give me one hour of happiness. You tell me to +forget my misery. Forget—now! No, I have no +wish to leave this place. I should be neither better +nor happier anywhere else. It is very quiet here. +There are no visitors left now in the neighbourhood. +There is no one to wonder who I am, or why I am +living alone here in my tiny villa. The days go by +like a long weary dream, and there are days when +the gray lake and the gray mountains are half hidden +in mist, and when all Nature seems of the +same colour as my own life.</p> + +<p>“I received the books you kindly chose for me, +a large parcel. There is a novel among them which +tells almost my own story. It made me shed tears +for the first time since you left me at Lausanne. +Some people say they find a relief in tears, but my +tears are not of that kind. I was ill for nearly a week +after reading that story. Please don’t send me any +more novels. If they are about happy people they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> +irritate me; if they are sorrowful stories they make +me just a shade more wretched than I am always. +If you send me books again let them be the hardest +kind of reading you can get. I hear there is a good +book on natural history by a man called Darwin. I +should like to read that.—Gratefully and affectionately +your sister,</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span style="padding-right: 1em">M. F.”</span><br> +</p> +</div> + +<p>This letter was dated October. The next was +written in November from the same address.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“No, my dear John, your fears were unfounded, +I have not been ill. I wish I had been—sick unto +death! I have been too wretched to write, that +was all. Why should I distress you with a reiteration +of my misery—and I <em>cannot</em> write, or think +about anything else? I have no doubt Darwin’s +book is good, but I could not interest myself in it. +The thought of my own misery comes between me +and every page I read.</p> + +<p>“You ask me what I mean to do with my life +when my dark days are over. To that question +there can but be one answer. I mean, so far as it is +possible, to forget. I shall go down to my grave +burdened with my dismal secret; but I shall exercise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> +every faculty I possess to keep that secret to the +end. <em>He</em> is not likely to betray me. The knowledge +of his own baseness will seal his lips.</p> + +<p>“Your suggestion of a future home in some +quiet village, either in England or abroad, is kindly +meant, I know, but I shudder at the mere idea of +such a life. To pass as a widow; to have to answer +every prying acquaintance—the doctor, the clergyman—people +who would force themselves upon me, +however secluded my life might be; to devote myself +to a duty which in every hour of my existence would +remind me of my folly and of my degradation: I +should live like the galley-slave who drags his chain +at every step.</p> + +<p>“You tell me that the tie which would be a +sorrow in the beginning might grow into a blessing. +That could never be. You know very little of a +woman’s nature when you suggest such a possibility. +What <em>can</em> your sex know of a woman’s agony +under such circumstances as mine? <em>You</em> are never +made to feel the sting of dishonour.”</p> +</div> + +<p>A light began to dawn on Mildred as she read +this second letter from Evian. The first might mean<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> +anything—an engagement broken off, a proud girl +jilted by a worthless lover, the sense of degradation +that a woman feels in having loved unwisely—in +having wasted confidence and affection upon an +unworthy object: Mildred had so interpreted that +despairing letter. But the second revealed a deeper +wound, a darker misery.</p> + +<p>There were sentences that stood out from the +context with unmistakable meaning. “When my +dark days are over”—“to pass as a widow”—“to +devote myself to a duty which would remind me of +my folly and my degradation.”</p> + +<p>That suggestion of a secluded life—of a care +which should grow into a blessing—could mean +only one thing. The wretched girl who wrote that +letter was about to become a mother, under conditions +which meant life-long dishonour.</p> + +<p>White as marble, and with hands that trembled +convulsively as they held the letter, Mildred Greswold +read on, hurriedly, eagerly, breathlessly, to the +last line of the last letter. She had no scruples, +no sense of wrong-doing. The secret hidden in that +little packet of letters was a secret which she had a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> +right to know—she above all other people, she who +had been cheated and fooled by false imaginings.</p> + +<p>The third letter from Evian was dated late in +January:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I have been very ill—dangerously, I believe—but +my doctor took unnecessary trouble to cure me. +I am now able to go out of doors again, and I +walk by the lake for half-an-hour every day in the +morning sun. The child thrives wonderfully, I am +told; but if there is to be a change of nurses, as +there must be—for this woman here must lose sight +of her charge and of me when I leave this place—the +change cannot be made too soon. If Boulogne +is really the best place you can think of, your plan +would be to meet me with the nurse at Dijon, where +we can take the rail. We shall post from here to +that town. I am very sorry to inflict so much trouble +upon you, but it is a part of my misery to be a +burden to you as well as to myself. When once this +incubus is safely disposed of, I shall be less troublesome +to you.</p> + +<p>“No, my dear John, there is no relenting, no +awakening of maternal love. For me that must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> +remain for ever a meaningless phrase. For me there +can be nothing now or ever more, except a sense of +aversion and horror—a shrinking from the very +image of the child that must never call me mother, +or know the link between us. All that can possibly +be done to sever that link I shall do; and I entreat +you, by the love of past years, to help me in so doing. +My only chance of peace in the future is in total +severance. Remember that I am prepared to make +any sacrifice that can secure the happiness of this +wretched being, that can make up to her—”</p> +</div> + +<p>“That can make up to <em>her</em>!”</p> + +<p>Mildred’s clutch tightened upon the letter. This +was the first mention of the infant’s sex.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“—For the dishonour to which she is born. I +will gladly devote half my fortune to her maintenance +and her future establishment in life, if she should +grow up and marry. Remember also that I have +sworn to myself never to entertain any proposal of +marriage, never to listen to words of love from any +man upon earth. You need have no fear of future +embarrassment on my account. I shall never give +a man the right to interrogate my past life. I resign<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> +myself to a solitary existence—but not to a life +clouded with shame. When I go back to England +and resume my place in society, I shall try to think +of this last year of agony as if it were a bad dream. +You alone know my secret, and you can help me if +you will. My prayer is that from the hour I see +the child transferred to the new nurse at Dijon, I +shall never look upon its face again. The nurse can +go back to her home as fast as the train will carry +her, and I can go back to London with you.”</p> +</div> + +<p>The next letter was written seven years later, +and addressed from Kensington Gore:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I suppose I ought to answer your long letter +by saying that I am glad the child has good health, +that I rejoice in her welfare, and so on. But I +cannot be such a hypocrite. It hurts me to write +about her; it hurts me to think of her. My heart +hardens itself against her at every suggestion of her +quickness, or her prettiness, or any other merit. To +me she can be nothing except—disgrace. I burnt +your letter the instant it was read. I felt as if +some one was looking over my shoulder as I read +it. I dared not go down to lunch for fear Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> +Winstanley’s searching eyes should read my secret +in my face. I pretended a headache, and stayed in +my room till our eight-o’clock dinner, when I knew +I should be safe in the dim religious light which my +chaperon affects as the most flattering to wrinkles +and pearl-powder.</p> + +<p>“But I am not ungrateful, my dear John. I +am touched even by your kindly interest in that +unfortunate waif. I have no doubt you have done +wisely in placing her with the good old lady at +Barnes, and that she is very happy running about +the Common. I am glad I know where she is, so +that I may never drive that way, if I can possibly +help it. Your old lady must be rather a foolish +woman, I should think, to change Fanny into Fay, +on the strength of the child’s airy movements and +elfin appearance; but as long as this person knows +nothing of her charge’s history her silliness cannot +matter.”</p> +</div> + +<p>A letter of a later date was addressed from Lewes +Crescent.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I am horrified at what you have done. O, +John, how could you be so reckless, so forgetful of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> +my reiterated entreaties to keep that girl’s existence +wide apart from mine or yours? And you have +actually introduced her into your own house as a +relation; and you actually allow her to be called by +your name! Was ever such madness? You stultify +all that has been done in the past. You open the +door to questionings and conjectures of the most +dreadful kind. No, I will not see her. You must +be mad to suggest such a thing. My feeling about +her to-day is exactly the same as my feeling on the +day she was born—disgust, horror, dread. I will +never—willingly—look upon her face.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember those words in <cite>Bleak House</cite>? +‘Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you +were hers.’ So it is with that girl and me. Can +love be possible where there is this mutual disgrace?</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, get the girl out of your house +as soon as you can! Send her to some good school +abroad—France, Germany, where you like, and save +me from the possibility of discovery. My secret +has been kept—my friends look up to me. I have +outlived the worst part of my misery, and have learnt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> +to take some interest in life. I could not survive +the discovery of my wretched story.”</p> +</div> + +<p>A later letter was briefer and more business-like.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I fully concur in the settlement you propose, and +would as willingly make the sum 40,000<em>l.</em> as 30,000<em>l.</em> +Remember that, so far as money can go, I am anxious +to do the <em>uttermost</em>. I hope she will marry soon, and +marry well, and that she may lead a happy and +honourable life under a new name—a name that she +can bear without a blush. I should be much relieved +if she could continue to live abroad.”</p> +</div> + +<p>This was the last letter in the bundle tied with +red ribbon. In the same pigeon-hole Mildred found +the draft of a deed of gift, transferring 30,000<em>l.</em> +India Stock to Fanny Fausset, otherwise Vivien +Faux, on her twenty-first birthday, and with the +draft there were several letters from a firm of solicitors +in Lincoln’s Inn Fields relating to the same +deed of gift.</p> + +<p>The last of the letters fell from Mildred’s lap as +she sat with her hands clasped before her face, dazed +by this sudden light which altered the aspect of her +life.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span></p> + +<p>“Fool, fool, fool!” she cried.</p> + +<p>The thought of all she had suffered, and of the +suffering she had inflicted on the man she loved, +almost maddened her. She had condemned her +father—her generous, noble-hearted father—upon +evidence that had seemed to her incontrovertible. +She had believed in a stain upon that honourable +life—had believed him a sinner and a coward. And +Miss Fausset knew all that she had forfeited by that +fatal misapprehension, and yet kept her shameful +secret, caring for her own reputation more than for +two blighted lives.</p> + +<p>She remembered how she had appealed to her +aunt to solve the mystery of Fay’s parentage, and +how deliberately Miss Fausset had declared her +ignorance. She had advised her niece to go back +to her husband, but that was all.</p> + +<p>Mildred gathered the letters together, tied them +with the faded ribbon, and then went to her father’s +writing-table and wrote these lines, in a hand that +trembled with indignation:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I know all the enclosed letters can tell me. +You have kept your secret at the hazard of breaking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> +two hearts. I know not if the wrong you have done +me can ever be set right; but this I know, that I +shall never again enter your house, or look upon +your face, if I can help it. I am going back to my +husband, never again to leave him, if he will let me +stay.</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap" style="padding-right: 1em">Mildred Greswold.”</span><br> +</p> +</div> + +<p>She packed the letters securely in one of the +large banker’s envelopes out of her father’s desk. +She sealed the packet with her father’s crest, intending +to register and post it with her own hands +on her way to Romsey; and then, with a heart that +beat with almost suffocating force, she consulted +the time-table, and tried to match trains between +Reading and Basingstoke.</p> + +<p>There was a train from Chertsey to Reading at +five. She might catch that and be home—home—home—how +the word thrilled her! some time before +midnight. She would have gone back if it had been +to arrive in the dead of night.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br> +<span class="fs70">MARKED BY FATE.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly ten o’clock when Mildred drove through +the village of Enderby, and saw the lights burning +in the familiar cottage windows, the post-office, and +the little fancy shop where Lola had been so constant +a purchaser in the days gone by. Her eyes +were full of tears as she looked at the humble street: +happy tears, for her heart thrilled with hope as she +drew near home.</p> + +<p>“He cannot withhold his forgiveness,” she told +herself. “He knows that I acted for conscience’ +sake.”</p> + +<p>Five minutes more and she was standing in the +hall, questioning the footman, who stared at her +with a bewildered air, as the most unexpected of +visitors.</p> + +<p>“Is your master at home?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’am, master’s in the library. Shall I +announce you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p> + +<p>“No, no—I can find him. Help my maid to +take my things to my room.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ma’am. Have you dined, or shall I tell +cook to get something ready?”</p> + +<p>“No, no. I have dined,” she answered hurriedly, +and went on to the library, to that very room +in which she had made the fatal discovery of Fay’s +identity with her husband’s first wife.</p> + +<p>He was sitting in the lamp-light, just as he +was sitting that night when she fell fainting at his +feet. The windows were open to the summer night, +books were scattered about on the table, and heaped +on the floor by his side. Whatever comfort there +may be in such company, he had surrounded himself +with that comfort. He took no notice of the opening +of the door, and she was kneeling at his feet +before he knew that she was in the room.</p> + +<p>“Mildred, what does this mean? Have we not +parted often enough?”</p> + +<p>“There was no reason for our parting—except +my mistaken belief. I am here to stay with you +till my death, if you will have me, George. Be +merciful to me, my dearest! I have acted for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> +conscience’ sake. I have been fooled, deluded by +appearances which might have deceived any one, +however wise. Forgive me, George; forgive me for +the sake of all I have suffered in doing what I +thought to be my duty!”</p> + +<p>He lifted her from her knees, took her to his +heart without a word, and kissed her. There was a +silence of some moments, in which each could hear +the throbbing of the other’s heart.</p> + +<p>“You were wrong after all, then,” he said at last; +“Vivien was not your half-sister?”</p> + +<p>“She was not.”</p> + +<p>“Whose child was she?”</p> + +<p>“You must not ask me that, George. It is a +secret which I ought not to tell even to you. She +was cruelly used, poor girl, more cruelly even than +I thought she had been when I believed she was my +father’s daughter. I have undeniable evidence as to +her parentage. She was my blood-relation, but she +was not my sister.”</p> + +<p>“How did you make the discovery?”</p> + +<p>“By accident—this afternoon at The Hook. I +found some papers and letters of my father’s in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> +cupboard below the bookcase. I knew nothing of +their existence—should never have thought of +searching for private papers there, for I had heard +my father often say that he kept only magazines and +pamphlets—things he called rubbish—in those cupboards. +I wanted to put away some things, and I +stumbled on a packet of letters which revealed the +secret of Fay’s birth. I can come back to my duty +with a clear conscience. May I stay with you, +George?”</p> + +<p>“May you? Well, yes; I suppose so,” with +another kiss and a tender little laugh. “One cannot +make a broken vase new again, but we may pick up +the pieces and stick them together again somehow. +You have taken a good many years out of my life, +Mildred, and I doubt if you can give them back +to me. I feel twenty years older than I felt before +the beginning of this trouble; but now all is known, +and you are my wife again—well, there may be a +few years of gladness for us yet. We will make +the most of them.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All things dropped back into the old grooves at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> +Enderby Manor. Mrs. Greswold and her husband +were seen together at church on the Sunday morning +after Mildred’s return, much to the astonishment of +the congregation, who immediately began to disbelieve +in all their own convictions and assertions of the +past half-year, and to opine that the lady had only +been in the South for her health, more especially as +it was known that Miss Ransome had been her +travelling companion.</p> + +<p>“If she had quarrelled with her husband, she +would hardly have had her husband’s niece with her +all the time,” said Mrs. Porter, the doctor’s wife.</p> + +<p>“But if there was no quarrel, why did he shut +himself up like a hermit, and look so wretched if one +happened to meet him?” asked somebody else.</p> + +<p>“Well, there she is, anyhow, and she looks out of +health, so you may depend some London physician +ordered her abroad. They might as well have +consulted Porter, who ought to know her constitution +by this time. He’d have ordered her to Ventnor for +the winter, and saved them both a good deal of +trouble; but there, people never think they can be +cured without going to Cavendish Square.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span></p> + +<p>Mildred’s strength seemed to fail her more +in the happiness of that unhoped-for reunion than it +had ever done during her banishment. She wanted +to do so much at Enderby: to visit about among her +shabby-genteel old ladies and her cottagers as in the +cloudless time before Lola’s death; to superintend +her garden; to visit old friends whose faces were +endeared by fond association with the past; to be +everywhere with her husband: walking with him +in the copses, riding about the farms, and on the +edge of the forest, in the dewy summer mornings. +She wanted to do all these things, and she found that +her strength would not let her.</p> + +<p>“I hope that my health is not going to give way, +just when I am so happy,” she said to her husband +one day, when she felt almost fainting after their +morning ride.</p> + +<p>He took alarm instantly, and sent off for Mr. +Porter, though Mildred made light of her feelings +next moment. The family practitioner sounded her +with the usual professional gravity, but his face grew +more serious as he listened to the beating of her +heart. He affected, however, to think very little of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> +her ailments, talked of nerves, and suggested bromide +of something, as if it were infallible; but when +George Greswold went out into the hall with him he +owned that all was not right.</p> + +<p>“The heart is weak,” he said. “I hope there +may be no organic mischief, but—”</p> + +<p>“You mean that I shall lose her,” interrupted +Greswold, in a husky whisper.</p> + +<p>His own heart was beating like the tolling of a +church bell—beating with the dull, heavy stroke of +despair.</p> + +<p>“No, no. I don’t think there’s any immediate +danger, but I should like you to take higher advice—Clark +or Jenner, perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“Of course. I will send for some one at once.”</p> + +<p>“The very thing to alarm her. She ought to be +kept free from all possible anxiety or excitement. +Don’t let her ride—except in the quietest way—or +walk far enough to fatigue herself. You might take +her up to town for a few days on the pretence +of seeing picture-galleries or something, and then +coax her to consult a physician, just for <em>your</em> satisfaction. +Make as light as you can of her complaint.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, yes. I understand. O, God, that it +should be so, after all; when I thought I had come +to the end of sorrow!” This in an undertone. “For +pity’s sake, Porter, tell me the worst! You think it +a bad case?”</p> + +<p>Porter shook his head, tried to speak, grasped +George Greswold’s hand, and made for the door. Mr. +and Mrs. Greswold had been his patients and friends +for the last fifteen years, and in his rough way he +was devoted to them.</p> + +<p>“See Jenner as soon as you can,” he said. “It +is a very delicate case. I would rather not hazard +an opinion.”</p> + +<p>George Greswold went out to the lawn where he +had sat on the Sunday evening before Lola’s death. +It had been summer then, and it was summer now—the +time of roses, before the song of the nightingale +had ceased amidst the seclusion of twilit branches. +He sat down upon the bench under the cedar, and +gave himself up to his despair. He had tasted again +the sweet cup of domestic peace—he had been gladdened +again by the only companionship that had +ever filled his heart, and now in the near future he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> +saw the prospect of another parting, and this time +without hope on earth. Once again he told himself +that he was marked out by Fate.</p> + +<p>“I suppose it must always be so,” he thought; +“in the lots that fall from the urn there must be +some that are all of one colour—black—black as +night.”</p> + +<p>Mildred came out to the lawn with him, followed +by Kassandra, who had deserted the master for the +mistress since her return, as if in a delight mixed +with fear lest she should again depart.</p> + +<p>“What has become of you, George? I thought +you were coming back to the morning-room directly, +and it is nearly an hour since Mr. Porter went away.”</p> + +<p>“I came into the garden—to—to see your new +shrubbery.”</p> + +<p>“Did you really? how good of you! It is +hardly to be called a new shrubbery—only a little +addition to the old one. It will give an idea of distance +when the shrubs are good enough to grow tall +and thick. Will you come with me and tell me +what you think of it?”</p> + +<p>“Gladly, dear, if it will not tire you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span></p> + +<p>“Tire me to walk to the shrubbery! No, I am +not quite so bad as that, though I find I am a bad +walker compared with what I used to be. I daresay +I am out of training. I could walk any distance +at Brighton last autumn. A long walk on the +road to Rottingdean was my only distraction; but +at Pallanza I began to flag, and the hotel people +were always suggesting drives, so I got out of the +habit of walking.”</p> + +<p>He had his hand through her arm, and drew +her near him as they sauntered across the lawn, +with a hopeless wonder at the thought that she +was here at his side, close to his heart, all in all +to him to-day, and that the time might soon +come when she would have melted out of his life as +that fair daughter had done, when the grave under +the tree should mean a double desolation, an everlasting +despair.</p> + +<p>“Is there <em>any</em> world where we shall be together +again?” he asked himself. “What is immortality +worth to me if it does not mean reunion? To go +round upon the endless wheel of eternity, to be fixed +into the universal life, to be a part of the Creator<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> +Himself! Nothing in a life to come can be gain to +me if it do not give me back what I have lost.”</p> + +<p>They dawdled about the shrubbery, man and wife, +arm linked with arm, looking at the new plantings +one by one; she speculating how many years each +tree would take to come to perfection.</p> + +<p>“They will make a very good effect in three or +four years, George. Don’t you think so? That <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Picea +nobilis</i> will fill the open space yonder. We have +allowed ten feet clear on every side. The golden +brooms grow only too quickly. How serious you +look! Are you thinking of anything that makes you +anxious?”</p> + +<p>“I am thinking of Pamela and her sweetheart. I +should like to make Lady Lochinvar’s acquaintance +before the marriage.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I ask her here?”</p> + +<p>“She could hardly come, I fancy, while the +wedding is on the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tapis</i>. I propose that you and I +should go up to London to-morrow, put up at our old +hotel—we shall be more independent there than at +Grosvenor Gardens—and spend a few days quietly, +seeing a good deal of the picture-galleries, and a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> +of our new connections—and of Rosalind and her +husband, whom we don’t often see. Would you like +to do that, Mildred?”</p> + +<p>“I like anything you like. I delight in seeing +pictures with you, and I shall be glad to see Rosalind; +and if Pamela really wishes us to be present at +her wedding, I think we ought to be there, don’t +you, George?”</p> + +<p>“If you would like it dearest; if—”</p> + +<p>He left the sentence unfinished, fearing to betray +his apprehension. Till he had consulted the highest +authorities in the land he felt that he could know +but little of that hidden malady which paled her +cheek and gave heaviness to the pathetic eyes.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They were in Cavendish Square, husband and +wife, on the morning after their arrival in town, by +special appointment with the physician. Mildred +submitted meekly to a careful consultation—only for +his own satisfaction, her husband told her, making +light of his anxiety.</p> + +<p>“I want you to be governed by the best possible +advice, dearest, in the care of your health.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p>“You don’t think there is danger, George; that +I am to be taken away from you, just when all our +secrets and sorrows are over?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, no, dearest! God grant you may be +spared to me for many happy years to come!”</p> + +<p>“There is no reason, I think, that it should not +be so. Mr. Porter said my complaint was chiefly +nervous. He would not wonder at my nerves being +in a poor way if he knew how I suffered in those +bitter days of banishment.”</p> + +<p>The examination was long and serious, yet conducted +by the physician with such gentle <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bonhomie</i> +as not to alarm the patient. When it was over, he +dismissed her with a kindly smile, after advice given +upon very broad lines.</p> + +<p>“After the question of diet, which I have written +for you here,” he said, handing her half a sheet of +paper, “the only other treatment I can counsel is +self-indulgence. Never walk far enough to feel tired, +or fast enough to be out of breath. Live as much +as possible in the open air, but let your life out of +doors be the sweet idleness of the sunny South, +rather than our ideal bustling, hurrying British<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> +existence. Court repose—tranquillity for body and +mind in all things.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that I am to be an invalid for the +rest of my life, as my poor mother was for five years +before her death?”</p> + +<p>“At what age did your mother die?”</p> + +<p>“Thirty-four. For a long time the doctors +would hardly say what was the matter with her. +She suffered terribly from palpitation of the heart, +as I have done for the last six months; but the doctors +made light of it, and told my father there was +very little amiss. Towards the end they changed +their opinion, and owned that there was organic +disease. Nothing they could do for her seemed of +much use.”</p> + +<p>Mildred went back to the waiting-room while +her husband had an interview with the doctor; an +interview which left him but the faintest hope—only +the hope of prolonging a fading life.</p> + +<p>“She may last for years, perhaps,” said the +physician, pitying the husband’s silent agony, “but +it would be idle to disguise her state. She will +never be strong again. She must not ride, or drive,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> +or occupy herself in any way that can involve violent +exertion, or a shock to the nerves. Cherish her as a +hothouse flower, and she may be with you for some +time yet.”</p> + +<p>“God bless you, even for that hope,” said +Greswold, and then he spoke of his niece’s wedding, +and the wish for Mildred’s presence.</p> + +<p>“No harm in a wedding, I think, if you are +careful of her: no over-exertion, no agitating scenes. +The wedding may cheer her, and prevent her brooding +on her own state. Good-day. I shall be glad +to know the effect of my prescription, and to see +Mrs. Greswold again in a month or two, if she is +strong enough to come to London. If you want me +at any time in the country—”</p> + +<p>“You will come, will you not? Remember she +is all that is precious to me upon this earth. If I +lose her I lose everything.”</p> + +<p>“Send for me at any time. If it is possible for +me to go to you I will go.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br> +<span class="fs70">LIKE A TALE THAT IS TOLD.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class="no-indent"><span class="smcap">Pamela’s</span> wedding was one of the most successful +functions of the London season; and the society +papers described the ceremony with a fulness of +detail which satisfied even the bride’s avidity for +social fame. Mr. Smithson sent her gown just an +hour before it had to make its reverence before the +altar in the Abbey; and Pamela, who had been in +an almost hysterical agony for an hour-and-a-half, +lest she should have no gown in which to be married, +owned, as she pirouetted before the chevalglass, +that the fit was worth the suspense.</p> + +<p>The ladies who write fashion articles in the two +social arbiters were rapturous about Mr. Smithson’s +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">chef-d’œuvre</i>, and gave glowing accounts of certain +trousseau gowns which they had been privileged to +review at an afternoon tea in Grosvenor Gardens a +week before the event. Pamela’s delight in these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> +paragraphs was intensified by the idea that César +Castellani would read them, though it is hardly +likely that listless skimmer of modern literature +went so deep as fashion articles.</p> + +<p>“He will see at least that if he had married me +he would not have married quite a nobody,” said +Pamela, in a summer reverie upon the blue water in +front of The Hook, where she and her husband +dawdled about in a punt nearly all day, expatiating +upon each other’s merits. And so floats this light +bark gaily into a safe and placid haven, out of reach +of privateer or pirate such as the incomparable +Castellani.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was not until after Pamela’s wedding, and +nearly a month after Mildred’s discovery of the +letters in the bookcase, that Miss Fausset made any +sign; but one August morning her reply came in +the shape of a letter, entreating Mildred to go to +her, as an act of charity to one whose sands had +nearly run out.</p> + +<p>“I will not sue to you <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">in formâ pauperis</i>,” she +wrote, “so I do not pretend that I am a dying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> +woman; but I believe I have not very long to +live, and before my voice is mute upon earth I want +to tell you the history of one year of my girlhood. +I want you to know that I am not altogether the +kind of sinner you may think me. I will not write +that history, and if you refuse to come to me, I +must die and leave it untold, and in that case my +death-bed will be miserable.”</p> + +<p>Mildred’s gentle heart could not harden itself +against such an appeal as this. She told her husband +only that her aunt was very ill and ardently +desired to see her; and after some discussion it was +arranged that she should travel quietly to Brighton, +he going with her. He suggested that they should +stop in Miss Fausset’s house for a night or two, but +Mildred told him she would much prefer to stay at +an hotel; so it was decided that they should put up +at the quiet hotel on the East Cliff, where Mr. Greswold +had taken Pamela nearly a year before.</p> + +<p>Mildred’s health had improved under the physician’s +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">régime</i>; and her husband felt hopeful as they +travelled together through the summer landscape, +by that line which she had travelled in her desolation—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> +level landscape with glimpses of blue sea and +stretches of gray beach or yellow sand, bright in the +August noontide.</p> + +<p>George Greswold had respected Mildred’s reserve, +and had never urged her to enlighten him as to the +secret of his first wife’s parentage; but he had his +ideas upon the subject, and, remembering his interview +with the solicitor and that gentleman’s perturbation +at the name of Fausset, he was inclined to +think that the pious lady of Lewes Crescent might +not be unconcerned in the mystery. And now this +summons to Brighton seemed to confirm his suspicions.</p> + +<p>He went no further than Miss Fausset’s threshold, +and allowed his wife to go to her aunt alone.</p> + +<p>“I shall walk up and down and wait till you +come out again,” he said, “so I hope that you won’t +stay too long.”</p> + +<p>He was anxious to limit an interview which +might involve agitation for Mildred. He parted from +her almost reluctantly at the doorway of the gloomy +house, with its entrance-hall of the pattern of forty +years ago, furnished with barometer, umbrella-stand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> +and tall chairs, all in Spanish mahogany, and with +never a picture or a bust, bronze or porcelain, to +give light and colour to the scene.</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset had changed for the worse even in +the brief interval since Mildred had last seen her. +She was sitting in the back drawing-room as usual, +but her table and chair had been wheeled into the +bay-window, which commanded a garden with a +single tree and a variety of house-tops and dead +walls.</p> + +<p>“So you have come,” she said, without any form +of greeting. “I hardly expected so much from you. +Sit down there, if you please. I have a good deal +to tell you.”</p> + +<p>“I had intended never to enter your house +again, aunt. But I could not refuse to hear anything +you have to say in your own justification. +Only there is one act of yours which you can never +justify—either to me or to God.”</p> + +<p>“What is that, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Your refusal to tell me the secret of Fay’s +birth, when my happiness and my husband’s depended +upon my knowing it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> + +<p>“To tell you that would have been to betray my +own secret. Do you think, after keeping it for nine-and-thirty +years, I was likely to surrender it lightly? +I would sooner have cut my tongue out. I did +what I could for you. I told you to ignore idle +prejudice and to go back to your husband. I told +you what was due from you to him, over and above +all sanctimonious scruples. You would not listen +to me, and whatever misery you have suffered has +been misery of your own creation.”</p> + +<p>“Do not let us talk any more about it, aunt. +I can never think differently about the wrong you +have done me. Had I not found those letters—by +the merest accident, remember—I might have gone +down to my grave a desolate woman. I might +have died in a foreign land, far away from the only +voice that could comfort me in my last hours. +No; my opinion of your guilty silence can never +change. You were willing to break two hearts +rather than hazard your own reputation; and yet +you must have known that I would keep your secret, +that I should sympathise with the sorrow of your +girlhood,” added Mildred, in softened tones.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>Miss Fausset was slow in replying. Mildred’s +reproaches fell almost unheeded upon her ear. It +was of herself she was thinking, with all the egotism +engendered by a lonely old age, without ties of +kindred or friendship, with no society but that of +flatterers and parasites.</p> + +<p>“I asked you if you had found any letters of +your father’s relating to that unhappy girl,” she +said. “I always feared his habit of keeping letters—a +habit he learnt from my father. Yet I hoped +that he would have burnt mine, knowing, as he did, +that the one desire of my life was to obliterate that +hideous past. Vain hope. I was like the ostrich. +If I hid my secret in England, it was known in +Italy. The man who destroyed my life was a traitor +to the core of his heart, and he betrayed me to his +son. He told César how he had fascinated a rich +English girl, and fooled her with a mock marriage; +and fifteen years ago the young man presented himself +to me with the full knowledge of that dark blot +upon my life—to me, here, where I had held my +head so high. He let me know the full extent of +his knowledge in his own subtle fashion; but he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> +always treated me with profound respect—he pretended +to be fond of me; and, God help me, there +was a charm for me in the very sound of his voice. +The man who cheated me out of my life’s happiness +was lying in his grave: death lessens the bitterness +of hatred, and I could not forget that I had once +loved him.”</p> + +<p>The tears gathered slowly in the cold gray eyes, +and rolled slowly down the hollow cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I loved him, Mildred—loved him with a +foolish, inexperienced girl’s romantic love. I asked +no questions. I believed all he told me. I flung +myself blindfold into the net. His genius, his grace, +his fire—ah, you can never imagine the charm of +<em>his</em> manner, the variety of his talent, compared with +which his son’s accomplishments are paltry. You +see me now a hard, elderly woman. As a girl I was +warm-hearted and impetuous, full of enthusiasm and +imagination, while I loved and believed in my lover. +My whole nature changed after that great wrong—my +heart was frozen.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence of some moments, and then +Miss Fausset continued in short agitated sentences,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> +her fingers fidgeting nervously with the double eyeglass +which she wore on a slender gold chain:</p> + +<p>“It was his genius I worshipped. He was at the +height of his success. The Milanese raved about +him as a rival to Donizetti; his operas were the +rage. Can you wonder that I, a girl passionately +fond of music, was carried away by the excitement +which was in the very air I breathed? I went to +the opera night after night. I heard that fascinating +music till its melodies seemed interwoven with +my being. I suppose I was weak enough to let +the composer see how much I admired him. He +had quarrelled with his wife; and the quarrel—caused +by his own misconduct—had resulted in a +separation which was supposed to be permanent. +There may have been people in Milan who knew +that he was a married man, but my chaperon did +not; and he was careful to suppress the fact from +the beginning of our acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“Yes, no doubt he found out that I was madly in +love with him. He pretended to be interested in my +musical studies. He advised and taught me. He +played the violin divinely, and we used to play <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">concertante</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> +duets during the long evenings, while my +chaperon dozed by the fire, caring very little how I +amused myself, so long as I did not interfere with +her comfort. She was a sensual, selfish creature, +given over to self-indulgence, and she let me have +my own way in everything. He used to join me at +the Cathedral at vespers. How my heart thrilled +when I found him there, sitting in the shadowy +chancel in the gray November light! for I knew it +was for my sake he went there, not from any religious +feeling. Our hands used to meet and clasp each +other almost unconsciously when the music moved +us as it went soaring up to the gorgeous roof, in the +dim light of the hanging lamps before the altar. +I have found myself kneeling with my hand in his +when I came out of a dream of Paradise to which that +exquisite music had lifted me. Yes, I loved him, +Mildred; I loved him as well as ever you loved your +husband—as passionately and unselfishly as woman +ever loved. I rejoiced in the thought that I was +rich, for his sake. I planned the life that we were +to live together; a life in which I was to be subordinate +to him in all things—his adoring slave. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> +suppose most girls have some such dream. God +help them, when it ends as mine did!”</p> + +<p>Again there was a silence—a chilling muteness +upon Mildred’s part. How could she be sorry for +this woman who had never been sorry for others; +who had let her child travel from the cradle to the +grave without one ray of maternal love to light her +dismal journey! She remembered Fay’s desolate +life and blighted nature—Fay, who had a heart +large enough for a great unselfish love. She remembered +her aunt’s impenetrable silence when a +word would have restored happiness to a ruined +home; she remembered, and her heart was hardened +against this proud, selfish woman, whose +life had been one long sacrifice to the world’s +opinion.</p> + +<p>“I loved him, Mildred, and I trusted him as I +would have trusted any man who had the right to +call himself a gentleman,” pursued Miss Fausset, +eager to justify herself in the face of that implacable +silence. “I had been brought up, after the fashion +of those days, in a state of primeval innocence. I +had never, even in fiction, been allowed to come face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> +to face with the cruel realities of life. I was educated +in an age which thought <em>Jane Eyre</em> an improper +novel, and which restricted a young woman’s education +to music and modern languages; the latter +taught so badly, for the most part, as to be useless +when she travelled. My knowledge of Italian would +just enable me to translate a libretto when I had it +before me in print, or to ask my way in the streets; +but it was hardly enough to make me understand the +answer. It never entered into my mind to doubt +Paolo Castellani when he told me that, although we +could not, as Papist and Protestant, be married in +any church in Milan, we could be united by a civil +marriage before a Milanese authority, and that such +a marriage would be binding all the world over. Had +I been a poor girl I might of my own instinct have +suspected treachery; but I was rich and he was +poor, and he would be a gainer by our marriage. +Servants and governesses had impressed me with +the sense of my own importance, and I knew that I +was what is called a good match. So I fell into the +trap, Mildred, as foolishly as a snared bird. I crept +out of the house one morning after my music-lesson,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> +found my lover waiting for me with a carriage close +by, went with him to a dingy office in a dingy street, +but which had a sufficiently official air to satisfy my +ignorance, and went through a certain formula, +hearing something read over by an elderly man of +grave appearance, and signing my name to a document +after Paolo had signed his.</p> + +<p>“It was all a sham and a cheat, Mildred. The +old man was a Milanese attorney, with no more +power to marry us than he had to make us immortal. +The paper was a deed-of-gift by which Paolo Castellani +transferred some imaginary property to me. +The whole thing was a farce; but it was so cleverly +planned that the cheat was effected without the aid +of an accomplice. The old man acted in all good +faith, and my blind confidence and ignorance of +Italian accepted a common legal formality as a +marriage. I went from that dark little office into +the spring sunshine happy as ever bride went +out of church, kissed and complimented by a throng +of approving friends. I cared very little as to +what my brother might think of this clandestine +marriage. He would have refused his consent beforehand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> +no doubt, but he would reconcile himself +to the inevitable by and by. In any event, I should +be independent of his control. My fortune would +be at my own disposal after my one-and-twentieth +birthday—mine, to throw into my husband’s +lap.</p> + +<p>“That is nearly the end of my story, Mildred. +We went from Milan to Como, and after a few days +at Bellagio crossed the St. Gothard, and sauntered +from one lovely scene to another till we stopped at +Vevay. For just six weeks I lived in a fool’s paradise; +but by that time my brother had traced us to +Vevay—having learnt all that could be learnt about +Castellani at Milan before he started in pursuit of +us. He came, and my dream ended. I knew that +I was a dishonoured woman, and that all my education, +my innate pride in myself, and my fortune had +done for me, was to place me as low as the lowest +creature in the land. I left Vevay within an hour of +that revelation a broken-hearted woman. I never +saw my destroyer’s face again. You know all, +Mildred, now. Can you wonder that I shrank with +abhorrence from the offspring of my disgrace—that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> +I refused ever to see her after I had once released +myself from the hateful tie?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I do wonder; I must always wonder that +you were merciless to her—that you had no pity for +that innocent life.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, you are your father’s daughter. He wished +me to hide myself in some remote village so that I +might taste the sweets of maternal affection, enjoy +the blessed privilege of rearing a child who at every +instant of her life would remind me of the miserable +infatuation that had blighted my own. No, Mildred, +I was not made for such an existence as that. I +have tried to do good to others; I have laboured for +God’s Church and God’s poor. That has been my +atonement.”</p> + +<p>“It would have been a better atonement to have +cared for your own flesh and blood; but with your +means and opportunities you might have done both. +I loved Fay, remember, aunt. I cannot forget how +bright and happy she might have been. I cannot +forget the wrongs that warped her nature.”</p> + +<p>“You are very hard, Mildred, hard to a woman +whose days are numbered.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> + +<p>“Are not my days numbered, aunt?” cried +Mildred, with a sudden burst of passion. “Was +not my heart broken when I left this house last +year to go into loneliness and exile, abandoning a +husband I adored? That parting was my deathblow. +In all the long dreary days that have gone +by since then my hold upon life has been loosening. +You might have saved me that agony. You might +have sent me back to my home rejoicing—and you +would not. You cared more for your own pride +than for my happiness. You might have made your +daughter’s life happy—and you would not. You +cared more for the world’s esteem than for her +welfare. As you sacrificed her, your daughter, you +have sacrificed me, your niece. I know that I am +doomed. Just when God has given me back the +love that makes life precious, I feel the hand of +death upon me, and know that the hour of parting +is near.”</p> + +<p>“I have been a sinner, Mildred; but I have +suffered—I have suffered. You ought not to judge +me. You have never known shame.”</p> + +<p>That last appeal softened Mildred’s heart. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> +went over to her aunt’s chair, and leant over her +and kissed her.</p> + +<p>“Let the past be forgotten,” she said, “and let +us part in love.”</p> + +<p>And so, a quarter of an hour later, they parted, +never to meet again on earth.</p> + +<p>Miss Fausset died in the early winter, cut off +by the first frost, like a delicate flower. She had +made no change in the disposal of her property, +and her death made Mildred Greswold a very rich +woman.</p> + +<p>“My aunt loved the poor,” said Mildred, when +she and her husband spoke of this increase of +wealth. “We are both so much richer than our +needs, George. We have lived in sunshine for the +most part. When I am gone I should like you +to do some great thing for those who live in +shadow.”</p> + +<p>“My beloved, I shall remain upon this earth +only to obey your will.”</p> + +<p>He lived just long enough to keep his promise. +The Greswold Hospital remains, a monument of +thoughtful beneficence, in one of the most wretched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> +neighbourhoods south of the Thames; but George +Greswold and his race are ended like a tale that +is told.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>César Castellani, enriched by a legacy from Miss +Fausset, contrives still to flourish, and still to wear +a gardenia in the button-hole of an artistic coat; +but fashions change quickly in the realm of light +literature, and the star of the author of <em>Nepenthe</em> is +sunk in the oblivion that engulfs ephemeral reputations. +Castellani is still received in certain drawing-rooms; +but it is in the silly circles alone that +he is believed in as a man who has only missed +greatness because he is too much of an artist to be +a steadfast worker.</p> +<br> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80">THE END.</p> +<br> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent fs70"> +LONDON:<br> +ROBSON AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.<br> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent fs120 wsp">CHEAP UNIFORM EDITION</p> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent fs70">OF</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs200 wsp">MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS.</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p style="margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;">At all Booksellers’, price 2s., picture covers; 2s. 6d., cloth gilt, +uniform with the Cheap Edition of Miss <span class="smcap">Braddon’s</span> other +Novels,</p> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent fs200 wsp">LIKE AND UNLIKE</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80 wsp">BY THE AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 bold wsp">“Lady Audley’s Secret,” “Mohawks,” &c.</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 wsp"><em>OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.</em></p> + +<p>“Everybody who cares about a novel with a good plot so well +worked out that the excitement is kept up through the three +volumes, and culminates with the last chapter of the story, must +‘Like’ and can never again ‘Unlike’ this the latest and certainly +one of the best of Miss Braddon’s novels. Miss Braddon is our +most dramatic novelist. Her method is to interest the reader at +once with the very first line, just as that Master-Dramatist of our +time Dion Boucicault would rivet the attention of an audience by +the action at the opening of the piece, even before a line of the +dialogue had been spoken. This authoress never wastes her own +time and that of her reader by giving up any number of pages at +the outset to a minute description of scenery, to a history of a +certain family, to a wearisome account of the habits and customs +of the natives, or to explaining peculiarities in manners and dialect +which are to form one of the principal charms of the story. +No: Miss Braddon is dramatic just as far as the drama can assist +her, and then she is the genuine novelist. A few touches present +her characters living before the reader, and the story easily develops +itself in, apparently, the most natural manner possible. +‘Like and Unlike’ will make many people late for dinner, and +will keep a number of persons up at night when they ought to +be soundly sleeping. These are two sure tests of a really well-told +sensational novel. <em>Vive</em> Miss Braddon!”—<cite>Punch</cite>, October +15th, 1887.</p> + +<p>“The author of ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ still keeps her place +among the most thrilling and fascinating writers of sensational +fiction. Her new novel, ‘Like and Unlike,’ has the best qualities +of her best work. The style is as clear and nervous as ever, the +plot constructed and developed with the same admirable skill, +the interest as intense, and the effect on the imagination as +powerful. There is at the same time more evident in this than +in some former works of Miss Braddon’s a higher purpose than +merely to amuse and thrill the reader. The dramatic element is +strong in this tale, but it is the story that speaks; the author +never for a moment stops in her narrative to offer a word of +comment or enforce its moral. None the less powerfully does it +preach the vanity of vanities of the selfish pursuit of pleasure, +the misery that is the end of heartlessness, the retribution that +follows sins great and small, and also the omnipotence in noble +natures of penitence and love. It would not be fair to the reader +to take away from that ignorance of the future which is necessary +to the keenest enjoyment of Miss Braddon’s stories. ‘Like and +Unlike’ deals with both country and town life. There are pure +and noble characters in it, and others light and vain and vicious, +and the currents of life of the two classes are intermingled beneficently +and tragically. The title has reference to the twin +brothers, who play a leading—one of them the leading—part in +the drama. Their characters are admirably ‘delineated and contrasted,’ +and the moral significance of Valentine’s career is as +great as its interest is absorbing. Madge is also a powerful creation. +The Deverill girls and the other society characters are +vividly portrayed. The story begins quietly, and for a time the +reader believes that Miss Braddon is for once not going to be +sensational. He finds by and by that this is a mistake, and is +intensely interested by the gradual, natural, and apparently inevitable +way in which, out of very ordinary materials, the structure +of a powerful plot rises. This will rank among the best of Miss +Braddon’s novels.”—<cite>Scotsman</cite>, October 3, 1887.</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>⁂ <em>When announcing a recent Novel (“Phantom Fortune”), +Messrs. Tillotson & Son published the following statement +in their great coterie of newspapers</em>:</p> +</div> + +<p>“In announcing the issue of another story from the pen of +this gifted author, it seems scarcely necessary to write anything +like an elaborate notice of her previous successes on the field of +light literature. It is now many years ago since ‘Lady Audley’s +Secret’ brought Miss Braddon the fame which lasts all time; and +numerous as have been the stories produced by her facile pen since +then, her genius has lost none of its brilliance nor her skill its +cunning. Years have not weakened her marvellous powers of +imagination, nor familiarity with her productions diminished the +sparkling freshness of her infinite variety. Her later works, as +competent critics readily aver, exhibit higher and better qualities +than her earlier, because bringing to bear long experience, a +ripened understanding, and a mature judgment upon her brilliant +genius, her unrivalled skill in the construction of plots, and her +marvellous talent for depicting human nature under incessant +changes of character and circumstances.</p> + +<p>“A glance at the earlier chapters of the story upon which Miss +Braddon is now engaged (‘Phantom Fortune’), and which we shall +shortly place before our readers, abundantly justifies language of +the loftiest eulogy. Almost at its very opening we are introduced +to characters and scenes of absorbing interest. Around distinguished +personages in the political and diplomatic world gather +lords and ladies of the highest rank of beauty and fashion. Indian +affairs and Indian princes figure conspicuously. The Cabinet at +home and the India Office are in a flutter of excitement consequent +upon extraordinary rumours affecting an Anglo-Indian +official of high rank, who suddenly returns to England, another +Warren Hastings, to defend himself before the Imperial Parliament, +but mysteriously dies on his arrival in this country, after +painful interviews with his accomplished wife, a person of exalted +rank and station. With a skill all Miss Braddon’s own, she portrays +not the outer and conventional ways of Society only, but +also the inner life of the lords and ladies who constitute the +leading characters, drawn by her masterly hand. As the story +proceeds it may be expected to develop one of the strongest of +Miss Braddon’s strong plots, and to maintain her almost boundless +sway in the domain of fiction.”</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 wsp"><em>FURTHER OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.</em></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p style="margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;"><em>From amongst reviews of Miss Braddon’s recent works, which +would occupy a large volume if published in extenso, we +select the following pithy extracts</em>:</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">JUST AS I AM.</p> + +<p>“Miss Braddon’s novel, ‘Just as I am,’ is as fresh, as wholesome, +as enthralling, as amusing as any of the stories with which, +for a series of years, she has proved her title as Queen of the +Circulating Library.”—<cite>The World.</cite></p> + +<p>“Equals in skilful design and powerful execution any of Miss +Braddon’s previous works.”—<cite>Daily Telegraph.</cite></p> + +<p>“The story may be added to her lengthy list of successes.”—<cite>Court +Journal.</cite></p> + +<p>“From the pen of the most accomplished author of the day, +a lady who is perhaps the most facile and voluminous writer of +fiction.”—<cite>Court Circular.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">ASPHODEL.</p> + +<p>“The most charming novel that Miss Braddon has ever produced.”—<cite>Vanity +Fair.</cite></p> + +<p>“Deeply interesting and extremely well written.”—<cite>Morning +Post.</cite></p> + +<p>“A sound and healthy story; in one word, a true woman’s +book.”—<cite>Morning Advertiser.</cite></p> + +<p>“The style is wonderfully easy and fluent; the conversations +are brilliant, pointed, and vigorous. The early scenes are charming.”—<cite>The +Athenæum.</cite></p> + +<p>“Full of genuine human interest.”—<cite>The Scotsman.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">MOUNT ROYAL.</p> + +<p>“The worthy work of a thorough artist.”—<cite>Morning Post.</cite></p> + +<p>“Replete with all the freshness and charm which she has +taught the public to expect from her.”—<cite>Daily Telegraph.</cite></p> + +<p>“Miss Braddon’s romantic spirit has been in no way quenched, +but in this last novel its brighter rays are tempered by experience.”—<cite>Daily +Chronicle.</cite></p> + +<p>“Miss Braddon has given us a story which, while it adds to +her fame as an authoress, increases our indebtedness to her; the +healthy tone of ‘Mount Royal’ is not one of its least charms.”—<cite>Pictorial +World.</cite></p> + +<p>“The story can be followed with the keenest interest.”—<cite>St. +James’s Gazette.</cite></p> + +<p>“Contains many sparkling passages and many happy thoughts.”—<cite>Sheffield +Daily Telegraph.</cite></p> + +<p>“The novel is without doubt a good and a bright one.”—<cite>Manchester +Courier.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">TAKEN AT THE FLOOD.</p> + +<p>“Contains more elements of success than a dozen ordinary +novels.”—<cite>Bradford Observer.</cite></p> + +<p>“The latest addition to Miss Braddon’s unparalleled series of +brilliant novels.”—<cite>Court Journal.</cite></p> + +<p>“Sustains the fame which Miss Braddon has achieved as one +of the first of living novelists.”—<cite>Newcastle Daily Chronicle.</cite></p> + +<p>“Her work, take it for all in all, is the best we get.”—<cite>Sunday +Times.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">A STRANGE WORLD.</p> + +<p>“Has a fresh and fascinating interest.”—<cite>Daily Telegraph.</cite></p> + +<p>“Brimful of life and movement, and that life and movement +of a thoroughly healthy kind.”—<cite>World.</cite></p> + +<p>“In the construction of a plot Miss Braddon is unrivalled.”—<cite>Court +Journal.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">DEAD MEN’S SHOES.</p> + +<p>“Bright writing, and a story which never flags.”—<cite>Scotsman.</cite></p> + +<p>“A work of good moral purpose and of skilful execution.”—<cite>Pictorial +World.</cite></p> + +<p>“Full of life and interest, vivid in characterisation, abounds +in pleasant and accurate description.”—<cite>Sunday Times.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs150 wsp">WEAVERS AND WEFT.</p> + +<p>“It is eminently attractive reading.”—<cite>Whitehall Review.</cite></p> + +<p>“An undeniable amount of entertaining reading in the book.”—<cite>Athenæum.</cite></p> + +<p>“Like a gleam of sunshine in dreary weather.”—<cite>News of the +World.</cite></p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 wsp"><span class="smcap">London</span>: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 bold wsp">CHEAP EDITION OF</p> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent fs200 wsp">MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS.</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 bold">In Two-Shilling Volumes, Uniform.</p> + +<p class="center no-indent wsp">ALWAYS IN PRINT.</p> + +<p class="center no-indent fs80"><em>Also in cloth, 2s. 6d.; and in vellum, 3s. 6d.</em></p> + +<p class="no-indent"> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">1. LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">2. HENRY DUNBAR.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">3. ELEANOR’S VICTORY.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">4. AURORA FLOYD.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">5. JOHN MARCHMONT’S LEGACY.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">6. THE DOCTOR’S WIFE.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">7. ONLY A CLOD.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">8. SIR JASPER’S TENANT.</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">9. TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.</span><br> +10. LADY’S MILE.<br> +11. LADY LISLE.<br> +12. CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE.<br> +13. BIRDS OF PREY.<br> +14. CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE.<br> +15. RUPERT GODWIN.<br> +16. RUN TO EARTH.<br> +17. DEAD SEA FRUIT.<br> +18. RALPH THE BAILIFF.<br> +19. FENTON’S QUEST.<br> +20. LOVELS OF ARDEN.<br> +21. ROBERT AINSLEIGH.<br> +22. TO THE BITTER END.<br> +23. MILLY DARRELL.<br> +24. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS.<br> +25. LUCIUS DAVOREN.<br> +26. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD.<br> +27. LOST FOR LOVE.<br> +28. A STRANGE WORLD.<br> +29. HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE.<br> +30. DEAD MEN’S SHOES.<br> +31. JOSHUA HAGGARD.<br> +32. WEAVERS AND WEFT.<br> +33. AN OPEN VERDICT.<br> +34. VIXEN.<br> +35. THE CLOVEN FOOT.<br> +36. THE STORY OF BARBARA.<br> +37. JUST AS I AM.<br> +38. ASPHODEL.<br> +39. MOUNT ROYAL.<br> +40. GOLDEN CALF.<br> +41. PHANTOM FORTUNE.<br> +42. FLOWER AND WEED.<br> +43. ISHMAEL.<br> +44. WYLLARD’S WEIRD.<br> +45. UNDER THE RED FLAG.<br> +46. ONE THING NEEDFUL.<br> +47. MOHAWKS.</p> + +<hr class="r5"> + +<p class="no-indent">48. CUT BY THE COUNTY.</p> + +<p class="right"> +<em>Price One Shilling.</em> +</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p>“No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. +The most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome +illness is brightened, by any one of her books.”</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p style="margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;"><em>Extract from a very eloquent and excellent Sermon preached +by the Rev. W. Benham, B.D., on March 4th, 1883, at St. +Stephen’s Church, South Kensington.</em></p> +</div> + +<p>“I have undertaken to speak freely concerning our social life +and habits, and therefore I shall not shrink from speaking about +two subjects not often mentioned within the walls of a church—I +mean ‘sensational novels,’ as they are called, and the drama. +great outcry is made against the former, which I am afraid is not +very sincere, considering that those who make the outcry go on +reading them. That the writers depict startling and sometimes +horrible scenes no one will deny, but I am not aware that there is +any more harm in that than in reading the last report of the +‘Dublin Police News.’ What lies at the foundation of such +novels is the craving after reality as against false sentiment. +Who is the worse for reading ‘Hamlet,’ or ‘Othello,’ or ‘Macbeth’? +There are horrors enough in these. What young man +should not be the better for admiring Ophelia or Desdemona? I +know an aged living prelate, whose praise is widely spread in the +Church for his contributions to sacred literature, and who is +venerated by all who love him for his piety and saintliness, who +declares that the writings of the chief of these novelists—I mean +Miss Braddon—are among the best of the works of fiction. Judge +for yourselves. I hold that her books are <em>the very contrast</em> of the +few French sensation novels that I have read, whose philosophy +might be summed up in the scoffer’s words, ‘Let us eat and drink, +for to-morrow we die.’”</p> + +<hr class="r25"> + +<p class="center no-indent fs120 wsp"><span class="smcap">London</span>: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter transnote"> +<h2 class="nobreak bold fs150" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> + +<ul> +<li>pg 113 Changed: my benfactress has consummated the generosity<br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">to: my benefactress has consummated the generosity</span></li> + +<li>pg 218 Changed: He was sittting in the lamp-light<br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">to: He was sitting in the lamp-light</span></li> + +<li>pg 226 Changed: Tire me to walk to the shubbery<br> +<span style="padding-left: 2em">to: Tire me to walk to the shrubbery</span></li> +</ul> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75412 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75412-h/images/cover.jpg b/75412-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a178999 --- /dev/null +++ b/75412-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75412-h/images/decoration.jpg b/75412-h/images/decoration.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d33f484 --- /dev/null +++ b/75412-h/images/decoration.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d865cb --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #75412 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75412) |
