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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18385-8.txt b/18385-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..138f5c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/18385-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13898 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera Nevill, by Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Vera Nevill + Poor Wisdom's Chance + +Author: Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +Release Date: May 14, 2006 [EBook #18385] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA NEVILL *** + + + + +Produced by Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + VERA NEVILL; + + OR, POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. + + _A NOVEL_. + + BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON + + Author of "Pure Gold," "In a Grass Country," etc., etc. + + + PHILADELPHIA: + J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. + 1893. + + + + + "No. Vain, alas! th' endeavour + From bonds so sweet to sever. + Poor Wisdom's Chance + Against a glance + Is now as weak as ever." + + _Moore's Melodies_. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER I. The Vicar's Family + + CHAPTER II. Kynaston Hall + + CHAPTER III. Fanning Dead Ashes + + CHAPTER IV. The Lay Rector + + CHAPTER V. "Little Pitchers" + + CHAPTER VI. A Soirée at Walpole Lodge + + CHAPTER VII. Evening Reveries + + CHAPTER VIII. The Member for Meadowshire + + CHAPTER IX. Engaged + + CHAPTER X. A Meeting on the Stairs + + CHAPTER XI. An Idle Morning + + CHAPTER XII. The Meet at Shadonake + + CHAPTER XIII. Peacock's Feathers + + CHAPTER XIV. Her Wedding Dress + + CHAPTER XV. Vera's Message + + CHAPTER XVI. "Poor Wisdom" + + CHAPTER XVII. An Unlucky Love-Letter + + CHAPTER XVIII. Lady Kynaston's Plans + + CHAPTER XIX. What She Waited For + + CHAPTER XX. A Morning Walk + + CHAPTER XXI. Maurice's Intercession + + CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Pryme's Visitors + + CHAPTER XXIII. A White Sunshade + + CHAPTER XXIV. Her Son's Secret + + CHAPTER XXV. St. Paul's, Knightsbridge + + CHAPTER XXVI. The Russia-Leather Case + + CHAPTER XXVII. Dinner at Ranelagh + + CHAPTER XXVIII. Mrs. Hazeldine's "Long Eliza" + + CHAPTER XXIX. A Wedding Tour + + CHAPTER XXX. "If I could Die!" + + CHAPTER XXXI. An Eventful Drive + + CHAPTER XXXII. By the Vicarage Gate + + CHAPTER XXXIII. Denis Wilde's Love + + CHAPTER XXXIV. A Garden Party + + CHAPTER XXXV. Shadonake Bath + + CHAPTER XXXVI. At Peace + + + + +VERA NEVILL + +OR + +POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE VICAR'S FAMILY. + + With that regal indolent air she had + So confident of her charm. + + Owen Meredith. + + Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. + + Shakespeare. + + +Amongst the divers domestic complications into which short-sighted man is +prone to fall there is none which has been more conclusively proved to be +an utter and egregious failure than that family arrangement which, for +lack of a better name, I will call a "composite household." + +No one could have spoken upon this subject with greater warmth of +feeling, nor out of the depths of a more painful experience, than +could the Rev. Eustace Daintree, sometime vicar of the parish of +Sutton-in-the-Wold. + +Mr. Daintree's family circle consisted of himself, his mother, his wife, +and his wife's sister, and I should like to know how a man could expect +to lead a life of peace and tranquillity with such a combination of +inharmonious feminine elements! + +There were two children also, who were a fruitful source of discord and +disunion. It is certain that, had he chosen to do so, the Rev. Eustace +might have made many heart-rending and harrowing revelations concerning +the private life and customs of the inhabitants of his vicarage. It is +equally certain, however, that he would not have chosen to do so, for he +was emphatically a man of peace and gentleness, kind hearted and given +to good works; and was, moreover, sincerely anxious to do his duty +impartially to those whom Providence or fate, or a combination of chances +and changes, had somehow contrived to bring together under his roof. + +Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of their +married life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home to +themselves, and right well had they enjoyed it. A fairly good living +backed up by independent means, a small rural parish, a pleasant +neighbourhood, a pretty and comfortable vicarage-house--what more can the +hearts of a clergyman of the Church of England and his wife desire? Mr. +and Mrs. Daintree, at all events, had wished for nothing better. But this +blissful state of things was not destined to last; it was, perhaps, +hardly to be expected that it should, seeing that man is born to trouble, +and that happiness is known to be as fleeting as time or beauty or any +other good thing. + +When Eustace Daintree had been married five years, his father died, +and his mother, accepting his warmly tendered invitation to come to +Sutton-in-the-Wold upon a long visit, took up her abode in the pleasant +vicarage-house. + +Her visit was long indeed. In a weak moment her son consented to her +urgent request to be allowed to subscribe her quota to the household +expenses--this was as good as giving her a ninety-nine years' lease of +her quarters. The thin end of the wedge thus inserted, Mrs. Daintree +_mère_ became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, and +the doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing short +of death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongst +them. For the future her son's house became her home. + +But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was a +soft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman. It cannot be said that she +regarded the permanent instalment of her mother-in-law in her home with +pleasurable feelings; she would have been more than human had she done +so. But then she was unfeignedly fond of her husband, and desired so +earnestly to make his home happy that, not seeing her way to oust the +intruder without a warfare which would have distressed him, she +determined to make the best of the situation, and to preserve the +family peace and concord at all risks. + +She succeeded in her praiseworthy efforts, but at what cost no one but +herself ever knew. Marion's whole life became one propitiatory sacrifice +to her mother-in-law. To propitiate Mrs. Daintree was a very simple +matter. Bearing in mind that her leading characteristics were a bad +temper and an ungovernable desire to ride rough-shod over the feelings of +all those who came into contact with her, in order to secure her favour +it was only necessary to study her moods, and to allow her to tread you +under foot as much as her soul desired. Provided that she had her own way +in these little matters, Mrs. Daintree became an amiable old lady. Marion +did all that was needful; figuratively speaking, she laid down in the +dust before her, and the Juggernaut of her fate consented to be appeased +by the lowly attitude, and crushed its way triumphantly over her fallen +body. + +Thus Marion accepted her fate, and peace was preserved in her husband's +house. But by-and-by there came somebody into the family who would by no +manner of means consent to be so crushed and trodden under foot. This +somebody was Vera Nevill. + +In order duly to set forth who and what was this young woman, who thus +audaciously set at defiance the powers that were, it will be necessary +that I should take a brief survey of Marion's family history. + +Marion, then, be it known, was the eldest of three sisters; so much the +eldest, that when Mr. Daintree had met her and married her in Rome during +one of his brief holidays, the two remaining sisters had been at the time +hardly more than children. Colonel Nevill, their father, had married an +Italian lady, long since dead, and had lived a nomad life ever since he +had become a widower; moving about chiefly between Nice, Rome, and Malta. +Wherever pleasant society was to be found, there would Colonel Nevill and +his daughters instinctively drift, and year after year they became more +and more enamoured of their foreign life, and less and less disposed to +venture back to the chill fogs and cloudy skies of their native land. + +Three years after Marion had left them, and gone away with her husband to +his English vicarage; Theodora, the second daughter, had at eighteen +married an Italian prince, whose lineage was ancient, but whose acres +were few; and Colonel Nevill, dying rather suddenly almost immediately +after, Vera, the youngest daughter, as was most natural, instantly found +a home with Princess Marinari. + +All this time Marion lived at Sutton-in-the-Wold, and saw none of them. +She wept copiously at the news of her father's death, regretting bitterly +her inability to receive his parting blessing; but, her little Minnie +being born shortly after, her thoughts were fortunately diverted into a +happier channel, and she suffered from her loss less keenly and recovered +from it more quickly than had she had no separate life and no separate +interests of her own to engross her. Still, being essentially +affectionate and faithful, she clung to the memory of the two sisters now +separated so entirely from her. For some years she and Theodora kept up a +brisk correspondence. Marion's letters were full of the sayings and +doings of Tommy and Minnie, and Theodora's were full of nothing but Vera. + +What Vera had looked like at her first ball, how Prince this and Marquis +so-and-so had admired her; how she had been smothered with bouquets and +bonbons at Carnival time; how she had sat to some world-famed artist, who +had entreated to be allowed to put her face into his great picture, and +how the house was literally besieged with her lovers. By all this, and +much more in the same strain, Marion perceived that her young sister, +whom she had last seen in all the raw unformed awkwardness of early +girlhood, had developed somehow into a beautiful woman. + +And there came photographs of Vera occasionally, fully confirming the +glowing accounts Princess Marinari gave of her; fantastic photographs, +portraying her in strange and different ways. There was Vera looking out +through clouds of her own dark hair hanging loosely about her face; Vera +as a Bacchante crowned with vine leaves, laughing saucily; Vera draped as +a _dévote_, with drooping eyes and hands crossed meekly upon her bosom. +Sometimes she would be in a ball-dress, with lace about her white +shoulders; sometimes muffled up in winter sables, her head covered with +a fur cap. But always she was beautiful, always a young queen, even in +these poor, fading photographs, that could give but a faint idea of her +loveliness to those who knew her not. + +"She must be very handsome," Eustace Daintree would say heartily, as his +wife, with a little natural flush of pride, handed some picture of her +young sister across the breakfast-table to him. "How I wish we could see +her, she must be worth looking at, indeed. Mother, have you seen this +last one of Vera?" + +"Beauty is a snare," the old lady would answer viciously, hardly deigning +to glance at the lovely face; "and your sister seems to me, Marion, to be +dressed up like an actress, most unlike my idea of a modest English +girl." + +Then Marion would take her treasure away with her up into her own room, +out of the way of her mother-in-law's stern and repelling remarks. + +But one day there came sad news to the vicarage at Sutton. Theodora, +Princess Marinari, caught the Roman fever in its worst form, and after +a few agonizing letters and telegrams, that came so rapidly one upon the +other that she had hardly time to realize the dreadful truth, Marion +learnt that her sister was dead. + +After that, the elder sister's English home became naturally the right +and fitting place for Vera to come to. So she left her gay life and her +lovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worth +living for, and came back to her father's country and took up her abode +in Eustace Daintree's quiet vicarage, where she became shortly her +sister's idol and her sister's mother-in-law's mortal foe. + +And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to put +three grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to live +together in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as to +shut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expect +them to behave like so many lambs. + +It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in her +brother-in-law's house. Let me waste no further time, but introduce her +to you at once. + +The time of the year is October--the time of day is five o'clock. In the +vicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, and +the fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windows +leading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps into +the room. + +There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across the +garden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, against +which the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, stand +out clearly and distinctly. Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but of +a goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form. She is +tall--very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a young +queen conscious of her own power. + +She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, and +pauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is white +and well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to the +warmth. + +The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face--her face, with +its pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamy +eyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague and +indistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves. Her hair, a soft +dusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered up +at the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that would +not suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the stately +young head it adorns. + +"Tea, Vera?" says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers. + +Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light. +There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind the +piano; it is Tommy in disgrace. Vera turns round; Marion's kind face +looks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmly +and savagely. + +Vera takes the cup from her sister's hands, and putting it down again on +the table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spread +it thickly with strawberry jam. + +"Come here, Tommy, and have some of Auntie's bread and jam." + +Out comes a small person, with a very swollen face and a very dirty +pinafore, from the distant seclusion of the corner, and flies swiftly +to Vera's sheltering arm. + +Mrs. Daintree drops her work angrily into her lap. + +"Vera, I must beg of you not to interfere with Tom; are you aware that he +is in the corner by my orders?" + +"Perfectly, Mrs. Daintree; and also that he was there before I went out, +exactly three-quarters of an hour ago; there are limits to all human +endurance." + +"I consider it extremely impertinent," begins the old lady, nodding her +head violently. + +"Darling Vera," pleads Marion, almost in tears; "perhaps you had better +let him go back." + +"Tommy is quite good now," says Vera, calmly passing her hand over the +rough blonde head. Master Tommy's mouth is full of bread and jam, and he +looks supremely indifferent to the warfare that is being carried on on +his account over his head. + +His crime having been the surreptitious purloining of his grandmamma's +darning cotton, and the subsequent immersion of the same in the inkstand, +Vera feels quite a warm glow of approval towards the little culprit and +his judiciously-planned piece of mischief. + +"Vera, I _insist_ upon that child being sent back into the corner!" +exclaims Mrs. Daintree, angrily, bringing her large fist heavily down +upon her knee. + +"The child has been over-punished already," she answers, calmly, still +administering the soothing solace of strawberry jam. + +"Oh, Vera, _pray_ keep the peace!" cries Marion, with clasped hands. + +"Here, I am thankful to say, comes my son;" as a shadow passes the +window, and Eustace's tall figure with the meekly stooping head comes +in at the door. "Eustace, I beg that you will decide who is to be in +authority in this house--your mother or this young lady. It is +insufferable that every time I send the children into the corner Vera +should call them out and give them cakes and jam." + +Eustace Daintree looks helplessly from one to the other. + +"My dear mother--my dear girls--what is it all about? I am sure Vera does +not mean----" + +"No, Vera only means to be kind, grandmamma," cries Marion, nervously; +"she is so fond of the children----" + +"Hold your tongue, Marion, and don't take your sister's part so +shamelessly!" + +Meanwhile Vera rises silently and pushes Tommy and all his enormities +gently by the shoulders out of the room. Then she turns round and faces +her foe. + +"Judge between us, Eustace!" the old lady is crying; "am I to be defied +and set at nought? are we all to bow down and worship Miss Vera, the most +useless, lazy person in the house, who turns up her nose at honest men +and prefers to live on charity, a burden to her relations?" + +"Vera is no burden, only a great pleasure to me, my dear mother," said +the clergyman, holding out his hand to the girl. + +"Oh, grandmamma, how unkind you are," says Marion, bursting into tears. +But Vera only laughs lazily and amusedly, she is so used to it all! It +does not disturb her. + +"Is she to be mistress here, I ask, or am I?" continues Mrs. Daintree, +furiously. + +"Marion is the mistress here," says Vera, boldly; "neither you nor I have +any authority in her house or over her children." And then the old lady +gathers up her work and sails majestically from the room, followed by her +weak, trembling daughter-in-law, bent on reconciliation, on cajolement, +on laying herself down for her own sins, and her sister's as well, before +the avenging genius of her life. + +The clergyman stands by the hearth with his head bent and his hands +behind him. He sighs wearily. + +Vera creeps up to him and lays her hand softly upon his coat sleeve. + +"I am a firebrand, am I not, Eustace?" + +"My dear, no, not that; but if you could try a little to keep the peace!" +He stayed the caressing hand within his own and looked at her tenderly. +His face is a good one, but not a handsome one; and, as he looks at his +wife's young sister, it is softened into its best and kindest. Who can +resist Vera, when she looks gentle and humble, with that rare light in +her dark eyes? + +"Vera, why don't you look like that at Mr. Gisburne?" he says, smiling. + +"Oh, Eustace! am I indeed a burden to you, as your mother says?" she +exclaims, evasively. + +"No, no, my dear, but it seems hard for you here; a home of your own +might be happier for you; and Gisburne is a good man." + +"I don't like good men who are poor!" says Vera, with a little grimace. + +Her brother-in-law looks shocked. "Why do you say such hard worldly +things, Vera? You do not really mean them." + +"Don't I? Eustace, look at me: do I look like a poor clergyman's wife? Do +survey me dispassionately." She holds herself at arm's length from him, +and looks comically up and down the length of her gray skirts. "Think of +the yards and yards of stuff it takes to clothe me; and should not a +woman as tall as I am be always in velvet and point lace, Eustace? What +is the good of condemning myself to workhouse sheeting for the rest of my +days?" + +Mr. Daintree looks at her admiringly; he has learnt to love her; this +beautiful southern flower that has come to blossom in his home. Women +will be hard enough on Vera through her life--men, never. + +"You have great gifts and great temptations, my child," he says, +solemnly. "I pray that I may be enabled to do my duty to you. Do not say +you do not like good men, Vera, it pains me to hear you say it." + +"I like _one_ good man, and his name is Eustace Daintree!" she answers, +softly; "is not that a hopeful sign?" + +"You are a little flatterer, Vera," he says, kissing her; but, though he +is a middle-aged clergyman and her brother-in-law, he is by no means +impervious to the flattery. + +Meanwhile, upstairs, Marion is humbling herself into the dust, at the +footstool of her tyrant. Mrs. Daintree is very angry with Marion's +sister, and Mr. Gisburne is also the text whereon she hangs her sermon. + +"I wish her no harm, Marion; why should I? She is most impertinent to me, +but of that I will not speak." + +"Indeed, grandmamma, you do not understand Vera. I am sure she----" + +"Oh, yes, excuse me, my dear, I understand her perfectly--the +impertinence to myself I waive--I hope I am a Christian, but I cannot +forgive her for turning up her nose at Mr. Gisburne--a most excellent +young man; what can a girl want more?" + +"Dear Mrs. Daintree, does Vera look like a poor clergyman's wife?" said +Marion, using unconsciously Vera's own arguments. + +"Now, Marion, I have no patience with such folly! Whom do you suppose she +is to wait for? We haven't got any Princes down at Sutton to marry her; +and I say it's a shame that she should go on living on her friends, a +girl without a penny! when she might marry a respectable man, and have +a home of her own." + +And then even Marion said that, if Vera could be brought to like Mr. +Gisburne, it might possibly be happier for her to marry him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +KYNASTON HALL. + + Only the wind here hovers and revels + In a round where life seems barren as death. + Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, + Haply of lovers none ever will know. + + Swinburne, "A Forsaken Garden." + + +It seemed to be generally acknowledged by the Daintree family that if +Vera would only consent to yield to the solicitations of the Reverend +Albert Gisburne, and transfer herself to Tripton Rectory for life, it +would be the simplest and easiest solution of a good many difficult +problems concerning her. + +In point of fact, Vera Nevill was an incongruous element in the Daintree +household. In that quiet humdrum country clergyman's life she was as much +out of her proper place as a bird of paradise in a chicken yard, or a +Gloire de Dijon rose in a field of turnips. + +It was not her beauty alone, but her whole previous life which unfitted +her for the things amongst which she found herself suddenly transplanted. +She was no young unformed child, but a woman of the world, who had been +courted and flattered and sought after; who had learnt to hold her own, +and to fight her battles single-handed, and who knew far more about +the dangers and difficulties of life than did the simple-hearted +brother-in-law, under whose charge she now found herself, or the timid, +gentle sister who was so many years her senior. + +But if she was cognizant of the world and its ways, Vera knew absolutely +nothing about the life of an English vicarage. Sunday schools and +mothers' meetings were enigmas to her; clothing clubs and friendly +societies, hopeless and uninteresting mysteries which she had no desire +to solve. She had no place in the daily routine. What was she to do +amongst it all? + +Vera did what was most pleasant and also most natural to her--she did +nothing. She was by habit and by culture essentially indolent. The +southern blood she inherited, the life of the Italian fine lady she had +led, made her languid and fond of inaction. To lie late in bed, to sip +chocolate, and open her letters before she rose; to be dressed and +re-dressed by a fashionable lady's maid; to recline in luxurious +carriages, and to listen lazily to the flattery and adulation that had +surrounded her--that had been Vera's life from morning till night ever +since she grew up. + +How, with such antecedents, was she to enter suddenly into all the +activity of an English clergyman's home? There were the schools, and the +vestry meetings, and the sick and the destitute to be fretted after from +Monday morning till Saturday night--Eustace and Marion hardly ever had a +moment's respite or a leisure hour the whole week; whilst Sunday, of +course, was the hardest day's work of all. + +But Vera could not turn her life into these things. She would not have +known how to set about them, and assuredly she had no desire to try. + +So she wandered about the garden in the summer time, or sat dreamily by +the fire in winter. She gathered flowers and decorated the rooms with +them; she spoilt the children, she quarrelled with their grandmother, but +she did nothing else; and the righteous soul of Eustace Daintree was +disquieted within him on account of her. He felt that her life was +wasted, and the responsibility of it seemed, to his over-sensitive +conscience, to rest upon himself. + +"The girl ought to be married," he would say to his wife, anxiously. "A +husband and a home of her own is what she wants. If she were happily +settled she would find occupation enough." + +"I don't see whom she could marry, Eustace; men are so scarce, and there +are so many girls in the county." + +"Well, she might have had Barry." Barry was a curate whom Vera had lately +scorned, and who had, in consequence of the crushed condition of his +affections, incontinently fled. "And then there is Gisburne. Why couldn't +she marry Gisburne? He is quite a catch, and a good young man too." + +"Yes, it is a pity; perhaps she may change her mind, and he will ask her +again after Christmas; he told me as much." + +"You must try and persuade her to think better of it by then, my dear. +Now I must be off to old Abraham, and be sure you send round the port to +Mary Williams; and you will find the list for the blanket club on my +study table, love." + +Her husband started on his morning rounds, and Marion, coming down into +the drawing-room, found old Mrs. Daintree haranguing Vera on the same +all-important topic. + +"I am only speaking for your good, Vera; what other object could I have?" +she was saying, as she dived into the huge basket of undarned socks on +the floor before her, and extracted thereout a ragged specimen to be +operated upon. "It is sheer obstinacy on your part that you will not +accept such a good offer. And there was poor Mr. Barry, a most worthy +young man, and his second cousin a bishop, too, quite sure of a living, +I should say." + +"Another clergyman!" said Vera, with a soft laugh, just lifting up her +hands and letting them fall down again upon her lap, with a little, +half-foreign movement of impatience. "Are there, then, no other men but +the clergy in this country?" + +"And a very good thing if there were no others," glared the old lady, +defiantly, over her spectacles. + +"I do not like them," said Vera, simply. + +"Not like them! Considering that I am the daughter, the widow, and the +mother of clergymen, I consider that remark a deliberate insult to me!" + +"Dear Mrs. Daintree, I am sure Vera never meant----" cried Marion, +trembling for fear of a fresh battle. + +"Don't interrupt me, Marion; you ought to have more proper pride than to +stand by and hear the Church reviled." + +"Vera only said she did not like them." + +"No more I do, Marion," said Vera, stifling a yawn--"not when they are +young; when they are old, like Eustace, they are far better; but when +they are young they are all exactly alike--equally harmless when out of +the pulpit, and equally wearisome when in it!" + +A few moments of offended silence on the part of the elder lady, +during which she tugs fiercely and savagely at the ragged sock in her +hands--then she bursts forth again. + +"You may scorn them as much as you like, but let me tell you that the +life of a clergyman's wife--honoured, respected, and useful--is a more +profitable one than the idle existence which you lead, utterly +purposeless and lazy. You never do one single thing from morning till +night." + +"What shall I do? Shall I help you to darn Eustace's socks?" reaching at +one of them out of the basket. + +Mrs. Daintree wrenched it angrily from her hand. + +"Good gracious! as if you could! What a bungle it would be. Why, I never +saw you with a piece of work in your hand in my life. I dare say you +could not even thread a needle." + +"I am quite sure I have never threaded one yet," laughed Vera, lazily. "I +might try; but you see you won't let me be useful, so I had better resign +myself to idleness." And then she rose and took her hat, and went out +through the French window, out among the fallen yellow leaves, leaving +the other women to discuss the vexed problem of her existence. + +She discussed it to herself as she walked dreamily along under the trees +in the lane beyond the garden, her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon the +ground; she swung her hat idly in her hand, for it was warm for the time +of year, and the gold-brown leaves fluttered down about her head and +rustled under the dark, trailing skirts behind her. + +About half a mile up the lane, beyond the vicarage, stood an old iron +gateway leading into a park. It was flanked by square red-brick columns, +upon whose summits two stone griffins, "rampant," had looked each other +in the face for the space of some two hundred years or so, peering grimly +over the tops of the shields against which they stood on end, upon which +all the family arms and quarterings of the Kynastons had become softly +coated over by an indistinct veil of gray-green moss. + +Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within, +who looked out for a minute at her as she passed. It was her daily walk, +for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wander +unreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to its +ancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house. + +Vera did so often. The square, red-brick building, with its stone +copings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunning +themselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in the +stone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden--all had a +certain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature. Then turning in at +the high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, +had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through the +deserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentle +reverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits, +and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead and +gone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, in +the now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim and +faded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the only +sound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they had +reigned supreme. + +She got to know them all at last by name--whole generations of them. +There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and a +farthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, his +brother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles. A whole succession of Sir +Martins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife in +powder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whose +elaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs. +Eccles, who had them all at her fingers' ends, had considerable +difficulty in clearly comprehending. It was a relief to be firmly landed +with Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, "the +present baronet's grandfather," and, lastly, Sir John, "the present +baronet's father," in a deputy-lieutenant's scarlet uniform, with a +cocked hat under his arm--by far the worst and most inartistic painting +in the whole collection. + +It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera. She elaborated whole +romances to herself out of these portraits. She settled their loves and +their temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers' meetings +between them. Each one had his or her history woven out of the slender +materials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives. Only one +thing disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John. +She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who was +unmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of his +fathers. She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it. +She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark, +dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from one +station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet +old-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the +long chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable +associations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, some +sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt. + +But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her to +talk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of the +man who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely honourable to +have spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred her dreams. One +day, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the little room which +Mrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's morning room," Vera came +upon a modern photograph that arrested her attention wonderfully. + +It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only a +broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and a +close-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written in +pencil, "My son--for Mrs. Eccles." Lady Kynaston, she supposed, must +therefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was Sir +John. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, as +though she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and she +said no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later she +sought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away. + +But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forget +it; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested him +with the living likeness of the photograph she had seen. + +On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the old +house she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms; the +sunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the air was +too full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to care to +go indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the housekeeper's +room, and called the old lady by name. + +The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she wandered +on to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked over the +gardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and she thought +of the photograph in the drawer. + +And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that, +beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended in +a set and determined purpose. + +The thought was this:-- + +"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him." + +She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightest +particle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what her +relations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning the +desirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was perfectly +just and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to marry; her +life was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself or to any +one else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton Vicarage; it +had only been an intermediate condition of things. She had no vocation +for visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but unexciting family +office of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that, with all their +kindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not to be burdened +with her support for longer than was necessary. As to turning governess, +or companion, or lady-help, there was an incongruity in the idea that +made it too ludicrous to contemplate even for an instant. There is no +other way that a handsome and penniless woman can deliver her friends +of the burden of her existence than by marriage. + +Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way averse +to the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the most +practical and matter-of-fact point of view. + +She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashly +consenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable husband +that her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed in one +important respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the present +day--she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what marriage might +bring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it. She wanted wealth +and position, because she knew what they were and what life became +without them; and because she knew that she was utterly unfitted to be +the wife of any one but a rich man. + +And therefore it was that Vera looked from the square red house behind +her over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble avenues +that spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is what +will suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love it +dearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that such +a position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he whom +I will marry, and none other." + +As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus proposed +to marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into consideration at all. +She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she possessed any feelings; they +had never incommoded her hitherto. Probably they had no existence. Such +vague fancy as had been ever roused within her had been connected with a +photograph seen once in a writing-table drawer. The photograph of Sir +John Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, only +she said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sure +to get on with him." + +She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenary +even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exact +its full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetry +and refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name. + +The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never +loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed +the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the +world, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her +brain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still. +Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened. + +She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand, +dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in +straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her, +the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were +sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one +motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the +deserted scene. + + * * * * * + +Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followed +by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted. + +"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place so +choked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day's +notice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had the +house tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of the +family, and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used to +be----" + +"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I only +wanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitable +in case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. The +stables, I find, are in good repair." + +"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is that +old-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use." + +"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all. +It is quite uncertain whether I shall come----Who is that?" stopping +suddenly short before the window. + +"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hope +you won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you was +back. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds." + +"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?" + +"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from +abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is +Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come +and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it +amiss that I should have allowed her to come." + +"Take it amiss--good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss--Miss Nevill, did you +say?--come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?" + +"I will get the key, Sir John." The housekeeper precedes him out of the +room, but Sir John stands still by the window. + +"What a picture," he says to himself below his breath; "how well she +looks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks--has +always lacked ever since I have known it--the presence of a beautiful +woman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles, I am coming." This last aloud, and he hastens +downstairs. + +Five minutes later, Sir John Kynaston says to his housekeeper, + +"You need not scare that young lady away from the place by telling her +I was here to-day and saw her. And you may get the rooms ready, Mrs. +Eccles, and order anything that is wanted, and get in a couple of maids, +for I have made up my mind to bring my horses down next month." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FANNING DEAD ASHES. + + Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, + Sorrow calls no time that's gone, + Violets plucked, the sweetest rain + Makes not fresh, nor grow again. + + Fletcher. + + +"Have you heard of Sir John's latest vagary, grandpapa? He is gone down +to Kynaston to hunt--so there's an end of _him_." + +"Humph! Where did you hear that?" + +"I've been lunching at Lady Kynaston's." + +The speaker stood by the window of one of the large houses at Prince's +Gate overlooking the Horticultural Gardens. She was a small, slight +woman, with fair pale features and a mass of soft yellow hair. She had a +delicate complexion and very clear blue eyes. Altogether she was a pretty +little woman. A stranger would have guessed her to be a girl barely out +of her teens. Helen Romer was in reality five-and-twenty, and she had +been a widow four years. + +Of her brief married life few people could speak with any certainty, +although there were plenty of surmises and conjectures concerning it. All +that was known was that Helen had lived with her grandfather till she was +nineteen; that one fine morning she had walked out of the house and had +been married to a man whom her grandfather disapproved of, and to whom +she had always professed perfect indifference. It was also known that +eighteen months later her husband, having rapidly wasted his existence by +drink and other irregular courses, had died in miserable poverty; and +that Helen, not being able to set up a home of her own, upon her slender +fortune of some five or six thousand pounds, had returned to her +grandfather's house in Prince's Gate, where she had lived ever since. + +Why she had married William Romer no one ever exactly knew--perhaps Helen +herself least of any one. It certainly was not for love; it could hardly +have been from any worldly motive. Some people averred, and possibly they +were not far wrong, that she had done so out of pique because the man she +loved did not want her. + +However that might be, Mrs. Romer returned a widow, and not a very +disconsolate one, to her grandfather's house. + +It is certain that she would not have lived there could she have helped +it. She did not love old Mr. Harlowe, neither did Mr. Harlowe love her. A +sense of absolute duty to his dead daughter's child on the one side, a +sense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Their +natures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacy +openly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common. + +It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked his +grand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had been +nothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a young +lady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presence +entailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he was +dragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had not +striven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling, +drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now, +when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, she +refused to make the slightest effort to meet his views. + +Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was a +pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient +money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a +single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other +occupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herself +to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her +life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden +fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often +do, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet as +honeydew--and behold, it was nothing but bitterness! + +She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November +afternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy +old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at +her watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending over +the fire behind her. + +"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him +off." + +"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short, +hard laugh. + +"You know very well what I mean," answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Set +your cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of, +and who don't want you." + +Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa," she +said, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love to +Sir John Kynaston to please you. Is that what you wanted me to do?" + +"I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keep +you. What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston's then? +And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of the +year if it wasn't for that? You have played your cards badly as usual. +You might have had him if you had chosen." + +"I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John's +head," said Helen, scornfully. + +"You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing young +spendthrift's head fast enough if you choose it." + +"I don't in the least know whom you mean," she said, shortly. + +The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes, you know well enough--the brother who +spends his time racing and betting. You are a fool, Helen; he doesn't +want you; and if he did, he couldn't afford to keep you." + +"Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston's name out of the discussion, +grandpapa," she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and her +hands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain. "Are +you not going to your study this evening?" + +"Oh yes, I'm going, fast enough. You want me out of the way, I suppose. +Somebody coming to tea, eh? Oh yes, I'll clear out. I don't want to +listen to your rubbish." + +The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of the +room, muttering to himself as he went. + +The servant came in, bringing the lamp, replenished the fire and drew the +curtains, shutting out the light of day. + +"Any one to tea, ma'am?" he inquired, respectfully. + +"One gentleman--no one else. Bring up tea when he comes." + +"Very well, ma'am;" and the servant withdrew. Mrs. Romer paced +impatiently up and down the room, stopping again and again before the +clock. + +"Late again! A whole half-hour behind his time! It is insufferable that +he should treat me like this. He would go quickly enough to see some new +face--some fresh fancy that had attracted him." + +She took out her watch and laid it on the table. "Let me see if he will +come before the minute-hand touches the quarter; he _must_ be here by +then!" + +She continued to pace steadily up and down the room. The clock ticked on, +the minute-hand of the watch crept ever stealthily forward over the +golden dial; now and then a passing vehicle without made her heart beat +with sudden hope, and then sink down again with disappointment, as the +sound of the wheels went by and died away in the distance. + +Suddenly she sank into an arm-chair, covering her face with her hands. + +"Oh, what a fool--what a fool I am!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why have I not +strength of mind to go out before he comes, to show him that I don't +care? Why, at least, can I not call up grandpapa, and pretend I had +forgotten he was coming? That would be the best way to treat him; the way +to show him that I am not the miserable slave he thinks me. Why can I, +who know so well how to manage all other men, never manage the one man +whose love I want? That horrid old man was right--he does not want me--he +never did. Oh, if I only could be proud, and pretend I do not care! But I +can't, I can't--there is always this miserable sickening pain at my heart +for him, and he knows it. I have let him know it!" + +A ring at the bell made her spring to her feet, whilst a glad flush +suddenly covered her face. + +In another minute the man she loved was in the room. + +"Nearly three-quarters of an hour late!" she cried, angrily, as he +entered. "How shamefully you treat me!" + +He stood in front of the fire, pulling off his dogskin gloves: +a broad-shouldered, handsome fellow, with an aquiline nose and a +close-cropped head. + +"Am I late?" he said, indifferently. "I really did not know it. I have +had fifty places to go to in as many minutes." + +"Of course I shall forgive you if you have been so busy," she said, +softening at once. "Maurice, darling, are you not going to kiss me?" She +stood up by his side upon the hearthrug, looking at him with all her +heart in her eyes, whilst his were on the fire. She wound her arms round +his neck, and drew his head down. He leant his cheek carelessly towards +her lips, and she kissed him passionately; and he--he was thinking of +something else. + +"Poor little woman," he said, almost with an effort recalling himself +to the present; he patted her cheek lightly and turned round to toss +his gloves into his hat on the table behind him. "How cold it has +turned--aren't you going to give me some tea?" And then he sat down on +the further side of the fire and stretched himself back in his arm-chair, +throwing his arms up behind his head. + +Helen rang the bell for the tea. + +"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, poutingly. + +Maurice Kynaston looked distressed. + +"Upon my word, Helen, I am sure I don't know what you expect. I haven't +heard any particular news. I saw you only yesterday, you know. I don't +know what you want me to say." + +Helen was silent. She knew very well what she wanted, she wanted him to +say and do things that were impossible to him--to play the lover to her, +to respond to her caresses, to look glad to see her. + +Maurice was so tired of it all! tired alike of her reproaches and her +caresses. The first irritated him, the second gave him no pleasure. There +was no longer any attraction to him about her, her love was oppressive to +him. He did not want it, he had never wanted it; only somehow she had +laid it so openly and freely at his feet, that it had seemed almost +unmanly to him not to put forth his hand and take it. And now he was +tired of his thraldom, sick of her endearments, satiated with her kisses. +And what was it all to end in? He could not marry her, he would not have +desired to do so had he been able; but as things were, there was no money +to marry on either side. At his heart Maurice Kynaston was glad of it, +for he did not want her for a wife, and yet he feared that he was bound +to her. + +Man-like, he had no courage to break the chains that bound him, and yet +to-night he had said to himself that he would make the effort--the state +of his affairs furnished him with a sufficiently good pretext for +broaching the subject. + +"There is something I wanted to say to you," he said, after the tea had +been brought in and they were alone again. He sat forward in his chair +and stroked his moustache nervously, not looking at her as he spoke. + +Helen came and sat on the hearthrug at his feet, resting her cheek +caressingly against his knee. + +"What is it, Maurice?" + +"Well, it's about myself. I have been awfully hard hit this last week at +Newmarket, you know." + +"Yes, so you told me. I am so sorry, darling." But she did not care much +as long as he was with her and was kind to her--nothing else signified +much to her. + +"Yes, but I am pretty well broke this time--I had to go to John again. He +is an awfully good fellow, is old John; he has paid everything up for me. +But I've had to promise to give up racing, and now I've got to live on +my pay." + +"I could lend you fifty pounds." + +"Fifty pounds! pooh! what nonsense! What would be the good of fifty +pounds to me?" + +He said it rather ungraciously, perhaps, and her eyes filled with tears. +When a man does not love a woman, her little childish offers of help do +not touch him as they would if he loved her. He would not have taken five +thousand from her, yet he was angry with her for talking of fifty pounds. + +"What I wanted to say to you, Helen, was that, of course, now I am so +hard up it's no good thinking of--of marrying--or anything of that kind; +and don't you think it would be happiest if you and I--I mean, wisest for +us both--for you, of course, principally----" + +"_What!_" She lifted her head sharply. She saw what he meant at once. A +wild terror filled her heart. "You mean that you want to throw me over!" +she said, breathlessly. + +"My dear child, do be reasonable. Throw you over! of course not--but what +is it all to lead to? How can we possibly marry? It was bad enough +before, when I had my few hundreds a year. But now even that is gone. +A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry. Why, +I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too. I cannot drag +you down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable to +continue to bind you to my broken fortunes." + +She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute. + +"Why do you make so many excuses? You want to be rid of me." + +"My dear child, how unjust you are." + +"Am I unjust? Wait! let me speak. How have we altered things? Could you +marry me any more before you lost this money? You know you could not. +Have we not always agreed to wait till better times? Why cannot we go on +waiting?" + +"It would not be fair to tie you." + +He had not the courage to say, "I do not love you--money or no money, I +do not wish to marry you." How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to say +such a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professed +affection? Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so. + +"It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:" +that was all he could find to say. And then Helen burst forth +impetuously, + +"I wish to be tied--I do not want to be free--I will not marry any other +man on earth but you. Oh! Maurice, my love, my darling!" casting herself +down again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him. "Whom else +do I want but you--whom else have I ever loved? You know I have always +been yours--always--long ago, in the old days when you never even gave me +a look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not care +what became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I was +doing, only because my life was so unbearable at home. And now that I +have got you, do you think I will give you up? And you love me--surely, +surely, you _must_ love me. You said so once, Maurice--tell me so again. +You do love me, don't you?" + +What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though +he would withdraw her arms from about his neck. + +"Of course," he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and all +that, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that as +well as I do." + +"No; but we can wait." + +"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably. + +"Oh, a hundred things might happen--your brother might die." + +"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time. + +"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever, +and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich." + +"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes," said Maurice, with a +little shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leave +his money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the National +Gallery--you could not count upon anything." + +"We could at all events wait and see." + +"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily; +"that is a miserable prospect." + +"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at him +suspiciously; "you have seen some other woman." + +"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair, +leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when she +speaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on the +wane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly without +foundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one had +never been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he the +slightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyond +measure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his own +shortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one. + +"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughly +pig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth, +angrily. + +She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quick +enough--sharp as a needle--where her love did not, as love invariably +does, warp and blind her judgment. + +"I am sorry, Maurice," she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, of +course. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please." + +He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt that +some concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and stroked +it softly. She knew so well that he did not love her, and yet she clung +so desperately to the hope that she could win him back; she would not own +to herself even in the furthermost recesses of her own heart that his +love was dead. She would not believe it; to put it in words to herself +even would have half killed her; but still she was forced to acknowledge +that unless she met him half-way she might lose him altogether. + +"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice," she said thoughtfully. "I will +consent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I will +cease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and I +will not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will deny +any engagement between us--we will say that we are each of us free--but +on one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on your +honour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money--should +there be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next five +years----" + +"My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to be +presented with the regalia." + +"Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse--or the better, +whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, give +me your word of honour that you will come to me at once--that, in fact, +our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospects +no brighter, in five years from now--well, then, let us each be free to +marry elsewhere." + +There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forward +in his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily into +the fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it was +not enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course, +an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principal +contractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be in +ignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chance +too, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly; +though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said to +be altogether satisfactory. + +Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. How +passionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate the +half-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he should +take her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to her +terms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient to +revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire. +Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life +and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that +had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his +heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all +that, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passion +for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers +willingly, he should be hers by force. + +"Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to +consent to--you who--who love me?" + +He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of +gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused +by her gentle words. + +"Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be as +you say." + +And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be alone +again with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LAY RECTOR. + + Or art thou complaining + Of thy lowly lot, + And, thine own disdaining, + Dost ask what thou hast not? + Of the future dreaming, + Weary of the past, + For the present scheming + All but what thou hast. + + L. E. Landon. + + +In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, for +downright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in the +whole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of gray +granite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object like +unto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erected +by one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon the +death of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had been +previously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the death +of the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, that +Nathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by one +bold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granite +monstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it was +touchingly and naïvely stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strict +impartiality." + +It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggy +morning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in front +of her. She was not engaged in any sentimental musings appropriate to the +situation. She was neither meditating upon the briefness of life in +general, nor upon the many virtues of the ladies of the Crupps family, +over whose remains she was standing. She was simply waiting for Jimmy +Griffiths, and looking at the church because she had nothing else to look +at. The church, indeed, afforded her some food for reflection, purely, I +regret to state, of a practical and mundane character. It was a large and +handsome building, with a particularly fine old tower, that was sadly out +of repair; but the chancel was a modern and barn-like structure of brick +and plaster, which ought, of course, to be entirely swept away, and a new +and more appropriate one built in its stead. The chancel belonged, as +most chancels do, to the lay rector, and the lay rector was Sir John +Kynaston. + +As soon as it became bruited abroad that Sir John was coming down to the +old house for the winter, there was a general excitement throughout the +parish, but no one partook of the excitement to a greater degree than did +its worthy vicar. + +It was the dream of Eustace Daintree's life to get his church restored, +and more especially to get the chancel rebuilt. There had been a +restoration fund accumulating for some years, and could he have had the +slightest assistance from the lay rector concerning the chancel, Mr. +Daintree would assuredly have sent for the architect, and the builders, +and the stone-cutters, and have begun his church at once with that +beautiful disregard of the future chances of being able to get the money +to pay for it, and with that sparrow-like trust in Providence, which is +usually displayed by those clerical gentlemen who, in the face of an +estimate which tells them that eight thousand pounds will be the sum +total required, are ready to dash into bricks and mortar upon the actual +possession of eight hundred. But there was the chancel! To leave it as it +was whilst restoring the nave would have been too heart-rending; to touch +it without Sir John Kynaston's assistance, impossible and illegal. +Several times Eustace Daintree had applied to Sir John in writing upon +the subject. The answers had been vague and unsatisfactory. He would +promise nothing at all; he would come down and see it some day possibly, +and then he would be able to say more about it; meanwhile, for the +present, things must remain as they were. + +When, therefore, the news was known that Sir John was actually coming +down, Mr. Daintree's thoughts flew at once to his beloved church. + +"Now we shall get the chancel done at last," he said to his wife +gleefully, rubbing his hands. And the very day after Sir John's arrival +Eustace went up to the Hall after dinner to see him upon the subject. + +"Had you not better wait a day or two?" counselled his more prudent wife. +"Wait till you meet him, naturally. You don't very well know what kind of +man he is, nor how he will take it." + +"What is the use of waiting? I knew him well enough eight years ago; he +was a pleasant fellow enough then. He won't kill me, I suppose, and the +chancel is a disgrace--a positive disgrace to him. It is my duty to point +it out to him; the thing can't afford to wait, it ought to be done at +once." + +So he disregarded Marion's advice, and Vera helped him on with his +great-coat in the hall, and wound his woollen comforter round his neck, +and bade him good luck on his expedition to Kynaston. + +He came back sorrowful and abashed. Sir John had been civil, very civil; +he had insisted on his sitting down at his table--for he had apparently +not finished his dinner--and had opened a bottle of fine old port in his +honour. He had inquired about many of the old people, and had expressed +a friendly interest in the parish generally; but with regard to the +chancel, he had been as adamant. + +He did not see, he had said, why it could not go on well enough as it +was. If it was in bad repair, Davis should see to it; a man with a +barrowful of bricks and a shovelful of mortar should be sent down. That, +of course, it was his duty to do. Sir John did not understand that more +could possibly be expected of him. The chancel had been good enough for +his father, it would probably be good enough for him; it would last his +time, he supposed, in any case. + +But the soul of the Rev. Eustace became as water within him. It was +not of a barrowful of bricks and shovelful of mortar that he had been +dreaming, but of lancet windows and stone mouldings; of polished oak +rafters within, and of high gables and red tiles without. + +He came down from the Hall disheartened and discomfited, with all the +spirit crushed out of him; and the ladies of his family, for once, +were of one mind about the matter. There arose about him a storm of +indignation and a gush of sympathy, which could not fail to soothe him +somewhat. Eustace went to rest that night sore and heavy-hearted, it is +true, but with all the damnatory verses in the Scriptures concerning the +latter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditation +which, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolation +and comfort. + +And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsian +sarcophagus, and thought about it. + +"Poor old Eustace," she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich, +and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what a +good fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there are +in people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable this +morning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it _is_ +hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least. +What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not have +thought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face he +seemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one. +I wonder where that wretched boy can be!" + +The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth +who was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was also +the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be +unable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to take +his place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played, +nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ +a little--a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertake +the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she +could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the +chants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera, +with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard, +and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps. + +She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage +garden--very bleak and very desolate by this time--lay behind her. To the +right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the +village. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she +stood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almost +to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister +Theodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree always +told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Her +back was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was looking +up at poor Eustace's bug-bear--the barn-like chancel. + +Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her. + +"Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?" + +A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke. Vera started +a little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly and +unconfusedly, + +"They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk's +cottage." + +"Thank you; then I will go and fetch them." + +"But they are not there now," said Vera, as though finishing her former +remark. + +"If you will kindly tell me where I can find them," continued the +stranger, very politely, "I will go and get them." + +"I am afraid you can't do that," said Vera, with just the vestige of a +smile playing upon her face, "because they are at present in my pocket." + +"Oh, I beg your pardon;" and the stranger smiled outright. + +"But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what you +wish?" she said, quite simply. + +"Yes, if you please." Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentleman +following her. She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open. "If +you will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them in +the door." The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by. + +Most uninteresting! was her verdict as he passed her; forty at the very +least! What a beautiful situation for an adventure! What a romantic +incident! And how excessively tame is the _dénouement_! A middle-aged +gentleman, tall and slightly bald, with close-cropped whiskers and grave, +set features; who on earth could he be? A stranger, evidently; perhaps he +was staying at some neighbouring country house, and had walked over to +Sutton for the sake of exercise; but what on earth could he want to see +the church for! + +The stranger stood just inside the door with his hat off, looking at her. + +"Won't you come in and show it to me?" he asked, rather hesitatingly. + +"The church? oh, certainly, if you like, but there is nothing to see in +it." She came in, closing the door behind her, and stood beside him. It +did not strike her as unusual or interesting, or as anything, in fact, +but the most common-place and unexciting proceeding, that she should do +the honours of the church to this middle-aged stranger. + +They stood side by side in the centre of the small nave with all the +ugly, high, red-cushioned pews around them. Vera looked up and down the +familiar place as though she and not he were seeing it for the first +time; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows; +from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring gallery +along the west end. + +"It is very hideous," she said, almost apologetically, "especially the +chancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can't +be done at all now." + +"Why can't it be done?" + +"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; that +belongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it." + +"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector." + +"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?" + +The gentleman passed his hand over his chin. + +"Slightly," he answered, not looking at her. + +"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for he +certainly ought to do it," continued Vera. "You see I cannot help being +interested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has worked +so hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quite +counted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed; +but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you." + +"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in this +light to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?" + +"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and he +would not promise to do anything." + +The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himself +into the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minute +examination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly down +again, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from the +whitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet; +Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinking +about. + +He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. And +then he made this most remarkable speech: + +"If _you_ were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore the +chancel!" he said. + +For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turned +haughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation. + +"There is nothing more to see in the church," she said, shortly, and +walked straight out of it. + +The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he said +to her, quite humbly, + +"I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry, +to begin with." + +Vera looked at him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he? +He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression, +that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, before +she could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of the +vicarage garden, coming towards them. + +The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her. + +"Good-bye," he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don't +be angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quickly +down the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone. + +"Vera," said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through the +garden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has he +been saying anything to you about the chancel?" + +"_Who_ was it? _who_ did you say?" cried Vera, aghast. + +"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?" + +She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered. + +"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why he +went off in such a hurry when he saw me?" + +Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side. +The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then is +the photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?" + +"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?" +pursued her brother-in-law. + +"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told him +the chancel ought to be restored--by himself." + +Eustace Daintree looked dismayed. + +"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided to +do nothing." + +Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace," was all she said. +But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart that +his chancel would be restored for him. + +Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over her +morning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a little +regretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put the +thought away from her. + +After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still Sir +John Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while to +marry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John was +not the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hall +belonged to him all the same. + +They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams of +Vera's girlhood. But neither were they quite so coarse and unlovely as +would have been those of a purely mercenary woman. She was free from the +vulgarity of desiring the man's money and his name from any desire to +raise herself above her relations, or to feed her own vanity and ambition +at their expense. It was only that, marriage being a necessity for her, +to marry anything but a rich man would have been, with her tastes and the +habits to which she had been brought up, the sheerest and rankest folly. +She thought she could make a good wife to any man whose life she would +like to share--that is to say, a life of ease and affluence. She knew she +would make a very bad wife to a poor man. Therefore she determined upon +so carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure of +herself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character. + +She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if he +was to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happened +to be the man in the photograph. She hardly knew why she wished it--but +the wish was there. + +She sat bending over her fire, with all her soft, dark hair loose about +her face and flowing down her back, and her eyes fixed dreamily upon the +flames. Her past life came back to her, her old life in the whirl and +turmoil of pleasure which had suited her so well. She compared it, a +little drearily, with the present; with the humdrum routine of the +vicarage; with the parish talk about the old women and the schools; and +the small tittle-tattle about the schoolmaster and the choir, going on +around her all day; with old Mrs. Daintree's sharp tongue and her +sister's meek rejoinders. She was very tired of it. It did not amuse her. +She was not exactly discontented with her lot. Eustace and her sister +were very kind to her, and she loved them dearly; but she did not live +their life--she was with them, but not of them. As for herself, for her +interests and her delights, they stagnated amongst them all. How long was +it to last? + +And Kynaston, by contrast, appeared very fair, with its smooth lawns and +its terrace walks, and its great desolate rooms, that she would so well +understand how to fill with life and brightness; but Kynaston's master +counted for very little to her. She knew the power of her own beauty so +well. Experience had taught her that Vera Nevill had but to smile and to +win; it had been so easy to her to be loved and wooed. + +"Only," she said to herself, as she stood up before her fire, and +stretched up her arms so that her long hair fell back like a cloud around +her, "only he is a different sort of man to what I had pictured him. It +will, perhaps, not be such an easy matter to win a man like that." + +She went to bed and dreamt--not of Sir John Kynaston--but of the man +whose pictured face once seen had haunted her ever since. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +"LITTLE PITCHERS." + + Once at least in a man's life, if only for a brief space, he reverences + the saint in the woman he desires. He may love and pursue again and + again, but she who has power to hold him back, who can make him tremble + instead of woo, who can make him silent when he feels eloquent, and + restrained when most impassioned, has won from him what never again can + be given. + + +It was an easier matter to win him than Vera thought. + +A week later Sir John Kynaston sat alone by his library fire, after +breakfast, and owned to himself that he had fallen hopelessly and +helplessly in love with Vera Nevill. + +This was all the more remarkable because Sir John was not a very young +man, and that he was, moreover, not of a nature to do things rashly or +impulsively. + +He was, on the contrary, of a slow and hesitating disposition. He was in +the habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted, +his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he was +cautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange and +unaccustomed direction. + +Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate with +all the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens. + +Vera was like no other woman he had ever seen; she was as far removed +above common young-ladyhood as Raphael's Madonnas are beyond and above +Greuze's simpering maidens; there could be no other like her--she was +a queen, a goddess among women. + +From the very first moment that he had caught sight of her on the terrace +outside his house her absolute mastery over him had begun. Her rare +beauty, her quiet smile, her slow, indolent movements, the very tones of +her rich, low voice, all impressed him in a strange and wonderful manner. +She seemed to him to be the incarnation of everything that was pure and +elevated in womanhood. To have imagined that such a one as she could have +thought of his wealth or his position would have been the rankest +blasphemy in his eyes. + +He raised her up on a pedestal of his own creating, and then he fell down +before her and adored her. + +John Kynaston had but little knowledge of women. Shy and retiring in +manner--somewhat suspicious and distrustful also--he had kept out of +their way through life. Once, in very early manhood, he had been +deceived; he had become engaged to a girl whom he afterwards discovered +to have accepted him only for his money and his name, whilst her heart +really belonged to another and a poorer man. He had shaken himself free +of her, with horror and disgust, and had sworn to himself that he would +never be so betrayed again. Since then he had been suspicious--and not +without just cause--of the young ladies who had smiled upon him, and of +their mothers, who had pressed him with gracious invitations to their +houses. He was a rich man, but he did not mean to be loved for his +wealth; he said to himself that, sooner than be so, he would die +unmarried and leave to Maurice the task of keeping up the old name and +the old family. + +But he had seen Vera; and all at once all the old barriers of pride and +reserve were broken down! Here was the one woman on earth who realized +his dreams, the one woman whom he would wait and toil for, even as Jacob +waited and toiled for Rachel! + +He had come down to Kynaston to hunt; but hitherto hunting had been very +little in his thoughts. He had been down to the vicarage once or twice, +he had met her once in the lanes, and he had longed for a glimpse of her +daily; as yet he had done nothing else. He opened his letters on this +particular morning slowly and abstractedly, tossing them into the fire, +one after the other, as he read them, and not paying very much attention +to their contents. + +There was one, however, from his brother, "I wish you would ask me down +to Kynaston for a week or two, old fellow," wrote Maurice. "I know you +would mount me--now I have got rid of all my horses to please you--and +I should like a glimpse of the old country. Write and tell me if I shall +come down on Monday." + +This letter Sir John did pay attention to. He rose hastily, as though not +a moment was to be lost, and answered it:-- + +"Dear Maurice,--I can't possibly have you down here yet. My own plans are +very uncertain, and if you are going to take your leave after Christmas, +you had far better not go away from your work now. If I am still here in +January, I shall be delighted if you will come down, and will mount you +as much as you like." + +He was happier when he had written and directed this letter. + +"I must be alone just now," he murmured. "I could not bear Maurice's +chatter--it would jar upon me." + +Then he put on his hat and strolled out. He looked in at the stables one +minute, and called the head groom to him. + +"Wright, did not Mr. Beavan say, when I bought that new bay mare of him, +that she had carried a lady to hounds?" + +"Yes, Sir John; Miss Beavan rode her last season." + +"Ah, she is a good rider. Well, I wish you would put a side-saddle and a +skirt on her, and exercise her this morning. I might want to--to lend her +to a lady; but she must be perfectly quiet. You can take her out every +day this week." + +Sir John went on his way, leaving the worthy Wright a prey to speculation +as to who the mysterious lady might be for whom the bay mare was to be +exercised. + +His master, meanwhile, bent his steps almost instinctively to the +vicarage. + +Vera was undergoing a periodical persecution concerning Mr. Gisburne +at the hands of old Mrs. Daintree. She was standing up by the table +arranging some scarlet berries and some long trails of ivy which the +children had brought to her in a vase. Tommy and Minnie stood by watching +her intently; Mrs. Daintree sat at a little distance, her lap full of +undarned socks, and rated her. + +"It is not as if you were a girl who could earn her living in case of +need. There is not one single thing you can do." + +"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma," interpolates +Tommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?" + +"Yes, she do," assented the smaller child, with emphasis. + +"I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be--" + +"Heard and not seen," puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that, +grandma." + +Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture. + +"Many girls in your position are very accomplished; can teach the piano, +and history, and the elements of Latin; but it seems to me you have been +brought up in idleness." + +"Idleness is not to be despised in its way," answers Vera, composedly. +"Another bit of ivy, Tommy. What shall I do, Mrs. Daintree?" she +continues, whilst her deft fingers wind the trailing greenery round and +round the glass stem of the vase. "Shall I go down to the village school +and sit at the feet of Mr. Dee? I have no doubt he could teach me a great +many things I know nothing about." + +"That is nonsense; of course I don't mean that you can educate yourself +to any purpose now; it is too late for that; but you need not, at all +events, turn up your nose at the blessings that Providence sets before +you; and I must say, that for a young woman deliberately to choose to +remain a burden upon her friends, betokens an amount of servility and +a lack of the spirit of independence which I should not have supposed +possible even in you!" + +"What do you want me to do?" said Vera, without a sign of impatience. +"Shall I walk over to Tripton this afternoon, and make a low curtsey to +Mr. Gisburne, and say to him very politely, 'Here is an idle and +penniless young woman who would be very pleased to stop here and marry +you!' Would that be the way to do it, Mrs. Daintree?" + +"No, no, _no_!" imperatively from Tommy, who was listening with rapidly +crimsoning cheeks; "you shall _not_ go and stop at Tripton, and tell Mr. +Gisburne you will marry him!" + +Vera laughed. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will; not, that is to say, if +you are a good boy. I think I can do something better than that with +myself!" she added, softly, as if to herself. Mrs. Daintree caught the +words. + +"And _what_ better, pray? What better chance are you ever likely to have? +Let me tell you, bachelors who want penniless wives don't grow on the +blackberry bushes down here! If you were not so selfish and so conceited, +you would see where your duty to my son, who is supporting you, lay. You +would see that to be married to an honest, upright man like Albert +Gisburne is a chance that most girls would catch at only too thankfully." + +The old lady had raised her voice; she spoke loud and angrily; she was +rapidly working herself into a passion. Tommy, accustomed to family rows, +stood on the hearthrug, looking excitedly from his grandmother to his +aunt. He was a precocious child; he did not quite understand, and yet he +understood partly. He knew that his grandmother was scolding Vera, and +telling her she was to go away and marry Mr. Gisburne. That Vera should +go away! That, in itself, was sufficiently awful. Tommy adored Vera with +all the intensity of his childish soul; that she should go away from him +to Mr. Gisburne seemed to him the most terrible visitation that could +possibly happen. His little heart swelled within him; the tears were very +near his eyes. + +At this very minute the door softly opened, and Sir John Kynaston, whose +ring had been unheard in the commotion, was ushered in. + +Tommy thought he saw a deliverer, specially sent in by Providence for the +occasion. He made one spring at him and caught him round the legs, after +the manner of enthusiastic small boys. + +"Please--please--don't let grandmamma send aunt Vera away to Tripton +to marry Mr. Gisburne! He has red hair, and I hate him; and aunt Vera +doesn't want to go, she wants to stop at home and do something better!" + +A moment of utter confusion on all sides; then Vera, crimson to the roots +of her hair, stepped forward and held out her hand. + +"Little pitchers have long ears!" she said, laughing: "and Tommy is a +very silly little boy." + +"No, but, aunt Vera, you said--you said," cried the child. What further +revelations he might have made were fortunately not destined to be known. +His aunt placed her hand unceremoniously over his small, eager mouth, and +hustled both children in some haste out of the room. + +Meanwhile, Sir John, looking the picture of distress and embarrassment, +had shaken hands with the old lady, and inquired if he could speak with +her son. + +"Mr. Daintree is in his study; I will take you to him," she said, rising, +and led him away out of the room. She looked at him sharply as she showed +him into the study; and it did come across her mind, "I wonder what you +come so often for." Still, no thought of Vera entered into her head. Sir +John was the great man of the place, the squire, the potentate in the +hollow of whose hand lay Sutton-in-the-Wold and all its inhabitants, and +Vera was a nobody in the old lady's eyes,--a waif, whose presence was of +no account at all. Sir John was no more likely to notice her than any of +the village girls; except, indeed, that he would speak politely to her +because she was Eustace's sister-in-law. Still, it did come across her +mind to wonder what he came so often for. + +Five minutes later the two gentlemen were seen going across the vicarage +garden towards the church. + +They remained there a very long time, more than half an hour. When they +came back Marion had finished her housekeeping and was in the room busy +cutting out unbleached calico into poor men's shirts, on the grand piano, +an instrument which she maintained had been specially and originally +called into existence for no other purpose. Mrs. Daintree still sat in +her chimney corner. Vera was at the writing-table with her back to the +room, writing a letter. + +The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight; +his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and of +a pleasant character had happened. + +"My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John. I am happy +to tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel." + +"Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!" cried Marion, coming +forward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude. Sir John +looked as if he didn't want to be thanked, but he glanced towards the +writing-table. Vera's back was turned; she made no sign of having heard. + +"I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether," continued the +vicar. "You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you about +it before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind." + +"Some one--I mean--I thought it over--and--and it was presented to my +notice--in another light," stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly. + +"And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in my +own way, according to the plans I had wished to follow." + +"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely +to do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to +leave it entirely in your hands." + +"Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?" + +"Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. +Daintree; I can't wait just now." + +He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room. He looked again +wistfully at Vera's back. Was it possible that she was not going to give +him one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence he +had been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel! + +Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, when +his hand was already on the handle, she looked up. Her eyes, all softened +with pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his. He +stopped suddenly short. + +"Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk's +cottage? I--I forget which it is!" + +It was the lamest and most blundering excuse. Any six-year-old child in +the village could have pointed out the cottage to him. Mrs. Daintree +looked up in astonishment. Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, saw +nothing, and began eagerly, + +"I am walking that way myself; we can go together----" Suddenly his coat +tails were violently pulled from behind. "Quite impossible, Eustace; I +want you at home for the next hour," says Marion, quietly standing by his +side, with a look of utter innocence upon her face. The vicar, almost +throttled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceived +that, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not to +have said. He deemed it wisest to subside into silence. + +Vera rose from the writing-table. "I will go and put my hat on," she +said, quietly, and left the room. + +Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together. + +"Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life," said +Eustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone. "It is my belief," +tapping his forehead significantly, "that he is a little touched _here_. +I don't believe he quite knows what he is talking about. Why, the other +night he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn't even listen +to me, cut me so short about it I really couldn't venture to pursue the +subject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, and +proposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and most +expensive way--purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion, +just what I wanted; gives me absolute _carte blanche_ about it. I only +hope he won't take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mind +again." + +"Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it," +suggested his mother. + +Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico. + +"And then, again, about old Hoggs' cottage," pursued Mr. Daintree. "What +on earth could make him forget where it was? He might as well forget the +way to his own house. I really do think he must be a little gone in the +upper storey, poor fellow! Marion, what have you to say about it?" + +"I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, we +shall never get anything done. I want to speak to you immediately, +Eustace, in the other room." + +She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the door +upon them. + +What then was the Rev. Eustace's amazement to behold his wife suddenly +execute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraced +a _coryphée_ at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping with +the demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar of +Sutton-in-the-Wold! + +Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning. + +"My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?" + +"Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!" exclaimed his wife, +finishing her _pas seul_ in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as a +finale to the entertainment. "Do you mean to say that you don't see it?" + +"See it? See what?" repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortal +bewilderment, staring at her hard. + +"Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it's as plain as daylight. Can't +you guess?" + +Eustace shook his head dolefully. + +"Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!" + +"_Marion!_ impossible!" in an awe-struck whisper. "What can make you +imagine such a thing?" + +"Why, everything--the chancel, of course. She must have spoken to him +about it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her? And +then, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs' +cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn't think of anything better." + +Eustace literally gasped with the magnitude of the revelation. + +"Great Heavens! and I offered to go with him instead of her." + +"Yes, you great blundering baby!" + +"Oh, my dear, are you sure--are you quite sure? Remember his position and +Vera's." + +"Well, and isn't Vera good enough, and beautiful enough, for any +position?" answered her sister, proudly. + +"Yes, yes; that is true; God bless her!" he said, fervently. "Marion, +what a clever woman you are to find it out." + +"Of course I am clever, sir. But, Eustace, it is only beginning, you +know; so we must just let things take their course, and not seem to +notice anything. And, mind, not a word to your mother." + +Meanwhile Vera and Sir John Kynaston were walking down the village street +together. The man awkward and ill at ease, the woman calm and composed, +and thoroughly mistress of the occasion. + +"It is very good of you about the chancel," said Vera, softly, breaking +the embarrassment of the silence between them. + +"You _knew_ I should do it," he said, looking at her. + +She smiled. "I thought perhaps you would." + +"You know _why_ I am going to do it--for whose sake, do you not?" he +pursued, still keeping his eyes upon her downcast face. + +"Because it is the right thing to do, I hope; and for the sake of doing +good," she answered, sedately; and Sir John felt immediately reproved and +rebuked, as though by the voice of an angelic being. + +"Tell me," he said, presently, "is it true that they want you to +marry--that parson--Gisburne, of Tripton? Forgive me for asking." + +Vera coloured a little and laughed. + +"What dreadful things little boys are!" was all she said. + +"Nay, but I want to know. Are you--are you _engaged_ to him?" with a +sudden painful eagerness of manner. + +"Most decidedly I am not," she answered, earnestly. + +Sir John breathed again. + +"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am very +impertinent. I know I have no right to question you." + +"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me," she answered, +gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes that +came into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best. + +They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lane +beyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or his +cottage, had come into either of their heads by the way. + +Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too. + +"I thought--it seemed to me by what I overheard," he said, hesitatingly, +"that they were tormenting you--persecuting you, perhaps--into a marriage +you do not wish for." + +"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne," Vera admitted, in a low +voice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed on +the ground. + +"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listen +to them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously. + +Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled. + +"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne," she +answered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make me +betray that poor man's secrets." + +And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her if +she would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought would +carry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queen +accepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her as +heartily as though she had promised him some great thing. + +"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage," she said, smiling. And they +turned back towards the village. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +A SOIRÉE AT WALPOLE LODGE. + + When the lute is broken, + Sweet notes are remembered not; + When the lips have spoken, + Loved accents are soon forgot. + As music and splendour + Survive not the lamp and the lute, + The heart's echoes render + No song when the spirit is mute. + + Shelley. + + +About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roads +between Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house, +within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brick +wall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores within +the immediate neighbourhood of London--of which there still are dozens, +although, alas! they are yearly disappearing to make room for gay rows of +pert, upstart villas, whose tawdry flashiness ill replaces the sedate +respectability of their last-century predecessors. But, uncoveted by the +contractor's lawless eye, untouched by the builder's desecrating hand, +Walpole Lodge stands on, as it did a hundred years ago, hidden behind +the shelter of its venerable walls, and half smothered under masses of +wisteria and Virginia creeper. On the wall, in summer time, grow +countless soft green mosses, and brown, waving grasses. Thick masses of +yellow stonecrop and tufts of snapdragon crown its summit, whilst the +topmost branches of the long row of lime-trees within come nodding +sweet-scented greetings to the passers-by along the dusty high road +below. + +But in the winter the wall is flowerless and the branches of the +lime-trees are bare, and within, in the garden, there are only the +holly-trees and the yew-hedge of the shrubbery walks, and the empty brown +flower-beds set in the faded grass. But winter and summer alike, old Lady +Kynaston holds her weekly receptions, and thither flock all the wit, and +the talent, and the fashion of London. In the summer they are garden +parties, in the winter they become evening receptions. How she manages it +no one can quite tell; but so it is, that her rooms are always crowded, +that no one is ever bored at her house, that people are always keen to +come to her, and that there are hundreds who would think it an effort to +go to other people's parties across the street who think it no trouble at +all to drive nearly to Richmond, to hers. She has the rare talent of +making society a charm in itself. No one who is not clever, or beautiful, +or distinguished in some way above his or her fellows ever gains a +footing in her drawing-rooms. Every one of any note whatever is sure to +be found there. There are savants and diplomatists, poets and painters, +foreign ambassadors, and men of science. The fashionable beauty is sure +to be met there side by side with the latest type of strong-minded woman; +the German composer, with the wild hair, whose music is to regenerate +the future, may be seen chatting to a cabinet minister; the most rising +barrister of the day is lingering by the side of a prima-donna, or +discoursing to an Eastern traveller. Old Lady Kynaston herself has +charming manners, and possesses the rare tact of making every one feel +at home and happy in her house. + +It was not done in a day--this gathering about her of so brilliant and +delightful a society. She had lived many years at Walpole Lodge, ever +since her widowhood, and was now quite an old lady. In her early life she +had written several charming books--chiefly biographies of distinguished +men whom she had known, and even now she occasionally put pen again to +paper, and sent some delightful social essay or some pleasantly written +critique to one or other of the Reviews of the day. + +Her married life had been neither very long nor very happy. She had never +learnt to love her husband's country home. At his death she had turned +her back thankfully upon Kynaston, and had never seen it again. Of her +two sons, she stood in some awe of the elder, whose cold and unresponsive +character resembled her dead husband's, whilst she adored Maurice, who +was warm-hearted and affectionate in manner, like herself. There were ten +years between them, for she had been married twelve years; and at her +secret heart Lady Kynaston hoped and believed that John would remain +unmarried, so that the estates and the money might in time become +Maurice's. + +It is the second Thursday in December, and Lady Kynaston is "at home" to +the world. Her drawing-rooms--there are three of them, not large, but +low, comfortable rooms, opening one out of the other--are filled, as +usual, with a mixed and brilliant crowd. + +Across the square hall is the dining-room, where a cold supper, not very +sumptuous or very _recherché_, but still sufficient of its kind for the +occasion, is laid out; and beyond that is Lady Kynaston's boudoir, where +there is a piano, and which is used on these occasions as a music-room, +so that those who are musical may retire there, and neither interfere, +nor be interfered with, by the rest of the company. Some one is singing +in the music-room now--singing well, you may be sure, or he would not be +at Walpole Lodge--but the strains of the song can hardly be heard at all +across dining-room and hall, in the larger of the three rooms, where most +of the guests are congregated. + +Lady Kynaston, a small, slight woman in soft gray satin and old lace, +moves about graciously and gracefully still, despite her seventy years, +among her guests--stopping now at one group, now at another, talking +politics to one, science to a second, whispering a few discreet words +about the latest scandal to this great lady, murmuring words of approval +upon her clever book or her charming poem to another. Her smiles are +equally dispensed, no one is passed over, and she has the rare talent of +making every single individual in the crowded room feel himself to be the +one particular person whom Lady Kynaston is especially rejoiced to see. +She has tact, and she has sympathy--two invaluable gifts in a woman. + +Conspicuous among the crowd of well-dressed and handsome women is Helen +Romer. She sits on an ottoman at the further end of the room, where she +holds a little court of her own, dispensing her smiles and pleasant words +among the little knot of men who linger admiringly by her side. + +She is in black, with masses of gold embroidery about her, and she +carries a large black and gold feather fan in her hands, which she +moves rapidly, almost restlessly, up and down; her eyes wander often +to the doorway, and every now and then she raises her hand with a short, +impatient action to her blonde head, as though she were half weary of +the talk about her. + +Presently, Lady Kynaston, moving slowly among her guests, comes near her, +and, leaning for a moment on the back of the ottoman, presses her hand as +she passes. + +Mrs. Romer is a favourite of hers; she is pretty, and she is piquant in +manner and conversation; two very good things, which she thinks highly of +in any young woman. Besides that, she knows that Helen loves her younger +son; and, although she hardly understands how things are between them, +nor how far Maurice himself is implicated, she believes that Helen will +eventually inherit her grandfather's money, and, liking her personally, +she has seen no harm in encouraging her too plainly displayed affection. +Moreover, the love they both bear to him has been a link between them. +They talk of him together almost as a mother and a daughter might do; +they have the same anxieties over his health, the same vexations over +his debts, the same rejoicings when his brother comes forward with his +much-needed help. Lady Kynaston does not want her darling to marry yet, +but when the time shall come for him to take unto himself a wife, she +will raise no objection to pretty Helen Romer, should he bring her to +her, as a daughter-in-law. + +As the old lady stoops over her, Helen's upturned wistful eyes say as +plainly as words can say it-- + +"Is he coming to-night?" + +"Maurice will be here presently, I hope," says his mother, answering the +look in her eyes; "he was to come up by the six o'clock train; he will +dine at his club and come on here later." Helen's face became radiant, +and Lady Kynaston passed on. + +Maurice Kynaston's regiment was quartered at Northampton; he came up to +town often for the day or for the night, as he could get leave; but his +movements were never quite to be depended upon. + +Half-an-hour or so more of feverish impatience. Helen watches the gay +crowd about her with a feeling of sick weariness. Two members of +Parliament are talking of Russian aggression and Turkish misrule close to +her; they turn to her presently and include her in the conversation; Mrs. +Romer gives her opinion shrewdly and sensibly. An elderly duchess is +describing some episode of Royalty's last ball; there is a general laugh, +in which Helen joins heartily; a young attaché bends over her and +whispers some admiring little speech in her ear, and she blushes and +smiles just as if she liked it above all things; while all the time her +eyes hardly stray for one second from the open doorway through which +Maurice will come, and her heart is saying to itself, over and over +again, + +"Will he come, will he come?" + +He comes at last. Long before the servant, who opens the door to him, has +taken his coat and hat from him, Helen catches sight of his handsome head +and his broad shoulders through an opening in the crowd. In another +minute he is in the room standing irresolute in the doorway, looking +round as if to see who is and who is not there to-night. + +He is, after all, only a very ordinary type of a good-looking soldierly +young Englishman, just such a one as may be seen any day in our parks or +our drawing-rooms. He has clearly-cut and rather _prononcé_ features, a +strong-built, well made figure, a long moustache, close-shaven cheeks, +and eyes that are rather deep-set, and are, when you are near enough to +see them well, of a deep blue-gray. In all that Maurice Kynaston is in no +way different from scores of other good-looking young men whom we may +have met. But there is just something that makes his face a remarkable +one: it is a strong-looking face--a face that looks as if he had a will +of his own and knew how to stick to it; a face that looks, too, as if he +could do and dare much for truth and honour's sake. It is almost stern +when he is silent; it can soften into the tenderness of a woman when he +speaks. + +Look at him now as he catches sight of his mother, and steps forward for +a minute to press her loving hands. All the hardness and all the strength +are gone out of his face now; he only looks down at her with eyes full of +love and gentleness--for life as yet holds nothing dearer or better for +him than that little white-haired old woman. Only for a minute, and then +he leaves go of her hands, and passes on down the room, speaking to the +guests whom he knows. + +"He does not see me," says Helen, bitterly, to herself; "he will go on +into the next room, and never know that I am here." + +But he had seen her perfectly. Next to the woman he most wishes to see in +a room, the one whom a man first catches sight of is the woman he would +sooner were not there. He had seen Helen the very instant he came in, but +he had noticed thankfully that some one was talking to her, and he said +to himself that there was no occasion for him to hurry to her side; it +was not as if they were openly engaged; there could be no necessity for +him to rush into slavery at once; he would speak to her, of course, +by-and-by; and whenever he came to her he well knew that he would be +equally welcomed: he was so sure of her. Nothing on earth or under Heaven +is so fatal to a man's love as that. There was no longer any uncertainty; +there was none of the keenness of pursuit dear to the old hunting +instinct inherent in man; there was not even the charm of variety in her +moods. She was always the same to him; always she pouted a little at +first, and looked ill-tempered, and reproached him; and always she came +round again at his very first kind word, and poured out her heart in a +torrent of worship at his feet. Maurice knew it all by heart, the sulks +and the cross words, and then the passionate denials, and the wild +protestations of her undying love. He was sorry for her, too, in his way; +he was too tender-hearted, too chivalrous, to be anything but kind to +her; but though he was sorry, he could not love her; and, oh! how +insufferably weary of her he was! + +Presently he did come up to her, and took the seat by her side just +vacated by the attaché. The little serio-comedy instantly repeated +itself. + +A little pout and a little toss of the head. + +"You have been as long coming to speak to me as you possibly could be." + +"Do you think it would look well if I had come rushing up to you the +instant I came in?" + +"You need not, at all events, have stood talking for ten minutes to that +great black-eyed Lady Anderleigh. Of course, if you like her better than +me, you can go back to her." + +"Of course I can, if I choose, you silly little woman; but seeing that +I am by you, and not by her, I suppose it is a proof that I prefer your +society, is it not?" + +Very polite, but not strictly true, Captain Maurice! At his heart he +preferred talking to Lady Anderleigh, or to any other woman in the room. +The admission, however, was quite enough for Helen. + +"Dear Maurice," she whispered, "forgive me; I am a jealous, bad-tempered +wretch, but," lower still, "it is only because I love you so much." + +And had there been no one in the room, Maurice knew perfectly that at +this juncture Mrs. Romer would have cast her arms around his neck--as +usual. + +To his unspeakable relief, a man--a clever lawyer, whose attention was a +flattering thing to any woman--came up to Helen at this moment, and took +a vacant chair beside her. Maurice thankfully slipped away, leaving his +inamorata in a state of rage and disgust with that talented and elderly +lawyer, such as no words can describe. + +Captain Kynaston took the favourable opportunity of escaping across the +hall, where he spent the remainder of the evening, dividing his attention +between the music and supper rooms, and Helen saw him no more that night. + +She saw, however, some one she had not reckoned upon seeing. Glancing +carelessly across to the end of the room, she perceived, talking to Lady +Kynaston, a little French gentleman, with a smooth black head, a neat, +pointed, little black beard, and the red ribbon of the Légion d'Honneur +in his button-hole. + +What there was in the sight of so harmless and inoffensive a personage to +upset her it may be difficult to say; but the fact is that, when Mrs. +Romer perceived this polite little Frenchman talking to her hostess, she +turned suddenly so sick and white, that a lady sitting near her asked her +if she was going to faint. + +"I feel it a little hot," she murmured; "I think I will go into the next +room." She rose and attempted to escape--whether from the heat or the +observation of the little Frenchman was best known to herself. + +Her maneuver, however, was not destined to succeed. Before she could +work her way half-way through the crush to the door, the man whom she was +bent upon avoiding turned round and saw her. A look of glad recognition +flashed into his face, and he instantly left Lady Kynaston's side, and +came across the room to speak to her. + +"This is an unlooked-for pleasure, madame." + +"I certainly never expected to meet you here, Monsieur D'Arblet," +faltered Helen, turning red and white alternately. + +"Will you not come and have a little conversation with me?" + +"I was just going away." + +"So soon! Oh, bien! then I will take you to your carriage." He held out +his arm, and Helen was perforce obliged to take it. + +There was a little delay in the hall, whilst Helen waited for her, or +rather for her grandfather's carriage, during which she stood with her +hand upon her unwelcome friend's arm. Whilst they were waiting he +whispered something eagerly in her ear. + +"No, no; it is impossible!" reiterated Helen, with much apparent +distress. + +Monsieur D'Arblet whispered something more. + +"Very well, if you insist upon it!" she said, faintly, and then got into +her carriage and was driven away. + +Before, however, she had left Walpole Lodge five minutes, she called out +to the servants to stop the carriage. The footman descended from the box +and came round to the window. + +They had drawn up by the side of a long wall quite beyond the crowd of +carriages that was waiting at Lady Kynaston's house. + +"I want to wait here a few minutes, for--for a gentleman I am going to +drive back to town," she said to the servant, confusedly. She was ashamed +to give such an order to him. + +She was frightened too, and trembled with nervousness lest any one should +see her waiting here. + +It was a cold, damp night, and Helen shivered, and drew her fur cloak +closer about her in the darkness. Presently there came footsteps along +the pathway, and a man came through the fog up to the door. It was opened +for him in silence, and he got in, and the carriage drove off again. + +Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet had a mean, cunning-looking countenance; +strictly speaking, indeed, he was rather handsome, his features being +decidedly well-shaped, but the evil and vindictive expression of his +face made it an unpleasant one to look upon. As he took his seat in the +brougham by Helen's side she shrank instinctively away from him. + +"So, ma mie!" he said, peering down into her face with odious +familiarity, "here I find you again after all this time, beautiful as +ever! It is charming to be with you again, once more." + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessity +would have induced me to drive you home to-night," said Helen, who was +trembling violently. + +"You are not polite, ma belle--there is a charming _franchise_ about you +Englishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation." + +"You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone," +she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration. + +"_Le souvenir du beau passé!_" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly. +"Is that it, ma belle Hélène?" + +"Monsieur," she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity's +sake tell me what you have done with my letters--have you destroyed +them?" + +"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my +heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?" + +"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly. + +"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one--every single +one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter +in his black eyes. + +"Not that--_that_ one?" pleaded Helen, piteously. + +"Yes--that one too--that charming and delightful letter in which you so +generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection--do you remember +it?" + +"Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands. + +"Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which +resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah! +it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of +Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to +rush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband was +lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him--ce pauvre mari! +Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he was +not what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and I +had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the +theatre and the bal d'Opéra--do you remember?" + +"Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" cried +Helen, despairingly. + +He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were good +enough to write me several letters--there were one, two, three, four of +them," counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth--that +one you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone out +of Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband had +left for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is my +consolation, my trésor!" + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-like +feeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat you +to do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was so +unhappy--do you not see that they compromise me fatally; that it is my +good name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had half +sunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her hands +entreatingly together. + +Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with _empressement_. + +"Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you be +afraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?" + +Helen burst into bitter tears. + +"How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat a +lady in this way." + +"Your Englishmen are fools, ma chère--and I--I am French!" he replied, +shrugging his shoulders expressively. + +"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those +wretched letters?" + +He bent his face down close to hers. + +"Shall I tell you, belle Hélène? It is this: You are beautiful and you +have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you +will have money--then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with +that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will +marry me, ma chère, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see? +Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as +much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will +not venture to marry--because I have these letters?" + +"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly. + +"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to +be your husband after he had read that last letter--the fifth, you know?" + +No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion. + +Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did +not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had +buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage. + +"Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your +house. We have had our little talk, have we not?" + +The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door. + +"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet, +raising his hat politely. + +In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness had +concealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, was +driven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +EVENING REVERIES. + + For nothing on earth is sadder + Than the dream that cheated the grasp, + The flower that turned to the adder, + The fruit that changed to the asp, + When the dayspring in darkness closes, + As the sunset fades from the hills, + With the fragrance of perished roses, + And the music of parched-up rills. + + A. L. Gordon. + + +It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, +when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a +man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet. + +It had begun in all innocence--on her part, at least. She had been very +miserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriage +had been. She had felt herself to be fatally separated from Maurice, the +man she loved, for ever; and Monsieur D'Arblet had been kind to her; he +had pitied her for being tied to a husband who drank and who gambled, and +Helen had allowed herself to be pitied. D'Arblet had charming manners, +and an accurate knowledge of the weakness of the fair sex; he knew when +to flatter and when to cajole her, when to be tenderly sympathetic to her +sorrows, and when to divert her thoughts to brighter and pleasanter +topics than her own miseries. He succeeded in fascinating her completely. +Whilst her husband was occupied with his own disreputable friends, Helen, +sooner than remain alone in their hotel night after night, was persuaded +to accept Monsieur D'Arblet's escort to theatres and operas, and other +public places, where her constant presence with him very soon compromised +her amongst the few friends who knew her in Paris. + +Then came scenes with her husband; frantic letters of misery to this +French vicomte, whom she imagined to be so devotedly attached to her, +and, finally, one ever-to-be-repented letter, in which she offered to +leave her husband for ever and to come to him. + +True, this letter did not reach its destination till too late, and Helen +was mercifully saved from the fate which, in her wicked despair, she was +ready to rush upon. Twenty-four hours after her return to England she saw +the horrible abyss upon which she had stood, and thanked God from the +bottom of her heart that she had been rescued, in spite of herself, from +so dreadful a deed. But the letter had been written, and was in Lucien +D'Arblet's possession. Later on she learnt, by a chance conversation, the +true character of the man, and shuddered when she remembered how nearly +she had wrecked her whole life for him. And when her husband's death had +placed her once more in the security and affluence of her grandfather's +house, with fresh hopes and fresh chances before her, she had but one +wish with regard to that Parisian episode of her life,--to forget it as +though it had never been. + +She hoped, and, as time went on, she felt sure, that she would never see +Monsieur D'Arblet again. New hopes and new excitements occupied her +thoughts. The man to whom in her youth she had given her heart once more +came across her life; she was thrown very much into his society; she +learnt to love him more devotedly than ever, and when at last she had +succeeded in establishing the sort of engagement which existed between +them, she had assured him, and also assured herself, that no other man +had ever, for one instant, filled her fancy. That stormy chapter of her +married life was forgotten; she resolutely wiped it out of her memory, as +if it had never existed. + +And now, after all this time--it was five years ago--she had met him +again--this Frenchman, who had once compromised her name, and who now had +possession of her letters. + +There was a cruel irony of fate in the fact that she should be destined +to meet him again at Lady Kynaston's, the very house of all others where +she would least have wished to see him. + +There was, however, had she thought of it, nothing at all extraordinary +in her having done so. No house in all London society was so open to +foreigners as Walpole Lodge, and Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet was no +unknown upstart; he bore a good old name; he was clever, had taken an +active part in diplomatic life, and was a very well-known individual in +Parisian society. He had been brought to Lady Kynaston's by a member of +the French Embassy, who was a frequenter of her soirées. + +Neither, however, was meeting with Mrs. Romer entirely accidental on +Monsieur D'Arblet's part. He had never forgotten the pretty Englishwoman +who had so foolishly and recklessly placed herself in his power. + +It is true he had lost sight of her, and other intrigues and other +pursuits had filled his leisure hours; but when he came to England he had +thought of her again, and had made a few careless inquiries after her. It +was not difficult to identify her; the Mrs. Romer who was now a widow, +who lived with her rich grandfather, who was very old, who would probably +soon die and leave her all his wealth, was evidently the same Mrs. Romer +whom he had known. The friend who gave him the information spoke of her +as lovely and _spirituelle_, and as a woman who would be worth marrying +some day. "She is often at Lady Kynaston's receptions," he had added. + +"Mon cher, take me to your Lady Kynaston's soirées," had been Lucien +D'Arblet's lazy rejoinder as they finished their evening smoke together. +"I would like to meet my friend, la belle veuve, again, and I will see if +she has forgotten me." + +Bitter, very bitter, were Mrs. Romer's remorseful meditations that night +when she reached her grandfather's house at Prince's Gate. Every detail +of her acquaintance with Lucien D'Arblet came back to her with a horrible +and painful distinctness. Over and over again she cursed her own folly, +and bewailed the hardness of the fate which placed her once more in the +hands of this man. + +Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her? Would he bring forward +those letters to spoil her life once more--to prevent her from marrying +Maurice should she ever have the chance of doing so? + +Stooping alone over her fire, with all the brightness, and all the +freshness gone out of her, with an old and almost haggard look in the +face that was so lately beaming with smiles and dimples, Helen Romer +asked herself shudderingly these bitter questions over and over again. + +Had she been sure of Maurice's love, she would have been almost tempted +to have confessed her fault, and to have thrown herself upon his mercy; +but she knew that he did not love her well enough to forgive her. Too +well she knew with what disgust and contempt Maurice would be likely to +regard her past conduct; such a confession would, she knew, only induce +him to shake himself clear of her for ever. Indeed, had he loved her, it +is doubtful whether Maurice would have been able to condone so grave a +fault in the past history of a woman; his own standard of honour stood +too high to allow him to pass over lightly any disgraceful or +dishonourable conduct in those with whom he had to do. But, loving her +not, she would have been utterly without excuse in his eyes. + +She knew it well enough. No, her only chance was in silence, and in vague +hopes that time might rescue her out of her difficulties. + +Meanwhile, whilst Helen Romer sat up late into the early morning, +thinking bitterly over her past sins and her future dangers, Maurice +Kynaston and his mother also kept watch together at Walpole Lodge after +all the guests had gone away, and the old house was left alone again to +the mother and son. + +"Something troubles you, little mother," said Maurice, as he stretched +himself upon the rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head down +caressingly upon her knees. + +Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair. "How well +you know my face, Maurice! Yes, something has worried me all day--it is a +letter from your brother." + +Maurice looked up laughingly. "What, is old John in trouble? That would +be something new. Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and dropped +his money at Newmarket, too?" + +"No, you naughty boy? John has got more sense. No!" with a sigh--"I wish +it were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that." + +"My dear mother, you alarm me," cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay; +"why, whatever has he been and gone and done?" + +"Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at--it is some woman--a girl he has +met down at Kynaston; some nobody--a clergyman's daughter, or sister, or +something--whom he says he is going to marry!" Lady Kynaston looked the +picture of distress and dismay. + +Maurice laughed softly. "Well, well, mother; there is nothing very +dreadful after all--I am sure I wish him joy." + +"My boy," she said, below her breath, "I had so hoped, so trusted he +would never marry--it seemed so unlikely--he seemed so completely happy +in his bachelor's life; and I had hoped that you--that you----" + +"Yes, yes, mother dear, I know," he said, quickly, and twisted himself +round till he got her hand between his, kissing it as he spoke; "but I--I +never thought of that--dear old John, he has been the best of brothers to +me; and, mother dear, I know it is all your love to me; but you and I, +dear, we will not grudge him his happiness, will we?" + +He knew so well her weakness--how that she had loved him at the expense +of the other son, who was not so dear to her; he loved her for it, and +yet he did not at his heart think it right. + +Lady Kynaston wiped a few tears away. "You are always right, my boy, +always, and I am a foolish old woman. But oh, Maurice, that is only half +the trouble! Who is this woman whom he has chosen? Some country girl, +ignorant of the ways of the world, unformed and awkward--not fitted to be +his wife!" + +"Does he say so?" laughed Maurice. + +"No, no, of course not. Stay, where is his letter? Oh, there, on the +dressing-table; give it me, my dear. No, this is what he says: 'Miss +Nevill seems to me in every way to fulfil my ideal of a good and perfect +woman, and, if she will consent to marry me, I intend to make her my +wife.'" + +"Well, a good and perfect woman is a _rara avis_, at all events mother." + +"Oh, dear! but all men say that of a girl when they are in love--it +amounts to very little." + +"You see, he has evidently not proposed to her yet; perhaps she will +refuse him." + +"Refuse Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall! A poor clergyman's daughter! +My dear Maurice, I gave you credit for more knowledge of the world. +Besides, John is a fine-looking man. Oh, no, she is not in the least +likely to refuse him." + +"Then all we have got to do is to make the best of her," said Maurice, +composedly. + +"That is easily said for you, who need see very little of her. But +John's wife is a person who will be of great importance to my +happiness. Dear me! and to think he might have had Lady Mary Hendrie +for the asking: a charming creature, well born, highly educated and +accomplished--everything that a man could wish for. And there were the De +Vallery girls--either of them would have married him, and been a suitable +wife for him; and he must needs go and throw himself away on a little +country chit, who could have been equally happy, and much more suitably +mated, with her father's curate. Maurice, my dear," with a sudden change +of voice, "I wish you would go down and cut him out; if you made love to +her ever so little you could turn her head, you know." + +Maurice burst out laughing. "Oh, you wicked, immoral little mother! Did I +ever hear such an iniquitous proposition! Do you want _me_ to marry her?" + +"No, no!" laughed his mother; "but you might make her think you meant to, +and then, perhaps, she would refuse John." + +"I have not Kynaston Hall at my back, remember, after which you have +given her the credit of angling. Besides, mother dear, to speak plainly, +I honestly do not think my taste in women is in the least likely to be +the same as John's. No, I think I will keep out of the way whilst the +love-making is going on. I will go down and have a look at the young +woman by-and-by when it is all settled, and let you know what I think of +her. I dare say a good, honest country lass will suit John far better +than a beautiful woman of the world, who would be sure to be miserable +with him. Don't fret, little mother; make the best of her if you can." + +He rose and stretched himself up to his full height before the fire. Lady +Kynaston looked up at him admiringly. Oh, she thought, if the money and +the name could only have been his! How well he would have made use of it; +how proud she would have been of him--her handsome boy, whom all men +liked, and all women would gladly love. + +"A good son makes a good husband," she said aloud, following her own +thoughts. + +"And John has been a good son, mother," said Maurice, cordially. + +"Yes, yes, in his way, perhaps; but I was thinking of you, my boy, not +of him, and how lucky will be the woman who is your wife, Maurice--will +it be----" + +Maurice stooped quickly, and laid his hand playfully over her lips. + +"I don't know, mother dear--never ask me--for I don't know it myself." +And then he kissed her, and wished her good-night, and left her. + +She sat long over her fire, dreaming, by herself, thinking a little, +perhaps, of the elder son, and the bride he was going to bring her, whom +she should have to welcome whether she liked her or no, but thinking more +of the younger, whose inner life she had studied, and who was so entirely +dear and precious to her. It was very little to her that he had been +extravagant and thoughtless, that he had lost money in betting and +racing--these were minor faults--and she and John between them had always +managed to meet his difficulties; they had not been, in truth, very +tremendous. But for that, he had never caused her one day's anxiety, +never given her one instant's pain. "God grant he may get a wife who +deserves him," was the mother's prayer that night. "I doubt if Helen +be worthy of him; but if he loves her, as I believe he must do, no word +of mine shall stand between him and his happiness." + +And then she went to bed, and dreamed, as mothers dream of the child they +love best. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE MEMBER FOR MEADOWSHIRE. + + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part, there all the honour lies. + + Pope, "Essay on Man." + + +About five miles from Kynaston Hall, as the crow flies, across the +fields, stood, as the house-agents would have described it, "a large +and commodious modern mansion, standing in about eighty acres of +well-timbered park land." + +I do not know that any description that could be given of Shadonake would +so well answer to the reality as the above familiar form of words. + +The house was undoubtedly large, very large, and it was also modern, very +modern. It was a handsome stone structure, with a colonnade of white +pillars along the entrance side, and with a multiplicity of large +plate-glass windows stretching away in interminable vistas in every +direction. A broad gravel sweep led up to the front door; to the right +were the stables, large and handsome too, with a clock-tower and a belfry +over the gateway; and to the left were the gardens and the shrubberies. + +There had been an old house once at Shadonake, old and picturesque and +uncomfortable; but when the property had been purchased by the present +owner--Mr. Andrew Miller--after he had been returned as Conservative +member for the county, the old house was swept away, and a modern +mansion, more suited to the wants and requirements of his family, arose +in its place. + +The park was flat, but well wooded. The old trees, of course, remained +intact; but the gardens of the first house, being rambling and +old-fashioned, had been done away with, to make room for others on a +larger and more imposing scale; and vineries and pineries, orchid-houses, +and hot-houses of every description arose rapidly all over the site of +the old bowling-green and the wilderness, half kitchen garden, half +rosary, that had served to content the former owners of Shadonake, now +all lying dead and buried in the chancel of the village church. + +The only feature of the old mansion which had been left untouched was +rather a remarkable one. It was a large lake or pond, lying south of the +gardens, and about a quarter of a mile from the house. It lay in a sort +of dip in the ground, and was surrounded on all four sides--for it was +exactly square--by very steep high banks, which had been cut into by +steep stone steps, now gray, and broken, and moss-grown, which led down +straight into the water. This pool was called Shadonake Bath. How long +the steps had existed no one knew; probably for several hundred years, +for there was a ghost story connected with them. Somebody was supposed, +before the memory of any one living, to have been drowned there, and to +haunt the steps at certain times of the year. + +It is certain that but for the fact of a mania for boating, and punting, +and skating indulged in by several of his younger sons, Mr. Miller, in +his energy for sweeping away all things old, and setting up all things +new, would not have spared the Bath any more than he had spared the +bowling-green. He had gone so far, indeed, as to have a plan submitted to +him for draining it, and turning it into a strawberry garden, and for +doing away with the picturesque old stone steps altogether in order to +encase the banks in red brick, suitable to the cultivation of peaches and +nectarines; but Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys, had thought about +their punts and their canoes, and had pleaded piteously for the Bath; so +the Bath was allowed to remain untouched, greatly to the relief of many +of the neighbours, who were proud of its traditions, and who, in the +general destruction that had been going on at Shadonake, had trembled for +its safety. + +Where Mr. Miller had originally come from nobody exactly knew. It was +generally supposed that he had migrated early in life from northern and +manufacturing districts, where his father had amassed a large fortune. +In spite, however, of his wealth, it is doubtful whether he would ever +have achieved the difficult task of being returned for so exclusive and +aristocratic a county as Meadowshire had he not made a most prudent and +politic marriage. He had married one of the Miss Esterworths, of +Lutterton. + +Now, everybody who has the slightest knowledge of Meadowshire and its +internal politics will see at once that Andrew Miller could not have done +better for himself. The Esterworths are the very oldest and best of the +old county families; there can be no sort of doubt whatever as to their +position and standing. Therefore, when Andrew Miller married Caroline +Esterworth, there was at once an end of all hesitation as to how he was +to be treated amongst them. Meadowshire might wonder at Miss Caroline's +taste, but it kept its wonder to itself, and held out the right hand of +fellowship to Andrew Miller then and ever after. + +It is true that there were five Miss Esterworths, all grown up, and all +unmarried, at the time when Andrew came a-wooing to Lutterton Castle; +they were none of them remarkable for beauty, and Caroline, who was the +eldest of the five, less so than the others. Moreover, there were many +sons at Lutterton, and the daughters' portions were but small. Altogether +the love-making had been easy and prosperous, for Caroline, who was a +sensible young woman, had readily recognized the superior advantages +of marrying an excellent man of no birth or breeding, with twenty +thousand a year, to remaining Miss Esterworth to her dying day, in +dignified but impecunious spinsterhood. Time had proved the wisdom of her +choice. For some years the Millers had rented a small but pretty little +house within two miles of Lutterton, where, of course, everybody visited +them, and got used to Andrew's squat, burly figure, and agreed to +overlook his many little defects of speech and manner in consideration of +his many excellent qualities--and his wealth--and where, in course of +time, all their children, two daughters and six sons, were born. + +And then, a vacancy occurring opportunely, Mrs. Miller determined that +her husband should stand in the Conservative interest for the county. She +would have made a Liberal of him had she thought it would answer better. +How she toiled and how she slaved, and how she kept her Andrew, who was +not by any means ambitious of the position, up to the mark, it boots not +here to tell. Suffice it to say, that the deed was accomplished, and that +Andrew Miller became M.P. for North Meadowshire. + +Almost at the same time Shadonake fell into the market, and Mrs. Miller +perceived that the time had now come for her husband's wealth to be +recognized and appreciated; or, as he himself expressed it, in vernacular +that was strictly to the point if inelegant in diction, the time was +come for him "to cut a splash." + +She had been very clever, this daughter of the Esterworths. She had kept +a tight rein over her husband all through the early years of their +married life. She would have no ostentation, no vulgar display of wealth, +no parading and flaunting of that twenty thousand per annum in their +neighbours' faces. And she had done what she had intended; she had +established her husband's position well in the county--she had made him +to be accepted, not only by reason of his wealth, but also because he was +her husband; she had roused no one's envy--she had never given cause for +spite or jealousy--she had made him popular as well as herself. They had +lived quietly and unobtrusively; they had, of course, had everything of +the best; their horses and carriages were irreproachable, but they had +not had more of them than their neighbours. They had entertained freely, +and they had given their guests well-cooked dinners and expensive wines; +but there had been nothing lavish in their entertainments, nothing that +could make any of them go away and say to themselves, with angry +discontent, that "those Millers" were purse-proud and vulgar in their +wealth. When she had gone to her neighbours' houses Mrs. Miller had been +handsomely but never extravagantly dressed; she had praised their cooks, +and expressed herself envious of their flowers, and had bemoaned her own +inability to vie with their peaches and their pineapples; she had never +talked about her own possessions, nor had she ever paraded her own eight +thousand pounds' worth of diamonds before the envious eyes of women who +had none. + +In this way she had made herself popular--and in this way she had won the +county seat for her husband. + +When, however, that great end and aim of her existence was accomplished, +Caroline Miller felt that she might now fairly launch out a little. The +time was come when she might reap the advantage of her long years of +repression and patient waiting. Her daughters were growing up, her sons +were all at school. For her children's sake, it was time that she should +take the lead in the county which their father's fortune and new position +entitled them to, and which no one now was likely to grudge them. +Shadonake therefore was bought, and the house straightway pulled down, +and built up again in a style, and with a magnificence, befitting Mr. +Miller's wealth. + +Bricks and mortar were Andrew Miller's delight. He was never so happy as +during the three years that Shadonake House was being built; every stone +that was laid was a fresh interest to him; every inch of brick wall a +keen and special delight. He had been disappointed not to have had the +spoliation of Shadonake Bath; it had been a distinct mortification to him +to have to forego the four brick walls which would have replaced its +ancient steps; but then he had made it up to himself by altering the +position of the front door three times before it was finally settled +to his satisfaction. + +But all this was over by this time, and when my story begins Shadonake +new House, as it was sometimes called, was built, and furnished and +inhabited in every corner of its lofty rooms, and all along the spacious +length of its many wide corridors. + +One afternoon--it is about a week later than that soirée at Walpole +Lodge, mentioned in a previous chapter--Mrs. Miller and her eldest +daughter are sitting together in the large drawing-room at Shadonake. The +room is furnished in that style of high artistic decoration that is now +the fashion. There are rich Persian rugs over the polished oak floor; a +high oak chimney-piece, with blue tiles inserted into it in every +direction, and decorated with old Nankin china bowls and jars; a wide +grate below, where logs of wood are blazing between brass bars; +quantities of spindle-legged Chippendale furniture all over the room, +and a profusion of rich gold embroidery and "textile fabrics" of all +descriptions lighting up the carved oak "dado" and the sombre sage green +of the walls. There are pictures, too, quite of the best, and china of +every period and every style, upon every available bracket and shelf and +corner where a cup or a plate can be made to stand. Four large windows on +one side open on to the lawn; two, at right angles to them, lead into +a large conservatory, where there is, even at this dead season of the +year, a blaze of exotic blossoms that fill the room with their sweet rich +odour. + +Mrs. Miller sits before a writing bureau of inlaid satin-wood of an +ancient pattern. She has her pen in her hand, and is docketing her +visiting list. Beatrice Miller sits on a low four-legged stool by her +mother's side, with a large Japanese china bowl on her knees filled with +cards, which she takes out one after the other, reading the names upon +them aloud to her mother before tossing them into a basket, also of +Japanese structure, which is on the floor in front of her. + +Beatrice is Mrs. Miller's eldest daughter, and she is twenty. Guy is only +eleven months older, and Edwin is a year younger--they are both at +Oxford; next comes Geraldine, who is still in the school-room, but who is +hoping to come out next Easter; then Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys; +and lastly, Teddy and Ralph, who are at a famous preparatory school, +whence they hope, in process of time, to be drafted on to Eton, following +in the footsteps of their elder brothers. + +Of all this large family it is Beatrice, the eldest daughter, who causes +her mother the most anxiety. Beatrice is like her mother--a plain but +clever-looking girl, with the dark swart features and colouring of the +Esterworths, who are not a handsome race. Added to which, she inherits +her father's short and somewhat stumpy figure. Such a personal appearance +in itself is enough to cause uneasiness to any mother who is anxious for +her daughter's future; but when these advantages of looks are rendered +still more peculiar by the fact that her hair had to be shaved off some +years ago when she had scarlet fever, and that it has never grown again +properly, but is worn short and loose about her face like a boy's, with +its black tresses tumbling into her eyes every time she looks down--and +when, added to this, Mrs. Miller also discovered to her mortification +that Beatrice possessed a will of her own, and so decided a method of +expressing her opinions and convictions, that she was not likely to be +easily moulded to her own views, you will, perhaps, understand the extent +of the difficulties with which she has to deal. + +For, of course, so clever and so managing a woman as Mrs. Miller has not +allowed her daughter to grow up to the age of twenty without making the +most careful and judiciously-laid schemes for her ultimate disposal. That +Beatrice is to marry is a matter of course, and Mrs. Miller has well +determined that the marriage is to be a good one, and that her daughter +is to strengthen her father's position in Meadowshire by a union with one +or other of its leading families. Now, when Mrs. Miller came to pass the +marriageable men of Meadowshire under review, there was no such eligible +bachelor amongst them all as Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall. + +It was on him, therefore, that her hopes with regard to Beatrice were +fixed. Fortune hitherto had seemed to smile favourably upon her. Beatrice +had had one season in town, during which she had met Sir John frequently, +and he had, contrary to his usual custom, asked her to dance several +times when he had met her at balls. Mrs. Miller said to herself that Sir +John, not being a very young man, did not set much store upon mere +personal beauty; that he probably valued mental qualities in a woman more +highly than the transient glitter of beauty; and that Beatrice's good +sense and sharp, shrewd conversation had evidently made a favourable +impression upon him. + +She never was more mistaken in her life. True, Sir John did like Miss +Miller, he found her unconventional and amusing; but his only object in +distinguishing her by his attentions had been to pay a necessary +compliment to the new M.P.'s daughter, a duty which he would have +fulfilled equally had she been stupid as well as plain: moreover, as we +have seen, few men were so intensely sensitive to beauty in a woman as +was Sir John Kynaston. Mrs. Miller, however, was full of hopes concerning +him. To do her justice, she was not exactly vulgarly ambitious for her +daughter; she liked Sir John personally, and had a high respect for his +character, and she considered that Beatrice's high spirit and self-willed +disposition would be most desirably moderated and kept in check by a +husband so much older than herself. Lady Kynaston, moreover, was one of +her best and dearest friends, and was her beau-idéal of all that a clever +and refined lady should be. The match, in every respect, would have been +a very acceptable one to her. Whether or no Miss Beatrice shared her +mother's views on her behalf remains to be seen. + +The mother and daughter are settling together the preliminaries of a +week's festivities which Mrs. Miller has decided shall be held at +Shadonake this winter. The house is to be filled, and there are to be a +series of dinner parties, culminating in a ball. + +"The Bayleys, the Westons, the Foresters, and two daughters, I suppose," +reads Mrs. Miller, aloud, from the list in her hand, "Any more for the +second dinner-party, Beatrice?" + +"Are you not going to ask the Daintrees, of Sutton, mother?" + +"Oh, dear me, another parson, Beatrice! I really don't think we can; I +have got three already. They shall have a card for the ball." + +"You will ask that handsome girl who lives with them, won't you?" + +"Not the slightest occasion for doing so," replied her mother, shortly. +Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. + +"Why, she is the best-looking woman in all Meadowshire; we cannot leave +her out." + +"I know nothing about her, not even her name; she is some kind of poor +relation, I believe--acts as the children's governess. We have too many +women as it is. No, I certainly shall not ask her. Go on to the next, +Beatrice." + +"But, mother, she is so very handsome! Surely you might include her." + +"Dear me, Beatrice, what a stupid girl you are! What is the good of +asking handsome girls to cut you out in your own house? I should have +thought you would have had the sense to see that for yourself," said Mrs. +Miller, impatiently. + +"I think you are horribly unjust, mamma," says Miss Beatrice, +energetically; "and it is downright unkind to leave her out because +she is handsome--as if I cared." + +"How can I ask her if I do not know her name?" said her mother, +irritably, with just that amount of dread of her daughter's rising temper +to make her anxious to conciliate her. "If you like to find out who she +is and all about her----" + +"Yes, I will find out," said Beatrice, quietly; "give me the note, I will +keep it back for the present." + +"Now, for goodness sake, go on, child, and don't waste any more time. Who +are coming from town to stay in the house?" + +"Well, there will be Lady Kynaston, I suppose." + +"Yes. She won't come till the end of the week. I have heard from her; she +will try and get down in time for the ball." + +"Then there will be the Macpherson girls and Helen Romer. And, as a +matter of course, Captain Kynaston must be asked?" + +"Yes. What a fool that woman is to advertise her feelings so openly that +one is obliged to ask her attendant swain to follow her wherever she +goes!" + +"On the contrary, I think her remarkably clever; she gets what she wants, +and the cleverest of us can do no more. It is a well-known fact to all +Helen's acquaintances that not to ask Captain Kynaston to meet her would +be deliberately to insult her--she expects it as her right." + +"All the same, it is in very bad taste and excessively underbred of her. +However, I should ask Captain Kynaston in any case, for his mother's +sake, and because I like him. He is a good shot, too, and the coverts +must be shot that week. Who next?" + +"Mr. Herbert Pryme." + +"Goodness me! Beatrice, what makes you think of _him_? We don't know +anything about him--where he comes from or who are his belongings--he is +only a nobody!" + +"He is a barrister, mamma!" + +"Yes, of course, I know that--but, then, there are barristers of all +sorts. I am sure I do not know what made you fix upon him; you only met +him two or three times in town." + +"I liked him," said Beatrice, carelessly; "he is a gentleman, and would +be a pleasant man to have in the house." + +Her mother looked at her sharply. She was playing with the gold locket +round her neck, twisting it backwards and forwards along its chain, her +eyes fixed upon the heap of cards on her lap. There was not the faintest +vestige of a blush upon her face. + +"However," she continued, "if you don't care about having him, strike his +name out. Only it is a pity, because Sophy Macpherson is rather fond of +him, I fancy." + +This was a lie; it was Miss Beatrice herself who was fond of him, but not +even her mother, keen and quick-scented as she was, could have guessed it +from her impassive face. Mrs. Miller was taken in completely. + +"Oh," she said, "if Sophy Macpherson likes him, that alters the case. Oh, +yes, I will ask him by all means--as you say, he is a gentleman and +pleasant." + +"Look, mamma!" exclaimed Beatrice, suddenly; "there is uncle Tom riding +up the drive." + +Now, Tom Esterworth was a very important personage; he was the present +head of the Esterworth family, and, as such, the representative of its +ancient honours and traditions. He was a bachelor, and reigned in +solitary grandeur at Lutterton Castle, and kept the hounds as his +fathers had done before him. + +Uncle Tom was thought very much of at Shadonake, and his visits always +caused a certain amount of agitation in his sister's mind. To her dying +day she would be conscious that in Tom's eyes she had been guilty of a +_mésalliance_. She never could get that idea out of her head; it made her +nervous and ill at ease in his presence. She hustled all her notes and +cards hurriedly together into her bureau. + +"Uncle Tom! Dear me, what can he have come to-day for! I thought the +hounds were out. Ring the bell, Beatrice; he will like some tea. Where +is your father?" + +"Papa is out superintending the building of the new pigsties," said +Beatrice as she rang the bell. "I think uncle Tom has been hunting; he is +in boots and breeches I see." + +"Dear me, I hope your father won't come in with his muddy feet and his +hands covered with earth," said Mrs. Miller, nervously. + +Uncle Tom came in, a tall, dark-faced, strong-limbed man of fifty--an +ugly man, if you will, but a gentleman, and an Esterworth, every inch of +him. He kissed his sister, and patted his niece on the cheek. + +"Why weren't you out to-day, Pussy?" + +"You met so far off, uncle. I had no one to ride with to the meet. The +boys will be back next week. Have you had a good run?" + +"No, we've done nothing but potter about all the morning; there isn't a +scrap of scent." + +"Uncle Tom, will you give us a meet here when we have our house-warming?" + +"Humph! you haven't got any foxes at Shadonake," answered her uncle. He +had drawn his chair to the fire, and was warming his hands over the +blazing logs. Beatrice was rather a favourite with him. "I will see about +it, Pussy," he added, kindly, seeing that she looked disappointed. Mrs. +Miller was pouring him out a cup of tea. + +"Well, I've got a piece of news for you women!" says Mr. Esterworth, +stretching out his hand for his tea. "John Kynaston's going to be +married!" + +Mrs. Miller never knew how it was that the old Worcester tea-cup in her +hand did not at this juncture fall flat on the ground into a thousand +atoms at her brother's feet. It is certain that only a very strong +exercise of self-control and presence of mind saved it from destruction. + +"Engaged to be married!" she said, with a gasp. + +"That is news indeed," cried Beatrice, heartily, "I am delighted." + +"Don't be so foolish, Beatrice," said her mother, quite sharply. "How on +earth can you be delighted when you don't even know who it is? Who is it, +Tom?" + +"Ah, that is the whole pith of the matter," said Mr. Esterworth, who was +not above the weakness of liking to be the bearer of a piece of gossip. +"I'll give you three guesses, and I'll bet you won't hit it." + +"One of the Courtenay girls?" + +"No." + +"Anna Vivian?" + +"I know," says Beatrice, nodding her head sagely; "it is that girl who +lives with the Daintrees." + +"Beatrice, how silly you are!" cries her mother. + +Tom Esterworth turns round in his chair, and looks at his niece. + +"By Jove, you've hit it!" he exclaims. "What a clever pussy you are to be +sure." + +And then the soul of the member's wife became filled with consternation +and disgust. + +"Well, I call it downright sly of John Kynaston!" she exclaims, angrily; +"picking out a nobody like that behind all our backs, and keeping it so +quiet, too; he ought to be ashamed of himself for such an unsuitable +selection!" + +Beatrice laughed. "You know, uncle Tom, mamma wanted him to marry me." + +"Beatrice, you should not say such things," said her mother, colouring. + +"Whew!" whistled Mr. Esterworth. "So that was the little game, Caroline, +was it? John Kynaston has better taste. He wouldn't have looked at an +ugly little girl like our pussy here, would he, Puss? Miss Nevill is one +of the finest women I ever saw in my life. She was at the meet to-day on +one of his horses; and, by Jove! she made all the other women look plain +by the side of her! Kynaston is a very lucky fellow." + +"I think, mamma, there can be no doubt about sending Miss Nevill an +invitation to our ball now," said Beatrice, laughingly. + +"She will have to be asked to stay in the house," said Mrs. Miller, with +something akin to a groan. "I cannot leave her out, as Lady Kynaston is +coming. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what fools men are, to be sure!" + +But Beatrice was wicked enough to laugh again over her mother's +discomfiture. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +ENGAGED. + + I wonder did you ever count + The value of one human fate, + Or sum the infinite amount + Of one heart's treasures, and the weight + Of one heart's venture. + + A. Procter. + + +It was quite true what Mr. Thomas Esterworth had said, that Vera was +engaged to Sir John Kynaston. + +It had all come about so rapidly, and withal so quietly, that, when Vera +came to think of it, it rather took her breath away. She had expected it, +of course; indeed, she had even planned and tried for it; but, when it +had actually come to her, she felt herself to be bewildered by the +suddenness of it. + +In the end the climax of the love-making had been prosaic enough. Sir +John had not felt himself equal to the task of a personal interview with +the lady of his affections, with the accompanying risks of a personal +rejection, which, in his modesty and humility with reference to her, he +had believed to be quite on the cards. So he had written to her. The note +had been taken up to the vicarage by the footman, and had been brought +into the dining-room by the vicarial parlour-maid, just as the three +ladies were finishing breakfast, and after the vicar himself had left the +room. + +"A note from Kynaston, please 'm," says rosy-cheeked Hannah, holding it +forth before her, upon a small japanned tray, as an object of general +family interest and excitement. + +"For your master, Hannah?" says old Mrs. Daintree. "Are they waiting for +an answer? You will find him in his study." + +"No, ma'am, it's for Miss Vera." + +"Dear me!" with a suspicious glance across the table; "how very odd!" + +Vera takes up the note and opens it. + +"May I have the crest, auntie?" clamours Tommy before she had read three +words of it. + +"Is it about the horse he has offered you to ride?" asks his mother. + +But Vera answers nothing; she gets up quietly, and leaves the room +without a word. + +"Extraordinary!" gasps Mrs. Daintree; "Vera's manners are certainly most +abrupt and unlady-like at times, Marion. I think you ought to point it +out to her." + +Marion murmurs some unintelligible excuse and follows her sister--leaving +the unfortunate Tommy a prey to his grandmother's tender mercies. So +brilliant an opportunity is not, of course, to be thrown away. Tommy's +fingers, having incontinently strayed in the direction of the +sugar-basin, are summarily slapped for their indiscretion, and an +admonition is straightway delivered to him in forcible language +concerning the pains and penalties which threaten the ulterior destiny of +naughty little boys in general and of such of them in particular who are +specially addicted to the abstraction of lumps of sugar from the +breakfast-table. + +Meanwhile, Marion has found her sister in the adjoining room standing up +alone upon the hearthrug with Sir John Kynaston's letter in her hands. +She is not reading it now, she is looking steadfastly into the fire. It +has fulfilled--nay, more than fulfilled--her wishes. The triumph of her +success is pleasant to her, and has brought a little more than their +usual glow into her cheeks, and yet--Heaven knows what vague and +intangible dreams and fancies have not somehow sunk down chill and cold +within her during the last five minutes. + +Gratified ambition--flattered vanity--the joy of success--all this she +feels to the full; but nothing more! There is not one single other +sensation within her. Her pulses have not quickened, ever so little, as +she read her lover's letter; her heart has not throbbed, even once, with +a sweeter, purer delight--such as she has read and heard that other women +have felt. + +"I suppose I have no heart," said Vera to herself; "it must be that I am +cold by nature. I am happy; but--but--I wonder what it feels like--this +_love_--that there is so much talked and written about?" + +And then Marion came in breathlessly. + +"Oh, Vera, what is it?" + +Vera turns round to her, smiling serenely, and places the note in her +hands. + +This is what Sir John Kynaston has written:-- + + "Dear Miss Nevill,--I do not think what I am about to say will be + altogether unexpected by you. You must have surely guessed how sincere + an affection I have learnt to feel for you. I know that I am unworthy + of you, and I am conscious of how vast a disparity there is between + my age and your own youth and beauty. But if my great love and devotion + can in any way bridge over the gap that lies between us, believe me, + that if you will consent to be my wife, my whole life shall be devoted + to making you happy. If you can give me an answer to-day, I shall be + very grateful, as suspense is hard to bear. But pray do not decide + against me in haste, and without giving me every chance in your power. + + "Yours devotedly, + "John Kynaston." + +"Oh! Vera, my darling sister, I am so glad!" cries Marion, in tearful +delight, throwing her arms up round the neck of the young sister, who is +so much taller than she is; "I had guessed it, dearest; I saw he was in +love with you; and oh, Vera, I shall have you always near me!" + +"Yes, that will be nice," assents Vera, quietly, and a trifle absently, +stroking her sister's cheek, with her eyes still fixed on the fire; "and +of course," rousing herself with an effort, "of course I am a very lucky +woman." + +And then Mr. Daintree came in, and his wife rushed to him rapturously to +impart the joyful news. There was a little pleasant confusion of broken +words and explanations between the three, and then Marion whisked away, +brimming over with triumphant delight to wave the flags of victory +exultingly in her mother-in-law's face. + +Eustace Daintree and Vera were alone. He took her hands within his, and +looked steadfastly in her face. + +"Vera, are you sure of yourself, my dear, in this matter?" + +Her eyes met his for a moment, and then fell before his earnest gaze. She +coloured a little. + +"I am quite sure that I mean to accept Sir John's proposal," she said, +with a little uneasy laugh. + +"Child, do you love him?" + +Her eyes met his again; there was a vague trouble in them. The man had a +power over her, the power of sheer goodness of soul. She could never be +untrue to herself with Eustace Daintree; she was always at her very best +with him, humble and gentle; and she could no more have told him a lie, +or put him off with vague conventionalities, than she could have +committed a deadly sin. + +What is it about some people that, in spite of ourselves, they thus force +out of us the best part of our nature; that base and unworthy thoughts +cannot live in us before them,--that they melt out of our hearts as the +snow before the rays of the sun? Even though the effect may be transient, +such is the power of their faith, and their truth, and their goodness, +that it must needs call forth in us something of the same spirit as their +own. + +Such was Eustace Daintree's influence over Vera. It was not because of +his office, for no one was less susceptible than Vera--a Protestant +brought up, with but vague ideas of her own faith, in a Catholic land--to +any of those recognized associations with which a purely English-bred +girl might have felt the character of the clergyman of the parish where +she lived to be invested. It was nothing of that sort that made him great +to her; it was, simply and solely, the goodness of the man that impressed +her. His guilelessness, his simplicity of mind, his absolute uprightness +of character, and, with it all, the absence in him of any assumption of +authority, or of any superiority of character over those about him. His +very humility made her humble with him, and exalted him into something +saintly in her eyes. + +When Eustace looked at her fixedly, with all his good soul in his earnest +eyes, and said to her again, "Do you love him, Vera?" Vera could but +answer him simply and frankly, almost against her will, as it were. + +"I don't think I do, Eustace; but then I do not quite know what love is. +I do not think, however, that it can be what I feel." + +"My child, no union can be hallowed without love. Vera, you will not run +into so great a danger?" he said anxiously. + +She looked up at him smiling. + +"I like him better than any one else, at all events. Better than Mr. +Gisburne, for instance. And I think, I do really think, Eustace, it will +be for my happiness." + +The vicar looked grave. "If Sir John Kynaston were a poor man, would you +marry him?" + +And Vera answered bravely, though with a heightened colour-- + +"No; but it is not only for the money, Eustace; indeed it is not. +But--but--I should be miserable without it; and I must do something with +my life." + +He drew her near to him, and kissed her forehead. He understood her. With +that rare gift of sympathy--the highest, the most God-like of all human +attributes--he felt at once what she meant. It was wonderful that this +man, who was so unworldly, so unselfish, so pure of the stains of earth +himself, should have seen at once her position from her own point of +view; that was neither a very exalted one, nor was it very free from the +dross of worldliness. But it was so. All at once he seemed to know by a +subtle instinct what were the weaknesses, and the temptations, and the +aims of this girl, who, with all her faults, was so dear to him. He +understood her better, perhaps, than she understood herself. Her soul was +untouched by passion; the story of her life was unwritten; there was no +danger for her yet; and perchance it might be that the storms of life +would pass her by unscathed, and that she might remain sheltered for ever +in the safe haven which had opened so unexpectedly to receive her. + +"There is a peril in the course you have chosen," he said, gravely; "but +your soul is pure, and you are safe. And I know, Vera, that you will +always do your duty." + +And the tears were in her eyes as he left her. + +When he had gone she sat down to write her answer to Sir John Kynaston. +She dipped her pen into the ink, and sat with it in her hand, thinking. +Her brother-in-law's words had aroused a fresh train of thought within +her. There seemed to be an amount of solemnity in what she was about to +do that she had not considered before. It was true that she did not love +him; but then, as she had told Eustace just now, she loved no one else; +she did not rightly understand what love meant, indeed. And is a woman to +wait on in patience for years until love comes to her? Would it ever +come? Probably not, thought Vera; not to her, who thought herself to be +cold, and not easily moved. There must be surely many women to whom this +wonderful thing of love never comes. In all her experience of life there +was nothing to contradict this. It was not as if she had been a girl who +had never left her native village, never tasted of the pleasures of life, +never known the sweet incense of flattery and devotion. Vera had known it +all. Many men had courted her; one or two had loved her dearly, but she +had not loved them. Amongst them all, indeed, there had been never one +whom she had liked with such a sincere affection as she now felt for this +man, who seemed to love her so much, and who wrote to her so diffidently, +and yet so devotedly. + +"I love him as well as I am ever likely to love any one," said Vera, to +herself. Yet still she leant her chin upon her hand and looked out of the +window at the gray bare branches of the elm-trees across the damp green +lawn, and still her letter was unwritten. + +"Vera!" cries Marion, coming in hurriedly and breaking in upon her +reverie, "the footman from Kynaston is waiting all this time to know if +there is any answer! Shall I send him away? Or have you made up your +mind?" + +"Oh yes, I have made up my mind. My note will be ready directly; he may +as well take it. It will save the trouble of sending up to the Hall +later." For Vera remembers that there is not a superfluity of servants +at the vicarage, and that they all of them have plenty to do. + +And thus, a mere trifle--a feather, as it were, on the river of +life--settled her destiny for her out of hand. + +She dipped her pen into the ink once more, and wrote:-- + + "Dear Sir John,--You have done me a great honour in asking me to be + your wife. I am fully sensible of your affection, and am very grateful + for it. I fear you think too highly of me; but I will endeavour to + prove myself worthy of your good opinion, and to make you as good a + wife as you deserve. + + "Yours, + "Vera Nevill." + +She was conscious herself of the excessive coldness of her note, but she +could not help it. She could not, for the life of her, have made it +warmer. Nothing, indeed, is so difficult as to write down feelings that +do not exist; it is easier to simulate with our spoken words and our +looks; but the pen that is urged beyond its natural inclination seems to +cool into ice in our fingers. But, at all events, she had accepted him. + +It was a relief to her when the thing was done, and the note sent off +beyond the possibility of recall. + +After that there had been no longer any leisure for her doubting +thoughts. There was her sister's delighted excitement, Mrs. Daintree's +oppressive astonishment, and even Eustace's calmer satisfaction in her +bright prospects, to occupy and divert her thoughts. Then there came her +lover himself, tender and grateful, and with so worshipful a respect in +every word and action that the most sensitive woman could scarcely have +been ruffled or alarmed by the prospects of so deferential a husband. + +In a few days Vera became reconciled to her new position, which was in +truth a very pleasant one to her. There were the congratulations of +friends and acquaintances to be responded to; the pleasant flutter of +adulation that surrounded her once more; the little daily excitement +of John Kynaston's visits--all this made her happy and perfectly +satisfied with the wisdom of her decision. + +Only one thing vexed her. + +"What will your mother say, John?" she had asked the very first day she +had been engaged to him. + +"It will not make much difference to me, dearest, whatever she may say." + +Nor in truth would it, for Sir John, as we have seen, had never been a +devoted son, nor had he ever given his confidence to his mother; he had +always gone his own way independently of her. + +"But it must needs make a difference to me," Vera had insisted. "You have +written to her, of course." + +"Oh, yes; I wrote and told her I was engaged to you." + +"And she has not written?" + +"Yes, there was a message for you--her love or something." + +Sir John evidently did not consider the subject of much importance. But +Vera was hurt that Lady Kynaston had not written to her. + +"I will never enter any family where I am not welcome," she had said to +her lover, proudly. + +And then Sir John had taken fright, for she was so precious to him that +the fear of losing her was becoming almost as a nightmare to him, and, +possibly, at the bottom of his heart he knew how feeble was his hold +over her. He had written off to his mother that day a letter that was +almost a command, and had told her to write to Vera. + +This letter was not likely to prepossess Lady Kynaston, who was a +masterful little lady herself, in her daughter-in-law's favour; it did +more harm than good. She had obeyed her son, it is true, because he was +the head of the family, and because she stood in awe of him; but the +letter, thus written under compulsion, was not kind--it was not even +just. + +"Horrid girl!" had said Lady Kynaston, angrily, to herself, as she had +sat down to her writing-table to fulfil her son's mandate. "It is not +likely that I can be very loving to her--some wretched, second-rate girl, +evidently--for not even Caroline Miller who, goodness knows, rakes up all +the odds and ends of society--ever heard of her before!" + +It is not to be supposed that a letter undertaken under such auspices +could be in any way conciliatory or pleasant in its tone. Such as it was, +Vera put it straight into the fire directly she had read it; no one ever +saw it but herself. + +"I have heard from your mother," she said to Sir John. + +"Yes? I am very glad. She wrote everything that was kind, no doubt." + +"I dare say she meant to be kind," said Vera; which was not true, because +she knew perfectly that there had been no kindness intended. But she +pursued the subject no further. + +"I hope you will like Maurice," said Sir John, presently; "he is a +good-hearted boy, though he has been sadly extravagant, and given me +a good deal of trouble." + +"I shall be glad to know your brother," said Vera, quietly. "Is he coming +to Kynaston?" + +"Yes, eventually; but you will meet him first at Shadonake when you go +to stay there: they have asked a large party for that week, I hear, and +Maurice will be there." + +Now, by this time Vera knew that the photograph she had once found in the +old writing-table drawer at Kynaston was that of her lover's brother +Maurice. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A MEETING ON THE STAIRS. + + Since first I saw your face + I resolved to honour and renown you; + If now I be disdained, + I wish my heart had never known you. + + The Sun whose beams most glorious are + Rejecteth no beholder, + And your sweet beauty past compare + Made my poor eyes the bolder. + +Thomas Ford. + + +I have often wondered why, in the ordering of human destinies, +some special Providence, some guardian spirit who is gifted with +foreknowledge, is not mercifully told off to each of us so to order the +trifles of our lives that they may combine to the working together of our +weal, instead of conspiring, as they too often and too evidently do, for +our woe. + +Look back upon your own life, and upon the lives of those whose story you +have known the most intimately, and see what straws, what nonentities, +what absurd trivialities have brought about the most important events of +existence. Recollect how, and in what manner, those people whom it would +have been well for you never to have known came across you. How those +whose influence over you is for good were kept out of your way at the +very crisis of your life. Think what a different life you would have led; +I do not mean only happier, but how much better and purer, if some absurd +trifle had not seemed to play into the hands, as it were, of your +destiny, and to set you in a path whereof no one could at the time +foresee the end. + +Some one had looked out their train in last month's Bradshaw, unwitting +of the autumn alterations, and was kept from you till the next day. You +took the left instead of the right side of the square on your way home, +or you stood for a minute gossiping at your neighbour's door, and there +came by some one who ultimately altered and embittered your whole life, +and who, but for that accidental meeting, you would, probably, never have +seen again; or some evil adviser was at hand, whilst one whose opinion +you revered, and whose timely help would have saved you from taking that +false step you ever after regretted, was kept to the house, by Heaven +knows what ridiculous trifle--a cold in the head, or finger-ache--and +did not see you to warn and to keep you back from your own folly until it +was too late. + +People say these things are ordered for us. I do not know; it may be so, +but sometimes it seems rather as if we were irresponsible puppets, tossed +and buffeted about, blindly and helplessly, upon life's river, as +fluttering dead leaves are danced wildly along the swift current of a +Highland stream. Such a trifle might have saved us! yet there was no +pitying hand put forth to avert that which, in our human blindness, +appeared to us to be as unimportant as any other incident of our lives. + +Life is an unsolvable problem. Shall we ever, in some other world, +I wonder, read its riddles aright? + +All these moral dissertations have been called forth because Vera Nevill +went to stay for a week at Shadonake. If she had known--what we none of +us know--the future, she doubtless would have stayed away. Fate--a +beneficent fate, indeed--made, I am bound to confess, a valiant effort in +her behalf. Little Minnie fell ill the day before her departure; and the +symptoms were such that everybody in the house believed that she was +sickening for scarlet fever. The doctor, however, having been hastily +summoned, pronounced the disease to be an infantile complaint of a +harmless and innocuous nature, which he dignified by the delusively +poetical name of "Rosalia." + +"It is not infectious, Mr. Smee, I hope?" asked Marion, anxiously. +"Nothing to prevent my sister going to stay at the Millers' to morrow?" + +"Not in the least infectious, Mrs. Daintree, and anybody in the house can +go wherever they like, except the child herself, who must be kept in a +warm room for two days, when she will probably be quite well again." + +"I am glad, dear, there is nothing to put a stop to your visit; it would +have been such a pity," said Marion, in her blindness, to her sister +afterwards. + +So the fates had a game of pitch and toss with Vera's future, and settled +it amongst them to their own satisfaction, probably, but not, it will be +seen, for Vera's own good or ultimate happiness. + +On the afternoon of the 3rd day of January, therefore, Eustace +Daintree drove his sister-in-law over to Shadonake in the open +basket pony-carriage, and deposited her and her box safely at the +stone-colonnaded door of that most imposing mansion, which she entered +exactly ten minutes before the dressing-bell rang, and was conducted +almost immediately upstairs to her own room. + +Some twenty minutes later there are still two ladies sitting on in the +small tea-room, where it is the fashion at Shadonake to linger between +the hours of five and seven, who alone have not yet moved to obey the +mandate of the dressing-bell. + +"What _is_ the good of waiting?" says Beatrice, impatiently; "the train +is often late, and, besides, he may not come till the nine o'clock +train." + +"That is just what I want to wait for," answers Helen Romer. "I want +just to hear if the carriage has come back, and then I shall know for +certain." + +"Well, you know how frightfully punctual papa is, and how angry it makes +him if anybody is late." + +"Just two minutes more, Beatrice; I can dress very quickly when once +I set to work," pleads Helen. + +Beatrice sits down again on the arm of the sofa, and resigns herself to +her fate; but she looks rather annoyed and vexed about it. + +Mrs. Romer paces the room feverishly and impatiently. + +"What did you think of Miss Nevill?" asks Beatrice. + +"I could hardly see her in her hat and that thick veil; but she looked as +if she were handsome." + +"She is _beautiful_!" says Beatrice, emphatically, "and uncle Tom +says----" + +"Hush!" interrupts Helen, hurriedly. "Is not that the sound of +wheels?--Yes, it is the carriage." + +She flies to the door. + +"Take care, Helen," says Beatrice, anxiously; "don't open the door +wide, don't let the servants think we have been waiting, it looks so +bad--so--so unlady-like." + +But Helen Romer does not even hear her; she is listening intently to the +approaching sounds, with the half-opened door in her hand. + +The tea-room door opens into a large inner hall, out of which leads the +principal staircase; the outer or entrance-hall is beyond; and presently +the stopping of the carriage, the opening and shutting of doors from the +servants' departments, and all the usual bustle of an arrival are heard. + +The two girls stand close together listening, Beatrice hidden in the +shadow of the room. + +"There are _two_ voices!" cries Helen, in a disappointed tone; "he is not +alone!" + +"I suppose it is Mr. Pryme--mamma said he might come by this train," +answers Beatrice, so quietly that no one could ever have guessed how her +heart was beating. + +"Helen, _do_ let us run upstairs; I really cannot stay. Let _me_ go, at +all events!" she adds, with a sudden agony of entreaty as the guests were +heard advancing towards the door of the inner hall. And as Helen made not +the slightest sign of moving, Beatrice slipped past her and ran lightly +and swiftly across the hall upstairs, and disappeared along the landing +above just as Captain Kynaston and Mr. Herbert Pryme appeared upon the +scene below. + +No such scruples of modesty troubled Mrs. Romer. As the young men entered +the inner hall preceded by the butler, who was taking them up to their +rooms, and followed by two footmen who were bearing their portmanteaus, +Helen stepped boldly forward out of the shelter of the tea-room, and held +out her hand to Captain Kynaston. + +"How do you do? How late your train is." + +Maurice looked distinctly annoyed, but of course he shook hands with her. + +"How are you, Mrs. Romer? I did not expect you to be here till to-morrow. +Yes, we are late," consulting his watch; "only twenty minutes to dress +in--I must look sharp." + +Meanwhile the stranger, Mr. Pryme, was following the butler upstairs. + +Helen lowered her voice. + +"I _must_ speak to you a minute, Maurice; it is six weeks since we have +met, and to meet in public would be too trying. Please dress as quickly +as ever you can; I know you can dress quickly if you choose; and wait for +me here at the bottom of the stairs--we might get just three minutes +together before dinner." + +There were the footmen and the portmanteaus within six yards of them, and +Mr. Pryme and the butler still within earshot. What was Maurice to do? He +could not really listen to a whole succession of prayers, and entreaties, +and piteous appeals. There was neither the time, nor was it the place, +for either discussion or remonstrance. All he could do was to nod a hasty +assent to her request. + +"Then I must make haste," he said, and ran quickly upstairs in the wake +of the other guest. + +The staircase at Shadonake was very wide and very handsome, and +thoroughly in keeping with the spacious character of the house. It +consisted of one wide flight of shallow steps, with a richly-carved +balustrade on either side of it, leading straight down from a large +square landing above. Both landing and steps were carpeted with thick +velvet-pile carpet, so that no jarring footfall was ever heard upon them. +The hall into which the staircase led was paved in coloured mosaic tiles, +and was half covered over with rich Persian rugs. A great many doors, +nearly all the sitting-rooms of the house, in fact, opened into it, +and the blank spaces of the wall were filled in with banks of large +handsome plants, palms and giant ferns, and azaleas in full bloom, which +were daily rearranged by the gardeners in every available corner. + +At the foot of the staircase, and with his back to it, leaning against +the balustrade, stood Captain Kynaston, exactly four minutes before the +dinner was announced. + +Most people were in the habit of calling Maurice a good-looking man, but +if anybody had seen him now for the first time it is doubtful whether +they would have endorsed that favourable opinion upon his personal +appearance. A thoroughly ill-tempered expression of face seldom enhances +any one's good looks, and if ever a man looked in a bad temper, Maurice +Kynaston did so at the present moment. + +He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, and his eyes fixed upon +his own boots, and he looked as savage as it was well possible for a man +to look. + +He was waiting here for Helen, because he had told her that he would do +so, and when Captain Kynaston promised anything to a lady he always kept +his word. + +But to say that he hated being there is but a mild term for the rage and +disgust he experienced. + +To be waylaid and attacked thus, directly he had set foot in the house, +with a stranger and three servants looking on so as to render him +absolutely helpless; to be uncomfortably hurried over his toilet, and +inveigled into a sort of rendezvous at the foot of a public staircase, +where a number of people might at any minute enter from any one of the +six or eight surrounding doors, was enough of itself to try his temper; +but when he came to consider how Helen, in thus appropriating him and +making him obey her caprices, was virtually breaking her side of the +treaty between them; that she was exacting from him the full amount of +servitude and devotion which an open engagement would demand, and yet she +had agreed to deny any such engagement between them openly--it was, he +felt, more than he could continue to bear with meekness. + +Meekness, indeed, was in no way Maurice Kynaston's distinguishing +characteristic. He was masterful and imperious by nature; to be the slave +of any woman was neither pleasant nor profitable to him. Honour, indeed, +had bound him to Helen, and had he loved her she might have led him. Her +position gave her a certain hold over him, and she knew how to appeal to +his heart; but he loved her not, and to control his will and his spirit +was beyond her power. + +Maurice said to himself that he would put a stop to this system of +persecution once and for all--that this interview, which she herself had +contrived, should be made the opportunity of a few forcible words, that +should frighten her into submission. + +So he stood fretting, and fuming, and raging, waiting for her at the foot +of the stairs. + +There was a soft rustle, as of a woman's dress, behind him. He turned +sharply round. + +Halfway down the stairs came a woman whom he had never seen before. +A black velvet dress, made high in the throat, with a wide collar of +heavy lace upon her shoulders, hung clingingly about the outlines of her +tall and perfect figure; her hands, with some lace ruffles falling about +her wrists, were simply crossed before her. The light of a distant +hanging-lamp shone down upon her, just catching one diamond star that +glittered among the thick coils of her hair--she wore no other ornament. +She came down the stairs slowly, almost lingeringly, with a certain +grace in her movements, and without a shadow of embarrassment or +self-consciousness. + +Maurice drew aside to let her pass him--looking at her--for how could he +choose but look? But when she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned +her face towards him. + +"You are Maurice--are you not?" she said, and put forth both her hands +towards him. + +An utter bewilderment as to who she was made him speechless; his mind had +been full of Helen and his own troubles; everything else had gone out of +his head. She coloured a little, still holding out her hands to him. + +"I am Vera," she said, simply, and there was a little deprecating appeal +in the words as though she would have added, "Be my friend." + +He took the hands--soft slender hands that trembled a very little in his +grasp--within his own, and some nameless charm in their gentle touch +brought a sudden flush into his face, but no appropriate words concerning +his pleasure at meeting her, or his gratification at their future +relations, fell from Maurice Kynaston's lips. He only held her thus by +her hands, and looked at her--looked at her as if he could never look at +her enough--from her head to her feet, and from her feet up again to her +head, till a sudden wave of colour flooded her face at the earnestness +of his scrutiny. + +"Vera--_Vera Nevill_!" was all he said; and then below his breath, as +though his absolute amazement were utterly irrepressible: "_By Jove!_" +And Vera laughed softly at the thoroughly British character of the +exclamation. + +"How like an Englishman!" she said. "An Italian would have paid me fifty +pretty compliments in half the time you have taken just to stare at me!" + +"What a charming _tableau vivant_!" exclaims a voice above them as Mrs. +Romer comes down the staircase. "You really look like a scene in a play! +Pray don't let me disturb you." + +"I am making friends with my sister-in-law that is to be, Mrs. Romer," +says Maurice, who has dropped Vera's hands with a guilty suddenness, and +now endeavours to look completely at his ease--an effort in which he +signally fails. + +"Were you? Dear me! I thought you and Miss Nevill were practising the +pose of the 'Huguenots'!" + +Now the whole armoury of feminine weapons--impertinence, spite, and bad +manners, born of jealousy--is utterly beneath the contempt of such a +woman as Vera; but she is no untried, inexperienced country girl such as +Mrs. Romer imagines her to be disconcerted or stricken dumb by such an +attack. She knew instantly that she had been attacked, and in what +manner, and she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. + +"I have never seen that picture, the 'Huguenots,' Mrs. Romer," she +said, quietly; "do you think there is a photograph or a print of it +at Kynaston, Maurice? If so, you or John must show it to me." + +And how Mrs. Romer hated her then and there, from that very minute until +her life's end, it would not be easy to set forth! + +The utter _insouciance_, the lady-like ignoring of Helen's impertinence, +the quiet assumption of what she knew her own position in the Kynaston +family to be, down to the sisterly "Maurice," whereby she addressed the +man whom in public, at least, Mrs. Romer was forced to call by a more +formal name--all proved to that astute little woman that Vera Nevill was +no ordinary antagonist, no village maiden to be snubbed or patronised at +her pleasure, but a woman of the world, who understood how to fight her +own battles, and was likely, as she was forced to own to herself, to +"give back as good as she got." + +Not another single word was spoken between them, for at that very minute +a door was thrown open, and the whole of the party in the house came +trooping forth in pairs from the drawing-room in a long procession on +their way to the dining-room. + +First came Mr. Miller with old Mrs. Macpherson on his arm. Then Mr. Pryme +and Miss Sophy Macpherson; her sister behind with Guy Miller; Beatrice, +looking melancholy, with the curate in charge; and her mother last with +Sir John, who had come over from Kynaston to dinner. Edwin Miller, the +second son, by himself brought up the rear. + +There was some laughter at the expense of the three defaulters, who, of +course, were supposed to have only just hurried downstairs. + +"Aha! just saved your soup, ladies!" cried Mr. Miller, laughingly. "Fall +in, fall in, as best you can!" + +Mrs. Miller came to the rescue, and, by a rapid stroke of generalship, +marshalled them into their places. + +Miss Nevill, of course, was a stranger; Helen had been on intimate terms +with them all for years; Vera, besides, was standing close to Maurice. + +"Please take in Miss Nevill, Captain Kynaston; and Edwin, my dear, give +your arm to Mrs. Romer." + +Edwin, who was a pleasant-looking boy, with plenty to say for himself, +hurried forward with alacrity; and Helen had to accept her fate with the +best grace she could. + +"Well, how did you get on with Vera, and how did you like her?" asked Sir +John, coming round to his brother's side of the table when the ladies had +left the room. He had noted with pleasure that Vera and Maurice had +talked incessantly throughout the dinner. + +"My dear fellow!" cried Maurice, heartily, "she is the handsomest woman I +ever met in my life! I give you my word that, when she introduced herself +to me coming downstairs, I was so surprised, she was so utterly different +to what I and the mother have been imagining, that upon my life I +couldn't speak a word--I could do nothing but stare at her!" + +"You like her, then?" said his brother, smiling, well pleased at his +openly expressed admiration. + +"I think you are a very lucky fellow, old man! Like her! of course I do; +she's a downright good sort!" + +And if Sir John was slightly shocked at the irreverence of alluding to so +perfect and pure a woman as his adored Vera by so familiar a phrase as "a +good sort," he was, at all events, too pleased by Maurice's genuine +approval of her to find any fault with his method of expressing it. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +AN IDLE MORNING. + + We loved, sir; used to meet; + How sad, and bad, and mad it was; + But then, how it was sweet! + + Browning. + + +Leaning against a window-frame at the end of a long corridor on the +second floor, and idly looking out over the view of the wide lawns and +empty flower-beds which it commands, stands Mr. Herbert Pryme, on the +second morning after his arrival at Shadonake House. + +It is after breakfast, and most of the gentlemen of the house have +dispersed; that is to say, Mr. Miller has gone off to survey his new +pigsties, and his sons and a Mr. Nethercliff, who arrived last night, +have ridden to a meet some fifteen miles distant, which the ladies had +voted to be too far off to attend. + +Mr. Pryme, however, is evidently not a keen sports-man; he has declined +the offer of a mount which Guy Miller has hospitably pressed upon him, +and he has also declined to avail himself of his host's offer of the +services of the gamekeeper. Curiously enough, another guest at Shadonake, +whose zeal for hunting has never yet been impeached, has followed his +example. + +"What on earth do they meet at Fretly for!" Maurice Kynaston had +exclaimed last night to young Guy, as the morrow's plans had been +discussed in the smoking-room; "it's the worst country I ever was in, all +plough and woodlands, and never a fox to be found. Your uncle ought to +know better than to go there. I certainly shan't take the trouble to get +up early to go to that place." + +"Not go?" repeated Guy, aghast; "you don't mean to say you won't go, +Kynaston?" + +"That's just what I do mean, though." + +"What the deuce will you do with yourself all day?" + +"Lie in bed," answered Maurice, between the puffs of his pipe; "we've +had a precious hard day's shooting to-day, and I mean to take it easy +to-morrow." + +And Captain Kynaston was as good as his word. He did not appear in the +breakfast-room the next morning until the men who were bound for Fretly +had all ridden off and were well out of sight of the house. What he had +stayed for he would have been somewhat puzzled to explain. He was not the +kind of man who, as a rule, cared to dawdle about all day with women when +there was any kind of sport to be had from hunting down to ratting; more +especially was he disinclined for any such dawdling when Helen Romer was +amongst the number of the ladies so left to be danced attendance upon. +And yet he distinctly told himself that he meant to be devoted for this +one day to the fair sex. All yesterday he had been crossed and put out; +the men had been out shooting from breakfast till dinner; some of the +ladies had joined them with the Irish-stew at lunch time; Helen had been +amongst them, but not Miss Nevill. Maurice, in spite of the pheasants +having been plentiful and the sport satisfactory, had been in a decidedly +bad temper all the afternoon in consequence. In the evening the party at +dinner had been enlarged by an influx of country neighbours; Vera had +been hopelessly divided from him and absorbed by other people the whole +evening; he had not exchanged a single word with her all day. + +Captain Kynaston was seized with an insatiable desire to improve his +acquaintance with his sister-in-law to be. It was his duty, he told +himself, to make friends with her; his brother would be hurt, he argued, +and his mother would be annoyed if he neglected to pay a proper attention +to the future Lady Kynaston. There could be no doubt that it was his +duty; that it was also his pleasure did not strike him so forcibly as it +should have done, considering the fact that a man is only very keen to +create duties for himself when they are proportionately mingled with that +which is pleasant and agreeable. The exigencies of his position, with +regard to his elder brother's bride having been forcibly borne in upon +him--combined possibly with the certain knowledge that the elder brother +himself would be hunting all day--compelled him to stop at home and +devote himself to Vera. Mr. Herbert Pryme, however, had no such excuse, +real or imaginary, and yet he stands idly by the corridor window, idly, +yet perfectly patiently--relieving the tedium of his position by the +unexciting entertainment of softly whistling the popular airs from the +"Cloches de Corneville" below his breath. + +Herbert Pryme is a good-looking young fellow of about six-and-twenty; he +looks his profession all over, and is a good type of the average young +barrister of the present day. He has fair hair, and small, close-cropped +whiskers; his face is retrieved from boyishness by strongly-marked +and rather heavy features; he studiously affects a solemn and imposing +gravity of face and manner, and a severe and elderly style of dress, +which he hopes may produce a favourable effect upon the non-legal minds +of his somewhat imaginary clients. + +It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. Pryme has not found a shorter and +pleasanter road to fortune than that slow and toilsome route along which +the legal muse leads her patient votaries. + +Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapse, and still Mr. Pryme looks patiently +out of the window, and still he whistles the Song of the Bells. The only +sign of weariness he gives is to take out his watch, which, by the way, +is suspended by a broad black ribbon, and lives, not in his waistcoat +pocket, but in a "fob," and is further decorated by a very large and +old-fashioned seal. Having consulted a time piece which for size and +thickness might have belonged to his great-grandfather, he returns it to +his fob, and resumes his whistling. + +Presently a door at the further end of the corridor softly opens and +shuts, and Mr. Pryme looks up quickly. + +Beatrice Miller, looking about her a little guiltily, comes swiftly +towards him along the passage. + +"Mamma kept me such ages!" she says, breathlessly; "I thought I should +never get away." + +"Never mind, so long as you are here," he answers, holding her by +both hands. "My darling, I must have a kiss; I hungered for one all +yesterday." + +He looks into her face eagerly and lovingly. To most people Beatrice is a +plain girl, but to this man she is beautiful; his own love for her has +invested her with a charm and a fascination that no one else has seen in +her. + +Oh! divine passion, that can thus glorify its object. It is like a dash +of sunshine over a winter landscape, which transforms it into the +loveliness of spring; or the magic brush of the painter, which can turn a +ploughed field and a barren common into the golden glories of a Cuyp or a +Turner. + +Thus it was with Herbert Pryme. He looked at Beatrice with the blinding +glamour of his own love in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him. Truth +to say, Beatrice was a woman whom to love once was to love always. There +was so much that was charming and loveable in her character, so great a +freshness of mind and soul about her, that, although from lack of beauty +she had hitherto failed to attract love, having once secured it, she +possessed that rare and valuable faculty of being able to retain it, +which many women, even those who are the most beautiful, are incapable +of. + +"It is just as I imagined about Mr. Nethercliff," says Beatrice, +laughing; "he has been asked here for my benefit. Mamma has just been +telling me about him; he is Lord Garford's nephew and his heir. Lord +Garford's place, you know, is quite the other side of the county; he is +poor, so I suppose I might do for him," with a little grimace. "At all +events, I am to sit next to him at dinner to-night, and make myself +civil. You see, I am to be offered to all the county magnates in +succession." + +Herbert Pryme still holds her hands, and looks down with grave vexation +into her face. + +"And how do you suppose I shall feel whilst Mr. Nethercliff is making +love to you?" + +"You may make your mind quite easy; it is impossible that there should be +another man foolish enough in all England to want to make love to such an +'ugly duckling' as I am!" + +"Don't be silly, child, and don't fish for compliments," he answers, +fondly, stroking her short dark hair, which he thinks so characteristic +of herself. + +Beatrice looks up happily at him. A woman is always at her very best when +she is alone with the man she loves. Unconsciously, all the charms she +possesses are displayed in her glistening eyes, and in the colour which +comes and goes in her contented face. There is no philtre which beauty +can use, there is neither cosmetic nor rouge that can give that tender, +lovely glow with which successful love transforms even a plain face into +radiance and fascination. + +"I wish, Beatrice, you would let me speak to your father," continued +Herbert; "I cannot bear to be here under false pretences. Why will you +not let me deal fairly and openly with your parents?" + +"And be sent about your business by the evening train. No, thank you! +My dear boy, speaking to papa would be as much use as speaking to the +butler; they would both of them refer you instantly to mamma; and with +an equally lamentable result. Please leave things to me. When mamma has +offered me ineffectually to every marriageable man in Meadowshire, she +will get quite sick of it, and, I dare say, I shall be allowed to do as +I like then without any more fuss." + +"And how long is this process to last?" + +"About a year; by which time Geraldine will be nearly eighteen, and ready +to step into my shoes. Mamma will be glad enough to be rid of me then, +and to try her hand upon her instead. Geraldine is meek and tractable, +and will be quite willing to do as she is told." + +"And, meanwhile, what am I to do?" + +"You! You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson. Do you not know that she +is the excuse for your having been asked here at all?" + +"I don't like it, Beatrice," repeats her lover, gravely--not, however, +alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had been +urging upon him. "Upon my life, I don't." He looks away moodily out of +the window. "I hate doing things on the sly. And, besides, I am a poor +man, and your parents are rich. I could not afford to support a wife at +present on my own income." + +"All the more reason that we should wait," she interrupts, quickly. + +"Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to steal +your heart." + +"You did not steal it," she says, nestling up to his side. "I presented +it to you, free, gratis." + +Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty, +prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and +Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his +own poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earth +and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and +ecstatic. + +"You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice. + +"Of course I will," answers her lover. And then there is a complete +stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five +minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the +corridor has things entirely its own way. + +"There is another couple who are happy," says Herbert Pryme, breaking the +charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are +wandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following the +direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera. + +"Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy--not in our +way. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know." + +"Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then." + +"Herbert! what _can_ you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in +astonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. +Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him." + +"Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?" + +"Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly. + +"Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman," kissing her lightly; "I only +said they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark them +through the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspect +that I have noticed. If they are happy, it won't last long. Why should +not one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves? Let them be +happy whilst they can." + +Herbert Pryme was right. Maurice and Vera wandering side by side along +the broad gravel walks in the wintry gardens were happy--without so much +as venturing to wonder what it was that made them so. + +"I did not want to hunt to-day," Maurice is saying; "I thought I would +stop at home and talk to you." + +"That was kind of you," answers Vera, with a smile. + +If she had known him better, she would have been more sensible of the +compliment implied. To give up a day's hunting for a woman's sake is what +very few keen sports-men have been known to do; the attraction must be +great indeed. + +"You will go out, of course, on Monday, the day the hounds meet here? +I should like to see you on a horse." + +"I shall at all events put on a habit and get up on the mare John has +given me. But I know very little of English hunting; I have only ridden +in Italy. We used to go out in winter over the Campagna--that is very +different to England." + +"You must look very well in a habit." He turned to look at her as he +spoke. There was no reticence in his undisguised admiration of her. + +Vera laughed a little. "You shall look at me if you like when I have it +on," she said, blushing faintly under his scrutiny. + +"I am grateful to you for the permission; but I am bound to confess that +I should look all the same had you forbidden me to do so." + +Vera was pleased. She felt glad that he admired her. Was it not quite +right and most desirable that her husband's brother should appreciate her +beauty and ratify his good taste? + +"When does your mother come?" she said, changing the subject quietly, but +without effort. + +"Only the very night of the ball, I am afraid. Tuesday, is it not?" + +"Have you written to her about me? She does not like me, I fear." + +"No; I will not write. She shall see you and judge for herself. I am not +the least afraid of her not liking you when she knows you; and you will +love her." + +By this time they had wandered away from the house through the belt of +shrubbery, and had emerged beyond upon the margin of the pool of water. + +Vera stood still, suddenly struck with the sight. + +"Is this Shadonake Bath?" she asked, below her breath. + +"Yes; have you never seen it before?" he answered, in some surprise. + +"Never. I have not lived in Meadowshire long, you know, and the Millers +were moving into the house and furnishing it all last summer. I have +never been in the gardens till to-day. How strangely sad the place looks! +Let us walk round it." + +They went round to the further side. + +The pool of water lay dark and silent within its stone steps; not a +ripple disturbed its surface; not a dead leaf rested on its bosom. Only +the motionless water looked up everlastingly at the gray winter skies +above, and reflected them back blackly and gloomily upon its solemn face. + +Vera stood still and looked at it. Something in its aspect--she could not +have told what--affected her powerfully. She went down two or three steps +towards the water, and stooped over it intently. + +Maurice, watching her curiously, saw, to his surprise, that she trembled. +She turned round to him. + +"Does it not look dark and deep? Is it very deep?" + +"I believe it is. There are all sorts of stories about it. Come up, Vera; +why do you tremble so?" + +"How dreadful to be drowned here!" she said, below her breath, and she +shuddered. + +He stretched out his hand to her. + +"Do not say such horrid things! Give me your hand--the steps are +slippery. What has put drowning into your head? And--why, how pale you +are; what has frightened you?" + +She took his hand and came back again to where he stood. + +"Do you believe in presentiments?" she said, slowly, with her eyes fixed +still, as though by some fascination, upon the dark waters beneath them. + +"Not in the very least," he answered, cheerily; "do not think of such +things. John would be the first to scold you--and to scold me for +bringing you here." + +He stood, holding her hand, looking at her kindly and compassionately; +suddenly she looked at him, and as their eyes met once more, she trembled +from head to foot. + +"Vera, you are frightened; tell me what it is!" + +"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried, with a sudden wail, like a +person in pain; "only--oh! I wish I had not seen it for the first time +with _you_!" + +Before he could answer her, some one, _beckoning_ to them from the +further side of the pool, caused them both to turn suddenly round. + +It was not only Herbert Pryme who had seen them wander away down the +garden from the house. Mrs. Romer, too, had been at another window and +had noticed them. To run lightly upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and +to follow them, had been the work of but a very few minutes. Helen was +not minded to allow Maurice to wander about all the morning with Vera. + +"Are you going for a walk?" she called out to them across the water. +"Wait for me; I am coming with you." + +Vera turned quickly to her companion. + +"Is it true that you are engaged to her?" she asked him rapidly, in a low +voice. + +Maurice hesitated. Morally speaking, he was engaged to her; but, then, it +had been agreed between them that he was to deny any such engagement. He +felt singularly disinclined to let Vera know what was the truth. + +"People say you are," she said, once more. "Will you tell me if it is +true?" + +"No; there is no engagement between us," he answered, gravely. + +"I am very glad," she answered, earnestly. He coloured, but he had no +time to ask her why she was glad--for Helen came up to them. + +"How interested you look in each other's conversation!" she said, looking +suspiciously at them both. "May I not hear what you have been talking +about?" + +"Anybody might hear," answered Vera, carelessly, "were it worth one's +while to take the trouble of repeating it." + +Maurice said nothing. He was angry with Helen for having interrupted +them, and angry with himself for having denied his semi-engagement. He +stood looking away from them both, prodding his stick into the gravel +walk. + +For half a minute they stood silently together. + +"Let us go on," said Vera, and they began to walk. + +Once again in the days that were to come those three stood side by side +upon the margin of Shadonake Bath. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE MEET AT SHADONAKE. + + The desire of the moth for the star, + Of the night for the morrow, + The devotion to something afar. + + Shelley. + + +Mrs. Macpherson had brought up her daughters with one fixed and +predominant idea in her mind. Each of them was to excel in some one taste +or accomplishment, by virtue of which they might be enabled to shine in +society. They were taught to do one thing well. Thus, Sophy, the eldest, +played the piano remarkably, whilst Jessie painted in water-colours with +charming exactitude and neatness. They had both had first-rate masters, +and no pains had been spared to make each of them proficient in the +accomplishment that had been selected for her. But, as neither of these +young ladies had any natural talent, the result was hardly so +satisfactory as their fond mother could have desired. They did exactly +what they had been taught to do with precision and conscientiousness; no +less and no more; and the further result of their entire devotion to one +kind of study was, that they could do nothing else. + +Mrs. Macpherson began to realize that her system of education had +possibly left something to be desired on the Monday morning that Mr. +Esterworth brought up his hounds to Shadonake House. It was provoking +to see all the other ladies attired in their habits, whilst her own +daughters had to come down to breakfast in their ordinary morning +dresses, because they had never been taught to ride. + +"Are you not going to ride?" she heard Guy Miller ask of Sophy, who was +decidedly the best looking and the pleasantest of the sisters. + +"No, we have never ridden at all; mamma never thought we had the time for +it," answers Sophy. + +"I think," said Mrs. Macpherson, turning to her hostess, "that I shall +pursue a different course with my younger girls. I feel sorry now that +Sophy and Jessie do not ride. Music and painting are, of course, the most +charming accomplishments that a woman can have; but still it is not at +all times that they are useful." + +"No, you cannot be always painting and playing." + +"Neither can you be always riding," said Mrs. Macpherson, with some +asperity, for there was a little natural jealousy between these ladies on +the subject of their girls; "but still----" + +"But still, you will acknowledge that I have done right in letting +Beatrice hunt. You may be quite sure that there is no accomplishment +which brings a girl so much into notice in the country. Look at her now." + +Mrs. Macpherson looked and saw Beatrice in her habit at the far end of +the dining-room surrounded by a group of men in pink, and she also saw +her own daughters sitting neglected by themselves on the other side of +the room. She made no observation upon the contrast, for it would hardly +have been polite to have done so; but she made a mental note of the fact +that Mrs. Miller was a very clever woman, and that, if you want an ugly +daughter to marry, you had better let her learn how to ride across +country. And she furthermore decided that her third daughter, Alice, who +was not blessed with the gift of beauty, should forthwith abandon the +cultivation of a very feeble and uncertain vocal organ and be sent to the +nearest riding-school the very instant she returned to her home. + +Beatrice Miller rode very well indeed; it was the secret of her uncle's +affection for her, and many a good day's sport had the two enjoyed side +by side across the flat fields and the strong fences and wide ditches of +their native country. Her brothers, Guy and Edwin, were fond of hunting +too, but they rode clumsily and awkwardly, floundering across country in +what their uncle called, contemptuously, a thoroughly "provincial style." +But Beatrice had the true Esterworth seat and hand; she looked as if she +were born to her saddle, and, in truth, she was never so happy as when +she was in it. It was a proof of how great and real was her love to +Herbert Pryme that she fully recognized that, in becoming his wife, she +would have to live in London entirely and to give up her beloved hunting +for his sake. + +A woman who rides, as did Beatrice, is sure to be popular on a hunting +morning; and, with the consciousness of her lover's hands resting upon +the back of her chair, with her favourite uncle by her side, and with +several truly ardent admirers of her good riding about her, Miss Miller +was evidently enjoying herself thoroughly. + +The scene, indeed, was animated to the last degree. The long dining-room +was filled with guests, the table was covered with good things, a repast, +half breakfast, half luncheon, being laid out upon it. Everybody helped +themselves, with much chattering and laughter, and there was a pleasant +sense of haste and excitement, and a charming informality about the +proceedings, which made the Shadonake Hunt breakfast, which Tom +Esterworth had been prevailed upon by his niece's entreaties to allow, +a thorough and decided success. + +Outside there were the hounds, drawn up in patient expectation on the +grass beyond the gravel sweep, the bright coats and velvet caps of the +men, and the gray horses--on which it was the Meadowshire tradition that +they should be always mounted--standing out well against the dark +background of the leafless woods behind. Then there were a goodly company +who had not dismounted, and to whom glasses of sherry were being handed +by the servants, and who also were chattering to each other, or to those +on foot, whilst before the door, an object of interest to those within as +to those without, Sir John Kynaston was putting Miss Nevill upon her +horse. + +There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for her +beauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make some +depreciatory remark. The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly for +the undoubted success she had created than did the former. + +Maurice was standing by one of the dining-room windows, Mrs. Romer, as +usual, by his side. He alone, perhaps, of all the men who saw her vault +lightly into her saddle, made no audible remark, but perhaps his +admiration was all too plainly written in his eyes, for it called +forth a contemptuous remark from his companion-- + +"She is a great deal too tall to look well on a horse; those big women +should never ride." + +"What! not with a figure so perfect as hers?" + +"Yes, that is the third time you have spoken about her figure to-day," +said Helen, irritably. "What on earth can you see in it?" for Mrs. Romer, +who was slight almost to angularity, was, as all thin women are, openly +indignant at the masculine foible for more flowing outlines, which was +displayed with greater candour than discretion by her quasi-lover. + +"What do I see in it?" repeated Maurice, who was dimly conscious of her +jealousy, and was injudicious enough to lose his temper slightly over its +exhibition. "I see in it the beauty of a goddess, and the perfection of +a woman!" + +"Really!" with a sarcastic laugh; "how wonderfully enthusiastic and +poetical you become over Miss Nevill's charms; it is something quite new +in you, Maurice. Your interest in this 'goddess-like' young lady strikes +me as singularly warmly expressed; it is more lover-like than fraternal." + +"What do you mean?" he said, looking at her coldly and angrily. Helen had +seen that look of hard contempt in his face before; she quailed a little +before it, and was frightened at what she had said. + +"Of course," she said, reddening, "I know it's all right; but it does +really sound peculiar, your admiring her so much; and--and--it is hardly +flattering to me." + +"I don't see that it has anything to do with you," and he turned shortly +away from her. + +She made a step or two after him. "You will ride with me, will you not, +Maurice? You know I can't go very hard; you might give me a lead or two, +and keep near me." + +"You must not ask me to make any promises," he said, politely, but +coldly. "Guy Miller says there is a groom told off to look after you +ladies. Of course, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy, but +it is no use making rash engagements as to what one will do in a run." + +"Come, come, it's time we were off," cries out Tom Esterworth at the +further end of the room, and his stalwart figure makes its way in the +direction of the door. + +In a very few minutes the order "to horse" has gone forth, and the whole +company have sallied forth and are busy mounting their horses in front of +the house. + +Off goes the master, well in front, at a sharp trot, towards the woods on +the further slope of the hill, and off go the hounds and the whips, and +the riders, in a long and gay procession after him, down the wide avenue. + +"Promise me you will not stop out long, Vera," says Sir John to her as +they go side by side down the drive. "You look white and tired as it is. +Have you got a headache?" + +"Yes, a little," confesses Vera, with a blush. "I did not sleep well." + +"This sitting up late night after night is not good for you," says her +lover, anxiously; "and there is the ball to-morrow night." + +"Yes; and I want to look my best for your mother," she said, smiling. "I +will take care of myself, John; I will go home early in time for lunch." + +"You are always so ready to do what I ask you. Oh, Vera, how good you +are! how little I deserve such a treasure!" + +"Don't," she answers, almost sharply, whilst an expression of pain +contracts her brow for an instant. "Don't say such things to me, John; +don't call me good." + +John Kynaston looks at her fondly. "I will not call you anything you +don't wish," he says, gently, "but I am free to think it, Vera!" + +The first covert is successfully drawn without much delay. A fox is +found, and breaks away across the open, and a short but sharp burst of +fifteen or twenty minutes follows. The field is an unusually large one, +and there are many out who are not in it at all. Beatrice, however, is +well up, and so is Herbert Pryme, who is not likely to be far from her +side. Close behind them follows Sir John Kynaston, and Mrs. Romer, who is +well mounted upon one of Edwin Miller's horses, keeps well up with the +rest. + +Vera never quite knew how it was that somehow or other she got thrown out +of that short but exciting run. She was on the wrong side of the covert +to begin with; several men were near her, but they were all strangers, +and at the time "Gone away!" was shouted, there was no one to tell her +which way to take. Two men took the left side of the copse, three others +turned to the right. Vera followed the latter, and found that the hounds +must have gone in the opposite direction, for when she got round the wood +not a trace of them was to be seen. + +She did not know the country well, and she hardly knew which way to turn. +It seemed to her, however, that by striking across a small field to the +left of her she would cut off a corner, and eventually come up with the +hounds again. + +She turned her mare short round, and put her at a big straggling hedge +which she had no fears of her being unable to compass. There was, +however, more of a drop on the further side than she had counted upon, +and in some way, as the mare landed, floundering on the further side, +something gave way, and she found that her stirrup-leather had broken. + +Vera pulled up and looked about her helplessly. She found herself in +a small spinney of young birch-trees, filling up the extremity of a +triangular field into which she had come. Not a sign of the hounds, or, +indeed, of any living creature was to be seen in any direction. She did +not feel inclined to go on--or even to go back home with her broken +stirrup-leather. It occurred to her that she would get off and see what +she could do towards patching it together herself. + +With some little difficulty, her mare being fidgety, and refusing to +stand still, she managed to dismount; but in doing so her wrist caught +against the pommel of her saddle, and was so severely wrenched backwards, +as she sprang to the ground, that she turned quite sick with the pain. + +It seemed to her that her wrist must be sprained; at all events, her +right hand was, for the minute, perfectly powerless. The mare, perceiving +that nothing further was expected of her, amused herself by cropping the +short grass at her feet, whilst Vera stood by her side in dire perplexity +as to what she was to do next. Just then she heard the welcome sound of a +horse's hoofs in the adjoining field, and in another minute a hat and +black coat, followed by a horse's head and forelegs appeared on the top +of the fence, and a man dropped over into the spinney just ten yards in +front of her. + +Vera took it to be her lover, for the brothers both hunted in black, and +there was a certain family resemblance between their broad shoulders and +the square set of their heads. She called out eagerly, + +"Oh, John! how glad I am to see you! I have come to grief!" + +"So I see; but I am not John. I hope, however, I may do as well. What is +the matter?" + +"It is you, Maurice? Oh, yes, you will do quite as well. I have broken my +stirrup-leather, and I am afraid I have sprained my wrist." + +"That sounds bad--let me see." + +In an instant he had sprung from his horse to help her. + +She looked up at him as he came, pushing the tall brushwood away as +he stepped through it. It struck her suddenly how like he was to the +photograph she had found of him at Kynaston long ago, and what a +well-made man he was, and how brave and handsome he looked in his +hunting gear. + +"How have you managed to hurt your wrist? Let me see it." + +"I wrenched it somehow in jumping down; but I don't think that it can be +sprained, for I find I can move it now a little; it is only bruised, but +it hurts me horribly." + +She turned back her cuff and held out the injured hand to him. Maurice +stooped over it. There was a moment's silence, the two horses stood +waiting patiently by, the solitary fields lay bare and lifeless on every +side of them, the little birch-trees rustled mysteriously overhead, the +leaden sky, with its chill curtain of unbroken gray cloud, spread +monotonously above them; there was no living thing in all the winter +landscape besides to listen or to watch them. + +Suddenly Maurice Kynaston caught the hand that he held to his lips, and +pressed half a dozen passionate kisses upon its outstretched palm. + +It was the work of half a minute, and in the next Maurice felt as if he +should die of shame and remorse. + +"For God's sake, forgive me!" he cried, brokenly. "I am a brute--I forgot +myself--I must be mad, I think; for Heaven's sake tell me that I have not +offended you past forgiveness, Vera!" + +His pulses were beating wildly, his face was flushed, the hands that +still held hers shook with a nameless emotion; he looked imploringly into +her face, as if to read his sentence in her eyes, but what he saw there +arrested the torrent of repentance and regret that was upon his lips. + +Upon Vera's face there was no flush either of shame or anger. No storm +of indignation, no passion of insulted feeling; only eyes wide open and +terror-stricken, that met his with the unspeakable horror that one sees +sometimes in those of a hunted animal. She was pale as death. Then +suddenly the colour flushed hotly back into her face; she averted her +eyes. + +"Let me go home," she said, in a faint voice; "help me to get on to my +horse, Maurice." + +There was neither resentment nor anger in her voice, only a great +weariness. + +He obeyed her in silence. Possibly he felt that he had stood for one +instant upon the verge of a precipice, and that miraculously her face had +saved him, he knew not how, where words would only have dragged him down +to unutterable ruin. + +What had it been that had thus saved him? What was the meaning of that +terror that had been written in her lovely eyes? Since she was not angry, +what had she feared? + +Maurice asked himself these questions vainly all the way home. Not a word +was spoken between them; they rode in absolute silence side by side until +they reached the house. + +Then, as he lifted her off her horse at the hall-door, he whispered, + +"Have you forgiven me?" + +"There was nothing to forgive," she answered, in a low, strained voice. +She spoke wearily, as one who is suffering physical pain. But, as she +spoke, the hand that he still held seemed almost, to his fancy, to linger +for a second with a gentle fluttering pressure within his grasp. + +Miss Nevill went into the house, having utterly forgotten that she had +sprained her wrist; a fact which proves indisputably, I suppose, that the +injury could not have been of a very serious nature. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +PEACOCK'S FEATHERS. + + That practised falsehood under saintly show, + Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge. + + Milton, "Paradise Lost." + + +Old Lady Kynaston arrived at Shadonake in the worst possible temper. Her +butler and factotum, who always made every arrangement for her when she +was about to travel, had for once been unequal to cope with Bradshaw; +he had looked out the wrong train, and had sent off his lady and her maid +half-an-hour too late from Walpole Lodge. + +The consequence was that, instead of reaching Shadonake comfortably at +half-past six in the afternoon, Lady Kynaston had to wait for the next +train. She ate her dinner alone, in London, at the Midland Railway Hotel, +and never reached her destination till half-past nine on the night of the +ball. + +Before she had half completed her toilette the guests were beginning to +arrive. + +"I am afraid I must go down and receive these people, dear Lady +Kynaston," said Mrs. Miller, who had remained in her guest's room full +of regret and sympathy at the _contretemps_ of her journey. + +"Oh, dear me! yes, Caroline--pray go down. I shall be all the quicker for +being left alone. Not _that_ cap, West; the one with the Spanish point, +of course. Dear me, how I do hate all this hurry and confusion!" + +"I am so afraid you will be tired," murmured Mrs. Miller, soothingly. +"Would you like me to send Miss Nevill up to your room? It might be +pleasanter for you than to meet her downstairs." + +"Good gracious, no!" exclaimed the elder lady, testily. "What on earth +should I be in such a hurry for! I shall see quite as much of her as I +want by-and-by, I have no doubt." + +Mrs. Miller retired, and the old lady was left undisturbed to finish +her toilette, during which it may fairly be assumed that that dignified +personage, Mrs. West, had a hard time of it. + +When she issued forth from her room, dressed, like a little fairy +godmother, in point lace and diamonds, the dancing downstairs was in +full swing. + +Lady Kynaston paused for a minute at the top of the broad staircase to +look down upon the bright scene below. The hall was full of people. Girls +in many-coloured dresses passed backwards and forwards from the ball-room +to the refreshment-room, laughing and chatting to their partners; elderly +people were congregated about the doorways gossiping and shaking hands +with new-comers, or watching their daughters with pleased or anxious +faces, according to the circumstances of their lot. Everybody was talking +at once. There came up a pleasant confusion of sound--happy voices +mingling with the measured strains of the dance-music. In a sheltered +corner behind the staircase, Beatrice and Herbert Pryme had settled +themselves down comfortably for a chat. Lady Kynaston saw them. + +"Caroline is a fool!" she muttered to herself. "All the balls in the +world won't get that girl married as she wishes. She has set her heart +upon that briefless barrister. I saw it as plain as daylight last season. +As to entertaining all this _cohue_ of aborigines, Caroline might spare +her trouble and her money, as far as the girl is concerned." + +And then, coming slowly down the staircase, Lady Kynaston saw something +which restored her to good temper at once. + +The something was her younger son. She had caught sight of him through an +open doorway in the conservatory. His back was turned to her, and he was +bending over a lady who was sitting down, and whose face was concealed +behind him. + +Lady Kynaston stood still with that sudden _serrement de coeur_ which +comes to us all when we see the creature we love best on earth. He did +not see her, and she could not see his face, because it was turned away +from her; but she knew, by his very attitude, the way he bent down over +his companion, by the eager manner in which he was talking to her, and by +the way in which he was evidently entirely engrossed and absorbed in what +he was saying--that he was enjoying himself, and that he was happy. + +The mother's heart all went out towards him; the mother's eyes moistened +as she looked. + +The couple in the conservatory were alone. A Chinese lantern, swung high +up above, shed down a soft radiance upon them. Tall camellia bushes, +covered with waxen blossoms and cool shiny leaves, were behind them; +banks of long-fronded, feathery ferns framed them in like a picture. +Maurice's handsome figure stood up tall and strong amongst the greenery; +the dress of the woman he was with lay in soft diaphanous folds upon the +ground beyond him. One white arm rested on her lap, one tiny foot peeped +out from below the laces of her skirt. But Lady Kynaston could not see +her face. + +"I wonder who she is," she said to herself. "It is not Helen. She has +peacock's feathers on her dress--bad luck, I believe! Dear boy, he looks +thoroughly happy. I will not disturb him now." + +And she passed on through the hall into the large drawing-room, where the +dancing was going on. + +The first person she caught sight of there was her eldest son. He was +dancing a quadrille, and his partner was a short young lady in a +strawberry-coloured tulle dress, covered with trails of spinach-green +fern leaves. This young person had a round, chubby face, with bright +apple-hued cheeks, a dark, bullet-shaped head, and round, bead-like eyes +that glanced about her rapidly like those of a frightened dickey-bird. +Her dress was cut very low, and the charms she exhibited were not +captivating. Her arms were very red, and her shoulders were mottled: the +latter is considered to be a healthy sign in a baby, but is hardly a +beautiful characteristic in a grown woman. + +"_That_ is my daughter-in-law," said Lady Kynaston to herself, and she +almost groaned aloud. "She is _worse_ even than I thought! Countrified +and common to the last degree; there will be no licking that face or that +figure into shape--they are hopeless! Elise and Worth combined could do +nothing with her! John must be mad. No wonder she is good, poor thing," +added the naughty little old lady, cynically. "A woman with _that_ +appearance can never be tempted to be anything else!" + +The quadrille came to an end, and Sir John, after depositing his partner +at the further side of the room, came up to his mother. + +"My dear mother, how are you? I am so sorry about your journey; you must +be dead beat. What a fool Bates was to make such a mistake." He was +looking about the room as he spoke. "I must introduce you to Vera." + +"Yes, introduce me to her at once," said his mother, in a resigned and +depressed tone of voice. She would like to have added, "And pray get it +over as soon as you can." What she did say was only, "Bring her up to me +now. The young lady you have just been dancing with, I suppose!" + +"What!" cried Sir John, and burst out laughing. "Good Heavens, mother! +that was Miss Smiles, the daughter of the parson of Lutterton. You don't +mean to say you thought a little ugly chit like _that_ was my Vera!" + +His mother suddenly laid her hand upon his arm. + +"Who is that lovely woman who has just come in with Maurice?" she +exclaimed. + +Her son followed the direction of her eyes, and beheld Vera standing in +the doorway that led from the conservatory by his brother's side. + +Without a word he passed his mother's hand through his arm and led her +across the room. + +"Vera, this is my mother," he said. And Lady Kynaston owned afterwards +that she never felt so taken aback and so utterly struck dumb with +astonishment in her life. + +Her two sons looked at her with amusement and some triumph. The little +surprise had been so thoroughly carried out; the contrast of the truth to +what they knew she had expected was too good a joke not to be enjoyed. + +"Not much what you expected, little mother, is it?" said Maurice, +laughingly. But to Vera, who knew nothing, it was no laughing matter. + +She put both her hands out tremblingly and hesitatingly--with a pretty +pleading look of deprecating deference in her eyes--and the little old +lady, who valued beauty and grace and talent so much that she could +barely tolerate goodness itself without them, was melted at once. + +"My dear," she said, "you are beautiful, and I am going to love you; but +these naughty boys made me think you were something like little Miss +Smiles." + +"Nay, mother, it was your own diseased imagination," laughed Maurice; +"but come, Vera, I am not going to be cheated of this waltz--if John does +not want you to dance with him, that is to say." + +John nodded pleasantly to them, and the two whirled away together into +the midst of the throng of dancers. + +"Well, mother?" + +"My dear, she is a very beautiful creature, and I have been a silly, +prejudiced old woman." + +"And you forgive her for being poor, and for living in a vicarage instead +of a castle?" + +"She would be a queen if she were a beggar and lived in a mud hovel!" +answered his mother, heartily, and Sir John was satisfied. + +Lady Kynaston's eyes were following the couple as they danced: for all +her admiration and her enthusiasm, there was a little anxiety in their +gaze. She had not forgotten the little picture she had caught a glimpse +of in the conservatory, nor had her woman's eyes failed to notice that +Vera's dress was trimmed with peacock's feathers. + +Where was Helen? Lady Kynaston said to herself; and why was Maurice +devoting himself to his future sister-in-law instead of to her? + +Mrs. Romer, you may be sure, had not been far off. Her sharp eyes had +seen Vera and Maurice disappear together into the conservatory. She could +have told to a second how long they had remained there; and again, when +they came out, she had watched the little family scene that had taken +place at the door. She had seen the look of delighted surprise on Lady +Kynaston's face; she had noted how pleased and how proud of Vera the +brothers had looked, and then how happily Maurice and Vera had gone off +again together. + +"What does it mean?" Helen asked herself, bitterly. "Is Sir John a fool +or blind that he does not see what is going on under his nose? She has +got him, and his money, and his place; what does she want with Maurice +too? Why can't she let him alone--she is taking him from me." + +She watched them eagerly and feverishly. They stood still for a moment +near her; she could not hear what they said, but she could see the look +in Maurice's eyes as he bent towards his partner. + +Can a woman who has known what love is ever be mistaken about that? + +Vera, all wondering and puzzled, might be but dimly conscious of the +meaning in the eyes that met hers; her own drooped, half troubled, half +confused, before them. But to Helen, who knew what love's signals were, +there was no mystery whatever in the passion in his down-bent glance. + +"He loves her!" she said to herself, whilst a sharp pang, almost of +physical pain, shot through her heart. "She shall never get him!--never! +never! Not though one of us die for it! They are false, both of them. I +swear they shall never be happy together!" + +"Why are you not dancing, Mrs. Romer?" said a voice at her elbow. + +"I will dance with you, Sir John, if you will ask me," answers Helen, +smiling. + +Sir John responds, as in duty bound, by passing his arm around her waist. + +"When are you going to be married, Sir John?" she asks him, when the +first pause in the dance gives her the opportunity of speech. + +Sir John looks rather confused. "Well, to tell you the truth, I have +not spoken to Vera yet. I have not liked to hurry her--I thought, +perhaps----" + +"Why don't you speak to her? A woman never thinks any better of a man +for being diffident in such matters." + +"You think not? But you see Vera is----" + +"Vera is very much like all other women, I suppose; and you are not +versed in the ways of the sex." + +Sir John demurred in his own mind as to the first part of her speech. +Vera was certainly not like other women; but then he acknowledged the +truth of Mrs. Romer's last remark thoroughly. + +"No, I dare say I don't know much about women's ways," he admitted; "and +you think----" + +"I think that Vera would be glad enough to be married as soon as she can. +An engagement is a trying ordeal. One is glad enough to get settled down. +What is the use of waiting when once everything is arranged?" + +Sir John flushed a little. The prospect of a speedy marriage was pleasant +to him. It was what he had been secretly longing for--only that, in his +slow way, he had not yet been able to suggest it. + +"Do you really think she would like it?" he asked, earnestly. + +"Of course she would; any woman would." + +"And how long do you think the preparations would take?" + +"Oh, a month or three weeks is ample time to get clothes in." + +His pulses beat hotly at the bare possibility of such a thing. To possess +his Vera in so short a time seemed something too great and too wonderful +to be true. + +"Do not lose any more time," continued Helen, following up the impression +she saw she had made upon him. "Speak to her this evening; get her to fix +your wedding-day within the month; believe me, a man gets no advantage by +putting things off too long; and there are dangers, too, in your case." + +"Dangers! How do you mean?" he said, quickly. + +"Oh, nothing particular--only she is very handsome, and she is young, and +not accustomed, I dare say, to admiration. Other men may admire her as +well as you." + +"If they did, it could do her no harm," he answered, stiffly. + +"Oh, no, of course not; but you can't keep other men from looking at +her. When once she is your wife you will have her more completely to +yourself." + +Sir John made no particular answer to this; but when he had done dancing +with Mrs. Romer, he led her back to her seat and thanked her gravely and +courteously for her suggestions. + +"You have done me a great service, Mrs. Romer, and I am infinitely +obliged to you," he said, and then went his way to find Vera. + +He was not jealous; but there was a certain uneasiness in his mind. It +might be, indeed, true that others would admire and love Vera; others +more worthy of her, more equally mated with her youth and loveliness; and +he, he said to himself in his humility with regard to her, he had so +little to offer her--nothing but his love. He knew himself to be grave +and quiet; there was nothing about him to enchain her to him. He lacked +brilliancy in manner and conversation; he was dull; he was, perhaps, +even prosy. He knew it very well himself; but suppose Vera should find it +out, and find that she had made a mistake! The bare thought of it was +enough to make him shudder. + +No; Mrs. Romer was a clever, well-intentioned little woman. She had meant +to give him a hint in all kindness, and he would not be slow to take it. +What she had meant to say was, "Take her yourself quickly, or some one +else will take her from you." + +And Sir John said to himself that he would so take her, and that as +quickly as possible. + +Standing talking to her younger son, later on that evening, Lady Kynaston +said to him, suddenly, + +"Why does Vera wear peacock's feathers?" + +"Why should she not?" + +"They are bad luck." + +Maurice laughed. "I never knew you to be superstitious before, mother." + +"I am not so really; but from choice I would avoid anything that bears an +unlucky interpretation. I saw her with you in the conservatory as I came +downstairs." + +Maurice turned suddenly red. "Did you?" he asked, a little anxiously. + +"Yes. I did not know it was her, of course. I did not see her face, only +her dress, and I noticed that it was trimmed with peacock's feathers; +that was what made me recognize her afterwards." + +"That was bad luck, at all events," said Maurice, almost involuntarily. + +"Why?" asked Lady Kynaston, looking up at him sharply. But Maurice would +not tell her why. + +Lady Kynaston asked no more questions; but she pondered, and she watched. +Captain Kynaston did not dance again with Vera that night, and he did +dance several times with Mrs. Romer; it did not escape her notice, +however, that he seemed absent and abstracted, and that his face bore its +hardest and sternest aspect throughout the remainder of the evening. + +So the ball at Shadonake came to an end, as balls do, with the first +gleams of daylight; and nothing was left of all the gay crowd who had so +lately filled the brilliant rooms but several sleepy people creeping up +slowly to bed, and a great _chiffonade_ of tattered laces, and flowers, +and coloured scraps littered all over the polished floor of the +ball-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +HER WEDDING DRESS. + + Those obstinate questionings + Of sense and outward things, + Fallings from us, vanishings, + Blank misgivings-- + High instincts before which our moral nature + Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. + + Wordsworth. + + +"Vera, are you not coming to look at it?" + +"Presently." + +"It is all laid out on your bed, and you ought to try it on; it might +want alterations." + +"Oh, there is plenty of time!" + +"It is downright affectation!" says old Mrs. Daintree, angrily, to her +daughter-in-law, as she and Marion leave the room together; "no girl can +really be indifferent to a wedding dress covered with yards of lovely +Brussels lace flounces; she ought to be ashamed of herself for her +ingratitude to Lady Kynaston for such a present; she must really want +to see it, only she likes playing the fine lady beforehand!" + +"I don't think it is that," says Marion, gently; "I don't believe Vera is +well." + +"Fiddlesticks!" snorts her mother-in-law. "A woman who is going to marry +ten thousand a year within ten days is bound to be well." + +Vera sits alone; she leans her head against the window, her hands lie +idle in her lap, her eyes mechanically follow the rough, gray clouds that +rack across the winter sky. In little more than a week she will be Vera +Nevill no longer; she will have gained all that she desired and tried +for--wealth, position, Kynaston--and Sir John! She should be well +content, seeing that it has been her own doing all along. No one has +forced or persuaded her into this engagement, no one has urged her on to +a course contrary to her own inclination, or her own judgment. It has +been her own act throughout. And yet, as she sits alone in the twilight, +and counts over on her fingers the few short days that intervene between +to-day and her bridal morning, hot miserable tears rise to her eyes, +and fall slowly down, one by one, upon her clasped hands. She does not +ask herself why she weeps; possibly she dares not. Only her thoughts +somehow--by that strange connection of ideas which links something in +our present to some other thing in our past, and which apparently is in +no way dependent upon it--go back instinctively, as it were, to her dead +sister, the Princess Marinari. + +"Oh, my poor darling Theodora!" she murmurs, half aloud; "if you had +lived, you would have taken care of your Vera; if you had not died, I +should never have come here, nor ever have known--any of them." + +And then she hears Marion's voice calling to her from the top of the +stairs. + +"Vera! Vera! do come up and see it before it gets quite dark." + +She rises hastily and dashes away her tears. + +"What is the matter with me to-day!" she says to herself, impatiently. +"Have I not everything in the world I wish for? I am happy--of course +I am happy. I am coming, Marion, instantly." + +Upstairs her wedding dress, a soft cloud of rich silk and fleecy lace, +relieved with knots of flowers, dark-leaved myrtle, and waxen orange +blossoms, lies spread out upon her bed. Marion stands contemplating it, +wrapt in ecstatic admiration; old Mrs. Daintree has gone away. + +"It is perfectly lovely! I am so glad you had silk instead of satin; +nothing could show off Lady Kynaston's lace so well: is it not beautiful? +you ought to try it on. Why, Vera! what is the matter? I believe you have +been crying." + +"I was thinking of Theodora," she murmurs. + +"Ah! poor dear Theodora!" assents Marion, with a compassionate sigh; "how +she would have liked to have known of your marriage; how pleased she +would have been." + +Vera looks at her sister. "Marion," she says, in a low earnest voice; +"if--if I should break it off, what would you say?" + +"Break it off!" cries her sister, horror-struck. "Good heavens, Vera! +what can you mean? Have you gone suddenly mad? What is the matter with +you? Break off a match like this at the last minute? You must be +demented!" + +"Oh, of course," with a sudden change of manner; "of course I did not +mean it, it only came into my head for a minute; of course, as you say, +it is a splendid match for me. What should I want to break it off for? +What should I gain? what, indeed?" She spoke feverishly and excitedly, +laughing a little harshly as she spoke. + +Marion looked at her anxiously. "I hope to goodness you will never say +such horrid things to anybody else; it sounds dreadful, Vera, as if +Eustace and I were forcing you into it; as if you did not want to marry +Sir John yourself." + +"Of course I want to marry him!" interrupted Vera, with unreasonable +sharpness. + +"Then, pray don't make a fool of yourself, my dear, by talking about +breaking it off." + +"It was only a joke. Break it off! how could I? The best match in the +county, as you say. I am not going to make a fool of myself; don't be +afraid, Marion. It would be so inconvenient, too; the trousseau all +bought, the breakfast ordered, the guests invited; even the wedding dress +here, all finished and ready to put on, and ten thousand a year waiting +for me! Oh, no, I am not going to be such an utter fool!" + +She laughed; but her laughter was almost more sad than her tears, and her +sister left her, saddened and puzzled by her manner. + +It was now nearly two months since the ball at Shadonake; and, soon after +that eventful visit, Vera had begun to be employed in preparing for her +wedding-day, which had been fixed for the 27th of February; for Sir John +had taken Mrs. Romer's hint, and had pressed an early marriage upon her. +Vera had made no objection; what objection, indeed, could she have found +to make? She had acquiesced readily in her lover's suggestions, and had +set to work to prepare herself for her marriage. + +All this time Captain Kynaston had not been in Meadowshire at all; he had +declined his brother's hospitality, and had gone to spend his leave +amongst other friends in Somersetshire, where he had started a couple of +hunters, and wrote word to Sir John that the sport was of such a very +superior nature that he was unable to tear himself away. + +Within a fortnight, however, of Sir John's wedding, Maurice did yield at +last to his brother's pressing request, and came up from Somersetshire to +Kynaston. Last Sunday he had suddenly appeared in the Kynaston pew in +Sutton Church by Sir John's side, and had shaken hands with Vera and her +relations on coming out of church, and had walked across the vicarage +garden by the side of Mrs. Daintree, Vera having gone on in front with +Tommy and Minnie. And it was from that moment that Vera had as suddenly +discovered that she was utterly and thoroughly wretched, and that she +dreaded her wedding-day with a strange and unaccountable terror. + +She told herself that she was out of health, that the excitement and +bustle of the necessary preparations had over-tried her, that her nerves +were upset, her spirits depressed by reason of the solemnity a woman +naturally feels at the approach of so important a change in her life. +She assured herself aloud, day after day, that she was perfectly happy +and content, that she was the very luckiest and most fortunate of women, +and that she would sooner be Sir John's wife than the wife of any one +else in the world. And she told it to herself so often and so +emphatically, that there were whole hours, and even whole days together, +when she believed in these self-assurances implicitly and thoroughly. + +All this time she saw next to nothing of Maurice Kynaston; the weather +was mild and open, and he went out hunting every day. Sir John, on the +other hand, was much with her; a constant necessity for his presence +seemed to possess her. She was never thoroughly content but when he was +with her; ever restless and ill at ease in his absence. + +No one could be more thoroughly convinced than Vera of the entire wisdom +of the marriage she was about to make. It was, she felt persuaded, the +best and the happiest thing she could have done with her life. Wealth, +position, affection, were all laid at her feet; and her husband, +moreover, would be a man whose goodness and whose devotion to her could +never fail to command her respect. What more could a woman who, like +herself, was fully alive to the importance of the good things of this +world desire? Surely nothing more. Vera, when she was left alone with +the glories of her wedding garment, took herself to task for her foolish +words to her sister. + +"I am a fool!" she said to herself, half angrily, as she bundled all the +white silk and the rich lace unceremoniously away into an empty drawer of +her wardrobe. "I am a fool to say such things even to Marion. It looks, +as she says, as if I were being forced into a rich marriage by my +friends. I am very fond of John; I shall make him a most exemplary wife, +and I shall look remarkably well in the family diamonds, and that is all +that can possibly be required of me." + +Having thus settled things comfortably in her own mind, she went +downstairs again, and was in such good spirits, and so radiant with +smiles for the rest of the evening, that Mr. Daintree remarked to his +wife, when they had retired into their conjugal chamber, that he had +never seen Vera look so well or so happy. + +"Dear child," he said, "it is a great comfort to me to see it, for just +at first I feared that she had been influenced by the money and the +position, and that her heart was not in it; but now she has evidently +become much attached to Sir John, and is perfectly happy; and he is a +most excellent man, and in every way worthy of her. Did I tell you, +Marion, that he told me the chancel should be begun immediately after the +wedding? It is a pity it could not have been done before; but we shall +just get it finished by Easter." + +"I am glad of that. We must fill the church with flowers for the 27th, +and then its appalling ugliness will not be too visible. Of course, the +building could hardly have been begun in the middle of winter." + +But if Mrs. Eustace Daintree differed at all from her husband upon the +subject of her sister's serene and perfect happiness, she, like a wise +woman, kept her doubts to herself, and spoke no word of them to destroy +the worthy vicar's peace of mind upon the subject. + +The next morning Sir John came down from the Hall to the vicarage with +a cloud upon his brow, and requested Vera to grant him a few minutes' +private conversation. Vera put on her sable cloak and hat, and went out +with him into the garden. + +"What is the matter?" + +"I am exceedingly vexed with my brother," he answered. + +"What has Maurice done?" + +"He tells me this morning that he will not stop for the wedding, nor be +my best man. He talks of going away to-morrow." + +Vera glanced at him. He looked excessively annoyed; his face, usually so +kind and placid, was ruffled and angry; he flicked the grass impatiently +with his stick. + +"I have been talking to him for an hour, and cannot get him to change his +mind, or even to tell me why he will not stay; in fact, he has no good +reason for going. He _must_ stay." + +"Does it matter very much?" she asked, gently. + +"Of course it matters. My mother is not able to be present; it would not +be prudent after her late attack of bronchitis. My only brother surely +might make a point of being at my wedding." + +"But if he has other engagements----" + +"He has no other engagement!" he interrupted, angrily; "He cannot find +any but the most paltry excuses. It is behaving with great unkindness to +myself, but that is a small matter. What I do mind and will not submit to +is, that it is a deliberate insult to you." + +"An insult to me! Oh! John, how can that be?" she said, in some surprise; +and then, suddenly, she flushed hotly. She knew what he meant. There had +been plenty of people to say that Sir John Kynaston was marrying beneath +himself--a nobody who was unworthy of him: these murmurs had reached +Vera's ears, but she had not heeded them since Lady Kynaston had been on +her side. She saw, however, that Sir John feared that the absence of his +mother and his brother at his wedding might be misconstrued into a sign +that they also disapproved of his bride. + +"I don't think Maurice would wish to slight me," she said, gently. + +"No; but, then, he must not behave as though he did. I assure you, Vera, +if he perseveres in his determination, I shall be most deeply hurt. I +have always endeavoured to be a kind brother to him, and, if he cannot do +this small thing to please me, I shall consider him most ungrateful." + +"That I am sure he is not," she answered, earnestly; "little as I know +him, I can assure you that he never loses an occasion of saying how much +he feels your goodness and generosity to him." + +"Then he must prove it. Look here, Vera, will you go up to the Hall now +and talk to him? He is not hunting to-day; you will find him in the +library." + +"I?" she cried, looking half frightened; "what can I do? You had much +better ask him yourself." + +"I have asked him over and over again, till I am sick of asking! If you +were to put it as a personal request from yourself, I am sure he would +see how important to us both it is that he should be present at our +wedding." + +"Pray don't ask me to do such a thing; I really cannot," she said, +hastily. + +Sir John looked at her in some surprise; there was an amount of distress +in her face that struck him as inadequate to the small thing he had asked +of her. + +"Why, Vera! have you grown shy? Surely you will not mind doing so small a +thing to please me? You need not stay long, and you have your hat on all +ready. I have to speak to your brother-in-law about the chancel; I have a +letter from the architect this morning; and everything must be settled +about it before we go. If you will go up and speak to Maurice now, I will +join you--say in twenty minutes from now," consulting his watch, "at the +lodge gates. You will go, won't you, dear, just to please me?" + +She did not know how to refuse; she had no excuse to give, no reason that +she could put into words why she should shrink with such a dreadful +terror from this interview with his brother which he was forcing upon +her. She told him that she would go, and Sir John, leaving her, went into +the house well satisfied to do his business with the vicar. + +And Vera went slowly up the lane alone towards the Hall. She did not know +what she was going to say to Maurice; she hardly knew, indeed, what it +was she had been commissioned to ask of him; nor in what words her +request was to be made. She thought no longer of her wedding-day, nor of +the lover who had just parted with her. Only before her eyes there came +again the little wintry copse of birch-trees; the horses standing by, the +bare fields stretching around, and back into her heart there flashed the +memory of those quick, hot kisses pressed upon her outstretched hand; the +one short--and alas! all too perilous--glimpse that had been revealed to +her of the inner life and soul of the man whose lightest touch she had +learnt that day to fear as she feared no other living thing. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +VERA'S MESSAGE. + + Alas! how easily things go wrong, + A word too much, or a sigh too long; + And there comes a mist and a driving rain, + And life is never the same again. + + +The library at Kynaston was the room which Sir John had used as his only +sitting-room since he had come down to stay in his own house. When his +wedding with Miss Nevill had been definitely fixed, there had come down +from town a whole army of decorators and painters and upholsterers, who +had set to work to renovate and adorn the rest of the house for the +advent of the bride, who was so soon to be brought home to it. + +They had altered things in various ways, they had improved a few, and +they had spoiled a good many more; they had, at all events, introduced a +wholesome and thorough system of cleansing and cleaning throughout the +house, that had been very welcome to the soul of Mrs. Eccles; but into +the library they had not penetrated. The old bookshelves remained +untouched; the old books, in their musty brown calf bindings, were +undesecrated by profaning hands. All sorts of quaint chairs and bureaus, +gathered together out of every other room in the house, had congregated +here. The space over the mantelpiece was adorned by a splendid portrait +by Vandyke, flanked irreverently on either side by a series of old +sporting prints, representing the whole beginning, continuation, and +end of a steeple-chase course, and which, it is melancholy to state, were +far more highly appreciated by Sir John than the beautiful and valuable +picture which they surrounded. Below these, and on the mantelpiece +itself, were gathered together a heterogeneous collection of pipes, +spurs, horse-shoes, bits, and other implements, which the superintending +hands of any lady would have straightway relegated to the stables. + +In this library Sir John and his brother fed, smoked, wrote and read, +and lived, in fact, entirely in full and disorderly enjoyment of their +bachelorhood and its privileges. The room, consequently, was in a +condition of untidiness and confusion, which was the despair of Mrs. +Eccles and the delight of the two men themselves, who had even forbidden +the entrance of any housemaid into it upon pain of instant dismissal. +Mrs. Eccles submitted herself with resignation to the inevitable, and +comforted herself with the reflection that the time of unchecked +masculine dominion was well-nigh over, and that the days were very near +at hand when "Miss Vera" was coming to alter all this. + +"Ah, well, it won't last long, poor gentleman!" the worthy lady said to +herself, in allusion to Sir John's uninvaded sanctum; "let him enjoy his +pigstye while he can. When his wife comes she will soon have the place +swept clean out for him." + +So the papers, and the books, and the pipes, and the tobacco-tins were +left heaped up all over the tables and chairs, and the fox-terriers sat +in high places on the sofa cushions; and the brothers smoked their pipes +after their meals, emptied their ashes on to the tables, threw their +empty soda-water bottles into a corner of the room, wore their slippers +at all hours, and lapsed, in fact, into all those delightful methods of +living at ease practised by the vicious nature inherent in man when he is +unchecked by female influence; whilst Mrs. Eccles groaned in silence, but +possessed her soul in patience by reason of that change which she knew to +be coming over the internal economy of Kynaston Hall. + +Maurice Kynaston reclines at ease in the most comfortable arm-chair in +the room, his feet reposing upon a second chair; his pipe is in his +mouth, and his hands in his trouser pockets; he wears a loose, gray +shooting-jacket, and Sir John's favourite terrier, Vic, has curled +herself into a little round white ball upon his outstretched legs. +Maurice has just been reading his morning's correspondence, and a letter +from Helen, announcing that her grandfather is ill and confined to his +room by bronchitis, is still in his hand. He looks gloomily and +abstractedly into the red logs of the wood fire. The door opens. + +"Any orders for the stable, Captain?" + +"None to-day, Mrs. Eccles." + +"You are not going out hunting?" + +"No, I am going to take a rest. By the way, Mrs. Eccles, I shall be +leaving to-morrow, so you can see about packing my things." + +"Dear me! sir, I hope we shall see you again, at the wedding." + +"Very unlikely; I don't like weddings, Mrs. Eccles; the only one I ever +mean to dance at is yours. When you get married, you let me know." + +"Law! sir, how you do go on!" said the old lady, laughing; not +ill-pleased at the imputation. "Dear me," she went on, looking round the +room uneasily, "did I ever see such a mess in all my born days. Now Sir +John is out, sir, I suppose you couldn't let me----" + +"_Certainly not_--if you mean bring in a broom and a dust-pan! Just let +me catch you at it, that's all!" + +The housekeeper shook her head with a resigned sigh. + +"Ah, well! it can't last long; when Miss Vera comes she'll turn the whole +place inside-out, and all them nasty pipes, and dogs and things will be +cleared away." + +"Do you think so?" suddenly sitting upright in his chair. "Wait a bit, +Mrs. Eccles; don't go yet. Do you think Miss Vera will have things her +own way with my brother?" + +"Oh! sir, what do you ask me for?" she answered, with discreet +evasiveness. "Surely you must know more about Miss Vera than I can tell +you." + +Mrs. Eccles went away, and Maurice got up and leant against the +mantelpiece looking down gloomingly, into the fire. Vic, dislodged from +his knee, sat up beside him, resting her little white paws on the edge of +the fender, warming her nose. + +"What a fool I am!" said Maurice, aloud to himself. "I can't even hear +her name mentioned by a servant without wanting to talk about her. Yes, +it's clear he loves her--but does she love him? Will she be happy? Yes, +of course, she will get her own way. Will that be enough for her? Ah!" +turning suddenly round and taking half-a-dozen steps across the room. "It +is high time I went. I am a coward and a traitor to linger on here; I +will go. Why did I say to-morrow--why have I not settled to go this very +day? If I were not so weak and so irresolute, I should be gone by this +time. I ought never, knowing what I do know of myself--I ought never to +have come back at all." He went back to the fire and sat down again, +lifting the little dog back on to his knee. "I shall get over it, I +suppose," he murmured. "Men don't die of this sort of thing; she will +marry, and she will think me unkind because I shall never come near her; +but even if she knew the truth, it would never make any difference to +her; and by-and-by I too, I suppose, shall marry." The soliloquy died +away into silence. Maurice stroked the dog and looked at the fire +dreamily and somewhat drearily. + +Some one tapped at the door. + +"Come in! What is it, Mrs. Eccles?" he cried, rousing himself. + +The door softly opened and there entered, not Mrs. Eccles, but Vera +Nevill. + +Captain Kynaston sprang hastily to his feet. "Oh, Vera! I beg your +pardon--how do you do? I suppose you have come for John? You must have +missed him; he started for the vicarage half-an-hour ago." + +"No, I have seen him. I have come to see you, Maurice, if you don't +mind." She spoke rather timidly, not looking at him. + +"I am delighted, of course," he answered, a little constrainedly. + +Vera stood up on the hearth divesting herself of her long fur cloak; she +flung it over the back of a chair, and then took off her hat and gloves. +Maurice was strangely unlike himself this morning, for he never offered +to help her in these operations, he only stood leaning against the corner +of the mantelpiece opposite her, looking at her. + +Vera stooped down and stroked the little fox-terrier; when she had done +so, she raised her head and met his eyes. + +Did she see, ere he hastily averted them, all the hunger and all the +longing that filled them as he watched her? He, in his turn, stooped and +replenished the fire. + +"John sent me to talk to you, Maurice," began Vera, hurriedly, like one +repeating a lesson; "he tells me you will not be with us on the 27th; is +that so?" + +"I am sorry, but I am obliged to go away," he answered. + +"John is dreadfully hurt, Maurice. I hope you will alter your mind." + +"Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?" he asked, +looking at her. + +"For both of us. Of course it will be a great disappointment if you are +not there. You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply." + +"And you; will you feel it?" he persisted. She coloured a little. + +"Yes, I shall be very sorry," she answered, nervously. "I should not like +John to be vexed on his wedding-day; he has been a kind brother to you, +Maurice, and it seems hard that you cannot do this little thing to show +your sense of it." + +"Believe me, I show my gratitude to my brother just as well in staying +away as in remaining," he answered, earnestly. "Do not urge me any +further, Vera; I would do anything in the world to please John, but +I cannot be present at your wedding." + +There was a moment's silence; the fire flickered up merrily between them; +a red-hot cinder fell out noisily from the grate; the clock ticked +steadily on the chimney-piece; the little terrier sniffed at the edge +of Vera's dress. + +Suddenly there came into her heart a wild desire _to know_, to eat for +once of that forbidden fruit of the tree of Eden, whence the flaming +swords in vain beckoned her back; to eat, and afterwards, perchance, to +perish of the poisonous food. + +A wild conflict of thought thronged into her soul. Prudence, wisdom, her +very heart itself counselled her to be still and to go. But something +stronger than all else was within her too; and something that was new and +strange, and perilously sweet to her; a something that won the day. + +She turned to him, stretching out her hands; the warm glow of the fire +lit up her lovely face and her eloquent pleading eyes, and flickered over +the graceful and beautiful figure, whose perfect outlines haunted his +fancy for ever. + +"Stay, for my sake, because I ask you!" she cried, with a sudden passion; +"or else tell me why you must go." + +There came no answering flash into his eyes, only he lowered them beneath +hers; he sat down suddenly, as though he was weary, on the chair whence +he had risen at her entrance, so that she stood before him, looking down +at him. + +There was a certain repression in his face which made him look stern and +cold, as one who struggles with a mortal temptation. He stooped over the +little dog, and became seemingly engrossed in stroking it. + +"I cannot stop," he said, in a cold, measured voice; "it is an +impossibility. But, since you ask me, I will tell you why. It can make no +possible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interest +or your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it is +over and you go away you will forget it again. I do not ask you to +remember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget. +This is what it is. Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing you +happiness and love. I can rejoice in your happiness. I am not so selfish +as to lament it; but you will not wish me to be there to see it when I +tell you that I have been fool enough to dare to love you myself. It is +the folly of a madman, is it not? since I have never had the slightest +hope or entertained the faintest wish to alter the conditions of your +life; nor have I even asked myself what effect such a confession as this +that you have wrung from me can have upon you. Whether it excites your +pity or your contempt, or even your amusement, it cannot in any case make +any difference to me. My folly, at all events, cannot hurt you or my +brother; it can hurt no one but myself: it cannot even signify to you. +It is only for my own sake that I am going, because one cannot bear more +than a certain amount, can one? I thought I might have been strong +enough, but I find that it would be too much; that is all. You will not +ask me to stay any more, will you?" + +Not once had he looked at her; not by a single sign or token had he +betrayed the slightest emotion or agitation. His voice had been steady +and unbroken; he spoke in a low and somewhat monotonous manner; it was +as though he had been relating something that in no way concerned +himself--some story that was of some other, and that other of no great +interest either to him who told it or to her who listened to the tale. +Any one suddenly coming into the room would have guessed him to be +entirely engrossed in the contemplation of the little dog between his +hands; that he was relating the story of his own heart would not have +been imagined for an instant. + +When he had done speaking there was an absolute silence in the room. What +he had spoken seemed to admit of no answer of any sort or kind from his +listener. He had asked for nothing; he had pleaded neither for her +sympathy nor her forgiveness, far less for any definite expression of the +effect of his words upon her. He had not, seemingly, cared to know how +they affected her. He had simply told his own story--that was all; it +concerned no one but himself. She might pity him, she might even be +amused at him, as he had said: anyhow, it made no difference to him; +he had chosen to present a picture of his inner life to her as a +doctor might have described some complicated disease to a chance +acquaintance--it was a physiological study, if she cared to look upon it +as such; if not, it did not matter. There was no possible answer that she +could make to him; no form of words by which she could even acknowledge +that she had heard him speak. + +She stood perfectly silent for the space of some two or three seconds; +she scarcely breathed, her very heart seemed to have ceased to beat; it +was as if she had been turned to stone. She knew not what she felt; it +was neither pain, nor joy, nor regret; it was only a sort of dull apathy +that oppressed her very being. + +Presently she put forth her hands, almost mechanically, and reached her +cloak and hat from the chair behind her. + +The soft rustle of her dress upon the carpet struck his ear; he looked up +with a start, like one waking out of a painful dream. + +"You are going!" he said, in his usual voice. + +"Yes; I am going." + +He stood up, facing her. + +"There is nothing more to be said, is there?" He said it not as though he +asked her a question, but as one asserting a fact. + +"Nothing, I suppose," she answered, rather wearily, not looking at him as +she spoke. + +"I shall not see you again, as I leave to-morrow morning by the early +train. You will, at least, wish me good-bye?" + +"Good-bye, Maurice." + +"Good-bye, Vera; God bless you." + +She opened the door softly and went out. She went slowly away down the +avenue, wrapping her cloak closely around her; the wind blew cold and +chill, and she shivered a little as she walked. Presently she struck +aside along a narrow pathway through the grass that led her homewards by +a shorter cut. She had forgotten that Sir John was to wait for her at the +lodge-gates. + +She had forgotten his very existence. For she _knew_. She had eaten of +the tree of knowledge, and the scales had fallen for ever from her eyes. + +She knew that Maurice loved her--and, alas! for her--she knew also that +she loved him. And between them a great gulf was fixed; deep, and wide, +and impassable as the waters of Lethe. + +Out of the calm, unconscious lethargy of her maidenhood's untroubled +dreams the soul of Vera had awakened at length to the realization of the +strong, passionate woman's heart that was within her. + +She loved! It had come to her at last; this thing that she had scorned +and disbelieved in, and yet that, possibly, she had secretly longed for. +She had deemed herself too cold, too wise, too much set upon the good +things of earth, to be touched by that scorching fire; but now she was no +colder than any other love-sick maiden, no wiser than every other foolish +woman who had been ready to wreck her life for love in the world's +history. + +Surely no girl ever learnt the secret of her own heart with such dire +dismay as did Vera Nevill. There was neither joy nor gladness within her, +only a great anger against herself and her fate, and even against him +who, as he had said, had dared to love her. She had courted the avowal +from his lips, and yet she resented the words she had wrung from him. +But, more than all, she resented the treachery of the heart that was +within her. + +"Why did I ever see him?" she cried aloud in her bitterness, striking her +hands wildly against each other. "What evil fate brought us together? +What fool's madness induced me to go near him to-day? I was happy enough; +I had all I wanted; I was content with my fate--and now--now!" Her +passionate words died away into a wail. In her haste and her abstraction +her foot caught against a long, withered bramble trail that lay across +her path; she half stumbled. It was sufficient to arrest her steps. She +stood still, and leant against the smooth, whitened trunk of a beech +tree. Her hands locked themselves tightly together; her face, white and +miserable, lifted itself despairingly towards the pitiless winter sky +above her. + +"How am I to live out my life?" she asked herself, in her anguish. + +It had not entered into her head that she could alter it. It did not +occur to her to imagine that she could give up anything to which she now +stood pledged. To be John Kynaston's wife, and to love his brother, that +was what struck upon her with horror; no other possible contingency had +as yet suggested itself to her. + +Presently, as she moved slowly onwards, still absorbed in her new-found +misfortune, a fresh train of thought came into her mind. She thought no +longer about herself, but about him. + +"How cruel I was to leave him like that," she said to herself, +reproachfully; "without a word, or so much as a look, of +consolation--for, if I suffer, has not he suffered too!" + +She forgot that he had asked her for nothing; she only knew that, little +enough as she had to give him, she had withheld that little from him. + +"What must he think of me?" she repeated to herself, in dismay. "How +heartless and how cold I must be in his eyes to have parted from him thus +without one single kind word. I might, at least, have told him that I was +grateful for the love I cannot take. I wonder," she continued, half aloud +to herself, "I wonder what it is like to be loved by Maurice----" She +paused again, this time leaning against the wicket-gate that led out of +the park into the high road. + +A little smile played for one instant about her lips, a soft, far-away +look lingered in her dreaming eyes for just a moment--just the space of +time it might take you to count twenty; she let her fancy carry her +away--_where_? + +Ah, sweet and perilous reverie! too dear and too dangerous to be safely +indulged in. Vera roused herself with a start, passing her hand across +her brow as though to brush away the thoughts that would fain have +lingered there. + +"Impossible!" she said aloud to herself, moving on again rapidly. "I must +be a fool to stand here dreaming--I, whose fate is irrevocably fixed; and +I would sooner die than alter it. The best match in the county, it is +called. Well, so it is; and nothing less would satisfy me. But--but--I +think I will see him once again, and wish him good-bye more kindly." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +"POOR WISDOM." + + No; vain, alas! the endeavour + From bonds so sweet to sever, + Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance + Is now as weak as ever! + + Thos. Moore. + + +The station at Sutton stood perched up above the village on a high +embankment, upon which the railway crossed the valley from the hills that +lay to the north to those that lay to the south of it. Up at the station +it was always draughty and generally cold. To-day, this very early +morning, about ten minutes before the first up train is due, it is not +only cold and draughty, but it is also wet and foggy. A damp, white mist +fills the valley below, and curls up the bare hill sides above; it hangs +chillingly about the narrow, open shed on the up side of the station, +covering the wooden bench within it with thick beads of moisture, so that +no man dare safely sit down on it, and clinging coldly and penetratingly +to the garments of a tall young lady in a long ulster and a thick veil, +who is slowly walking up and down the platform. + +The solitary porter on duty eyes her inquiringly. "Going by the up train, +Miss?" he says, touching his hat respectfully as he passes her. + +"No," says Vera, blushing hotly under the thick shelter of her veil, and +then adds with that readiness of explanation to which persons who have a +guilty conscience are prone, "I am only waiting to see somebody off." An +uncalled-for piece of information which has only the effect of setting +the bucolic mind of the local porter agog with curiosity and wonderment. + +Presently the few passengers for the early train begin to arrive; a +couple of farmers going into the market town, a village girl in a smart +bonnet, an old woman in a dirty red shawl, carrying a bundle; that is +all. Maurice is very late. Vera remembers that he always puts off +starting to catch a train till the very last minute. She stands waiting +for him at the further end of the platform, as far away as she can from +the knot of rustic passengers, with a beating heart and a fever of +impatience within her. + +The train is signalled, and at that very minute the dog-cart from +Kynaston drives up at last! Even then he has to get his ticket, and to +convey himself and his portmanteau across from the other side of the +line. Their good-bye will be short indeed! + +The train steams up, and Maurice hurries forward followed by the porter +bearing his rugs and sticks; he does not even see her, standing a little +back, as she does, so as not to attract more attention than need be. But +when all his things are put into the carriage, and the porter has been +duly tipped and has departed, Captain Kynaston hears a soft voice behind +him. + +"I have come to wish you good-bye again." He turns, flushing at the sound +of the sweet familiar voice, and sees Vera in her long ulster, and her +face hidden behind her veil, by his side. + +"Good Heavens, Vera! _you_--out on such a morning?" + +"I could not let you go away without--without--one kind word," she +begins, stammering painfully, her voice shaking so, as she speaks, that +he cannot fail to divine her agitation, even though he cannot see the +lovely troubled face that has been so carefully screened from his gaze. + +"This is too good of you," he begins. That very minute a brougham dashes +rapidly up to the station. + +"It is the Shadonake carriage!" cried Vera, casting a terrified glance +behind her. "Who can it be? they will see me." + +"Jump into the train," he answers, hurriedly, and, without a thought +beyond an instinct of self-preservation for the moment, she obeys him. +Maurice follows her quickly, closing the carriage door behind him. +"Nobody can have seen you," he says. "I daresay it is only some visitors +going away; they could not have noticed you. Oh! Vera," turning with +sudden earnestness to her; "how am I ever to thank you for this great +kindness to me?" + +"It is nothing; only a five minutes' walk before breakfast. It is no +trouble to me; and I did not want you to think me unfeeling, or unkind +to you." + +Before she could speak another word the carriage door was violently +slammed to, and the guard's sharp shrill whistle heralded the departure +of the train. With a cry, Vera sprang towards the door; before she could +reach it, Maurice, who had perceived instantly what had happened, had let +down the window and was shouting to the porter. It was too late. The +train was off. + +Vera sank back hopelessly upon the seat; and Maurice, according to the +manners and customs of infuriated Britons, gave utterance to a very +laconic word of bad import below his breath. + +"I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds!" he said, after +a minute, looking at her in blank despair. + +Vera was taking off her veil mechanically; when he could see her face, he +perceived that she was very white. + +"Never mind," she said, with a faint smile; "there is no real harm done. +It is unfortunate, that is all. The train stops at Tripton. I can get out +there and walk home." + +"Five miles! and it is I who have got you into this scrape! What a +confounded fool I was to make you get into the carriage! I ought to have +remembered how late it was. How are you to walk all that way?" + +"Pray don't reproach yourself, Maurice; I shall not mind the walk a bit. +I shall have to confess my escapade to Marion, and tell her why I am late +for breakfast--that is all; as it is, I can, at all events, finish what I +wanted to say to you." + +And then she was silent, looking away from him out of the further window. +The train, gradually accelerating its pace, sped quickly on through the +fog-blotted landscape. Hills, villages, church spires, all that made the +country familiar, were hidden in the mist; only here and there, in the +nearer hedge-rows, an occasional tree stood out bleak and black against +the white veil beyond like a sentinel alone on a limitless plain. +Absolute silence--only the train rushing on faster and faster through +the white, wet world without. + +Then, at last, it was Maurice, not Vera, that spoke. + +"I blame myself bitterly for this, Vera," he said in a low, pained voice. +"Had it not been for my foolish, unthinking words to you yesterday, you +would not have been tempted to do this rash act of kindness. I spoke to +you in a way that I had no right to speak, believing that my words would +make no impression upon you beyond the fact of showing you that it was +impossible for me to stay for your wedding. I never dreamt that your +kindly interest in me would lead you to waste another thought upon me. +I did not know how good and pitying your nature is, nor give you credit +for so much generosity." + +She turned round to him sharply and suddenly. "What are you saying?" she +cried, with a harsh pain in her voice. "What words are you using to me? +_Kindness, pity, generosity_!--have they any place here between you +and me?" + +There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, only their eyes met, +and the secret that was hidden in their souls lay suddenly revealed to +each of them. + +In another instant Vera had sunk upon her knees before him. + +"While you live," she cried, passionately, lifting her beautiful dark +eyes, that were filled with a new light and a new glory, to his--"while +you live I will never be another man's wife!" + +And there was no other word spoken. Only a shower of close, hot kisses +upon her lips, and two strong arms that drew her nearer and tighter to +the beating heart against which she rested, for he was only human after +all. + +Oh, swift and divine moment of joy, that comes but once in a man's life, +when he holds the woman he loves for the first time to his heart! Once, +and once only, he tastes of heaven and forgets life itself in the short +and delirious draught. What envious deity shall grudge him those moments +of rapture, all too sweet, and, alas! all too short! + +To Vera and Maurice, locked in each other's arms, time had no shore, and +life was not. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been an +eternity--they could not have told--no pang entered that serene haven +where their souls were lapped in perfect happiness; no serpent entered +into Eden; no harsh note struck upon their enchanted ears, nor jarring +sight upon their sun-dazzled vision. Where in that moment was the duty +and the honour that was a part of the man's very self? What to Vera was +the rich marriage and the life of affluence, and all the glitter and +tinsel which it had been her soul's desire to attain? She remembered it +not; like a house of cards, it had fallen shattered to the ground. + +They loved, and they were together. There was neither duty, nor faith, +nor this world's wisdom between them; nothing but that great joy which on +earth has no equal, and which Heaven itself cannot exceed. + +But brief are the moments whilst joy, with bated breath and folded wings, +pauses on his flight; too soon, alas! is the divine elixir dashed away +from our lingering lips. + +Already, for Maurice and for Vera, it is over, and they have awakened to +earth once more. + +It is the man who is the first to remember. "Good God, Vera!" he cries, +pushing her back from him, "what terrible misfortune is this? Can it be +true that you must suffer too, that you love me?" + +"Why not?" she answered, looking at him; happy still, but troubled too; +for already for her also Paradise is over. "Is it so hard to believe? And +yet many women must have loved you. But I--I have never loved before. +Listen, Maurice: when I accepted your brother, I liked him, I thought I +could be very happy with him; and--and--do not think ill of me--I wanted +so much to be rich; it was so miserable being poor and dependent, and I +knew life so well, and how hard the struggle is for those who are poor. +I was so determined I would do well for myself; and he was good, and I +liked him." + +At the mention of the brother, whom he had wronged, Maurice hid his face +in his hands and groaned aloud. + +She laid her hand softly upon his knee; she had half raised herself upon +the seat by his side, and her head, from which her hat had fallen, +pillowed itself with a natural caressing action against his shoulder. + +At the soft touch he shivered. + +"It was dreadful, was it not? But then, I am not perfect, and I liked the +idea of being rich, and I had never loved--I did not even know what it +meant. And then I met you--long ago your photograph had arrested my +fancy; and do you remember that evening at Shadonake when I first saw +you?" + +Could he ever forget one single detail of that meeting? + +"You stood at the foot of the staircase, waiting, and I came down softly +behind you. You did not see me till I was close to you, and then you +turned, and you took my hands, and you looked and looked at me till my +eyes could no longer meet yours. There came a vague trouble into my +heart; I had never felt anything like it before. Maurice, from that +instant I must have loved you." + +"For God's sake, Vera!" he cried out wildly, as though the gentle words +gave him positive pain, "do not speak of it. Do you not see the abyss +which lies between us--which must part us for ever?" + +"Loving you, I will never marry your brother!" she answered, earnestly. + +"And I will never rob my brother of his bride. Darling, darling, do not +tempt me too far, or God knows what I may say and do! To reach you, love, +would be to dip my hands in dishonour and basest treachery. Not even for +you can I do this vile thing. Kiss me once more, sweet, and let me go out +of your life for ever; believe me, it is better so; best for us both. In +time you will forget, you will be happy. He will be good to you, and you +will be glad that you were not tempted to betray him." + +"You do not know what you ask of me," she cried, lifting her face, all +wet with tears, to his. "Leave me, if you will--go your way--forget +me--it is all the same to me; henceforth there is no other man on earth +to me but you. I will never swear vows at God's altar that I cannot keep, +or commit the frightful sin of marrying one man whilst I know that I love +another. Yes, yes; I know it is a horrible, dreadful misfortune. Have I +sought it, or gone out of my way to find it? Have I not struggled to +keep it away from me? striven to blind my eyes to it and to go on as I +was, and never to acknowledge it to myself? Do I not love wealth above +all things; do I not know that he is rich, and you poor? And yet I cannot +help loving you!" + +He took her clasped, trembling hands within his own, and held them +tightly. In that moment the woman was weak, and the man was her master. + +"Listen," he said. "Yes, you are right, I am poor; but that is not all. +Vera, for Heaven's sake, reflect, and pause before you wreck your whole +life. I cannot marry you--not only because I am poor, but also, alas! +because I am bound to another woman." + +"Helen Romer!" she murmured, faintly; "and you love _her_?" A sick, cold +misery rushed into her heart. She strove to withdraw her hands from his; +but he only held them the tighter. + +"No; by the God above us, I love you, and only you," he answered her, +almost roughly; "but I am bound to her. I cannot afford to marry her--we +have neither of us any money; but I am bound all the same. Only one thing +can set me free; if, in five years, we are, neither of us, better off +than now, she has told me that I may go free. Under no other conditions +can I ever marry any one else. That is my secret, Vera. At any moment she +can claim me, and for five years I must wait for her." + +"Then I will wait for you five years too," she cried, passionately. "Is +my love less strong, less constant, than hers, do you think? Can I not +wait patiently too?" She wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face +down to hers. + +"Five years," she murmured; "it is but a small slice out of one's life +after all; and when it is over, it seems such a little space to look back +upon. Dearest, some day we shall remember how miserable, and yet how +happy too, we have been this morning; and we shall smile, as we remember +it all, out of the fulness of our content." + +How was he to gainsay so sweet a prophet? Already the train was +slackening, and the moment when they must part drew near. The beautiful +head lay upon his breast; the deep, shadowy eyes, which love for the +first time had softened into the perfection of their own loveliness, +mirrored themselves in his; the flower-shaped, trembling lips were close +up to his. How could he resist their gentle pleading? There was no time +for more words, for more struggles between love and duty. + +"So be it, then," he murmured, and caught her in one last, passionate +embrace to his heart. + +Five minutes later a tall young lady, deeply veiled as when she had +entered the train, got out of it and walked swiftly away from Tripton +station down the hill towards the high road. So absorbed was she in her +own reflections that she utterly failed to notice another figure, also +female and also veiled, who, preceding her through the mist, went on +swiftly before her down the road. Nor did she pay the slightest attention +to the fact until a turn in the road brought her suddenly face to face +with two persons who stood deep in conversation under the shelter of +the tall, misty hedge-row. + +As Vera approached these two persons sprang apart with a guilty +suddenness, and revealed to her astonished eyes--Beatrice Miller and Mr. +Herbert Pryme. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AN UNLUCKY LOVE-LETTER. + + Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, + Some banished lover, or some captive maid. + + Pope, "Eloisa and Abelard." + + +To ascertain rightly how Mr. Pryme and Miss Miller came to be found in +the parish of Tripton at nine o'clock in the morning, standing together +under a wet hedge-row, it will be necessary to take a slight retrospect +of what had taken place in the history of these two people since the time +when the young barrister had spent that memorable week at Shadonake. + +The visit had come to an end uneventfully for either of them; but two +days after his departure from the house Mr. Pryme had been guilty of a +gross piece of indiscretion. He had forgotten to observe a golden rule +which should be strongly impressed upon every man and woman. The maxim +should be inculcated upon the young with at least as much earnestness as +the Catechism or the Ten Commandments. In homely language, it runs +something in this fashion: "Say what you like, but never commit yourself +to paper." + +Mr. Pryme had observed the first portion of this maxim religiously, but +he had failed to pay equal regard to the latter. He _had_ committed +himself to paper in the shape of a very bulky and very passionate +love-letter, which was duly delivered by the morning postman and laid at +the side of Miss Miller's plate upon the breakfast-table. + +Now, Miss Miller, as it happened on that particular morning, had a +very heavy influenza cold, and had stayed in bed for breakfast. When, +therefore, Mrs. Miller prepared to send a small tray up to her daughter's +bedroom with her breakfast, she took up her letters also from the table +to put upon it with her tea and toast. The very thick envelope of one +of them first attracted her notice; then the masculine nature of the +handwriting; and when, upon turning it over, she furthermore perceived a +very large-sized monogram of the letters "H. P." upon the envelope, her +mind underwent a sudden revolution as to the sending of her daughter's +correspondence upstairs. + +"There, that will do," she said to the lady's maid, "you can take up +the tray; I will bring Miss Miller's letters up to her myself after +breakfast." + +After which, without more ado, she walked to the window and opened the +letter. Some people might have had scruples as to such a strong measure. +Mrs. Miller had none at all. Her children, she argued, were her own +property and under her own care; as long as they lived under her roof, +they had no right over anything that they possessed independently of +their mother. + +Under ordinary circumstances she would not have opened a letter addressed +to any of her children; but if there was anything of a suspicious nature +in their correspondence, she certainly reserved to herself the perfect +right of dealing with it as she thought fit. + +She opened the letter and read the first line; it ran thus:-- + +"My dearest darling Beatrice." She then turned to the end of it and read +the last; it was this: "Your own most devoted and loving Herbert." + +That was quite enough for Mrs. Miller; she did not want to read any more +of it. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and went back to the +breakfast-table and poured out the tea and coffee for her husband and her +sons. + +But when the family meal was over, it was with a very angry aspect that +Mrs. Miller went upstairs and stood by her eldest daughter's bedside. + +"Beatrice, here is a letter which has come for you this morning, of which +I must ask you an explanation." + +"You have read it, mamma!" flushing angrily, as she took it from her +mother's hand. + +"I have read the first line and the last. I certainly should not take the +trouble to wade all through such contemptible trash!" Which was an +unprovoked insult to poor Beatrice's feelings. + +She snatched the letter from her mother's hand, and crumpled it jealously +under her pillow. + +"How can you call it trash, then, if you have not read it?" + +It was hard, certainly; to have her letter opened was bad enough, but to +have it called names was worse still. The letter, which to Beatrice would +be so full of sacred charm and delight--such a poem on love and its +sweetness--was nothing more to her mother than "contemptible trash!" + +But where in the whole world has a love-letter been indited, however +delightful and perfect it may be to the writer and the receiver of it, +that is nothing but an object of ridicule or contempt to the whole world +beside? Love is divine as Heaven itself to the two people who are +concerned in its ever new delights; but to us lookers-on its murmurs are +but fooleries, its sighs are ludicrous, and its written words absolute +imbecilities; and never a memory of our own lost lives can make the +spectacle of it in others anything but an irritating and idiotic +exhibition. + +"I have read quite enough," continued Mrs. Miller, sternly, "to +understand the nature of it. It is from Mr. Pryme, I imagine?" + +"Yes, mamma." + +"And by what right, may I ask, does Mr. Pryme commence a letter to you in +the warm terms of affection which I have had the pleasure of reading?" + +"By the right which I myself have given him," she answered, boldly. + +Regardless of her cold, she sat upright in her bed; a flush of defiance +in her face, her short dark hair flung back from her brow in wild +confusion. She understood at once that all had been discovered, and she +was going to do battle for her lover. + +"Do you mean to tell me, Beatrice, that you have engaged yourself to this +Mr. Pryme?" + +"Certainly I have." + +"You know very well that your father and I will never consent to it." + +"Never is a long day, mamma." + +"Don't take up my words like that. I consider, Beatrice, that you have +deceived me shamefully. You persuaded me to ask that young man to the +house because you said that Sophy Macpherson was fond of him." + +"So she is." + +"Beatrice, how can you be so wicked and tell such lies in the face of +that letter to yourself?" + +"I never said he was fond of her," she answered, with just the vestige of +a twinkle in her eyes. + +"If I had known, I would never have asked him to come," continued her +mother. + +"No; I am sure you would not. But I did not tell you, mamma." + +"I have other views for you. You must write to this young man and tell +him you will give him up." + +"I certainly shall not do that." + +"I shall not give my consent to your engagement." + +"I never imagined that you would, mamma, and that is why I did not ask +for it." + +And then Mrs. Miller got very angry indeed. + +"What on earth do you intend to do, you ungrateful, disobedient, +rebellious child?" + +"I mean to marry Herbert some day because I love him," answered her +daughter, coolly; "but I will not run away with him unless you force me +to it; and I hope, by-and-by, when Geraldine is grown up and can take my +place, that you will give us your consent and your blessing. I am quite +willing to wait a reasonable time for the chance of it." + +"Is it likely that I shall give my consent to your marrying a young man +picked up nobody knows where--out of the gutter, most likely? Who are his +people, I should like to know?" + +"I daresay his father is as well connected as mine," answered Beatrice, +who knew all about her mother's having married a _parvenu_. + +"Beatrice, I am ashamed of you, sneering at your own father!" + +"I beg your pardon, mamma; I did not mean to sneer, but you say very +trying things; and Mr. Pryme is a gentleman, and every bit as good as we +are!" + +"And where is the money to be found for this precious marriage, I should +like to know? Do you suppose Mr. Pryme can support you?" + +"Oh dear, no; but I know papa will not let me starve." + +And Mrs. Miller knew it too. However angry she might be, and however +unsuitably Beatrice might choose to marry, Mr. Miller would never allow +his daughter to be insufficiently provided for. Beatrice's marriage +portion would be a small fortune to a poor young man. + +"It is your money he is after!" she said, angrily. + +"I don't think so, mamma; and of course of that I am the best judge." + +"He shall never set foot here again. I shall write to him myself and +forbid him the house." + +"That, of course, you may do as you like about, mamma; I cannot prevent +your doing so, but it will not make me give him up, because I shall never +marry any one else." + +And there Mrs. Miller was, perforce, obliged to let the matter rest. She +went her way angry and vexed beyond measure, and somewhat baffled too. +How is a mother to deal with a daughter who is so determined and so +defiant as was Beatrice Miller? There is no known method in civilized +life of reducing a young lady of twenty to submission in matters of the +heart. She could not whip her, or put her on bread and water, nor could +she shut her up in a dark cupboard, as she might have done had she been +ten years old. + +All she could do was to write a very indignant letter to Mr. Pryme, +forbidding him ever to enter her doors, or address himself in any way to +her daughter again. Having sent this to the post, she was at the end of +her resources. She did, indeed, confide the situation with very strong +and one-sided colouring to her husband; but Mr. Miller had not the strong +instincts of caste which were inherent in his wife. She could not make +him see what dreadful deed of iniquity Herbert Pryme and his daughter +had perpetrated between them. + +"What's wrong with the young fellow?" he asked, looking up from the pile +of parliamentary blue-books on the library table before him. + +"Nothing is wrong, Andrew; but he isn't a suitable husband for Beatrice." + +"Why? you asked him here, Caroline. I suppose, if he was good enough to +stay in the house, he is no different to the boys, or anybody else who +was here." + +"It is one thing to stay here, and quite another thing to want to marry +your daughter." + +"Well, if he's an honest man, and the girl loves him, I don't see the +good of making a fuss about it; she had better do as she likes." + +"But, Andrew, the man hasn't a penny; he has made nothing at the bar +yet." It was no use appealing to his exclusiveness, for he had none; it +was a better move to make him look at the money-point of the question. + +"Oh, well, he will get on some day, I daresay, and meanwhile I shall give +Beatrice quite enough for them both when she marries." + +"You don't understand, Andrew." + +"No, my dear," very humbly, "perhaps I don't; but there, do as you think +best, of course; I am sure I don't wish to interfere about the children; +you always manage all these kind of things; and if you wouldn't mind, my +dear, I am so very busy just now. You know there is to be this attack +upon the Government as soon as the House meets, and I have the whole of +the papers upon the Patagonian and Bolivian question to look up, and most +fraudulent misstatements of the truth I believe them to be; although, as +far as I've gone, I haven't been able to make it quite out yet, but I +shall come to it--no doubt I shall come to it. I am going to speak upon +this question, my dear, and I mean to tell the House that a grosser +misrepresentation of facts was never yet promulgated from the Ministerial +benches, nor flaunted in the faces of an all too leniently credulous +Opposition; that will warm 'em up a bit, I flatter myself; those fellows +in office will hang their heads in shame at the word Patagonia for weeks +after." + +"But who cares about Patagonia?" + +"Oh, nobody much, I suppose. But there's bound to be an agitation against +the Government, and that does as well as anything else. We can't afford +to neglect a single chance of kicking them out. I have planned my speech +pretty well right through; it will be very effective--withering, I +fancy--but it's just these plaguy blue-books that won't quite tally with +what I've got to say. I must go through them again though----" + +"You had better have read the papers first, and settled your speech +afterwards," suggested his wife. + +"Oh dear, no! that wouldn't do at all; after all, you know, between you +and me, the facts don't go for much; all we want is, to denounce them; +any line of argument, if it is ingenious enough, will do; lay on the big +words thickly--that's what your constituents like. Law bless you! _they_ +don't read the blue books; they'll take my word for granted if I say they +are full of lies; it would be a comfort, however, if I could find a few. +Of course, my dear, this is only between you and me." + +A man is not always heroic to the wife of his bosom. Mrs. Miller went +her way and left him to his righteous struggle among the Patagonian +blue-books. After all, she said to herself, it had been her duty to +inform him of his daughter's conduct, but it was needless to discuss +the question further with him. He was incapable of approaching it from +her own point of view. It would be better for her now to go her own way +independently of him. She had always been accustomed to manage things her +own way. It was nothing new to her. + +Later in the day she attempted to wrest a promise from Beatrice that +she would hold no further communication with the prohibited lover. But +Beatrice would give no such promise. + +"Is it likely that I should promise such a thing?" she asked her mother, +indignantly. + +"You would do so if you knew what your duty to your mother was." + +"I have other duties besides those to you, mamma; when one has promised +to marry a man, one is surely bound to consider him a little. If I have +the chance of meeting him, I shall certainly take it." + +"I shall take very good care that you have no such chances, Beatrice." + +"Very well, mamma; you will, of course, do as you think best." + +It was in consequence of these and sundry subsequent stormy conversations +that Mr. Herbert Pryme suddenly discovered that he had a very high regard +and affection for Mr. Albert Gisburne, the vicar of Tripton, the same +to whom once Vera's relations had wished to unite her. + +The connection between Mr. Gisburne and Herbert Pryme was a slender one; +he had been at college with an elder brother of his, who had died in his +(Herbert's) childhood. He did not indeed very clearly recollect what this +elder brother had been like; but having suddenly called to mind that, +during the course of his short visit to Shadonake, he had discovered the +fact of the college friendship, of which, indeed, Mr. Gisburne had +informed him, he now was unaccountably inflamed by a desire to cultivate +the acquaintance of the valued companion of his deceased brother's youth. + +He opened negotiations by the gift of a barrel of oysters, sent down +from Wilton's, with an appropriate and graceful accompanying note. Mr. +Gisburne was surprised, but not naturally otherwise than pleased by the +attention. Next came a box of cigars, which again were shortly followed +by two brace of pheasants purporting to be of Herbert's own shooting, but +which, as a matter of fact, he had purchased in Vigo Street. + +This munificent succession of gifts reaped at length the harvest for +which they had been sown. In his third letter of grateful acknowledgment +for his young friend's kind remembrance of him, Mr. Gisburne, with some +diffidence, for Tripton Rectory was neither lively nor remarkably +commodious, suggested how great the pleasure would be were his friend to +run down to him for a couple of days or so; he had nothing, in truth, to +offer him but a bachelor's quarters and a hearty welcome; there was next +to no attraction beyond a pretty rural village and a choral daily +service; but still, if he cared to come, Mr. Gisburne need not say how +delighted he would be, etc., etc. + +It is not too much to say that the friend jumped at it. On the shortest +possible notice he arrived, bag and baggage, professing himself charmed +with the bachelor's quarters; and, burning with an insatiable desire to +behold the rurality of the village, to listen to the beauty and the +harmony of the daily choral performances, he took up his abode in the +clergyman's establishment; and the very next morning he sent a rural +villager over to Shadonake with a half-crown for himself and a note to be +given to Miss Miller the very first time she walked or rode out alone. +This note was duly delivered, and that same afternoon Beatrice met her +lover by appointment in an empty lime-kiln up among the chalk hills. This +romantic rendezvous was, however, discontinued shortly, owing to the fact +of Mrs. Miller having become suspicious of her daughter's frequent and +solitary walks, and insisting on sending out Geraldine and her governess +with her. + +A few mornings later a golden chance presented itself. Mr. and Mrs. +Miller went away for the night to dine and sleep at a distant country +house. Beatrice had not been invited to go with them. She did not venture +to ask her lover to the house he had been forbidden to enter, but she +ordered the carriage for herself, caught the early train to Tripton, met +Herbert, by appointment, outside the station, and stood talking to him in +the fog by the wayside, where Vera suddenly burst upon their astonished +gaze. + +There was nothing for it but to take Vera into their confidence; and they +were so much engrossed in their affairs that they entirely failed to +notice how mechanically she answered, and how apathetically she appeared +for the first few minutes to listen to their story. Presently, however, +she roused herself into a semblance of interest. She promised not to +betray the fact of the stolen interview, all the more readily because it +did not strike either of them to inquire what she herself was doing in +the Tripton road. + +In the end Vera walked on slowly by herself, and the Shadonake carriage, +ordered to go along at a foot's pace from Sutton station towards Tripton, +picked both girls up and conveyed them safely, each to their respective +homes. + +"You will never tell of me, will you, Vera?" said Beatrice to her, for +the twentieth time, ere they parted. + +"Of course not; indeed, I would gladly help you if I could," she +answered, heartily. + +"You will certainly be able to help us both very materially some day," +said Beatrice, who had visions of being asked to stay at Kynaston, to +meet Herbert. + +"I am afraid not," answered Vera, with a sigh. Already there was regret +in her mind for the good things of life which she had elected to +relinquish. "Put me down at this corner, Beatrice; I don't want to drive +up to the vicarage. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye, Vera--and--and you won't mind my saying it--but I like you so +much." + +Vera smiled, and, with a kiss, the girls parted; and Mrs. Daintree never +heard after all the story of her sister's early visit to Tripton, for she +returned so soon that she had not yet been missed. The vicar and his +family had but just gathered round the breakfast-table, when, after +having divested herself of her walking garments, she came in quietly and +took her vacant place amongst them unnoticed and unquestioned. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +LADY KYNASTON'S PLANS. + + Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, + Brief as the lightning in the collied night. + + And ere a man hath power to say, "Behold!" + The jaws of darkness do devour it up: + So quick bright things come to confusion. + + "Midsummer Night's Dream." + + +Sir John Kynaston sat alone in his old-bachelor rooms in London. They +were dark, dingy rooms, such as are to be found in countless numbers +among the narrow streets that encompass St. James's Street. They were +cheerless and comfortless, and, withal, high-rented, and possessed of +no other known advantage than that of their undeniably central situation. +They were not rooms that one would suppose any man would care to linger +in in broad daylight; and yet Sir John remained in them now a days +almost from morning till night. + +He sat for the most part as he is sitting now--in a shabby, leathern +arm-chair, stooping a little forward, and doing nothing. Sometimes he +wrote a few necessary letters, sometimes he made a feint of reading the +paper; but oftenest he did nothing, only sat still, staring before him +with a hopeless misery in his face. + +For in these days Sir John Kynaston was a very unhappy man. He had +received a blow such as strikes at the very root and spring of a man's +life--a blow which a younger man often battles through and is none the +worse in the end for, but under which a man of his age is apt to be +crushed and to succumb. Within a week of his wedding-day Vera Nevill +had broken her engagement to him. It had been a nine days' wonder in +Meadowshire--the county had rung with the news--everybody had marvelled +and speculated, but no one had got any nearer to the truth than that Vera +was supposed to have "mistaken her feelings." The women had cried shame +upon her for such capriciousness, and had voted her a fool into the +bargain for throwing over such a match; and if a male voice, somewhat +less timid than the rest, had here and there uplifted itself in her +defence and had ventured to hint that she might have had sufficient and +praiseworthy motives for her conduct, a chorus of feminine indignation +had smothered the kindly suggestion in a whole whirl-wind of abuse and +reviling. + +As to Sir John, he blamed her not, and yet he knew no more about it than +any of them; he, too, could only have told you that Vera had mistaken her +feelings--he knew no more than that--for it was but half the truth that +she had told him. But it had been more than enough to convince him that +she was perfectly right. When, after telling him plainly that she found +she did not love him enough, that there had been other and extraneous +reasons that had blinded her to the fact at the time she had accepted +him, but that she had found it out later on; when, after saying this she +had asked him plainly whether he would wish to have a wife who valued his +name, and his wealth, and his fine old house at least as much as he did +himself, Sir John had been able to give her but one answer. No, he would +not have a wife who loved him in such a fashion. And he had thought well +of her for telling him the truth beforehand instead of leaving him to +find it out for himself later. If there had been a little, a very little, +falling of his idol from the high pillar upon which he had set her up, in +that she should at any time have been guided by mercenary and worldly +motives; there had been at the same time a very great amount of respect +for her brave and straightforward confession of her error at a time when +most women would have found themselves unequal to the task of drawing +back from the false position into which they had drifted. No, he could +not blame her in any way. + +But, all the same, it was hard to bear. He said to himself that he was +a doomed and fated man; twice had love and joy and domestic peace been +within his grasp, and twice they had been wrested from his arms; these +things, it was plain, were not for him. He was too old, he told himself, +ever to make a further effort. No, there was nothing before him now but +to live out his loveless life alone, to sink into a peevish, selfish old +bachelor, and to make a will in Maurice's favour, and get himself out of +the world that wanted him not with as much expedition as might be. + +And he loved Vera still. She was still to him the most pure and perfect +of women--good as she was beautiful. Her loveliness haunted him by day +and by night, till the bitter thought of what might have been and the +contrast of the miserable reality drove him half wild with longings +which he did not know how to repress. He sat at home in his rooms and +moped; there were more streaks of white in his hair than of old, and +there were new lines of care upon his brow--he looked almost an old man +now. He sat indoors and did nothing. It was April by this time, and the +London season was beginning; invitations of all kinds poured in upon him, +but he refused them all; he would go nowhere. Now and then his mother +came to see him and attempted to cheer and to rouse him; she had even +asked him to come down to Walpole Lodge, but he had declined her request +almost ungraciously. + +He never had much in common with his mother, and he felt no desire now +for her sympathy; besides, the first time she had come she had been +angry, and had called Vera a jilt, and that had offended him bitterly; he +had rebuked her sternly, and she had been too wise to repeat the offence; +but he had not forgotten it. Maurice, indeed, he would have been glad to +see, but Maurice did not come near him. His regiment had lately moved to +Manchester, and either he could not or would not get leave; and yet he +had been idle enough at one time, and glad to run up to town upon the +smallest pretext. Now he never came. It added a little to his irritation, +but scarcely to his misery. On this particular afternoon, as he sat as +usual brooding over the past, there came the sudden clatter of carriage +wheels over the flagged roadway of the little back street, followed by a +sharp ring at his door. It was his mother, of course; no other woman came +to see him; he heard the rustle of her soft silken skirts up the narrow +staircase, and her pleasant little chatter to the fat old landlady who +was ushering her up, and presently the door opened and she came in. + +"Good morning, John. Dear me, how hot and stuffy this room is," holding +up her soft old face to her son. + +He just touched her cheek. "I am sorry you find it so--shall I open the +window?" + +"Oh!" sinking down in a chair, and throwing back her cloak; "how can you +stand a fire in the room, it is quite mild and spring-like out. Have you +not been out, John? it would do you good to get a little fresh air." + +"I shall go round to the club presently, I daresay," he answered, +abstractedly, sitting down in his arm-chair again; all the pleasant +flutter that the bright old lady brought with her, the atmosphere of life +and variety that surrounded her, only vexed and wearied him, and jarred +upon his nerves. She was always telling him to go somewhere or to do +something; why couldn't she let him alone? he thought, irritably. + +"To your club? No further than that? Why, you might as well stay at home. +Really, my dear, it's a great pity you don't go about and see some of +your old friends; you can't mean to shut yourself up like a dormouse for +ever, I suppose!" + +"I haven't the least idea what I mean to do," he answered, not +graciously; she was his mother, and so he could not very well put her out +at the door, but that was what he would have liked to do. + +"I don't see," continued Lady Kynaston, with unwonted courage, "I don't +at all see why you should let this unfortunate affair weigh on you for +ever; there is really no reason why you should not console yourself and +marry some nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only too +ready to have you if you will only take that trouble----" + +"Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that," he said, +interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, and +there was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat. +"Never speak to me of marrying again. I shall never marry any one." He +looked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashes +in the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity--if he had +only added, "I have suffered too much, I love her still"--all her +mother's heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not her +favourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity, +he only wanted her to go away. + +"It is a great pity," she answered, stiffly, "because of Kynaston." + +"I shall never set foot at Kynaston again." + +Her colour rose a little--after all, she was a cunning little old lady. +The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down and +patted it. "Good dog, good little Vic," she said, a little nervously; +then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again. "John, it +is a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin; +though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped that +you would. It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thought +that the old place was always to lie empty." + +"I cannot help it," he answered, moodily, wishing more than ever that she +would go. + +"John;" she fidgeted with her bonnet strings, and her voice trembled a +little; "John, if you are quite sure you will never live there yourself, +why should not Maurice have it?" + +"Maurice! Has he told you to ask for it?" He sat bolt upright in +his chair; he was attentive enough now; the idea that Maurice had +commissioned his mother to ask for something he had not ventured to ask +for himself was not pleasant to him. "Is it Maurice who has sent you?" + +"No, no, my dear John; certainly not; why, I haven't seen Maurice for +weeks and weeks; he never comes to town now. But I'll tell you why the +idea came to me. I called just now in Princes Gate; poor old Mr. Harlowe +has had a stroke--it is certain he cannot live long now, after the severe +attack he had of bronchitis, too, two months ago. I just saw Helen for a +minute, she reported him to be unconscious. If he dies, he must surely +leave Helen something; it may not be all, but it will be at least a +competency; and I was thinking, John, that if you did not want Kynaston, +and would let them live there, the marriage might come off at last; they +have been attached to each other a long time, and to live rent free would +be a great thing." + +"How are they to keep it up? Kynaston is an expensive place." + +"Well, I thought, John, perhaps, if Maurice looks after the property, you +might consider him as your agent, and allow him something, and that and +her money----" + +"Yes, yes, I understand; well, I will see; wait, at all events, till Mr. +Harlowe is dead. I will think it over. No, I don't see any reason why +they should not live there if they like;" he sighed, wearily, and his +mother went away, feeling that she had reason to be satisfied with her +morning's work. + +She was in such a hurry to install her darling there--to see him viceroy +in the place where now it was certain he must eventually be king. Why +should he be doomed to wait till Kynaston came to him in the course of +nature; why should he not enter upon his kingdom at once, since Sir John, +by his own confession, would never marry or live there himself? + +Lady Kynaston was very far from wishing evil to her eldest son, but for +years she had hoped that he would remain unmarried; for a short time she +had been forced to lay her dreams aside, and she had striven to forget +them and to throw herself with interest into her eldest son's engagement; +but now that the marriage was broken off, all her old schemes and plans +came back to her again. She was working and planning again for Maurice's +happiness and aggrandisement. She wanted to see him in his father's +house, "Kynaston of Kynaston," before she died, and to know that his +future was safe. To see him married to Helen and living at Kynaston +appeared to her to be the very best that she could desire for him. In +time, of course, the title and the money would be his too; meanwhile, +with old Mr. Harlowe's fortune, an ample allowance from his brother, and +all the prestige of his old name and his old house, she should live to +see him take his own rightful place among the magnates of his native +county. That would be far better than to be a captain in a line regiment, +barely able to live upon his income. That was all she coveted for him, +and she said to herself that her ambition was not unreasonable, and that +it would be hard indeed if it might not be gratified. + +As she drove homewards to Walpole Lodge she felt that her schemes were in +a fair way for success. She was not going to let Maurice know of them too +soon; by-and-by, when all was settled, she would tell him; she would keep +it till then as a pleasant surprise. + +All the same, she had been unable to refrain from telling Helen Romer +something of what was in her mind. + +"If John does not marry, he might perhaps make Maurice his agent and let +him live at Kynaston," she had said to her a few days ago when they had +been speaking of old Mr. Harlowe's illness. + +"How would Maurice like to leave the army?" Helen had asked. + +"If he marries, he must do so," his mother had replied, significantly; +and Helen's heart had beat high with hope and triumph. + +Again to-day, on her way to her eldest son's rooms, she had stopped at +Princes Gate and had alluded to it. + +"I am on my way to see Sir John; I shall sound him about his intentions +with regard to Kynaston, but, of course, I must go to work cautiously;" +and Helen had perfectly understood that she herself had entered into the +old lady's scheme for her younger son's future. + +Sitting alone in the hushed house, where the doctors are coming and +going in the darkened room above, Helen feels that at last the reward +of all her long waiting may be at hand. Love and wealth at last seemed +to beckon to her. Her grandfather dead; his fortune hers; and this offer +of a home at Kynaston, which Maurice himself would be sure to like so +much--everything good seemed coming to her at last. + +And there was something about the idea of living at Kynaston that +gratified her particularly. Helen had not forgotten the week at +Shadonake. Too surely had her woman's instinct told her that Maurice and +Vera had been drawn to each other by a strong and mutual attraction. The +wildest jealousy and hatred against Vera burnt fiercely in her lawless, +untutored heart. She hated her, for she knew that Maurice loved her. To +live thus under her very eyes as Maurice's wife, in the very house her +rival herself had once been on the point of inhabiting, was a notion that +commended itself to her with all the sweetness of gratified revenge, with +all the charm of flaunting her success and triumph in the face of the +other woman's failure which is dear to such a nature as Helen's. + +She alone, of all those who had heard of Vera's broken engagement, had +divined its true cause. She loved Maurice--that was plain to Helen; that +was why she had thrown over Sir John, and at her heart Helen despised her +for it. A woman must be a fool indeed to wreck herself at the last moment +for a merely sentimental reason. There was much, however, that was +incomprehensible to Helen Romer in the situation of things, which she +only half understood. + +If Maurice loved Vera, why was it that he was in Manchester whilst she +was still in Meadowshire? that was what Helen could not understand. A +sure instinct told her that Maurice must know better than any one why his +brother's marriage had been broken off. But, if so, then why were he and +Vera apart? It did not strike her that his honour to his brother and his +promises to herself were what kept him away. Helen said to herself, +scornfully, that they were both of them timid and cowardly, and did not +half know how to play out life's game. + +"In her place, with her cards in my hand, I would have married him by +this," she said to herself, as she sat alone in her grandfather's +drawing-room, while her busy fingers ran swiftly through the meshes of +her knitting, and the doctor and the hired nurse paced about the room +overhead. "But she has not the pluck for it; his heart may be hers, but, +for all that, I shall win him; and how bitterly she will repent that she +ever interfered with him when she sees him daily there--my husband! And +in time he will forget her and learn to love me; Maurice will never be +false to a woman when once she is his wife; I am not afraid of that. How +dared she meddle with him?--_my_ Maurice!" + +The door softly opened, and one of the doctors stepped in on tip-toe. +Helen rose and composed her face into a decorous expression of mournful +anxiety. + +"I am happy to tell you, Mrs. Romer," began the doctor. Helen's heart +sank down chill and cold within her. + +"Is he better?" she faltered, striving to conceal the dismay which she +felt. + +"He has rallied. Consciousness has returned, and partial use of the +limbs. We may be able to pull your grandfather through this time, I +trust." + +Put off again! How wretched and how guilty she felt herself to be! It was +almost a crime to wish for any one's death so much. + +She sank down again pale and spiritless upon her chair as the doctor left +the room. + +"Never mind," she said to herself, presently; "it can't last for ever. It +must be soon now, and I shall be Maurice's wife in the end." + +But all this time she had forgotten Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet, whom +she had not seen again since the night she had driven him home from +Walpole Lodge. + +He had left England, she knew. Helen privately hoped he had left this +earth. Any way, he had not troubled her, and she had forgotten him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +WHAT SHE WAITED FOR. + + Go, forget me; why should sorrow + O'er that brow a shadow fling? + Go, forget me, and to-morrow + Brightly smile and sweetly sing. + Smile--though I shall not be near thee; + Sing--though I shall never hear thee. + + Chas. Wolfe. + + +All this time what of Vera? Would any one of them at the vicarage ever +forget that morning when she had come in after her walk with Sir John +Kynaston, and had stood before them all and, pale as a ghost, had said to +them, + +"I am not going to be married; I have broken it off." + +It had been a great blow to them, but neither the prayers of her weeping +sister, nor the angry indignation of old Mrs. Daintree, nor even the +gentle remonstrances of her brother-in-law could serve to alter her +determination, nor would she enter into any explanation concerning her +conduct. + +It was not pleasant, of course, to be reviled and scolded, to be +questioned and marvelled at, to be treated like a naughty child in +disgrace; and then, whenever she went out, to feel herself tabooed by her +acquaintances as a young woman who had behaved very disgracefully; or +else to be stared at as a natural curiosity by persons whom she hardly +knew. + +But she lived through all this bravely. There was a certain amount of +unnatural excitement which kept up her courage and enabled her to face +it. It was no more than what she had expected. The glow of her love and +her impulse of self-sacrifice were still upon her; her nerves had been +strung to the uttermost, and she felt strong in the knowledge of the +justice and the right of her own conduct. + +But by-and-by all this died away. Sir John left the neighbourhood; +people got tired of talking about her broken-off marriage; there was no +longer any occasion for her to be brave and steadfast. Life began to +resume for her its normal aspect, the aspect which it had worn in the old +days before Sir John had ever come down to Kynaston, or ever found her +day-dreaming in the churchyard upon Farmer Crupps' family sarcophagus. +The tongue of the sour-tempered old lady, snapping and snarling at her +with more than the bitterness of old, and the suppressed sighs and +mournful demeanour of her sister, whose sympathy and companionship she +had now completely forfeited, and who went about the house with a face +of resigned woe and the censure of an ever implied rebuke in her voice +and manner. + +Only the vicar took her part somewhat. "Let her alone," he said, +sometimes, to his wife and mother; "she must have had a better reason +than we any of us know of; the girl is suffering quite enough--leave her +alone." + +And she was suffering. The life that she had doomed herself to was almost +unbearable to her. The everlasting round of parish work and parish talk, +the poor people and the coal-clubs--it was what she had come back to. She +had been lifted for a short time out of it all, and a new life, congenial +to her tastes and to her nature, had opened out before her; and yet with +her own hands she had shut the door upon this brighter prospect, and had +left herself out in the darkness, to go back to that life of dull +monotony which she hated. + +And what had she gained by it? What single advantage had she reaped +out of her sacrificed life? Was Maurice any nearer to her--was he not +hopelessly divided from her--helplessly out of her reach? She knew +nothing of him, no word concerning him reached her ears: a great blank +was before her. When she went over the past again and again in her mind, +she could not well see what good thing could ever come to her from what +she had done. There were moments indeed when the whole story of her +broken engagement seemed to her like the wild delusion of madness. She +had had no intention of acknowledging her love to Maurice when she had +gone up to the station to see him off; she had only meant to see him +once more, to hold his hand for one instant, to speak a few kind words; +to wish him God speed. She asked herself now what had possessed her that +she had not been able to preserve the self-control of affectionate +friendship when the unfortunate accident of her being taken on in the +train with him had left her entirely alone in his society. She did not +go the length of regretting what she had done for his sake; but she did +acknowledge to herself that she had been led away by the magnetism of his +presence and by the strange and unexpected chance which had thus left her +alone with him into saying and doing things which in a calmer moment she +would not have been betrayed into. + +For a few kisses--for the joy of telling him that his love was +returned--for a short moment of delirious and transient happiness, and +alas! for nothing more--she had thrown away her life! + +She had behaved hardly and cruelly to a good man who loved her, and whose +heart she had half broken, and she had lost a great many very excellent +and satisfactory things. + +And Maurice was no nearer to her. With his own lips he had told her +that he could not marry her. There had been mention, indeed, of that +problematical term of five years, in which he had bound himself to await +Mrs. Romer's pleasure--but, even had Mrs. Romer not existed, it was plain +that Maurice was the last man in the world to take advantage of a woman's +weakness in order to supplant his brother in her heart. + +Instinctively Vera felt that Maurice must be no less miserable than +herself; that his regret for what had happened between them must be as +great as her own, and his remorse far greater. They were, indeed, neither +of them blameless in the matter; for, if it was Maurice who had first +spoken of his love to his brother's promised wife, it was Vera who had +made that irrevocable step along the road of her destiny from which no +going back was now possible. + +It was a time of utter misery to her. If she sat indoors there was +the persecution of Mrs. Daintree's ill-natured remarks, and Marion's +depression of spirits and half-uttered regrets; and there was also the +scaffolding rising round the chancel walls to be seen from the windows, +and the sound of the sawing of the masonry in the churchyard, as a +perpetual, reproachful reminder of the friend whose kindness and +affection she had so ill requited. If she went out, she could not go up +the lane without passing the gates of Kynaston, or towards the village +without catching sight of the venerable old house among its terraced +gardens, which, so lately, she had thought would be her home. Sometimes +she met her old friend, Mrs. Eccles, in her wanderings, but she did not +venture to speak to her; the cold disapproval in the housekeeper's +passing salutation made her shrink, like a guilty creature, in her +presence; and she would hurry by with scarcely an answering sign, with +downcast eyes and heightened colour. + +Somehow, it came to pass in these days that Vera drifted into a degree +of intimacy with Beatrice Miller that would, possibly, never have come +about had the circumstances of her life been different. Ever since her +accidental meeting with the lovers outside Tripton station Vera had, +perforce, become a confidant of their hopes and fears; and Beatrice was +glad enough to have found a friend to whom she could talk about her +lover, for where is the woman who can completely hold her tongue +concerning her own secrets? + +Against all the long category of female virtues, as advantageously +displayed in contradistinction to masculine vices, there is still this +one peculiarity which, of itself, marks out the woman as the inferior +animal. + +A man, to be worthy of the name, holds his tongue and keeps the +secret of his heart to himself, enjoying it and delighting in it the +more, possibly, for his reticence. A woman may occasionally--very +occasionally--be silent respecting her neighbour, but concerning herself +she is bound to have at least one confidant to whom she will rashly tell +the long story of her loves and her sorrows; and not a consideration +either of prudence or of worldly wisdom will suffice to restrain her too +ready tongue. + +Beatrice Miller was a clever girl, with a fair knowledge of the world; +yet she was in no way dismayed that Vera should have discovered her +secret; on the contrary, she was overjoyed that she had now found some +one to talk to about it. + +Vera became her friend, but Beatrice was not Vera's friend--the +confidences were not mutual. Over and over again Beatrice was on the +point of questioning her concerning the story that had been on every +one's lips for a time; of asking her what, indeed, was the truth about +her broken engagement; but always the proud, still face restrained her +curiosity, and the words died away unspoken upon her lips. + +Vera's story, indeed, was not one that could be easily revealed. There +was too much of bitter regret, too great an element of burning shame at +her heart, for its secrets to be laid bare to a stranger's eye. + +Nevertheless, Beatrice's society amused and distracted her mind, and kept +her from brooding over her own troubles. She was glad enough to go over +to Shadonake; even to sit alone with Beatrice and her mother was better +than the eternal monotony of the vicarage, where she felt like a prisoner +waiting for his sentence. + +Yes, she was waiting. Waiting for some sign from the man she loved. +Sooner or later, whether it was for good or for evil, she knew it must +come to her; some token that he remembered her existence; some indication +as to what he would have her do with the life that she had laid at his +feet. For, after all, when a woman loves a man, she virtually makes him +the ruler of her destiny; she leaves the responsibility of her fate in +his hands. For the nonce, Maurice Kynaston held the skein of Vera's life +in his grasp; it was for him to do what he pleased with it. Some day, +doubtless, he would tell her what she had to do: meanwhile, she waited. + +What else, indeed, can a woman do but wait? To sit still with folded +hands and bated breath, to possess her soul in patience as best she may, +to still the wild beatings of her all too eager spirit--that is what a +woman has to do, and does often enough. God help her, all too badly. + +It is so easy when one is old, and the pulses are sluggish, and the hot +passions of youth are quelled, it is so easy then to learn that lesson +of waiting; but when we are young, and our best days slipping away, and +life's hopes all before us, and life's burdens well-nigh unbearable; then +it is that it is hard, that waiting in itself becomes terrible--more +terrible almost than the worst of our woes. + +So wearily, feverishly, impatiently enough, Vera waited. + +Winter died away into spring. The rough wind of March, worn out with its +own boisterous passions, sobbed itself to rest like a tired child, and +little green buds came cropping up sparsely and timidly out of the brown +bosom of the earth; and, presently, all the glory of the golden crocuses +unfolded itself in long golden lines in the vicarage garden; and there +were twittering of birds and flutterings of soft breezes among the +tree-tops, and a voice seemed to go forth over the face of the earth. +The winter is over, and summer is nigh at hand. + +And then it came to her at last. An envelope by the side of her plate +at breakfast; a few scrawled words in a handwriting she had never seen +before, and yet identified with an unfailing instinct, ere even she broke +the seal. One minute of wild hope, to be followed by a sick, chill +numbness, and the story of her love and its longings shrank away into +the despair of impossibility. + +How small a thing to make so great a misery! What a few words to make a +wilderness of a human life! + +_"Her grandfather is dead, and she has claimed me. Good-bye; forget me +and forgive me."_ + +That was all; nothing more. No passionate regrets, no unavailing +self-pity; nothing to tell her what it cost him to resign her; no word to +comfort her for the hopelessness of his desertion; nothing but those two +lines. + +There was a chattering going on at the table around her. Tommy was +clamouring for bread and butter; the vicar was reading out the telegrams +from the seat of war; Marion was complaining that the butter was not +good; the maid-servant was bringing in the hot bacon and eggs--it all +went on like a dream around her; presently, like a voice out of a fog, +somebody spoke to her: + +"Vera, are you not feeling well? You look as if you were going to faint." + +And then she crunched the letter in her hand and recalled herself to +life. + +"I am quite well, thanks," and busied herself with attending to the wants +of the children. + +The vicar glanced up over his spectacles. "No bad news, I hope, my dear." + +Oh! why could they not let her alone? But somehow she sat through the +breakfast, and answered all their questions, and bore herself bravely; +and when it was over and she was free to go away by herself with her +trouble, then by that time the worst of it was over. + +There are some people whom sorrow softens and touches, but Vera was not +one of them. Her whole soul revolted and rebelled against her fate. She +said to herself that for once she had let her heart guide her; she had +cast aside the crust of worldliness and self-indulgence in which she had +been brought up. She had listened to the softer whisperings of the better +nature within her--she had been true to herself--and lo! what had come of +it? + +But now she had learnt her lesson; there were to be no more dreams of +pure and unsullied happiness for her,--no more cravings after what was +good and true and lovely; henceforth she would go back to the teachings +of her youth, to the experience which had told her that a handsome woman +can always command her life as she pleases, and that wealth, which is a +tangible reality, is better worth striving after than the vain shadow +called love, which all talk about and so few make any practical +sacrifices for. Well, she, Vera Nevill, had tried it, and had made her +sacrifices; and what remained to her? Only the fixed determination to +crush it down again within her as if it had never been, and to carve out +her fortunes afresh. Only that she started again at a disadvantage--for +now she knew to her cost that she possessed the fatal power of +loving--the knowledge of good and evil, of which she had eaten +the poisoned fruit. + +There were no tears in Vera's eyes as she wandered slowly up and down the +garden paths between the straight yellow lines of the crocus heads. + +Her lover had forsaken her. Well, let him go. She told herself that, had +he loved her truly, no power on earth would have been great enough to +keep him from her. She said to herself scornfully--she, Vera Nevill, who +was prepared to sell herself to the highest bidder--that it was Mrs. +Romer's money that kept him from her. Well, let him go to her, then? but +for herself life must begin afresh. + +And then she set to work to think about what she could do. To remain here +at Sutton any longer was impossible. It was absolutely necessary that she +should get away from it all, from the family upon whose hands she was +nothing now but a beautiful, helpless burden, and still more from the +haunting memories of Kynaston and all the unfortunate things that had +happened to her here. + +Suddenly, out of the memories of her girlhood, she recollected the +existence of a woman who had been her friend once in the old happy days, +when she had lived with her sister Theodora. It was one of those passing +friendships which come and go for a month or two in one's life. + +A pretty, spoilt girl, married four, perhaps five, years ago to a rich +man, a banker; who had taken a fancy to Vera, and had pleased herself by +decking her out in a quaint costume to figure at a carnival party; who +had kissed her rapturously at parting, swearing eternal friendship, +giving her her address in London, and making her promise never to be in +England without going to see her. And then she had gone her way, and had +never come back again the next winter, as she had promised to do; a +letter or two had passed between them, and afterwards Vera had forgotten +her. But somewhere upstairs she must have got her direction still. + +It was to this friend she would go; and, turning her back for a time +at least upon Meadowshire and its memories, she would see whether, in +the whirl of London life, she could not crush out the pain at her heart, +and live down the fatal weakness that had led her astray from all the +traditions of her youth, and from that cold and prudent wisdom which had +stood her in good stead for so many years. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A MORNING WALK. + + And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, + The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. + + Goldsmith. + + +A bright May morning, cold, it is true, and with a biting wind from the +east--as indeed our English May mornings generally are--but sunny and +cloudless as the heart can desire. On such a morning people do their best +to pretend that it is summer. Crowds turn out into the park, and sit +about recklessly on the iron chairs, or lounge idly by the railings; and +the women-folk, with that fine disregard of what is, when it is +antagonistic of what they wish it to be, don their white cottons and +muslins, and put up their parasols against the sun's rays, and, shivering +inwardly, poor things, openly brave the terrors of rheumatism and +lumbago, and make up their minds that it _shall_ be summer. + +The sunblinds are drawn all along the front windows of a house in Park +Lane, and though the gay geraniums and calceolarias in the flower-boxes, +which were planted only yesterday, look already nipped and shrivelled up +with the cold, the house, nevertheless, presents from the exterior a +bright and well-cared-for appearance. + +Within the drawing-room are two ladies. One, the mistress of the house, +is seated at the writing-table with her back to the room, scribbling off +invitations for dear life, cards for an afternoon "at-home," at the rate +of six per minute; the other sits idle in a low basket-chair doing +nothing. + +There is no sound but the scratching of the quill pen as it flies over +the paper, and the chirping of a bullfinch in a cage in the bow-window. + +"What time is it, Vera?" + +"A quarter to twelve." + +"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are you +going to wear--white?" + +Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying--it must be dreadfully cold +out--I should like to put on a fur jacket." + +"_Do_," says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, and +attract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than you +are." + +Vera smiles, and does not answer. + +Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task. + +"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, and +piling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at your +orders." + +She comes forward into the room--a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman, +with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplement +all that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restless +movements and an ever-ready tongue--a thorough daughter of the London +world she lives in. + +Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy," she +says, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day." + +"Go home! certainly not, my dear. Don't you know that I have sworn to +find you a husband before the season is out? I must really get you +married, Vera. I have half a mind," she adds, reflectively, as she +smooths down her shining brown hair at the glass, and contemplates, not +ill satisfied, her image there--"I have really half a mind to let you +have the boy if I could manage to spare him." + +"Do you think he would make a devoted husband?" asks Vera, with a lazy +smile. + +"My dear child, don't be a fool. What is the use of devotion in a +husband? All one wants is a good fellow, who will let one alone. After +all, the boy might not answer. I am afraid, Vera," turning round suddenly +upon her, "I am very much afraid that boy is in love with you; it's +horrid of you to take him from me, because he is so useful, and I really +can't well do without him. I am going to pay him out to-night though: he +is to sit opposite you at dinner; he will only be able to gaze at you." + +"That is hard upon us both." + +"Pooh! don't waste your time upon him. I shall do better than that for +you; he is an eldest son, it is true, but Sir Charles looks as young as +his son, and is quite as likely to live as long. It is only married women +who can afford the luxury of ineligibles. Go and dress, child." + +Half-an-hour later Mrs. Hazeldine and Miss Nevill are to be found upon +two chairs on the broad and shady side of the Row, where a small crowd of +men is already gathered around them. + +Vera, coming up a stranger, and self-invited to the house of her old +acquaintance a few weeks ago, had already created a sensation in London. +Her rare beauty, the strange charm of her quiet, listless manner, the +shade of melancholy which had of late imperceptibly crept over her, +aroused a keen admiration and interest in her, even in that city, which +more than all others is satiated with its manifold types of beautiful +women. + +There was a rush to get introduced to her; a _furore_ to see her. As she +went through a crowd people whispered her name and made way for her to +pass, staring at her after a fashion which is totally modern and +detestably ill-bred; and yet which, sad token of the _decadence_ of +things in these later days, is not beneath the dignity or the manners +of persons whose breeding is supposed to be beyond dispute. + +Already the "new beauty" had been favourably contrasted with the +well-known reigning favourites; and it was the loudly expressed opinion +of more than one-half of the _jeunesse dorée_ of the day that not one of +the others could "hold a candle to her, by Jove!" + +Mrs. Hazeldine was delighted. It was she to whom belonged the honour of +bringing this new star into notice; the credit of launching her upon +London society was her own. She found herself courted and flattered and +made up to in a wholly new and delightful manner. The men besieged her +for invitations to her house; the women pressed her to come to theirs. It +was all for Miss Nevill's sake, of course, but, even so, it was very +pleasant, and Mrs. Hazeldine dearly loved the importance of her position. + +It came to pass that, whereas she had been somewhat put out at the letter +of her old Roman acquaintance, offering to come and stay with her, and +had been disposed to resent the advent of her self-invited guest as an +infliction, which a few needlessly gushing words in the past had brought +upon herself, she had, in a very short time, discovered that she could +not possibly exist without her darling Vera, and that she would not and +could not let her go back again to her country vicarage. + +It was, possibly, what Vera had counted upon. It was pretty certain to +have been either one thing or the other. Either her beauty would arouse +Mrs. Hazeldine's jealousy, and she would be glad to be rid of her as +quickly as possible, or else she would be proud of her, and wish to +retain her as an attraction to her house. Fortunately for Vera, Cissy +Hazeldine, worldly, frivolous, pleasure-loving as she was, was, +nevertheless, utterly devoid of the mean and petty spitefulness which +goes far to disfigure many a better woman's character. She was not +jealous of Vera; on the contrary, she was as unfeignedly proud of her as +though she had created her. Besides, as she said to herself, "Our style +is so different, we are not likely to clash." + +When she found that in a month's time Vera's beauty had made her house +the most popular one in London, and that people struggled for her +invitation-cards and prayed to be introduced to her, Mrs. Hazeldine was +at the zenith of her delight and self-importance. If only Vera herself +had been a little more practicable! + +"I don't despair of getting you introduced to royalty before the season +is out," she would say, triumphantly. + +"I don't want to be introduced to royalty," Vera would answer +indifferently. + +"Oh! Vera, how can you be so disloyal? And it's quite wicked too; almost +against Scripture. Honour the King, you know it says somewhere; of course +that means the Prince of Wales too." + +"I can honour him very well without being introduced to him," said Vera, +who, however, let me assure you, was filled with feelings of profound +loyalty towards the reigning family. + +"But only think what a triumph it would be over those other horrid women +who think themselves at the top of the tree!" Mrs. Hazeldine would urge, +with a curious conglomeration of ideas, sacred and profane. + +But Vera was indifferent to the honour of becoming acquainted with his +Royal Highness. + +Another of Mrs. Hazeldine's troubles was that she absolutely refused to +be photographed. + +"Your portrait might be in every shop window if you chose!" Mrs. +Hazeldine would exclaim, despairingly. + +"I may be very depraved, Cissy," Vera would answer, indignantly, "but I +have not yet sunk so low as to desire that every draper's assistant may +have the privilege of buying my likeness for a shilling to stick up on +his mantelshelf, with a tight-rope dancer on one side, and a burlesque +actress on the other!" + +"My dear, it is done by every one; and women who are beautiful as you are +ought not to mind being admired." + +"But I prefer being admired by my friends only, and by those of my own +class. I have no ambition to expose myself, even in effigy, in a shop +window for the edification of street boys and city clerks." + +"Well, you can't help your name having been in _Vanity Fair_ this week!" + +"No, and I only wish I could get hold of the man who put it there!" cried +Miss Nevill, viciously; and it is certain that unfortunate literary +person would not have relished the interview. + +A "beauty" with such strange and unnatural views was, it must be +confessed, as much of a trial as a triumph to an anxious chaperon. + +There was a certain amount of fashionable routine, the daily treadmill +of pleasure, to which, however, Vera submitted readily enough, and even +extracted a good deal of enjoyment out of it. There was the morning +saunter into the Row, the afternoons spent at garden parties or +"at-homes," the evenings filled up with dinner parties, to be followed +almost invariably by balls lasting late into the night. All these things +repeat themselves year after year: they are utter weariness to some of +us, but to her they were still new, and Vera entered into the daily whirl +of the London season with an amount of zest which was almost a surprise +to herself. + +Just at first there had been a daily terror upon her, that of meeting Sir +John Kynaston or his brother; but London is a large place, and you may go +out to different houses for many nights running without ever coming +across the friend or the foe whom you desire or dread most to encounter. + +After a little while, she forgot to glance hurriedly and fearfully around +her every time she entered a ball-room, or to look up shudderingly each +time the door was opened and a fresh guest announced at a dinner-party. +She never met either of them, nor did the name of Kynaston ever strike +upon her ear. + +She told herself that she had forgotten the two brothers, whose fate had +seemed at one time so intimately bound up with her own--the one as well +as the other. They were nothing more to her now--they had passed away out +of her life. Henceforth she had entered upon a new course, in which her +beauty and her mother wit were to exact their full value, but in which +her heart was to count for nothing more. It was to be smothered up within +her. That, together with all the best, and sweetest, and truest part of +her, once awakened for a brief space by the magic touch of love, was now +to be extinguished within her as though they had never been. + +Meanwhile Vera enjoys herself. + +She looks happy enough now as she sits by her friend's side in the park, +with a little knot of admirers about her; not taking very much trouble to +talk to them, indeed, but smiling serenely from one to the other, letting +herself be talked to and amused, with just a word here and there, to show +them she is listening to what they say. It is, perhaps, the secret of her +success that she is so thoroughly indifferent to it all. It matters so +little to her whether they come or go; there is so little eagerness about +her, so perfect an _insouciance_ of manner. Other women lay themselves +out to attract and to be admired; Vera only sits still, and waits with a +certain queenliness of manner for the worship that is laid at her feet, +and which she receives as her due. + +Behind her, with his hand on the back of her chair, stands a young fellow +of about two or three and twenty; he does not speak to her much, nor join +in the merry, empty chatter that is going on around her; but it is easy +to see by the way he looks down at her, by the fashion in which he +watches her slightest movement, that Vera exercises no ordinary influence +over him. + +He is a tall, slight-figured boy, with very fair yellow hair and delicate +features; his blue eyes are frank and pleasant, but his mouth is a trifle +weak and vacillating, and the lips are too sensitively cut for strength +of character, whilst his chest is too narrow for strength of body. He is +carefully dressed, and wears a white, heavy-scented flower in his coat, +a flower which, five minutes ago, he had ineffectually attempted to +transfer to Miss Nevill's dress; but Vera had only gently pushed back his +hand. "My dear boy, pray keep your gardenia; a flower in one's dress is +such a nuisance, it is always tumbling out." + +Denis Wilde, "the boy," as Mrs. Hazeldine called him with a flush on his +fair face, had put it back quietly in his button-hole, too well bred to +show the pain he felt by flinging it, as he would have liked to do, over +the railing, to be trampled under the feet of the horses. + +The little group kept its place for some time, the two well-dressed and +good-looking women sitting down, the two or three idlers who stood in +front of them gossiping about nothing at all--last night's ball, to-day's +plans, a little bit of scandal about one passer-by, somebody's rumoured +engagement, somebody else's reported elopement. Denis Wilde stood behind +Vera's chair and listened to it all, the well-known familiar chatter +of a knot of London idlers. There was nothing new or interesting or +entertaining about it. Only a string of names, some of which were strange +to him, but most of which were familiar; and always some little story, +ill-natured or harmless as the case might be, about each name that was +mentioned. And Vera listened, smiling, assenting, but only half +attentive, with her eyes dreamily fixed upon the long procession of +riders passing ever ceaselessly to and fro along the ride. + +Suddenly Denis Wilde felt a sudden movement of the chair beneath his +hand. Vera had started violently. + +"Here comes Sir John Kynaston," the man before her was saying to his +companion. "What a time it is since he has shown himself; he looks as if +he had had a bad illness." + +"Some woman jilted him, I've heard," answered the other man: "some girl +down in the country. People say, Miss Nevill, he is going to die of that +old-fashioned complaint, which you certainly will not believe in, a +broken heart! Poor old boy, he looks as if he had been buried, and had +come up again for a breath of air!" + +Vera followed the direction of their eyes. Sir John was walking slowly +towards them; he was thin and careworn; he looked aged beyond all belief. +He walked slowly, as though it were an effort to him, with his eyes upon +the ground. He had not seen her yet; in another minute he would be within +a couple of yards of her. It was next to impossible that he could avoid +seeing her, the centre, as she was, of that noisy, chattering group. + +A sort of despair seized her. How was she to meet him--this man whom she +had so cruelly treated? She could _not_ meet him; she felt that it was an +impossibility. Like an imprisoned bird that seeks to escape, she looked +about instinctively from side to side. What possible excuse could she +frame? In what direction could she fly to avoid the glance of reproach +that would smite her to the heart. + +Suddenly Denis Wilde bent down over her. + +"Miss Nevill, there goes a _Dachshund_, exactly like the one you wanted; +come quickly, and we shall catch him up. He ran away down here." + +She sprang up and turned after him; a path leading away from the crowded +Row, towards the comparatively empty park at the back, opened out +immediately behind her chair. + +Young Wilde strode rapidly along it before her, and Vera followed him +blindly and thankfully. + +After a few minutes he stopped and turned round. + +"Where is--the dog--wasn't it a dog, you said? Where is it?" She was +white and trembling. + +"There is no dog," he answered, not looking at her. "I--I saw you wanted +to get away for a minute. You will forgive me, won't you?" + +Vera looked at him with a sudden earnestness. The watchfulness which had +seen her distress, the ready tact which had guessed at her desire to +escape, and had so promptly suggested the manner of it, touched her +suddenly. She put forth her hand gently and almost timidly. + +"Thank you," she said, simply. "I did not imagine you were so clever--or +so kind." + +The boy blushed deeply with pleasure. He did not know her trouble, but +the keen eye of love had guessed at its existence. It had been easy for +him who watched her every look, who knew every shade and every line of +her face, to tell that she was in distress, to interpret her pallor and +her trembling terror aright. + +"You don't want to go back?" he asked. + +"Oh, no, I cannot go back! Besides, I am tired; it is time to go home." + +"Stay here, then, and I will call Mrs. Hazeldine." + +He left her standing alone upon the grass, and went back to the crowded +path. Presently he returned with her friend. + +"My dear Vera, what is the matter? The boy says you have such a headache! +I am so sorry, and I wouldn't let any of those chattering fools come back +to lunch. Why, you look quite pale, child! Will it be too much for you to +have the boy, because we will send him away, too, if you like?" + +But Vera turned round and smiled upon the boy. + +"Oh, no, let him come, certainly; but let us go home, all three of us at +once, if you don't mind." + +The thoughtfulness that had kept her secret for her, even from the eyes +of the woman who was supposed to be her intimate friend, surely deserved +its reward. + +They walked home slowly together across the park, and, when Vera came +down to luncheon, a white gardenia had somehow or other found its way to +the bosom of her dress. + +That was Denis Wilde's reward. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +MAURICE'S INTERCESSION. + + Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret. + + B. Disraeli, "Coningsby." + + +Two or three days later the east wind was still blowing, and the chilled +sunshine still feebly shining down upon the nipped lilac and laburnum +blossoms. The garden at Walpole Lodge was shorn of half its customary +beauty, yet to Helen Romer, pacing slowly up and down its gravel walks, +it had never possibly presented a fairer appearance. For Mrs. Romer had +won her battle. All that she had waited for so long and striven for so +hard was at length within her grasp. Her grandfather was dead, his money +had been all left to her, her engagement to Captain Kynaston was an +acknowledged fact, and she herself was staying as an honoured and welcome +guest in her future mother-in-law's house. Everything in the present and +the future seemed to smile upon her, and yet there were drawbacks--as are +there not in most earthly delights?--to the full enjoyment of her +happiness. + +For instance, there was that unreasonable and unaccountable codicil to +her grandfather's will, of which no one had been able to discern either +the sense or the meaning, and which stated that, should his beloved +grand-daughter, Helen Romer, be still unmarried within two months of the +date of his death, the whole of the previous bequests and legacies were +to be revoked and cancelled, and, with the exception of five thousand +pounds which she would retain, the whole bulk of his fortune was to +devolve upon the Crown, for the special use of the pensioners of +Greenwich and Chelsea Hospitals. + +Why such an extraordinary clause had been added to the old man's will it +was difficult to say. Possibly he feared that his grand-daughter might be +tempted to remain unmarried, in order that she might the more freely +squander her newly-acquired fortune in selfish pleasures; possibly he +desired to ensure her future by the speedy shelter and support of a +husband's name and authority, or perhaps he only hoped at his heart that +she would be unable to fulfil his condition; and, whilst his memory would +be left free from blame towards his daughter's orphaned child, his money +might go away from her by her own fault, and enrich the institutions of +his country at the expense of the grand-daughter, whom he had always +disliked. + +Be that as it may, it was sufficient to place Helen in a very awkward and +uncomfortable position. She had not only to claim Maurice's promised +troth to her, but she had also to urge on him an almost immediate +marriage; the task was a thankless and most unpleasant one. + +Besides that, there was the existence of a certain little French vicomte +which caused Mrs. Romer not a little anxiety. Now, if ever, was the time +when she had reason to dread his re-appearance with those fatal letters +with which he had once threatened to spoil her life should she ever +attempt to marry again. + +But her grandfather had died and had left her his money, and her +engagement and approaching marriage to another man was no secret, yet +still Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet made no sign, and gave forth no token +of his promised vengeance. + +Helen dared not flatter herself that he was dead, but she did hope, +and hoped rightly, that he was not in England, and had not heard of +the change in her fortunes. She had been afraid to make any inquiries +concerning him; such a step might only excite suspicion, and defeat her +own object of remaining hidden from him. If only she could be safely +married before he heard of her again--all, she thought, might yet be well +with her. Of what use, then, would be his vengeance? for she did not +think it likely he could be so cruel as to wreak an idle and profitless +revenge upon her after she herself and her fortune were beyond his power. + +Perhaps, had she known that her enemy had been on a distant journey to +Constantinople, from which he was now returning, and that every hour she +lived brought him nearer and nearer to her, she would have been less easy +in her mind concerning him. As it was, she consoled herself by thinking +in how short a time her marriage would put her out of his power, and +hoped, for the rest, that things would all turn out right for her. +Nevertheless, strive how she would, she could not quite put away the +dread of it out of her mind--it was an anxiety. + +And then there was Maurice himself. She had known, of course, for long, +how slight was her hold upon her lover's heart, but never had he appeared +so cold, so unloving, so full of apathetic indifference towards her as he +had seemed to be during the few days since he had arrived at his mother's +house. His every word and look, the very change in his voice when he +turned from his mother to her, told her, as plainly as though he had +spoken it, that she was forcing him into a marriage that was hateful and +repulsive to him, and which duty alone made him submit to. However little +pride a woman may retain, such a position must always bring a certain +amount of bitterness with it. + +To Helen it was gall and wormwood, yet she was all the more determined +upon keeping him. She said to herself that she had toiled, and waited, +and striven for him for too long to relinquish him now that the victory +was hers at length. + +Poor Helen, with all her good looks, and all her many attractions, she +had been so unfortunate with this one man whom she loved! She had always +gone the wrong way to work with him. + +Even now she could not let him alone; she was foolishly jealous and +suspicious. + +He had come to her, all smarting and bleeding still with the sacrifice +he had made of his heart to his duty. He had shut the woman he loved +determinedly out of his thoughts, and had set his face resolutely to do +his duty to the woman whom he seemed destined to marry. Even now a little +softness, a little womanly gentleness and sympathy, and, above all, a +wise forbearance from probing into his still open wounds, might have won +a certain amount of gratitude and affection from him. But Helen was +unequal to this. She only drove him wild with causeless and senseless +jealousy, and goaded him almost to madness by endless suspicions and +irritating cross-questioning. + +It is difficult to know what she expected more of him. He slept under +the same roof with her, he dined at his mother's table, and spent the +evenings religiously in her society. She could not well expect to keep +him also at her side all day long; and yet his daily visits to town, +amounting usually to between three and four hours of absence, were a +constant source of annoyance and disquiet to her. Where did he go? What +did he do with himself? Whom did he see in these diurnal expeditions into +London? She wore herself into a fever with her perpetual effort to fathom +these things. + +Even now she is fretting and fuming because he has promised to be home to +luncheon, and he is twenty minutes late. + +She paces impatiently up and down the garden. Lady Kynaston opens the +French window and calls to her from the house: + +"Come, my dear, lunch is on the table; are you not coming in?" + +"I had rather wait for Maurice, please; do sit down without me," she +answers, with the irritation of a spoilt child. Lady Kynaston closes the +window. "Oh, these lovers!" she groans to herself, somewhat impatiently, +as she sits down alone to the well-furnished luncheon-table; but she +bears it pretty composedly because Helen has her grandfather's money, and +is to bring her son wealth as well as love, and Lady Kynaston is not at +all above being glad of it. One can stand little faults of manner and +temper from a daughter-in-law, who is an heiress, which one would be +justly indignant at were she a pauper. + +A sound of wheels turning in at the lodge-gates--it is Maurice's hansom. + +Helen hurries forward to meet him in the hall; Captain Kynaston is +handing a lady out of the hansom; Helen peers at her suspiciously. + +"I am bringing you ladies a friend to lunch," says Maurice, gaily, and +Mrs. Romer's face clears when she sees that it is Beatrice Miller. + +"Oh, Beatrice, it is you! I am delighted to see you! Go in to the +dining-room, you will find Lady Kynaston. Maurice," drawing him back a +minute, "how late you are again! What have you been doing?" + +"I waited whilst Miss Miller put her bonnet on." + +"Why, where did you meet her?" + +"I met her at her mother's, where I went to call. Have you any +objection?" He looked at her almost defiantly as he answered her +questions; it was intolerable to him that she should put him through +such a catechism. + +"You can't have been there all the morning," she continued, suspiciously; +unable or unwilling, perhaps, to notice his rising displeasure. "Where +did you go first?" + +Maurice bit his lip, but controlled himself with an effort. + +"My dear child," he said, lightly, "one can't sell out of the army, or +prepare for the holy estate of matrimony, without a certain amount of +business on one's hands. Suppose now we go in to lunch." She stepped +aside and let him pass her into the dining-room. + +"He is shuffling again," she said to herself, angrily; "that was no +answer to my question. Is it possible that he sees _her_? But no, what +folly; if she is at Sutton, how can he get at her?" + +"Oh, Helen," cried out Beatrice to her from the table as she entered, +"you and Lady Kynaston are positively out of the world this season. You +know none of the gossip." + +"I go nowhere, of course, now; my grandfather's death is so recent. I +have so many preparations to make just now; and dear Lady Kynaston is +good enough to shut herself up on my account." + +"Exactly; you are a couple of recluses," cried Beatrice. "Now, I daresay +you will never guess who is the new beauty whom all the world is talking +about; no other than our friend Vera Nevill. She is creating a perfect +sensation!" + +"Indeed!" politely, but with frigid unconcern, from Lady Kynaston. + +"Yes; I assure you there is a regular rage about her. Oh, how stupid I +am! Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned her, Lady Kynaston, for of +course she did not behave very well to Sir John, as we all know; but now +that is all over, isn't it? and everybody is wild about her beauty." + +"I am glad to hear that Miss Nevill is prospering in any way," said her +ladyship, stiffly. "I owe her no ill-will, poor girl." + +Helen Romer is looking at Maurice Kynaston; he has not said one single +word, nor has he raised his eyes once from his plate; but a deep flush +has overspread his handsome face at the sound of Vera's name. + +"_That_ is where he goes," said Helen, to herself. "I knew it; he has +seen her, and he loves her still." + +The conversation drifted on to other matters. Beatrice passed all the +gossip and scandal of the town under review for Lady Kynaston's benefit; +presently Maurice roused himself, and joined in the talk. But Mrs. Romer +uttered not a word; she sat in her place with a thunder-cloud upon her +brow until the luncheon was over; then, as they rose from the table, she +called her lover to her side. + +"I want to speak to you," she said, and detained him until the others had +left the room. + +"You knew that Vera Nevill was in town, and you have seen her!" she burst +forth impetuously. + +"If I had seen her, I do not know that it would signify, would it?" he +answered, calmly. + +"Not signify? when you knew that it was for _your_ sake that she threw +over John, because----" + +"Be silent, Helen, you have no right to say that, and no authority for +such a statement," he said, interrupting her hotly. + +"Do you suppose you can deceive me? Did not everybody see that she could +not keep her eyes off you? What is the use of denying it? You have seen +her probably; you have been with her to-day." + +"As it happens, I have _not_ been with her either to-day or any day; nor +did I know she was in town until Beatrice Miller told us so just now." + +"You have not seen her?" + +"No, I have not." + +"I don't believe you!" she answered, angrily. Now, no man likes to be +given the lie direct even by a lady; and Maurice was a man who was +scrupulously truthful, and proud of his veracity; he lost his temper +fairly. + +"I have never told you a lie yet," he began furiously; "and if you think +so, it is time----" + +"Maurice! Maurice!" she cried, frantically, stopping the outspoken words +upon his lips, and seeing in one minute that she had gone too far. "My +darling, forgive me; I did not mean to say it. Yes, of course, I believe +you; don't say anything unkind to me, for pity's sake. You know how much +I love you; kiss me, darling. No, Maurice, I won't let you go till you +kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish, jealous little Helen!" + +It was the old story over again; angry reproaches--bitter words--insults +upon her side; to be succeeded, the minute he turned round upon her, by +wild cries of regret and entreaties for forgiveness, and by the pleading +of that love which he valued so little. + +She drove him wild with anger and indignation; but she never would let +him go--no, never, however much he might strain against the chain by +which she held him. + +The quarrel was patched up again; he stooped and kissed her. A man must +kiss a lady when she asks him. How, indeed, is he to refuse to do so? A +woman's kisses are the roses of life--altogether sweet, and lovely, and +precious. No man can say he dislikes a rose, nor refuse so harmless and +charming a gift when it is freely offered to him without absolute +churlishness. Maurice could not well deny her the embrace for which her +upturned lips had pleaded. He kissed her, indeed; but it will be easily +understood that there was very little spontaneity of affection in that +kiss. + +"Now let me go," he said, putting her from him gently but coldly; "I want +to speak to my mother." + +The two younger ladies wandered out into the garden, whilst Maurice +sought his mother's room. + +"Mother, I have been to see John this morning. I am afraid he is really +very ill," he said, gravely. + +Lady Kynaston shrugged her shoulders. "He is like a baby over that +foolish affair," she said, impatiently. "He does not seem able to get +over it; why does he shut himself up in his rooms? If he were to go out +a little more----" + +"He has been out; it is that that has made him ill. He went out a few +mornings ago--the wind was very cold; he says it is that which gave him a +chill. But, from what he says, I fancy he saw, or he thinks he saw, Miss +Nevill." + +Lady Kynaston sat at her davenport with all the litter of her daily +correspondence before her; her son stood up by the mantelpiece, leaning +his back against it, and looked away out of window at the figures of +Beatrice and his future wife sauntering up and down the garden walks. She +could not well see his face as he spoke these last words. + +"Tiresome woman!" cried Lady Kynaston, angrily; "there is no end to the +trouble she causes. John ought to be thankful he is well rid of her. Did +you hear what Beatrice Miller said at lunch about her? I call it shocking +bad taste, her coming up to town and flirting and flaunting about under +poor John's nose--heartless coquette! Creating 'a sensation,' indeed! +That is one of those horrible American expressions that are the fashion +just now!" + +"It is no wonder she is admired," said Maurice, dreamily: "she is very +beautiful." + +"I wish to goodness she would keep out of John's way. Where did he see +her?" + +"It was in the Row, I think, and, from what he said, he only fancied he +saw her back, walking away. I told him, of course, it could not be her, +because I thought she was down at Sutton; but, after what Beatrice told +us at lunch, I make no doubt that it was her, and that John really did +see her." + +"I should have thought that your brother would have had more spirit than +to sit down and whine over a woman in that way," said her ladyship, +sharply; "it is really contemptible." + +"But if he is ill in body as well as in mind, poor fellow?" + +"Pooh! fiddlesticks! I am quite sure, if Helen jilted you, you would bear +it a great deal better--losing the money and all--than he does." + +Maurice smiled. + +"That is very possible; but a man can't help his disposition, and John +has been utterly shattered by it." + +"Well, I am sorry for him, of course; but I confess that I don't see that +anybody can do anything for him." + +And then Maurice was silent for a minute. God only knew what passed +through his soul at that minute--what agonies of self-renunciation, what +martyrdom of all that makes life pleasant and dear to a man! It is +certain his mother did not know it. + +"I think," he said, after a minute, and only a slight harshness in his +voice marked the internal struggle that the words were to cost him--"I +think, mother, _you_ might do a great deal for him. Miss Nevill is in +town. Could you not see her?" + +"I see her! What on earth for?" + +"If you were to tell her how ill John is, how desperately he feels her +treatment of him--how----" + +"Stop, stop, my dear! You cannot possibly suppose that I am going down +upon my knees to entreat Miss Nevill to marry my son after she has thrown +him over!" + +"It is no question of going on your knees, mother. A few words would +suffice to show her the misery she is causing to John, and if those few +words would restore his lost happiness----" + +"How can I tell that anything I can say would influence her? I suppose +she had good reasons for throwing him over. She cared for some one else, +I suppose, or, at all events, she did not care for him." + +"I am quite certain, on the contrary, that she had a very sincere +affection for my brother; and, as to the some one else, I do not think +that will prevent her returning to him. Oh, mother!" he cried, with a +sudden passion, "the world is full of miserable misunderstandings and +mistakes. For God's sake, let us try to put some of its blunders right! +Do not let any poor, mean feelings of false pride stand in our way if we +can make one single life happy!" + +She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnestness. It did not +strike her at the minute that his interest in Vera was unusual, but only +that his affection for his brother was stronger than she imagined it to +be. "You know," she said, "I do not want things to come right in that +way. I do not want John to marry. I want the old place to come to you and +your children; and now that John has agreed to let you and Helen live +there----" + +He waved his hand impatiently. "And you know, mother dear, that such +desires are unlawful. John is the eldest, and I will never move a step to +take his birthright from him. To stand in the way of his marriage for +such a cause would be a crime. Is it not better that I should speak +plainly to you, dear? As to my living at Kynaston, I think it highly +unlikely that I should do so in any case, much as you and Helen seem to +wish it. But that has nothing to do with John's affairs. Promise me, +little mother, that you will try and set that right by seeing Miss +Nevill?" + +"I do not suppose I should do any good," she answered, with visible +reluctance. + +"Never mind; you can but try." + +"You can't expect me to go and call upon her for such a purpose, nor +speak to her, without John's authority." + +"You might ask her to come here, or go to some house where you will meet +her naturally in public." + +"Yes, that would be best; perhaps she will be at Lady Cloverdale's ball +next week." + +"It is easy, at all events, to ensure her an invitation to it; ask +Beatrice Miller to get her one." + +"Oh, yes; that is easy enough. Oh, dear me, Maurice, you always manage to +get your own way with me; but you have given me a dreadfully hard task +this time." + +"As if a woman of your known tact and _savoir faire_ was not capable of +any hard and impossible task!" answered her son, smiling, as he bent and +kissed her soft white face. + +The gentle flattery pleased her. The old lady sat smiling happily to +herself, with her hands idle before her, for some minutes after he had +left her. + +How dear he was to her, how good, how upright, how thoroughly generous +too, and unselfish to think so much of his brother's troubles just now, +in the midst of all his own happiness. + +She got up and went to the window, and watched him as he strolled across +the garden to join the ladies, smiling and kissing her hand to him when +he looked back and saw her. + +"Dear fellow, I hope he will be happy!" she said to herself, turning away +with a half sigh. And then suddenly something brought back the ball at +Shadonake to her recollection. There flashed back into her memory a +certain scene in a cool, dimly-lit conservatory: two people whispering +together under a high-swung Chinese lamp, and a background of dark-leaved +shrubs behind them. + +She had been puzzled that night. There had been something going on that +she had not quite understood. And now again that feeling of unsatisfied +comprehension came back to her. For the first time it struck her +painfully that the son whom she idolized so much--whose life and +character had been her one study and her one delight ever since the day +of his birth--was nevertheless a riddle to her. That the secret of his +inner self was as much hidden from her--his mother--as though she had +been the merest stranger; that the life she had striven so closely to +entwine with her own was nothing after all but a separate existence, in +the story of whose soul she herself had no part. He was a man struggling +single-handed in all the heat and turmoil of the battle of life, and she, +nothing but a poor, weak old woman, standing feebly aside, powerless to +help or even to understand the creature to whom she had given birth. + +There fell a tear or two down upon her wrinkled little hands as she +thought of it. She could not understand him; there was something in his +life she could not fathom. Oh, what did it all mean? + +Alas, sooner or later, is not that what comes to every mother concerning +the child she loves best? + + + + +CHAPTER XXIL. + +MR. PRYME'S VISITORS. + + For courage mounteth with occasion. + + Shakespeare, "King John." + + +Mr. Herbert Pryme stood by a much ink-stained and littered table in his +chambers in the Temple, with his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling +a slow and melancholy tune. + +It was Mr. Pryme's habit to whistle when he was dejected or perplexed; +and the whistling generally partook of the mournful condition of his +feelings. Indeed, everything that this young man did was of a ponderous +and solemn nature; there was always the inner consciousness of the +dignity of the Bar vested in his own person, to be discerned in his outer +bearing. Even in the strictest seclusion of the, alas! seldom invaded +privacy of his chambers Mr. Pryme never forgot that he was a +barrister-at-law. + +But when this young gentleman was ill at ease within himself he was in +the habit of whistling. He also was given to the thrusting of his hands +into his pockets. The more unhappy he was, the more he whistled, and the +deeper he stuffed in his hands. + +Just now, to all appearances, he was very unhappy indeed. + +The air he had selected for his musical self-refreshment was the lively +and slightly vulgar one of "Tommy make Room for your Uncle;" but let +anybody just try to whistle that same vivacious tune to the time of the +Dead March in "Saul," and with a lingering and plaintive emphasis upon +each note, with "linked sweetness long drawn out," and then say whether +the gloomiest of dirges would not be festive indeed in comparison. + +Thus did Herbert Pryme whistle it as he looked down upon the piles of +legal documents heaped up together upon his table. + +All of them meant work, but none of them meant money. For Herbert was +fain to accept the humble position of "devil" to a great legal light who +occupied the floor below him, and who considered, and perhaps rightly, +that he was doing the young man above him, who had been sent up from the +country with a letter of introduction to him from a second cousin, a +sufficient and inestimable benefit in allowing him to do his dirty work +gratis. + +It was all very useful to him, doubtless, but it was not remunerative; +and Herbert wanted money badly. + +"Oh, if I could only reckon upon a couple of hundred a year," he sighed, +half aloud to himself, "I might have a chance of winning her! It seems +hard that heaps of these fellows can make hundreds a week by a short +speech, or a few strokes of the pen, that cost them no labour and little +forethought, whilst I, with all my hard work, can make nothing! What +uphill work it is! Not that the Bar is not a fine profession; quite the +finest there is," for not even to himself would Herbert Pryme decry the +legal muse whom he worshipped; "but, I suppose, like every other +profession, it is overstocked; there are too many struggling for the same +prizes. The fact is, that England is over-populated. Now, if a law were +to be passed compelling one-half of the adult males in this country to +remain in a state of celibacy for the space of fifteen years----" but +here he stopped short in his soliloquy and smiled; for was not the one +desire of his life at present to marry Beatrice Miller immediately? And +how was the extra population to be stayed if every one of the doomed +quota of marriageable males were of the same mind as himself? + +Presently Mr. Pryme sauntered idly to the window, and stood looking +drearily out of it, still whistling, of course. + +The prospect was not a lively one. His chambers looked out upon a little +square, stone-flagged court, with a melancholy-looking pump in the centre +of it. There was an arched passage leading away to one side, down which a +distant footstep echoed drearily now and then, and a side glimpse of the +empty road at the other end, beyond the corner of the opposite houses. +Now and then some member of the learned profession passed rapidly across +the small open space with the pre-occupied air of a man who has not a +minute to spare, or a clerk, bearing the official red bag, ran hastily +along the passage; for the rest, the London sparrows had it pretty much +to themselves. As things were, Mr. Pryme envied the sparrows, who were +ready clothed by Providence, and had no rates and taxes to pay, as well +as the clerks, who, at all events, had plenty to do and no time to +soliloquize upon the hardness and hollowness of life. To have plenty of +brains, and an indefinite amount of spare time to use them in; to desire +ardently to hasten along the road towards fortune and happiness, and to +be forced to sit idly by whilst others, duller-witted, perchance, and +with less capacity for work, are amassing wealth under your very +nose--when this is achieved by sheer luck, or good interest, or any other +of those inadequate causes which get people on in life independent of +talent and industry--that is what makes a radical of a man. This is what +causes him to dream unwholesome dreams about equality and liberty, about +a republic, where there shall be no more principalities and powers, where +plutocracy, as well as aristocracy, shall be unregarded, and where every +good man and true shall rise on his own merits, and on none other. + +Oh, happy and impossible Arcadia! You must wait for the millennium, my +friend, before your aspirations shall come to pass. Wait till jealousy, +and selfishness, and snobbism--that last and unconquerable dragon--shall +be destroyed out of the British heart, then, and only then, when jobbery, +and interest, and mammon-worship shall be abolished; then will men be +honoured for what they are, and not for what they seem to be. + +Something of all this passed through our friend's jaundiced mind as he +contemplated those homely and familiar little birds, born and bred and +smoke-dried in all the turmoil of the City's heart, who ruffled their +feathers and plumed their wings with contented chirpings upon the dusty +flags of the little courtyard. + +Things were exceptionally bad with Herbert Pryme just now. His exchequer +was low--had never been lower--and his sweetheart was far removed out of +his reach. Beatrice had duly come up with her parents to the family +mansion in Eaton Square for the London season, but although he had, it is +true, the satisfaction, such as it was, of breathing the same air as she +did, she was far more out of his reach in town than she had been in the +country. As long as she was at Shadonake Mr. Pryme had always been able +to run down to his excellent friend, the parson of Tripton, and once +there, it had been easy to negotiate a surreptitious meeting with +Beatrice. The fields and the lanes are everybody's property. If Tom and +Maria are caught love-making at the stile out of the wood, and they both +swear that the meeting was purely accidental, I don't see how any one is +to prove that it was premeditated; nor can any parents, now that it is no +longer the fashion to keep grown women under lock and key, prevent their +daughters from going out in the country occasionally unattended, nor +forbid strange young men from walking along the Queen's highway in the +same direction. + +But remove your daughter to London, and the case is altered at once. To +keep a girl who goes out a great deal in the whirl of London society out +of the way of a man who goes out very little, who is not in the inner +circle of town life, and is not in the same set as herself, is the +easiest thing in the world. + +So Mrs. Miller found it. She kept Beatrice hard at work at the routine of +dissipation. Not an hour of her time was unoccupied, not a minute of her +day unaccounted for; and, of course, she was never alone--it is not yet +the fashion for young girls to dance about London by themselves--her +mother, as a matter of course, was always with her. + +As a natural sequence, the lovers had a hard time of it. Beatrice had +been six weeks in London, and Herbert, beyond catching sight of her once +or twice as she was driven past in her mother's carriage down Bond +Street, or through the crowd in the Park, had never seen her at all. + +Mrs. Miller was congratulating herself upon the success of her tactics; +she flattered herself that her daughter was completely getting over that +unlucky fancy for the penniless and briefless barrister. Beatrice gave no +sign; she appeared perfectly satisfied and contented, and seemed to be +enjoying herself thoroughly, and to be troubled by no love-sick +hankerings after her absent swain. + +"She has forgotten him," said Mrs. Miller, to herself. + +But the mother did not take into account that indomitable spirit and +stubborn determination in her own character which had served to carry out +successfully all the schemes of her life, and which she had probably +transmitted to her child. + +In Beatrice's head, under its short thick thatch of dark rough hair, and +in her sturdily-built little frame, there lurked the tenacity of a +bulldog. Once she had taken an idea firmly into her mind, Beatrice Miller +would never relinquish it until she had got her own way. Herbert, in +the dingy solitude of his untempting chambers, might despair and look +upon life and its aims as a hopeless enigma. Beatrice did not despair at +all. She only bided her time. + +One day, if she waited for it patiently, the opportunity would come to +her, and when it came she would not be slow to make use of it. It came to +her in the shape of a morning visit from Captain Maurice Kynaston. + +"Come down and see my mother," Maurice had said to her; "she has not seen +you for a long while. I am just going back to Walpole Lodge to lunch." + +"I should like to come very much. You have no objection, I suppose, +mamma?" + +No; Mrs. Miller could have no possible objection. Lady Kynaston was +amongst her oldest and most respected friends; under whose house could +Beatrice be safer? And even Maurice, as an escort, engaged to be married +so shortly as he was known to be, was perfectly unobjectionable. + +Beatrice went, and, as we have seen, lunched at Walpole Lodge. She had +told her mother not to expect her till late in the afternoon, as, in all +probability, Lady Kynaston would drive her into town and would drop her +in Eaton Square at the end of her drive. Mrs. Miller, to whose watchful +maternal mind the Temple and Kew appeared to be in such totally different +directions that they presented no connecting suggestions, agreed, +unsuspiciously, not to expect her daughter back until after six o'clock. + +In this way Beatrice secured the whole afternoon to herself to do what +she liked with it. She was not slow to make use of it. There was all +the pluck of the Esterworths in her veins, together with all the +determination and energy which had raised her father's family from +a race of shopkeepers to take their place amongst gentlemen. + +As soon as Captain Kynaston joined the two ladies in the garden at +Walpole Lodge after luncheon Beatrice requested him to order a hansom to +be fetched for her. + +"Why should you hurry away?" said Maurice, politely. "My mother will take +you back to town in the carriage if you will wait." + +Helen was stooping over the flower-beds, gathering some violets. Beatrice +stepped closer to Maurice. + +"Don't say a word, there's a good fellow, but get me the +hansom--and--and--please don't mention it at home." + +Then Maurice, who was no tyro in such matters, understood that it was +expected of him that he should ask no questions, but do what he was told +and hold his tongue. + +The sequence of which proceedings was, that a hansom cab drew up at the +far corner of the little stone-flagged court in the Temple between four +and five that afternoon. + +Mr. Pryme was no longer by the window when it did so, so that he was +totally unprepared for the visitor, whose trembling and twice-repeated +tap at his door he answered somewhat impatiently-- + +"Come in, and be d----d to you, and don't stand rapping at that door all +day." + +The people, as a rule, who solicited admittance to his chambers were +either the boy from the legal light below, who came to ask whether the +papers were ready that had been sent up this morning, or else they were +smiling and sleek-faced tradesmen who washed their hands insinuatingly +whilst they requested that Mr. Pryme would be kind enough to settle that +little outstanding account. + +Either of these visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be some +excuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language. + +The door was softly pushed ajar. + +"Now, then--come in, can't you; who the deuce are you--_Beatrice_!" + +Enter Miss Miller, smiling. + +"Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir." + +"Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother? Are you +alone?" looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught her +outstretched hand. + +"Yes, I am quite alone; don't be very shocked. I know I am a horrid, bold +girl to come all by myself to a man's chambers; it's dreadful, isn't it! +Oh, what would people say of it if they knew--why, even _you_ look +horrified! But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so. I was determined to +get at you somehow--and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed it +beautifully--no one will ever find out where I have been. Mamma thinks I +am driving with Lady Kynaston!" + +And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it. + +She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure, +sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his. Not so +Herbert. He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by a +thousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit for +breaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to come +to him; but he was horribly nervous all the same. Supposing that boy were +to come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if the +great Q.C. were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognize +her from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller's reputation +be then? + +"It is very imprudent of you--most rash and foolish," he kept on +repeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed her +between every other word. + +"Now, don't waste any more time spooning," says Beatrice, with decision, +drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa. "An +hour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you. Herbert," with great +solemnity, "_I mean to elope with you!_" + +Herbert gives an irrepressible start. + +"_Now!_ this minute?" he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftly +that, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence in +ready money. + +"No; don't be a goose; not now, because I haven't any clothes." Herbert +breathes more freely. "But some day, very soon, before the end of the +season." + +"But, my pet, you are not of age," objects her lover; whilst sundry +clauses in the laws concerning the marriages of minors without the +consent of their parents pass hurriedly through his brain. + +"What do I care about my age?" says Beatrice, with the recklessness of an +impetuous woman bent upon having her own way. "Of course, I don't wish to +do anything disreputable, or to make a scandal, but mamma is driving me +to it by never allowing me to see you, and forbidding you to come to the +house, and by encouraging all sorts of men whom she wants me to marry." + +"Ah! And these men, do they make love to you?" The instinct of the lover +rises instantly superior to the instinct of legal prudence within him. +"That is hard for me to bear." + +"Now, Herbert, don't be a fool!" cries Beatrice, jumping up and making a +grimace at herself in the dusty glass over his mantelpiece. "Do I look +like a girl whom men would make love to? Am I not too positively hideous? +Oh, you needn't shake your head and look indignant. Of course I am ugly, +everybody but you thinks so. Of course it's not me, myself, but because +papa is rich, and they think I shall have money. Oh, what a curse this +money is!" + +"I think the want of it a far greater one," says Herbert, ruefully. + +"At any rate," continues Beatrice, "I am determined to put an end to this +state of things; we must take the law into our own hands." + +"Am I to wait for you in a carriage and pair at the corner of Eaton +Square in the middle of the night?" inquires Herbert, grimly. + +"No; don't be foolish; people don't do things now-a-days in the way our +grandmothers did. I shall go to morning service one day at some out +of-the-way church, where you will meet me with a licence in your pocket; +it will be the simplest thing in the world." + +"And afterwards?" + +"Afterwards I shall go home to lunch." + +"And what am I to do?" + +"Oh! you will come back here, I suppose." + +"I don't think that will be very amusing," objects the bridegroom elect, +dubiously. + +"No; but then we shall be really married, and when we know that no one +can part us, we shan't mind waiting; and then, some day, after about six +months or so, I shall confess to papa, and there will be a terrible +scene, ending in tears on my part, and in forgiveness on the part of my +parents. Once the deed is done, you see, they will be forced to make the +best of it; and, of course, they will not allow us to starve. I think it +is a very ingenious plan. What do you think of it, Herbert? You don't +look very much delighted at the idea." + +"I don't think that I should play a very noble part in such a scheme as +that. Dearly as I love you, Beatrice, I do not think I could consent to +steal you away in such a pitiful and cowardly manner." + +"Pooh! you would have nothing to do with it; it is all my doing, of +course. Hush! is not that somebody coming up the stairs?" + +They were silent for half a minute, listening to the sound of advancing +steps upon the wooden staircase. + +"It is nothing--only somebody to see the man above me. By Jove, though, +it _is_ for me!" as somebody suddenly stopped outside and knocked at the +door. "Wait one minute, sir! Good heavens, Beatrice, what am I to do with +you?" + +Herbert looked frightened out of his life. Beatrice, on the contrary, +could hardly smother her laughter. + +"I must hide!" she said, in a choked whisper. "Oh, Herbert, it is like +a scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!" + +Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door of +which stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber! +There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned the +key upon herself, and Herbert called out "Come in!" to the intruder. +Neither of them had noticed that Beatrice's little white lace sunshade +lay upon the table with her gloves and veil beside it. + +If Mr. Pryme had been alarmed at the bare fact of an unknown and possibly +unimportant visitor, it may be left to the imagination to describe the +state of his feelings when the door, upon being opened, disclosed the +Member for North Meadowshire standing without! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A WHITE SUNSHADE. + + For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove + An unrelenting foe to love, + And when we meet a mutual heart, + Come in between, and bid us part? + + +"Well, Mr. Pryme, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Miller, in his rough, hearty +voice, holding out his hand. "I dare say you are surprised to see me +here. I haven't met you since you were staying down with us at Christmas +time. Well, and how goes the world with you, young man?" + +Herbert, who at first had thought nothing less than that Mr. Miller had +tracked his daughter to his rooms, and that he was about to have the +righteous wrath of an infuriated and exasperated parent to deal with, by +this time began to perceive that, to whatever extraordinary cause his +visit was owing, Beatrice, at all events, had nothing to do with it. He +recovered himself sufficiently to murmur, in answer to his visitor's +greeting, that the world went pretty well with him, and to request his +guest to be seated. + +And then, as he pushed an arm-chair forward for him, his eye fell upon +Beatrice's things upon the table, and his heart literally stood still +within him. What was he to do? They lay so close to the father's elbow +that, to move them without attracting attention was impossible, and to +attract attention to them was to risk their being recognized. + +Meanwhile Mr. Miller had put on his spectacles, and was drawing some +voluminous papers out of his breast coat-pocket. + +"Now, I dare say, young man, you are wondering what brings me to see you? +Well, the fact is, there is a little matter about which I am going to +law. I'm going to bring an action for libel against a newspaper; it is +that rascally paper the _Cat o' Nine Tails_. They had an infamous +paragraph three weeks ago concerning my early life, which, let me tell +you, sir, was highly respectable in every way, sir--in every way." + +"I am quite sure of that, Mr. Miller." + +"I've brought the paragraph with me. Oh, here it is. Well, I've had a +good deal of correspondence with the editor, and he refuses to publish an +apology, and so I'm tired of the whole matter, and have placed it in the +hands of my solicitors. I'm going to prosecute them, sir, and I don't +care what it costs me to do it; and I'll expose the whole system of these +trumped-up fabrications, that contain, as a rule, one grain of truth to a +hundredweight of lies. Well, now, Mr. Pryme, I want a clever barrister to +take up this case, and I have instructed Messrs. Grainge, my solicitors, +to retain you." + +"I am sure, sir, you are very kind; I hardly know how to thank you," +faltered poor Herbert. Never in the whole course of his life had he felt +so overcome with shame and confusion! Here was this man come to do him a +really great and substantial benefit, whilst his own daughter was hidden +away in a shameful fashion in the next room! Herbert would sooner that +Mr. Miller had pointed a pistol at his head and threatened to shoot him. +The deception that he was practising towards this kind-hearted and +excellent gentleman struck him to the heart with a sense of guilty +remorse. + +But what on earth was he to do? He could not reveal the truth to the +unconscious father, nor open the door and disclose Beatrice hiding in his +bedroom, without absolutely risking the reputation of the girl he loved. +There was nothing for it but to go on with the serio-comedy as best he +could, and to try and get Mr. Miller off the premises as speedily as +possible. + +He made an effort to decline the proffered employment. + +"It is most kind, most generous of you to have thought of me, but I must +tell you that there are many better men, even amongst the juniors, who +would do your case more justice than I should." + +"Oh! I believe you have plenty of talent, Mr. Pryme. I've been making +inquiries about you. You only want an opportunity, and I like giving a +young fellow a chance. One must hold out a helping hand to the young ones +now and then." + +"Of course, sir, I would do my very best for you, but I really think you +are risking your own case by giving it to me." + +"Nonsense--take it and do what you can for me; if you fail, I shall not +blame you;" and here suddenly Mr. Miller's eyes rested upon the sunshade +and the gloves upon the table half-a-yard behind his arm. Now, had it +been Miss Miller's mother who, in the place of her father, had been +seated in Herbert's wooden arm-chair, the secret of her proximity would +have been revealed the very instant the maternal eyes had been set upon +that sunshade and those gloves. Mrs. Miller could have sworn to that +little white lace, ivory-handled toy, with its coquettish pink ribbon +bows, had she seen it amongst a hundred others, nor would it have been +easy to have deceived the mother's eyes in the matter of the gray _peau +de suède_ gloves and the dainty little veil, such as her daughter was in +the habit of wearing. But a father's perceptions in these matters are not +accurate. Mr. Miller had not the remotest idea what his child's sunshade +was like, nor, indeed, whether she had any sunshade at all. Nevertheless, +as his eyes alighted upon these indications of a feminine presence which +lay upon the young barrister's table, they remained fixed there with +distinct disapproval. These obnoxious articles of female attire of course +conveyed clearly to the elder man's perceptions, in a broad and general +sense, the fatal word "woman," and woman in this case meant "vice." + +Mr. Miller strove to re-direct his attention to his case and the papers +in his hand. Herbert made a faint and ineffectual attempt to remove the +offending objects from the table. Mr. Miller only looked back at them +with an ever-increasing gloom upon his face, and Herbert's hand, morally +paralyzed by the glance, sank powerlessly down by his side. He imagined, +of course, that the father had recognized his daughter's property. + +"Well, to continue the subject," said Mr. Miller, looking away with +an effort, and turning over the papers he had brought with him; "there +are several points in the case I should like to mention to you." He +paused for a minute, apparently to collect his thoughts, and to +Herbert's sensitive ears there was a sudden coldness and constraint +in his voice and manner. "You will, of course, take instructions in +the main from Grainge and Co.; but what I wished to point out to you +was--ahem----" here his voice unaccountably faltered, and his eyes, as +though drawn by a magnet, returned once more with ominous displeasure to +that little heap of feminine finery that lay between them. Mr. Miller +flung down his papers, and turning round in his chair, rested both elbows +upon the table. + +"Mr. Pryme," he said, with decision, "I think it is best that I should be +frank with you!" He looked the young barrister full in the face. + +"Certainly, certainly, if you please, Mr. Miller," said Herbert, not +quite knowing what he had to fear, and turning hot and cold alternately +under his visitor's scrutinizing gaze. + +"Well, then, let me tell you fairly that I came to seek you to-day with +the friendliest motives." + +"I am sure you did, and you are most kind to me, sir," murmured Herbert, +playing nervously with an ivory paper-cutter that lay on the table. + +Mr. Miller waved his hand, as though to dispense with his grateful +acknowledgments. + +"The fact is," he continued, "I had understood from Mrs. Miller that you +were a suitor for my daughter's hand. Well, sir, Mrs. Miller, as you +know, disapproves of your suit. My daughter will be well off, Mr. Pryme, +and you, I understand, have no income at all. You have no other resource +than a profession, at which, as yet, you have made nothing. There is some +reason in Mrs. Miller's objection to you. Nor should I be willing to let +my daughter marry an idle man who will live upon her money. Then, on the +other hand, Mr. Pryme, I find that my girl is fond of you, and, if this +is the case, I am unwilling to make her unhappy. I said to myself that I +would give you an opening in this case of mine, and if you will work hard +and make yourself known and respected in your profession, I should not +object, in the course of time, to your being engaged to her, and I would +endeavour to induce her mother to agree to it. I came here to-day, Mr. +Pryme, to give you a fair chance of winning her." + +"You are too good, Mr. Miller," cried Herbert, with effusion, stretching +forth his hand. "I do not know how to thank you enough, nor how to assure +you of my grateful acceptance of your terms." + +But Mr. Miller drew back from the young man's proffered hand. + +"Wait, there is no occasion to thank me;" and again his eyes fell sternly +upon that unlucky little heap of lace and ribbon. "I am sorry to tell you +that, since I have come here, my friendly and pleasant intentions towards +you have undergone a complete change." + +"Sir!" + +"Yes, Mr. Pryme; I came here prepared to treat you--well, I may as well +confess it--as a son, under the belief that you were an upright and +honourable man, and were sincerely and honestly attached to my daughter." + +"Mr. Miller, is it possible that you can doubt it?" + +The elder man pointed with contemptuous significance to the sunshade +before him. + +"I find upon your table, young man, the evidences of the recent presence +of some wretched woman in your rooms, and your confusion of manner shows +me too plainly that you are not the kind of husband to which a man may +safely entrust his daughter's happiness." + +"Mr. Miller, I assure you you are mistaken; it is not so." + +"Every man in this country has a right to justify himself when he is +accused. If I am mistaken, Mr. Pryme, explain to me the meaning of +_that_," and the heavy forefinger was again levelled at the offending +objects before him. + +Not one single word could Herbert utter. In vain ingenious fabrications +concerning imaginary sisters, maiden aunts, or aged lady clients rushed +rapidly through his brain; the natural answer on Mr. Miller's part to all +such inventions would have been, "Then, where is she?" + +Mr. Miller must know as well as he did himself that the lady, whoever she +might be, must still be in his rooms, else why should her belongings be +left on his table; and if in the rooms, then, as there was no other +egress on the staircase than the one by which he had entered, clearly, +she must be secreted in his bedroom. Mr. Miller was not a young man, and +his perceptions in matters of intrigue and adventure might no longer be +very acute, but it was plain to Herbert that he probably knew quite as +well as he did himself that the owner of the gloves and sunshade was in +the adjoining room. + +"Have you any satisfactory explanation to give me?" asked Mr. Miller, +once more, after a solemn silence, during which he glared in a stern and +inquisitorial manner over his spectacles at the young man. + +"I have nothing to say," was the answer, given in a low and dejected +voice. + +Mr. Miller sprang to his feet and hurriedly gathered up his papers. + +"Then, sir," he said, furiously, "I shall wish you good afternoon; and +let me assure you, most emphatically, that you must relinquish all claim +to my daughter's hand. I will never consent to her union with a man whose +private life will not bear investigation; and should she disobey me in +this matter, she shall never have one single shilling of my money." + +There was a moment's silence. Mr. Miller was buttoning-up his coat with +the air of a man who buttons up his heart within it at the same time. He +regarded the young man fiercely, and yet there was a lingering +wistfulness, too, in his gaze. He would have given a good deal to hear, +from his lips, a satisfactory explanation of the circumstances which told +so suspiciously against him. He liked the young barrister personally, and +he was fond enough of his daughter to wish that she might be happy in her +own way. He spoke one word more to the young man. + +"Have you nothing to say; Mr. Pryme?" + +Herbert shook his head, with his eyes gloomily downcast. + +"I can only tell you, sir, that you are mistaken in what you imagine. If +you will not believe my word, I can say nothing more." + +"And what of _these_, Mr. Pryme--what of _these_?" pointing furiously +downwards to Beatrice's property. + +"I cannot explain it any further to you, Mr. Miller. I can only ask you +to believe me." + +"Then, I do not believe you, sir--I do not believe you. Would any man in +his senses believe that you haven't got a woman hidden in the next room? +Do you suppose I'm a fool? I have the honour of wishing you good day, +sir, and I am sorry I ever took the trouble of calling upon you. It is, +of course, unnecessary for you to trouble yourself concerning my case, in +these altered circumstances, Mr. Pryme; I beg to decline the benefit of +your legal assistance. Good afternoon." + +The door closed upon him, and the sound of his retreating footsteps +echoed noisily down the stairs. Herbert sank into a chair and covered his +face with his hands. So lately hope and fortune seemed to have smiled +upon him for one short, blissful moment, only to withdraw the sunshine +of their faces again from him more completely, and to leave him more +utterly in the dark than ever. Was ever man so unfortunate, and so +unlucky? + +But for the _contretemps_ concerning that wretched sunshade, he would now +have been a hopeful, and almost a triumphant, lover. Now life was all +altered for him! + +The door between the two rooms opened softly, and Beatrice, no longer +brave, and defiant, and laughing as she had been when she went in, but +white, and scared, and trembling, crept hesitatingly forth, and knelt +down by her lover's side. + +"Oh, Herbert! what has happened? It was papa--I heard his voice; but I +could not hear what you talked about, only I heard that he was angry at +the last, when he went away. Oh! tell me, dearest, what has happened?" + +Herbert pointed bitterly to her belongings on the table. + +"What fatality made me overlook those wretched things?" he cried, +miserably; "they have ruined us!" + +Beatrice uttered an exclamation of dismay. + +"Papa saw them--he recognized them!" + +"Not as _yours_, thank God!" + +"What then?" + +"He thinks me unworthy of you," answered the lover, in a low voice, and +Beatrice understood. "He has forbidden me ever to think of you now; and +he will leave you penniless if you disobey him; it is a terrible +misfortune, my darling; but still, thank God that your good name is +safe!" + +"Yes, at the expense of yours, Herbert!" cried the girl, frantically; "I +see it all now, and, if I dared, I would confess to papa the truth." + +"Do not think of it!" + +"I dare not; but, Herbert, don't despair; I see now how wicked and how +foolish I was to come here to-day, and what a terrible risk I have run, +for if papa knew that it was I who was in the next room, he would never +forgive me; we can do nothing now but wait until brighter and happier +days; believe me, Herbert, if you will be true to me, I will be true to +you, and I will wait for you till I am old and grey." + +He strained her passionately to his heart. + +"I will never forget what you have done for me to-day, never!" said the +girl, as she clung to his neck. + +And then she put on her gloves and veil, and took up the sunshade that +had been the cause of such a direful ending to her escapade, and went her +way. And after she was gone, Mr. Pryme, with his hands in his pockets, +began once more to whistle, as though the events of the afternoon had +never taken place. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +HER SON'S SECRET. + + But love is such a mystery, + I cannot find it out, + For when I think I'm best resolved, + I then am most in doubt." + + Sir J. Suckling. + + +Lady Kynaston sat alone in her little morning-room; as far as she knew, +she was alone in the house; Mrs. Romer had driven into London, on the +cares of her trousseau intent, and she believed that Maurice had gone +with her; at all events, she had heard him state his intention of going, +and the departing carriage had, some time since, driven away from the +door. + +The morning-room looked on to the garden side of the house, and the +windows were wide open; the east wind had departed, and summer had set in +at last. Real summer, coming in with a rush when it did come, with warm +whiffs of flower-scented wind, with flutterings of lime blossoms from the +trees along the high brick wall, with brown bees and saffron butterflies +hovering over the reviving flower-borders, and dragon-flies darting out +of the shadows into the hot blinding sunshine. Summer at last; and oh, +how welcome when it comes upon our rain-drenched and winter-pinched land. + +The gardener was bedding out the geraniums along the straight ribbon +border. Lady Kynaston went out once to superintend his operations, +holding up a newspaper in her hand to shield her head from the rays of +the sun. But it was hot, and old McCloud, the Scotch gardener, was +intelligent enough to be safely left to his own devices, so she did not +stop out long. + +She came in again, and sat down in a low basket-chair by the window, and +thought how wise she had been to settle herself down in the old house +with its velvet lawns and its wide shadowy trees, instead of in the heat +and turmoil of a London home. + +She looked a little anxious and worried to-day--she was not happy about +her eldest son--somebody had told her last night that he was talking +about going to Australia, and turning sheep farmer. Lady Kynaston was +annoyed at the report; it did not strike her as seemly or right that the +head of the Kynaston family should become a sheep farmer. Moreover, she +knew very well that he only wanted to get himself away out of the country +where no one would know of his story, or remind him of his trouble again. +The man's heart was broken. He did not want to farm sheep, or to take to +any other rational or healthful employment; he only wanted, like a sick +animal, to creep away and hide his hurt. Little as Lady Kynaston had in +common with her eldest son, she was sorry for him. She would have done +what she could to help him had she known how. She had written to him only +yesterday, begging him to come to her, but he had not replied to her +letter. + +The Cloverdales' ball had come and gone, and Lady Kynaston had taken +pains to ensure that an invitation might be sent to Mrs. Hazeldine and +Miss Nevill. She had also put herself to some inconvenience in order to +be present at it herself, but all to no purpose--Vera was not there. +Perhaps she had had another engagement that evening. + +The old lady's promise to her youngest son was still unfulfilled. She +half repented now that she had given him any such promise. What good was +she to do by interceding between her son and Miss Nevill? and why was she +to lay herself open to the chance of a rebuff from that young lady? It +had been a senseless and quixotic idea on Maurice's part altogether. +Young women do not take back a jilted lover because the man's mother +advises them to do so; nor is a broken-off marriage likely to get itself +re-settled in consequence of the interference of a third person. + +The old lady had taken out her fancy-work, a piece of crewel work such as +is the fashion of the day. But she was not fond of work; the leaves of +muddy-shaded greens grew but slowly under her fingers, and, truth to say, +the occupation bored her. It was artistic, certainly, and it was +fashionable; but Lady Kynaston would have been happier over a pair of +cross-stitch slippers for her son, or a knitted woollen petticoat for the +old woman at her lodge gate. All the same, she took out her crewels and +put in a few stitches; but the afternoon was warm, there was a humming of +insects in the summer air, a click-clicking from the gardener as he +dropped one empty red flower-pot into the other along the edge of the +ribbon border, a cawing of rooks from the elms over the wall, a very +harmony of soft soothing sounds, just enough to lull worry to rest, not +enough to scare drowsiness from one's brain. + +By degrees, it all became mixed up in a delicious confusion. The rooks, +and the bees, and the gardener made one continuous murmur to her, like +the swishing of summer waves upon a sandy shore, or the moaning of soft +winds in the tree tops. + +Then the crewel work slipped off her lap, and Lady Kynaston slept. + +How long she was asleep she could not rightly have said: it might have +been an hour, it might have been but twenty minutes; but suddenly she +awoke with a start. + +The rustle of a woman's dress was beside her, and somebody spoke her +name. + +"Lady Kynaston! Oh, I am so sorry I have disturbed you; I did not see you +were asleep." + +The old lady opened her eyes wide, and came back suddenly from dreamland. +Vera Nevill stood before her. + +"Vera, is it _you_? Good gracious! how did you get in? I never even heard +the door open." + +"I came in by the front-door quite correctly," said Vera, smiling and +reaching out her hand for a chair, "and was duly announced by the +footman; but I had no idea you were asleep." + +"Only dozing. Sit down, my dear, sit down; I am glad to see you." And, +somehow, all the awkwardness of the meeting between the two vanished. It +was as though they had parted only yesterday on the most friendly terms. +In Vera's absence, Lady Kynaston had thought hard things of her, and had +spoken condemning words concerning her; but in her presence all this +seemed to be altered. + +There was something so unspeakably refreshing and soothing about Vera; +there was a certain quiet dignity in her movements, a calm serenity in +her manner, which made it difficult to associate blame and displeasure +with her. Faults she might have, but they could never be mean or ignoble +ones; there was nothing base or contemptible about her. The pure, proud +profile, the broad grave brow, the eyes that, if a trifle cold, were as +true withal as the soul that looked out, sometimes earnestly, sometimes +wistfully, from their shadowy depths; everything about her bade one judge +her, not so much by her actions, which were sometimes incomprehensible, +but by a certain standard that she herself created in the minds of +all who knew her. + +Lady Kynaston had called her a jilt and a heartless coquette; she had +made no secret of saying, right and left, how badly she had behaved: what +shameful and discreditable deductions might be drawn from her conduct +towards Sir John. Yet, the very instant she set eyes upon her, she felt +sorry for the hard things she had said of her, and ashamed of herself +that she should have spoken them. + +Vera drew forward a chair, and sat down near her. The dress she wore was +white, of some clear and delicate material, softened with creamy lace; it +had been one of kind-hearted Cissy Hazeldine's many presents to her. +Looking at her, Lady Kynaston thought what a lovely vision of youth and +beauty she made in the sombre quiet of the little room. + +"They tell me half the men in London have gone mad over you," were her +first words following the train of her own thoughts, and she liked her +visitor none the less, that world-loving little old woman, because she +could not but acknowledge the reasonableness of the madness of which +she accused her of being the object. + +"I care very little for the men in London, Lady Kynaston," answered Vera, +quietly. + +"My dear, what _do_ you care for?" asked her ladyship, with earnestness, +and Vera understood that she was expected to state her business. + +"Lady Kynaston, I have come to ask you about your son," she answered, +simply. + +"About John?" + +"Of course, it is Sir John I mean," she said, quickly, a hot flush +rising for one instant to her face, and dying away rapidly again, to +leave her a trifle paler than before. "I know," she continued, with a +little hesitation--"I know that I have no right to inquire--but I cannot +forget all that is past--all his goodness and generosity to me. I shall +never forget it; and oh, I hear such dreadful things of him, that he is +ill--that he is talking of going to Australia. Oh, Lady Kynaston, is it +all true?" + +She had clasped her hands together, and bent a little forward towards +the old lady in her earnestness; she looked at her piteously, almost +entreatingly. + +"Does she love him after all?" thought Lady Kynaston, as she watched her; +and the meaning of the whole story of her son's love seemed more +unfathomable than ever. + +"John is neither well nor happy," she said, aloud. "I think, Vera, you +must know the reason of it better than any of us." + +"It is my fault--my doing," cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret in +her voice. "Yes," she added, looking away sadly out of the open window; +"that is why I have come. Do you know that I saw him once? I don't think +he saw me--it was in the Park one morning. He looked so aged, so +saddened, I realized then what I had done--his face haunts me." + +"Vera, you could alter all that if you chose," said the old lady, +earnestly. + +A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled. + +"You don't suppose I came here to say _that_, Lady +Kynaston?" + +"No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you. Vera, I entreat you to +tell me the truth. What is it that stands between you and John?" + +She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over the +other upon her knee. + +"I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston," she answered, at length, in a low +voice. + +Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed. + +"And you cannot, marry him?" + +Vera shook her head. + +"No, it would not be right." + +The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor's arm. + +"Forgive me for asking you. Do you love some one else? is it that?" + +She bent her head silently. + +"Have you any hopes of marrying the man you love?" + +"Oh no, none--not the slightest," she said, hurriedly; "I shall never +marry." + +"Then, Vera, will you listen to an old woman's advice?" + +"Yes, dear Lady Kynaston." + +"My dear, if you cannot marry the man you love, put him out of your +mind." + +"I must do that in any case," she said, wearily. + +"Listen to me, my dear. Don't sacrifice your own life and the life of a +man who is good and loves you dearly to a caprice of your heart. Hush! +don't interrupt me; I dare say you don't think it a caprice; you think it +is to last for ever. But there is no 'for ever' in these matters; the +thing comes to us like an ordinary disease; some of us take it strongly, +and it half kills us; some of us are only a very little ill; but we all +get over it. There is a pain that goes right through one's heart: it is +worse to bear than any physical suffering: but, thank God, that pain +always wears itself out. My dear, I, who speak to you, have felt it, and +I tell you that no man is worth it. You can cure yourself of it if you +will; and the remedy is work and change of the conditions of your life. +You don't think I look very much like a blighted being, do you? and yet I +did not marry the man I loved. I could not; he was poor, and my parents +would not allow it. I thought I should die, but you see I did not. I took +up my life bravely, and I married a most estimable man; I lived an active +and healthy life, so that by degrees it became a happy one. Now, Vera, +why should you not do the same? Your people have a right to expect that +you should marry; they cannot afford to support you for always. Because +you are disappointed in one thing, why are you not to make the best you +can of your life?" + +"I do mean to marry--in time," said Vera, brokenly, with tears in her +eyes. + +"Then why not marry John?" + +There was a minute's silence. Was it possible that Lady Kynaston did not +know? Vera asked herself. Was it possible that she could, in cold blood, +advise her to marry one son whilst the other one loved her! That was what +was so terrible to her mind. To marry was simple enough, but to marry Sir +John Kynaston! She thought of what such an action might bring upon them +all. The daily meetings, the struggles with temptation, the awful +tampering with deadly sin. Could any one so constituted as she was walk +deliberately and with open eyes into such a situation? + +She shuddered. + +"I cannot do it," she said, wringing her hands together; "don't ask me; +I cannot do it!" + +Lady Kynaston got up, and went and stood by her chair. + +"Vera, I entreat you not to let any false pride stand in the way of +this. Do not imagine that I ask you to do anything that would wound your +vanity, or humble you in your own eyes. It would be so easy for me to +arrange a meeting between you and John; it shall all come about simply +and naturally. As soon as he sees you again, he will speak to you." + +"It is not that, it is not that!" she murmured, distractedly; but Lady +Kynaston went on as if she had not heard her. + +"You must know that I should not plead like this with you if I were not +deeply concerned. For myself, I had sooner that John remained unmarried. +I had sooner that Maurice's children came into Kynaston. It is wrong, I +know, but it is the case, because Maurice is my favourite. But when we +hear of John shutting himself up, of his refusing to see any of his +friends, and of his talking of going to Australia, why, then we all feel +that it is you only who can help us; that is why I have promised Maurice +to plead with you." + +She looked up quickly. + +"You promised Maurice! It is _Maurice_ who wants me to marry his +brother." She turned very pale. + +"Certainly he does. You don't suppose Maurice likes to see his brother so +unhappy." + +The darkened room, the spindle-legged furniture, Lady Kynaston's little +figure, in her black dress and soft white tulle cap, the bright garden +outside, the belt of trees beyond the lawn, all swam together before her +eyes. + +She drew a long breath; then she rose slowly from her place, a little +unsteadily, perhaps, and walked across the Persian rug to the empty +fireplace. She stood there half a minute leaning with both hands upon the +mantelshelf, her head bent forwards. + +_Maurice wished it!_ To him, then, there were no fears, and no dangers. +He could look forward calmly to meeting her constantly as his brother's +wife; it would be nothing to him, that temptation that she dreaded so +much; nothing that an abyss which death itself could never bridge over +would be between them to all eternity! + +And then the woman's pride, without which, God help us, so many of us +would break our hearts and die, came to her aid. + +Very well, then, if he was strong, she would learn to be strong too; +if the danger to him was so slight that he could contemplate it with +calmness and with indifference, then she, too, would show him that it was +nothing to her. Only, then, what a poor thing was this love of his! And +surely the man she had loved so fatally was not Maurice Kynaston at all, +but only some creature of her own imagination, whom she had invested with +things that the man himself had not lost because he had never possessed +them. + +If this was so, then why, indeed, listen to the voice of her heart when +everything urged her to stifle it? Why not make Sir John Kynaston happy +and herself prosperous and rich, as everybody round her seemed to +consider it her duty to do? + +It passed rapidly through her mind what a fine place Kynaston was; how +dear everything that wealth can bring had always been to her, what a wise +and prudent match it was in every way for her, and what a good indulgent +husband Sir John would be. + +Who in the wide world would blame her for going back to him? Would not +everybody, on the contrary, praise her for reconsidering her folly, and +for becoming Lady Kynaston, of Kynaston? The errors of the successful +in this world's race are leniently treated; it is only when we are +unfortunate and our lives become failures that our friends turn their +backs upon our misdeeds in righteous condemnation. + +"So long as thou doest well unto thyself men will speak good of thee." + +Surely, surely, it was the best and the wisest thing she could do. And +yet even at that moment Eustace Daintree's pale, earnest face came for +one instant before her. What side in all this would he take--he of the +pure heart, of the stainless life? If he knew all, what would he say? + +Pooh! he was a dreamer--an idealist, a man of impossible aims; his +theories, indeed, were beautiful, but impracticable. Vera knew that he +expected better things of her; but she had striven to be what he would +have desired, and if she had failed, was it her fault? was it not rather +the fault of the world and the generation in which her life had been +cast? + +She had struggled, and she had failed; henceforth let her life be as fate +should ordain for her. + +"What is it you wish me to say, Lady Kynaston?" she asked, turning +suddenly towards Maurice's mother. + +"My dear child, I only want you to say that if John asks you again to be +his wife, you will consent, or say only, if you like it better, that you +will agree to meet him here. There shall be nothing unpleasant for you; I +will write to him and settle everything." + +"If you write to him, I will come," she said, briefly, and then Lady +Kynaston came up to her and kissed her, taking her hands within her own, +and drawing her to her with motherly tenderness. "My dear, everybody will +think well of you for this." + +And the words ran so nearly in the current of her own bitter thoughts +that Vera laughed, shortly and disdainfully, a low laugh of scorn at the +world, whose mandates she was prepared to obey, even though she despised +herself for doing so. + +"You will be glad by-and-by that you were so sensible and so reasonable," +said Lady Kynaston. + +"Yes--I dare say I shall be glad by-and-by; and now I am going, dear Lady +Kynaston; I have a hansom waiting all this time, and Mrs. Hazeldine will +be wondering what has become of me." + +At this moment they both heard the sound of a carriage driving up to the +door. + +"It must be some visitors," said Lady Kynaston; "wait a minute, or you +will meet them in the hall. Oh, stay, go through this door into the +dining-room, and you can get through the dining-room window by the garden +round to the front of the house; I dare say you would rather not meet +anybody--you might know them." + +"Thank you--yes, I should much prefer to get away quickly and quietly--I +will go through the dining-room; do not come with me, I can easily find +my way." + +She gathered up her gloves and her veil and opened the door which +communicated between the morning-room and the dining-room. She heard the +chatter of women's voices and the fluttering of women's garments in the +hall; it seemed as though they were about to be ushered into the room she +was leaving. + +She did not want to be seen; besides, she wanted to get away quickly and +return to London. She closed the morning-room door behind her, and took a +couple of steps across the dining-room towards the windows. + +Then she stopped suddenly short; Maurice sat before her at the table. He +lifted his eyes and looked at her; he did not seem surprised to see her, +but there was a whole world of grief and despair in his face. It was as +though he had lived through half a lifetime since she had last seen him. + +Pride, anger, wounded affection, all died away within her--only the woman +was left, the woman who loved him. Little by little she saw him only +through the blinding mist of her own tears. + +Not one single word was spoken between them. What was there that they +could say to each other? Then suddenly she turned away, and went swiftly +back into the room she had just left, closing the door behind her. + +It was empty. Lady Kynaston was gone. Vera stooped over the +writing-table, and, taking up a sheet of paper, she wrote in pencil:-- + +"Do not write to Sir John--it is beyond my strength--forgive me and +forget me. Vera." And then she went out through the other door, +and got herself away from the place in her hansom. + +Twenty minutes later, when her bevy of chattering visitors had left her, +Lady Kynaston came back into her morning-room and found the little pencil +note left upon her writing-table. Wondering, perplexed and puzzled beyond +measure, she turned it over and over in her fingers. + +What had happened? Why had Vera so suddenly altered her mind again? What +had influenced her? Half by accident, half, perhaps, with an instinct of +what was the truth, she softly opened the door of communication between +the morning-room and the dining-room, opened it for one instant, and then +drew back again, scared and shocked, closing it quickly and noiselessly. +What she had seen in the room was this-- + +Maurice, half stretched across the table, his face downwards upon his +arm, whilst those tearless, voiceless sobs, which are so terrible to +witness in a man, sobs which are the gasps of a despairing heart, shook +the strong broad shoulders and the down-bent head that was hidden from +her sight. + +And then the mother knew at last the secret of her son's heart. It was +Vera whom Maurice loved. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE. + + Hide in thy bosom, poor unfortunate, + That love which is thy torture and thy crime, + Or cry aloud to those departed hosts + Of ghostly lovers! can they be more deaf + To thy disaster than the living world? + Who, with a careless smile, will note the pain + Caused by thy foolish, self-inflicted wound. + + Violet Fane, "Denzil Place." + + +Upon the steps of the Charing Cross Hotel stood, one morning in June, a +little French gentleman buttoning his lavender gloves. He wore a glossy +new hat, a frock-coat, and a flower in his button-hole; he had altogether +a smart and jaunty appearance. + +He hailed a passing hansom and jumped into it, taking care as he did so +to avoid brushing against the muddy wheel, lest he should tarnish the +glories of his light-coloured trousers. Monsieur D'Arblet was more than +usually particular about his appearance this morning. He said to himself, +with a chuckle, as he was driven west-ward, that he was on his way to win +a bride, and a rich bride, too. It behoved him to be careful of his outer +man on such an occasion. + +He had heard of Mr. Harlowe's death and of his grand-daughter's good +fortune when he was at Constantinople, for he had friends in London who +kept him _au courant_ with the gossip of society, and he had straightway +made his preparations to return to England. He had not hurried himself, +however, for what he had not heard of was that clause in the old man's +will which made his grand-daughter's marriage within two months the _sine +quâ non_ of her inheriting his fortune. Such an idea as that had never +come into Monsieur D'Arblet's head; he had no conception but that he +should be in plenty of time. + +When he got to the house in Princes Gate he found it shut up. This, +however, did not disconcert him, it was no more than he expected. After +a considerable amount of ringing at both bells, there was a grating sound +within as of the unfastening of bolts and chains, and an elderly woman, +evidently fresh from her labours over the scouring of the kitchen grate, +appeared at the door, opening it just a couple of inches, as though she +dreaded the invasion of a gang of housebreakers. + +"Will you please tell me where Mrs. Romer is now living?" + +The woman grinned. "She has been living at Walpole Lodge, at Kew--Lady +Kynaston's, sir." + +"Oh, thank you;" and he was preparing to re-enter his hansom. + +"But I don't think you will see her to-day, sir." + +"Why not?" turning half-round again. + +"It is Mrs. Romer's wedding-day." + +"_What?_" + +That elderly female, who had been at one time a housemaid in Mr. +Harlowe's household, confided afterwards to her intimate friend, the +kitchenmaid next door, that she was so frightened at the way that +foreign-looking gentleman shouted at her, that she felt as if she should +have dropped. "Indeed, my dear, I was forced to go down and get a drop of +whisky the very instant he was gone, I felt so fluttered, like." + +Monsieur Le Vicomte turned round to her, with his foot midway between the +pavement and the step of the hansom, and shouted at her again. + +"_What_ did you say it was, woman?" + +"Why, Mrs. Romer's wedding-day, to be sure, sir; and no such wonder after +all, I should say; and a lovely morning for the wedding it be, too." + +Lucien D'Arblet put his hand vaguely up to his head, as though he had +received a blow; she had escaped him, then, after all. + +"So soon after the old man's death," he murmured, half aloud; "who could +have expected it?" + +"Well, sir, and soon it is, as you say," replied the ancient +ex-housemaid, who had caught the remark; "but people do say as how Mr. +Harlowe, my late master, wished it so, and of course Mrs. Romer, she were +quite ready, so to speak, for the Captain had been a-courting her for +ever so long, as we who lived in the house could have told." + +The vicomte was fumbling at his breast-coat pocket, his face was as +yellow as the rose in his button-hole. + +"Where was the wedding to be? At Kew?" + +"No, sir; at Saint Paul's church, in Wilton Crescent. Mrs. Romer would +have it so, because that's the place of worship she used to go to when +she lived here. You'd be in time to see them married now, sir, if you was +to look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it's not that yet; +my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there. I let +her go, because she'd never seen a grand wedding. I'd like to have gone +myself, but, in course, we couldn't both be out of the house----" + +The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom. + +"Drive to Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go," he +called out to the cabman. "I might even now be in time; it would be a +_coup d'état_," he muttered. + +Round the door of Saint Paul's church a crowd had gathered, waiting to +see the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across the +pavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; big +footmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot of +decently-dressed women were pressing up as close to the porch as the +official personage, with a red collar on his coat and gold lace on his +hat, would allow them to go; and an indiscriminate collection of those +chance passers-by who never seem to be in any hurry, or to have anything +better to do than to stand and stare at any excitement, great or small, +that they may meet on their road, were blocking up the pavement on either +side of the red cloth carpeting. + +Two ladies came walking along from the direction of the Park. + +"There's a wedding going on; do let us go in and see it, Vera." + +"My dear Cissy, I detest looking at people being married; it always makes +me low-spirited." + +"And I love it. I always get such hints for dresses from a wedding. I'd +go anywhere to see anybody married. I've been to the Jewish synagogue, to +Spurgeon's tabernacle, and to the pro-cathedral, all in one week, before +now just to see weddings." + +"There must be a sameness about the performances. Don't you get sick of +them?" + +"Never. I wonder whose wedding it is; there must be thirty carriages +waiting. I'll ask one of these big footmen. Whose wedding is it?" + +"Captain Kynaston's, ma'am." + +"Oh, I used to know him once; he is such a handsome fellow. Come along, +Vera." + +"Cissy, I _cannot_ come." + +"Nonsense, Vera; don't be so foolish; make haste, or we shan't get in." + +Somebody just then dashed up in a hansom, and came hurrying up behind +them. Somehow or other, what with Mrs. Hazeldine dragging her by the arm, +and an excited-looking gentleman pushing his way through the crowd behind +her, Vera got swept on into the church. + +"You are very late, ladies," whispered the pew-opener, who supposed them +to belong to the wedding guests; "it is nearly over. You had better take +these seats in this pew; you will see them come out well from here." And +she evidently considered them to be all one party, for she ushered them +all three into a pew; first, Mrs. Hazeldine, then Vera, and next to her +the little foreign-looking gentleman who had bustled up so hurriedly. + +It was an awful thing to have happened to Vera that she should have been +thus entrapped by a mere accident into being present at Maurice's +wedding; and yet, when she was once inside the church, she felt not +altogether sorry for it. + +"I can at least see the last of him, and pray that he may be happy," she +said to herself, as she sank on her knees in the shelter of the pew, and +buried her face in her hands. + +The church was crowded, and yet the wedding itself was not a particularly +attractive one, for, owing to the fact that the bride was a widow, there +was, of course, no bevy of bridesmaids in attendance in diaphanous +raiment. Instead of these, however, there was a great concourse of the +best-dressed women in London, all standing in rows round the upper end of +the nave; and there was a little old lady, in brown satin and point lace, +who stood out conspicuously detached from the other groups, who bent her +head solemnly over the great bouquet of exotics in her hands, and prayed +within herself, with a passionate fervour such as no other soul present +could pray, save only the pale, beautiful girl on her knees, far away +down at the further end of the church. Surely, if God ever gave happiness +to one of his creatures because another prayed for it, Maurice Kynaston, +with the prayers of those two women being offered up for him, would have +been a happy man. + +And the mother, by this time, knew that it was all a mistake--a mistake, +alas, which she, in her blindness, had fostered. + +No wonder that she trembled as she prayed. + +The service, that portion of it which makes two people man and wife, +was over; the clergyman was reading the final exhortation to the +newly-married pair. + +They stood together close to the altar rails. The bride was in a pale +lavender satin, covered with lace, which spread far away behind her +across the tesselated pavement. The bridegroom stood by her side, erect +and handsome, but pale and stern, and with a far-away look in his eyes +that would have made any one fancy, had any one been near enough or +attentive enough to remark it, that he was only an indifferent spectator +of the scene, in no way interested in what was going on. He looked as if +he were thinking of something else. + +He was thinking of something else. He was thinking of a railway carriage, +of a train rushing onwards through a fog-blotted landscape, and of two +arms, warm and soft, cast up round his neck, and a trembling, passionate +voice, ever crying in his ears-- + +"While you live I will never marry another man." + +That was what the bridegroom was thinking about. + +As to the bride, she was debating to herself whether she should have the +body of her wedding-dress cut V or square when she left it with her +dressmaker to be altered into a dinner-dress. + +Meanwhile the clergyman, who mumbled his words slightly, and whose +glasses kept on tumbling off his nose, waded through the several duties +of husbands towards their wives, and of wives towards their husbands, as +expounded by Scripture, in a monotonous undertone, until, to the great +relief of the weary guests, the ceremony at last came to an end. + +Then the best man, Sir John, who stood behind his brother, looking, if +possible, more like a mute at a funeral even than the bridegroom himself, +stepped forward out of the shadow. The new-married couple went into the +vestry, followed by Sir John, his mother, and a select few, upon which +the door was closed. All the rest of the company then began to chatter +in audible whispers together; they fidgeted backwards and forwards, +from one pew to the other. There were jokes, and smiles, and nods, and +hand-shakings between the different members of the wedding party. All in +a low and decorous undertone, of course, but still there was a distinct +impression upon every one that all the religious part of the business +being well got over, they were free to be jolly about it now, and to +enjoy themselves as much as circumstances would admit of. + +All at once there was a sudden hush, everybody scuffled back into their +places. The best man put his nose out of the vestry door, and the +"Wedding March" struck up. Then came a procession of chorister boys down +the church, each bearing a small bouquet of fern and white flowers. They +ranged themselves on either side of the porch, and the bride and +bridegroom came down the aisle alone. + +Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to see +them pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side. + +She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in her +eyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who has +to impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself. Nobody in all that +gaily-dressed chattering crowd noticed her, for were not all eyes fixed +upon the bride, the queen of the day? Nobody save the man who stood by +her side. Only he saw that fixed white look of despair, only he heard the +long shuddering sigh that burst from her pale lips as the bridegroom +went by. Monsieur D'Arblet said, to himself: + +"This woman loves Monsieur le Capitaine! _Bon!_ Two are better than one; +we will avenge ourselves together, my beautiful incognita." + +And then he looked sharply at her companion, and found that her face was +familiar to him. Surely he had dined at that woman's house once. Oh, yes! +to be sure, it was that insufferable little chatterbox, Mrs. Hazeldine. +He remembered all about her now. + +There was a good deal of pushing and cramming at the doorway. By the time +Vera could get out of the stifling heat of the crowded church most of the +wedding party had driven off, and the rest were clamouring wildly for +their carriages; she herself had got separated from her companion, and +when she could rejoin her in the little gravelled yard outside, she found +her shaking hands with effusion with the foreign-looking gentleman who +had sat next her in the church, but whom, truth to say, she had hardly +noticed. + +"Let me present to you my friend," said Cissy. "Miss Nevill, Monsieur +D'Arblet--you will walk with us as far as the park, won't you?" + +"I shall be enchanted, Mrs. Hazeldine." + +"And wasn't it a pretty wedding," continued Mrs. Hazeldine, rapturously, +as they all three walked away together down the shady side of the street; +"so remarkably pretty considering that there were no bridesmaids; but +Mrs. Romer is so graceful, and dresses so well. I don't visit her myself, +you know; but of course I know her by sight. One knows everybody by sight +in London; it's rather embarrassing sometimes, because one is tempted to +bow to people one doesn't visit, or else one fancies one ought not to bow +to somebody one does. I've made some dreadfully stupid mistakes myself +sometimes. Did you notice the rose point on that old lady's brown satin, +Vera?" + +"That was Lady Kynaston." + +"Oh, was it? By the way, of course, you must know some of the Kynastons, +as they come from your part of the world. I wonder they didn't ask you to +the wedding." + +Vera murmured something unintelligible. Monsieur D'Arblet looked at her +sharply. He saw that she had in no way recovered her agitation yet, and +that she could hardly bear her companion's brainless chatter over this +wedding. + +"That has been no ordinary love affair," said this astute Frenchman to +himself. "I must decidedly cultivate this young lady's acquaintance, for +I mean to pay you out well yet, ma belle Hélène." + +"How fortunate it was we happened to be passing just as it was going on. +I wouldn't have missed seeing that lovely lavender satin the bride wore +for worlds; did you notice the cut of the jacket front, Vera; it was +something new; she looked as happy as possible too. I daresay her first +marriage was a _coup manqué_; they generally are when women marry again." + +"Suppose we take these three chairs in the shade," suggested Monsieur +D'Arblet, cutting short, unceremoniously the string of her remarks, which +apparently were no more soothing to himself than to Miss Nevill. + +They sat down, and for the space of half an hour Monsieur D'Arblet +proceeded to make himself politely agreeable to Miss Nevill, and he +succeeded so well in amusing her by his conversation, that by the time +they all got up to go the natural bloom had returned to her cheeks, and +she was talking to him quite easily and pleasantly, as though no +catastrophe in her life had happened but an hour ago. + +"You will come back with us to lunch, Monsieur D'Arblet?" + +"I shall be delighted, madame." + +"If you will excuse me, Cissy, I am not going to lunch with you to-day," +said Vera. + +"My dear! where are you going, then?" + +"I have a visit to pay--an engagement, I mean--in--in Cadogan Place. I +will be home very soon, in time for your drive, if you don't mind my +leaving you." + +"Oh, of course, do as you like, dear." + +Lucien D'Arblet was annoyed at her defection, but, of course, having +accepted Mrs. Hazeldine's invitation, there was nothing for it but to go +on with her; so he swallowed his discomfiture as best he could, and +proceeded to make himself agreeable to his hostess. + +As to Vera, she turned away and retraced her steps slowly towards St. +Paul's Church. It was a foolish romantic fancy, she could not tell what +impelled her to it, but she felt as though she must go back there once +more. + +The church was not closed. She pushed open the swing-door and went in. It +was all hushed and silent and empty. Where so lately the gay throng of +well-dressed men and women had passed in and out, chattering, smiling, +nodding--displaying their radiant toilettes one against the other, there +were only now the dark, empty rows of pews, and the bent figure of one +shabbily-dressed old woman gathering together the prayer-books and +hymn-books that had been tumbled out of their places in the scuffle, and +picking up morsels of torn finery that had dropped about along the nave. + +Vera passed by her and went up into the chancel. She stood where Maurice +had stood by the altar rails. A soft, subdued light came streaming in +through the coloured glass window; a bird was chirping high up somewhere +among the oak rafters of the roof, the roar of the street without was +muffled and deadened; the old woman slammed-to the door of a pew, the +echo rang with a hollow sound through the empty building, and her +departing footsteps shuffled away down the aisle into silence. + +Vera lifted her eyes; great tears welled down slowly, one by one, over +her cheeks--burning, blistering tears, such as, thank God, one sheds but +once or twice in a lifetime--that seem to rend our very hearts as they +rise. + +Presently she sank down upon her knees and prayed--prayed for him, that +he might be happy and forget her, but most of all for herself, that she +might school her rebellious heart to patience, and her wild passion of +misery into peace and submission. + +And by degrees the tempest within her was hushed. Then, ere she rose from +her knees, something lying on the ground, within a yard of where she +knelt, caught her eye. It was a little Russia-leather letter-case. She +recognized it instantly; she had often seen Maurice take it out of his +pocket. + +She caught at it hungrily and eagerly, as a miser clutches a +treasure-trove, pressing it wildly to her bosom, and covering it with +passionate kisses. Dear little shabby case, that had been so near his +heart; that his hand, perchance, only on hour ago had touched. Could +anything on earth be more priceless to her than this worn and faded +object! + +It seemed to be quite empty. It had fallen evidently from his pocket +during the service. If he ever missed it, there was nothing in it to +lose; and now it was hers, hers by every right; she would never part with +it, never. It was all she had of him; the one single thing he had touched +which she possessed. + +She rose hurriedly. She was in haste now to be gone with her treasure, +lest any one should wrest it from her. She carried it down the church +with a guilty delight, kissing it more than once as she went. And then, +as she opened the church door, some one ran up the steps outside, and she +stood face to face with Sir John Kynaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE. + + "Never again," so speaketh one forsaken, + In the blank desolate passion of despair: + Never again shall the bright dream I cherished + Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there: + The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain; + Never again, my heart--never again! + + A. Procter. + + +"Vera!" + +Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white. + +"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand. + +They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idle +cabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gaping +nursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel on +suddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or a +heart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings and +misunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed. +It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; it +is safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?" + +That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir John +took her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. By +the time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind. + +"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said, +rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this +morning?" + +"Yes; I was in the church." + +"Were you? How glad I am I did not know it," almost involuntarily. + +There was a little pause; then Vera asked him if he was going to Walpole +Lodge. + +"Eventually; but I have come back here to look for something. My brother +has lost a little Russia-leather case; he thinks he may have dropped it +in the church; there were two ten-pound notes in it. I am going in to +look for it. Why, what is that in your hand? I believe that is the very +thing." + +"I--I--just picked it up," stammered Vera. She began searching in the +pockets of the case. "I did not think there was anything in it. Yes, here +are the notes, quite safe." + +She took them out and gave them to him. He held out his hand mechanically +for the case also. + +"Thank you; you have saved me the trouble of looking for it. I will take +it back to him at once." + +But she could not part with her treasure; it was all she had got of him. + +"The letter-case is very shabby," she said, crimsoning with a painful +confusion. "I do not think he can want it at all; it is quite worn out." + +Sir John looked at her with a slight surprise. + +"It can be very little use to him. One likes sometimes to have a little +remembrance of those--of people--one has known; he would not mind my +keeping it, I think. Tell him--tell him I asked for it." The tears were +very near her voice; she could scarcely keep them back out of her eyes. + +John Kynaston dropped his hand, and Vera slipped the little case quickly +into her pocket. + +"Would you mind walking a little way with me, Vera?" he said, gently and +very gravely. + +She drew down her veil, and went with him in silence. They had walked +half-way down Wilton Crescent before he spoke to her again; then he +turned towards her, and looked at her earnestly and sadly. + +"Why did you go back again into the church, Vera?" + +"I wanted to think quietly a little," she murmured. There was another +pause. + +"So _that_ is what parted us!" he exclaimed, with a sudden bitterness, at +length. + +She looked up, startled and pale. + +"What do you mean?" she stammered. + +"Oh, child! I see it all now. How blind I have been. Ah, why did you not +trust me, love? Why did you fear to tell me your secret? Do you not think +that I, who would have laid down my life for you to make you happy, do +you not suppose I would have striven to make your path smooth for you?" + +She could not answer him; the kind words, the tender voice, were too much +for her. Her tears fell fast and silently. + +"Tell me," he said, turning to her almost roughly, "tell me the truth. +Has he ill-treated you, this brother of mine, who stole you from me, and +then has left you desolate?" + +"No, no; do not say that; it was never his fault at all, only mine; and +he was always bound to her. He has been everything that is good and loyal +and true to you and to her; it has been only a miserable mistake, and now +it is over. Yes, thank God, it is over; never speak of it again. He was +never false to you; only I was false. But it is ended." + +They were walking round Belgrave Square by this time, not near the +houses, but round the square garden in the middle. All recollection of +his brother's marriage, of the wedding breakfast at Walpole Lodge, of the +speech the best man would be expected to make, had gone clean out of his +head; he thought of nothing but Vera and of the revelation concerning her +that had just come to him. It was the quiet hour of the day; there were +very few people about; everybody was indoors eating heavy luncheons, +with sunblinds drawn down to keep out the heat. They were almost as much +alone as in a country lane in Meadowshire. + +"What are you going to do with yourself?" he said to her, presently. +"What use are you going to make of your life?" + +"I don't know," she answered, drearily; "I suppose I shall go back to +Sutton. Perhaps I shall marry." + +"But not me?" + +She looked up at him piteously. + +"Listen, child," he said, eagerly. "If I were to go away for a year, and +then come back to you, how would it be? Oh, my darling! I love you so +deeply that I could even be content to do with but half your heart, so +that I could win your sweet self. I would exact nothing from you, love, +no more than what you could give me freely. But I would love you so well, +and make your life so sweet and pleasant to you, that in time, perhaps, +you would forget the old sorrow, and learn to be happy, with a quiet kind +of happiness, with me; I would ask for no more. Look, child, I have +grieved sorely for you; I have sat down and wept, and mourned for you as +though I had no strength or life left in me. But now I am ashamed of my +weakness, for it is unworthy of _you_. I am going away abroad, across the +world, I care not where, so long as I can be up and doing, and forget the +pain at my heart. Vera, tell me that I may come back to you in a year. +Think with what fresh life and courage I should go if I had but that hope +before my eyes. In a year's time your pain will be less; you will have +forgotten many things; you will be content, perhaps, to come to me, +knowing that I will never reproach you with the past, nor expect more +than you can give me in the future. Vera, let me come back and claim you +in a year!" + +How strange it was that the chance of marrying this man was perpetually +being presented to her. Never, perhaps, had the temptation been stronger +to her than it was now. He had divined her secret; there would be no +concealment between them; he would ask her for no love it was not in her +power to give; he would be content with her as she was, and he would love +her, and worship her, and surround her with everything that could make +her life pleasant and easy for her. Could a man offer more? Oh! why could +she not take him at his word, and give him the hope he craved for? + +Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good and +evil--that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life's +race, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself so +strong--so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and wound +weaker woman--this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature, +wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer; +her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strong +character, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness. + +To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all the +good things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love his +brother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill. + +"I cannot do it; do not ask me," she said, distractedly. "Your goodness +to me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be." + +"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered." + +"I shall not alter." + +"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me." + +"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happy +enough; that is not why I cannot marry you." + +"Why not, then?" + +"_I dare not_," she said, in a low voice. + +He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so bad +with you as that?" + +She bent her head in silent assent. + +"That is hard," he said, almost to himself, looking gloomily before him. +Presently he spoke again. "Thank you, Vera," he said, rather brokenly. +"You are a brave woman and a true one. Many would have taken my all, +and given me back only deception and falseness. But you are incapable of +that, and--and you fear your own strength; is that it?" + +"Whilst he lives," she said, with a sudden burst of passion, "I can know +no safety. Never to see his face again can be my only safeguard, and with +you I could never be safe. Why, even to bear your name would be to scorch +my heart every time I was addressed by it. Forgive me, John," turning to +him with a sudden penitence, "I should not have pained you by saying +these things; you who have been so infinitely good to me. Go your way +across the world, and forget me. Ah! have I not been a curse to every one +who bears the name of Kynaston?" + +He was silent from very pity. Vera was no longer to him the goddess of +his imagination; the one pure and peerless woman, above all other women, +such as he had once fancied her to be. But surely she was dearer to him +now, in all her weakness and her suffering, than she had ever been on +that lofty pedestal of perfection upon which he had once lifted her. + +He pitied her so much, and yet he could not help her; her malady was past +remedy. And, as she had told him, it was no one's fault--it was only a +miserable mistake. He had never had her heart--he saw it plainly now. +Many little things in the past, which he had scarcely remembered at the +time, came back to his memory--little details of that week at Shadonake, +when Maurice had lived in the same house with her, whilst he had only +gone over daily to see her. Always, in those days, Maurice had been by +her side, and Vera had been dreamily happy, with that fixed look of +content with which the presence of the man she loves best beautifies and +poetises a woman's face. Sir John was not a very observant man; but now, +after it was all over, these things came back to him. The night of the +ball, Mrs. Romer's mysterious hints, and his own vague disquietude at her +words; later on Maurice's reasonless refusal to be present at his +wedding, and Vera's startled face of dismay when he had asked her to go +and plead with him to stay for it. + +They had struggled against their hearts, it was clear, these poor lovers, +whose lives were both tied up and bound before ever they had met each +other. But nature had been too strong for them; and the woman, at least, +had torn herself free from the chains that had become insupportable to +her. + +They walked on silently, side by side, round the square. Some girls were +playing at lawn-tennis within the garden. There was an occasional shout +or a ringing laugh from their fresh young voices. A footman was walking +along the pavement opposite, with two fat pugs and a white Spitz in the +last stage of obesity in tow, which it was his melancholy duty to parade +daily up and down for their mid-day airing. An occasional hansom dashing +quickly by broke the stillness of the "empty" hour. Years and years +afterwards every detail of the scene came back to his memory with the +distinctness of a photograph when he passed once more through the square. + +"You have been no curse to me, Vera," he said, presently, breaking the +silence. "Do not reproach yourself; it is I who was a madman to deem that +I could win your love. Child, we are both sufferers; but time heals most +things, and we must learn to wait and be patient. Will you ever marry, +Vera?" + +"I don't know. Perhaps I may be obliged to. It might be better for me. I +cannot say. Don't speak of it. Why, is there nothing else for a woman to +do but to marry? John, it must be late. Ought you not to go back--to--to +your mother's?" + +Insensibly, she resumed a lighter manner. On that other subject there was +nothing left to be said. She had had her last chance of becoming John +Kynaston's wife. After what she had said to him, she knew he would never +ask her again. That chapter in her life was closed for ever. + +They parted, unromantically enough, in front of St. George's Hospital. He +called a hansom for her, and stood holding her hand, one moment longer, +possibly, than was strictly necessary, looking intently into her face as +he did so. + +"Will you think of me sometimes?" + +"Yes, surely." + +"Good-bye, Vera." + +"Good-bye, John. God bless you wherever you may go." + +She got into her hansom, and he told the cabman where to drive her; then +he lifted his hat to her with grave politeness, and walked away in the +opposite direction. It was a common-place enough parting, and yet these +two never saw each other's faces again in this world. + +So it is with our lives. Some one or other who has been a part of our +very existence for a space goes his way one day, and we see him no more. +For a little while our hearts ache, and we shed tears in secret for him +who is gone, but by-and-by we get to understand that he is part of our +past, never, to be recalled, and after a while we get used to his +absence; we think of him less and less, and the death of him, who was +once bound up in our very lives, strikes us only with a mild surprise, +hardly even tinged with a passing melancholy. + +"Poor old so-and-so, he is dead," we say. "What a time it is since we +met," and then we go our way and think of him no more. + +But Vera knew that, in all human probability, she would never see him +again, this man, who had once so nearly been her husband. It was another +link of her past life severed. It saddened her, but she knew it was +inevitable. + +The little letter-case, at all events, was safely hers; and for many a +night Vera slept with it under her pillow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +DINNER AT RANELAGH. + + Here is the whole set, a character dead at every word. + + Sheridan. + + +It was the fag end of the London season; people were talking about +Goodwood and the Ryde week, about grouse and about salmon-fishing. +Members of Parliament went about, like martyrs at the stake, groaning +over the interminable nature of every debate, and shaking their heads +over the prospect of getting away. Women in society knew all their own +and their neighbours' dresses by heart, and were dead sick of them all; +and even the very gossip and scandal that is always afloat to keep up the +spirits of the idlers and the chatterers had lost all the zest, all the +charm of novelty that gave flavour and piquancy to every _canard_ that +was started two months ago. + +It was all stale, flat, and unprofitable. + +What was the use of constantly asserting, on the very best authority, +that Lady So-and-so was on the eve of running away with that handsome +young actor, whose eyes had taken the female population by storm, when +Lady So-and-so persisted in walking about arm-in-arm with her husband day +after day, with a child on either side of them, in the most provoking +way, as though to prove the utter fallacy of the report, and her own +incontestable domestic felicity? Or, what merit had a man any longer who +had stated in May that the heiress _par excellence_ of the season was +about to sell herself and her gold to that debauched and drunken marquis, +who had evidently not six months of life left in him in which to enjoy +his bargain, when the heiress herself gave the lie to the _on dit_ in +July by talking calmly about going to Norway with her papa for a month's +retirement and rest after the fatigues of the season? + +What a number of lies are there not propounded during the months of May +and June by the inventive Londoner, and how many of them are there not +proved to be so during the latter end of July! + +Heaven only knows how and where the voice of scandal is first raised. Is +it at the five o'clock tea-tables? Or, is it in the smoking-rooms of the +clubs that things are first spoken of, and the noxious breath of slander +started upon its career? Or, are there evil-minded persons, both men and +women, prowling about, like unclean animals, at the skirts of that +society into whose inner recesses they would fain gain admittance, +picking up greedily, here and there, in their eaves-dropping career, +some scrap or morsel of truth out of which they weave a well-varnished +tale wherewith to delight the ears of the vulgar and the coarse-minded? +There are such men and such women; God forgive them for their wickedness! + +Do any of these scandal-mongers ever call to mind, I wonder, an ancient +and, seemingly, a well-nigh forgotten injunction? + +"Thou shalt not bear false witness," said the same Voice who has also +said, "Thou shalt do no murder." + +And which is the worst--to kill a man's body, or to slay a man's honour, +or a woman's reputation? + +In truth, there seems to me to be but little difference between the two; +and the man or the woman who will do the one might very possibly be +guilty of the other--but for the hanging! + +We should all do a great many more wicked things than we do if there were +no consequences. + +It is a very trite observation, which is, nevertheless, never spoken with +more justice or more truth than at or about Hyde Park Corner between May +and July, that the world we live in is a very wicked one. + +Well, the season, as I have said, was well-nigh over, and all the scandal +had run dry, and the gossip, for the most part, been proved to be +incorrect, and there was nobody in all London who excited so much +irritation among the talkers as the new beauty, Vera Nevill. + +For Vera was Miss Nevill still, and there was every prospect of her +remaining so. What on earth possessed the girl that she would not marry? +Had not men dangled at her elbow all the season? Could she not have had +such and such elder sons, or such and such wealthy commoner? What was she +waiting for? A girl without a penny, who came nobody knew from where, +ushered in under Mrs. Hazeldine's wings, with not a decent connection +in the world to her name! What did she want--this girl who had only her +beauty to depend upon? and everybody knows how fleeting _that_ is! + +And then, presently, the women who were envious of her began to whisper +amongst themselves. There was something against her; she was not what she +seemed to be. The men flirted, of course--men will always flirt! but +they were careful not to commit themselves! And even that mysterious word +"adventuress," which has an ugly sound, but of which no one exactly knows +the precise meaning, began to be bruited about. + +"There was an unpleasant story about her, somebody told me once," said +one prettily-dressed nonentity to another, as they wandered slowly up and +down the velvet lawns at Ranelagh. "She was mixed up in some way with the +Kynaston family. Sir John was to have married her, and then something +dreadful came out, and he threw her over." + +"Oh, I thought she jilted him." + +"I daresay it was one or the other; at all events, there was some fracas +or other. I believe her mother was--hum, hum--you understand--she +couldn't be swallowed by the Kynastons at any price; they must have been +thankful to get out of it." + +"It looks very bad, her not marrying any one, with all the fuss there has +been made over her." + +"Yes; even Cissy Hazeldine told me, in confidence, yesterday, she could +not try her again next season. It wouldn't do, you know; it would look +too much as if she had some object of her own in getting her married. +Cissy must find something else for another year. Of course, with a +husband, she could sail her own course and make her own way; but a girl +can't go on attracting attention with impunity--she gets herself talked +about--it is only we married women can do as we like." + +"Exactly. Do you suppose _that_ will come to anything?" casting a glance +towards the further end of the lawn, where Vera Nevill sat in a low +basket-chair, under the shadow of a spreading tulip-tree, whilst a slight +boyish figure, stretched at her feet, alternately chewed blades of grass +and looked up worshippingly into her face. + +"_That!_" following the direction of her companion's eyes. "Oh dear, no! +Denis Wilde is too wideawake to be caught, though he is such a boy! They +say she is crazy to get him; everybody else has slipped through her +fingers, you see, and he would be better than nothing. Now we are in the +last week in July, I daresay she is getting desperate; but young Wilde +knows pretty well what he is about, I expect!" + +"He seems to admire her." + +"Oh, yes, I daresay; those large kind of women do get admired; men look +upon them as fine animals. _I_ should not care to be admired in that way, +would you?" + +"No, indeed! it is disgusting," replied the other, who was fain to +conceal the bony corners of her angular figure with a multiplicity of +lace ruchings and puffings. + +"As to Miss Nevill, she is nothing else. A most material type; why, her +waist must be twenty-two inches round!" + +"Quite that, dear," with sweetness, from the owner of a nineteen-inch +article, which two maids struggled with daily in order to reduce it to +the required measurement. + +"Well, I never could--between you and me--see much to admire in her." + +"Neither could I, although, of course, it has been the fashion to rave +over her." + +And, with that, these two amiable young women fell at it tooth and nail, +and proceeded to cry down their victim's personal appearance in the most +unmeasured and sweeping terms. + +After the taking away of a fellow-woman's character, comes as a natural +sequence the condemnation of her face and figure, and it is doubtful +which indictment is the most grave in eyes feminine. Meanwhile the +object of all this animadversion sat tranquilly unconscious under her +tulip-tree, whilst Denis Wilde, that astute young gentleman, whom they +had declared to be too well aware of what he was about to be entrapped +into matrimony, was engaged in proposing to her for the fourth time. + +"I thought we had settled this subject long ago, Mr. Wilde," says Vera, +tranquilly unfolding her large, black, feather fan--for it is hot--and +slowly folding it up again. + +"It will never be settled for me, Vera; never, so long as you are +unmarried." + +"What a dreadful mistake life is!" sighs Vera, wearily, more to herself +than to the boy at her feet. Was anybody ever happy in this world? she +began to wonder. + +"I know very well," resumed Denis Wilde, "that I am not good enough for +you; but, then, who is? My prospects, such as they are, are very distant, +and your friends, I daresay, expect you to marry well." + +"How often must I tell you that that has nothing to do with it," cries +Vera, impatiently. "If I loved a beggar, I should marry him." + +Young Wilde plucked at the grass again, and chewed a daisy up almost +viciously. There was a supreme selfishness in the way she had of +perpetually harping upon her lack of love for him. + +"There is always some fellow or other hanging about you," grumbles the +young man, irritably; "you are an inveterate flirt!" + +"No woman is worthy of the name who is not!" retorts Vera, laughing. + +"I _hate_ a flirt," angrily. + +"This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. +Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!" + +"Pooh!--mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are very +different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very +soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his +face and send him to the devil." + +"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to this +shocking conduct." + +"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing the +same game with that you have already done with me; he follows you like +a shadow." + +"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious. +"But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about that +man--I can't think why he follows me about so." + +"_Can't_ you!" very grimly. + +"I assure you the man is in no more love with me than--than----" + +"_I_ am! I suppose you will say next." + +"Oh dear, no, you are utterly incorrigible and quite in earnest; but +Monsieur D'Arblet is _pretending_ to be in love with me." + +"He makes a very good pretence of it, at all events. Here he comes, +confound him! If I had known Mrs. Hazeldine had asked _him_, I would +never have come." + +At which Vera, who had heard these outbursts of indignant jealousy +before, and knew how little poor Denis meant the terrible threats he +uttered, only laughed with the pitiless amusement of a woman who knows +her own power. + +Lucien D'Arblet came towards her smiling, and sank down into a vacant +basket-chair by her side with the air of a man who knows himself to be +welcome. + +He had been paying a great deal of attention latterly to the beautiful +Miss Nevill; he had followed her about everywhere, and had made it patent +in every public place where he had met her that she alone was the sole +aim and object of his thoughts. And yet, with it all, Monsieur Le Vicomte +was only playing a part, and not only that, but he was pretty certain +that she knew it to be so. He gazed rapturously into her beautiful face, +he lowered his voice tenderly in speaking to her, he pressed her hand +when she gave it to him, and even on occasions he raised it furtively to +his lips; but, with all this, he knew perfectly well that she was not one +whit deceived by him. She no more believed him to be in love with her +than he believed it of himself. She was clever and beautiful, and he +admired and even liked her, but in the beginning of their acquaintance +Monsieur D'Arblet had had no thought of making her the object of any +sentimental attentions. He had been driven to it by a discovery that he +had made concerning her character. + +Miss Nevill had a good heart. She was no enraged, injured woman, +thirsting for revenge upon the woman who had stolen her lover from +her--such as he had desired to find in her; she was only a true-hearted +and unhappy girl, who was not in any case likely to develop into the +instrument of vengeance which he sought for. + +It was a disappointment to him, but he was not completely disheartened. +It was through her that he desired to punish Helen for daring to brave +him, and he swore to himself that he would do it still; only he must now +set about it in a different way, so he began to make love to Miss Nevill. + +And Vera was shrewd enough to perceive that he was only playing a part. +Nevertheless, there were times when she felt so completely puzzled by his +persistent adoration, that she could hardly tell what to make of it. Was +he trying to make some other woman jealous? It even came into her head, +once or twice, to suspect that Cissy Hazeldine was the real object of his +devotion, so utterly incomprehensible did his conduct appear to her. + +If she had been told that Lucien D'Arblet's real quest was not love, but +revenge, she would have laughed. An Englishman does not spend his time +nor his energies in plotting a desperate retaliation on a lady who has +disregarded his threats and evaded his persecution; it is not in the +nature of any Briton, however irascible, to do so; but a Frenchman is +differently constituted. There is something delightfully refreshing to +him in an atmosphere of plotting and intrigue. There is the same instinct +of the chase in both nationalities, but it is more amusing to the +Frenchman to hunt down his fellow-creatures than to pursue unhappy little +beasts of the field; and he understands himself in the pursuit of the +larger game infinitely better. + +Nevertheless, Monsieur D'Arblet had no intention of getting himself into +trouble, nor of risking the just fury of an indignant British husband, +who stood six feet in his stockings, nor did he desire, by any anonymous +libel, to bring himself in any way under the arm of the law. All he meant +to do was to dig his trench and to lay his mine, to place the fuse in +Vera Nevill's hands--leave her to set fire to it--and then retire +himself, covered with satisfaction at his cleverness, to his own side +of the Channel. + +Who could possibly grudge him so harmless an entertainment? + +Monsieur D'Arblet, as he sat down by her side under the tulip-tree, began +by paying Miss Nevill a prettily turned compliment upon her fresh white +toilette; as he did so Vera smiled and bent her head; she had seen him +before to-day. + +"Fine evening, Mr. Wilde," said the Frenchman, turning civilly, but with +no evident _empressement_, towards the gentleman he addressed. + +Denis only answered by a sulky grunt. + +Then began that process between the two men which is known in polite +society as the endeavour to sit each other out. + +Monsieur D'Arblet discoursed upon the weather and the beauty of the +gardens, with long and expressive pauses between each insignificant +remark, and the air of a man who wishes to say, "I could talk about much +more interesting things if that other fellow was out of the way." + +Denis Wilde simply reversed himself, that is to say, he lay on his +back instead of his face, stared up at the sky, and chewed grass +perseveringly. He had evidently no intention of being driven off the +field. + +"I had something of great importance to say to you this evening," +murmured Monsieur D'Arblet, at length, looking fixedly at his enemy's +upturned face. + +"All right, go ahead, don't mind me," says the young gentleman, amiably. +"I'm never in the way, am I, Miss Nevill?" + +"Never, Mr. Wilde," answers Vera, sweetly. Like a true woman, she quite +appreciates the fun of the situation, and thoroughly enjoys it; "pray +tell me what you have to say, monsieur." + +"Ah! Ces choses-là ne se disent qu'à deux!" murmurs he Frenchman, with a +sentimental sigh. + +"It is no use your saying it in French," says Denis, with a chuckle, +twisting himself round again upon his chest, "because I have the good +fortune, D'Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, +absolutely like a native." + +"You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, +and three is none," retorts D'Arblet, with a smile. + +"I'm awfully sorry, old fellow; but I am so exceedingly comfortable, I +really can't get up; if I could oblige you in any other way, I certainly +would." + +"Come to dinner!" cries out Mrs. Hazeldine, coming towards them from the +garden side of the lawn; "we are all here now." + +The two men sprang simultaneously to their feet. This is, of course, the +moment that they have both been waiting for. Each offers an arm to Miss +Nevill; Monsieur D'Arblet bends blandly and smilingly forward; Denis +Wilde has a thunder-cloud upon his face, and holds out his arm as though +he were ready to knock somebody down with it. + +"What am I to do?" cries Vera, laughing, and looking with feigned +indecision from one to the other. + +"Make haste and decide, my dear," says Mrs. Hazeldine; "for whichever of +you two gentlemen does _not_ take in Miss Nevill must go and take that +eldest Miss Frampton for me." + +The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large and +bony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the military +men she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, +like a man. She goes familiarly amongst her acquaintance by the name of +the Dragoon. + +A cold shiver passes visibly down Mr. Wilde's back; unfortunately Miss +Nevill perceives it, and makes up her mind instantly. + +"I would not deprive you of so charming a companion," she says, smiling +sweetly at him, and passes her arm through that of the French vicomte. + +At dinner, poor Denis Wilde curses Monsieur D'Arblet; Miss Frampton, and +his own fate, indiscriminately and ineffectually. He is sitting exactly +opposite to his divinity, but he cannot even enjoy the felicity of +staring at her, for Miss Frampton will not let him alone. She chatters +unceasingly and gushingly. At an early period of the repast the string of +her amber-bead necklace suddenly gives way with a snap. The beads trickle +slowly down, one by one; half a dozen of them drop with a cracking noise, +like little marbles, upon the polished floor, where there is a general +scramble of waiters and gentlemen under the table together after them; +two fall into her own soup, three more on to Denis Wilde's table-napkin; +as fast as the truants are picked up others are shed down in their wake +from the four apparently inexhaustible rows that garnish her neck. + +Miss Frampton bears it all with serene and smiling good temper. + +"Dear me, I am really very sorry to give so much trouble. It doesn't +signify in the least, Mr. Wilde--thanks, that is one more. Oh, there goes +another into the sweet-breads; but I really don't mind if they are lost. +Jameson, of the 17th, gave them to me. Do you know Jameson? cousin of +Jameson, in the 9th; he brought them from Italy, or Turkey, or somewhere. +I am sure I don't remember where amber comes from; do you, Mr. Wilde?" + +Mr. Wilde, if he is vague as to where it comes from, is quite decided +as to where he would desire it to go. At this moment he had crunched a +tender tooth down upon one of these infernal beads, having helped himself +to it unconsciously out of the sweetbread dish. + +Is he doomed to swallow amber beads for the remainder of the repast? he +asks himself. + +"Did you ever meet Archdale, the man who was in the 16th?" continues Miss +Frampton, glibly, unconscious of his agonies; "he exchanged afterwards +into the 4th--he is such a nice fellow. I lunched every day at Ascot this +year on the 16th's drag. The first day I met Lester--that's the major, +you know--and Lester is _such_ a pet! He told me to come every day to +lunch, and bring any of my friends with me; so, of course, I did, and +there wasn't a better lunch on the course; and, on the cup-day, Archdale +came up and talked to me--he abused the champagne-cup, though; he said +there was more soda-water than champagne in it--the more he drank of it +the more dreadfully sober he got. However, I am invited to lunch with the +4th at Goodwood. They are going to have a spread under the trees, so I +shall be able to compare notes about the champagne-cup. I know two other +men in the 4th; Hopkins and Lambert; do you know them?" and so on, until +pretty well half the army list and all the luncheon-giving regiments in +the service had been passed under review. + +And there, straight opposite to him, was Vera, laughing at his +discomfiture, he was sure, but also listening to the flattering rubbish +which that odious little Frenchman was pouring into her ears. + +Did ever young man sit through such a detestable and abominable repast? + +If Denis Wilde had been rash enough to nourish insane hopes with regard +to moonlight wanderings in the pleasant garden after dinner, these hopes +were destined to be blighted. + +They were a party of twelve; the waiting was bad, and the courses +numerous; the dinner was a lengthy affair altogether. By the time it was +over, and coffee had been discussed on the terrace outside the house, the +carriages came round to the door, and the ladies of the party voted that +it was time to go home. + +Soon everybody stood clothed in summer ulsters or white dust-cloaks, +waiting in the hall. The coach started from the door with much noise +and confusion, with a good deal of plunging from the leaders, and some +jibbing from the wheelers, accompanied by a very feeble performance on +that much-abused instrument, the horn, by an amateur who occupied a back +seat; and after it had departed, a humble train of neat broughams and +victorias came trooping up in its wake. + +"You will see," said nonentity number one, in her friend's ear; "you will +see that Nevill girl will go back in some man's brougham--that is what +she has been waiting for; otherwise, she would have perched herself up on +the box-seat of the coach, in the most conspicuous place she could find." + +"What a disgraceful creature she must be!" is the indignantly virtuous +reply. + +The "Nevill girl," however, disappointed the expectations of both these +charitable ladies by quietly taking her place in Mrs. Hazeldine's +brougham, by her friend's side, amid a shower of "Good-nights" from the +remainder of the party. + +"Ah!" said the nonentity, with a vicious gasp, "you may be sure she has +some disreputable supper of men, and cigars, and brandies and sodas +waiting for her up in town, or she would never go off so meekly as that +in Mrs. Hazeldine's brougham. Still waters run deep, my dear!" + +"She is a horrid, disreputable girl, I am quite sure of that," is the +answer. "I am very thankful, indeed, that I haven't the misfortune of +knowing her." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +MRS. HAZELDINE'S "LONG ELIZA." + + Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the + dove; that is, more knave than fool. + + Christopher Marlowe. + + + For every inch that is not fool is rogue. + + Dryden. + + +The scene is Mrs. Hazeldine's drawing-room, in Park Lane, the hour is +four o'clock in the afternoon, and the _dramatis personæ_ are Miss +Nevill, very red in the face, standing in a corner, behind an oblong +velvet table covered with china ornaments, and Monsieur Le Vicomte +D'Arblet, also red in the face, gesticulating violently on the further +side of it. + +Miss Nevill, having retired behind the oblong table, purely from +prudential motives of personal safety, is devoured with anxiety +concerning the too imminent fate of her hostess' china. There is a little +Lowestoft tea-service that was picked up only last week at Christie and +Manson's, a turquoise blue crackle jar that is supposed to be priceless, +and a pair of "Long Eliza" vases, which her hostess loves as much as she +does her toy terrier, and far better than she loves her husband. + +What will become of her, Vera Nevill, if Mrs. Hazeldine comes in +presently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon the +floor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only too +probable a catastrophe. + +Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bull +in the crockery shop--terror mingled with an overpowering sense of +responsibility. All personal considerations are well-nigh merged in +the realization of the danger which menaces her hostess' property. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself," she says, +desperately. + +"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak of +shattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing about +frantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three square +yards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he is +surrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructible +objects. + +"_Pray_ be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in +the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish. + +"And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, +when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?" + +"Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase," +murmurs Vera, piteously. + +"No, I will never leave this room, never, mademoiselle, until you give +me hope; never will I cease to importune you until your heart relents +towards the _miserable_ who adores you!" + +Here Monsieur D'Arblet made an attempt to get at his charmer by coming +round the end of the velvet table. + +Vera felt distracted. To allow him to execute his maneuver was to run +the chance of being clasped in his arms; to struggle to get free was the +almost certainty of upsetting the table. + +She cast a despairing glance across the room at the bell-handle, which +was utterly beyond her reach. There was no hope in that direction. +Apparently, moral persuasion was her only chance. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, I _forbid_ you to advance a step nearer to me!" + +He fell back with a profound sigh. + +"Mademoiselle, I love you to distraction. I am unable to disobey your +commands." + +"Very well, then, listen to me. I cannot understand this violent outburst +of emotion. You have done me the honour to propose to marry me, and I +have, with many thanks for your most flattering distinction, declined +your offer. Surely, between a lady and a gentleman, there can be nothing +further to say; it is not incumbent upon you to persecute me in this +fashion." + +"Miss Nevill, you have treated me with a terrible cruelty. You have +encouraged my ardent passion for you until you did lift me up to Heaven." +Here Monsieur D'Arblet stretched up both his arms with a suddenness which +endangered the branches of the tall Dresden candelabra on the high +mantelpiece behind him. "After which you do reject me and cast me down +to hell!" and down came both hands heavily upon the velvet table between +them. The blue crackle jar, the two "Long Eliza" vases, and all the +Lowestoft cups and saucers, literally jumped upon their foundations. + +"For Heaven's sake!" cried Vera. + +"Ah!" in a tone of deep reproach, "do not plead with me, mademoiselle; +you have broken my heart." + +"And you have nearly broken the china," murmured Vera. + +"What is this miserable china that you talk about in comparison with my +happiness?" and the vicomte made as though he would tear his hair out +with both hands. + +The comedy of the situation began to be too much for Vera's self-control; +another ten minutes of it, and she felt that she should become +hysterical; all the more so because she knew very well that the whole +thing was nothing but a piece of acting; with what object, however, she +was at a loss to imagine. + +"For goodness sake, do be reasonable, Monsieur D'Arblet; you know +perfectly well that I never encouraged you, as you call it, for the very +good reason that there has never been anything to encourage. We have been +very good friends, but never anything more." + +"Mademoiselle, you do me injustice." + +"On the contrary, I give you credit for a great deal more common sense, +as a rule, than you seem disposed to evince to-day. I am quite certain +that you have never entertained any warmer feeling towards me than +friendship." + +This was an injudicious statement. Monsieur D'Arblet felt that his +reputation as a _galant homme_ and an adorer of the fair sex was +impugned; he instantly flew into the most violent passion, and jumped +about amongst the gipsy tables and the _étagères_, and the dainty little +spindle-legged cabinets more vehemently than ever. + +"_I_, not love you! Lucien D'Arblet profess a sentiment which he does not +experience! _Ah! par exemple, Mademoiselle, c'est trop fort!_ Next you +will say that I am a _menteur_, a _fripon_, a _lâche_! You will tell me +that I have no honour, and no sense of the generosity due to a woman; +that I am a brute and an imbecile," and at every epithet he dashed his +hands violently out in front of him, or thrust them wildly through his +disordered locks. The whole room shook, every ornament on every table +shivered with the strength of his agitation. + +"Oh, I will say any single thing you like," cried Vera, "if only you will +keep still----" + +"Do not insult me by denying my affection!" + +"I will deny nothing," said poor Vera, at her wits' ends. "If what I have +said has pained you, I am sincerely sorry for it; but for Heaven's sake +control yourself, and--and--_do_ go away!" + +Then Monsieur D'Arblet stood still and looked at her fixedly and +mournfully; his hands had dropped feebly by his side, there was an air +of profound melancholy in his aspect; he regarded her with a searching +intensity. He was asking himself whether his agitation and his despair +had produced the very slightest effect upon her; and he came to the +conclusion they had not. + +"_Peste soit de cette femme!_" he said to himself. "She is the first I +ever came across who refused to believe in vows of eternal love. As a +rule, women never fail to give them credit, if they are spoken often +enough and shouted out loud enough the more one despairs and declares +that one is about to expire, the more the dear creatures are impressed, +and the more firmly they are convinced of the power of their own charms. +But this woman does not believe in me one little bit. Love, despair, +rage--it is all the same to her--I might as well talk to the winds! She +only wants to get rid of me before her friend comes in, and before I +break her accursed china. Ah it is these miserable little pots and jugs +that she is thinking about! Very well, then, it is by them that I will do +what I want. A great genius can bend to small things as well as soar to +large ones--Voyons done, ma belle, which of us will be the victor!" + +All this time he was gazing at her fixedly and dejectedly. + +"Miss Nevill," he said, gloomily, "I will accept your rejection; +to-morrow I will say good-bye to this country for ever!" + +"We are all going away this week," said Vera, cheerfully: "this is the +end of July. You will come back again next year, and enjoy your season as +much as ever." + +"Never--never. Lucien D'Arblet will visit this country no more. The words +that I am about to speak to you now--the request that I am about to make +of you are like the words of a dying man; like the parting desire of one +who expires. Mademoiselle, I have a request to make of you." + +"I am sure," began Vera, politely, "if there is anything I can do +for you----" She breathed more freely now he talked about going away +and dying; it would be much better that he should so go away, and so +die, than remain interminably on the rampage in Mrs. Hazeldine's +drawing-room. Vera had stood siege for close upon an hour. The moment of +her deliverance was apparently drawing near; in the hour of victory she +felt that she could afford to be generous; any little thing that he liked +to ask of her she would be glad enough to do with a view to expediting +his departure. Perhaps he wanted her photograph, or a lock of her hair; +to either he would be perfectly welcome. + +"There is something I am forced to go away from England without having +done; a solemn duty I have to leave unperformed. Miss Nevill, will you +undertake to do it for me?" + +"Really, Monsieur D'Arblet, you are very mysterious; it depends, of +course, upon what this duty is--if it is very difficult, or very +unpleasant." + +"It is neither difficult nor unpleasant. It is only to give a small +parcel to a gentleman who is not now in England; to give it him yourself, +with your own hands." + +"That does not sound difficult, certainly," said Vera, smiling; after +all, she was glad he had not asked for a photograph, or a lock of hair; +"but how am I to find this friend of yours?" + +"Miss Nevill, do you know a man called Kynaston? Captain Maurice +Kynaston?" He was watching her keenly now. + +Vera turned suddenly very white: then controlling herself with an effort, +she answered quietly. + +"Yes, I know him. Why?" + +"Because that is the man I want you to give my parcel to." He drew +something out of his breast coat-pocket, and handed it to her across the +oblong table that was still between them. She took it in her hands, and +turned it over doubtfully and uneasily. It was a small square parcel, +done up in brown paper, fastened round with string, and sealed at both +ends. + +It might have been a small book; it probably was. She had no reason to +give why she should not do his commission for him, and yet she felt a +strange and unaccountable reluctance to undertake it. + +"I had very much rather that you asked somebody else to do this for you, +Monsieur D'Arblet," she said, handing the packet back to him. He did not +attempt to take it from her. + +"It concerns the most sacred emotions of my heart, mademoiselle," he +said, sensationally. "I could not entrust it to an indifferent person. +You, who have plunged me into such an abyss of despair by your cruel +rejection of my affection, cannot surely refuse to do so small a thing +for me." + +Miss Nevill was again looking at the small parcel in her hands. + +"Will it hurt or injure Captain Kynaston in any way?" she asked. + +"Far from it; it will probably be of great service to him. Come, Miss +Nevill, promise me that you will give it to him; any time will do before +the end of the year, any time that you happen to see him, or to be near +enough to visit him; I only want to be sure that it reaches him. All you +have to do is to give it him into his hands when no one else is near. +After all, it is a very small favour I ask you." + +"And it is precisely because it is so small, Monsieur D'Arblet," said +Vera, decidedly, "that I cannot imagine why you should make such a point +of a trifle like this; and as I don't like being mixed up in things I +don't understand, I must, I think, decline to have anything to do with +it." + +"_Allons donc!_" said the vicomte to himself. "I am reduced to the +china." + +He took an excited turn up and down the room, then came back again to +where she stood. + +"Miss Nevill!" he cried, with rising anger, "you seem determined to wound +my feelings and to insult my self-respect. You reject my offers, you +sneer at my professions of affection; and now you appear to me to throw +sinister doubts upon the meaning of the small thing I have asked you to +do for me." At each of these accusations he waved his arm up and down to +emphasize his remarks; and now, as if unconsciously, his hand suddenly +fell upon the neck of one of the "Long Eliza" vases on the table before +him. He lifted it up in the air. + +"For Heaven's sake, Monsieur D'Arblet, take care--please put down that +vase," cried Vera; suddenly returning to her former terrors. + +He looked at the object in his hand as though it were utterly beneath +consideration. + +"Vase! what is a vase, I ask? Do you not suppose, before relinquishing +what I ask of you, I would dash a hundred vases such as this into ten +thousand fragments to the earth?" He raised his arm above his head as +though on the point of carrying his threat into execution. + +Vera uttered a scream. + +"Good gracious! What on earth are you doing? It is Mrs. Hazeldine's +favourite piece of china; she values it more than anything she has got. +If you were to break it, she would go half out of her mind." + +"Never mind this wretched vase. Answer me, Mademoiselle Nevill, will you +give that parcel to Captain Kynaston?" + +"I am not at all likely to meet him; I assure you nothing is so +improbable. I know him very little. Ah! what are you doing?" + +The infuriated Frenchman was whirling the blue-and-white treasure madly +round in the air. + +"You are, then, determined to humiliate and to insult me; and to prove to +you how great is my just indignation, I will dash----" + +"No, no, no!" cried Vera, frantically; "for Heaven's sake, do not be so +mad. Mrs. Hazeldine will never forgive me. Put it down, I entreat you. +Yes, yes, I will promise anything you like. I am sure I have no wish to +insult you." + +"Ah, then, you will give that to him?" He paused with the vase still +uplifted, looking at her. + +Vera felt convinced by this time that she had to do with a raving +lunatic. After all, was it not better to do this small thing for him, and +to get rid of him. She knew that, sooner or later, down at Sutton, or up +in London, she and Maurice were likely to meet. It would not be much +trouble to her to place the small parcel in his hands. Surely, to deliver +herself from this man--to save Cissy's beloved china, and, perchance, +her own throat--for what might he not take a fancy to next!--from the +clutches of this madman, it would be easier to do what he wanted. + +"Yes, I will give it to him. I promise you, if you will only put that +vase down and go away." + +"You will promise me faithfully?" + +"Faithfully." + +"On your word of honour, and as you hope for salvation?" + +"Yes, yes. There is no need for oaths; if I have promised, I will do it." + +"Very well." He placed the vase back upon the table and walked to the +door. "Mademoiselle," he said, making her a low bow, "I am infinitely +obliged to you;" and then, without another word, he opened the door and +was gone. + +Three minutes later Mrs. Hazeldine came in. She was just back from +her drive. She found Vera lying back exhausted and breathless in an +arm-chair. + +"My dear, what have you done to Monsieur D'Arblet? I met him running out +of the house like a madman, and laughing to himself like a little fiend. +He nearly knocked me down. What has happened! Have you accepted him?" + +"No, I have refused him," gasped Vera; "but, thank God, I have saved your +'Long Eliza,' Cissy!" + +Early the following morning one of Mrs. Hazeldine's servants was +despatched in a hansom with a small brown paper parcel and a note to the +Charing Cross Hotel. + +During the night watches Miss Nevill had been seized with misgivings +concerning the mysterious mission wherewith she had been charged. + +But the servant, the parcel, and the note all returned together just as +they had been sent. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet has left town, Miss; he went by the tidal train last +night on his way to the Continent, and has left no address." + +So Vera tore up her own note, and locked up the offending parcel in her +dressing-case. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +A WEDDING TOUR. + + Thus Grief still treads upon the heels of Pleasure; + Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. + + Congreve. + + +We all know that weddings are as old as the world, but who is it +that invented wedding tours? Owing to what delusion were they first +instituted? + +For a wedding feast there is a reasonable cause, just as there is for +a funeral luncheon, or a christening dinner. There has been in each +instance a trying ordeal to be gone through in a public church. It is +quite right that there should be eating and drinking, and a certain +amount of jollification afterwards amongst the unoffending guests who +have been dragged in as spectators on the occasion. But why on earth, +when the day is over, cannot the unhappy couple be left alone to eat +a Darby-and-Joan dinner together in the house in which they propose to +live, and return peacefully on the morrow to the avocation of their +daily lives? Why must they be sent off amid a shower of rice and +shabby satin shoes into an enforced banishment from the society of their +fellow-creatures, and so thrown upon each other that, in nine cases out +of ten, for want of something better to do, they have learnt the way to +quarrel, tooth and nail, before the week is out? + +I believe that a great many marriages that are as likely as not to turn +out in the end very happily are utterly prevented from doing so by that +pernicious and utterly childish custom of keeping up the season known as +the honeymoon. "Honey," by the way, is very sweet, doubtless; but there +is nothing on earth which sensible people get sooner tired of. Three days +of an exclusively saccharine diet is about as much as any grown man or +woman can be reasonably expected to stand; after that period there comes +upon the jaded appetite unlawful longings after strong meats and +anchovies, after turtle-soup and devilled bones, such as no sugar-fed +couple has the poetic right to indulge in. Nevertheless, like a snake in +the grass, the insidious desire will creep into the soul of one or other +of the two. There will be, doubtless, a noble struggle to stifle the +treacherous thought; a vigorous effort to bring back the wandering mind +into the path of duty; a conscientious effort to go on enjoying honeycomb +as though no flavour of richer viands had been wafted to the nostrils of +the imagination. The sweet and poetical food will be lifted once more +resolutely to the lips, but only to create a sickening satiety from which +the nauseated victim finally revolts in desperation. Then come yearnings +and weariness, loss of appetite, and consequent loss of temper; tears on +the one side, an oath or two on the other, and the "happy couple" come +home eventually very much wiser, as a rule, than they started, and +certainly in a position to understand several unpleasant truths +concerning each other of which they had not a suspicion before they went +away. + +Now, if this is too often the melancholy finale to a wedding trip, even +with regard to persons who start forth on it full of hopes of happiness, +of faith in each other, and of fervent affection on both sides, how much +worse is not the case when there are small hopes of happiness, no faith +whatever on one side, and of affection none at all on the other? + +This was how it was with Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston on their six +weeks' wedding trip abroad. They went to a great many places they had +neither of them seen before. They stayed a week in Paris, where Helen +bought more dresses and declared herself supremely happy; they visited +the falls of the Rhine, which Maurice said deafened him; and ran +through Switzerland, which they both voted detestably uncomfortable and +dirty--the hotels, _bien entendu_, not the mountains. They stopped a +night on the St. Gothard, which was too cold for them, and a week or two +at the Italian lakes, which were too hot. They sauntered through the +picture-galleries of Milan and Turin, at which places Maurice's yawns +became prolonged and audible; and they floated through the canals of +Venice in gondolas, which Helen asserted to be more ragged and full of +fleas than any London four-wheeler. And then they turned homewards, and +by the time they neared the shores of the Channel once more they had had +so many quarrels that they had forgotten to count them, and they had both +privately discovered that matrimony is an egregious and, alas! an +irreparable mistake. Such a discovery was possibly inevitable; perhaps +they would have come in time to the same conclusion had they remained at +home, but they certainly found it out all the quicker for having gone +abroad. + +Helen, perhaps, was the most to be pitied of the two. For Maurice there +had been no illusions to dispel, no dreams to be dissipated, no castles +built upon the sand to fall shattered into atoms; he had known very well +what he had to expect; he did not love the wife he was marrying, and he +did love somebody else. It had not, therefore, been a brilliant prospect +of bliss. Nevertheless, he had certainly hoped, with that vague kind of +hope in which Englishmen are prone to indulge, that things would "come +right" in some fashion, and that he and Helen would manage "to get on" +together. That they did not do so was an annoyance, but hardly a surprise +to him. + +But to Helen there was a good deal of unexpected grief and mortification +of soul. She, at all events, had loved him; it was her own strength of +will, the fervour of her own lawless passion for him that had carried the +day, and had, in the end, made her his wife. And she had said to herself +that, once married to him, she would make him love her. + +Alas, in love there is no such thing as compulsion! The heart that loves, +loves freely, spontaneously, unreasonably; and, where love is dead, there +neither entreaties nor prayers, nor yet a whole ocean of tears can serve +to re-awaken the frail blossom into life. + +But Helen had made sure that, once absolutely her own, once irrevocably +separated from the girl whom instinct had taught her to regard as her +rival, Maurice would return to the old allegiance, and learn to love her +once more, as in days now long gone by. + +A very short experience served to convince her of the contrary. Maurice +yawned too openly, was too evidently wearied and bored with her society, +too utterly indifferent to her sayings and her doings, for her to delude +herself long with the hope of regaining his affection. It was all the +same to him whatever she did. If she showered caresses upon him, he +submitted meekly, it is true, but with so evident a distaste to the +operation that she learnt to discontinue the kisses he cared for so +little; if she tried to amuse him with her conversation, he appeared to +be thinking of other things; if she gave her opinion, he hardly seemed to +listen to it. Only when they quarrelled did the slightest animation enter +into their conjugal relations; and it was almost better to quarrel than +to be at peace on such terms as these. + +And then Helen got angry with him; angry and sore, wounded in her heart, +and hurt in her vanity. She said to herself that she had been ready to +become the best and most devoted of wives; to study his wishes, to defer +to his opinion, to surround him with loving attentions; but since he +would not have it so, then so much the worse for him. She would be no +model wife; no meek slave, subservient to his caprices. She would go her +own way, and follow her own will, and make him do what she liked, whether +it pleased him or not. + +Had Maurice cared to struggle with her for the mastery, things might have +ended differently, but it did not seem worth his while to struggle; as +long as she let him alone, and did not fret him with her incessant +jealousies and suspicions, he was content to let her do as she liked. + +Even in that matter of living at Kynaston he learnt, in the end, to +give way to her. Sir John, who had already started for Australia, had +particularly requested him to occupy the house. Lady Kynaston did nothing +but urge it in every letter. Helen herself was bent upon it. There was +no good reason that he could bring forward against so reasonable and +sensible a plan. The house was all ready, newly decorated, and newly +furnished; they had nothing to do but to walk into it. It would save +all trouble in looking out for a country home elsewhere, and would, +doubtless, be an infinitely pleasanter abode for them than any other +house could be. It was the natural and rational thing for them to do. +Maurice knew of only one argument against it, and that one was in his own +heart, and he could speak of it to no one. + +And yet, after all, what did it matter, what difference would it make? A +little nearer, a little further, how could it alter things for either of +them? How lessen the impassable gulf between her and him? It was in the +natural course of things that he must meet her at times; there would be +the stereotyped greeting, the averted glance, the cold shake of hands +that could never hope to meet without a pang; these things were almost +inevitable for them. A little oftener or a little seldomer, would it +matter very much then? + +Maurice did not think it would; bound as he was to the woman whom he had +made his wife--tied to her by every law of God and of man, of honour, and +of manly feeling--that there should be any actual danger to be run by the +near proximity of the woman he had loved, did not even enter into his +head. If he had known how to do his duty towards Helen before he had +married her, would he not tenfold know how to do so now? Possibly he +over-rated his own strength; for, however high are our principles, +however exalted is our sense of honour--after all, we are but mortals, +and unspeakably weak at the very best. + +It did not in any case occur to him to look at the question from Vera's +point of view. It is never easy for a man to put himself into a woman's +place, or to enter into the extra sensitiveness of soul with which she is +endowed. + +So it was that he agreed to go straight back to Kynaston, and to make the +old house his permanent home according to his wife's wishes. + +It was whilst the newly-married couple were passing through Switzerland +on their homeward journey that they suddenly came across Mr. Herbert +Pryme, who had been performing a melancholy and solitary pilgrimage in +the land of tourists. + +It was at the table d'hôte at Vevay, upon coming down to that lengthy +and untempting repast, chiefly composed of aged goats and stringy hens, +which the inventive Swiss waiter exalts, with the effort of a soaring +imagination, into "Chamois," and "Salmi de Poulet," that Captain and Mrs. +Kynaston, who had scarcely recovered from a passage of arms in the +seclusion of their bed-chamber, suddenly descried a familiar face amongst +the long array of uncongenial people ranged down either side of the +table. + +What the print of a hob-nailed boot must be to the lonely traveller +across the desert, what the sight of a man from one's own club going down +Pall Mall is in mid-September, or as a draught of Giesler's '68 to an +epicure who has been about to perish on ginger-beer--so did Herbert +Pryme's face shine upon Maurice Kynaston out of the arid waste of that +Vevay _salle-à-manger_. + +In England he had been only an acquaintance--at Vevay he became his most +intimate friend. The delight of having a man to speak to, and a man who +knew others of his friends, was almost intoxicating. To think of getting +one evening--nay, one hour of liberty from that ever-present chain of +matrimonial intercourse which was galling him so sorely, was a bliss for +which he could hardly find words to express his gratitude. + +Herbert, who could not quite understand the reason of it, was almost +overpowered by the warmth of Captain Kynaston's greeting. To have his +place removed next to his own, and to grasp him heartily by both hands, +wringing them with affectionate fervour, was the work of a few seconds. +And then, who so lively, so full of anecdote and laughter, so interested +in all that could be said to him, as Maurice Kynaston during that dinner? + +It made Helen angry to hear him. He could be agreeable enough, she +thought, bitterly, to a chance acquaintance, picked up nobody knew where; +he could find plenty of conversation for this almost unknown young man; +it was only when they were alone together that he sat by glumly and +silently, without a smile and without a word! + +She did not take it into account how surfeited the man was with his +honeycomb. Herbert Pryme, individually, was nothing much to him; but he +came as the sight of a distant sail is to a shipwrecked mariner. It is +doubtful, indeed, whether, under the circumstances, Maurice would not +have been equally delighted to have met his tailor or his bootmaker. +After dinner was over the two men went out and smoked their cigars +together. This was a fresh offence to Mrs. Kynaston; usually she enjoyed +an evening stroll with her husband after dinner, but when he asked her to +come out with him on this occasion, she refused, shortly and +ungraciously. + +"No, thank you; if you and Mr. Pryme are going to smoke, I could not +possibly come; you know that I hate smoke." + +Poor Herbert was about to protest that nothing would induce him to smoke; +but Maurice passed his arm hurriedly through his. + +"Come along, then, and have a cigar in the garden," he said, with +scarcely concealed eagerness; he felt like a schoolboy let out of school. + +Helen went up to her bedroom, and sat sulkily by her open window, looking +over the lake on to the mountains. Long after it was dark she could see +the two red specks of their cigars wandering about like fire-flies in the +garden, and could hear the crush of the rough gravel under their +footsteps, and the low murmur of their voices as they talked. + +"You are coming into Meadowshire, are you not?" asked Maurice, ere they +parted. + +Herbert shook his head. + +"Not to the Millers?" + +"No, I am afraid I shall never be asked to Shadonake again," answered the +younger man, gloomily. + +"Why, I thought you and Beatrice--forgive me--but is it not the case?" + +"Her parents have stopped all that, Kynaston." + +"But I am sure Beatrice herself will never let it stop; I know her too +well," said Maurice, cheerily. + +"There are laws in connection with minors," began Mr. Pryme, solemnly. + +"Fiddlesticks!" was Maurice's rejoinder. "There are no laws to prevent +young women falling in love, or the world would not be in such a +confounded muddle as it frequently is. Don't be downhearted, Pryme; you +stick to her, and it will all come right; and look here, if they won't +ask you to Shadonake, I ask you to Kynaston; drop me a line, and come +whenever you like--as soon as you get home." + +"You are exceedingly kind; I shall be only too delighted." + +"When will you be home?" + +"I can be home at any time--there is nothing to keep me." + +"Well, then, come as soon as you like, the sooner the better. And now +I must say good-night and good-bye too, I fear, for we are off early +to-morrow. I shall be glad enough to be home; I'm dead sick of the +travelling. Good-night, old fellow; it has been a real pleasure to meet +you." + +And, positively, this was the only evening out of his whole wedding-trip +that Maurice had thoroughly enjoyed. + +"What on earth kept you out so late with that solemn young prig?" says +his wife to him as he opens her door. + +"I find him a very pleasant companion, and I have asked him to come to +Kynaston," answers Maurice, shortly. + +"Umph!" grunts Helen, and inwardly determines that his visit shall be a +short one. + +Four days later they were in England again. + +It was only when the train had actually stopped at Sutton, and he was +handing his wife into her own carriage under the arch of greenery across +the road, and amid the ringing cheers of the rustics, who had gathered +to see them arrive, that Maurice began to realise how powerfully that +home-coming was to be tinged in his own mind with thoughts of her who was +once so nearly going as a bride to the same house where now he was taking +Helen. + +All along the lane, as they drove under the arches of flags and flowers +that had been put up from the station to the park gates, and as they +responded to the hearty welcome from the village-folk who lined the road, +Maurice was asking himself, with a painful anxiety, whether _she_ was at +Sutton now; whether her eyes had rested upon these rustic decorations, +whether her steps had passed along under these mottoes of welcome and of +happiness. And then, as they neared the church, the clang of the bells +burst forth loudly and jarringly. + +Was _she_, perchance, there in the house, kneeling alone, white and +stricken by her bedside, whilst those joy-bells rang out their deafening +clamour from the church hard by? + +For the life of him, Maurice could not help casting a glance at the +vicarage as they drove swiftly by it. + +The windows were wide open, but no one looked out of them, the muslin +blinds fluttered in the wind, the Gloire de Dijon roses nodded upon the +wall, the Virginia creeper hung in crimson festoons over the porch; but +there was not a living creature to be seen. + +He had caught no glimpse of the woman that was ever in his heart; and it +was a great pity that he had looked for her, because his wife, whose +sharp eyes nothing ever escaped, had seen him look. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +"IF I COULD DIE!" + + Why cannot I forgo, forget + That ever I loved thee, that ever we met? + There is not a single link or sign + To bind thy life in this world with mine. + + M. W. Praed. + + +But it was not until Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston had been at home +for more than a fortnight that Vera came back to her brother-in-law's +house. + +She had kept away, poor girl, as long as she could. She had put off the +evil hour of her return as long as possible. The Hazeldines had gone to +Scotland, and Vera had, in desperation, accepted an invitation to stay +with some acquaintances whom she neither knew very well nor liked +overmuch. It had kept her from Sutton a little longer. But the visit had +come to an end at last, and what was she to do? She had no other visits +to prolong her absence, and her sister wrote to her perpetually, urging +her to return. Her home was at Sutton; she had no other place to go to. +She had told Sir John that in absence from his brother lay her only hope +of safety. But where was she to seek that safety? Where find security, +when he; reckless, or, perchance, heedless of her danger, had come to +plant himself at her very doors? They should have been far as the poles +asunder, and a malevolent fate had willed that the same parish should +contain them. + +For whatever Maurice did, Vera in no way underrated the danger. Too well +she knew her own heart; too surely she estimated the strength of a +passion which, repressed and thwarted, and half-smothered, as it had been +within her, yet burnt but the fiercer and the wilder. For that is the way +with love: if it may not flourish and thrive openly and bravely before +the eyes of the world, it will eat into the very heart and life, till all +that is fair and sweet in the garden of the soul is choked and blighted +and overgrown, till the main-spring of life becomes poisoned, and all +things that are happy, withered and dried up. + +In Vera's love for Maurice there had been nothing of joy, and all of +pain. There had never been for her that sweet illusion of dawning +affection--that intangible sense of delight in the consciousness of an +unspoken sympathy that is the very essence of a happy love. She had no +memories that were serene and untroubled--no days of calm and delicious +happiness to recall. His first conscious look had been a terror to her; +his words of hopeless love had given her a shock that had been almost +physical; and his few passionate kisses had burnt into her very soul till +they had seemed to have been printed upon her lips in fire. Vera's love +had brought her no good thing that she could count. But it had done one +thing for her: if it had cursed her life, it had purified her soul. + +The Vera who had come back to Sutton Vicarage in August was no longer the +same woman who had stood months ago on the terrace at Kynaston among the +falling autumn leaves, and who had told herself that it was money +alone that was worth living for. + +She came back to everything that was full of pain, and to much in which +there was absolute fear. + +Five minutes after she had entered the vicarage drawing-room her tortures +began. + +"You have not asked after the bride and bridegroom," says old Mrs. +Daintree, as she sits in her corner, darning everlastingly at those brown +worsted socks of her son's. Vera thinks she must have been sitting there +darning incessantly, day and night, ever since she had been away. "We are +all full of it down here. Such a pretty welcome home they had--arches +across the road, and processions with flags, and a band inside the +lodge-gates. You should have been here to have seen it. Everybody is +making much of Mrs. Kynaston; she is a very pretty woman, I must say, +and called here three days ago in the most beautiful Paris gown." + +"She seemed very sorry not to see you," says Marion, "and quite disposed +to be friendly. I do hope you and she will get on, Vera, in spite of the +awkwardness of her being in your place, as it were." + +"What do you mean?" rather sharply. + +"Only, of course, dear, that it will be rather painful to you just at +first to see anybody else the mistress at Kynaston, where you yourself +might have been----" + +"If you had not been a fool," interpolated the old lady, bluntly. + +"I don't think I shall mind that much," says Vera, quietly. "Where is +Eustace?" + +"Oh, he will be in presently; he has gone up to the Hall about the +chancel. The men have made all kinds of mistakes about the tesselated +pavement; the wrong pattern was sent down from town, and we have had so +much trouble about it, and there has been nobody to appeal to to set +things right. Captain Kynaston is all very well, and now he is back, I +hope we may get things into a little order; but I am sorry to say he +takes very little interest in the church or the parish; he is not half +so good a squire as poor dear Sir John." And there was a whole volume of +unspoken reproach in the sigh with which Marion wound up her remarks. + +"Decidedly," said Vera, to herself, as she went slowly upstairs to her +own little room; "decidedly I must get away from all this. I shall have +to marry." She leant out of her open window in a frame-work of roses +and jessamine, and looked out over the lime-trees towards the Hall. +Now that the trees were in full leaf, she could catch no glimpse of its +red-stacked chimneys and its terraced gardens; but, by-and-by, when the +leaves were down and the trees were bare, she knew she should see it. +Every morning when she got up the sun would be shining full upon it; +every night when she went to bed she would see the twinkling lights of +the many windows gleaming through the darkness; she would be in her +room alone, and _he_ would be out there, happy with his wife. + +"I shall not be able to bear it," said Vera, slowly, speaking aloud to +herself. "I had better marry, and go away; there is nothing else to be +done. Poor Denis! He is worthy of a better woman; but I think he will be +good to me." + +For it had come to this now, that when Vera thought about marrying, it +was upon Denis Wilde that she also pondered. + +To be at Sutton, and not to come face to face with Maurice, was of course +an impossibility. Carefully as Vera confined herself to the house and +garden for the next three days, she could not avoid going to church when +Sunday came. And at church were Captain and Mrs. Kynaston. During the +service she only saw his back, erect and broad-shouldered, in the seat in +front of her, for the pews had been cleared away, and open sittings had +been substituted all through the church. Maurice looked neither to the +right nor to the left; he stood, or sat, or knelt, and scarcely turned +his head an inch, but Helen's butterfly bonnet was twisted in every +direction throughout the service. It is certain that she very soon knew +who it was who had come into the vicarage seat behind her. + +When Vera came out of church, having purposely lingered as long as she +could inside, until the rest of the congregation had all gone out, she +found the bride and bridegroom waiting for her in the churchyard. + +Helen stood with her hand twined with easy familiarity round her +husband's arm; possibly she had studied the attitude with a view to +impressing Vera with the perfection of her conjugal happiness. She turned +quite delightedly to greet her. + +"Oh, here you are at last, Miss Nevill. We have been waiting for you, +have we not, Maurice dear? We both felt how pleased we should be to see +you. I am very glad you have come back; it will make it much more +pleasant for me at Kynaston; you will come up to see me, won't you? +I should like you to see my boudoir, it is lovely!" + +"You forget that Miss Nevill has seen it all long ago," said Maurice, +gravely; their hands had just met, but he had not looked at her. + +"Oh, yes, to be sure; how stupid I am! Of course, I remember now, it was +all done up for _you_ by poor dear old John. Doesn't it seem funny that +I should be going to live in the house? Ah, how d'ye do, Mr. Daintree?" +as Eustace came out of the vestry door; "here we are, chattering to your +sister. What a delightful sermon, dear Mr. Daintree, and what a treat to +be in a Christian church--I mean a Protestant church--again after those +dreadful Sundays on the Continent." + +Vera had turned to Maurice. + +"Have you any news of Sir John yet?" + +"No; we cannot expect to hear of his arrival till next month. I dare say +you will like to hear about him. I will let you know as soon as he +writes." + +"Thank you; I should like to know about him very much." + +Helen, in the middle of Eustace's polite acknowledgment of her compliment +to his sermon, was casting furtive glances at her husband; even the two +or three grave words he had exchanged with Vera were sufficient to make +her uneasy. She desired to torture Vera with envy and with jealousy; she +had forgotten to take into account how very easily her own suspicious +jealousy could be aroused. She interrupted the vicar in the very middle +of his speech. + +"Now, really, we must run away. Come, Maurice, darling, we shall be late +for lunch; you and Miss Nevill must finish your confidences another day. +You will come up soon, won't you? Any day at five I am in--good-bye." +She shook hands with them, and hurried her husband away. + +"What an odd thing it is that you and that girl never can meet without +having all sorts of private things to say to each other," she said, +angrily, as soon as they were out of earshot. + +"Private things! what can you possibly mean, Helen? Miss Nevill was +asking me if I had heard of John's arrival." + +"I wonder she has the face to mention John's name!" + +"Why, pray?" + +"After her disgraceful conduct to him." + +"I think you know very little about Miss Nevill's conduct, Helen." + +"No, I dare say not. And _you_ have always known a great deal more about +it than anybody else. That I have always understood, Maurice." + +Maurice looked very black, but he was silent. + +"I am very glad I told her about the boudoir," continued Helen, +spitefully. "How mortified she must feel to think that it has all slipped +through her fingers and into mine. I do hope she will come up to the +house. I shall show her all over it; she will wish she had not been +such a fool!" + +Maurice was looking at his wife with a singular expression. + +"I begin to think you have a very bad heart, Helen," he said, with +a contempt in his voice that was very near akin to disgust. + +She looked up, a little startled, and put her hand back, caressingly, +under his arm. + +"Oh, don't look at me like that, Maurice; I don't want to vex you. You +know very well how much I love you--and--and"--looking up with a little +smile into his face that was meant as a peace offering--"I suppose I am +jealous!" + +"Suppose you wait to be jealous until I give you cause to be so," +answered her husband, gravely and coldly, but not altogether unkindly, +for he meant to do his duty to her, God helping him, as far as he knew +how. + +But all the way home he walked silently by her side, and wondered whether +the sacrifice he had made of his love to his duty had been, indeed, worth +it. + +It had been hard for him, this first meeting with Vera. He had felt it +more than he had believed possible. Instinctively he had realized what +she must have suffered; and that her sufferings were utterly beyond his +power to console. It began to come into his mind that, meaning to deal +rightly by Helen, he had dealt cruelly and badly by Vera. He had +sacrificed the woman he loved to the woman he did not love. + +Had it, indeed, been such a right and praiseworthy action on his part? +Maurice lost himself in speculation as to what would have happened had he +broken his faith to Helen, and allowed himself to follow the dictates of +his heart rather than those of his conscience. + +That was what Vera had done for his sake; but what he had been unable to +do for hers. + +There was a certain hardness about the man, a rigid sense of honour that +was almost a fault; for, if it be a virtue to cleave to truth and good +faith above everything, to swear to one's neighbour and disappoint him +not--even though it be to one's own hindrance--it is certainly not a fine +or noble thing to mistake tenderness for a weakness only fit to be +crushed out of the soul with firm hands and an iron determination. + +Guilty once of one irreparable action of weakness, Maurice had set +himself determinedly ever after to undo the evil that he had done. + +To be true to his brother, to keep his faith with Helen, these had been +the only objects he had steadily kept in view: he had succeeded in his +efforts, but had scarcely realized that, in doing so, he had not only +wrecked his own life, but also that of the woman whom he had so +infinitely wronged. + +But when he saw her once again--when he held for an instant the cold hand +within his own--when he marked, with a pang, the dark circles round the +averted eyes that spoke so mutely and touchingly of sleepless vigils and +of many tears--when he noted how the lovely sensitive lips trembled a +little as she spoke her few common-place words to him--then Maurice began +to understand what he had done to her; and, for the first time, something +that was almost remorse, with regard to his own conduct towards her, came +into his soul. + +Such meditations were not, however, safe or profitable to indulge in for +long. Maurice recalled his wandering thoughts with an effort, and with +something of repentance for having given them place, turned his attention +resolutely to his wife's chatter during the remainder of the walk home. + +Meanwhile Vera and the vicar are walking back, side by side, to the +vicarage. + +"Something," says Eustace, with solemn displeasure, "something must +really be done, and that soon, about Ishmael Spriggs; that man will drive +me into my grave before my time! Anything more fearfully and awfully out +of tune than the Te Deum I never heard in the whole course of my life. I +can hear his voice shouting and bellowing above the whole of the rest of +the choir; he leads all the others wrong. It is not a bit of use to tell +me that he is the best behaved man in the parish; it is not a matter of +conduct, as I told Mr. Dale; it is a matter of voice, and if the man +can't be taught to sing in tune, out of the choir he shall go; it's a +positive scandal to the Service. Marion says we shall turn him into an +enemy if we don't let him sing, and that he will go to the dissenting +chapel, and never come to church any more. Well, I can't help that; I +must give him up to the dissenters. As to keeping him in the choir, it is +out of the question after that Te Deum. I shall never forget it. It will +give me a nightmare to-night, I am convinced. Wasn't it dreadful, Vera?" + +"Yes, very likely, Eustace," answered Vera, at random. She has not heard +one single word he has said. + +Eustace Daintree looks round at her sharply. He sees that she is very +white, and that there are tears upon her cheeks. + +"Why, Vera!" he cries, standing still, you have not listened to a word +I have been saying. "What is the matter, child? Why are you crying?" + +They are in the vicarage garden now; among the beds of scarlet geraniums, +and the tall hollyhocks, and the glaring red gladioli; a whole bank of +greenery, rhododendrons and lauristinas, conceals them from the windows +of the house; a garden bench sheltered beneath a nook of the laurel +bushes is close by. + +With a sudden gesture of utter misery Vera sinks down upon it, and bursts +into a passion of tears. + +"My dear child; my poor Vera! What is it? What has happened? What can be +the reason of this?" + +Mr. Daintree is infinitely distressed and puzzled; he bends over her, +taking her hand between his own. There is something in this wild outburst +of grief, from one habitually so calm and self-contained as Vera, that is +an absolute shock to him. He had learnt to love her very dearly; he had +thought he had understood all the workings of her candid maiden soul; he +had fancied that the story of her broken engagement was no secret to him, +that it was but the struggle of a conscientious nature after what was +true and honest. It had seemed to him that there had been no mystery in +her conduct, for he could appreciate all her motives. And surely, as she +had done right, she must be now at peace. He had told himself that the +pure instincts of a naturally stainless soul had triumphed in Vera over +the carelessness and worldliness of her early training; and lo, here was +the passionate weeping of a tempest-tossed woman, whose agony he could +not fathom, and whose sorrows he knew not how to divine. + +"Vera, will you not tell me?" he asked her, in his distress. "Will you +not make a friend of me? My dear, forget that I am a clergyman; remember +only that I am your brother, and that I shall know how to feel for +you--for you, my dear sister." + +But she could not tell him. There are some troubles that must be kept for +ever buried within our own souls; to speak of some things is only to make +them worse. Only she choked back her sobs, and lifted her face, white +and tear-stained; there was a look of hunted despair in her eyes, that +bewildered, and even half-terrified him. + +"Tell me," she said, with a sort of anger, "tell me, you that are a +clergyman--Do you think God has made us only to torment us? You have got +a daughter, Eustace; pray God, night and morning, that she may have a +hard heart, and that she may never have one gleam of womanly tenderness +within her; for only so are women happy!" + +He did not answer her wild words. Instinctively he felt that common-place +speeches of rebuke or of consolation would be trivial and out of place +before the great anguish of her heart. The man's soul was above the +narrow limits of his training; he felt, dimly, that here was something +with which it were best not to intermeddle, some trouble for which he +could offer no consolation. + +She rose and stood before him, holding his hands and gazing earnestly at +his anxious face. + +"It has come to this with me," she said, below her voice, "that there are +times when there is but one good thing in all the world that I know any +longer how to desire. God has so ordered my life that there is no road +open for me that does not lead to sin or to misery. Surely, if He were +merciful, He would take back the valueless gift." + +"Vera! what do you mean?" + +"I mean," she exclaimed, wearily, "that if I could die, I should be at +peace." + +She had walked slowly on; her voice, that had trembled at first with a +passionate wildness, had sunk into the spiritless apathy of despair; her +head was bent, her hands clasped before her; her dress trailed with a +soft rustle across the grass, sweeping over a whole wilderness of white +daisies, that bent their heads beneath its folds as she walked. A gleam +of sunshine fell upon her hair, and a bird sang loud and shrill in the +lime trees overhead. + +Often and often, in the after days, Eustace Daintree thought of her thus, +and remembered with a pang the sole sad gift that she had craved at +Heaven's hands. Often and often the scene came back to him; the sunny +garden, the scarlet geraniums flaring in the borders, the smooth green +lawn, speckled with shadows from the trees, the wide open windows of his +pleasant vicarage beyond, and the beautiful figure of the girl at his +side, with her bent head, and her low broken voice--the girl who, at +twenty-three, sighed to be rid of the life that had become too hard for +her; that precious gift of life which, too often, at three-score years +and ten, is but hardly resigned! + +"If I could die, I should be at peace," she had said. And she was only +twenty-three! + +Eustace Daintree never forgot it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +AN EVENTFUL DRIVE. + + Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. + + Shakespeare, "Henry IV." + + +I imagine that the most fretting and wearing of all the pains and +penalties which it is the lot of humanity to undergo in this troublesome +and naughty world are those which, by our own folly, our own +shortsightedness, and our own imprudence, we have brought upon ourselves. + +There is a degree of irritation in such troubles which adds a whole +armoury of small knife-cuts to intensify the agony of the evil from which +we suffer. It is more dreadful to be moaning over our own mistakes than +over the inscrutable perversity of an unpropitious fate. + +Somebody once has said that most men grieve over the smallest mistake +more bitterly than over the greatest sin. This is decidedly a perversion +of the moral nature; nevertheless, there is a good deal of truth in it. + +"If only I had not been such a fool! If I could only have foreseen such +and such results?" + +These are more generally the burden of our bitterest self-reproaches. + +And this was what Miss Miller was perpetually repeating to herself during +the months of August and September. Beatrice, in these days, was a +thoroughly miserable young woman. She was more utterly separated than +ever from her lover, and that entirely by her own fault. That foolish +escapade of hers to the Temple had been fatal to her; her father, who +had been inclined to become her lover's friend, had now peremptorily +forbidden her ever to mention his name again, and her own lips were +sealed as to the unlucky incident in which she had played so prominent +a part. + +Beatrice knew that, in going alone and on the sly to her lover's +chambers, she had undoubtedly compromised her own good name. To confess +to her own folly and imprudence was almost beyond her power, and to clear +her lover's name at the expense of her own was what she felt he himself +would scarcely thank her for. + +Mr. Miller had, of course, said something of what he had discovered at +Mr. Pryme's chambers to the wife of his bosom. + +"The young man is not fit for her," he had said; "his private life will +not bear investigation. You must tell Beatrice to put him out of her +head." + +Mrs. Miller had, of course, been virtuously indignant over Mr. Pryme's +offences, but she had also been triumphantly elated over her own +sagacity. + +"Did I not tell you he was not a proper husband for her? Another time, +Andrew, you will, I hope, allow that I am the best judge in these +matters." + +"My dear, you are always right," was the meekly conjugal reply, and then +Mrs. Miller went her way and talked to Beatrice for half-an-hour over the +sinful lives which are frequently led by young men of no family residing +in the Temple, and the shame and disgrace which must necessarily accrue +to any well-brought-up young woman who, in an ill-advised moment, shall +allow her affections to rove towards such unsanctified Pariahs of +society. + +And Beatrice, listening to her blushingly, knew what she meant, and yet +had no words wherewith to clear her lover's character from the defamatory +evidence furnished against him by her own sunshade and gloves. + +"Your father has seen with his own eyes, my dear, that which makes it +impossible for us ever to consent to your marrying that young man." + +How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I--your daughter--who was +there, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom." She could not speak the words. + +The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded its +velvet lawns. Below, the Bath slumbered darkly in the shadow of its +ancient steps and its encircling belt of fir-trees; and beyond the +flower-gardens, half-an-acre of pineries, and vineries, and +orchard-houses glittered in a dazzling parterre of glass-roofs and white +paint. Something new--it was an orchard-house--was being built. There was +always something new, and Mr. Miller was superintending the building of +it. He stood over the workmen who were laying the foundation, watching +every brick that was laid down with delighted and absorbed interest. He +held a trowel himself, and had tucked up his shirt cuffs in order to lend +a helping hand in the operations. There was nothing that Andrew Miller +loved so well. Fate and his Caroline had made him a member of Parliament, +and had placed him in the position of a gentleman, but nature had +undoubtedly intended him for a bricklayer. + +Beatrice came out of the drawing-room windows across the lawn to him. She +was in her habit, and stood tapping her little boot with her riding whip +for some minutes by her father's side. + +"I am going to see uncle Tom, papa," she said; "have you any message?" + +"Going to Lutterton? Ah, that's right; the ride will do you good, my +dear. No; I have no message." + +Beatrice went back into the house; her little bay mare stood at the door. +She met her mother in the hall. + +"I am going to see uncle Tom," she said, to her also. + +Mrs. Miller always encouraged her children in their attentions to her +brother. He was rich, and he was a bachelor; he must have saved a good +deal one way or another. Who could tell how it would be left? And then +Beatrice was undoubtedly his favourite. She nodded pleasantly to her +daughter. + +"Tell uncle Tom to come over to lunch on Sunday, and, of course, he must +come here early for Guy's birthday next week," for there were to be great +doings on Guy's birthday. "Ride slowly, Beatrice, or you will get so +hot." + +Lutterton Castle was a good six miles off. The house stood well, and even +imposingly, on a high wooded knoll that overlooked the undulating park, +and the open valley at its feet. It was a great rambling building with a +central tower and four smaller ones at each corner. When Mr. Esterworth +was at home, which was almost always, it was his vanity to keep a red +flag flying from the centre tower as though he had been royalty. All the +reception-rooms and more than half the bedrooms were permanently +shuttered up, and there was a portly and very dignified housekeeper, +who rattled her keys at her châtelaine, and went through all the unused +apartments daily, followed by a meek phalanx of housemaids, to see that +all the rooms were well-aired and well kept in order, so that at any +minute they might be fit for occupation. Five or six times during the +hunting season the large rooms were all thrown open, and there was a hunt +breakfast held in the principal dining-hall; but, with that exception, +Mr. Esterworth rarely entertained at all. + +He occupied three rooms opening out of each other in the small western +tower. They consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, and a small and +rather inconvenient study, where the huntsman, whips, and other official +personages connected with the hunt were received at all hours of the day +and night. The room was consequently pervaded by a faint odour of stables +and tobacco; there were usually three or four dogs upon the hearthrug, +and it was a rare thing to find Mr. Esterworth in it unaccompanied by +some personage in breeches and gaiters, wearing a blue spotted neckcloth +and a horseshoe pin. + +Such an individual was receiving an audience at the moment of Miss +Miller's arrival, and shuffled awkwardly and hurriedly out of the room by +one door as she entered it by another. + +"All right, William," calls the M.F.H. after his departing satellite. +"Look in again to-night. I shall have her fired, I think, and throw her +up till December. Hallo! Pussy, how are you?" + +All the four dogs rose from the hearthrug and wagged their tails solemnly +in respectful greeting to her. Beatrice had a pat and a word for each, +and a kiss for her uncle, before she sat down on the chair he pulled +forward for her. + +"What brings you, Pussy? What are you riding?" + +"Kitty; they have taken her round to the stable. I thought I'd have lunch +with you, uncle Tom." + +"Very well; you won't get anything but a mutton-chop." + +"I don't ask for anything better." + +Beatrice felt that her heart was beating. She had taken a desperate +resolution during her six miles' solitary ride; she had determined to +take her uncle into her confidence. He had always been indulgent and kind +to her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as her +mother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her. + +"Uncle Tom, I'm in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it," +she began, trembling. + +"I'm very sorry, Pussy; what is it?" + +"I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London. I went to a young +man's rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom." + +"The deuce you did!" says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes. + +"Yes," continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame and +confusion; "and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in the +sitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it was +mine, and--and--he thinks--he thinks----" + +"That's the best joke I ever heard in my life!" cries Mr. Esterworth, +laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud. + +"Uncle Tom!" Beatrice could hardly believe her ears. + +"Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!" cries her uncle, between the +outbursts of his mirth. "Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one; +there isn't much Miller blood in your veins. You are an Esterworth all +over." + +"But, uncle, indeed, it's no laughing matter." + +"Well, I don't see much to cry at if your father did not find you out; +the young man is never likely to talk." + +"Oh, but uncle Tom; papa and mamma think so badly of him, and I can't +tell them that I was there; and they will never let me marry him." + +"Oh! so you are in love, Pussy?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +Tom Esterworth smote his hand against his corduroy thigh. + +"What a mistake!" he exclaimed; "a girl who can go across country as you +do--what on earth do you want to be married for? Is it Mr. Pryme, Pussy?" + +Beatrice nodded. + +"And he can't go a yard," said her uncle, sorrowfully and reproachfully. + +"Oh, I think he goes very well, uncle; his seat is capital; it is only +his hands that are a bit heavy; but then he has had very little +practice." + +"Tut--tut, don't talk to me, child; he is no horseman. He may be a good +young man in his way, but what can have made you take a fancy to a fellow +who can't ride is a mystery to me! Now tell me the whole story, Pussy." + +And then Beatrice made a clean breast of it. + +"I will see if I can help you," said her uncle, seriously, when she had +finished her story; "but I can't think how you can have set your heart +upon a fellow who can't ride!" + +This was evidently a far more fatal error in Tom Esterworth's eyes than +the other matter of her being shut up in Mr. Pryme's rooms. Beatrice +began to think she had not done anything so very terrible after all. + +"I must turn it over in my mind. Now come and eat your mutton-chop, +Pussy, and when we have finished our lunch, you shall come out with me +in the dog-cart. I am going to put Clochette into harness for the first +time." + +"Will she go quietly?" + +"Like a lamb, I should say. You won't be nervous?" + +"Dear, no! I am never nervous; I shall enjoy the fun." + +The mutton-chop over, Clochette and the dog-cart came round to the door. +She was a raking, bright chestnut mare, with a coat like satin. Even as +she stood at the door she chafed somewhat at her new position between +the shafts. This, however, was no more than might have been expected. Mr. +Esterworth declining the company of the groom, helped his niece up and +took the reins. + +"We will go round by Tripton and back by the common," he said, "and talk +this matter well over, Pussy; we shall enjoy ourselves much better with +nobody in the back seat. A man sits there with his arms crossed and his +face like a blank sheet of paper, but one never knows how much they hear, +and their ears are always cocked, like a terrier's on the scent of a +rat." + +Clochette went off from the door with a bound, but soon settled down into +a good swinging trot. She kept turning her head nervously from side to +side, and there was evidently a little uncertainty in her mind as to +whether she should keep to the drive, or deviate on to the grass by the +side of it; but, upon the whole, she behaved fairly well, and turned out +of the lodge gates into the high road with perfect docility and good +breeding. + +There was a whole avalanche of dogs in attendance. A collie, rushing on +tumultuously in front; a "plum-pudding" dog between the wheels; a couple +of fox-terriers snapping joyfully at each other in the rear; and there +was also an ill-conditioned animal--half lurcher, half terrier--who +killed cats, and murdered fowls, and worried sheep, and flew at the +heels of unwary strangers; and was given, in short, to every sort of +canine iniquity, and who possessed but one redeeming feature in his +character--that of blind adoration to his master. + +This animal, who followed uncle Tom whithersoever he went, came skurrying +out of the stables as the dog-cart drove off, and joined in the general +scamper. + +Perhaps the dogs may have been too much for Clochette's nerves, or +perhaps the effort of behaving well as far as the park gates with those +horrible wheels rattling behind her was as much as any hunter born and +bred could be expected to do, or perhaps uncle Tom was too free with that +whip with which he caressed her shining flanks; but be that as it may, no +sooner was Clochette's head well turned along the straight high-road with +its high-tangled hedge-rows on either side than she began to show symptoms +of behaving very badly indeed. She bucked and pranced, and stood on her +hind legs; she whipped suddenly round, pirouetted upon her own axis with +the dexterity of a circus performer, and demonstrated very plainly that, +if she only dared, she would like to take to her heels in the reverse +direction to that which her driver desired her to go. + +All this was, however, equally delightful and exciting both to Tom +Esterworth and his niece. There was no apprehension in Beatrice's mind, +for her uncle drove as well as he rode, and she felt perfectly secure in +the strong, supple hands that guided Clochette's erratic movements. + +"There is not a kick in her," uncle Tom had said, as they started, and he +repeated the observation now; and kicking being out of the category of +Clochette's iniquities, there was nothing else to fear. + +No sooner, however, had the words left his lips than a turn of the road +brought them within sight of a great volume of black smoke rushing slowly +but surely towards them; whilst a horrible roaring and howling, as of an +antediluvian monster in its wrath, filled the silence of the summer +afternoon with a hideous and unholy confusion. + +Talk about there being no wild animals in our peaceful land! What +could have been the Megatherium and the Ichthyosaurus, and all the +fire-spitting dragons of antiquity compared to the traction engines of +the nineteenth century? + +"It's a steam plough!" ejaculated Beatrice, below her breath. + +"D----n!" cried her uncle, not at all below _his_ breath. + +As to Clochette, she stood for an instant stock still, with her ears +pricked and her head well up, facing the horrors of her situation; next +she gave an angry snort as though to say, "No! _this_ is too much!" Then +she turned short round and began a series of peculiar bounds and plunges, +accompanied by an ominous uplifting of her hind quarters, which had +plainly but one object in view--the correct conjugation of the verb +active "to kick." + +There was a crunching of woodwork, a cracking as of iron hoofs against +the splash-board. Beatrice instinctively put up her hands before her +face, but she did not utter a sound. + +"Do you think you could get down, Pussy, and go to her head?" + +"Shall I hold the reins, uncle?" + +"No, you couldn't hold her; she'll be over the hedge if I let go of her. +Get down if you can." + +It was not easy. Beatrice was in her habit, and to jump from the +vacillating height of a dog-cart to the earth is no easy matter even to +a man unencumbered with petticoats. + +"Try and get over the back," said her uncle, who was in momentary terror +lest the mare's heels should be dashed into her face. And Beatrice, with +that finest trait of a woman's courage in danger, which consists in doing +exactly what she is told, began to scramble over the back of her seat. + +The situation was critical in the extreme; the traction engine came on +apace, the man with the red flag having paused at a public-house round +the corner, was only now running back into his place. Uncle Tom shouted +vainly to him; his voice was drowned in the deafening roar of the +advancing monster. + +But already help was at hand, unheard and unperceived by either uncle or +niece; a horseman had come rapidly trotting up the road behind them. To +spring from his horse, who was apparently accustomed to traction engines, +and stood quietly by, to rush to the plunging, struggling mare, and to +seize her by the head was the work of a moment. + +"All right, Mr. Esterworth," shouted the new comer. "I can hold her if +you can get down; we can lead her into the field; there is a gate ten +yards back." + +Uncle Tom threw the reins to his niece and slipped to the ground; between +them the two men contrived to quiet the terrified Clochette, and to lead +her towards the gate. + +In another three minutes they were all safely within the shelter of the +hedge. The traction engine passed, snorting forth fire and smoke, on its +devastating way; and Clochette stood by, panting, trembling, and covered +with foam. Beatrice, safely on the ground, was examining ruefully the +amount of damage done to the dog-cart, and Mr. Esterworth was shaking +hands with his deliverer. + +It was Herbert Pryme. + +"That's the last time I ever take a lady out, driving without a +man-servant behind me," quoth the M.F.H. "What we should have done +without your timely assistance, sir, I really cannot say; in another +minute she would have kicked the trap into a thousand bits. You have +saved my niece's life, Mr. Pryme." + +"Indeed, I did very little," said Herbert, modestly, glancing at Beatrice +who was trembling and rather pale; but, perhaps, that was only from her +recent fright. She had not spoken to him, only she had given him one +bewildered glance, and then had looked hastily away. + +"You have saved her life," repeated Mr. Esterworth, with decision. "I +hope you do not mean to contradict my words, sir? You have saved +Beatrice's life, sir, and it's the most providential thing in this world +for you, as Clochette very nearly kicked her to pieces under your nose. +I shall tell Mr. and Mrs. Miller that they are indebted to you for their +daughter's life. Young people, I am going to lead this brute of a mare +home, and, if you like to walk on together to Lutterton in front of me, +why you may." + +That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the good +graces of his lady love's father and mother. + +Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account of +the danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic and +highly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity in +rushing to her rescue, that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had no other course left +than to shake hands gratefully with the man to whom, as uncle Tom said, +they literally owed her life. + +"I could not have saved her without him," said uncle Tom, drawing +slightly upon his imagination; "in another minute she must have been +kicked to pieces, or dashed violently to the earth among the broken +fragments of the cart, and"--with a happy after-thought--"the steam +plough would have crushed its way over her mangled body." + +Mrs. Miller shuddered. + +"Oh, Tom, I never can trust her to you again!" + +"No, my dear; but I think you must trust her to Mr. Pryme; that young man +deserves to be rewarded." + +"But, my dear Tom, there are things against his character. I assure you, +Andrew himself saw----" + +"Pooh! pooh!" interrupted Mr. Esterworth. "Young men who sow their wild +oats early are all the better husbands for it afterwards. I will give him +a talking to if you like, but you and your husband must let Pussy have +her own way; it is the least you can do after his conduct; and don't +worry about his being poor, Caroline; I have nothing better to do with my +money, and I shall take care that Pussy is none the worse off for my +death. She is worth all the rest of your children put together--an +Esterworth, every inch of her!" + +That, it is to be imagined, was the clenching argument in Mrs. Miller's +mind. Uncle Tom's money was not to be despised, and, by reason of his +money, uncle Tom's wishes were bound to carry some weight with them. + +Mr. Pryme, who had been staying for a few days at Kynaston, where, +however, the cordial welcome given to him by its master was, in a great +measure, neutralised by the coldness and incivility of its mistress, +removed himself and his portmanteau, by uncle Tom's invitation, to +Lutterton, and his engagement to Miss Miller became a recognised fact. + +"All the same, it is a very bad match for her," said Mrs. Miller, in +confidence, to her husband. + +"And I should very much like to know who that sunshade belonged to," +added the M.P. for Meadowshire, severely. + +"I think, my dear, we shall have to overlook that part of the business, +for, as Tom will leave them his money, why----" + +"Yes, yes, I quite understand; we must hope the young man has had a good +lesson. Let bygones be bygones, certainly," and Mr. Miller took a pinch +of snuff reflectively, and wondered what Tom Esterworth would "cut up +for." + +"But I am _determined_," said Mrs. Miller, ere she closed the discussion, +"I am determined that I will do better for Geraldine." + +After all, the mother had a second string to her bow, so the edict went +forth that Beatrice was to be allowed to be happy in her own way, and the +shadow of that fatal sunshade was no longer to be suffered to blacken the +moral horizon of her father's soul. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +BY THE VICARAGE GATE. + + Before our lives divide for ever, + While time is with us and hands are free, + (Time swift to fasten, and swift to sever + Hand from hand....) + I will say no word that a man might say + Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; + For this could never have been. And never + (Though the gods and the years relent) shall be. + + Swinburne. + + +The peacocks had it all to themselves on the terrace walk at Kynaston. +They strutted up and down, craning and bridling their bright-hued necks +with a proud consciousness of absolute proprietorship in the place, and +their long tails trailed across the gravel behind them with the soft +rustle of a woman's garments. Now and then their sad, shrill cries echoed +weirdly through the deserted gardens. + +There was no one to see them--the gardeners had all gone home--and no one +was moving from the house. Only one small boy, with a rough head and a +red face, stood below the stone balustrade, half-hidden among the +hollyhocks and the roses, looking wistfully up at the windows of the +house. + +"What am I to do with it?" said Tommy Daintree, half-aloud to himself, +and looked sorely perplexed and bewildered. + +Tommy had a commission to fulfil, a commission from Vera. He carried a +little note in his hands, and he had promised Vera faithfully that he +would wait near the house till he saw Captain Kynaston come in from his +day's shooting, and give him the note into his own hands. + +"You quite understand, Tommy; no one else." + +"Yes, auntie, I quite understand." + +And Tommy had been waiting there an hour, but still there was no sign of +Captain Kynaston's return; he was getting very tired and very hungry by +this time, for he had had no tea. He had heard the dressing-bell ring +long ago in the house--it must be close upon their dinner hour. Tommy +could not guess that, by an unaccustomed chance, the master of the house +had gone in by the back-door to-day, and that he had been in some time. + +Presently some one pushed aside the long muslin curtains, and came +stepping out of the long French window on to the terrace. It was Helen. + +She was dressed for dinner; she wore a pale blue dress, cut open at the +neck, a string of pearls and a jewelled locket hung at her throat; she +turned round, half laughing, to some one who was following her. + +"You will see all the county magnates at Shadonake to-morrow. You will +have quite enough of them, I promise you; they are neither lively nor +entertaining." + +A young man, also in evening dress, had followed her out on to the +terrace; it was Denis Wilde; he had arrived from town by the afternoon +train. Why he should have thrown over several very good invitations to +country houses in Norfolk and Suffolk, where there were large and +cheerful parties gathered together, and partridge shooting to make a man +dream of, in order to come down to the poor sport of Kynaston and the +insipid society of a newly married couple, with whom he was not on very +intimate terms, is a problem which Mr. Wilde alone could have +satisfactorily solved. Being here, he was naturally disposed to make +himself extremely agreeable to his hostess. + +"You can't think how anxious I am to inspect the _élite_ of Meadowshire!" +he said, laughing. "My life is an incomplete thing without a sight of +it." + +"You will witness the last token of mental aberration in a +decently-brought up young woman in the person of Beatrice Miller. You +know her. Well, she has actually engaged herself to a barrister whom +nobody knows anything about, and who--_bien entendu_--has no briefs--they +never have any. He was staying here for a couple of days; a slow, heavy +young man, who quoted Blackstone. Maurice took a fancy to him abroad; +however, he was clever enough to save Beatrice's life by stopping a +run-away horse. Some people say the accident was the invention of the +lovers' own imaginations; however, the parents believed in it, and it +turned the scales in his favour; but he has taken himself off, I am +thankful to say, and is staying at Lutterton with her uncle. Beatrice +might have married well, but girls are such fools. Hallo, Topsy, what are +you barking at?" + +Mrs. Kynaston's pug had come tearing out of the house with a whole chorus +of noisy yappings. The peacocks, deeply wounded in their tenderest +feelings, instantly took wing, and went sailing away majestically over +the crimson and gold parterre of flowers below. + +"What can possess her to bark at the peacocks?" said Helen. "Be quiet, +Topsy." + +But Topsy refused to be tranquillized. + +"She is barking at something below the terrace; perhaps there is a cat +there," said Denis. + +"If so, it would be Dutch courage, indeed," answered Helen, laughing. +They went to the edge of the stone parapet and looked over; there stood +Tommy Daintree below them, among the hollyhocks. + +"Why, little boy, who are you, and what do you want? Why, are you not Mr. +Daintree's little boy?" + +"Yes." + +"Then what are you waiting for?" + +"I want to give a note to Captain Kynaston," said Tommy, crimson with +confusion. "Is he ever coming in?" + +"He is in now; give me the note." + +"I was to give it to himself, to nobody else." + +"Who told you?" + +"Aunt Vera." + +"Oh!" There was a whole volume of meaning in the simple exclamation. +Mrs. Kynaston held out her hand. "You can give it to me, I am Captain +Kynaston's wife, you know. Give it to me, Tommy. Your name is Tommy, +isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Mr. Wilde, will you be so kind as to fetch +Tommy a peach off the dinner-table? Give the note to me, my dear, and you +can tell your aunt that it shall be given to Captain Kynaston directly." + +When Denis returned from his mission to the dining-room he only found +Tommy waiting for his peach upon the terrace steps. Mrs. Kynaston had +gone back into the house. + +Tommy went off devouring his prey with, it must be confessed, rather a +guilty conscience over it. Somehow or other, he felt that he had failed +in the trust his aunt had placed in him; but then, Mrs. Kynaston had been +very kind and very peremptory; she had almost taken the letter out of his +hand, and she had smiled and looked quite like a fairy princess out of +one of Minnie's story-books in her pretty blue silk dress and shining +locket--and then, peaches were so very nice! + +What happened to Denis Wilde after the small boy's departure was this. He +sauntered back to the drawing-room windows and looked in; no one was +there. He then wandered further down the terrace till he came opposite +the window of the boudoir--Mrs. Kynaston's own boudoir--which Sir John's +loving hands had once lined with blue and silver for his Vera. Here he +caught sight of Mrs. Kynaston's fair head and slender figure. Her back +was turned to him; he was on the point of calling out to her, when +suddenly the words upon his lips were arrested by something which he saw +her doing. Instead of speaking, he simply stood still and stared at her. + +Mrs. Kynaston, unconscious of observation, held the note which Tommy had +just given her over the steam of a small jug of hot water, which she had +hastily ordered her maid to bring to her. In less than a minute the +envelope unfastened of itself. Helen then deliberately took out the note +and read it. + +What she read was this:-- + + "Dear Captain Kynaston,--I have something that I have promised to give + to you when you are alone. Would you mind coming round to the vicarage + after dinner to-night, at nine o'clock? You will find me at the + gate.--Sincerely yours, + + "Vera Nevill." + +Then Helen lit a candle, and fastened the letter up again with +sealing-wax. + +And Denis Wilde crept away from the window on tip-toe with a sense of +shocked horror upon him such as he never remembered having experienced in +his life before. + +All at once his pretty, pleasant hostess, with whom he had been glad +enough to banter, and with whom even he had been ready to enter upon a +mild and innocent flirtation, became horrible and hateful to him; and +there came into his mind, like an inspiration, the knowledge of her +enmity to Vera; for it was Vera's note that she had opened and read. Then +his instincts were straightway all awake with the acuteness of a danger, +to something--he knew not what--that threatened the woman he loved. + +"Thank God, I am here," he said to himself. "That woman is her foe, and +she will be dangerous to her. I would not have come to her house had I +known it; but now I am here, I will stay, for it is certain that she will +need a friend." + +At dinner-time the note lay by Maurice's side on the table. Whilst the +soup was being helped he took it up and opened it. He little knew how +narrowly both his wife and his guest watched him as he read it. + +But his face was inscrutable. Only he talked a little more, and seemed, +perhaps, in better spirits than usual; but that is what a stranger could +not have noticed, although it is possible that Helen may have done so. + +"By the vicarage gate," she had said, and it was there that he found her. +Behind her lay the dark and silent garden, beyond it the house, with its +wide-open drawing-room windows, and the stream of yellow light from the +lamp within, lying in a golden streak across the lawn. She leant over the +gate; an archway of greenery, dark in the night's dim light, was above +her head, and clusters of pale, creamy roses hung down about her on every +side. + +It was that sort of owl's light that has no distinctness in it, and yet +is far removed from darkness. Vera's perfect figure, clad in some white, +clinging garment that fell about her in thick, heavy folds, stood out +with a statue-like clearness against the dark shrubs behind her. She +seemed like some shadowy queen of the night. Out of the dimness, the +clear oval of her perfect face shone pale as the waning moon far away +behind the church tower, whilst the dusky veil of her dark hair lost +itself vaguely in the shadows, and melted away into the background. +A poet might have hymned her thus, but no painter could have painted her. + +And it was thus that he found her. For the first time for many weary +weeks and months he was alone with her; for the first time he could speak +to her freely and from his heart. He knew not what it was that had made +her send for him, or why it was that he had come. He did not remember her +note, or that she had said that she had something for him. All he knew +was, that she had sent for him, and that he was with her. + +There was the gate between them, but her white soft hands were clasped +loosely together over the top of it. He took them feverishly between his +own. + +"I am late--you have waited for me, dear? Oh, Vera, how glad I am to be +with you!" + +There was a dangerous tenderness in his voice that frightened her. She +tried to draw away her hands. + +"I had something for you, or I should not have sent--please, Captain +Kynaston--Maurice--please let my hands go." + +He was alone under the star-flecked heavens with the woman he loved, +there was all the witchery of the pale moonlight about her, all the +sweet perfumes of the summer night to intensify the fascination of her +presence. There was a nameless glamour in the luminous dimness--a subtle +seduction to the senses in the silence and the solitude; a bird chirruped +once among the tangled roses overhead, and a soft, sighing breeze +fluttered for one instant amid its long, trailing branches. And then, +God knows how it came to pass, or what madness possessed the man; +but suddenly there was no longer any faith, or honour, or truth for +him--nothing on the face of the whole earth but Vera. + +He caught her passionately in his arms, and showered upon her lips the +maddest, wildest kisses that man ever gave to woman. + +For one instant she lay still upon his heart; all the fury of her misery +was at rest--all the storm of her sorrow was at peace--for one instant of +time she tasted of life's sublimest joy ere the waters of blackness and +despair closed in once more over her soul. For one instant only--then she +remembered, and withdrew herself shudderingly from his grasp. + +"For God's sake, have pity upon me, Maurice!" she wailed. It was the cry +of a broken heart that appealed to his manhood and his honour more surely +and more directly than a torrent of reproach or a storm of indignation. + +"Forgive me," he murmured, humbly; "I am a brute to you. I had forgotten +myself. I ought to have spared you, sweet. See, I have let you go; I will +not touch you again; but it was hard to see you alone, to be near you, +and yet to remember how we are parted. Vera, I have ruined your life; it +is wonderful that you do not hate me." + +"A true woman never hates the man who has been hard on her," she +answered, smiling sadly. + +"If it is any comfort to you to know it, I too am wretched; now it is too +late: I know that my life is spoilt also." + +"No; why should that comfort me?" she said, wearily. She leant half back +against the gate--if he could have seen her well in the uncertain light, +he would have been shocked at the worn and haggard face of his beautiful +Vera. + +Presently she spoke again. + +"I am sorry that I asked you to come--it was not wise, was it, Maurice? +How long must you stop at Kynaston? Can you not go away? We are neither +of us strong enough to bear this--I, I cannot go--but you, _must_ you be +always here?" + +"Before God," he answered, earnestly, "I swear to you that I will go away +if it is in my power to go." + +"Thank you." Then, with an effort, she roused herself to speak to him: +"But that is not what I wanted to say; let me tell you why I sent for +you. I made a promise, a wretched, stupid thing, to a tiresome little man +I met in London--a Monsieur D'Arblet, a Frenchman; do you know him?" + +"D'Arblet! I never heard the name in my life that I know of." + +"Really, that seems odd, for I have a little parcel from him to you, and, +strangely enough, he made me promise on my word of honour to give it to +you when no one was near. I did not know how to keep my promise, for, +though we may sometimes meet in public, we are not often likely to meet +alone. I have it here; let me give it to you and have done with the +thing; it has been on my mind." + +She drew a small packet from her pocket, and was about to give it to him, +when suddenly his ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; he +looked nervously round, then he put forth his hand quickly and stopped +her. + +"Hush, give me nothing now!" he said, in a low, hurried voice. "To-morrow +we shall meet at Shadonake; if you will go near the Bath some time +during the day after lunch is over, I will join you there, and you can +give it to me; it can be of no possible importance; go in now quickly; +good-night. It is my wife." + +She turned and fled swiftly back to the house through the darkness, and +Maurice was left face to face with Helen. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +DENIS WILDE'S LOVE. + + A mighty pain to love it is, + And 'tis a pain that love to miss; + But, of all pains, the greatest pain + Is to love, but love in vain. + + Cowley. + + +He had not been mistaken. It was Helen who had crept out after him in the +darkness, and whose slight figure, in her pale blue dress, stood close by +him in an angle of the road. + +How long she had stood there and what she had heard he did not know. He +expected a torrent of abuse and a storm of reproaches from her, but she +refrained from either. She passed her arm within his, and walked beside +him for several minutes in silence. Maurice, who felt rather guilty, was +weak enough to say, hesitatingly, + +"The night was so fine, I strolled out to smoke----" + +"_Qui s'excuse s'accuse_," quoted Helen; "only you are not smoking, +Maurice!" + +"My cigar has gone out; I--I met Miss Nevill at the gate of the +vicarage." + +"So I saw," rather significantly. + +"I stopped to have a little talk to her. There is no harm, I suppose, in +that!" he added, irritably. + +Helen laughed shortly and harshly. + +"Harm! oh dear, no; whoever said there was? By the way, is not this freak +of yours of going out into the roads to smoke, as you say, alone, rather +a slight on your guest? Here is Mr. Wilde; how very amusing! we all seem +to be drawn out towards the vicarage to-night." + +Denis Wilde, in fact, had followed in the wake of his hostess, and they +met him now by the lodge gates. + +"How very strange!" called out Helen to him, in her scornful, bantering +voice; "how strange that we should all have gone out for solitary +rambles, and all meet in the same place; and there was Miss Nevill out +in the vicarage garden, also on a solitary ramble." + +"Is Miss Nevill there? I think I will go on and call upon her," said +Denis. + +"You too, Mr. Wilde!" cried Helen. "Have you fallen a victim to the +beauty? We heard enough of her in town; she turned all the men's heads; +even married men are not safe from her snares, and yet it is singular +that none of her admirers care to marry her; there are some women whom +all men make love to, but whom none care to make wives of!" + +And Maurice was a coward, and spoke no word in her defence; he did not +dare; but young Denis Wilde drew himself up proudly. + +"Mrs. Kynaston," he said, sternly, "I must ask you not to speak +slightingly of Miss Nevill." + +"Good gracious, why not? I suppose we are all free to use our tongues and +our eyes in this world! Why should you become the woman's champion?" + +"Because," answered Denis, gravely, "I hope to make her my wife." + +Maurice was man enough to hold out his hand to him in the darkness. + +"I am glad of it," he said, rather hoarsely; "make her happy, Denis, if +you can." + +"Thanks. I shall go on to see her now." + +Helen murmured an unintelligible apology, and Denis Wilde passed onwards +towards the vicarage. + +He had taken her good name into his keeping, he had shielded her from +that other woman's slandering tongue; but he had done so in his despair. +He had spoken no lie in saying that he hoped to make her his wife; but it +was no doubt a fact that Helen and her husband would now believe him to +be engaged to her. Would Vera be induced to verify his words, and to +place herself and her life beneath the shelter of his love, or would she +only be angry with him for venturing to presume upon his hopes? Denis +could not tell. + +Ten minutes later he stood alone with her in the vicarage dining-room; +he had sent in his card with a pencilled line upon it to ask for a few +minutes' conversation with her. + +Vera had desired that her visitor might be shown into the dining-room. +Old Mrs. Daintree had been amazed and scandalized, and even Marion had +opened her eyes at so unusual a proceeding; but the vicar was out by a +sick bedside in the village, and no one else ever controlled Vera's +actions. + +Nevertheless, she herself looked somewhat surprised at so late a visit +from him. And then, somehow or other, Denis made it plain to her how it +was he had come, and what he had said of her. Her name, he told her, had +been lightly spoken of; to have defended it without authority would have +been to do her more harm than good; to take it under his lawful +protection had been instinctively suggested to him by his longing to +shield her. Would she forgive him? + +"It was Mrs. Kynaston who spoke evil things of me," said Vera, wearily. +She was very tired, she hardly understood, she scarcely cared about what +he was saying to her; it mattered very little what was said to her. There +was that other scene under the shadow of the roses of the gateway so +vividly before her; the memory of Maurice's passionate kisses upon her +lips, the sound of his beloved voice in her ears. What did anything else +signify? + +And meanwhile Denis Wilde was pouring out his whole soul to her. + +"My darling, give me the right to defend you now and always," he pleaded; +"do not refuse me the happiness of protecting your dear name from such +women. I know you don't love me, dear, not as I love you, but I will not +mind that; I will ask you for nothing that you will not give me freely; +only try me--I think I could make you happy, love. At any rate, you shall +have anything that tenderness and devotion can give you to bring peace +into your life. Vera, darling, answer me." + +"Oh, I am very tired," was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passing +her hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child. + +It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! What +were all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was driving +her into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave her +in peace? + +And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his love +struck upon her soul and arrested her attention. There is something so +touching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing in +return, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; that +amongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men, +it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not of +answering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such rare +devotion. + +It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading, +and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis's earnest eyes, and +the traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was, +perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laid +at her feet. + +There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as to +his grief. Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered? + +"Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife. I do not ask you for your +heart; only give me your dear self. Only let me be always with you to +brighten your life and to take care of you." + +How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness? + +"Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!" burst from her lips. "How can I take +you at your word? Do you not know that my heart is gone from me? I have +no love to give you." + +"Yes, yes, darling," he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips. "Do +not pain yourself by speaking of it. I have guessed it. I have always +seemed to know it. But it is hopeless, is it not? And I--I would so +gladly take you away and comfort you if I could." + +And so, in the end, she half yielded to him. What else was she to do? She +gave him a sort of promise. + +"If I can, it shall be as you wish," she said; "but give me till +to-morrow night. I will think of it all day, and if you will come here +again to-morrow evening, I will answer you. Give me one more day--only +one," she repeated, with a dull reiteration, out of her utter weariness. + +"One day will soon be gone," he said, joyfully, as he bade her good +night. + +Alas, how little he knew what that day was to bring forth! + +That night the heavens were overcast with heavy clouds, and torrents of +rain poured down upon the face of the earth, and peal after peal of +thunder boomed through the heavy heated air. Helen could not sleep; she +rose, feverish and unrested from her husband's side, and paced wildly and +miserably about the room. Then she went to the window and drew back the +curtain, and looked out upon the storm-driven world. The clouds racked +wildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind; +the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer still +was the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston's heart. Hatred, jealousy, +and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still--a +terror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night her +husband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning or +preparation-- + +"Helen, do you know a Frenchman called D'Arblet?" + +Helen had been at her dressing-table--her back was turned to him--he did +not see the livid pallor which blanched her cheeks at his question. + +A little pause, during which she busied herself among the trifles upon +the table. + +"No, I never heard the name in my life," she said, at length. + +"That is odd--because neither have I--and yet the man has sent me a +parcel." It was of so little importance to him, that it did not occur +to him that there could possibly be any occasion for secresy concerning +Vera's commission. What could an utter stranger have to send to him that +could possibly concern him in any way? + +It did not strike him how strained and forced was the voice in which his +wife presently asked him a question. + +"And the parcel! You have opened it?" + +"No, not yet," began Maurice, stifling a yawn; and he would have gone +on to explain to her that it was not yet actually in his possession, +although, probably, he would not have told her that it was Vera who was +to give it to him; only at that minute the maid came into the room, and +he changed the subject. + +But Helen had guessed that it was Vera who was the bearer of that parcel. +How it had come to pass she could not tell, but too surely she divined +that Vera had in her possession those fatal letters that she had once +written to the French vicomte; the letters that would blast her for ever +in her husband's estimation, and turn his luke-warmness and his coldness +into actual hatred and repulsion. + +And was it likely that Vera, with such a weapon in her hands, would spare +her? What woman, with so signal a revenge in her power, would forego the +delight of wreaking it upon the woman who had taken from her the man she +loved? Helen knew that in Vera's place she would show no mercy to her +rival. + +It was all clear as daylight to her now; the appointment at the vicarage +gate, the something which she had said in her note she had for him; the +whole mystery of the secret meeting between them--it was Vera's revenge. +Vera, whom Maurice loved, and whom she, Helen, hated with such a deadly +hatred! + +And then, in the silence of the night, whilst her husband slept, and +whilst the thunder and the wind howled about her home, Helen crept forth +from her room, and sought for that fatal packet of letters which her +husband had told her he had "not yet" opened. + +Oh, if she could only find them and destroy them before he ever saw them +again! Long and patiently she looked for them, but her search was in +vain. She ransacked his study and his dressing-room; she opened every +drawer, and fumbled in every pocket, but she found nothing. + +She was frightened, too, to be about the house like a thief in the night. +Every gust of wind that creaked among the open doors made her start, +every flash of lightning that lighted up the faces of the old family +portraits, looking down upon her with their fixed eyes, made her turn +pale and shiver, lest she should see them move, or hear them speak. + +Only her jealousy and her hatred burnt fiercely above her terror; she +would not give in, she told herself, until she found it. + +Denis Wilde, who was restless too, had heard her soft footsteps along the +passage outside his door; and, with a vague uneasiness as to who could be +about at such an hour, he came creeping out of his room, and peeped in at +the library door. + +He saw her sitting upon the floor, a lighted candle by her side, an open +drawer, out of her husband's writing-table, upon her lap, turning over +papers, and bills, and note-books with eager, trembling hands. And he saw +in her white, set face, and wild, scared eyes, that which made him draw +back swiftly and shudderingly from the sight of her. + +"Good God!" he murmured to himself, as he sought his room again, "the +woman has murder in her face!" + +And at last she had to give it up; the letters were not to be found. The +storm without settled itself to rest, the thunder died away in the far +distance over the hills, and Helen, worn out with fatigue and emotion, +sought a troubled slumber upon the sofa in her dressing-room. + +"She cannot have given it to him," was the conclusion she came to at +last. "Well, she will do so to-morrow, and I--I will not let her out of +my sight, not for one instant, all the day!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +A GARDEN PARTY. + + I have done for ever with all these things: + The songs are ended, the deeds are done; + There shall none of them gladden me now, not one. + There is nothing good for me under the sun + But to perish--as these things perished. + + A. L. Gordon. + + +Mr. Guy Miller is a young gentleman who has not played an important part +in these pages; nevertheless, but for him, sundry events which took place +at Shadonake at this time would not have had to be recorded. + +It so happened that Guy Miller's twenty-first birthday was in the third +week of September, and that it was determined by his parents to celebrate +the day in an appropriate and fitting manner. Guy was a youth of no +particular looks, and no particular manners; he had been at Oxford, +but his father had lately taken him away from it, with a view to his +travelling, and seeing something of the world before he settled down +as a country gentleman. He had had no opportunity, therefore, of +distinguishing himself at college; but as he was not overburdened with +brains, and had, moreover, never been known to study with interest any +profounder literature than "Handley Cross" and "Mr. Sponge's Sporting +Tour," it is possible that, even had he been left undisturbed to pursue +his studies at the university, he would never have developed into a +bright or shining ornament at that seat of learning. + +As it was, Guy came home to the paternal mansion an ignorant but amiable +and inoffensive young man, with a small, fluffy moustache, and no +particular bent in life beyond smoking short pipes, and loafing about the +premises with his hands in his trousers pockets. + +He was a tolerable shot, and a plucky, though not a graceful horseman. He +hated dancing because he trod on his partner's toes, and shunned ladies' +society because he had to make himself agreeable to them. Nevertheless, +having been fairly "licked into shape" by a course successively of Eton +and of Oxford, he was able to behave like a gentleman in his mother's +house when it was necessary for him to do so, and he quite appreciated +the fact of his being an important personage in the Miller family. + +It was to celebrate the coming of age of this interesting young gentleman +that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had settled to give a monster entertainment to +several hundreds of their fellow-creatures. + +The proceedings were to include a variety of instructive and amusing +pastimes, and were to last pretty nearly all day. There was to be a +country flower-show in a big tent on the lawn; that was pure business, +and concerned the farmers as much as the gentry. There were also to be +athletic sports in a field for the active young men, lawn-tennis for the +active young women, an amateur polo match got up by the energy and pluck +of Miss Beatrice and her uncle Tom; a "cold collation" in a second tent +to be going on all the afternoon; the whole to be finished up with a +dance in the large drawing room, for a select few, after sunset. + +The programme, in all conscience, was varied enough; and the day broke +hopefully, after the wild storm of the previous night, bright and cool +and sunny, with every prospect of being perfectly fine. + +Beatrice, happy in the possession of her lover, was full of life and +energy; she threw herself into all the preparations of the _fête_ with +her whole heart. Herbert, who came over from Lutterton at an early hour, +followed her about like a dog, obeying her orders implicitly, but +impeding her proceedings considerably by a constant under-current of +love-making, by which he strove to vary and enliven the operation of +sticking standard flags into the garden borders, and nailing up wreaths +of paper roses inside the tent. + +Mrs. Miller, having consented to the engagement, like a sensible woman, +was resolved to make the best of it, and was, if not cordial, at least +pleasantly civil to her future son-in-law. She had given over Beatrice +as a bad job; she had resolved to find suitable matches for Guy and for +Geraldine. + +By one o'clock the company was actually beginning to arrive, the small +fry of the neighbourhood being, of course, the first to appear. By-and-by +came the rank and fashion of Meadowshire, and by three o'clock the +gardens were crowded. + +It was a brilliant scene; there was the gaily-dressed crowd going in and +out of the tents, groups of elderly people sitting talking under the +trees, lawn-tennis players at one end of the garden, the militia band +playing Strauss's waltzes at the other, the scarlet and white flags +floating bravely over everybody in the breeze, and a hum of many voices +and a sound of merry laughter in every direction. + +Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and Guy, the hero of the day, moved about amongst +the guests from group to group. Guy, it must be owned, looking +considerably bored. Beatrice, with her lover in attendance, looking +flushed and rosy with the many congratulations which the news of her +engagement called forth on every side; and the younger boys, home from +school for the occasion, getting in everybody's way, and directing their +main attention to the ices in the refreshment-tent. Such an afternoon +party, it was agreed, had not been held in Meadowshire within the memory +of man; but then, dear Mrs. Miller had such energy and such a real talent +for organization; and if the company _was_ a little mixed, why, of +course, she must recollect Mr. Miller's position, and how important it +was for him, with the prospect of a general election coming on, to make +himself thoroughly popular with all classes. + +No one in all the gay crowd was more admired or more noticed than "the +bride," as she was still called, young Mrs. Kynaston. Helen had surpassed +herself in the elaboration of her toilette. The country dames and +damsels, in their somewhat dowdy home-made gowns, could scarcely remember +their manners, so eager were they to stare at the marvels of that +wondrous garment of sheeny satin, and soft, creamy gauze, sprinkled over +with absolute works of art in the shape of wreaths of many-hued +embroidered birds and flowers, with which the whole dress was cunningly +and dexterously adorned. It was a masterpiece of the great Worth; rich +without being gaudy, intricate without losing its general effect of +colour, and, above all, utterly and absolutely inimitable by the hands +of any meaner artist. + +Mrs. Kynaston looked well; no one had ever seen her look better; there +was an unusual colour in her cheeks, an unusual glitter in her blue eyes, +that always seemed to be roving restlessly about her as though in search +of something even all the time she was saying her polite commonplaces in +answer to the pleasant and pretty speeches that she received on all sides +from men and women alike. + +But through it all she never let Vera Nevill out of her sight; where Vera +moved, she moved also. When she walked across the lawn, Mrs. Kynaston +made some excuse to go in the same direction; when she entered either of +the tents, Helen also found it necessary to go into them. But the crowd +was too great for any one to remark this; no one saw it save Denis Wilde, +whose eyes were sharpened by his love. + +Once Helen saw that Maurice and Vera were speaking to each other. She +could not get near enough to hear what they said, but she saw him bend +down and speak to her earnestly, and there was a sad, wistful look in +Vera's upturned eyes as she answered him. Helen's heart beat with a wild, +mad jealousy as she watched them; and yet it was but a few words that had +passed between them. + +"Vera, young Wilde says you are going to marry him; is it true?" + +"He wants me to do so, but I don't think I can." + +"Why not? It would be happier for you, child; forget the past and begin +afresh. He is a good boy, and by-and-by he will be well off." + +"You, too--you advise me to do this?" she answered with unwonted +bitterness. "Oh, how wise and calculating one ought to be to live happily +in this miserable world!" + +He looked pained. + +"I cannot do you any good," he said, rather brokenly. "God knows I would +if I could. I can only be a curse to you. Give me at least the credit of +unselfishly wishing you to be less unhappy than you are." + +And then the crowd, moving onwards, parted them from each other. + +"Do not forget to meet me at the Bath," she called out to him as he went. + +"Oh, to be sure! I had forgotten. I will be there just before the dancing +begins." + +And then Denis Wilde took his place by her side. + +If Mrs. Kynaston surpassed herself in looks and animation that day, Vera, +on the contrary, had never looked less well. + +Her eyes were heavy with sleepless nights and many tears; her movements +were slower and more languid than of wont, and her face was pale and +thin. + +Meadowshire generally, that had ceased to trouble itself much about her +when she had thrown over the richest baronet in the county, considered +itself, nevertheless, to be somewhat aggrieved by the falling off in her +appearance, and passed its appropriate and ill-natured comments upon the +fact. + +"How ill she looks," said one woman to another. + +"Positively old. I suppose she thought she could whistle poor Sir John +back again whenever she chose; now he is out of the country she would +give her eyes for him!" + +"I daresay; and looks as if she had cried them out; but he must be glad +to have escaped her! Well, it serves her right for behaving so badly. I'm +sure I don't pity her." + +"Nor I, indeed." + +And the two amiable women passed onwards to discuss some other ill-fated +victim. + +But to the two men who loved her Vera that day was as beautiful as ever; +for love sees no flaw in the face that reigns supreme in the soul. And +Vera sat still in her corner of the tent where she had taken refuge, and +leant her tired, aching head against a gaudy pink-and-white striped +pillar. It was the tent where the flower-show was going on. From her +sheltered nook there was not much that was lovely to be seen, not a +vestige of a rose or a carnation to refresh her tired eyes, only a +counter covered with samples of potatoes and monster cauliflowers; +and there was a slab of white wood with pats of yellow butter, done up in +moss and ferns, which had been sent from the principal dairy-farms of the +county, and before which there was a constant succession of elderly and +interested housewives tasting and comparing notes. There seemed some +difficulty in deciding to whom the butter prize was to be awarded, and at +last a committee of ladies was formed; they all tasted, solemnly, of each +sample all round, and then they each gave their verdict differently, so +that it had all to be done over again amidst a good deal of laughter and +merriment. + +Vera was vaguely amused by this scene that went on just in front of her. +When the knotty point was settled, the committee moved on to decide upon +something else, and she was left again to the uninterrupted contemplation +of the Flukes and the York Regents. + +Denis Wilde had sat by her for some time, but at last she had begged him +to leave her. Her head ached, she said; if he would not mind going, and +he went. + +Presently, Beatrice, beaming with happiness, found her out in her corner. + +"Oh, Vera!" she said, coming up to her, all radiant with smiles, "you are +the only one of my friends who has not yet wished me joy." + +"That is not because I have not thought of you, Beatrice, dear," she +answered, heartily grasping her friend's outstretched hands. "I was so +very glad to hear that everything has come right for you at last. How did +it all happen?" + +"I will come over to the vicarage to-morrow, and tell you the whole +story. Oh! do you remember meeting Herbert and me, that foggy morning, +outside Tripton station?" + +Would Vera ever forget it? + +"I little thought then how happily everything was to end for us. I used +to think we should have to elope! Poor Herbert, he was always frightened +out of his life when I said that. But we have had a very narrow escape +of being blighted beings to the end of our lives. If it hadn't been for +uncle Tom and that dear darling mare, Clochette, whom I should like +to keep in a gold and jewelled stall to the end of her ever-blessed +days!----Ah, well! I've no time to tell you now--I will come over to +Sutton to-morrow, and I may bring him, may I not?" + +"Him," of course, meaning Mr. Herbert Pryme. Vera requested that he might +be brought by all means. + +"Well, I must run away now--there are at least a hundred of these stupid +people to whom I must go and make myself agreeable. By the way, Vera, how +dull you look, up in this corner by yourself. Why do you sit here all +alone?" + +"My head aches; I am glad to be quiet." + +"But you mean to dance by-and-by, I hope?" + +"Oh, yes, I daresay. Go back to your guests, Beatrice; I am getting on +very well." + +Beatrice went off smiling and waving her hand. Vera could watch her +outside in the sunshine, moving about from group to group, shaking hands +with first one and then another, laughing at some playful sally, or +smiling demurely over some graver words of kindness. She was always +popular, was Beatrice, with her bright talk and her plain clever face, +and there was not a man or woman in all that crowd who did not wish her +happiness. + +And so the day wore away, and the polo match--very badly played--was +over, and the votaries of lawn-tennis were worn out with running up and +down, and the flowers and the fruits in the show-tent began to look +limp and dusty. The farmers and those people of small importance who had +only been invited "from two to five," began now to take their departure, +and their carriage wheels were to be heard driving away in rapid +succession from the front door. Then the hundred or so of the "best +county people," who were remaining later for the dancing, began to think +of leaving the lawns before the dew fell. There was a general move +towards the house, and even the band "limbered up," and began to transfer +itself from the garden into the hall, where its labours were to begin +afresh. + +Then it was that Vera crept forth out of her sheltered corner, and, +unseen and unnoticed save by one watchful pair of eyes, wended her way +through the shrubbery walks in the direction of the Bath. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +SHADONAKE BATH. + + A jolly place--in times of old, + But something ails it now: + The spot is cursed! + + Wordsworth. + + +Calm and still, like the magic mirror of the legend, Shadonake Bath lay +amongst its everlasting shadows. + +The great belt of fir-trees beyond it, the sheltering evergreens on +the nearer side, the tiers of grey, moss-grown steps that encompassed +it about, all found their image again upon its smooth and untroubled +surface. There was a golden light from the setting sun to the west, +and the pale mist of a shadowy crescent moon had risen in the east. + +It was all quiet here--faint echoes of distant voices and far-away +laughter came up in little gusts from the house; but there was no trace +of the festivities down by the desolate water, nothing but the dark +fir-trees above it, and the great white heads of the water-lilies that +lay like jewels upon its silent bosom. + +Vera sat down upon the steps, and rested her chin in her hands, and +waited. The house and the gardens behind her were shut out by the thick +screen of laurels and rhododendrons. Before her, on the other side, were +the fir-trees, with their red, bronzed trunks, and the soft, dark brown +carpet that lay at their feet; there was not even a squirrel stirring +among their branches, nor a bird that fluttered beneath their shadows. + +Vera waited. She was not impatient nor anxious. She had nothing to say +to Maurice when he came--she did not mean to keep him, not even for five +minutes, by her side; she did not want to run any further risks with +him--it was better not--better that she should never again be alone with +him. She only meant just to give him that wretched little brown paper +parcel that weighed upon her conscience with the sense of an unfulfilled +vow, and then to go back with him to the house at once. They could have +nothing more to say to each other. + +Strangely enough, as she sat there musing all her life came back in +review before her. The old days at Rome, with the favourite sister who +was dead and gone; her own gay, careless life, with its worldly aims and +desires; her first arrival at Sutton, her determination to make herself +Sir John Kynaston's wife, and then her fatal love for his brother; it all +came back to her again. All kinds of little details that she had long +forgotten came flooding in upon her memory. She remembered how she had +first seen Maurice standing at the foot of the staircase, with the light +of the lamp upon his handsome head; and then, again, how one morning she +and he had stood together in this very place by the Bath, and how she had +told him, shuddering, that it would be dreadful to be drowned there, and +she had cried out in a nameless terror that she wished she had not seen +it for the first time with him by her side; and then Helen had come down +from the house and joined them, and they had all three gone away +together. She smiled a little to herself over that foolish, reasonless +terror. The quiet pool of water did not look dreadful to her now--only +cool, and still, and infinitely restful. + +By-and-by other thoughts came into her mind. She recalled her interview +with old Lady Kynaston at Walpole Lodge, when she had so nearly promised +her to give back her hand to her eldest son, when she would have done so +had it not been for that sight of Maurice's face in the adjoining room. +She wondered what Lady Kynaston had thought of her sudden change of mind; +what she had been able to make of it; whether she had ever guessed at +what had been the truth. It seemed only yesterday that the old lady had +told her to be wise and brave, and to begin her life over again, and to +make the best of the good things of this world that were still left to +her. + +"There is a pain that goes right through the heart," Maurice's mother had +said to her; "I who speak to you have felt it. I thought I should die of +it, but you see I did not." + +Alas! did not Vera know that pain all too well; that heartache that +banishes peace by day and sleep by night, and that will not wear itself +out? + +And yet other women had borne it, and had lived and been even happy in +other ways; but she could not be happy. Was it because her heart was +deeper, or because her sense of pain was greater than that of others? + +Vera could not tell. She only wished, and longed, and even prayed that +she might have the strength to become Denis Wilde's wife; that she might +taste once more of peace, if not of joy; and yet all her longings and all +her prayers only made her realize the more how utterly the thing was +beyond her power. + +To Maurice, and Maurice alone, belonged her life and her soul, and Vera +felt that it would be easier for her to be true to the sad, dim memory +of his love than to give her heart and her allegiance to any other upon +earth. + +So she sat and mused, and pondered, and the amber light in the east faded +away into palest saffron, and the solemn shadows deepened and lengthened +upon the still bosom of the water. + +Suddenly there came a sharp footstep and the rustle of a woman's silken +skirts across the stone flags behind her. She looked up quickly; Helen +stood beside her. Helen, in all the sheen of her gay Paris garments, +with the evening light upon her uncovered head, and the glow of a +passion, fiercer than madness, in her glittering eyes. Some prescience +of evil--she knew not of what--made Vera spring to her feet. + +Helen spoke to her shortly and defiantly. + +"Miss Nevill, you are waiting here for my husband, are you not?" + +A faint flush rose in Vera's face. + +"Yes," she answered, very quietly. "I am waiting to speak a few words to +him." + +"You have something to give him, have you not? Some letters that are +mine, and which you have probably read." + +Helen said the words quickly and feverishly; her voice shook and +trembled. Vera looked surprised and even indignant. + +"I don't understand you, Mrs. Kynaston," she began, coldly. + +"Oh, yes, you understand me perfectly. Give me my letters, Miss Nevill; +you have no doubt read them all," and she laughed harshly and sneeringly. + +"Mrs. Kynaston, you are labouring under some delusion," said Vera, +quietly; "I have no letters of yours, and if I had," with a ring of utter +contempt, "I should not be likely to have opened them." + +For it did not occur to her that Helen was speaking of Monsieur +D'Arblet's parcel; that did not in the least convey the idea of letters +to her mind; nor had it ever entered into her head to speculate about +what that unhappy little packet could possibly contain; she had never +even thought about it. + +"I have no letters of yours," she repeated. + +"You are saying what is false," cried Helen, angrily. "How can you dare +to deny it? You know you have got them, you are here to give them to +Maurice, knowing that they will ruin me. You _shall_ not give them to +him. I have come to take them from you--I _will_ have them." + +"I do not even know what you are speaking about," answered Vera. "Why +should I want to ruin you, if, indeed, such a thing is to be done?" + +"Because you hate me as much as I hate you." + +"Hate is an ugly word," said Vera, rather scornfully. "I have no reason +to hate you, and I do not know why you should hate me." + +"Don't imagine you can put me off with empty words," cried Helen, wildly. +She made a step forward; her white hands clenched themselves together +with a reasonless fury; she was as white as the crescent moon that rose +beyond the trees. + +"Give me my letters--the letters you are waiting here to give to my +husband!" she cried. + +"Mrs. Kynaston, do not be so angry," said Vera, becoming almost +bewildered by her violence; "you are really mistaken--pray calm yourself. +I have no letters: what I was going to give your husband was only a +little parcel from a man who is abroad--he is a foreigner. I do not think +it is of the slightest importance to anybody. I have not opened it, I +have no idea what it contains, and your husband himself said it was +nothing--only I have promised to give it him alone; it was a whim of the +little Frenchman who entrusted me with it, and whom, I must honestly tell +you, I believe to have been half-mad. Only, unfortunately, I have +promised to deliver it in this manner." + +Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died +away. + +"Yes," she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you." + +"That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered me +until I foolishly undertook his commission. I am sorry now that I did so, +as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters in +the parcel, and I certainly have not opened it." + +Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently. + +"I don't believe you," she said; "they are my letters, sure enough, and +you have read them. What woman would not do so in your place? and you +know that they will ruin me with my husband." + +"It is you yourself that tell me so!" cried Vera, impatiently, beginning +to lose her temper. "I do not even know what you are talking about!" + +"Miss Nevill!" cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; "give that parcel +to me, I entreat you." + +"I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so." + +"Oh yes, you can--you will," said Helen, imploringly. "What can it matter +to you now? It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of a +mere empty revenge. Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart? +I know well enough that he loves you, but----" + +"Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words to +me!" cried Vera, deeply distressed. + +"Why should I not say them! You and I know well enough that it is true. +I hate you, I am jealous of you, for I know that my husband loves you; +and yet, if you will only give me that parcel, I will forgive you--I +will try to live at peace with you--I will even pray and strive for your +happiness! Let me have a chance of making him love me!" + +"For God's sake, Mrs. Kynaston, do not say these things to me!" cried +Vera. She was crimson with pain and shame, and shocked beyond measure +that his wife should be so lost to all decency and self-respect as to +speak so openly of her husband's love for herself. + +"I will not and cannot listen to you!" + +"But you will not be so cruel as to ruin me?" pleaded Helen; "only give +me that parcel, and I shall be safe! You say you have not opened it; +well, I can hardly believe it, because in your place I should have read +every word; yet, if you will give them to me, I will forgive you." + +"You do not understand what you are saying!" cried Vera, impatiently. +"How can I give you what is not mine to give? I have no right to dispose +of this parcel"--she held it in her hand--"and I have given my word that +I will give it to your husband alone. How could I be so false as to do +anything else with it? You are asking impossibilities, Mrs. Kynaston." + +"You will not give it to me?" There was a sudden change in Helen's +voice--she pleaded no longer. + +"No, certainly not." + +"And that is your last word?" + +"Yes." + +There was a silence. Helen looked away over the water towards the +fir-trees. She was pale, but very quiet; all her angry agitation seemed +to have died away. Vera stood a little beneath her on the lowest step, +close down to the water; she held the little parcel that was the object +of the dispute in her hands, and was looking at it with an expression of +deep annoyance; she was wishing heartily that she had never seen either +it or the wretched little Frenchman who had insisted upon confiding it to +her care. + +Neither of them spoke; for an instant neither of them even moved. There +was a striking contrast between them: Helen, slight and fragile in her +bird-of-paradise garments, with jewels about her neck, and golden chains +at her wrist; her pretty piquant face, almost childish in the contour of +the small, delicate features. Vera, in her plain, tight-fitting dress, +whose only beauty lay in the perfect simplicity with which it followed +the lines of her glorious figure; her pure, lovely face, laden with its +burden of deep sadness, a little turned away from the other woman who had +taken everything from her, and left her life so desolate. And there was +the silent pool at their feet, and the darkening belt of fir-trees +beyond, and the pale moon ever brightening in the shadowy heavens. It was +a picture such as a painter might have dreamt of. + +Not a sound--only once the faint cry of some wild animal in the far-off +woods, and the flutter of a night-moth on the wing. Helen's face was +turned eastwards towards the fast-fading evening glow. + +What is it that sends the curse of Cain into the human heart? + +Did some foul and evil thing, wandering homeless around that fatal spot, +enter then and there, unbidden, into her sin-stained soul? Or had the +hellish spirit been always there within her, only biding its time to +burst forth in all its naked and hideous horror? + +God only knows. + +"Vera, gather me a water-lily! See how lovely they are. I am going back +to dance; I want a water-lily." + +Vera looked up startled. The sudden change of manner and the familiar +mention of her name struck her as strange. Helen was leaning towards her, +all flushed and eager, pointing with her glistening, jewelled fingers +over the water. + +"Don't you see how white they are, and how they gleam in the moonlight +like silver? Would not one of them look lovely in my hair?" + +"I do not think I can reach them," said Vera, slowly. She was puzzled and +half-frightened by the quick, feverish words and manner. + +"Yes, yes, your arms are long--much longer than mine; you can reach them +very well. See, I will hold the sleeve of your dress like this; it is +very strong. I can hold you quite safely. Kneel down and reach out for +it, Vera. Do, please, I want it so much. There is one so close there, +just beyond your hand. Stoop over a little further; don't be afraid; +I have got you tightly." + +And Vera knelt and stretched out over the dark face of the waters. + +Then, all at once, there was a cry--a wild struggle--a splash of the +dark, seething waves--and Helen stood up again in her bright raiment +alone on the margin of the pool; whilst ever-widening circles stretched +hurriedly away and away, as though terror-stricken, from the baleful +spot where Vera Nevill had sunk below the ill-fated waters. + + * * * * * + +Someone came madly rushing out of the bushes behind her. Helen screamed +aloud. + +"It was an accident! She slipped forward--her footing gave way!" gasped +the unhappy woman in her terror. "Oh, Maurice, for pity's sake, believe +me; it was an accident!" She sunk upon her knees, with wildly +outstretched arms, and trembling, and uplifted hands. + +"Stand aside," he said, hoarsely, pushing her roughly from him, so that +she almost fell to the earth, and he plunged deep into the still +quivering waters. + +It was the water-lilies that brought her to her death. The long clinging +stems amongst which she sank held her fair body in their cold, clammy +embraces, so that she never rose again. It was long before they found +her. + +And, oh! who shall ever describe that dreadful scene by the margin of +Shadonake Bath, whilst the terrified crowd that had gathered there +quickly waited for her whom all knew to be hopelessly gone from them for +ever! + +The sobbing, frightened women; the white, stricken faces of the men; the +agony of those who had loved her; the distress and dismay of those who +had only admired her; and there was one trembling, shuddering wretch, in +her satin and her jewels, standing white and haggard apart, with knees +that shook together, and teeth that clattered, and tearless sobs that +shook her from head to foot, staring with a half-maddened stare upon the +fatal waters. + +Then, when all was at an end and the worst was known, when the poor +dripping body had been reverently covered over and borne away by loving +arms amid a torrent of sobs and wailing tears towards the house, then +some one came near her and spoke to her--some one off whom the water came +pouring in streams, and whose face was white and wild as her own. + +"Get you away out of my sight," said the man whom she had loved so +fruitlessly to her. + +"Have pity! have pity!" was the cry of despair that burst from her +quivering lips. "Was it not all an accident?" + +"Yes, let it be so to the world, because you bear my name, and I will not +have it dragged through the mire--to all others it is an accident--but +never to me, for _I saw you let her go_! There is the stain of murder +upon your hands. I will never call you wife, nor look upon your face +again; get yourself away out of my sight!" + +With a low sobbing cry she turned and fled away from him, and away from +the place, out among the shadows of the fir-trees. Once again some one +stopped her in her terror-stricken flight. + +It was Denis Wilde, who came striding towards her under the trees, and +caught her roughly by the wrist. + +"It is _you_ who have killed her!" he said, savagely. + +"What do you mean?" she murmured, faintly. + +"I saw it in your face last night when you were wandering about the house +during the thunderstorm; you meant her death then. I saw it in your eyes. +My God! why did I not watch over her better, and save her from such a +devil as you?" + +"No, no, it is not true; it was an accident. Oh, spare me, spare me!" +with a piteousness of terror, was all she could say. + +"Yes; I will spare you, poor wretch, for your husband's sake--because she +loved him--and his burden, God help him! is heavy enough as it is. Go!" +flinging her arm rudely from him. "Go, whilst you have got time, lest the +thirst for your blood be too strong for me." + +And this time no one saw her go. Like a hunted animal, she fled away +among the trees, her gleaming many-hued dress trailing all wet and +drabbled on the sodden earth behind her, and the darkness of the +gathering night closed in around her, and covered her in mercy with +its pitiful mantle. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +AT PEACE. + + Open, dark grave, and take her: + Though we have loved her so, + Yet we must now forsake her: + Love will no more awake her: + Oh bitter woe! + Open thine arms and take her + To rest below! + + A. Procter. + + +So Vera was at peace at last. The troubled life was over; the vexed +question of her fate was settled for her. There was to be no more +struggling of right against wrong, of expediency against truth, for her +for evermore. She had all--nay, more than all she wanted now. + +"It was what she desired herself," said the vicar, brokenly, as he knelt +by the side of her who had been so dear and precious to him. "Only a +Sunday or two ago she said to me 'If I could die, I should be at peace.'" + +And Maurice, with hidden face at the foot of the bed, could not answer +him for tears. + +It was there, by that white still presence, that lay so calm and so +lovely amongst the showers of heavy-scented waxen flowers, wherewith +loving hands had decked her for her last long sleep; it was there that +Eustace learnt at last the secret of her life, and the fatal love that +had so wrecked her happiness. It was all clear to him now. Her struggles, +her temptations, her pitiful moments of weakness and misery, her +courageous strife against the hopelessness of her fate--all was made +plain now: he understood her at last. + +In Maurice Kynaston's passion of despairing grief he read the story of +her sad life's trouble. + +Truly, Maurice had enough to bear; for he alone, and one other, who spoke +no word of it to him, knew the terrible secret of her death; to all else +it was "an accident;" to him and to Denis Wilde alone it was "murder." To +him, too, the motive of the foul, cowardly deed had been revealed; for, +tightly clasped in that poor dead hand, true to the last to the trust +that had been given her, was the fatal packet of letters that had been +the cause of her death. They were all blotted and blurred, and sodden +with the water, but there were whole sentences in the inner folds that +were sufficient for him to recognize his wife's handwriting, and to see +what was the drift and the meaning of them. + +Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew nor +cared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written by +her, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep and +sickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered the +blackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost a +human life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would not +have died. + +The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath the +coloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at her +desire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, and +people shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonake +was shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world went +its way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew her +no more. + + * * * * * + +After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small and +not at all gay. Indeed, Geraldine Miller considered her sister next door +to a lunatic, and she told herself it would be hardly worth while to be +married at all if there was to be no more fuss made over her marriage +than over Beatrice's. For there were no bridesmaids and no wedding +guests, only all the Millers, from the eldest down to the youngest, uncle +Tom, and an ancient Miss Esterworth, unearthed from the other end of +England for the occasion; and there were also a Mr. and Mrs. Pryme, +a grave and aged couple--uncle and aunt to the bridegroom. + +There was, however, one remarkable feature at this particular wedding: +when the family party came down into the dining-room to take their places +for the conventional breakfast upon the plate of the bride's father were +to be seen some very curious things. + +These were a faded white lace parasol with pink bows; a pair of soiled +grey _peau de suède_ gloves, and a little black wisp of a spotted net +veil. + +"Bless my soul!" said the member for Meadowshire, putting up his +eye-glasses; "what on earth is all this?" + +"I think you have seen them before, papa," says the bride, demurely, +whilst uncle Tom bursts into a loud and hearty guffaw of laughter. + +"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and looking +bewilderedly from his daughter to his wife: "I don't really understand. +Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these--these--most +extraordinary objects?" + +Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finery +critically. "Why, Beatrice!" she exclaims, in astonishment, "it is your +last summer's sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves: how on earth did +they come here on your papa's plate?" + +"I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again," cries +Beatrice, laughing; "he met them in Herbert's rooms in the Temple one day +last summer." + +"_Beatrice!_" falters her father, staring in amazement at her. + +"Yes, papa, dear, don't be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, your +very naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in the +Temple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you come +in, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table! I don't think, +now I am Herbert's wife, that it matters very much how much I confess of +my improprieties, does it?" + +"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round and +shakes hands with his son-in-law. "And I might have retained you for that +libel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it for +me!" was all he said. And then the sunshade and the gloves were swept +away, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank to +the bride and bridegroom's health none the less heartily for that curious +little explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast. + + * * * * * + +Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says, +they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although no +one thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of his +adoption and return to England. + +Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting very +aged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadness +at her heart. + +Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera, +and the whole truth about her death. The old lady knows that Vera and her +fatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons. There will be no +tender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merry +grandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years. They will live +away from her, and she will die alone. She knows it--and she is very, +very sad. + +In South Kensington there lives a gay, world-loving woman who keeps open +house, and entertains perpetually. She has horses and carriages, and a +box at the opera, and is always to be seen faultlessly dressed and the +gayest of the gay at every race meeting, and at every scene of pleasure. + +People admire her and flatter her, and speak lightly of her too, +sometimes, for it is generally known that Mrs. Kynaston is "separated" +from her husband; and though a separation is a perfectly respectable +thing, and has no possible connection with a divorce, yet there are ugly +whispers in this case as to what is the cause of the dissension between +the husband in Australia and the wife in London; whispers that often +do not fall very far short of the truth. And, gay as she is, and +light-hearted as she seems to be, there are times when pretty Mrs. +Kynaston is more to be pitied than any wretched beggar who toils along +the streets, for always there is the terror of detection at her heart, +and the fear that her dreadful secret, known as it is to at least two +persons on earth, may ooze out--be guessed by others. + +There are things Mrs. Kynaston can never do: to read of some dreadful +murder such as occasionally fills all the papers for days with its +sickening details makes her shut herself in her own room till the +horrible tragedy is over and forgotten; to hear of such things spoken +of in society causes her to faint away with terror. To walk by a pond, +or even to speak of being rowed upon a lake or river, fills her with +such horror of soul that none of her friends ever care to suggest a +water-party of any kind to her. + +"She saw that poor Miss Nevill drowned," say her compassionate +acquaintances; "it has upset her nerves, poor dear; she cannot bear the +sight of water." And there are a few who think, and who are not ashamed +to whisper their thoughts with bated breath, that she saw Miss Nevill's +sad death too near and too well to be utterly spotless in the matter. + +That she allowed her to perish without attempting to save her, because +she was jealous of her, is the generally received impression; but there +is no one who has quite realized that she was actually guilty of her +death. + +Did they think so, they could not eat her dinners with decency. And they +do eat her dinners, which are uncommonly good ones; and they flock to her +house, and they sit in her carriage and her opera-box, and they take all +they can get from her, although at their hearts they do not care to be +intimate with her. But then money covers a multitude of sins. And a great +many crimes may be glossed over if we are only rich enough and popular +enough, and sufficiently the fashion. + +As to Denis Wilde, he was young, and in time he got over it and married +an amiable young lady who bore him three children and loved him +devotedly, so that after a while he forgot his first love. + +Shadonake Bath has been drained. Mr. Miller has at last been allowed to +have his own way about it. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, +and there could be found no voice to plead for its preservation after +that terrible tragedy of which it was the scene. + +So the old steps have all been cleared away, and brick walls line the +straight deep sides, whereon grow the finest peaches and nectarines in +the county, whilst a parterre of British Queens and Hautboys cover the +spot where Vera died with their rich red fruit and their luxuriant +foliage. + +And at Sutton things go on much the same as of old. Old Mrs. Daintree is +dead, and no one sorrowed much for her loss, whilst the domestic harmony +is decidedly enhanced by her absence. Tommy and Minnie are growing big +and lanky, and the subject of schools and education is beginning to +occupy the minds of Marion and her husband. + +But the vicar has grown grey and old; his back is more bent and his face +more careworn than it used to be. He has never been quite the same since +Vera's death. + +There is a white marble monument in the middle of the chancel, raised by +the loving hands of two brothers far away in Australia. It is by the best +sculptor of the day, and on it lies a pale white figure, with a pure +delicate profile, and hands always meekly crossed upon the bosom. + +Every Sunday, as Eustace Daintree passes from his place at the +reading-desk up to the altar to read the Communion Service, there falls +upon it a streak of sunshine from the painted window above, which he +himself and his wife had put up to her memory, lighting up the pale +marble image with a chequered glory of gold and crimson. And the vicar's +eye as he passes alights for a moment with a never-dying sadness upon the +simple words carved at the foot of her tomb-- + + Vera Nevill, aged 23. + + AT PEACE. + + * * * * * + +MRS. CAMERON'S NOVELS. + +Jack's Secret. + +A Sister's Sin. + +A Lost Wife. + +The Cost of a Lie. + +This Wicked World. + +A Devout Lover. + +A Life's Mistake. + +Worth Winning. + +Vera Neville. + +Pure Gold. + +In a Grass Country. + + + "Mrs. Cameron's numerous efforts in the line of fiction have + won for her a wide circle of admirers. Her experience in novel + writing, as well as her skill in inventing and delineating characters, + enables her to put before the reading public stories that + are full of interest and pure in tone."--_Harrisburg Telegraph_. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera Nevill, by Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA NEVILL *** + +***** This file should be named 18385-8.txt or 18385-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/8/18385/ + +Produced by Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Lovett Cameron + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Vera Nevill + Poor Wisdom's Chance + +Author: Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +Release Date: May 14, 2006 [EBook #18385] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA NEVILL *** + + + + +Produced by Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>VERA NEVILL;</h1> + +<h4>OR, POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE.</h4> + +<h3><i>A NOVEL</i>.</h3> + +<h2>BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON</h2> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Author of "Pure Gold," "In a Grass Country," etc., etc</span>.</h4> + +<h4>PHILADELPHIA:<br /> +J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.<br /> +1893.</h4> + + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No. Vain, alas! th' endeavour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From bonds so sweet to sever.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Poor Wisdom's Chance<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Against a glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is now as weak as ever."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Moore's Melodies</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<span class="smcap">The Vicar's Family</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II. <span class="smcap">Kynaston Hall</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III. <span class="smcap">Fanning Dead Ashes</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV. <span class="smcap">The Lay Rector</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V. <span class="smcap">"Little Pitchers"</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI. <span class="smcap">A Soirée at Walpole Lodge</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII. <span class="smcap">Evening Reveries</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII. <span class="smcap">The Member for Meadowshire</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX. <span class="smcap">Engaged</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X. <span class="smcap">A Meeting on the Stairs</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI. <span class="smcap">An Idle Morning</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII. <span class="smcap">The Meet at Shadonake</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII. <span class="smcap">Peacock's Feathers</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV. <span class="smcap">Her Wedding Dress</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV. <span class="smcap">Vera's Message</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI. "<span class="smcap">Poor Wisdom</span>"</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII. <span class="smcap">An Unlucky Love-Letter</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII. <span class="smcap">Lady Kynaston's Plans</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX. <span class="smcap">What She Waited For</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX. <span class="smcap">A Morning Walk</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI. <span class="smcap">Maurice's Intercession</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII. <span class="smcap">Mr. Pryme's Visitors</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII. <span class="smcap">A White Sunshade</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV. <span class="smcap">Her Son's Secret</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV. <span class="smcap">St. Paul's, Knightsbridge</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI. <span class="smcap">The Russia-Leather Case</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII. <span class="smcap">Dinner at Ranelagh</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII. <span class="smcap">Mrs. Hazeldine's "Long Eliza"</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX. <span class="smcap">A Wedding Tour</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX. <span class="smcap">"If I could Die!"</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI. <span class="smcap">An Eventful Drive</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII. <span class="smcap">By the Vicarage Gate</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII. <span class="smcap">Denis Wilde's Love</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV. <span class="smcap">A Garden Party</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV. <span class="smcap">Shadonake Bath</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI. <span class="smcap">At Peace</span></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VERA_NEVILL" id="VERA_NEVILL"></a>VERA NEVILL</h2> + +<h4>OR</h4> + +<h3>POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE.</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<h3>THE VICAR'S FAMILY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With that regal indolent air she had<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So confident of her charm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Owen Meredith</span>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Amongst the divers domestic complications into which short-sighted man is +prone to fall there is none which has been more conclusively proved to be +an utter and egregious failure than that family arrangement which, for +lack of a better name, I will call a "composite household."</p> + +<p>No one could have spoken upon this subject with greater warmth of +feeling, nor out of the depths of a more painful experience, than +could the Rev. Eustace Daintree, sometime vicar of the parish of +Sutton-in-the-Wold.</p> + +<p>Mr. Daintree's family circle consisted of himself, his mother, his wife, +and his wife's sister, and I should like to know how a man could expect +to lead a life of peace and tranquillity with such a combination of +inharmonious feminine elements!</p> + +<p>There were two children also, who were a fruitful source of discord and +disunion. It is certain that, had he chosen to do so, the Rev. Eustace +might have made many heart-rending and harrowing revelations concerning +the private life and customs of the inhabitants of his vicarage. It is +equally certain, however, that he would not have chosen to do so, for he +was emphatically a man of peace and gentleness, kind hearted and given +to good works; and was, moreover, sincerely anxious to do his duty +impartially to those whom Providence or fate, or a combination of chances +and changes, had somehow contrived to bring together under his roof.</p> + +<p>Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of their +married life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home to +themselves, and right well had they enjoyed it. A fairly good living +backed up by independent means, a small rural parish, a pleasant +neighbourhood, a pretty and comfortable vicarage-house—what more can the +hearts of a clergyman of the Church of England and his wife desire? Mr. +and Mrs. Daintree, at all events, had wished for nothing better. But this +blissful state of things was not destined to last; it was, perhaps, +hardly to be expected that it should, seeing that man is born to trouble, +and that happiness is known to be as fleeting as time or beauty or any +other good thing.</p> + +<p>When Eustace Daintree had been married five years, his father died, +and his mother, accepting his warmly tendered invitation to come to +Sutton-in-the-Wold upon a long visit, took up her abode in the pleasant +vicarage-house.</p> + +<p>Her visit was long indeed. In a weak moment her son consented to her +urgent request to be allowed to subscribe her quota to the household +expenses—this was as good as giving her a ninety-nine years' lease of +her quarters. The thin end of the wedge thus inserted, Mrs. Daintree +<i>mère</i> became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, and +the doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing short +of death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongst +them. For the future her son's house became her home.</p> + +<p>But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was a +soft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman. It cannot be said that she +regarded the permanent instalment of her mother-in-law in her home with +pleasurable feelings; she would have been more than human had she done +so. But then she was unfeignedly fond of her husband, and desired so +earnestly to make his home happy that, not seeing her way to oust the +intruder without a warfare which would have distressed him, she +determined to make the best of the situation, and to preserve the +family peace and concord at all risks.</p> + +<p>She succeeded in her praiseworthy efforts, but at what cost no one but +herself ever knew. Marion's whole life became one propitiatory sacrifice +to her mother-in-law. To propitiate Mrs. Daintree was a very simple +matter. Bearing in mind that her leading characteristics were a bad +temper and an ungovernable desire to ride rough-shod over the feelings of +all those who came into contact with her, in order to secure her favour +it was only necessary to study her moods, and to allow her to tread you +under foot as much as her soul desired. Provided that she had her own way +in these little matters, Mrs. Daintree became an amiable old lady. Marion +did all that was needful; figuratively speaking, she laid down in the +dust before her, and the Juggernaut of her fate consented to be appeased +by the lowly attitude, and crushed its way triumphantly over her fallen +body.</p> + +<p>Thus Marion accepted her fate, and peace was preserved in her husband's +house. But by-and-by there came somebody into the family who would by no +manner of means consent to be so crushed and trodden under foot. This +somebody was Vera Nevill.</p> + +<p>In order duly to set forth who and what was this young woman, who thus +audaciously set at defiance the powers that were, it will be necessary +that I should take a brief survey of Marion's family history.</p> + +<p>Marion, then, be it known, was the eldest of three sisters; so much the +eldest, that when Mr. Daintree had met her and married her in Rome during +one of his brief holidays, the two remaining sisters had been at the time +hardly more than children. Colonel Nevill, their father, had married an +Italian lady, long since dead, and had lived a nomad life ever since he +had become a widower; moving about chiefly between Nice, Rome, and Malta. +Wherever pleasant society was to be found, there would Colonel Nevill and +his daughters instinctively drift, and year after year they became more +and more enamoured of their foreign life, and less and less disposed to +venture back to the chill fogs and cloudy skies of their native land.</p> + +<p>Three years after Marion had left them, and gone away with her husband to +his English vicarage; Theodora, the second daughter, had at eighteen +married an Italian prince, whose lineage was ancient, but whose acres +were few; and Colonel Nevill, dying rather suddenly almost immediately +after, Vera, the youngest daughter, as was most natural, instantly found +a home with Princess Marinari.</p> + +<p>All this time Marion lived at Sutton-in-the-Wold, and saw none of them. +She wept copiously at the news of her father's death, regretting bitterly +her inability to receive his parting blessing; but, her little Minnie +being born shortly after, her thoughts were fortunately diverted into a +happier channel, and she suffered from her loss less keenly and recovered +from it more quickly than had she had no separate life and no separate +interests of her own to engross her. Still, being essentially +affectionate and faithful, she clung to the memory of the two sisters now +separated so entirely from her. For some years she and Theodora kept up a +brisk correspondence. Marion's letters were full of the sayings and +doings of Tommy and Minnie, and Theodora's were full of nothing but Vera.</p> + +<p>What Vera had looked like at her first ball, how Prince this and Marquis +so-and-so had admired her; how she had been smothered with bouquets and +bonbons at Carnival time; how she had sat to some world-famed artist, who +had entreated to be allowed to put her face into his great picture, and +how the house was literally besieged with her lovers. By all this, and +much more in the same strain, Marion perceived that her young sister, +whom she had last seen in all the raw unformed awkwardness of early +girlhood, had developed somehow into a beautiful woman.</p> + +<p>And there came photographs of Vera occasionally, fully confirming the +glowing accounts Princess Marinari gave of her; fantastic photographs, +portraying her in strange and different ways. There was Vera looking out +through clouds of her own dark hair hanging loosely about her face; Vera +as a Bacchante crowned with vine leaves, laughing saucily; Vera draped as +a <i>dévote</i>, with drooping eyes and hands crossed meekly upon her bosom. +Sometimes she would be in a ball-dress, with lace about her white +shoulders; sometimes muffled up in winter sables, her head covered with +a fur cap. But always she was beautiful, always a young queen, even in +these poor, fading photographs, that could give but a faint idea of her +loveliness to those who knew her not.</p> + +<p>"She must be very handsome," Eustace Daintree would say heartily, as his +wife, with a little natural flush of pride, handed some picture of her +young sister across the breakfast-table to him. "How I wish we could see +her, she must be worth looking at, indeed. Mother, have you seen this +last one of Vera?"</p> + +<p>"Beauty is a snare," the old lady would answer viciously, hardly deigning +to glance at the lovely face; "and your sister seems to me, Marion, to be +dressed up like an actress, most unlike my idea of a modest English +girl."</p> + +<p>Then Marion would take her treasure away with her up into her own room, +out of the way of her mother-in-law's stern and repelling remarks.</p> + +<p>But one day there came sad news to the vicarage at Sutton. Theodora, +Princess Marinari, caught the Roman fever in its worst form, and after +a few agonizing letters and telegrams, that came so rapidly one upon the +other that she had hardly time to realize the dreadful truth, Marion +learnt that her sister was dead.</p> + +<p>After that, the elder sister's English home became naturally the right +and fitting place for Vera to come to. So she left her gay life and her +lovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worth +living for, and came back to her father's country and took up her abode +in Eustace Daintree's quiet vicarage, where she became shortly her +sister's idol and her sister's mother-in-law's mortal foe.</p> + +<p>And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to put +three grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to live +together in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as to +shut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expect +them to behave like so many lambs.</p> + +<p>It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in her +brother-in-law's house. Let me waste no further time, but introduce her +to you at once.</p> + +<p>The time of the year is October—the time of day is five o'clock. In the +vicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, and +the fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windows +leading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps into +the room.</p> + +<p>There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across the +garden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, against +which the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, stand +out clearly and distinctly. Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but of +a goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form. She is +tall—very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a young +queen conscious of her own power.</p> + +<p>She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, and +pauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is white +and well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to the +warmth.</p> + +<p>The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face—her face, with +its pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamy +eyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague and +indistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves. Her hair, a soft +dusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered up +at the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that would +not suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the stately +young head it adorns.</p> + +<p>"Tea, Vera?" says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers.</p> + +<p>Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light. +There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind the +piano; it is Tommy in disgrace. Vera turns round; Marion's kind face +looks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmly +and savagely.</p> + +<p>Vera takes the cup from her sister's hands, and putting it down again on +the table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spread +it thickly with strawberry jam.</p> + +<p>"Come here, Tommy, and have some of Auntie's bread and jam."</p> + +<p>Out comes a small person, with a very swollen face and a very dirty +pinafore, from the distant seclusion of the corner, and flies swiftly +to Vera's sheltering arm.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Daintree drops her work angrily into her lap.</p> + +<p>"Vera, I must beg of you not to interfere with Tom; are you aware that he +is in the corner by my orders?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly, Mrs. Daintree; and also that he was there before I went out, +exactly three-quarters of an hour ago; there are limits to all human +endurance."</p> + +<p>"I consider it extremely impertinent," begins the old lady, nodding her +head violently.</p> + +<p>"Darling Vera," pleads Marion, almost in tears; "perhaps you had better +let him go back."</p> + +<p>"Tommy is quite good now," says Vera, calmly passing her hand over the +rough blonde head. Master Tommy's mouth is full of bread and jam, and he +looks supremely indifferent to the warfare that is being carried on on +his account over his head.</p> + +<p>His crime having been the surreptitious purloining of his grandmamma's +darning cotton, and the subsequent immersion of the same in the inkstand, +Vera feels quite a warm glow of approval towards the little culprit and +his judiciously-planned piece of mischief.</p> + +<p>"Vera, I <i>insist</i> upon that child being sent back into the corner!" +exclaims Mrs. Daintree, angrily, bringing her large fist heavily down +upon her knee.</p> + +<p>"The child has been over-punished already," she answers, calmly, still +administering the soothing solace of strawberry jam.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Vera, <i>pray</i> keep the peace!" cries Marion, with clasped hands.</p> + +<p>"Here, I am thankful to say, comes my son;" as a shadow passes the +window, and Eustace's tall figure with the meekly stooping head comes +in at the door. "Eustace, I beg that you will decide who is to be in +authority in this house—your mother or this young lady. It is +insufferable that every time I send the children into the corner Vera +should call them out and give them cakes and jam."</p> + +<p>Eustace Daintree looks helplessly from one to the other.</p> + +<p>"My dear mother—my dear girls—what is it all about? I am sure Vera does +not mean——"</p> + +<p>"No, Vera only means to be kind, grandmamma," cries Marion, nervously; +"she is so fond of the children——"</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue, Marion, and don't take your sister's part so +shamelessly!"</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Vera rises silently and pushes Tommy and all his enormities +gently by the shoulders out of the room. Then she turns round and faces +her foe.</p> + +<p>"Judge between us, Eustace!" the old lady is crying; "am I to be defied +and set at nought? are we all to bow down and worship Miss Vera, the most +useless, lazy person in the house, who turns up her nose at honest men +and prefers to live on charity, a burden to her relations?"</p> + +<p>"Vera is no burden, only a great pleasure to me, my dear mother," said +the clergyman, holding out his hand to the girl.</p> + +<p>"Oh, grandmamma, how unkind you are," says Marion, bursting into tears. +But Vera only laughs lazily and amusedly, she is so used to it all! It +does not disturb her.</p> + +<p>"Is she to be mistress here, I ask, or am I?" continues Mrs. Daintree, +furiously.</p> + +<p>"Marion is the mistress here," says Vera, boldly; "neither you nor I have +any authority in her house or over her children." And then the old lady +gathers up her work and sails majestically from the room, followed by her +weak, trembling daughter-in-law, bent on reconciliation, on cajolement, +on laying herself down for her own sins, and her sister's as well, before +the avenging genius of her life.</p> + +<p>The clergyman stands by the hearth with his head bent and his hands +behind him. He sighs wearily.</p> + +<p>Vera creeps up to him and lays her hand softly upon his coat sleeve.</p> + +<p>"I am a firebrand, am I not, Eustace?"</p> + +<p>"My dear, no, not that; but if you could try a little to keep the peace!" +He stayed the caressing hand within his own and looked at her tenderly. +His face is a good one, but not a handsome one; and, as he looks at his +wife's young sister, it is softened into its best and kindest. Who can +resist Vera, when she looks gentle and humble, with that rare light in +her dark eyes?</p> + +<p>"Vera, why don't you look like that at Mr. Gisburne?" he says, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Eustace! am I indeed a burden to you, as your mother says?" she +exclaims, evasively.</p> + +<p>"No, no, my dear, but it seems hard for you here; a home of your own +might be happier for you; and Gisburne is a good man."</p> + +<p>"I don't like good men who are poor!" says Vera, with a little grimace.</p> + +<p>Her brother-in-law looks shocked. "Why do you say such hard worldly +things, Vera? You do not really mean them."</p> + +<p>"Don't I? Eustace, look at me: do I look like a poor clergyman's wife? Do +survey me dispassionately." She holds herself at arm's length from him, +and looks comically up and down the length of her gray skirts. "Think of +the yards and yards of stuff it takes to clothe me; and should not a +woman as tall as I am be always in velvet and point lace, Eustace? What +is the good of condemning myself to workhouse sheeting for the rest of my +days?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Daintree looks at her admiringly; he has learnt to love her; this +beautiful southern flower that has come to blossom in his home. Women +will be hard enough on Vera through her life—men, never.</p> + +<p>"You have great gifts and great temptations, my child," he says, +solemnly. "I pray that I may be enabled to do my duty to you. Do not say +you do not like good men, Vera, it pains me to hear you say it."</p> + +<p>"I like <i>one</i> good man, and his name is Eustace Daintree!" she answers, +softly; "is not that a hopeful sign?"</p> + +<p>"You are a little flatterer, Vera," he says, kissing her; but, though he +is a middle-aged clergyman and her brother-in-law, he is by no means +impervious to the flattery.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, upstairs, Marion is humbling herself into the dust, at the +footstool of her tyrant. Mrs. Daintree is very angry with Marion's +sister, and Mr. Gisburne is also the text whereon she hangs her sermon.</p> + +<p>"I wish her no harm, Marion; why should I? She is most impertinent to me, +but of that I will not speak."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, grandmamma, you do not understand Vera. I am sure she——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, excuse me, my dear, I understand her perfectly—the +impertinence to myself I waive—I hope I am a Christian, but I cannot +forgive her for turning up her nose at Mr. Gisburne—a most excellent +young man; what can a girl want more?"</p> + +<p>"Dear Mrs. Daintree, does Vera look like a poor clergyman's wife?" said +Marion, using unconsciously Vera's own arguments.</p> + +<p>"Now, Marion, I have no patience with such folly! Whom do you suppose she +is to wait for? We haven't got any Princes down at Sutton to marry her; +and I say it's a shame that she should go on living on her friends, a +girl without a penny! when she might marry a respectable man, and have +a home of her own."</p> + +<p>And then even Marion said that, if Vera could be brought to like Mr. +Gisburne, it might possibly be happier for her to marry him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<h3>KYNASTON HALL.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only the wind here hovers and revels<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a round where life seems barren as death.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haply of lovers none ever will know.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Swinburne</span>, "A Forsaken Garden."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>It seemed to be generally acknowledged by the Daintree family that if +Vera would only consent to yield to the solicitations of the Reverend +Albert Gisburne, and transfer herself to Tripton Rectory for life, it +would be the simplest and easiest solution of a good many difficult +problems concerning her.</p> + +<p>In point of fact, Vera Nevill was an incongruous element in the Daintree +household. In that quiet humdrum country clergyman's life she was as much +out of her proper place as a bird of paradise in a chicken yard, or a +Gloire de Dijon rose in a field of turnips.</p> + +<p>It was not her beauty alone, but her whole previous life which unfitted +her for the things amongst which she found herself suddenly transplanted. +She was no young unformed child, but a woman of the world, who had been +courted and flattered and sought after; who had learnt to hold her own, +and to fight her battles single-handed, and who knew far more about +the dangers and difficulties of life than did the simple-hearted +brother-in-law, under whose charge she now found herself, or the timid, +gentle sister who was so many years her senior.</p> + +<p>But if she was cognizant of the world and its ways, Vera knew absolutely +nothing about the life of an English vicarage. Sunday schools and +mothers' meetings were enigmas to her; clothing clubs and friendly +societies, hopeless and uninteresting mysteries which she had no desire +to solve. She had no place in the daily routine. What was she to do +amongst it all?</p> + +<p>Vera did what was most pleasant and also most natural to her—she did +nothing. She was by habit and by culture essentially indolent. The +southern blood she inherited, the life of the Italian fine lady she had +led, made her languid and fond of inaction. To lie late in bed, to sip +chocolate, and open her letters before she rose; to be dressed and +re-dressed by a fashionable lady's maid; to recline in luxurious +carriages, and to listen lazily to the flattery and adulation that had +surrounded her—that had been Vera's life from morning till night ever +since she grew up.</p> + +<p>How, with such antecedents, was she to enter suddenly into all the +activity of an English clergyman's home? There were the schools, and the +vestry meetings, and the sick and the destitute to be fretted after from +Monday morning till Saturday night—Eustace and Marion hardly ever had a +moment's respite or a leisure hour the whole week; whilst Sunday, of +course, was the hardest day's work of all.</p> + +<p>But Vera could not turn her life into these things. She would not have +known how to set about them, and assuredly she had no desire to try.</p> + +<p>So she wandered about the garden in the summer time, or sat dreamily by +the fire in winter. She gathered flowers and decorated the rooms with +them; she spoilt the children, she quarrelled with their grandmother, but +she did nothing else; and the righteous soul of Eustace Daintree was +disquieted within him on account of her. He felt that her life was +wasted, and the responsibility of it seemed, to his over-sensitive +conscience, to rest upon himself.</p> + +<p>"The girl ought to be married," he would say to his wife, anxiously. "A +husband and a home of her own is what she wants. If she were happily +settled she would find occupation enough."</p> + +<p>"I don't see whom she could marry, Eustace; men are so scarce, and there +are so many girls in the county."</p> + +<p>"Well, she might have had Barry." Barry was a curate whom Vera had lately +scorned, and who had, in consequence of the crushed condition of his +affections, incontinently fled. "And then there is Gisburne. Why couldn't +she marry Gisburne? He is quite a catch, and a good young man too."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is a pity; perhaps she may change her mind, and he will ask her +again after Christmas; he told me as much."</p> + +<p>"You must try and persuade her to think better of it by then, my dear. +Now I must be off to old Abraham, and be sure you send round the port to +Mary Williams; and you will find the list for the blanket club on my +study table, love."</p> + +<p>Her husband started on his morning rounds, and Marion, coming down into +the drawing-room, found old Mrs. Daintree haranguing Vera on the same +all-important topic.</p> + +<p>"I am only speaking for your good, Vera; what other object could I have?" +she was saying, as she dived into the huge basket of undarned socks on +the floor before her, and extracted thereout a ragged specimen to be +operated upon. "It is sheer obstinacy on your part that you will not +accept such a good offer. And there was poor Mr. Barry, a most worthy +young man, and his second cousin a bishop, too, quite sure of a living, +I should say."</p> + +<p>"Another clergyman!" said Vera, with a soft laugh, just lifting up her +hands and letting them fall down again upon her lap, with a little, +half-foreign movement of impatience. "Are there, then, no other men but +the clergy in this country?"</p> + +<p>"And a very good thing if there were no others," glared the old lady, +defiantly, over her spectacles.</p> + +<p>"I do not like them," said Vera, simply.</p> + +<p>"Not like them! Considering that I am the daughter, the widow, and the +mother of clergymen, I consider that remark a deliberate insult to me!"</p> + +<p>"Dear Mrs. Daintree, I am sure Vera never meant——" cried Marion, +trembling for fear of a fresh battle.</p> + +<p>"Don't interrupt me, Marion; you ought to have more proper pride than to +stand by and hear the Church reviled."</p> + +<p>"Vera only said she did not like them."</p> + +<p>"No more I do, Marion," said Vera, stifling a yawn—"not when they are +young; when they are old, like Eustace, they are far better; but when +they are young they are all exactly alike—equally harmless when out of +the pulpit, and equally wearisome when in it!"</p> + +<p>A few moments of offended silence on the part of the elder lady, +during which she tugs fiercely and savagely at the ragged sock in her +hands—then she bursts forth again.</p> + +<p>"You may scorn them as much as you like, but let me tell you that the +life of a clergyman's wife—honoured, respected, and useful—is a more +profitable one than the idle existence which you lead, utterly +purposeless and lazy. You never do one single thing from morning till +night."</p> + +<p>"What shall I do? Shall I help you to darn Eustace's socks?" reaching at +one of them out of the basket.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Daintree wrenched it angrily from her hand.</p> + +<p>"Good gracious! as if you could! What a bungle it would be. Why, I never +saw you with a piece of work in your hand in my life. I dare say you +could not even thread a needle."</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure I have never threaded one yet," laughed Vera, lazily. "I +might try; but you see you won't let me be useful, so I had better resign +myself to idleness." And then she rose and took her hat, and went out +through the French window, out among the fallen yellow leaves, leaving +the other women to discuss the vexed problem of her existence.</p> + +<p>She discussed it to herself as she walked dreamily along under the trees +in the lane beyond the garden, her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon the +ground; she swung her hat idly in her hand, for it was warm for the time +of year, and the gold-brown leaves fluttered down about her head and +rustled under the dark, trailing skirts behind her.</p> + +<p>About half a mile up the lane, beyond the vicarage, stood an old iron +gateway leading into a park. It was flanked by square red-brick columns, +upon whose summits two stone griffins, "rampant," had looked each other +in the face for the space of some two hundred years or so, peering grimly +over the tops of the shields against which they stood on end, upon which +all the family arms and quarterings of the Kynastons had become softly +coated over by an indistinct veil of gray-green moss.</p> + +<p>Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within, +who looked out for a minute at her as she passed. It was her daily walk, +for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wander +unreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to its +ancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house.</p> + +<p>Vera did so often. The square, red-brick building, with its stone +copings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunning +themselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in the +stone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden—all had a +certain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature. Then turning in at +the high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, +had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through the +deserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentle +reverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits, +and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead and +gone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, in +the now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim and +faded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the only +sound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they had +reigned supreme.</p> + +<p>She got to know them all at last by name—whole generations of them. +There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and a +farthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, his +brother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles. A whole succession of Sir +Martins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife in +powder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whose +elaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs. +Eccles, who had them all at her fingers' ends, had considerable +difficulty in clearly comprehending. It was a relief to be firmly landed +with Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, "the +present baronet's grandfather," and, lastly, Sir John, "the present +baronet's father," in a deputy-lieutenant's scarlet uniform, with a +cocked hat under his arm—by far the worst and most inartistic painting +in the whole collection.</p> + +<p>It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera. She elaborated whole +romances to herself out of these portraits. She settled their loves and +their temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers' meetings +between them. Each one had his or her history woven out of the slender +materials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives. Only one +thing disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John. +She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who was +unmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of his +fathers. She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it. +She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark, +dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from one +station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet +old-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the +long chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable +associations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, some +sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt.</p> + +<p>But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her to +talk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of the +man who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely honourable to +have spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred her dreams. One +day, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the little room which +Mrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's morning room," Vera came +upon a modern photograph that arrested her attention wonderfully.</p> + +<p>It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only a +broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and a +close-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written in +pencil, "My son—for Mrs. Eccles." Lady Kynaston, she supposed, must +therefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was Sir +John. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, as +though she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and she +said no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later she +sought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away.</p> + +<p>But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forget +it; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested him +with the living likeness of the photograph she had seen.</p> + +<p>On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the old +house she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms; the +sunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the air was +too full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to care to +go indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the housekeeper's +room, and called the old lady by name.</p> + +<p>The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she wandered +on to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked over the +gardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and she thought +of the photograph in the drawer.</p> + +<p>And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that, +beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended in +a set and determined purpose.</p> + +<p>The thought was this:—</p> + +<p>"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him."</p> + +<p>She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightest +particle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what her +relations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning the +desirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was perfectly +just and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to marry; her +life was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself or to any +one else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton Vicarage; it +had only been an intermediate condition of things. She had no vocation +for visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but unexciting family +office of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that, with all their +kindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not to be burdened +with her support for longer than was necessary. As to turning governess, +or companion, or lady-help, there was an incongruity in the idea that +made it too ludicrous to contemplate even for an instant. There is no +other way that a handsome and penniless woman can deliver her friends +of the burden of her existence than by marriage.</p> + +<p>Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way averse +to the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the most +practical and matter-of-fact point of view.</p> + +<p>She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashly +consenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable husband +that her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed in one +important respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the present +day—she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what marriage might +bring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it. She wanted wealth +and position, because she knew what they were and what life became +without them; and because she knew that she was utterly unfitted to be +the wife of any one but a rich man.</p> + +<p>And therefore it was that Vera looked from the square red house behind +her over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble avenues +that spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is what +will suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love it +dearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that such +a position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he whom +I will marry, and none other."</p> + +<p>As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus proposed +to marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into consideration at all. +She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she possessed any feelings; they +had never incommoded her hitherto. Probably they had no existence. Such +vague fancy as had been ever roused within her had been connected with a +photograph seen once in a writing-table drawer. The photograph of Sir +John Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, only +she said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sure +to get on with him."</p> + +<p>She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenary +even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exact +its full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetry +and refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name.</p> + +<p>The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never +loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed +the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the +world, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her +brain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still. +Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened.</p> + +<p>She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand, +dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in +straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her, +the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were +sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one +motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the +deserted scene.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followed +by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted.</p> + +<p>"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place so +choked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day's +notice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had the +house tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of the +family, and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used to +be——"</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I only +wanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitable +in case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. The +stables, I find, are in good repair."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is that +old-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use."</p> + +<p>"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all. +It is quite uncertain whether I shall come——Who is that?" stopping +suddenly short before the window.</p> + +<p>"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hope +you won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you was +back. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds."</p> + +<p>"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from +abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is +Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come +and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it +amiss that I should have allowed her to come."</p> + +<p>"Take it amiss—good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss—Miss Nevill, did you +say?—come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?"</p> + +<p>"I will get the key, Sir John." The housekeeper precedes him out of the +room, but Sir John stands still by the window.</p> + +<p>"What a picture," he says to himself below his breath; "how well she +looks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks—has +always lacked ever since I have known it—the presence of a beautiful +woman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles, I am coming." This last aloud, and he hastens +downstairs.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later, Sir John Kynaston says to his housekeeper,</p> + +<p>"You need not scare that young lady away from the place by telling her +I was here to-day and saw her. And you may get the rooms ready, Mrs. +Eccles, and order anything that is wanted, and get in a couple of maids, +for I have made up my mind to bring my horses down next month."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<h3>FANNING DEAD ASHES.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sorrow calls no time that's gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Violets plucked, the sweetest rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Makes not fresh, nor grow again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Fletcher.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>"Have you heard of Sir John's latest vagary, grandpapa? He is gone down +to Kynaston to hunt—so there's an end of <i>him</i>."</p> + +<p>"Humph! Where did you hear that?"</p> + +<p>"I've been lunching at Lady Kynaston's."</p> + +<p>The speaker stood by the window of one of the large houses at Prince's +Gate overlooking the Horticultural Gardens. She was a small, slight +woman, with fair pale features and a mass of soft yellow hair. She had a +delicate complexion and very clear blue eyes. Altogether she was a pretty +little woman. A stranger would have guessed her to be a girl barely out +of her teens. Helen Romer was in reality five-and-twenty, and she had +been a widow four years.</p> + +<p>Of her brief married life few people could speak with any certainty, +although there were plenty of surmises and conjectures concerning it. All +that was known was that Helen had lived with her grandfather till she was +nineteen; that one fine morning she had walked out of the house and had +been married to a man whom her grandfather disapproved of, and to whom +she had always professed perfect indifference. It was also known that +eighteen months later her husband, having rapidly wasted his existence by +drink and other irregular courses, had died in miserable poverty; and +that Helen, not being able to set up a home of her own, upon her slender +fortune of some five or six thousand pounds, had returned to her +grandfather's house in Prince's Gate, where she had lived ever since.</p> + +<p>Why she had married William Romer no one ever exactly knew—perhaps Helen +herself least of any one. It certainly was not for love; it could hardly +have been from any worldly motive. Some people averred, and possibly they +were not far wrong, that she had done so out of pique because the man she +loved did not want her.</p> + +<p>However that might be, Mrs. Romer returned a widow, and not a very +disconsolate one, to her grandfather's house.</p> + +<p>It is certain that she would not have lived there could she have helped +it. She did not love old Mr. Harlowe, neither did Mr. Harlowe love her. A +sense of absolute duty to his dead daughter's child on the one side, a +sense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Their +natures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacy +openly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common.</p> + +<p>It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked his +grand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had been +nothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a young +lady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presence +entailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he was +dragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had not +striven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling, +drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now, +when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, she +refused to make the slightest effort to meet his views.</p> + +<p>Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was a +pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient +money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a +single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other +occupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herself +to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her +life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden +fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often +do, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet as +honeydew—and behold, it was nothing but bitterness!</p> + +<p>She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November +afternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy +old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at +her watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending over +the fire behind her.</p> + +<p>"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him +off."</p> + +<p>"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short, +hard laugh.</p> + +<p>"You know very well what I mean," answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Set +your cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of, +and who don't want you."</p> + +<p>Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa," she +said, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love to +Sir John Kynaston to please you. Is that what you wanted me to do?"</p> + +<p>"I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keep +you. What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston's then? +And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of the +year if it wasn't for that? You have played your cards badly as usual. +You might have had him if you had chosen."</p> + +<p>"I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John's +head," said Helen, scornfully.</p> + +<p>"You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing young +spendthrift's head fast enough if you choose it."</p> + +<p>"I don't in the least know whom you mean," she said, shortly.</p> + +<p>The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes, you know well enough—the brother who +spends his time racing and betting. You are a fool, Helen; he doesn't +want you; and if he did, he couldn't afford to keep you."</p> + +<p>"Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston's name out of the discussion, +grandpapa," she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and her +hands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain. "Are +you not going to your study this evening?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, I'm going, fast enough. You want me out of the way, I suppose. +Somebody coming to tea, eh? Oh yes, I'll clear out. I don't want to +listen to your rubbish."</p> + +<p>The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of the +room, muttering to himself as he went.</p> + +<p>The servant came in, bringing the lamp, replenished the fire and drew the +curtains, shutting out the light of day.</p> + +<p>"Any one to tea, ma'am?" he inquired, respectfully.</p> + +<p>"One gentleman—no one else. Bring up tea when he comes."</p> + +<p>"Very well, ma'am;" and the servant withdrew. Mrs. Romer paced +impatiently up and down the room, stopping again and again before the +clock.</p> + +<p>"Late again! A whole half-hour behind his time! It is insufferable that +he should treat me like this. He would go quickly enough to see some new +face—some fresh fancy that had attracted him."</p> + +<p>She took out her watch and laid it on the table. "Let me see if he will +come before the minute-hand touches the quarter; he <i>must</i> be here by +then!"</p> + +<p>She continued to pace steadily up and down the room. The clock ticked on, +the minute-hand of the watch crept ever stealthily forward over the +golden dial; now and then a passing vehicle without made her heart beat +with sudden hope, and then sink down again with disappointment, as the +sound of the wheels went by and died away in the distance.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she sank into an arm-chair, covering her face with her hands.</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a fool—what a fool I am!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why have I not +strength of mind to go out before he comes, to show him that I don't +care? Why, at least, can I not call up grandpapa, and pretend I had +forgotten he was coming? That would be the best way to treat him; the way +to show him that I am not the miserable slave he thinks me. Why can I, +who know so well how to manage all other men, never manage the one man +whose love I want? That horrid old man was right—he does not want me—he +never did. Oh, if I only could be proud, and pretend I do not care! But I +can't, I can't—there is always this miserable sickening pain at my heart +for him, and he knows it. I have let him know it!"</p> + +<p>A ring at the bell made her spring to her feet, whilst a glad flush +suddenly covered her face.</p> + +<p>In another minute the man she loved was in the room.</p> + +<p>"Nearly three-quarters of an hour late!" she cried, angrily, as he +entered. "How shamefully you treat me!"</p> + +<p>He stood in front of the fire, pulling off his dogskin gloves: +a broad-shouldered, handsome fellow, with an aquiline nose and a +close-cropped head.</p> + +<p>"Am I late?" he said, indifferently. "I really did not know it. I have +had fifty places to go to in as many minutes."</p> + +<p>"Of course I shall forgive you if you have been so busy," she said, +softening at once. "Maurice, darling, are you not going to kiss me?" She +stood up by his side upon the hearthrug, looking at him with all her +heart in her eyes, whilst his were on the fire. She wound her arms round +his neck, and drew his head down. He leant his cheek carelessly towards +her lips, and she kissed him passionately; and he—he was thinking of +something else.</p> + +<p>"Poor little woman," he said, almost with an effort recalling himself +to the present; he patted her cheek lightly and turned round to toss +his gloves into his hat on the table behind him. "How cold it has +turned—aren't you going to give me some tea?" And then he sat down on +the further side of the fire and stretched himself back in his arm-chair, +throwing his arms up behind his head.</p> + +<p>Helen rang the bell for the tea.</p> + +<p>"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, poutingly.</p> + +<p>Maurice Kynaston looked distressed.</p> + +<p>"Upon my word, Helen, I am sure I don't know what you expect. I haven't +heard any particular news. I saw you only yesterday, you know. I don't +know what you want me to say."</p> + +<p>Helen was silent. She knew very well what she wanted, she wanted him to +say and do things that were impossible to him—to play the lover to her, +to respond to her caresses, to look glad to see her.</p> + +<p>Maurice was so tired of it all! tired alike of her reproaches and her +caresses. The first irritated him, the second gave him no pleasure. There +was no longer any attraction to him about her, her love was oppressive to +him. He did not want it, he had never wanted it; only somehow she had +laid it so openly and freely at his feet, that it had seemed almost +unmanly to him not to put forth his hand and take it. And now he was +tired of his thraldom, sick of her endearments, satiated with her kisses. +And what was it all to end in? He could not marry her, he would not have +desired to do so had he been able; but as things were, there was no money +to marry on either side. At his heart Maurice Kynaston was glad of it, +for he did not want her for a wife, and yet he feared that he was bound +to her.</p> + +<p>Man-like, he had no courage to break the chains that bound him, and yet +to-night he had said to himself that he would make the effort—the state +of his affairs furnished him with a sufficiently good pretext for +broaching the subject.</p> + +<p>"There is something I wanted to say to you," he said, after the tea had +been brought in and they were alone again. He sat forward in his chair +and stroked his moustache nervously, not looking at her as he spoke.</p> + +<p>Helen came and sat on the hearthrug at his feet, resting her cheek +caressingly against his knee.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's about myself. I have been awfully hard hit this last week at +Newmarket, you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes, so you told me. I am so sorry, darling." But she did not care much +as long as he was with her and was kind to her—nothing else signified +much to her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I am pretty well broke this time—I had to go to John again. He +is an awfully good fellow, is old John; he has paid everything up for me. +But I've had to promise to give up racing, and now I've got to live on +my pay."</p> + +<p>"I could lend you fifty pounds."</p> + +<p>"Fifty pounds! pooh! what nonsense! What would be the good of fifty +pounds to me?"</p> + +<p>He said it rather ungraciously, perhaps, and her eyes filled with tears. +When a man does not love a woman, her little childish offers of help do +not touch him as they would if he loved her. He would not have taken five +thousand from her, yet he was angry with her for talking of fifty pounds.</p> + +<p>"What I wanted to say to you, Helen, was that, of course, now I am so +hard up it's no good thinking of—of marrying—or anything of that kind; +and don't you think it would be happiest if you and I—I mean, wisest for +us both—for you, of course, principally——"</p> + +<p>"<i>What!</i>" She lifted her head sharply. She saw what he meant at once. A +wild terror filled her heart. "You mean that you want to throw me over!" +she said, breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, do be reasonable. Throw you over! of course not—but what +is it all to lead to? How can we possibly marry? It was bad enough +before, when I had my few hundreds a year. But now even that is gone. +A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry. Why, +I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too. I cannot drag +you down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable to +continue to bind you to my broken fortunes."</p> + +<p>She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute.</p> + +<p>"Why do you make so many excuses? You want to be rid of me."</p> + +<p>"My dear child, how unjust you are."</p> + +<p>"Am I unjust? Wait! let me speak. How have we altered things? Could you +marry me any more before you lost this money? You know you could not. +Have we not always agreed to wait till better times? Why cannot we go on +waiting?"</p> + +<p>"It would not be fair to tie you."</p> + +<p>He had not the courage to say, "I do not love you—money or no money, I +do not wish to marry you." How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to say +such a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professed +affection? Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so.</p> + +<p>"It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:" +that was all he could find to say. And then Helen burst forth +impetuously,</p> + +<p>"I wish to be tied—I do not want to be free—I will not marry any other +man on earth but you. Oh! Maurice, my love, my darling!" casting herself +down again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him. "Whom else +do I want but you—whom else have I ever loved? You know I have always +been yours—always—long ago, in the old days when you never even gave me +a look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not care +what became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I was +doing, only because my life was so unbearable at home. And now that I +have got you, do you think I will give you up? And you love me—surely, +surely, you <i>must</i> love me. You said so once, Maurice—tell me so again. +You do love me, don't you?"</p> + +<p>What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though +he would withdraw her arms from about his neck.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and all +that, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that as +well as I do."</p> + +<p>"No; but we can wait."</p> + +<p>"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a hundred things might happen—your brother might die."</p> + +<p>"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time.</p> + +<p>"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever, +and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich."</p> + +<p>"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes," said Maurice, with a +little shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leave +his money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the National +Gallery—you could not count upon anything."</p> + +<p>"We could at all events wait and see."</p> + +<p>"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily; +"that is a miserable prospect."</p> + +<p>"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at him +suspiciously; "you have seen some other woman."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair, +leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when she +speaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on the +wane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly without +foundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one had +never been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he the +slightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyond +measure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his own +shortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one.</p> + +<p>"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughly +pig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth, +angrily.</p> + +<p>She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quick +enough—sharp as a needle—where her love did not, as love invariably +does, warp and blind her judgment.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, Maurice," she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, of +course. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please."</p> + +<p>He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt that +some concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and stroked +it softly. She knew so well that he did not love her, and yet she clung +so desperately to the hope that she could win him back; she would not own +to herself even in the furthermost recesses of her own heart that his +love was dead. She would not believe it; to put it in words to herself +even would have half killed her; but still she was forced to acknowledge +that unless she met him half-way she might lose him altogether.</p> + +<p>"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice," she said thoughtfully. "I will +consent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I will +cease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and I +will not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will deny +any engagement between us—we will say that we are each of us free—but +on one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on your +honour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money—should +there be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next five +years——"</p> + +<p>"My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to be +presented with the regalia."</p> + +<p>"Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse—or the better, +whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, give +me your word of honour that you will come to me at once—that, in fact, +our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospects +no brighter, in five years from now—well, then, let us each be free to +marry elsewhere."</p> + +<p>There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forward +in his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily into +the fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it was +not enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course, +an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principal +contractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be in +ignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chance +too, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly; +though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said to +be altogether satisfactory.</p> + +<p>Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. How +passionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate the +half-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he should +take her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to her +terms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient to +revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire. +Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life +and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that +had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his +heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all +that, she was not minded to let him go free—her wild, ungoverned passion +for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers +willingly, he should be hers by force.</p> + +<p>"Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to +consent to—you who—who love me?"</p> + +<p>He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of +gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused +by her gentle words.</p> + +<p>"Say no more, Helen—you are too good—too generous to me. It shall be as +you say."</p> + +<p>And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be alone +again with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<h3>THE LAY RECTOR.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or art thou complaining<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thy lowly lot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, thine own disdaining,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dost ask what thou hast not?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the future dreaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weary of the past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the present scheming<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All but what thou hast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">L. E. Landon.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, for +downright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in the +whole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of gray +granite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object like +unto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erected +by one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon the +death of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had been +previously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the death +of the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, that +Nathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by one +bold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granite +monstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it was +touchingly and naïvely stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strict +impartiality."</p> + +<p>It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggy +morning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in front +of her. She was not engaged in any sentimental musings appropriate to the +situation. She was neither meditating upon the briefness of life in +general, nor upon the many virtues of the ladies of the Crupps family, +over whose remains she was standing. She was simply waiting for Jimmy +Griffiths, and looking at the church because she had nothing else to look +at. The church, indeed, afforded her some food for reflection, purely, I +regret to state, of a practical and mundane character. It was a large and +handsome building, with a particularly fine old tower, that was sadly out +of repair; but the chancel was a modern and barn-like structure of brick +and plaster, which ought, of course, to be entirely swept away, and a new +and more appropriate one built in its stead. The chancel belonged, as +most chancels do, to the lay rector, and the lay rector was Sir John +Kynaston.</p> + +<p>As soon as it became bruited abroad that Sir John was coming down to the +old house for the winter, there was a general excitement throughout the +parish, but no one partook of the excitement to a greater degree than did +its worthy vicar.</p> + +<p>It was the dream of Eustace Daintree's life to get his church restored, +and more especially to get the chancel rebuilt. There had been a +restoration fund accumulating for some years, and could he have had the +slightest assistance from the lay rector concerning the chancel, Mr. +Daintree would assuredly have sent for the architect, and the builders, +and the stone-cutters, and have begun his church at once with that +beautiful disregard of the future chances of being able to get the money +to pay for it, and with that sparrow-like trust in Providence, which is +usually displayed by those clerical gentlemen who, in the face of an +estimate which tells them that eight thousand pounds will be the sum +total required, are ready to dash into bricks and mortar upon the actual +possession of eight hundred. But there was the chancel! To leave it as it +was whilst restoring the nave would have been too heart-rending; to touch +it without Sir John Kynaston's assistance, impossible and illegal. +Several times Eustace Daintree had applied to Sir John in writing upon +the subject. The answers had been vague and unsatisfactory. He would +promise nothing at all; he would come down and see it some day possibly, +and then he would be able to say more about it; meanwhile, for the +present, things must remain as they were.</p> + +<p>When, therefore, the news was known that Sir John was actually coming +down, Mr. Daintree's thoughts flew at once to his beloved church.</p> + +<p>"Now we shall get the chancel done at last," he said to his wife +gleefully, rubbing his hands. And the very day after Sir John's arrival +Eustace went up to the Hall after dinner to see him upon the subject.</p> + +<p>"Had you not better wait a day or two?" counselled his more prudent wife. +"Wait till you meet him, naturally. You don't very well know what kind of +man he is, nor how he will take it."</p> + +<p>"What is the use of waiting? I knew him well enough eight years ago; he +was a pleasant fellow enough then. He won't kill me, I suppose, and the +chancel is a disgrace—a positive disgrace to him. It is my duty to point +it out to him; the thing can't afford to wait, it ought to be done at +once."</p> + +<p>So he disregarded Marion's advice, and Vera helped him on with his +great-coat in the hall, and wound his woollen comforter round his neck, +and bade him good luck on his expedition to Kynaston.</p> + +<p>He came back sorrowful and abashed. Sir John had been civil, very civil; +he had insisted on his sitting down at his table—for he had apparently +not finished his dinner—and had opened a bottle of fine old port in his +honour. He had inquired about many of the old people, and had expressed +a friendly interest in the parish generally; but with regard to the +chancel, he had been as adamant.</p> + +<p>He did not see, he had said, why it could not go on well enough as it +was. If it was in bad repair, Davis should see to it; a man with a +barrowful of bricks and a shovelful of mortar should be sent down. That, +of course, it was his duty to do. Sir John did not understand that more +could possibly be expected of him. The chancel had been good enough for +his father, it would probably be good enough for him; it would last his +time, he supposed, in any case.</p> + +<p>But the soul of the Rev. Eustace became as water within him. It was +not of a barrowful of bricks and shovelful of mortar that he had been +dreaming, but of lancet windows and stone mouldings; of polished oak +rafters within, and of high gables and red tiles without.</p> + +<p>He came down from the Hall disheartened and discomfited, with all the +spirit crushed out of him; and the ladies of his family, for once, +were of one mind about the matter. There arose about him a storm of +indignation and a gush of sympathy, which could not fail to soothe him +somewhat. Eustace went to rest that night sore and heavy-hearted, it is +true, but with all the damnatory verses in the Scriptures concerning the +latter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditation +which, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolation +and comfort.</p> + +<p>And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsian +sarcophagus, and thought about it.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Eustace," she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich, +and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what a +good fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there are +in people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable this +morning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it <i>is</i> +hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least. +What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not have +thought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face he +seemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one. +I wonder where that wretched boy can be!"</p> + +<p>The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth +who was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was also +the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be +unable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to take +his place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played, +nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ +a little—a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertake +the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she +could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the +chants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera, +with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard, +and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps.</p> + +<p>She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage +garden—very bleak and very desolate by this time—lay behind her. To the +right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the +village. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she +stood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almost +to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister +Theodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree always +told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Her +back was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was looking +up at poor Eustace's bug-bear—the barn-like chancel.</p> + +<p>Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her.</p> + +<p>"Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?"</p> + +<p>A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke. Vera started +a little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly and +unconfusedly,</p> + +<p>"They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk's +cottage."</p> + +<p>"Thank you; then I will go and fetch them."</p> + +<p>"But they are not there now," said Vera, as though finishing her former +remark.</p> + +<p>"If you will kindly tell me where I can find them," continued the +stranger, very politely, "I will go and get them."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid you can't do that," said Vera, with just the vestige of a +smile playing upon her face, "because they are at present in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I beg your pardon;" and the stranger smiled outright.</p> + +<p>"But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what you +wish?" she said, quite simply.</p> + +<p>"Yes, if you please." Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentleman +following her. She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open. "If +you will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them in +the door." The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by.</p> + +<p>Most uninteresting! was her verdict as he passed her; forty at the very +least! What a beautiful situation for an adventure! What a romantic +incident! And how excessively tame is the <i>dénouement</i>! A middle-aged +gentleman, tall and slightly bald, with close-cropped whiskers and grave, +set features; who on earth could he be? A stranger, evidently; perhaps he +was staying at some neighbouring country house, and had walked over to +Sutton for the sake of exercise; but what on earth could he want to see +the church for!</p> + +<p>The stranger stood just inside the door with his hat off, looking at her.</p> + +<p>"Won't you come in and show it to me?" he asked, rather hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>"The church? oh, certainly, if you like, but there is nothing to see in +it." She came in, closing the door behind her, and stood beside him. It +did not strike her as unusual or interesting, or as anything, in fact, +but the most common-place and unexciting proceeding, that she should do +the honours of the church to this middle-aged stranger.</p> + +<p>They stood side by side in the centre of the small nave with all the +ugly, high, red-cushioned pews around them. Vera looked up and down the +familiar place as though she and not he were seeing it for the first +time; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows; +from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring gallery +along the west end.</p> + +<p>"It is very hideous," she said, almost apologetically, "especially the +chancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can't +be done at all now."</p> + +<p>"Why can't it be done?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; that +belongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it."</p> + +<p>"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector."</p> + +<p>"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?"</p> + +<p>The gentleman passed his hand over his chin.</p> + +<p>"Slightly," he answered, not looking at her.</p> + +<p>"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for he +certainly ought to do it," continued Vera. "You see I cannot help being +interested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has worked +so hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quite +counted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed; +but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you."</p> + +<p>"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in this +light to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?"</p> + +<p>"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and he +would not promise to do anything."</p> + +<p>The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himself +into the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minute +examination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly down +again, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from the +whitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet; +Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinking +about.</p> + +<p>He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. And +then he made this most remarkable speech:</p> + +<p>"If <i>you</i> were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore the +chancel!" he said.</p> + +<p>For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turned +haughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing more to see in the church," she said, shortly, and +walked straight out of it.</p> + +<p>The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he said +to her, quite humbly,</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry, +to begin with."</p> + +<p>Vera looked at him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he? +He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression, +that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, before +she could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of the +vicarage garden, coming towards them.</p> + +<p>The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don't +be angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quickly +down the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone.</p> + +<p>"Vera," said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through the +garden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has he +been saying anything to you about the chancel?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Who</i> was it? <i>who</i> did you say?" cried Vera, aghast.</p> + +<p>"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?"</p> + +<p>She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why he +went off in such a hurry when he saw me?"</p> + +<p>Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side. +The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then is +the photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?"</p> + +<p>"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?" +pursued her brother-in-law.</p> + +<p>"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told him +the chancel ought to be restored—by himself."</p> + +<p>Eustace Daintree looked dismayed.</p> + +<p>"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided to +do nothing."</p> + +<p>Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace," was all she said. +But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart that +his chancel would be restored for him.</p> + +<p>Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over her +morning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a little +regretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put the +thought away from her.</p> + +<p>After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still Sir +John Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while to +marry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John was +not the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hall +belonged to him all the same.</p> + +<p>They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams of +Vera's girlhood. But neither were they quite so coarse and unlovely as +would have been those of a purely mercenary woman. She was free from the +vulgarity of desiring the man's money and his name from any desire to +raise herself above her relations, or to feed her own vanity and ambition +at their expense. It was only that, marriage being a necessity for her, +to marry anything but a rich man would have been, with her tastes and the +habits to which she had been brought up, the sheerest and rankest folly. +She thought she could make a good wife to any man whose life she would +like to share—that is to say, a life of ease and affluence. She knew she +would make a very bad wife to a poor man. Therefore she determined upon +so carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure of +herself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character.</p> + +<p>She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if he +was to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happened +to be the man in the photograph. She hardly knew why she wished it—but +the wish was there.</p> + +<p>She sat bending over her fire, with all her soft, dark hair loose about +her face and flowing down her back, and her eyes fixed dreamily upon the +flames. Her past life came back to her, her old life in the whirl and +turmoil of pleasure which had suited her so well. She compared it, a +little drearily, with the present; with the humdrum routine of the +vicarage; with the parish talk about the old women and the schools; and +the small tittle-tattle about the schoolmaster and the choir, going on +around her all day; with old Mrs. Daintree's sharp tongue and her +sister's meek rejoinders. She was very tired of it. It did not amuse her. +She was not exactly discontented with her lot. Eustace and her sister +were very kind to her, and she loved them dearly; but she did not live +their life—she was with them, but not of them. As for herself, for her +interests and her delights, they stagnated amongst them all. How long was +it to last?</p> + +<p>And Kynaston, by contrast, appeared very fair, with its smooth lawns and +its terrace walks, and its great desolate rooms, that she would so well +understand how to fill with life and brightness; but Kynaston's master +counted for very little to her. She knew the power of her own beauty so +well. Experience had taught her that Vera Nevill had but to smile and to +win; it had been so easy to her to be loved and wooed.</p> + +<p>"Only," she said to herself, as she stood up before her fire, and +stretched up her arms so that her long hair fell back like a cloud around +her, "only he is a different sort of man to what I had pictured him. It +will, perhaps, not be such an easy matter to win a man like that."</p> + +<p>She went to bed and dreamt—not of Sir John Kynaston—but of the man +whose pictured face once seen had haunted her ever since.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<h3>"LITTLE PITCHERS."</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once at least in a man's life, if only for a brief space, he reverences<br /></span> +<span class="i0">the saint in the woman he desires. He may love and pursue again and again, <br /></span> +<span class="i0">but she who has power to hold him back, who can make him tremble instead <br /></span> +<span class="i0">of woo, who can make him silent when he feels eloquent, and restrained when <br /></span> +<span class="i0">most impassioned, has won from him what never again can be given.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + +<p>It was an easier matter to win him than Vera thought.</p> + +<p>A week later Sir John Kynaston sat alone by his library fire, after +breakfast, and owned to himself that he had fallen hopelessly and +helplessly in love with Vera Nevill.</p> + +<p>This was all the more remarkable because Sir John was not a very young +man, and that he was, moreover, not of a nature to do things rashly or +impulsively.</p> + +<p>He was, on the contrary, of a slow and hesitating disposition. He was in +the habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted, +his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he was +cautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange and +unaccustomed direction.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate with +all the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens.</p> + +<p>Vera was like no other woman he had ever seen; she was as far removed +above common young-ladyhood as Raphael's Madonnas are beyond and above +Greuze's simpering maidens; there could be no other like her—she was +a queen, a goddess among women.</p> + +<p>From the very first moment that he had caught sight of her on the terrace +outside his house her absolute mastery over him had begun. Her rare +beauty, her quiet smile, her slow, indolent movements, the very tones of +her rich, low voice, all impressed him in a strange and wonderful manner. +She seemed to him to be the incarnation of everything that was pure and +elevated in womanhood. To have imagined that such a one as she could have +thought of his wealth or his position would have been the rankest +blasphemy in his eyes.</p> + +<p>He raised her up on a pedestal of his own creating, and then he fell down +before her and adored her.</p> + +<p>John Kynaston had but little knowledge of women. Shy and retiring in +manner—somewhat suspicious and distrustful also—he had kept out of +their way through life. Once, in very early manhood, he had been +deceived; he had become engaged to a girl whom he afterwards discovered +to have accepted him only for his money and his name, whilst her heart +really belonged to another and a poorer man. He had shaken himself free +of her, with horror and disgust, and had sworn to himself that he would +never be so betrayed again. Since then he had been suspicious—and not +without just cause—of the young ladies who had smiled upon him, and of +their mothers, who had pressed him with gracious invitations to their +houses. He was a rich man, but he did not mean to be loved for his +wealth; he said to himself that, sooner than be so, he would die +unmarried and leave to Maurice the task of keeping up the old name and +the old family.</p> + +<p>But he had seen Vera; and all at once all the old barriers of pride and +reserve were broken down! Here was the one woman on earth who realized +his dreams, the one woman whom he would wait and toil for, even as Jacob +waited and toiled for Rachel!</p> + +<p>He had come down to Kynaston to hunt; but hitherto hunting had been very +little in his thoughts. He had been down to the vicarage once or twice, +he had met her once in the lanes, and he had longed for a glimpse of her +daily; as yet he had done nothing else. He opened his letters on this +particular morning slowly and abstractedly, tossing them into the fire, +one after the other, as he read them, and not paying very much attention +to their contents.</p> + +<p>There was one, however, from his brother, "I wish you would ask me down +to Kynaston for a week or two, old fellow," wrote Maurice. "I know you +would mount me—now I have got rid of all my horses to please you—and +I should like a glimpse of the old country. Write and tell me if I shall +come down on Monday."</p> + +<p>This letter Sir John did pay attention to. He rose hastily, as though not +a moment was to be lost, and answered it:—</p> + +<p>"Dear Maurice,—I can't possibly have you down here yet. My own plans are +very uncertain, and if you are going to take your leave after Christmas, +you had far better not go away from your work now. If I am still here in +January, I shall be delighted if you will come down, and will mount you +as much as you like."</p> + +<p>He was happier when he had written and directed this letter.</p> + +<p>"I must be alone just now," he murmured. "I could not bear Maurice's +chatter—it would jar upon me."</p> + +<p>Then he put on his hat and strolled out. He looked in at the stables one +minute, and called the head groom to him.</p> + +<p>"Wright, did not Mr. Beavan say, when I bought that new bay mare of him, +that she had carried a lady to hounds?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir John; Miss Beavan rode her last season."</p> + +<p>"Ah, she is a good rider. Well, I wish you would put a side-saddle and a +skirt on her, and exercise her this morning. I might want to—to lend her +to a lady; but she must be perfectly quiet. You can take her out every +day this week."</p> + +<p>Sir John went on his way, leaving the worthy Wright a prey to speculation +as to who the mysterious lady might be for whom the bay mare was to be +exercised.</p> + +<p>His master, meanwhile, bent his steps almost instinctively to the +vicarage.</p> + +<p>Vera was undergoing a periodical persecution concerning Mr. Gisburne +at the hands of old Mrs. Daintree. She was standing up by the table +arranging some scarlet berries and some long trails of ivy which the +children had brought to her in a vase. Tommy and Minnie stood by watching +her intently; Mrs. Daintree sat at a little distance, her lap full of +undarned socks, and rated her.</p> + +<p>"It is not as if you were a girl who could earn her living in case of +need. There is not one single thing you can do."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma," interpolates +Tommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, she do," assented the smaller child, with emphasis.</p> + +<p>"I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be—"</p> + +<p>"Heard and not seen," puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that, +grandma."</p> + +<p>Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture.</p> + +<p>"Many girls in your position are very accomplished; can teach the piano, +and history, and the elements of Latin; but it seems to me you have been +brought up in idleness."</p> + +<p>"Idleness is not to be despised in its way," answers Vera, composedly. +"Another bit of ivy, Tommy. What shall I do, Mrs. Daintree?" she +continues, whilst her deft fingers wind the trailing greenery round and +round the glass stem of the vase. "Shall I go down to the village school +and sit at the feet of Mr. Dee? I have no doubt he could teach me a great +many things I know nothing about."</p> + +<p>"That is nonsense; of course I don't mean that you can educate yourself +to any purpose now; it is too late for that; but you need not, at all +events, turn up your nose at the blessings that Providence sets before +you; and I must say, that for a young woman deliberately to choose to +remain a burden upon her friends, betokens an amount of servility and +a lack of the spirit of independence which I should not have supposed +possible even in you!"</p> + +<p>"What do you want me to do?" said Vera, without a sign of impatience. +"Shall I walk over to Tripton this afternoon, and make a low curtsey to +Mr. Gisburne, and say to him very politely, 'Here is an idle and +penniless young woman who would be very pleased to stop here and marry +you!' Would that be the way to do it, Mrs. Daintree?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, <i>no</i>!" imperatively from Tommy, who was listening with rapidly +crimsoning cheeks; "you shall <i>not</i> go and stop at Tripton, and tell Mr. +Gisburne you will marry him!"</p> + +<p>Vera laughed. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will; not, that is to say, if +you are a good boy. I think I can do something better than that with +myself!" she added, softly, as if to herself. Mrs. Daintree caught the +words.</p> + +<p>"And <i>what</i> better, pray? What better chance are you ever likely to have? +Let me tell you, bachelors who want penniless wives don't grow on the +blackberry bushes down here! If you were not so selfish and so conceited, +you would see where your duty to my son, who is supporting you, lay. You +would see that to be married to an honest, upright man like Albert +Gisburne is a chance that most girls would catch at only too thankfully."</p> + +<p>The old lady had raised her voice; she spoke loud and angrily; she was +rapidly working herself into a passion. Tommy, accustomed to family rows, +stood on the hearthrug, looking excitedly from his grandmother to his +aunt. He was a precocious child; he did not quite understand, and yet he +understood partly. He knew that his grandmother was scolding Vera, and +telling her she was to go away and marry Mr. Gisburne. That Vera should +go away! That, in itself, was sufficiently awful. Tommy adored Vera with +all the intensity of his childish soul; that she should go away from him +to Mr. Gisburne seemed to him the most terrible visitation that could +possibly happen. His little heart swelled within him; the tears were very +near his eyes.</p> + +<p>At this very minute the door softly opened, and Sir John Kynaston, whose +ring had been unheard in the commotion, was ushered in.</p> + +<p>Tommy thought he saw a deliverer, specially sent in by Providence for the +occasion. He made one spring at him and caught him round the legs, after +the manner of enthusiastic small boys.</p> + +<p>"Please—please—don't let grandmamma send aunt Vera away to Tripton +to marry Mr. Gisburne! He has red hair, and I hate him; and aunt Vera +doesn't want to go, she wants to stop at home and do something better!"</p> + +<p>A moment of utter confusion on all sides; then Vera, crimson to the roots +of her hair, stepped forward and held out her hand.</p> + +<p>"Little pitchers have long ears!" she said, laughing: "and Tommy is a +very silly little boy."</p> + +<p>"No, but, aunt Vera, you said—you said," cried the child. What further +revelations he might have made were fortunately not destined to be known. +His aunt placed her hand unceremoniously over his small, eager mouth, and +hustled both children in some haste out of the room.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Sir John, looking the picture of distress and embarrassment, +had shaken hands with the old lady, and inquired if he could speak with +her son.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Daintree is in his study; I will take you to him," she said, rising, +and led him away out of the room. She looked at him sharply as she showed +him into the study; and it did come across her mind, "I wonder what you +come so often for." Still, no thought of Vera entered into her head. Sir +John was the great man of the place, the squire, the potentate in the +hollow of whose hand lay Sutton-in-the-Wold and all its inhabitants, and +Vera was a nobody in the old lady's eyes,—a waif, whose presence was of +no account at all. Sir John was no more likely to notice her than any of +the village girls; except, indeed, that he would speak politely to her +because she was Eustace's sister-in-law. Still, it did come across her +mind to wonder what he came so often for.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later the two gentlemen were seen going across the vicarage +garden towards the church.</p> + +<p>They remained there a very long time, more than half an hour. When they +came back Marion had finished her housekeeping and was in the room busy +cutting out unbleached calico into poor men's shirts, on the grand piano, +an instrument which she maintained had been specially and originally +called into existence for no other purpose. Mrs. Daintree still sat in +her chimney corner. Vera was at the writing-table with her back to the +room, writing a letter.</p> + +<p>The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight; +his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and of +a pleasant character had happened.</p> + +<p>"My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John. I am happy +to tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!" cried Marion, coming +forward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude. Sir John +looked as if he didn't want to be thanked, but he glanced towards the +writing-table. Vera's back was turned; she made no sign of having heard.</p> + +<p>"I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether," continued the +vicar. "You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you about +it before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind."</p> + +<p>"Some one—I mean—I thought it over—and—and it was presented to my +notice—in another light," stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly.</p> + +<p>"And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in my +own way, according to the plans I had wished to follow."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely +to do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to +leave it entirely in your hands."</p> + +<p>"Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?"</p> + +<p>"Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. +Daintree; I can't wait just now."</p> + +<p>He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room. He looked again +wistfully at Vera's back. Was it possible that she was not going to give +him one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence he +had been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel!</p> + +<p>Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, when +his hand was already on the handle, she looked up. Her eyes, all softened +with pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his. He +stopped suddenly short.</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk's +cottage? I—I forget which it is!"</p> + +<p>It was the lamest and most blundering excuse. Any six-year-old child in +the village could have pointed out the cottage to him. Mrs. Daintree +looked up in astonishment. Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, saw +nothing, and began eagerly,</p> + +<p>"I am walking that way myself; we can go together——" Suddenly his coat +tails were violently pulled from behind. "Quite impossible, Eustace; I +want you at home for the next hour," says Marion, quietly standing by his +side, with a look of utter innocence upon her face. The vicar, almost +throttled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceived +that, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not to +have said. He deemed it wisest to subside into silence.</p> + +<p>Vera rose from the writing-table. "I will go and put my hat on," she +said, quietly, and left the room.</p> + +<p>Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together.</p> + +<p>"Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life," said +Eustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone. "It is my belief," +tapping his forehead significantly, "that he is a little touched <i>here</i>. +I don't believe he quite knows what he is talking about. Why, the other +night he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn't even listen +to me, cut me so short about it I really couldn't venture to pursue the +subject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, and +proposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and most +expensive way—purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion, +just what I wanted; gives me absolute <i>carte blanche</i> about it. I only +hope he won't take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mind +again."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it," +suggested his mother.</p> + +<p>Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico.</p> + +<p>"And then, again, about old Hoggs' cottage," pursued Mr. Daintree. "What +on earth could make him forget where it was? He might as well forget the +way to his own house. I really do think he must be a little gone in the +upper storey, poor fellow! Marion, what have you to say about it?"</p> + +<p>"I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, we +shall never get anything done. I want to speak to you immediately, +Eustace, in the other room."</p> + +<p>She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the door +upon them.</p> + +<p>What then was the Rev. Eustace's amazement to behold his wife suddenly +execute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraced +a <i>coryphée</i> at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping with +the demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar of +Sutton-in-the-Wold!</p> + +<p>Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning.</p> + +<p>"My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!" exclaimed his wife, +finishing her <i>pas seul</i> in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as a +finale to the entertainment. "Do you mean to say that you don't see it?"</p> + +<p>"See it? See what?" repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortal +bewilderment, staring at her hard.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it's as plain as daylight. Can't +you guess?"</p> + +<p>Eustace shook his head dolefully.</p> + +<p>"Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Marion!</i> impossible!" in an awe-struck whisper. "What can make you +imagine such a thing?"</p> + +<p>"Why, everything—the chancel, of course. She must have spoken to him +about it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her? And +then, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs' +cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn't think of anything better."</p> + +<p>Eustace literally gasped with the magnitude of the revelation.</p> + +<p>"Great Heavens! and I offered to go with him instead of her."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you great blundering baby!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear, are you sure—are you quite sure? Remember his position and +Vera's."</p> + +<p>"Well, and isn't Vera good enough, and beautiful enough, for any +position?" answered her sister, proudly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes; that is true; God bless her!" he said, fervently. "Marion, +what a clever woman you are to find it out."</p> + +<p>"Of course I am clever, sir. But, Eustace, it is only beginning, you +know; so we must just let things take their course, and not seem to +notice anything. And, mind, not a word to your mother."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Vera and Sir John Kynaston were walking down the village street +together. The man awkward and ill at ease, the woman calm and composed, +and thoroughly mistress of the occasion.</p> + +<p>"It is very good of you about the chancel," said Vera, softly, breaking +the embarrassment of the silence between them.</p> + +<p>"You <i>knew</i> I should do it," he said, looking at her.</p> + +<p>She smiled. "I thought perhaps you would."</p> + +<p>"You know <i>why</i> I am going to do it—for whose sake, do you not?" he +pursued, still keeping his eyes upon her downcast face.</p> + +<p>"Because it is the right thing to do, I hope; and for the sake of doing +good," she answered, sedately; and Sir John felt immediately reproved and +rebuked, as though by the voice of an angelic being.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," he said, presently, "is it true that they want you to +marry—that parson—Gisburne, of Tripton? Forgive me for asking."</p> + +<p>Vera coloured a little and laughed.</p> + +<p>"What dreadful things little boys are!" was all she said.</p> + +<p>"Nay, but I want to know. Are you—are you <i>engaged</i> to him?" with a +sudden painful eagerness of manner.</p> + +<p>"Most decidedly I am not," she answered, earnestly.</p> + +<p>Sir John breathed again.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am very +impertinent. I know I have no right to question you."</p> + +<p>"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me," she answered, +gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes that +came into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best.</p> + +<p>They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lane +beyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or his +cottage, had come into either of their heads by the way.</p> + +<p>Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too.</p> + +<p>"I thought—it seemed to me by what I overheard," he said, hesitatingly, +"that they were tormenting you—persecuting you, perhaps—into a marriage +you do not wish for."</p> + +<p>"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne," Vera admitted, in a low +voice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed on +the ground.</p> + +<p>"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listen +to them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously.</p> + +<p>Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled.</p> + +<p>"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne," she +answered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make me +betray that poor man's secrets."</p> + +<p>And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her if +she would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought would +carry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queen +accepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her as +heartily as though she had promised him some great thing.</p> + +<p>"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage," she said, smiling. And they +turned back towards the village.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<h3>A SOIRÉE AT WALPOLE LODGE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the lute is broken,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet notes are remembered not;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the lips have spoken,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loved accents are soon forgot.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As music and splendour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Survive not the lamp and the lute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heart's echoes render<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No song when the spirit is mute.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Shelley</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roads +between Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house, +within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brick +wall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores within +the immediate neighbourhood of London—of which there still are dozens, +although, alas! they are yearly disappearing to make room for gay rows of +pert, upstart villas, whose tawdry flashiness ill replaces the sedate +respectability of their last-century predecessors. But, uncoveted by the +contractor's lawless eye, untouched by the builder's desecrating hand, +Walpole Lodge stands on, as it did a hundred years ago, hidden behind +the shelter of its venerable walls, and half smothered under masses of +wisteria and Virginia creeper. On the wall, in summer time, grow +countless soft green mosses, and brown, waving grasses. Thick masses of +yellow stonecrop and tufts of snapdragon crown its summit, whilst the +topmost branches of the long row of lime-trees within come nodding +sweet-scented greetings to the passers-by along the dusty high road +below.</p> + +<p>But in the winter the wall is flowerless and the branches of the +lime-trees are bare, and within, in the garden, there are only the +holly-trees and the yew-hedge of the shrubbery walks, and the empty brown +flower-beds set in the faded grass. But winter and summer alike, old Lady +Kynaston holds her weekly receptions, and thither flock all the wit, and +the talent, and the fashion of London. In the summer they are garden +parties, in the winter they become evening receptions. How she manages it +no one can quite tell; but so it is, that her rooms are always crowded, +that no one is ever bored at her house, that people are always keen to +come to her, and that there are hundreds who would think it an effort to +go to other people's parties across the street who think it no trouble at +all to drive nearly to Richmond, to hers. She has the rare talent of +making society a charm in itself. No one who is not clever, or beautiful, +or distinguished in some way above his or her fellows ever gains a +footing in her drawing-rooms. Every one of any note whatever is sure to +be found there. There are savants and diplomatists, poets and painters, +foreign ambassadors, and men of science. The fashionable beauty is sure +to be met there side by side with the latest type of strong-minded woman; +the German composer, with the wild hair, whose music is to regenerate +the future, may be seen chatting to a cabinet minister; the most rising +barrister of the day is lingering by the side of a prima-donna, or +discoursing to an Eastern traveller. Old Lady Kynaston herself has +charming manners, and possesses the rare tact of making every one feel +at home and happy in her house.</p> + +<p>It was not done in a day—this gathering about her of so brilliant and +delightful a society. She had lived many years at Walpole Lodge, ever +since her widowhood, and was now quite an old lady. In her early life she +had written several charming books—chiefly biographies of distinguished +men whom she had known, and even now she occasionally put pen again to +paper, and sent some delightful social essay or some pleasantly written +critique to one or other of the Reviews of the day.</p> + +<p>Her married life had been neither very long nor very happy. She had never +learnt to love her husband's country home. At his death she had turned +her back thankfully upon Kynaston, and had never seen it again. Of her +two sons, she stood in some awe of the elder, whose cold and unresponsive +character resembled her dead husband's, whilst she adored Maurice, who +was warm-hearted and affectionate in manner, like herself. There were ten +years between them, for she had been married twelve years; and at her +secret heart Lady Kynaston hoped and believed that John would remain +unmarried, so that the estates and the money might in time become +Maurice's.</p> + +<p>It is the second Thursday in December, and Lady Kynaston is "at home" to +the world. Her drawing-rooms—there are three of them, not large, but +low, comfortable rooms, opening one out of the other—are filled, as +usual, with a mixed and brilliant crowd.</p> + +<p>Across the square hall is the dining-room, where a cold supper, not very +sumptuous or very <i>recherché</i>, but still sufficient of its kind for the +occasion, is laid out; and beyond that is Lady Kynaston's boudoir, where +there is a piano, and which is used on these occasions as a music-room, +so that those who are musical may retire there, and neither interfere, +nor be interfered with, by the rest of the company. Some one is singing +in the music-room now—singing well, you may be sure, or he would not be +at Walpole Lodge—but the strains of the song can hardly be heard at all +across dining-room and hall, in the larger of the three rooms, where most +of the guests are congregated.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston, a small, slight woman in soft gray satin and old lace, +moves about graciously and gracefully still, despite her seventy years, +among her guests—stopping now at one group, now at another, talking +politics to one, science to a second, whispering a few discreet words +about the latest scandal to this great lady, murmuring words of approval +upon her clever book or her charming poem to another. Her smiles are +equally dispensed, no one is passed over, and she has the rare talent of +making every single individual in the crowded room feel himself to be the +one particular person whom Lady Kynaston is especially rejoiced to see. +She has tact, and she has sympathy—two invaluable gifts in a woman.</p> + +<p>Conspicuous among the crowd of well-dressed and handsome women is Helen +Romer. She sits on an ottoman at the further end of the room, where she +holds a little court of her own, dispensing her smiles and pleasant words +among the little knot of men who linger admiringly by her side.</p> + +<p>She is in black, with masses of gold embroidery about her, and she +carries a large black and gold feather fan in her hands, which she +moves rapidly, almost restlessly, up and down; her eyes wander often +to the doorway, and every now and then she raises her hand with a short, +impatient action to her blonde head, as though she were half weary of +the talk about her.</p> + +<p>Presently, Lady Kynaston, moving slowly among her guests, comes near her, +and, leaning for a moment on the back of the ottoman, presses her hand as +she passes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Romer is a favourite of hers; she is pretty, and she is piquant in +manner and conversation; two very good things, which she thinks highly of +in any young woman. Besides that, she knows that Helen loves her younger +son; and, although she hardly understands how things are between them, +nor how far Maurice himself is implicated, she believes that Helen will +eventually inherit her grandfather's money, and, liking her personally, +she has seen no harm in encouraging her too plainly displayed affection. +Moreover, the love they both bear to him has been a link between them. +They talk of him together almost as a mother and a daughter might do; +they have the same anxieties over his health, the same vexations over +his debts, the same rejoicings when his brother comes forward with his +much-needed help. Lady Kynaston does not want her darling to marry yet, +but when the time shall come for him to take unto himself a wife, she +will raise no objection to pretty Helen Romer, should he bring her to +her, as a daughter-in-law.</p> + +<p>As the old lady stoops over her, Helen's upturned wistful eyes say as +plainly as words can say it—</p> + +<p>"Is he coming to-night?"</p> + +<p>"Maurice will be here presently, I hope," says his mother, answering the +look in her eyes; "he was to come up by the six o'clock train; he will +dine at his club and come on here later." Helen's face became radiant, +and Lady Kynaston passed on.</p> + +<p>Maurice Kynaston's regiment was quartered at Northampton; he came up to +town often for the day or for the night, as he could get leave; but his +movements were never quite to be depended upon.</p> + +<p>Half-an-hour or so more of feverish impatience. Helen watches the gay +crowd about her with a feeling of sick weariness. Two members of +Parliament are talking of Russian aggression and Turkish misrule close to +her; they turn to her presently and include her in the conversation; Mrs. +Romer gives her opinion shrewdly and sensibly. An elderly duchess is +describing some episode of Royalty's last ball; there is a general laugh, +in which Helen joins heartily; a young attaché bends over her and +whispers some admiring little speech in her ear, and she blushes and +smiles just as if she liked it above all things; while all the time her +eyes hardly stray for one second from the open doorway through which +Maurice will come, and her heart is saying to itself, over and over +again,</p> + +<p>"Will he come, will he come?"</p> + +<p>He comes at last. Long before the servant, who opens the door to him, has +taken his coat and hat from him, Helen catches sight of his handsome head +and his broad shoulders through an opening in the crowd. In another +minute he is in the room standing irresolute in the doorway, looking +round as if to see who is and who is not there to-night.</p> + +<p>He is, after all, only a very ordinary type of a good-looking soldierly +young Englishman, just such a one as may be seen any day in our parks or +our drawing-rooms. He has clearly-cut and rather <i>prononcé</i> features, a +strong-built, well made figure, a long moustache, close-shaven cheeks, +and eyes that are rather deep-set, and are, when you are near enough to +see them well, of a deep blue-gray. In all that Maurice Kynaston is in no +way different from scores of other good-looking young men whom we may +have met. But there is just something that makes his face a remarkable +one: it is a strong-looking face—a face that looks as if he had a will +of his own and knew how to stick to it; a face that looks, too, as if he +could do and dare much for truth and honour's sake. It is almost stern +when he is silent; it can soften into the tenderness of a woman when he +speaks.</p> + +<p>Look at him now as he catches sight of his mother, and steps forward for +a minute to press her loving hands. All the hardness and all the strength +are gone out of his face now; he only looks down at her with eyes full of +love and gentleness—for life as yet holds nothing dearer or better for +him than that little white-haired old woman. Only for a minute, and then +he leaves go of her hands, and passes on down the room, speaking to the +guests whom he knows.</p> + +<p>"He does not see me," says Helen, bitterly, to herself; "he will go on +into the next room, and never know that I am here."</p> + +<p>But he had seen her perfectly. Next to the woman he most wishes to see in +a room, the one whom a man first catches sight of is the woman he would +sooner were not there. He had seen Helen the very instant he came in, but +he had noticed thankfully that some one was talking to her, and he said +to himself that there was no occasion for him to hurry to her side; it +was not as if they were openly engaged; there could be no necessity for +him to rush into slavery at once; he would speak to her, of course, +by-and-by; and whenever he came to her he well knew that he would be +equally welcomed: he was so sure of her. Nothing on earth or under Heaven +is so fatal to a man's love as that. There was no longer any uncertainty; +there was none of the keenness of pursuit dear to the old hunting +instinct inherent in man; there was not even the charm of variety in her +moods. She was always the same to him; always she pouted a little at +first, and looked ill-tempered, and reproached him; and always she came +round again at his very first kind word, and poured out her heart in a +torrent of worship at his feet. Maurice knew it all by heart, the sulks +and the cross words, and then the passionate denials, and the wild +protestations of her undying love. He was sorry for her, too, in his way; +he was too tender-hearted, too chivalrous, to be anything but kind to +her; but though he was sorry, he could not love her; and, oh! how +insufferably weary of her he was!</p> + +<p>Presently he did come up to her, and took the seat by her side just +vacated by the attaché. The little serio-comedy instantly repeated +itself.</p> + +<p>A little pout and a little toss of the head.</p> + +<p>"You have been as long coming to speak to me as you possibly could be."</p> + +<p>"Do you think it would look well if I had come rushing up to you the +instant I came in?"</p> + +<p>"You need not, at all events, have stood talking for ten minutes to that +great black-eyed Lady Anderleigh. Of course, if you like her better than +me, you can go back to her."</p> + +<p>"Of course I can, if I choose, you silly little woman; but seeing that +I am by you, and not by her, I suppose it is a proof that I prefer your +society, is it not?"</p> + +<p>Very polite, but not strictly true, Captain Maurice! At his heart he +preferred talking to Lady Anderleigh, or to any other woman in the room. +The admission, however, was quite enough for Helen.</p> + +<p>"Dear Maurice," she whispered, "forgive me; I am a jealous, bad-tempered +wretch, but," lower still, "it is only because I love you so much."</p> + +<p>And had there been no one in the room, Maurice knew perfectly that at +this juncture Mrs. Romer would have cast her arms around his neck—as +usual.</p> + +<p>To his unspeakable relief, a man—a clever lawyer, whose attention was a +flattering thing to any woman—came up to Helen at this moment, and took +a vacant chair beside her. Maurice thankfully slipped away, leaving his +inamorata in a state of rage and disgust with that talented and elderly +lawyer, such as no words can describe.</p> + +<p>Captain Kynaston took the favourable opportunity of escaping across the +hall, where he spent the remainder of the evening, dividing his attention +between the music and supper rooms, and Helen saw him no more that night.</p> + +<p>She saw, however, some one she had not reckoned upon seeing. Glancing +carelessly across to the end of the room, she perceived, talking to Lady +Kynaston, a little French gentleman, with a smooth black head, a neat, +pointed, little black beard, and the red ribbon of the Légion d'Honneur +in his button-hole.</p> + +<p>What there was in the sight of so harmless and inoffensive a personage to +upset her it may be difficult to say; but the fact is that, when Mrs. +Romer perceived this polite little Frenchman talking to her hostess, she +turned suddenly so sick and white, that a lady sitting near her asked her +if she was going to faint.</p> + +<p>"I feel it a little hot," she murmured; "I think I will go into the next +room." She rose and attempted to escape—whether from the heat or the +observation of the little Frenchman was best known to herself.</p> + +<p>Her maneuver, however, was not destined to succeed. Before she could +work her way half-way through the crush to the door, the man whom she was +bent upon avoiding turned round and saw her. A look of glad recognition +flashed into his face, and he instantly left Lady Kynaston's side, and +came across the room to speak to her.</p> + +<p>"This is an unlooked-for pleasure, madame."</p> + +<p>"I certainly never expected to meet you here, Monsieur D'Arblet," +faltered Helen, turning red and white alternately.</p> + +<p>"Will you not come and have a little conversation with me?"</p> + +<p>"I was just going away."</p> + +<p>"So soon! Oh, bien! then I will take you to your carriage." He held out +his arm, and Helen was perforce obliged to take it.</p> + +<p>There was a little delay in the hall, whilst Helen waited for her, or +rather for her grandfather's carriage, during which she stood with her +hand upon her unwelcome friend's arm. Whilst they were waiting he +whispered something eagerly in her ear.</p> + +<p>"No, no; it is impossible!" reiterated Helen, with much apparent +distress.</p> + +<p>Monsieur D'Arblet whispered something more.</p> + +<p>"Very well, if you insist upon it!" she said, faintly, and then got into +her carriage and was driven away.</p> + +<p>Before, however, she had left Walpole Lodge five minutes, she called out +to the servants to stop the carriage. The footman descended from the box +and came round to the window.</p> + +<p>They had drawn up by the side of a long wall quite beyond the crowd of +carriages that was waiting at Lady Kynaston's house.</p> + +<p>"I want to wait here a few minutes, for—for a gentleman I am going to +drive back to town," she said to the servant, confusedly. She was ashamed +to give such an order to him.</p> + +<p>She was frightened too, and trembled with nervousness lest any one should +see her waiting here.</p> + +<p>It was a cold, damp night, and Helen shivered, and drew her fur cloak +closer about her in the darkness. Presently there came footsteps along +the pathway, and a man came through the fog up to the door. It was opened +for him in silence, and he got in, and the carriage drove off again.</p> + +<p>Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet had a mean, cunning-looking countenance; +strictly speaking, indeed, he was rather handsome, his features being +decidedly well-shaped, but the evil and vindictive expression of his +face made it an unpleasant one to look upon. As he took his seat in the +brougham by Helen's side she shrank instinctively away from him.</p> + +<p>"So, ma mie!" he said, peering down into her face with odious +familiarity, "here I find you again after all this time, beautiful as +ever! It is charming to be with you again, once more."</p> + +<p>"Monsieur D'Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessity +would have induced me to drive you home to-night," said Helen, who was +trembling violently.</p> + +<p>"You are not polite, ma belle—there is a charming <i>franchise</i> about you +Englishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation."</p> + +<p>"You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone," +she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration.</p> + +<p>"<i>Le souvenir du beau passé!</i>" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly. +"Is that it, ma belle Hélène?"</p> + +<p>"Monsieur," she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity's +sake tell me what you have done with my letters—have you destroyed +them?"</p> + +<p>"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my +heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?"</p> + +<p>"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one—every single +one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter +in his black eyes.</p> + +<p>"Not that—<i>that</i> one?" pleaded Helen, piteously.</p> + +<p>"Yes—that one too—that charming and delightful letter in which you so +generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection—do you remember +it?"</p> + +<p>"Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which +resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah! +it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of +Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to +rush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband was +lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him—ce pauvre mari! +Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he was +not what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and I +had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the +theatre and the bal d'Opéra—do you remember?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" cried +Helen, despairingly.</p> + +<p>He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were good +enough to write me several letters—there were one, two, three, four of +them," counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth—that +one you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone out +of Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband had +left for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is my +consolation, my trésor!"</p> + +<p>"Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-like +feeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat you +to do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was so +unhappy—do you not see that they compromise me fatally; that it is my +good name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had half +sunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her hands +entreatingly together.</p> + +<p>Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with <i>empressement</i>.</p> + +<p>"Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you be +afraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?"</p> + +<p>Helen burst into bitter tears.</p> + +<p>"How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat a +lady in this way."</p> + +<p>"Your Englishmen are fools, ma chère—and I—I am French!" he replied, +shrugging his shoulders expressively.</p> + +<p>"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those +wretched letters?"</p> + +<p>He bent his face down close to hers.</p> + +<p>"Shall I tell you, belle Hélène? It is this: You are beautiful and you +have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you +will have money—then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with +that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will +marry me, ma chère, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see? +Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as +much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will +not venture to marry—because I have these letters?"</p> + +<p>"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly.</p> + +<p>"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to +be your husband after he had read that last letter—the fifth, you know?"</p> + +<p>No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion.</p> + +<p>Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did +not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had +buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your +house. We have had our little talk, have we not?"</p> + +<p>The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet, +raising his hat politely.</p> + +<p>In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness had +concealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, was +driven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<h3>EVENING REVERIES.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For nothing on earth is sadder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than the dream that cheated the grasp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The flower that turned to the adder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fruit that changed to the asp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the dayspring in darkness closes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the sunset fades from the hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the fragrance of perished roses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the music of parched-up rills.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A. L. Gordon</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, +when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a +man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet.</p> + +<p>It had begun in all innocence—on her part, at least. She had been very +miserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriage +had been. She had felt herself to be fatally separated from Maurice, the +man she loved, for ever; and Monsieur D'Arblet had been kind to her; he +had pitied her for being tied to a husband who drank and who gambled, and +Helen had allowed herself to be pitied. D'Arblet had charming manners, +and an accurate knowledge of the weakness of the fair sex; he knew when +to flatter and when to cajole her, when to be tenderly sympathetic to her +sorrows, and when to divert her thoughts to brighter and pleasanter +topics than her own miseries. He succeeded in fascinating her completely. +Whilst her husband was occupied with his own disreputable friends, Helen, +sooner than remain alone in their hotel night after night, was persuaded +to accept Monsieur D'Arblet's escort to theatres and operas, and other +public places, where her constant presence with him very soon compromised +her amongst the few friends who knew her in Paris.</p> + +<p>Then came scenes with her husband; frantic letters of misery to this +French vicomte, whom she imagined to be so devotedly attached to her, +and, finally, one ever-to-be-repented letter, in which she offered to +leave her husband for ever and to come to him.</p> + +<p>True, this letter did not reach its destination till too late, and Helen +was mercifully saved from the fate which, in her wicked despair, she was +ready to rush upon. Twenty-four hours after her return to England she saw +the horrible abyss upon which she had stood, and thanked God from the +bottom of her heart that she had been rescued, in spite of herself, from +so dreadful a deed. But the letter had been written, and was in Lucien +D'Arblet's possession. Later on she learnt, by a chance conversation, the +true character of the man, and shuddered when she remembered how nearly +she had wrecked her whole life for him. And when her husband's death had +placed her once more in the security and affluence of her grandfather's +house, with fresh hopes and fresh chances before her, she had but one +wish with regard to that Parisian episode of her life,—to forget it as +though it had never been.</p> + +<p>She hoped, and, as time went on, she felt sure, that she would never see +Monsieur D'Arblet again. New hopes and new excitements occupied her +thoughts. The man to whom in her youth she had given her heart once more +came across her life; she was thrown very much into his society; she +learnt to love him more devotedly than ever, and when at last she had +succeeded in establishing the sort of engagement which existed between +them, she had assured him, and also assured herself, that no other man +had ever, for one instant, filled her fancy. That stormy chapter of her +married life was forgotten; she resolutely wiped it out of her memory, as +if it had never existed.</p> + +<p>And now, after all this time—it was five years ago—she had met him +again—this Frenchman, who had once compromised her name, and who now had +possession of her letters.</p> + +<p>There was a cruel irony of fate in the fact that she should be destined +to meet him again at Lady Kynaston's, the very house of all others where +she would least have wished to see him.</p> + +<p>There was, however, had she thought of it, nothing at all extraordinary +in her having done so. No house in all London society was so open to +foreigners as Walpole Lodge, and Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet was no +unknown upstart; he bore a good old name; he was clever, had taken an +active part in diplomatic life, and was a very well-known individual in +Parisian society. He had been brought to Lady Kynaston's by a member of +the French Embassy, who was a frequenter of her soirées.</p> + +<p>Neither, however, was meeting with Mrs. Romer entirely accidental on +Monsieur D'Arblet's part. He had never forgotten the pretty Englishwoman +who had so foolishly and recklessly placed herself in his power.</p> + +<p>It is true he had lost sight of her, and other intrigues and other +pursuits had filled his leisure hours; but when he came to England he had +thought of her again, and had made a few careless inquiries after her. It +was not difficult to identify her; the Mrs. Romer who was now a widow, +who lived with her rich grandfather, who was very old, who would probably +soon die and leave her all his wealth, was evidently the same Mrs. Romer +whom he had known. The friend who gave him the information spoke of her +as lovely and <i>spirituelle</i>, and as a woman who would be worth marrying +some day. "She is often at Lady Kynaston's receptions," he had added.</p> + +<p>"Mon cher, take me to your Lady Kynaston's soirées," had been Lucien +D'Arblet's lazy rejoinder as they finished their evening smoke together. +"I would like to meet my friend, la belle veuve, again, and I will see if +she has forgotten me."</p> + +<p>Bitter, very bitter, were Mrs. Romer's remorseful meditations that night +when she reached her grandfather's house at Prince's Gate. Every detail +of her acquaintance with Lucien D'Arblet came back to her with a horrible +and painful distinctness. Over and over again she cursed her own folly, +and bewailed the hardness of the fate which placed her once more in the +hands of this man.</p> + +<p>Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her? Would he bring forward +those letters to spoil her life once more—to prevent her from marrying +Maurice should she ever have the chance of doing so?</p> + +<p>Stooping alone over her fire, with all the brightness, and all the +freshness gone out of her, with an old and almost haggard look in the +face that was so lately beaming with smiles and dimples, Helen Romer +asked herself shudderingly these bitter questions over and over again.</p> + +<p>Had she been sure of Maurice's love, she would have been almost tempted +to have confessed her fault, and to have thrown herself upon his mercy; +but she knew that he did not love her well enough to forgive her. Too +well she knew with what disgust and contempt Maurice would be likely to +regard her past conduct; such a confession would, she knew, only induce +him to shake himself clear of her for ever. Indeed, had he loved her, it +is doubtful whether Maurice would have been able to condone so grave a +fault in the past history of a woman; his own standard of honour stood +too high to allow him to pass over lightly any disgraceful or +dishonourable conduct in those with whom he had to do. But, loving her +not, she would have been utterly without excuse in his eyes.</p> + +<p>She knew it well enough. No, her only chance was in silence, and in vague +hopes that time might rescue her out of her difficulties.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, whilst Helen Romer sat up late into the early morning, +thinking bitterly over her past sins and her future dangers, Maurice +Kynaston and his mother also kept watch together at Walpole Lodge after +all the guests had gone away, and the old house was left alone again to +the mother and son.</p> + +<p>"Something troubles you, little mother," said Maurice, as he stretched +himself upon the rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head down +caressingly upon her knees.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair. "How well +you know my face, Maurice! Yes, something has worried me all day—it is a +letter from your brother."</p> + +<p>Maurice looked up laughingly. "What, is old John in trouble? That would +be something new. Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and dropped +his money at Newmarket, too?"</p> + +<p>"No, you naughty boy? John has got more sense. No!" with a sigh—"I wish +it were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that."</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, you alarm me," cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay; +"why, whatever has he been and gone and done?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at—it is some woman—a girl he has +met down at Kynaston; some nobody—a clergyman's daughter, or sister, or +something—whom he says he is going to marry!" Lady Kynaston looked the +picture of distress and dismay.</p> + +<p>Maurice laughed softly. "Well, well, mother; there is nothing very +dreadful after all—I am sure I wish him joy."</p> + +<p>"My boy," she said, below her breath, "I had so hoped, so trusted he +would never marry—it seemed so unlikely—he seemed so completely happy +in his bachelor's life; and I had hoped that you—that you——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, mother dear, I know," he said, quickly, and twisted himself +round till he got her hand between his, kissing it as he spoke; "but I—I +never thought of that—dear old John, he has been the best of brothers to +me; and, mother dear, I know it is all your love to me; but you and I, +dear, we will not grudge him his happiness, will we?"</p> + +<p>He knew so well her weakness—how that she had loved him at the expense +of the other son, who was not so dear to her; he loved her for it, and +yet he did not at his heart think it right.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston wiped a few tears away. "You are always right, my boy, +always, and I am a foolish old woman. But oh, Maurice, that is only half +the trouble! Who is this woman whom he has chosen? Some country girl, +ignorant of the ways of the world, unformed and awkward—not fitted to be +his wife!"</p> + +<p>"Does he say so?" laughed Maurice.</p> + +<p>"No, no, of course not. Stay, where is his letter? Oh, there, on the +dressing-table; give it me, my dear. No, this is what he says: 'Miss +Nevill seems to me in every way to fulfil my ideal of a good and perfect +woman, and, if she will consent to marry me, I intend to make her my +wife.'"</p> + +<p>"Well, a good and perfect woman is a <i>rara avis</i>, at all events mother."</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear! but all men say that of a girl when they are in love—it +amounts to very little."</p> + +<p>"You see, he has evidently not proposed to her yet; perhaps she will +refuse him."</p> + +<p>"Refuse Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall! A poor clergyman's daughter! +My dear Maurice, I gave you credit for more knowledge of the world. +Besides, John is a fine-looking man. Oh, no, she is not in the least +likely to refuse him."</p> + +<p>"Then all we have got to do is to make the best of her," said Maurice, +composedly.</p> + +<p>"That is easily said for you, who need see very little of her. But +John's wife is a person who will be of great importance to my +happiness. Dear me! and to think he might have had Lady Mary Hendrie +for the asking: a charming creature, well born, highly educated and +accomplished—everything that a man could wish for. And there were the De +Vallery girls—either of them would have married him, and been a suitable +wife for him; and he must needs go and throw himself away on a little +country chit, who could have been equally happy, and much more suitably +mated, with her father's curate. Maurice, my dear," with a sudden change +of voice, "I wish you would go down and cut him out; if you made love to +her ever so little you could turn her head, you know."</p> + +<p>Maurice burst out laughing. "Oh, you wicked, immoral little mother! Did I +ever hear such an iniquitous proposition! Do you want <i>me</i> to marry her?"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" laughed his mother; "but you might make her think you meant to, +and then, perhaps, she would refuse John."</p> + +<p>"I have not Kynaston Hall at my back, remember, after which you have +given her the credit of angling. Besides, mother dear, to speak plainly, +I honestly do not think my taste in women is in the least likely to be +the same as John's. No, I think I will keep out of the way whilst the +love-making is going on. I will go down and have a look at the young +woman by-and-by when it is all settled, and let you know what I think of +her. I dare say a good, honest country lass will suit John far better +than a beautiful woman of the world, who would be sure to be miserable +with him. Don't fret, little mother; make the best of her if you can."</p> + +<p>He rose and stretched himself up to his full height before the fire. Lady +Kynaston looked up at him admiringly. Oh, she thought, if the money and +the name could only have been his! How well he would have made use of it; +how proud she would have been of him—her handsome boy, whom all men +liked, and all women would gladly love.</p> + +<p>"A good son makes a good husband," she said aloud, following her own +thoughts.</p> + +<p>"And John has been a good son, mother," said Maurice, cordially.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, in his way, perhaps; but I was thinking of you, my boy, not +of him, and how lucky will be the woman who is your wife, Maurice—will +it be——"</p> + +<p>Maurice stooped quickly, and laid his hand playfully over her lips.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, mother dear—never ask me—for I don't know it myself." +And then he kissed her, and wished her good-night, and left her.</p> + +<p>She sat long over her fire, dreaming, by herself, thinking a little, +perhaps, of the elder son, and the bride he was going to bring her, whom +she should have to welcome whether she liked her or no, but thinking more +of the younger, whose inner life she had studied, and who was so entirely +dear and precious to her. It was very little to her that he had been +extravagant and thoughtless, that he had lost money in betting and +racing—these were minor faults—and she and John between them had always +managed to meet his difficulties; they had not been, in truth, very +tremendous. But for that, he had never caused her one day's anxiety, +never given her one instant's pain. "God grant he may get a wife who +deserves him," was the mother's prayer that night. "I doubt if Helen +be worthy of him; but if he loves her, as I believe he must do, no word +of mine shall stand between him and his happiness."</p> + +<p>And then she went to bed, and dreamed, as mothers dream of the child they +love best.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<h3>THE MEMBER FOR MEADOWSHIRE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Honour and shame from no condition rise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Act well your part, there all the honour lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pope</span>, "Essay on Man."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>About five miles from Kynaston Hall, as the crow flies, across the +fields, stood, as the house-agents would have described it, "a large +and commodious modern mansion, standing in about eighty acres of +well-timbered park land."</p> + +<p>I do not know that any description that could be given of Shadonake would +so well answer to the reality as the above familiar form of words.</p> + +<p>The house was undoubtedly large, very large, and it was also modern, very +modern. It was a handsome stone structure, with a colonnade of white +pillars along the entrance side, and with a multiplicity of large +plate-glass windows stretching away in interminable vistas in every +direction. A broad gravel sweep led up to the front door; to the right +were the stables, large and handsome too, with a clock-tower and a belfry +over the gateway; and to the left were the gardens and the shrubberies.</p> + +<p>There had been an old house once at Shadonake, old and picturesque and +uncomfortable; but when the property had been purchased by the present +owner—Mr. Andrew Miller—after he had been returned as Conservative +member for the county, the old house was swept away, and a modern +mansion, more suited to the wants and requirements of his family, arose +in its place.</p> + +<p>The park was flat, but well wooded. The old trees, of course, remained +intact; but the gardens of the first house, being rambling and +old-fashioned, had been done away with, to make room for others on a +larger and more imposing scale; and vineries and pineries, orchid-houses, +and hot-houses of every description arose rapidly all over the site of +the old bowling-green and the wilderness, half kitchen garden, half +rosary, that had served to content the former owners of Shadonake, now +all lying dead and buried in the chancel of the village church.</p> + +<p>The only feature of the old mansion which had been left untouched was +rather a remarkable one. It was a large lake or pond, lying south of the +gardens, and about a quarter of a mile from the house. It lay in a sort +of dip in the ground, and was surrounded on all four sides—for it was +exactly square—by very steep high banks, which had been cut into by +steep stone steps, now gray, and broken, and moss-grown, which led down +straight into the water. This pool was called Shadonake Bath. How long +the steps had existed no one knew; probably for several hundred years, +for there was a ghost story connected with them. Somebody was supposed, +before the memory of any one living, to have been drowned there, and to +haunt the steps at certain times of the year.</p> + +<p>It is certain that but for the fact of a mania for boating, and punting, +and skating indulged in by several of his younger sons, Mr. Miller, in +his energy for sweeping away all things old, and setting up all things +new, would not have spared the Bath any more than he had spared the +bowling-green. He had gone so far, indeed, as to have a plan submitted to +him for draining it, and turning it into a strawberry garden, and for +doing away with the picturesque old stone steps altogether in order to +encase the banks in red brick, suitable to the cultivation of peaches and +nectarines; but Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys, had thought about +their punts and their canoes, and had pleaded piteously for the Bath; so +the Bath was allowed to remain untouched, greatly to the relief of many +of the neighbours, who were proud of its traditions, and who, in the +general destruction that had been going on at Shadonake, had trembled for +its safety.</p> + +<p>Where Mr. Miller had originally come from nobody exactly knew. It was +generally supposed that he had migrated early in life from northern and +manufacturing districts, where his father had amassed a large fortune. +In spite, however, of his wealth, it is doubtful whether he would ever +have achieved the difficult task of being returned for so exclusive and +aristocratic a county as Meadowshire had he not made a most prudent and +politic marriage. He had married one of the Miss Esterworths, of +Lutterton.</p> + +<p>Now, everybody who has the slightest knowledge of Meadowshire and its +internal politics will see at once that Andrew Miller could not have done +better for himself. The Esterworths are the very oldest and best of the +old county families; there can be no sort of doubt whatever as to their +position and standing. Therefore, when Andrew Miller married Caroline +Esterworth, there was at once an end of all hesitation as to how he was +to be treated amongst them. Meadowshire might wonder at Miss Caroline's +taste, but it kept its wonder to itself, and held out the right hand of +fellowship to Andrew Miller then and ever after.</p> + +<p>It is true that there were five Miss Esterworths, all grown up, and all +unmarried, at the time when Andrew came a-wooing to Lutterton Castle; +they were none of them remarkable for beauty, and Caroline, who was the +eldest of the five, less so than the others. Moreover, there were many +sons at Lutterton, and the daughters' portions were but small. Altogether +the love-making had been easy and prosperous, for Caroline, who was a +sensible young woman, had readily recognized the superior advantages +of marrying an excellent man of no birth or breeding, with twenty +thousand a year, to remaining Miss Esterworth to her dying day, in +dignified but impecunious spinsterhood. Time had proved the wisdom of her +choice. For some years the Millers had rented a small but pretty little +house within two miles of Lutterton, where, of course, everybody visited +them, and got used to Andrew's squat, burly figure, and agreed to +overlook his many little defects of speech and manner in consideration of +his many excellent qualities—and his wealth—and where, in course of +time, all their children, two daughters and six sons, were born.</p> + +<p>And then, a vacancy occurring opportunely, Mrs. Miller determined that +her husband should stand in the Conservative interest for the county. She +would have made a Liberal of him had she thought it would answer better. +How she toiled and how she slaved, and how she kept her Andrew, who was +not by any means ambitious of the position, up to the mark, it boots not +here to tell. Suffice it to say, that the deed was accomplished, and that +Andrew Miller became M.P. for North Meadowshire.</p> + +<p>Almost at the same time Shadonake fell into the market, and Mrs. Miller +perceived that the time had now come for her husband's wealth to be +recognized and appreciated; or, as he himself expressed it, in vernacular +that was strictly to the point if inelegant in diction, the time was +come for him "to cut a splash."</p> + +<p>She had been very clever, this daughter of the Esterworths. She had kept +a tight rein over her husband all through the early years of their +married life. She would have no ostentation, no vulgar display of wealth, +no parading and flaunting of that twenty thousand per annum in their +neighbours' faces. And she had done what she had intended; she had +established her husband's position well in the county—she had made him +to be accepted, not only by reason of his wealth, but also because he was +her husband; she had roused no one's envy—she had never given cause for +spite or jealousy—she had made him popular as well as herself. They had +lived quietly and unobtrusively; they had, of course, had everything of +the best; their horses and carriages were irreproachable, but they had +not had more of them than their neighbours. They had entertained freely, +and they had given their guests well-cooked dinners and expensive wines; +but there had been nothing lavish in their entertainments, nothing that +could make any of them go away and say to themselves, with angry +discontent, that "those Millers" were purse-proud and vulgar in their +wealth. When she had gone to her neighbours' houses Mrs. Miller had been +handsomely but never extravagantly dressed; she had praised their cooks, +and expressed herself envious of their flowers, and had bemoaned her own +inability to vie with their peaches and their pineapples; she had never +talked about her own possessions, nor had she ever paraded her own eight +thousand pounds' worth of diamonds before the envious eyes of women who +had none.</p> + +<p>In this way she had made herself popular—and in this way she had won the +county seat for her husband.</p> + +<p>When, however, that great end and aim of her existence was accomplished, +Caroline Miller felt that she might now fairly launch out a little. The +time was come when she might reap the advantage of her long years of +repression and patient waiting. Her daughters were growing up, her sons +were all at school. For her children's sake, it was time that she should +take the lead in the county which their father's fortune and new position +entitled them to, and which no one now was likely to grudge them. +Shadonake therefore was bought, and the house straightway pulled down, +and built up again in a style, and with a magnificence, befitting Mr. +Miller's wealth.</p> + +<p>Bricks and mortar were Andrew Miller's delight. He was never so happy as +during the three years that Shadonake House was being built; every stone +that was laid was a fresh interest to him; every inch of brick wall a +keen and special delight. He had been disappointed not to have had the +spoliation of Shadonake Bath; it had been a distinct mortification to him +to have to forego the four brick walls which would have replaced its +ancient steps; but then he had made it up to himself by altering the +position of the front door three times before it was finally settled +to his satisfaction.</p> + +<p>But all this was over by this time, and when my story begins Shadonake +new House, as it was sometimes called, was built, and furnished and +inhabited in every corner of its lofty rooms, and all along the spacious +length of its many wide corridors.</p> + +<p>One afternoon—it is about a week later than that soirée at Walpole +Lodge, mentioned in a previous chapter—Mrs. Miller and her eldest +daughter are sitting together in the large drawing-room at Shadonake. The +room is furnished in that style of high artistic decoration that is now +the fashion. There are rich Persian rugs over the polished oak floor; a +high oak chimney-piece, with blue tiles inserted into it in every +direction, and decorated with old Nankin china bowls and jars; a wide +grate below, where logs of wood are blazing between brass bars; +quantities of spindle-legged Chippendale furniture all over the room, +and a profusion of rich gold embroidery and "textile fabrics" of all +descriptions lighting up the carved oak "dado" and the sombre sage green +of the walls. There are pictures, too, quite of the best, and china of +every period and every style, upon every available bracket and shelf and +corner where a cup or a plate can be made to stand. Four large windows on +one side open on to the lawn; two, at right angles to them, lead into +a large conservatory, where there is, even at this dead season of the +year, a blaze of exotic blossoms that fill the room with their sweet rich +odour.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller sits before a writing bureau of inlaid satin-wood of an +ancient pattern. She has her pen in her hand, and is docketing her +visiting list. Beatrice Miller sits on a low four-legged stool by her +mother's side, with a large Japanese china bowl on her knees filled with +cards, which she takes out one after the other, reading the names upon +them aloud to her mother before tossing them into a basket, also of +Japanese structure, which is on the floor in front of her.</p> + +<p>Beatrice is Mrs. Miller's eldest daughter, and she is twenty. Guy is only +eleven months older, and Edwin is a year younger—they are both at +Oxford; next comes Geraldine, who is still in the school-room, but who is +hoping to come out next Easter; then Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys; +and lastly, Teddy and Ralph, who are at a famous preparatory school, +whence they hope, in process of time, to be drafted on to Eton, following +in the footsteps of their elder brothers.</p> + +<p>Of all this large family it is Beatrice, the eldest daughter, who causes +her mother the most anxiety. Beatrice is like her mother—a plain but +clever-looking girl, with the dark swart features and colouring of the +Esterworths, who are not a handsome race. Added to which, she inherits +her father's short and somewhat stumpy figure. Such a personal appearance +in itself is enough to cause uneasiness to any mother who is anxious for +her daughter's future; but when these advantages of looks are rendered +still more peculiar by the fact that her hair had to be shaved off some +years ago when she had scarlet fever, and that it has never grown again +properly, but is worn short and loose about her face like a boy's, with +its black tresses tumbling into her eyes every time she looks down—and +when, added to this, Mrs. Miller also discovered to her mortification +that Beatrice possessed a will of her own, and so decided a method of +expressing her opinions and convictions, that she was not likely to be +easily moulded to her own views, you will, perhaps, understand the extent +of the difficulties with which she has to deal.</p> + +<p>For, of course, so clever and so managing a woman as Mrs. Miller has not +allowed her daughter to grow up to the age of twenty without making the +most careful and judiciously-laid schemes for her ultimate disposal. That +Beatrice is to marry is a matter of course, and Mrs. Miller has well +determined that the marriage is to be a good one, and that her daughter +is to strengthen her father's position in Meadowshire by a union with one +or other of its leading families. Now, when Mrs. Miller came to pass the +marriageable men of Meadowshire under review, there was no such eligible +bachelor amongst them all as Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall.</p> + +<p>It was on him, therefore, that her hopes with regard to Beatrice were +fixed. Fortune hitherto had seemed to smile favourably upon her. Beatrice +had had one season in town, during which she had met Sir John frequently, +and he had, contrary to his usual custom, asked her to dance several +times when he had met her at balls. Mrs. Miller said to herself that Sir +John, not being a very young man, did not set much store upon mere +personal beauty; that he probably valued mental qualities in a woman more +highly than the transient glitter of beauty; and that Beatrice's good +sense and sharp, shrewd conversation had evidently made a favourable +impression upon him.</p> + +<p>She never was more mistaken in her life. True, Sir John did like Miss +Miller, he found her unconventional and amusing; but his only object in +distinguishing her by his attentions had been to pay a necessary +compliment to the new M.P.'s daughter, a duty which he would have +fulfilled equally had she been stupid as well as plain: moreover, as we +have seen, few men were so intensely sensitive to beauty in a woman as +was Sir John Kynaston. Mrs. Miller, however, was full of hopes concerning +him. To do her justice, she was not exactly vulgarly ambitious for her +daughter; she liked Sir John personally, and had a high respect for his +character, and she considered that Beatrice's high spirit and self-willed +disposition would be most desirably moderated and kept in check by a +husband so much older than herself. Lady Kynaston, moreover, was one of +her best and dearest friends, and was her beau-idéal of all that a clever +and refined lady should be. The match, in every respect, would have been +a very acceptable one to her. Whether or no Miss Beatrice shared her +mother's views on her behalf remains to be seen.</p> + +<p>The mother and daughter are settling together the preliminaries of a +week's festivities which Mrs. Miller has decided shall be held at +Shadonake this winter. The house is to be filled, and there are to be a +series of dinner parties, culminating in a ball.</p> + +<p>"The Bayleys, the Westons, the Foresters, and two daughters, I suppose," +reads Mrs. Miller, aloud, from the list in her hand, "Any more for the +second dinner-party, Beatrice?"</p> + +<p>"Are you not going to ask the Daintrees, of Sutton, mother?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear me, another parson, Beatrice! I really don't think we can; I +have got three already. They shall have a card for the ball."</p> + +<p>"You will ask that handsome girl who lives with them, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"Not the slightest occasion for doing so," replied her mother, shortly. +Beatrice lifted her eyebrows.</p> + +<p>"Why, she is the best-looking woman in all Meadowshire; we cannot leave +her out."</p> + +<p>"I know nothing about her, not even her name; she is some kind of poor +relation, I believe—acts as the children's governess. We have too many +women as it is. No, I certainly shall not ask her. Go on to the next, +Beatrice."</p> + +<p>"But, mother, she is so very handsome! Surely you might include her."</p> + +<p>"Dear me, Beatrice, what a stupid girl you are! What is the good of +asking handsome girls to cut you out in your own house? I should have +thought you would have had the sense to see that for yourself," said Mrs. +Miller, impatiently.</p> + +<p>"I think you are horribly unjust, mamma," says Miss Beatrice, +energetically; "and it is downright unkind to leave her out because +she is handsome—as if I cared."</p> + +<p>"How can I ask her if I do not know her name?" said her mother, +irritably, with just that amount of dread of her daughter's rising temper +to make her anxious to conciliate her. "If you like to find out who she +is and all about her——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will find out," said Beatrice, quietly; "give me the note, I will +keep it back for the present."</p> + +<p>"Now, for goodness sake, go on, child, and don't waste any more time. Who +are coming from town to stay in the house?"</p> + +<p>"Well, there will be Lady Kynaston, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Yes. She won't come till the end of the week. I have heard from her; she +will try and get down in time for the ball."</p> + +<p>"Then there will be the Macpherson girls and Helen Romer. And, as a +matter of course, Captain Kynaston must be asked?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. What a fool that woman is to advertise her feelings so openly that +one is obliged to ask her attendant swain to follow her wherever she +goes!"</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, I think her remarkably clever; she gets what she wants, +and the cleverest of us can do no more. It is a well-known fact to all +Helen's acquaintances that not to ask Captain Kynaston to meet her would +be deliberately to insult her—she expects it as her right."</p> + +<p>"All the same, it is in very bad taste and excessively underbred of her. +However, I should ask Captain Kynaston in any case, for his mother's +sake, and because I like him. He is a good shot, too, and the coverts +must be shot that week. Who next?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Herbert Pryme."</p> + +<p>"Goodness me! Beatrice, what makes you think of <i>him</i>? We don't know +anything about him—where he comes from or who are his belongings—he is +only a nobody!"</p> + +<p>"He is a barrister, mamma!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course, I know that—but, then, there are barristers of all +sorts. I am sure I do not know what made you fix upon him; you only met +him two or three times in town."</p> + +<p>"I liked him," said Beatrice, carelessly; "he is a gentleman, and would +be a pleasant man to have in the house."</p> + +<p>Her mother looked at her sharply. She was playing with the gold locket +round her neck, twisting it backwards and forwards along its chain, her +eyes fixed upon the heap of cards on her lap. There was not the faintest +vestige of a blush upon her face.</p> + +<p>"However," she continued, "if you don't care about having him, strike his +name out. Only it is a pity, because Sophy Macpherson is rather fond of +him, I fancy."</p> + +<p>This was a lie; it was Miss Beatrice herself who was fond of him, but not +even her mother, keen and quick-scented as she was, could have guessed it +from her impassive face. Mrs. Miller was taken in completely.</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said, "if Sophy Macpherson likes him, that alters the case. Oh, +yes, I will ask him by all means—as you say, he is a gentleman and +pleasant."</p> + +<p>"Look, mamma!" exclaimed Beatrice, suddenly; "there is uncle Tom riding +up the drive."</p> + +<p>Now, Tom Esterworth was a very important personage; he was the present +head of the Esterworth family, and, as such, the representative of its +ancient honours and traditions. He was a bachelor, and reigned in +solitary grandeur at Lutterton Castle, and kept the hounds as his +fathers had done before him.</p> + +<p>Uncle Tom was thought very much of at Shadonake, and his visits always +caused a certain amount of agitation in his sister's mind. To her dying +day she would be conscious that in Tom's eyes she had been guilty of a +<i>mésalliance</i>. She never could get that idea out of her head; it made her +nervous and ill at ease in his presence. She hustled all her notes and +cards hurriedly together into her bureau.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Tom! Dear me, what can he have come to-day for! I thought the +hounds were out. Ring the bell, Beatrice; he will like some tea. Where +is your father?"</p> + +<p>"Papa is out superintending the building of the new pigsties," said +Beatrice as she rang the bell. "I think uncle Tom has been hunting; he is +in boots and breeches I see."</p> + +<p>"Dear me, I hope your father won't come in with his muddy feet and his +hands covered with earth," said Mrs. Miller, nervously.</p> + +<p>Uncle Tom came in, a tall, dark-faced, strong-limbed man of fifty—an +ugly man, if you will, but a gentleman, and an Esterworth, every inch of +him. He kissed his sister, and patted his niece on the cheek.</p> + +<p>"Why weren't you out to-day, Pussy?"</p> + +<p>"You met so far off, uncle. I had no one to ride with to the meet. The +boys will be back next week. Have you had a good run?"</p> + +<p>"No, we've done nothing but potter about all the morning; there isn't a +scrap of scent."</p> + +<p>"Uncle Tom, will you give us a meet here when we have our house-warming?"</p> + +<p>"Humph! you haven't got any foxes at Shadonake," answered her uncle. He +had drawn his chair to the fire, and was warming his hands over the +blazing logs. Beatrice was rather a favourite with him. "I will see about +it, Pussy," he added, kindly, seeing that she looked disappointed. Mrs. +Miller was pouring him out a cup of tea.</p> + +<p>"Well, I've got a piece of news for you women!" says Mr. Esterworth, +stretching out his hand for his tea. "John Kynaston's going to be +married!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller never knew how it was that the old Worcester tea-cup in her +hand did not at this juncture fall flat on the ground into a thousand +atoms at her brother's feet. It is certain that only a very strong +exercise of self-control and presence of mind saved it from destruction.</p> + +<p>"Engaged to be married!" she said, with a gasp.</p> + +<p>"That is news indeed," cried Beatrice, heartily, "I am delighted."</p> + +<p>"Don't be so foolish, Beatrice," said her mother, quite sharply. "How on +earth can you be delighted when you don't even know who it is? Who is it, +Tom?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, that is the whole pith of the matter," said Mr. Esterworth, who was +not above the weakness of liking to be the bearer of a piece of gossip. +"I'll give you three guesses, and I'll bet you won't hit it."</p> + +<p>"One of the Courtenay girls?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Anna Vivian?"</p> + +<p>"I know," says Beatrice, nodding her head sagely; "it is that girl who +lives with the Daintrees."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, how silly you are!" cries her mother.</p> + +<p>Tom Esterworth turns round in his chair, and looks at his niece.</p> + +<p>"By Jove, you've hit it!" he exclaims. "What a clever pussy you are to be +sure."</p> + +<p>And then the soul of the member's wife became filled with consternation +and disgust.</p> + +<p>"Well, I call it downright sly of John Kynaston!" she exclaims, angrily; +"picking out a nobody like that behind all our backs, and keeping it so +quiet, too; he ought to be ashamed of himself for such an unsuitable +selection!"</p> + +<p>Beatrice laughed. "You know, uncle Tom, mamma wanted him to marry me."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, you should not say such things," said her mother, colouring.</p> + +<p>"Whew!" whistled Mr. Esterworth. "So that was the little game, Caroline, +was it? John Kynaston has better taste. He wouldn't have looked at an +ugly little girl like our pussy here, would he, Puss? Miss Nevill is one +of the finest women I ever saw in my life. She was at the meet to-day on +one of his horses; and, by Jove! she made all the other women look plain +by the side of her! Kynaston is a very lucky fellow."</p> + +<p>"I think, mamma, there can be no doubt about sending Miss Nevill an +invitation to our ball now," said Beatrice, laughingly.</p> + +<p>"She will have to be asked to stay in the house," said Mrs. Miller, with +something akin to a groan. "I cannot leave her out, as Lady Kynaston is +coming. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what fools men are, to be sure!"</p> + +<p>But Beatrice was wicked enough to laugh again over her mother's +discomfiture.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<h3>ENGAGED.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I wonder did you ever count<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The value of one human fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or sum the infinite amount<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of one heart's treasures, and the weight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of one heart's venture.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A. Procter</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>It was quite true what Mr. Thomas Esterworth had said, that Vera was +engaged to Sir John Kynaston.</p> + +<p>It had all come about so rapidly, and withal so quietly, that, when Vera +came to think of it, it rather took her breath away. She had expected it, +of course; indeed, she had even planned and tried for it; but, when it +had actually come to her, she felt herself to be bewildered by the +suddenness of it.</p> + +<p>In the end the climax of the love-making had been prosaic enough. Sir +John had not felt himself equal to the task of a personal interview with +the lady of his affections, with the accompanying risks of a personal +rejection, which, in his modesty and humility with reference to her, he +had believed to be quite on the cards. So he had written to her. The note +had been taken up to the vicarage by the footman, and had been brought +into the dining-room by the vicarial parlour-maid, just as the three +ladies were finishing breakfast, and after the vicar himself had left the +room.</p> + +<p>"A note from Kynaston, please 'm," says rosy-cheeked Hannah, holding it +forth before her, upon a small japanned tray, as an object of general +family interest and excitement.</p> + +<p>"For your master, Hannah?" says old Mrs. Daintree. "Are they waiting for +an answer? You will find him in his study."</p> + +<p>"No, ma'am, it's for Miss Vera."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" with a suspicious glance across the table; "how very odd!"</p> + +<p>Vera takes up the note and opens it.</p> + +<p>"May I have the crest, auntie?" clamours Tommy before she had read three +words of it.</p> + +<p>"Is it about the horse he has offered you to ride?" asks his mother.</p> + +<p>But Vera answers nothing; she gets up quietly, and leaves the room +without a word.</p> + +<p>"Extraordinary!" gasps Mrs. Daintree; "Vera's manners are certainly most +abrupt and unlady-like at times, Marion. I think you ought to point it +out to her."</p> + +<p>Marion murmurs some unintelligible excuse and follows her sister—leaving +the unfortunate Tommy a prey to his grandmother's tender mercies. So +brilliant an opportunity is not, of course, to be thrown away. Tommy's +fingers, having incontinently strayed in the direction of the +sugar-basin, are summarily slapped for their indiscretion, and an +admonition is straightway delivered to him in forcible language +concerning the pains and penalties which threaten the ulterior destiny of +naughty little boys in general and of such of them in particular who are +specially addicted to the abstraction of lumps of sugar from the +breakfast-table.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Marion has found her sister in the adjoining room standing up +alone upon the hearthrug with Sir John Kynaston's letter in her hands. +She is not reading it now, she is looking steadfastly into the fire. It +has fulfilled—nay, more than fulfilled—her wishes. The triumph of her +success is pleasant to her, and has brought a little more than their +usual glow into her cheeks, and yet—Heaven knows what vague and +intangible dreams and fancies have not somehow sunk down chill and cold +within her during the last five minutes.</p> + +<p>Gratified ambition—flattered vanity—the joy of success—all this she +feels to the full; but nothing more! There is not one single other +sensation within her. Her pulses have not quickened, ever so little, as +she read her lover's letter; her heart has not throbbed, even once, with +a sweeter, purer delight—such as she has read and heard that other women +have felt.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I have no heart," said Vera to herself; "it must be that I am +cold by nature. I am happy; but—but—I wonder what it feels like—this +<i>love</i>—that there is so much talked and written about?"</p> + +<p>And then Marion came in breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Vera, what is it?"</p> + +<p>Vera turns round to her, smiling serenely, and places the note in her +hands.</p> + +<p>This is what Sir John Kynaston has written:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dear Miss Nevill,—I do not think what I am about to say will be +altogether unexpected by you. You must have surely guessed how sincere +an affection I have learnt to feel for you. I know that I am unworthy +of you, and I am conscious of how vast a disparity there is between +my age and your own youth and beauty. But if my great love and devotion +can in any way bridge over the gap that lies between us, believe me, +that if you will consent to be my wife, my whole life shall be devoted +to making you happy. If you can give me an answer to-day, I shall be +very grateful, as suspense is hard to bear. But pray do not decide +against me in haste, and without giving me every chance in your power.</p> + +<p>"Yours devotedly,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">John Kynaston</span>."</p></div> + +<p>"Oh! Vera, my darling sister, I am so glad!" cries Marion, in tearful +delight, throwing her arms up round the neck of the young sister, who is +so much taller than she is; "I had guessed it, dearest; I saw he was in +love with you; and oh, Vera, I shall have you always near me!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that will be nice," assents Vera, quietly, and a trifle absently, +stroking her sister's cheek, with her eyes still fixed on the fire; "and +of course," rousing herself with an effort, "of course I am a very lucky +woman."</p> + +<p>And then Mr. Daintree came in, and his wife rushed to him rapturously to +impart the joyful news. There was a little pleasant confusion of broken +words and explanations between the three, and then Marion whisked away, +brimming over with triumphant delight to wave the flags of victory +exultingly in her mother-in-law's face.</p> + +<p>Eustace Daintree and Vera were alone. He took her hands within his, and +looked steadfastly in her face.</p> + +<p>"Vera, are you sure of yourself, my dear, in this matter?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes met his for a moment, and then fell before his earnest gaze. She +coloured a little.</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure that I mean to accept Sir John's proposal," she said, +with a little uneasy laugh.</p> + +<p>"Child, do you love him?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes met his again; there was a vague trouble in them. The man had a +power over her, the power of sheer goodness of soul. She could never be +untrue to herself with Eustace Daintree; she was always at her very best +with him, humble and gentle; and she could no more have told him a lie, +or put him off with vague conventionalities, than she could have +committed a deadly sin.</p> + +<p>What is it about some people that, in spite of ourselves, they thus force +out of us the best part of our nature; that base and unworthy thoughts +cannot live in us before them,—that they melt out of our hearts as the +snow before the rays of the sun? Even though the effect may be transient, +such is the power of their faith, and their truth, and their goodness, +that it must needs call forth in us something of the same spirit as their +own.</p> + +<p>Such was Eustace Daintree's influence over Vera. It was not because of +his office, for no one was less susceptible than Vera—a Protestant +brought up, with but vague ideas of her own faith, in a Catholic land—to +any of those recognized associations with which a purely English-bred +girl might have felt the character of the clergyman of the parish where +she lived to be invested. It was nothing of that sort that made him great +to her; it was, simply and solely, the goodness of the man that impressed +her. His guilelessness, his simplicity of mind, his absolute uprightness +of character, and, with it all, the absence in him of any assumption of +authority, or of any superiority of character over those about him. His +very humility made her humble with him, and exalted him into something +saintly in her eyes.</p> + +<p>When Eustace looked at her fixedly, with all his good soul in his earnest +eyes, and said to her again, "Do you love him, Vera?" Vera could but +answer him simply and frankly, almost against her will, as it were.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I do, Eustace; but then I do not quite know what love is. +I do not think, however, that it can be what I feel."</p> + +<p>"My child, no union can be hallowed without love. Vera, you will not run +into so great a danger?" he said anxiously.</p> + +<p>She looked up at him smiling.</p> + +<p>"I like him better than any one else, at all events. Better than Mr. +Gisburne, for instance. And I think, I do really think, Eustace, it will +be for my happiness."</p> + +<p>The vicar looked grave. "If Sir John Kynaston were a poor man, would you +marry him?"</p> + +<p>And Vera answered bravely, though with a heightened colour—</p> + +<p>"No; but it is not only for the money, Eustace; indeed it is not. +But—but—I should be miserable without it; and I must do something with +my life."</p> + +<p>He drew her near to him, and kissed her forehead. He understood her. With +that rare gift of sympathy—the highest, the most God-like of all human +attributes—he felt at once what she meant. It was wonderful that this +man, who was so unworldly, so unselfish, so pure of the stains of earth +himself, should have seen at once her position from her own point of +view; that was neither a very exalted one, nor was it very free from the +dross of worldliness. But it was so. All at once he seemed to know by a +subtle instinct what were the weaknesses, and the temptations, and the +aims of this girl, who, with all her faults, was so dear to him. He +understood her better, perhaps, than she understood herself. Her soul was +untouched by passion; the story of her life was unwritten; there was no +danger for her yet; and perchance it might be that the storms of life +would pass her by unscathed, and that she might remain sheltered for ever +in the safe haven which had opened so unexpectedly to receive her.</p> + +<p>"There is a peril in the course you have chosen," he said, gravely; "but +your soul is pure, and you are safe. And I know, Vera, that you will +always do your duty."</p> + +<p>And the tears were in her eyes as he left her.</p> + +<p>When he had gone she sat down to write her answer to Sir John Kynaston. +She dipped her pen into the ink, and sat with it in her hand, thinking. +Her brother-in-law's words had aroused a fresh train of thought within +her. There seemed to be an amount of solemnity in what she was about to +do that she had not considered before. It was true that she did not love +him; but then, as she had told Eustace just now, she loved no one else; +she did not rightly understand what love meant, indeed. And is a woman to +wait on in patience for years until love comes to her? Would it ever +come? Probably not, thought Vera; not to her, who thought herself to be +cold, and not easily moved. There must be surely many women to whom this +wonderful thing of love never comes. In all her experience of life there +was nothing to contradict this. It was not as if she had been a girl who +had never left her native village, never tasted of the pleasures of life, +never known the sweet incense of flattery and devotion. Vera had known it +all. Many men had courted her; one or two had loved her dearly, but she +had not loved them. Amongst them all, indeed, there had been never one +whom she had liked with such a sincere affection as she now felt for this +man, who seemed to love her so much, and who wrote to her so diffidently, +and yet so devotedly.</p> + +<p>"I love him as well as I am ever likely to love any one," said Vera, to +herself. Yet still she leant her chin upon her hand and looked out of the +window at the gray bare branches of the elm-trees across the damp green +lawn, and still her letter was unwritten.</p> + +<p>"Vera!" cries Marion, coming in hurriedly and breaking in upon her +reverie, "the footman from Kynaston is waiting all this time to know if +there is any answer! Shall I send him away? Or have you made up your +mind?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, I have made up my mind. My note will be ready directly; he may +as well take it. It will save the trouble of sending up to the Hall +later." For Vera remembers that there is not a superfluity of servants +at the vicarage, and that they all of them have plenty to do.</p> + +<p>And thus, a mere trifle—a feather, as it were, on the river of +life—settled her destiny for her out of hand.</p> + +<p>She dipped her pen into the ink once more, and wrote:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dear Sir John,—You have done me a great honour in asking me to be +your wife. I am fully sensible of your affection, and am very grateful +for it. I fear you think too highly of me; but I will endeavour to +prove myself worthy of your good opinion, and to make you as good a +wife as you deserve.</p> + +<p>"Yours,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Vera Nevill</span>."</p></div> + +<p>She was conscious herself of the excessive coldness of her note, but she +could not help it. She could not, for the life of her, have made it +warmer. Nothing, indeed, is so difficult as to write down feelings that +do not exist; it is easier to simulate with our spoken words and our +looks; but the pen that is urged beyond its natural inclination seems to +cool into ice in our fingers. But, at all events, she had accepted him.</p> + +<p>It was a relief to her when the thing was done, and the note sent off +beyond the possibility of recall.</p> + +<p>After that there had been no longer any leisure for her doubting +thoughts. There was her sister's delighted excitement, Mrs. Daintree's +oppressive astonishment, and even Eustace's calmer satisfaction in her +bright prospects, to occupy and divert her thoughts. Then there came her +lover himself, tender and grateful, and with so worshipful a respect in +every word and action that the most sensitive woman could scarcely have +been ruffled or alarmed by the prospects of so deferential a husband.</p> + +<p>In a few days Vera became reconciled to her new position, which was in +truth a very pleasant one to her. There were the congratulations of +friends and acquaintances to be responded to; the pleasant flutter of +adulation that surrounded her once more; the little daily excitement +of John Kynaston's visits—all this made her happy and perfectly +satisfied with the wisdom of her decision.</p> + +<p>Only one thing vexed her.</p> + +<p>"What will your mother say, John?" she had asked the very first day she +had been engaged to him.</p> + +<p>"It will not make much difference to me, dearest, whatever she may say."</p> + +<p>Nor in truth would it, for Sir John, as we have seen, had never been a +devoted son, nor had he ever given his confidence to his mother; he had +always gone his own way independently of her.</p> + +<p>"But it must needs make a difference to me," Vera had insisted. "You have +written to her, of course."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes; I wrote and told her I was engaged to you."</p> + +<p>"And she has not written?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, there was a message for you—her love or something."</p> + +<p>Sir John evidently did not consider the subject of much importance. But +Vera was hurt that Lady Kynaston had not written to her.</p> + +<p>"I will never enter any family where I am not welcome," she had said to +her lover, proudly.</p> + +<p>And then Sir John had taken fright, for she was so precious to him that +the fear of losing her was becoming almost as a nightmare to him, and, +possibly, at the bottom of his heart he knew how feeble was his hold +over her. He had written off to his mother that day a letter that was +almost a command, and had told her to write to Vera.</p> + +<p>This letter was not likely to prepossess Lady Kynaston, who was a +masterful little lady herself, in her daughter-in-law's favour; it did +more harm than good. She had obeyed her son, it is true, because he was +the head of the family, and because she stood in awe of him; but the +letter, thus written under compulsion, was not kind—it was not even +just.</p> + +<p>"Horrid girl!" had said Lady Kynaston, angrily, to herself, as she had +sat down to her writing-table to fulfil her son's mandate. "It is not +likely that I can be very loving to her—some wretched, second-rate girl, +evidently—for not even Caroline Miller who, goodness knows, rakes up all +the odds and ends of society—ever heard of her before!"</p> + +<p>It is not to be supposed that a letter undertaken under such auspices +could be in any way conciliatory or pleasant in its tone. Such as it was, +Vera put it straight into the fire directly she had read it; no one ever +saw it but herself.</p> + +<p>"I have heard from your mother," she said to Sir John.</p> + +<p>"Yes? I am very glad. She wrote everything that was kind, no doubt."</p> + +<p>"I dare say she meant to be kind," said Vera; which was not true, because +she knew perfectly that there had been no kindness intended. But she +pursued the subject no further.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will like Maurice," said Sir John, presently; "he is a +good-hearted boy, though he has been sadly extravagant, and given me +a good deal of trouble."</p> + +<p>"I shall be glad to know your brother," said Vera, quietly. "Is he coming +to Kynaston?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, eventually; but you will meet him first at Shadonake when you go +to stay there: they have asked a large party for that week, I hear, and +Maurice will be there."</p> + +<p>Now, by this time Vera knew that the photograph she had once found in the +old writing-table drawer at Kynaston was that of her lover's brother +Maurice.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<h3>A MEETING ON THE STAIRS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since first I saw your face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I resolved to honour and renown you;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If now I be disdained,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wish my heart had never known you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Sun whose beams most glorious are<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rejecteth no beholder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And your sweet beauty past compare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made my poor eyes the bolder.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Thomas Ford</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>I have often wondered why, in the ordering of human destinies, +some special Providence, some guardian spirit who is gifted with +foreknowledge, is not mercifully told off to each of us so to order the +trifles of our lives that they may combine to the working together of our +weal, instead of conspiring, as they too often and too evidently do, for +our woe.</p> + +<p>Look back upon your own life, and upon the lives of those whose story you +have known the most intimately, and see what straws, what nonentities, +what absurd trivialities have brought about the most important events of +existence. Recollect how, and in what manner, those people whom it would +have been well for you never to have known came across you. How those +whose influence over you is for good were kept out of your way at the +very crisis of your life. Think what a different life you would have led; +I do not mean only happier, but how much better and purer, if some absurd +trifle had not seemed to play into the hands, as it were, of your +destiny, and to set you in a path whereof no one could at the time +foresee the end.</p> + +<p>Some one had looked out their train in last month's Bradshaw, unwitting +of the autumn alterations, and was kept from you till the next day. You +took the left instead of the right side of the square on your way home, +or you stood for a minute gossiping at your neighbour's door, and there +came by some one who ultimately altered and embittered your whole life, +and who, but for that accidental meeting, you would, probably, never have +seen again; or some evil adviser was at hand, whilst one whose opinion +you revered, and whose timely help would have saved you from taking that +false step you ever after regretted, was kept to the house, by Heaven +knows what ridiculous trifle—a cold in the head, or finger-ache—and +did not see you to warn and to keep you back from your own folly until it +was too late.</p> + +<p>People say these things are ordered for us. I do not know; it may be so, +but sometimes it seems rather as if we were irresponsible puppets, tossed +and buffeted about, blindly and helplessly, upon life's river, as +fluttering dead leaves are danced wildly along the swift current of a +Highland stream. Such a trifle might have saved us! yet there was no +pitying hand put forth to avert that which, in our human blindness, +appeared to us to be as unimportant as any other incident of our lives.</p> + +<p>Life is an unsolvable problem. Shall we ever, in some other world, +I wonder, read its riddles aright?</p> + +<p>All these moral dissertations have been called forth because Vera Nevill +went to stay for a week at Shadonake. If she had known—what we none of +us know—the future, she doubtless would have stayed away. Fate—a +beneficent fate, indeed—made, I am bound to confess, a valiant effort in +her behalf. Little Minnie fell ill the day before her departure; and the +symptoms were such that everybody in the house believed that she was +sickening for scarlet fever. The doctor, however, having been hastily +summoned, pronounced the disease to be an infantile complaint of a +harmless and innocuous nature, which he dignified by the delusively +poetical name of "Rosalia."</p> + +<p>"It is not infectious, Mr. Smee, I hope?" asked Marion, anxiously. +"Nothing to prevent my sister going to stay at the Millers' to morrow?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least infectious, Mrs. Daintree, and anybody in the house can +go wherever they like, except the child herself, who must be kept in a +warm room for two days, when she will probably be quite well again."</p> + +<p>"I am glad, dear, there is nothing to put a stop to your visit; it would +have been such a pity," said Marion, in her blindness, to her sister +afterwards.</p> + +<p>So the fates had a game of pitch and toss with Vera's future, and settled +it amongst them to their own satisfaction, probably, but not, it will be +seen, for Vera's own good or ultimate happiness.</p> + +<p>On the afternoon of the 3rd day of January, therefore, Eustace +Daintree drove his sister-in-law over to Shadonake in the open +basket pony-carriage, and deposited her and her box safely at the +stone-colonnaded door of that most imposing mansion, which she entered +exactly ten minutes before the dressing-bell rang, and was conducted +almost immediately upstairs to her own room.</p> + +<p>Some twenty minutes later there are still two ladies sitting on in the +small tea-room, where it is the fashion at Shadonake to linger between +the hours of five and seven, who alone have not yet moved to obey the +mandate of the dressing-bell.</p> + +<p>"What <i>is</i> the good of waiting?" says Beatrice, impatiently; "the train +is often late, and, besides, he may not come till the nine o'clock +train."</p> + +<p>"That is just what I want to wait for," answers Helen Romer. "I want +just to hear if the carriage has come back, and then I shall know for +certain."</p> + +<p>"Well, you know how frightfully punctual papa is, and how angry it makes +him if anybody is late."</p> + +<p>"Just two minutes more, Beatrice; I can dress very quickly when once +I set to work," pleads Helen.</p> + +<p>Beatrice sits down again on the arm of the sofa, and resigns herself to +her fate; but she looks rather annoyed and vexed about it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Romer paces the room feverishly and impatiently.</p> + +<p>"What did you think of Miss Nevill?" asks Beatrice.</p> + +<p>"I could hardly see her in her hat and that thick veil; but she looked as +if she were handsome."</p> + +<p>"She is <i>beautiful</i>!" says Beatrice, emphatically, "and uncle Tom +says——"</p> + +<p>"Hush!" interrupts Helen, hurriedly. "Is not that the sound of +wheels?—Yes, it is the carriage."</p> + +<p>She flies to the door.</p> + +<p>"Take care, Helen," says Beatrice, anxiously; "don't open the door +wide, don't let the servants think we have been waiting, it looks so +bad—so—so unlady-like."</p> + +<p>But Helen Romer does not even hear her; she is listening intently to the +approaching sounds, with the half-opened door in her hand.</p> + +<p>The tea-room door opens into a large inner hall, out of which leads the +principal staircase; the outer or entrance-hall is beyond; and presently +the stopping of the carriage, the opening and shutting of doors from the +servants' departments, and all the usual bustle of an arrival are heard.</p> + +<p>The two girls stand close together listening, Beatrice hidden in the +shadow of the room.</p> + +<p>"There are <i>two</i> voices!" cries Helen, in a disappointed tone; "he is not +alone!"</p> + +<p>"I suppose it is Mr. Pryme—mamma said he might come by this train," +answers Beatrice, so quietly that no one could ever have guessed how her +heart was beating.</p> + +<p>"Helen, <i>do</i> let us run upstairs; I really cannot stay. Let <i>me</i> go, at +all events!" she adds, with a sudden agony of entreaty as the guests were +heard advancing towards the door of the inner hall. And as Helen made not +the slightest sign of moving, Beatrice slipped past her and ran lightly +and swiftly across the hall upstairs, and disappeared along the landing +above just as Captain Kynaston and Mr. Herbert Pryme appeared upon the +scene below.</p> + +<p>No such scruples of modesty troubled Mrs. Romer. As the young men entered +the inner hall preceded by the butler, who was taking them up to their +rooms, and followed by two footmen who were bearing their portmanteaus, +Helen stepped boldly forward out of the shelter of the tea-room, and held +out her hand to Captain Kynaston.</p> + +<p>"How do you do? How late your train is."</p> + +<p>Maurice looked distinctly annoyed, but of course he shook hands with her.</p> + +<p>"How are you, Mrs. Romer? I did not expect you to be here till to-morrow. +Yes, we are late," consulting his watch; "only twenty minutes to dress +in—I must look sharp."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the stranger, Mr. Pryme, was following the butler upstairs.</p> + +<p>Helen lowered her voice.</p> + +<p>"I <i>must</i> speak to you a minute, Maurice; it is six weeks since we have +met, and to meet in public would be too trying. Please dress as quickly +as ever you can; I know you can dress quickly if you choose; and wait for +me here at the bottom of the stairs—we might get just three minutes +together before dinner."</p> + +<p>There were the footmen and the portmanteaus within six yards of them, and +Mr. Pryme and the butler still within earshot. What was Maurice to do? He +could not really listen to a whole succession of prayers, and entreaties, +and piteous appeals. There was neither the time, nor was it the place, +for either discussion or remonstrance. All he could do was to nod a hasty +assent to her request.</p> + +<p>"Then I must make haste," he said, and ran quickly upstairs in the wake +of the other guest.</p> + +<p>The staircase at Shadonake was very wide and very handsome, and +thoroughly in keeping with the spacious character of the house. It +consisted of one wide flight of shallow steps, with a richly-carved +balustrade on either side of it, leading straight down from a large +square landing above. Both landing and steps were carpeted with thick +velvet-pile carpet, so that no jarring footfall was ever heard upon them. +The hall into which the staircase led was paved in coloured mosaic tiles, +and was half covered over with rich Persian rugs. A great many doors, +nearly all the sitting-rooms of the house, in fact, opened into it, +and the blank spaces of the wall were filled in with banks of large +handsome plants, palms and giant ferns, and azaleas in full bloom, which +were daily rearranged by the gardeners in every available corner.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the staircase, and with his back to it, leaning against +the balustrade, stood Captain Kynaston, exactly four minutes before the +dinner was announced.</p> + +<p>Most people were in the habit of calling Maurice a good-looking man, but +if anybody had seen him now for the first time it is doubtful whether +they would have endorsed that favourable opinion upon his personal +appearance. A thoroughly ill-tempered expression of face seldom enhances +any one's good looks, and if ever a man looked in a bad temper, Maurice +Kynaston did so at the present moment.</p> + +<p>He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, and his eyes fixed upon +his own boots, and he looked as savage as it was well possible for a man +to look.</p> + +<p>He was waiting here for Helen, because he had told her that he would do +so, and when Captain Kynaston promised anything to a lady he always kept +his word.</p> + +<p>But to say that he hated being there is but a mild term for the rage and +disgust he experienced.</p> + +<p>To be waylaid and attacked thus, directly he had set foot in the house, +with a stranger and three servants looking on so as to render him +absolutely helpless; to be uncomfortably hurried over his toilet, and +inveigled into a sort of rendezvous at the foot of a public staircase, +where a number of people might at any minute enter from any one of the +six or eight surrounding doors, was enough of itself to try his temper; +but when he came to consider how Helen, in thus appropriating him and +making him obey her caprices, was virtually breaking her side of the +treaty between them; that she was exacting from him the full amount of +servitude and devotion which an open engagement would demand, and yet she +had agreed to deny any such engagement between them openly—it was, he +felt, more than he could continue to bear with meekness.</p> + +<p>Meekness, indeed, was in no way Maurice Kynaston's distinguishing +characteristic. He was masterful and imperious by nature; to be the slave +of any woman was neither pleasant nor profitable to him. Honour, indeed, +had bound him to Helen, and had he loved her she might have led him. Her +position gave her a certain hold over him, and she knew how to appeal to +his heart; but he loved her not, and to control his will and his spirit +was beyond her power.</p> + +<p>Maurice said to himself that he would put a stop to this system of +persecution once and for all—that this interview, which she herself had +contrived, should be made the opportunity of a few forcible words, that +should frighten her into submission.</p> + +<p>So he stood fretting, and fuming, and raging, waiting for her at the foot +of the stairs.</p> + +<p>There was a soft rustle, as of a woman's dress, behind him. He turned +sharply round.</p> + +<p>Halfway down the stairs came a woman whom he had never seen before. +A black velvet dress, made high in the throat, with a wide collar of +heavy lace upon her shoulders, hung clingingly about the outlines of her +tall and perfect figure; her hands, with some lace ruffles falling about +her wrists, were simply crossed before her. The light of a distant +hanging-lamp shone down upon her, just catching one diamond star that +glittered among the thick coils of her hair—she wore no other ornament. +She came down the stairs slowly, almost lingeringly, with a certain +grace in her movements, and without a shadow of embarrassment or +self-consciousness.</p> + +<p>Maurice drew aside to let her pass him—looking at her—for how could he +choose but look? But when she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned +her face towards him.</p> + +<p>"You are Maurice—are you not?" she said, and put forth both her hands +towards him.</p> + +<p>An utter bewilderment as to who she was made him speechless; his mind had +been full of Helen and his own troubles; everything else had gone out of +his head. She coloured a little, still holding out her hands to him.</p> + +<p>"I am Vera," she said, simply, and there was a little deprecating appeal +in the words as though she would have added, "Be my friend."</p> + +<p>He took the hands—soft slender hands that trembled a very little in his +grasp—within his own, and some nameless charm in their gentle touch +brought a sudden flush into his face, but no appropriate words concerning +his pleasure at meeting her, or his gratification at their future +relations, fell from Maurice Kynaston's lips. He only held her thus by +her hands, and looked at her—looked at her as if he could never look at +her enough—from her head to her feet, and from her feet up again to her +head, till a sudden wave of colour flooded her face at the earnestness +of his scrutiny.</p> + +<p>"Vera—<i>Vera Nevill</i>!" was all he said; and then below his breath, as +though his absolute amazement were utterly irrepressible: "<i>By Jove!</i>" +And Vera laughed softly at the thoroughly British character of the +exclamation.</p> + +<p>"How like an Englishman!" she said. "An Italian would have paid me fifty +pretty compliments in half the time you have taken just to stare at me!"</p> + +<p>"What a charming <i>tableau vivant</i>!" exclaims a voice above them as Mrs. +Romer comes down the staircase. "You really look like a scene in a play! +Pray don't let me disturb you."</p> + +<p>"I am making friends with my sister-in-law that is to be, Mrs. Romer," +says Maurice, who has dropped Vera's hands with a guilty suddenness, and +now endeavours to look completely at his ease—an effort in which he +signally fails.</p> + +<p>"Were you? Dear me! I thought you and Miss Nevill were practising the +pose of the 'Huguenots'!"</p> + +<p>Now the whole armoury of feminine weapons—impertinence, spite, and bad +manners, born of jealousy—is utterly beneath the contempt of such a +woman as Vera; but she is no untried, inexperienced country girl such as +Mrs. Romer imagines her to be disconcerted or stricken dumb by such an +attack. She knew instantly that she had been attacked, and in what +manner, and she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.</p> + +<p>"I have never seen that picture, the 'Huguenots,' Mrs. Romer," she +said, quietly; "do you think there is a photograph or a print of it +at Kynaston, Maurice? If so, you or John must show it to me."</p> + +<p>And how Mrs. Romer hated her then and there, from that very minute until +her life's end, it would not be easy to set forth!</p> + +<p>The utter <i>insouciance</i>, the lady-like ignoring of Helen's impertinence, +the quiet assumption of what she knew her own position in the Kynaston +family to be, down to the sisterly "Maurice," whereby she addressed the +man whom in public, at least, Mrs. Romer was forced to call by a more +formal name—all proved to that astute little woman that Vera Nevill was +no ordinary antagonist, no village maiden to be snubbed or patronised at +her pleasure, but a woman of the world, who understood how to fight her +own battles, and was likely, as she was forced to own to herself, to +"give back as good as she got."</p> + +<p>Not another single word was spoken between them, for at that very minute +a door was thrown open, and the whole of the party in the house came +trooping forth in pairs from the drawing-room in a long procession on +their way to the dining-room.</p> + +<p>First came Mr. Miller with old Mrs. Macpherson on his arm. Then Mr. Pryme +and Miss Sophy Macpherson; her sister behind with Guy Miller; Beatrice, +looking melancholy, with the curate in charge; and her mother last with +Sir John, who had come over from Kynaston to dinner. Edwin Miller, the +second son, by himself brought up the rear.</p> + +<p>There was some laughter at the expense of the three defaulters, who, of +course, were supposed to have only just hurried downstairs.</p> + +<p>"Aha! just saved your soup, ladies!" cried Mr. Miller, laughingly. "Fall +in, fall in, as best you can!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller came to the rescue, and, by a rapid stroke of generalship, +marshalled them into their places.</p> + +<p>Miss Nevill, of course, was a stranger; Helen had been on intimate terms +with them all for years; Vera, besides, was standing close to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Please take in Miss Nevill, Captain Kynaston; and Edwin, my dear, give +your arm to Mrs. Romer."</p> + +<p>Edwin, who was a pleasant-looking boy, with plenty to say for himself, +hurried forward with alacrity; and Helen had to accept her fate with the +best grace she could.</p> + +<p>"Well, how did you get on with Vera, and how did you like her?" asked Sir +John, coming round to his brother's side of the table when the ladies had +left the room. He had noted with pleasure that Vera and Maurice had +talked incessantly throughout the dinner.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow!" cried Maurice, heartily, "she is the handsomest woman I +ever met in my life! I give you my word that, when she introduced herself +to me coming downstairs, I was so surprised, she was so utterly different +to what I and the mother have been imagining, that upon my life I +couldn't speak a word—I could do nothing but stare at her!"</p> + +<p>"You like her, then?" said his brother, smiling, well pleased at his +openly expressed admiration.</p> + +<p>"I think you are a very lucky fellow, old man! Like her! of course I do; +she's a downright good sort!"</p> + +<p>And if Sir John was slightly shocked at the irreverence of alluding to so +perfect and pure a woman as his adored Vera by so familiar a phrase as "a +good sort," he was, at all events, too pleased by Maurice's genuine +approval of her to find any fault with his method of expressing it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<h3>AN IDLE MORNING.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We loved, sir; used to meet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How sad, and bad, and mad it was;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But then, how it was sweet!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Browning.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Leaning against a window-frame at the end of a long corridor on the +second floor, and idly looking out over the view of the wide lawns and +empty flower-beds which it commands, stands Mr. Herbert Pryme, on the +second morning after his arrival at Shadonake House.</p> + +<p>It is after breakfast, and most of the gentlemen of the house have +dispersed; that is to say, Mr. Miller has gone off to survey his new +pigsties, and his sons and a Mr. Nethercliff, who arrived last night, +have ridden to a meet some fifteen miles distant, which the ladies had +voted to be too far off to attend.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pryme, however, is evidently not a keen sports-man; he has declined +the offer of a mount which Guy Miller has hospitably pressed upon him, +and he has also declined to avail himself of his host's offer of the +services of the gamekeeper. Curiously enough, another guest at Shadonake, +whose zeal for hunting has never yet been impeached, has followed his +example.</p> + +<p>"What on earth do they meet at Fretly for!" Maurice Kynaston had +exclaimed last night to young Guy, as the morrow's plans had been +discussed in the smoking-room; "it's the worst country I ever was in, all +plough and woodlands, and never a fox to be found. Your uncle ought to +know better than to go there. I certainly shan't take the trouble to get +up early to go to that place."</p> + +<p>"Not go?" repeated Guy, aghast; "you don't mean to say you won't go, +Kynaston?"</p> + +<p>"That's just what I do mean, though."</p> + +<p>"What the deuce will you do with yourself all day?"</p> + +<p>"Lie in bed," answered Maurice, between the puffs of his pipe; "we've +had a precious hard day's shooting to-day, and I mean to take it easy +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>And Captain Kynaston was as good as his word. He did not appear in the +breakfast-room the next morning until the men who were bound for Fretly +had all ridden off and were well out of sight of the house. What he had +stayed for he would have been somewhat puzzled to explain. He was not the +kind of man who, as a rule, cared to dawdle about all day with women when +there was any kind of sport to be had from hunting down to ratting; more +especially was he disinclined for any such dawdling when Helen Romer was +amongst the number of the ladies so left to be danced attendance upon. +And yet he distinctly told himself that he meant to be devoted for this +one day to the fair sex. All yesterday he had been crossed and put out; +the men had been out shooting from breakfast till dinner; some of the +ladies had joined them with the Irish-stew at lunch time; Helen had been +amongst them, but not Miss Nevill. Maurice, in spite of the pheasants +having been plentiful and the sport satisfactory, had been in a decidedly +bad temper all the afternoon in consequence. In the evening the party at +dinner had been enlarged by an influx of country neighbours; Vera had +been hopelessly divided from him and absorbed by other people the whole +evening; he had not exchanged a single word with her all day.</p> + +<p>Captain Kynaston was seized with an insatiable desire to improve his +acquaintance with his sister-in-law to be. It was his duty, he told +himself, to make friends with her; his brother would be hurt, he argued, +and his mother would be annoyed if he neglected to pay a proper attention +to the future Lady Kynaston. There could be no doubt that it was his +duty; that it was also his pleasure did not strike him so forcibly as it +should have done, considering the fact that a man is only very keen to +create duties for himself when they are proportionately mingled with that +which is pleasant and agreeable. The exigencies of his position, with +regard to his elder brother's bride having been forcibly borne in upon +him—combined possibly with the certain knowledge that the elder brother +himself would be hunting all day—compelled him to stop at home and +devote himself to Vera. Mr. Herbert Pryme, however, had no such excuse, +real or imaginary, and yet he stands idly by the corridor window, idly, +yet perfectly patiently—relieving the tedium of his position by the +unexciting entertainment of softly whistling the popular airs from the +"Cloches de Corneville" below his breath.</p> + +<p>Herbert Pryme is a good-looking young fellow of about six-and-twenty; he +looks his profession all over, and is a good type of the average young +barrister of the present day. He has fair hair, and small, close-cropped +whiskers; his face is retrieved from boyishness by strongly-marked +and rather heavy features; he studiously affects a solemn and imposing +gravity of face and manner, and a severe and elderly style of dress, +which he hopes may produce a favourable effect upon the non-legal minds +of his somewhat imaginary clients.</p> + +<p>It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. Pryme has not found a shorter and +pleasanter road to fortune than that slow and toilsome route along which +the legal muse leads her patient votaries.</p> + +<p>Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapse, and still Mr. Pryme looks patiently +out of the window, and still he whistles the Song of the Bells. The only +sign of weariness he gives is to take out his watch, which, by the way, +is suspended by a broad black ribbon, and lives, not in his waistcoat +pocket, but in a "fob," and is further decorated by a very large and +old-fashioned seal. Having consulted a time piece which for size and +thickness might have belonged to his great-grandfather, he returns it to +his fob, and resumes his whistling.</p> + +<p>Presently a door at the further end of the corridor softly opens and +shuts, and Mr. Pryme looks up quickly.</p> + +<p>Beatrice Miller, looking about her a little guiltily, comes swiftly +towards him along the passage.</p> + +<p>"Mamma kept me such ages!" she says, breathlessly; "I thought I should +never get away."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, so long as you are here," he answers, holding her by +both hands. "My darling, I must have a kiss; I hungered for one all +yesterday."</p> + +<p>He looks into her face eagerly and lovingly. To most people Beatrice is a +plain girl, but to this man she is beautiful; his own love for her has +invested her with a charm and a fascination that no one else has seen in +her.</p> + +<p>Oh! divine passion, that can thus glorify its object. It is like a dash +of sunshine over a winter landscape, which transforms it into the +loveliness of spring; or the magic brush of the painter, which can turn a +ploughed field and a barren common into the golden glories of a Cuyp or a +Turner.</p> + +<p>Thus it was with Herbert Pryme. He looked at Beatrice with the blinding +glamour of his own love in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him. Truth +to say, Beatrice was a woman whom to love once was to love always. There +was so much that was charming and loveable in her character, so great a +freshness of mind and soul about her, that, although from lack of beauty +she had hitherto failed to attract love, having once secured it, she +possessed that rare and valuable faculty of being able to retain it, +which many women, even those who are the most beautiful, are incapable +of.</p> + +<p>"It is just as I imagined about Mr. Nethercliff," says Beatrice, +laughing; "he has been asked here for my benefit. Mamma has just been +telling me about him; he is Lord Garford's nephew and his heir. Lord +Garford's place, you know, is quite the other side of the county; he is +poor, so I suppose I might do for him," with a little grimace. "At all +events, I am to sit next to him at dinner to-night, and make myself +civil. You see, I am to be offered to all the county magnates in +succession."</p> + +<p>Herbert Pryme still holds her hands, and looks down with grave vexation +into her face.</p> + +<p>"And how do you suppose I shall feel whilst Mr. Nethercliff is making +love to you?"</p> + +<p>"You may make your mind quite easy; it is impossible that there should be +another man foolish enough in all England to want to make love to such an +'ugly duckling' as I am!"</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly, child, and don't fish for compliments," he answers, +fondly, stroking her short dark hair, which he thinks so characteristic +of herself.</p> + +<p>Beatrice looks up happily at him. A woman is always at her very best when +she is alone with the man she loves. Unconsciously, all the charms she +possesses are displayed in her glistening eyes, and in the colour which +comes and goes in her contented face. There is no philtre which beauty +can use, there is neither cosmetic nor rouge that can give that tender, +lovely glow with which successful love transforms even a plain face into +radiance and fascination.</p> + +<p>"I wish, Beatrice, you would let me speak to your father," continued +Herbert; "I cannot bear to be here under false pretences. Why will you +not let me deal fairly and openly with your parents?"</p> + +<p>"And be sent about your business by the evening train. No, thank you! +My dear boy, speaking to papa would be as much use as speaking to the +butler; they would both of them refer you instantly to mamma; and with +an equally lamentable result. Please leave things to me. When mamma has +offered me ineffectually to every marriageable man in Meadowshire, she +will get quite sick of it, and, I dare say, I shall be allowed to do as +I like then without any more fuss."</p> + +<p>"And how long is this process to last?"</p> + +<p>"About a year; by which time Geraldine will be nearly eighteen, and ready +to step into my shoes. Mamma will be glad enough to be rid of me then, +and to try her hand upon her instead. Geraldine is meek and tractable, +and will be quite willing to do as she is told."</p> + +<p>"And, meanwhile, what am I to do?"</p> + +<p>"You! You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson. Do you not know that she +is the excuse for your having been asked here at all?"</p> + +<p>"I don't like it, Beatrice," repeats her lover, gravely—not, however, +alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had been +urging upon him. "Upon my life, I don't." He looks away moodily out of +the window. "I hate doing things on the sly. And, besides, I am a poor +man, and your parents are rich. I could not afford to support a wife at +present on my own income."</p> + +<p>"All the more reason that we should wait," she interrupts, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to steal +your heart."</p> + +<p>"You did not steal it," she says, nestling up to his side. "I presented +it to you, free, gratis."</p> + +<p>Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty, +prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and +Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his +own poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earth +and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and +ecstatic.</p> + +<p>"You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice.</p> + +<p>"Of course I will," answers her lover. And then there is a complete +stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five +minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the +corridor has things entirely its own way.</p> + +<p>"There is another couple who are happy," says Herbert Pryme, breaking the +charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are +wandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following the +direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera.</p> + +<p>"Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy—not in our +way. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know."</p> + +<p>"Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then."</p> + +<p>"Herbert! what <i>can</i> you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in +astonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. +Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him."</p> + +<p>"Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?"</p> + +<p>"Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman," kissing her lightly; "I only +said they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark them +through the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspect +that I have noticed. If they are happy, it won't last long. Why should +not one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves? Let them be +happy whilst they can."</p> + +<p>Herbert Pryme was right. Maurice and Vera wandering side by side along +the broad gravel walks in the wintry gardens were happy—without so much +as venturing to wonder what it was that made them so.</p> + +<p>"I did not want to hunt to-day," Maurice is saying; "I thought I would +stop at home and talk to you."</p> + +<p>"That was kind of you," answers Vera, with a smile.</p> + +<p>If she had known him better, she would have been more sensible of the +compliment implied. To give up a day's hunting for a woman's sake is what +very few keen sports-men have been known to do; the attraction must be +great indeed.</p> + +<p>"You will go out, of course, on Monday, the day the hounds meet here? +I should like to see you on a horse."</p> + +<p>"I shall at all events put on a habit and get up on the mare John has +given me. But I know very little of English hunting; I have only ridden +in Italy. We used to go out in winter over the Campagna—that is very +different to England."</p> + +<p>"You must look very well in a habit." He turned to look at her as he +spoke. There was no reticence in his undisguised admiration of her.</p> + +<p>Vera laughed a little. "You shall look at me if you like when I have it +on," she said, blushing faintly under his scrutiny.</p> + +<p>"I am grateful to you for the permission; but I am bound to confess that +I should look all the same had you forbidden me to do so."</p> + +<p>Vera was pleased. She felt glad that he admired her. Was it not quite +right and most desirable that her husband's brother should appreciate her +beauty and ratify his good taste?</p> + +<p>"When does your mother come?" she said, changing the subject quietly, but +without effort.</p> + +<p>"Only the very night of the ball, I am afraid. Tuesday, is it not?"</p> + +<p>"Have you written to her about me? She does not like me, I fear."</p> + +<p>"No; I will not write. She shall see you and judge for herself. I am not +the least afraid of her not liking you when she knows you; and you will +love her."</p> + +<p>By this time they had wandered away from the house through the belt of +shrubbery, and had emerged beyond upon the margin of the pool of water.</p> + +<p>Vera stood still, suddenly struck with the sight.</p> + +<p>"Is this Shadonake Bath?" she asked, below her breath.</p> + +<p>"Yes; have you never seen it before?" he answered, in some surprise.</p> + +<p>"Never. I have not lived in Meadowshire long, you know, and the Millers +were moving into the house and furnishing it all last summer. I have +never been in the gardens till to-day. How strangely sad the place looks! +Let us walk round it."</p> + +<p>They went round to the further side.</p> + +<p>The pool of water lay dark and silent within its stone steps; not a +ripple disturbed its surface; not a dead leaf rested on its bosom. Only +the motionless water looked up everlastingly at the gray winter skies +above, and reflected them back blackly and gloomily upon its solemn face.</p> + +<p>Vera stood still and looked at it. Something in its aspect—she could not +have told what—affected her powerfully. She went down two or three steps +towards the water, and stooped over it intently.</p> + +<p>Maurice, watching her curiously, saw, to his surprise, that she trembled. +She turned round to him.</p> + +<p>"Does it not look dark and deep? Is it very deep?"</p> + +<p>"I believe it is. There are all sorts of stories about it. Come up, Vera; +why do you tremble so?"</p> + +<p>"How dreadful to be drowned here!" she said, below her breath, and she +shuddered.</p> + +<p>He stretched out his hand to her.</p> + +<p>"Do not say such horrid things! Give me your hand—the steps are +slippery. What has put drowning into your head? And—why, how pale you +are; what has frightened you?"</p> + +<p>She took his hand and came back again to where he stood.</p> + +<p>"Do you believe in presentiments?" she said, slowly, with her eyes fixed +still, as though by some fascination, upon the dark waters beneath them.</p> + +<p>"Not in the very least," he answered, cheerily; "do not think of such +things. John would be the first to scold you—and to scold me for +bringing you here."</p> + +<p>He stood, holding her hand, looking at her kindly and compassionately; +suddenly she looked at him, and as their eyes met once more, she trembled +from head to foot.</p> + +<p>"Vera, you are frightened; tell me what it is!"</p> + +<p>"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried, with a sudden wail, like a +person in pain; "only—oh! I wish I had not seen it for the first time +with <i>you</i>!"</p> + +<p>Before he could answer her, some one, <i>beckoning</i> to them from the +further side of the pool, caused them both to turn suddenly round.</p> + +<p>It was not only Herbert Pryme who had seen them wander away down the +garden from the house. Mrs. Romer, too, had been at another window and +had noticed them. To run lightly upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and +to follow them, had been the work of but a very few minutes. Helen was +not minded to allow Maurice to wander about all the morning with Vera.</p> + +<p>"Are you going for a walk?" she called out to them across the water. +"Wait for me; I am coming with you."</p> + +<p>Vera turned quickly to her companion.</p> + +<p>"Is it true that you are engaged to her?" she asked him rapidly, in a low +voice.</p> + +<p>Maurice hesitated. Morally speaking, he was engaged to her; but, then, it +had been agreed between them that he was to deny any such engagement. He +felt singularly disinclined to let Vera know what was the truth.</p> + +<p>"People say you are," she said, once more. "Will you tell me if it is +true?"</p> + +<p>"No; there is no engagement between us," he answered, gravely.</p> + +<p>"I am very glad," she answered, earnestly. He coloured, but he had no +time to ask her why she was glad—for Helen came up to them.</p> + +<p>"How interested you look in each other's conversation!" she said, looking +suspiciously at them both. "May I not hear what you have been talking +about?"</p> + +<p>"Anybody might hear," answered Vera, carelessly, "were it worth one's +while to take the trouble of repeating it."</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing. He was angry with Helen for having interrupted +them, and angry with himself for having denied his semi-engagement. He +stood looking away from them both, prodding his stick into the gravel +walk.</p> + +<p>For half a minute they stood silently together.</p> + +<p>"Let us go on," said Vera, and they began to walk.</p> + +<p>Once again in the days that were to come those three stood side by side +upon the margin of Shadonake Bath.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<h3>THE MEET AT SHADONAKE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The desire of the moth for the star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the night for the morrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The devotion to something afar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Shelley.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Mrs. Macpherson had brought up her daughters with one fixed and +predominant idea in her mind. Each of them was to excel in some one taste +or accomplishment, by virtue of which they might be enabled to shine in +society. They were taught to do one thing well. Thus, Sophy, the eldest, +played the piano remarkably, whilst Jessie painted in water-colours with +charming exactitude and neatness. They had both had first-rate masters, +and no pains had been spared to make each of them proficient in the +accomplishment that had been selected for her. But, as neither of these +young ladies had any natural talent, the result was hardly so +satisfactory as their fond mother could have desired. They did exactly +what they had been taught to do with precision and conscientiousness; no +less and no more; and the further result of their entire devotion to one +kind of study was, that they could do nothing else.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macpherson began to realize that her system of education had +possibly left something to be desired on the Monday morning that Mr. +Esterworth brought up his hounds to Shadonake House. It was provoking +to see all the other ladies attired in their habits, whilst her own +daughters had to come down to breakfast in their ordinary morning +dresses, because they had never been taught to ride.</p> + +<p>"Are you not going to ride?" she heard Guy Miller ask of Sophy, who was +decidedly the best looking and the pleasantest of the sisters.</p> + +<p>"No, we have never ridden at all; mamma never thought we had the time for +it," answers Sophy.</p> + +<p>"I think," said Mrs. Macpherson, turning to her hostess, "that I shall +pursue a different course with my younger girls. I feel sorry now that +Sophy and Jessie do not ride. Music and painting are, of course, the most +charming accomplishments that a woman can have; but still it is not at +all times that they are useful."</p> + +<p>"No, you cannot be always painting and playing."</p> + +<p>"Neither can you be always riding," said Mrs. Macpherson, with some +asperity, for there was a little natural jealousy between these ladies on +the subject of their girls; "but still——"</p> + +<p>"But still, you will acknowledge that I have done right in letting +Beatrice hunt. You may be quite sure that there is no accomplishment +which brings a girl so much into notice in the country. Look at her now."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macpherson looked and saw Beatrice in her habit at the far end of +the dining-room surrounded by a group of men in pink, and she also saw +her own daughters sitting neglected by themselves on the other side of +the room. She made no observation upon the contrast, for it would hardly +have been polite to have done so; but she made a mental note of the fact +that Mrs. Miller was a very clever woman, and that, if you want an ugly +daughter to marry, you had better let her learn how to ride across +country. And she furthermore decided that her third daughter, Alice, who +was not blessed with the gift of beauty, should forthwith abandon the +cultivation of a very feeble and uncertain vocal organ and be sent to the +nearest riding-school the very instant she returned to her home.</p> + +<p>Beatrice Miller rode very well indeed; it was the secret of her uncle's +affection for her, and many a good day's sport had the two enjoyed side +by side across the flat fields and the strong fences and wide ditches of +their native country. Her brothers, Guy and Edwin, were fond of hunting +too, but they rode clumsily and awkwardly, floundering across country in +what their uncle called, contemptuously, a thoroughly "provincial style." +But Beatrice had the true Esterworth seat and hand; she looked as if she +were born to her saddle, and, in truth, she was never so happy as when +she was in it. It was a proof of how great and real was her love to +Herbert Pryme that she fully recognized that, in becoming his wife, she +would have to live in London entirely and to give up her beloved hunting +for his sake.</p> + +<p>A woman who rides, as did Beatrice, is sure to be popular on a hunting +morning; and, with the consciousness of her lover's hands resting upon +the back of her chair, with her favourite uncle by her side, and with +several truly ardent admirers of her good riding about her, Miss Miller +was evidently enjoying herself thoroughly.</p> + +<p>The scene, indeed, was animated to the last degree. The long dining-room +was filled with guests, the table was covered with good things, a repast, +half breakfast, half luncheon, being laid out upon it. Everybody helped +themselves, with much chattering and laughter, and there was a pleasant +sense of haste and excitement, and a charming informality about the +proceedings, which made the Shadonake Hunt breakfast, which Tom +Esterworth had been prevailed upon by his niece's entreaties to allow, +a thorough and decided success.</p> + +<p>Outside there were the hounds, drawn up in patient expectation on the +grass beyond the gravel sweep, the bright coats and velvet caps of the +men, and the gray horses—on which it was the Meadowshire tradition that +they should be always mounted—standing out well against the dark +background of the leafless woods behind. Then there were a goodly company +who had not dismounted, and to whom glasses of sherry were being handed +by the servants, and who also were chattering to each other, or to those +on foot, whilst before the door, an object of interest to those within as +to those without, Sir John Kynaston was putting Miss Nevill upon her +horse.</p> + +<p>There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for her +beauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make some +depreciatory remark. The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly for +the undoubted success she had created than did the former.</p> + +<p>Maurice was standing by one of the dining-room windows, Mrs. Romer, as +usual, by his side. He alone, perhaps, of all the men who saw her vault +lightly into her saddle, made no audible remark, but perhaps his +admiration was all too plainly written in his eyes, for it called +forth a contemptuous remark from his companion—</p> + +<p>"She is a great deal too tall to look well on a horse; those big women +should never ride."</p> + +<p>"What! not with a figure so perfect as hers?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that is the third time you have spoken about her figure to-day," +said Helen, irritably. "What on earth can you see in it?" for Mrs. Romer, +who was slight almost to angularity, was, as all thin women are, openly +indignant at the masculine foible for more flowing outlines, which was +displayed with greater candour than discretion by her quasi-lover.</p> + +<p>"What do I see in it?" repeated Maurice, who was dimly conscious of her +jealousy, and was injudicious enough to lose his temper slightly over its +exhibition. "I see in it the beauty of a goddess, and the perfection of +a woman!"</p> + +<p>"Really!" with a sarcastic laugh; "how wonderfully enthusiastic and +poetical you become over Miss Nevill's charms; it is something quite new +in you, Maurice. Your interest in this 'goddess-like' young lady strikes +me as singularly warmly expressed; it is more lover-like than fraternal."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" he said, looking at her coldly and angrily. Helen had +seen that look of hard contempt in his face before; she quailed a little +before it, and was frightened at what she had said.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she said, reddening, "I know it's all right; but it does +really sound peculiar, your admiring her so much; and—and—it is hardly +flattering to me."</p> + +<p>"I don't see that it has anything to do with you," and he turned shortly +away from her.</p> + +<p>She made a step or two after him. "You will ride with me, will you not, +Maurice? You know I can't go very hard; you might give me a lead or two, +and keep near me."</p> + +<p>"You must not ask me to make any promises," he said, politely, but +coldly. "Guy Miller says there is a groom told off to look after you +ladies. Of course, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy, but +it is no use making rash engagements as to what one will do in a run."</p> + +<p>"Come, come, it's time we were off," cries out Tom Esterworth at the +further end of the room, and his stalwart figure makes its way in the +direction of the door.</p> + +<p>In a very few minutes the order "to horse" has gone forth, and the whole +company have sallied forth and are busy mounting their horses in front of +the house.</p> + +<p>Off goes the master, well in front, at a sharp trot, towards the woods on +the further slope of the hill, and off go the hounds and the whips, and +the riders, in a long and gay procession after him, down the wide avenue.</p> + +<p>"Promise me you will not stop out long, Vera," says Sir John to her as +they go side by side down the drive. "You look white and tired as it is. +Have you got a headache?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a little," confesses Vera, with a blush. "I did not sleep well."</p> + +<p>"This sitting up late night after night is not good for you," says her +lover, anxiously; "and there is the ball to-morrow night."</p> + +<p>"Yes; and I want to look my best for your mother," she said, smiling. "I +will take care of myself, John; I will go home early in time for lunch."</p> + +<p>"You are always so ready to do what I ask you. Oh, Vera, how good you +are! how little I deserve such a treasure!"</p> + +<p>"Don't," she answers, almost sharply, whilst an expression of pain +contracts her brow for an instant. "Don't say such things to me, John; +don't call me good."</p> + +<p>John Kynaston looks at her fondly. "I will not call you anything you +don't wish," he says, gently, "but I am free to think it, Vera!"</p> + +<p>The first covert is successfully drawn without much delay. A fox is +found, and breaks away across the open, and a short but sharp burst of +fifteen or twenty minutes follows. The field is an unusually large one, +and there are many out who are not in it at all. Beatrice, however, is +well up, and so is Herbert Pryme, who is not likely to be far from her +side. Close behind them follows Sir John Kynaston, and Mrs. Romer, who is +well mounted upon one of Edwin Miller's horses, keeps well up with the +rest.</p> + +<p>Vera never quite knew how it was that somehow or other she got thrown out +of that short but exciting run. She was on the wrong side of the covert +to begin with; several men were near her, but they were all strangers, +and at the time "Gone away!" was shouted, there was no one to tell her +which way to take. Two men took the left side of the copse, three others +turned to the right. Vera followed the latter, and found that the hounds +must have gone in the opposite direction, for when she got round the wood +not a trace of them was to be seen.</p> + +<p>She did not know the country well, and she hardly knew which way to turn. +It seemed to her, however, that by striking across a small field to the +left of her she would cut off a corner, and eventually come up with the +hounds again.</p> + +<p>She turned her mare short round, and put her at a big straggling hedge +which she had no fears of her being unable to compass. There was, +however, more of a drop on the further side than she had counted upon, +and in some way, as the mare landed, floundering on the further side, +something gave way, and she found that her stirrup-leather had broken.</p> + +<p>Vera pulled up and looked about her helplessly. She found herself in +a small spinney of young birch-trees, filling up the extremity of a +triangular field into which she had come. Not a sign of the hounds, or, +indeed, of any living creature was to be seen in any direction. She did +not feel inclined to go on—or even to go back home with her broken +stirrup-leather. It occurred to her that she would get off and see what +she could do towards patching it together herself.</p> + +<p>With some little difficulty, her mare being fidgety, and refusing to +stand still, she managed to dismount; but in doing so her wrist caught +against the pommel of her saddle, and was so severely wrenched backwards, +as she sprang to the ground, that she turned quite sick with the pain.</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that her wrist must be sprained; at all events, her +right hand was, for the minute, perfectly powerless. The mare, perceiving +that nothing further was expected of her, amused herself by cropping the +short grass at her feet, whilst Vera stood by her side in dire perplexity +as to what she was to do next. Just then she heard the welcome sound of a +horse's hoofs in the adjoining field, and in another minute a hat and +black coat, followed by a horse's head and forelegs appeared on the top +of the fence, and a man dropped over into the spinney just ten yards in +front of her.</p> + +<p>Vera took it to be her lover, for the brothers both hunted in black, and +there was a certain family resemblance between their broad shoulders and +the square set of their heads. She called out eagerly,</p> + +<p>"Oh, John! how glad I am to see you! I have come to grief!"</p> + +<p>"So I see; but I am not John. I hope, however, I may do as well. What is +the matter?"</p> + +<p>"It is you, Maurice? Oh, yes, you will do quite as well. I have broken my +stirrup-leather, and I am afraid I have sprained my wrist."</p> + +<p>"That sounds bad—let me see."</p> + +<p>In an instant he had sprung from his horse to help her.</p> + +<p>She looked up at him as he came, pushing the tall brushwood away as +he stepped through it. It struck her suddenly how like he was to the +photograph she had found of him at Kynaston long ago, and what a +well-made man he was, and how brave and handsome he looked in his +hunting gear.</p> + +<p>"How have you managed to hurt your wrist? Let me see it."</p> + +<p>"I wrenched it somehow in jumping down; but I don't think that it can be +sprained, for I find I can move it now a little; it is only bruised, but +it hurts me horribly."</p> + +<p>She turned back her cuff and held out the injured hand to him. Maurice +stooped over it. There was a moment's silence, the two horses stood +waiting patiently by, the solitary fields lay bare and lifeless on every +side of them, the little birch-trees rustled mysteriously overhead, the +leaden sky, with its chill curtain of unbroken gray cloud, spread +monotonously above them; there was no living thing in all the winter +landscape besides to listen or to watch them.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Maurice Kynaston caught the hand that he held to his lips, and +pressed half a dozen passionate kisses upon its outstretched palm.</p> + +<p>It was the work of half a minute, and in the next Maurice felt as if he +should die of shame and remorse.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, forgive me!" he cried, brokenly. "I am a brute—I forgot +myself—I must be mad, I think; for Heaven's sake tell me that I have not +offended you past forgiveness, Vera!"</p> + +<p>His pulses were beating wildly, his face was flushed, the hands that +still held hers shook with a nameless emotion; he looked imploringly into +her face, as if to read his sentence in her eyes, but what he saw there +arrested the torrent of repentance and regret that was upon his lips.</p> + +<p>Upon Vera's face there was no flush either of shame or anger. No storm +of indignation, no passion of insulted feeling; only eyes wide open and +terror-stricken, that met his with the unspeakable horror that one sees +sometimes in those of a hunted animal. She was pale as death. Then +suddenly the colour flushed hotly back into her face; she averted her +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Let me go home," she said, in a faint voice; "help me to get on to my +horse, Maurice."</p> + +<p>There was neither resentment nor anger in her voice, only a great +weariness.</p> + +<p>He obeyed her in silence. Possibly he felt that he had stood for one +instant upon the verge of a precipice, and that miraculously her face had +saved him, he knew not how, where words would only have dragged him down +to unutterable ruin.</p> + +<p>What had it been that had thus saved him? What was the meaning of that +terror that had been written in her lovely eyes? Since she was not angry, +what had she feared?</p> + +<p>Maurice asked himself these questions vainly all the way home. Not a word +was spoken between them; they rode in absolute silence side by side until +they reached the house.</p> + +<p>Then, as he lifted her off her horse at the hall-door, he whispered,</p> + +<p>"Have you forgiven me?"</p> + +<p>"There was nothing to forgive," she answered, in a low, strained voice. +She spoke wearily, as one who is suffering physical pain. But, as she +spoke, the hand that he still held seemed almost, to his fancy, to linger +for a second with a gentle fluttering pressure within his grasp.</p> + +<p>Miss Nevill went into the house, having utterly forgotten that she had +sprained her wrist; a fact which proves indisputably, I suppose, that the +injury could not have been of a very serious nature.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<h3>PEACOCK'S FEATHERS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That practised falsehood under saintly show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Milton</span>, "Paradise Lost."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Old Lady Kynaston arrived at Shadonake in the worst possible temper. Her +butler and factotum, who always made every arrangement for her when she +was about to travel, had for once been unequal to cope with Bradshaw; +he had looked out the wrong train, and had sent off his lady and her maid +half-an-hour too late from Walpole Lodge.</p> + +<p>The consequence was that, instead of reaching Shadonake comfortably at +half-past six in the afternoon, Lady Kynaston had to wait for the next +train. She ate her dinner alone, in London, at the Midland Railway Hotel, +and never reached her destination till half-past nine on the night of the +ball.</p> + +<p>Before she had half completed her toilette the guests were beginning to +arrive.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I must go down and receive these people, dear Lady +Kynaston," said Mrs. Miller, who had remained in her guest's room full +of regret and sympathy at the <i>contretemps</i> of her journey.</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear me! yes, Caroline—pray go down. I shall be all the quicker for +being left alone. Not <i>that</i> cap, West; the one with the Spanish point, +of course. Dear me, how I do hate all this hurry and confusion!"</p> + +<p>"I am so afraid you will be tired," murmured Mrs. Miller, soothingly. +"Would you like me to send Miss Nevill up to your room? It might be +pleasanter for you than to meet her downstairs."</p> + +<p>"Good gracious, no!" exclaimed the elder lady, testily. "What on earth +should I be in such a hurry for! I shall see quite as much of her as I +want by-and-by, I have no doubt."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller retired, and the old lady was left undisturbed to finish +her toilette, during which it may fairly be assumed that that dignified +personage, Mrs. West, had a hard time of it.</p> + +<p>When she issued forth from her room, dressed, like a little fairy +godmother, in point lace and diamonds, the dancing downstairs was in +full swing.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston paused for a minute at the top of the broad staircase to +look down upon the bright scene below. The hall was full of people. Girls +in many-coloured dresses passed backwards and forwards from the ball-room +to the refreshment-room, laughing and chatting to their partners; elderly +people were congregated about the doorways gossiping and shaking hands +with new-comers, or watching their daughters with pleased or anxious +faces, according to the circumstances of their lot. Everybody was talking +at once. There came up a pleasant confusion of sound—happy voices +mingling with the measured strains of the dance-music. In a sheltered +corner behind the staircase, Beatrice and Herbert Pryme had settled +themselves down comfortably for a chat. Lady Kynaston saw them.</p> + +<p>"Caroline is a fool!" she muttered to herself. "All the balls in the +world won't get that girl married as she wishes. She has set her heart +upon that briefless barrister. I saw it as plain as daylight last season. +As to entertaining all this <i>cohue</i> of aborigines, Caroline might spare +her trouble and her money, as far as the girl is concerned."</p> + +<p>And then, coming slowly down the staircase, Lady Kynaston saw something +which restored her to good temper at once.</p> + +<p>The something was her younger son. She had caught sight of him through an +open doorway in the conservatory. His back was turned to her, and he was +bending over a lady who was sitting down, and whose face was concealed +behind him.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston stood still with that sudden <i>serrement de coeur</i> which +comes to us all when we see the creature we love best on earth. He did +not see her, and she could not see his face, because it was turned away +from her; but she knew, by his very attitude, the way he bent down over +his companion, by the eager manner in which he was talking to her, and by +the way in which he was evidently entirely engrossed and absorbed in what +he was saying—that he was enjoying himself, and that he was happy.</p> + +<p>The mother's heart all went out towards him; the mother's eyes moistened +as she looked.</p> + +<p>The couple in the conservatory were alone. A Chinese lantern, swung high +up above, shed down a soft radiance upon them. Tall camellia bushes, +covered with waxen blossoms and cool shiny leaves, were behind them; +banks of long-fronded, feathery ferns framed them in like a picture. +Maurice's handsome figure stood up tall and strong amongst the greenery; +the dress of the woman he was with lay in soft diaphanous folds upon the +ground beyond him. One white arm rested on her lap, one tiny foot peeped +out from below the laces of her skirt. But Lady Kynaston could not see +her face.</p> + +<p>"I wonder who she is," she said to herself. "It is not Helen. She has +peacock's feathers on her dress—bad luck, I believe! Dear boy, he looks +thoroughly happy. I will not disturb him now."</p> + +<p>And she passed on through the hall into the large drawing-room, where the +dancing was going on.</p> + +<p>The first person she caught sight of there was her eldest son. He was +dancing a quadrille, and his partner was a short young lady in a +strawberry-coloured tulle dress, covered with trails of spinach-green +fern leaves. This young person had a round, chubby face, with bright +apple-hued cheeks, a dark, bullet-shaped head, and round, bead-like eyes +that glanced about her rapidly like those of a frightened dickey-bird. +Her dress was cut very low, and the charms she exhibited were not +captivating. Her arms were very red, and her shoulders were mottled: the +latter is considered to be a healthy sign in a baby, but is hardly a +beautiful characteristic in a grown woman.</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> is my daughter-in-law," said Lady Kynaston to herself, and she +almost groaned aloud. "She is <i>worse</i> even than I thought! Countrified +and common to the last degree; there will be no licking that face or that +figure into shape—they are hopeless! Elise and Worth combined could do +nothing with her! John must be mad. No wonder she is good, poor thing," +added the naughty little old lady, cynically. "A woman with <i>that</i> +appearance can never be tempted to be anything else!"</p> + +<p>The quadrille came to an end, and Sir John, after depositing his partner +at the further side of the room, came up to his mother.</p> + +<p>"My dear mother, how are you? I am so sorry about your journey; you must +be dead beat. What a fool Bates was to make such a mistake." He was +looking about the room as he spoke. "I must introduce you to Vera."</p> + +<p>"Yes, introduce me to her at once," said his mother, in a resigned and +depressed tone of voice. She would like to have added, "And pray get it +over as soon as you can." What she did say was only, "Bring her up to me +now. The young lady you have just been dancing with, I suppose!"</p> + +<p>"What!" cried Sir John, and burst out laughing. "Good Heavens, mother! +that was Miss Smiles, the daughter of the parson of Lutterton. You don't +mean to say you thought a little ugly chit like <i>that</i> was my Vera!"</p> + +<p>His mother suddenly laid her hand upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"Who is that lovely woman who has just come in with Maurice?" she +exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Her son followed the direction of her eyes, and beheld Vera standing in +the doorway that led from the conservatory by his brother's side.</p> + +<p>Without a word he passed his mother's hand through his arm and led her +across the room.</p> + +<p>"Vera, this is my mother," he said. And Lady Kynaston owned afterwards +that she never felt so taken aback and so utterly struck dumb with +astonishment in her life.</p> + +<p>Her two sons looked at her with amusement and some triumph. The little +surprise had been so thoroughly carried out; the contrast of the truth to +what they knew she had expected was too good a joke not to be enjoyed.</p> + +<p>"Not much what you expected, little mother, is it?" said Maurice, +laughingly. But to Vera, who knew nothing, it was no laughing matter.</p> + +<p>She put both her hands out tremblingly and hesitatingly—with a pretty +pleading look of deprecating deference in her eyes—and the little old +lady, who valued beauty and grace and talent so much that she could +barely tolerate goodness itself without them, was melted at once.</p> + +<p>"My dear," she said, "you are beautiful, and I am going to love you; but +these naughty boys made me think you were something like little Miss +Smiles."</p> + +<p>"Nay, mother, it was your own diseased imagination," laughed Maurice; +"but come, Vera, I am not going to be cheated of this waltz—if John does +not want you to dance with him, that is to say."</p> + +<p>John nodded pleasantly to them, and the two whirled away together into +the midst of the throng of dancers.</p> + +<p>"Well, mother?"</p> + +<p>"My dear, she is a very beautiful creature, and I have been a silly, +prejudiced old woman."</p> + +<p>"And you forgive her for being poor, and for living in a vicarage instead +of a castle?"</p> + +<p>"She would be a queen if she were a beggar and lived in a mud hovel!" +answered his mother, heartily, and Sir John was satisfied.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston's eyes were following the couple as they danced: for all +her admiration and her enthusiasm, there was a little anxiety in their +gaze. She had not forgotten the little picture she had caught a glimpse +of in the conservatory, nor had her woman's eyes failed to notice that +Vera's dress was trimmed with peacock's feathers.</p> + +<p>Where was Helen? Lady Kynaston said to herself; and why was Maurice +devoting himself to his future sister-in-law instead of to her?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Romer, you may be sure, had not been far off. Her sharp eyes had +seen Vera and Maurice disappear together into the conservatory. She could +have told to a second how long they had remained there; and again, when +they came out, she had watched the little family scene that had taken +place at the door. She had seen the look of delighted surprise on Lady +Kynaston's face; she had noted how pleased and how proud of Vera the +brothers had looked, and then how happily Maurice and Vera had gone off +again together.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean?" Helen asked herself, bitterly. "Is Sir John a fool +or blind that he does not see what is going on under his nose? She has +got him, and his money, and his place; what does she want with Maurice +too? Why can't she let him alone—she is taking him from me."</p> + +<p>She watched them eagerly and feverishly. They stood still for a moment +near her; she could not hear what they said, but she could see the look +in Maurice's eyes as he bent towards his partner.</p> + +<p>Can a woman who has known what love is ever be mistaken about that?</p> + +<p>Vera, all wondering and puzzled, might be but dimly conscious of the +meaning in the eyes that met hers; her own drooped, half troubled, half +confused, before them. But to Helen, who knew what love's signals were, +there was no mystery whatever in the passion in his down-bent glance.</p> + +<p>"He loves her!" she said to herself, whilst a sharp pang, almost of +physical pain, shot through her heart. "She shall never get him!—never! +never! Not though one of us die for it! They are false, both of them. I +swear they shall never be happy together!"</p> + +<p>"Why are you not dancing, Mrs. Romer?" said a voice at her elbow.</p> + +<p>"I will dance with you, Sir John, if you will ask me," answers Helen, +smiling.</p> + +<p>Sir John responds, as in duty bound, by passing his arm around her waist.</p> + +<p>"When are you going to be married, Sir John?" she asks him, when the +first pause in the dance gives her the opportunity of speech.</p> + +<p>Sir John looks rather confused. "Well, to tell you the truth, I have +not spoken to Vera yet. I have not liked to hurry her—I thought, +perhaps——"</p> + +<p>"Why don't you speak to her? A woman never thinks any better of a man +for being diffident in such matters."</p> + +<p>"You think not? But you see Vera is——"</p> + +<p>"Vera is very much like all other women, I suppose; and you are not +versed in the ways of the sex."</p> + +<p>Sir John demurred in his own mind as to the first part of her speech. +Vera was certainly not like other women; but then he acknowledged the +truth of Mrs. Romer's last remark thoroughly.</p> + +<p>"No, I dare say I don't know much about women's ways," he admitted; "and +you think——"</p> + +<p>"I think that Vera would be glad enough to be married as soon as she can. +An engagement is a trying ordeal. One is glad enough to get settled down. +What is the use of waiting when once everything is arranged?"</p> + +<p>Sir John flushed a little. The prospect of a speedy marriage was pleasant +to him. It was what he had been secretly longing for—only that, in his +slow way, he had not yet been able to suggest it.</p> + +<p>"Do you really think she would like it?" he asked, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"Of course she would; any woman would."</p> + +<p>"And how long do you think the preparations would take?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, a month or three weeks is ample time to get clothes in."</p> + +<p>His pulses beat hotly at the bare possibility of such a thing. To possess +his Vera in so short a time seemed something too great and too wonderful +to be true.</p> + +<p>"Do not lose any more time," continued Helen, following up the impression +she saw she had made upon him. "Speak to her this evening; get her to fix +your wedding-day within the month; believe me, a man gets no advantage by +putting things off too long; and there are dangers, too, in your case."</p> + +<p>"Dangers! How do you mean?" he said, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing particular—only she is very handsome, and she is young, and +not accustomed, I dare say, to admiration. Other men may admire her as +well as you."</p> + +<p>"If they did, it could do her no harm," he answered, stiffly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, of course not; but you can't keep other men from looking at +her. When once she is your wife you will have her more completely to +yourself."</p> + +<p>Sir John made no particular answer to this; but when he had done dancing +with Mrs. Romer, he led her back to her seat and thanked her gravely and +courteously for her suggestions.</p> + +<p>"You have done me a great service, Mrs. Romer, and I am infinitely +obliged to you," he said, and then went his way to find Vera.</p> + +<p>He was not jealous; but there was a certain uneasiness in his mind. It +might be, indeed, true that others would admire and love Vera; others +more worthy of her, more equally mated with her youth and loveliness; and +he, he said to himself in his humility with regard to her, he had so +little to offer her—nothing but his love. He knew himself to be grave +and quiet; there was nothing about him to enchain her to him. He lacked +brilliancy in manner and conversation; he was dull; he was, perhaps, +even prosy. He knew it very well himself; but suppose Vera should find it +out, and find that she had made a mistake! The bare thought of it was +enough to make him shudder.</p> + +<p>No; Mrs. Romer was a clever, well-intentioned little woman. She had meant +to give him a hint in all kindness, and he would not be slow to take it. +What she had meant to say was, "Take her yourself quickly, or some one +else will take her from you."</p> + +<p>And Sir John said to himself that he would so take her, and that as +quickly as possible.</p> + +<p>Standing talking to her younger son, later on that evening, Lady Kynaston +said to him, suddenly,</p> + +<p>"Why does Vera wear peacock's feathers?"</p> + +<p>"Why should she not?"</p> + +<p>"They are bad luck."</p> + +<p>Maurice laughed. "I never knew you to be superstitious before, mother."</p> + +<p>"I am not so really; but from choice I would avoid anything that bears an +unlucky interpretation. I saw her with you in the conservatory as I came +downstairs."</p> + +<p>Maurice turned suddenly red. "Did you?" he asked, a little anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I did not know it was her, of course. I did not see her face, only +her dress, and I noticed that it was trimmed with peacock's feathers; +that was what made me recognize her afterwards."</p> + +<p>"That was bad luck, at all events," said Maurice, almost involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Why?" asked Lady Kynaston, looking up at him sharply. But Maurice would +not tell her why.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston asked no more questions; but she pondered, and she watched. +Captain Kynaston did not dance again with Vera that night, and he did +dance several times with Mrs. Romer; it did not escape her notice, +however, that he seemed absent and abstracted, and that his face bore its +hardest and sternest aspect throughout the remainder of the evening.</p> + +<p>So the ball at Shadonake came to an end, as balls do, with the first +gleams of daylight; and nothing was left of all the gay crowd who had so +lately filled the brilliant rooms but several sleepy people creeping up +slowly to bed, and a great <i>chiffonade</i> of tattered laces, and flowers, +and coloured scraps littered all over the polished floor of the +ball-room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<h3>HER WEDDING DRESS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Those obstinate questionings<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of sense and outward things,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Fallings from us, vanishings,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Blank misgivings—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High instincts before which our moral nature<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Wordsworth.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div></div> + + +<p>"Vera, are you not coming to look at it?"</p> + +<p>"Presently."</p> + +<p>"It is all laid out on your bed, and you ought to try it on; it might +want alterations."</p> + +<p>"Oh, there is plenty of time!"</p> + +<p>"It is downright affectation!" says old Mrs. Daintree, angrily, to her +daughter-in-law, as she and Marion leave the room together; "no girl can +really be indifferent to a wedding dress covered with yards of lovely +Brussels lace flounces; she ought to be ashamed of herself for her +ingratitude to Lady Kynaston for such a present; she must really want +to see it, only she likes playing the fine lady beforehand!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think it is that," says Marion, gently; "I don't believe Vera is +well."</p> + +<p>"Fiddlesticks!" snorts her mother-in-law. "A woman who is going to marry +ten thousand a year within ten days is bound to be well."</p> + +<p>Vera sits alone; she leans her head against the window, her hands lie +idle in her lap, her eyes mechanically follow the rough, gray clouds that +rack across the winter sky. In little more than a week she will be Vera +Nevill no longer; she will have gained all that she desired and tried +for—wealth, position, Kynaston—and Sir John! She should be well +content, seeing that it has been her own doing all along. No one has +forced or persuaded her into this engagement, no one has urged her on to +a course contrary to her own inclination, or her own judgment. It has +been her own act throughout. And yet, as she sits alone in the twilight, +and counts over on her fingers the few short days that intervene between +to-day and her bridal morning, hot miserable tears rise to her eyes, +and fall slowly down, one by one, upon her clasped hands. She does not +ask herself why she weeps; possibly she dares not. Only her thoughts +somehow—by that strange connection of ideas which links something in +our present to some other thing in our past, and which apparently is in +no way dependent upon it—go back instinctively, as it were, to her dead +sister, the Princess Marinari.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my poor darling Theodora!" she murmurs, half aloud; "if you had +lived, you would have taken care of your Vera; if you had not died, I +should never have come here, nor ever have known—any of them."</p> + +<p>And then she hears Marion's voice calling to her from the top of the +stairs.</p> + +<p>"Vera! Vera! do come up and see it before it gets quite dark."</p> + +<p>She rises hastily and dashes away her tears.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with me to-day!" she says to herself, impatiently. +"Have I not everything in the world I wish for? I am happy—of course +I am happy. I am coming, Marion, instantly."</p> + +<p>Upstairs her wedding dress, a soft cloud of rich silk and fleecy lace, +relieved with knots of flowers, dark-leaved myrtle, and waxen orange +blossoms, lies spread out upon her bed. Marion stands contemplating it, +wrapt in ecstatic admiration; old Mrs. Daintree has gone away.</p> + +<p>"It is perfectly lovely! I am so glad you had silk instead of satin; +nothing could show off Lady Kynaston's lace so well: is it not beautiful? +you ought to try it on. Why, Vera! what is the matter? I believe you have +been crying."</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of Theodora," she murmurs.</p> + +<p>"Ah! poor dear Theodora!" assents Marion, with a compassionate sigh; "how +she would have liked to have known of your marriage; how pleased she +would have been."</p> + +<p>Vera looks at her sister. "Marion," she says, in a low earnest voice; +"if—if I should break it off, what would you say?"</p> + +<p>"Break it off!" cries her sister, horror-struck. "Good heavens, Vera! +what can you mean? Have you gone suddenly mad? What is the matter with +you? Break off a match like this at the last minute? You must be +demented!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course," with a sudden change of manner; "of course I did not +mean it, it only came into my head for a minute; of course, as you say, +it is a splendid match for me. What should I want to break it off for? +What should I gain? what, indeed?" She spoke feverishly and excitedly, +laughing a little harshly as she spoke.</p> + +<p>Marion looked at her anxiously. "I hope to goodness you will never say +such horrid things to anybody else; it sounds dreadful, Vera, as if +Eustace and I were forcing you into it; as if you did not want to marry +Sir John yourself."</p> + +<p>"Of course I want to marry him!" interrupted Vera, with unreasonable +sharpness.</p> + +<p>"Then, pray don't make a fool of yourself, my dear, by talking about +breaking it off."</p> + +<p>"It was only a joke. Break it off! how could I? The best match in the +county, as you say. I am not going to make a fool of myself; don't be +afraid, Marion. It would be so inconvenient, too; the trousseau all +bought, the breakfast ordered, the guests invited; even the wedding dress +here, all finished and ready to put on, and ten thousand a year waiting +for me! Oh, no, I am not going to be such an utter fool!"</p> + +<p>She laughed; but her laughter was almost more sad than her tears, and her +sister left her, saddened and puzzled by her manner.</p> + +<p>It was now nearly two months since the ball at Shadonake; and, soon after +that eventful visit, Vera had begun to be employed in preparing for her +wedding-day, which had been fixed for the 27th of February; for Sir John +had taken Mrs. Romer's hint, and had pressed an early marriage upon her. +Vera had made no objection; what objection, indeed, could she have found +to make? She had acquiesced readily in her lover's suggestions, and had +set to work to prepare herself for her marriage.</p> + +<p>All this time Captain Kynaston had not been in Meadowshire at all; he had +declined his brother's hospitality, and had gone to spend his leave +amongst other friends in Somersetshire, where he had started a couple of +hunters, and wrote word to Sir John that the sport was of such a very +superior nature that he was unable to tear himself away.</p> + +<p>Within a fortnight, however, of Sir John's wedding, Maurice did yield at +last to his brother's pressing request, and came up from Somersetshire to +Kynaston. Last Sunday he had suddenly appeared in the Kynaston pew in +Sutton Church by Sir John's side, and had shaken hands with Vera and her +relations on coming out of church, and had walked across the vicarage +garden by the side of Mrs. Daintree, Vera having gone on in front with +Tommy and Minnie. And it was from that moment that Vera had as suddenly +discovered that she was utterly and thoroughly wretched, and that she +dreaded her wedding-day with a strange and unaccountable terror.</p> + +<p>She told herself that she was out of health, that the excitement and +bustle of the necessary preparations had over-tried her, that her nerves +were upset, her spirits depressed by reason of the solemnity a woman +naturally feels at the approach of so important a change in her life. +She assured herself aloud, day after day, that she was perfectly happy +and content, that she was the very luckiest and most fortunate of women, +and that she would sooner be Sir John's wife than the wife of any one +else in the world. And she told it to herself so often and so +emphatically, that there were whole hours, and even whole days together, +when she believed in these self-assurances implicitly and thoroughly.</p> + +<p>All this time she saw next to nothing of Maurice Kynaston; the weather +was mild and open, and he went out hunting every day. Sir John, on the +other hand, was much with her; a constant necessity for his presence +seemed to possess her. She was never thoroughly content but when he was +with her; ever restless and ill at ease in his absence.</p> + +<p>No one could be more thoroughly convinced than Vera of the entire wisdom +of the marriage she was about to make. It was, she felt persuaded, the +best and the happiest thing she could have done with her life. Wealth, +position, affection, were all laid at her feet; and her husband, +moreover, would be a man whose goodness and whose devotion to her could +never fail to command her respect. What more could a woman who, like +herself, was fully alive to the importance of the good things of this +world desire? Surely nothing more. Vera, when she was left alone with +the glories of her wedding garment, took herself to task for her foolish +words to her sister.</p> + +<p>"I am a fool!" she said to herself, half angrily, as she bundled all the +white silk and the rich lace unceremoniously away into an empty drawer of +her wardrobe. "I am a fool to say such things even to Marion. It looks, +as she says, as if I were being forced into a rich marriage by my +friends. I am very fond of John; I shall make him a most exemplary wife, +and I shall look remarkably well in the family diamonds, and that is all +that can possibly be required of me."</p> + +<p>Having thus settled things comfortably in her own mind, she went +downstairs again, and was in such good spirits, and so radiant with +smiles for the rest of the evening, that Mr. Daintree remarked to his +wife, when they had retired into their conjugal chamber, that he had +never seen Vera look so well or so happy.</p> + +<p>"Dear child," he said, "it is a great comfort to me to see it, for just +at first I feared that she had been influenced by the money and the +position, and that her heart was not in it; but now she has evidently +become much attached to Sir John, and is perfectly happy; and he is a +most excellent man, and in every way worthy of her. Did I tell you, +Marion, that he told me the chancel should be begun immediately after the +wedding? It is a pity it could not have been done before; but we shall +just get it finished by Easter."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that. We must fill the church with flowers for the 27th, +and then its appalling ugliness will not be too visible. Of course, the +building could hardly have been begun in the middle of winter."</p> + +<p>But if Mrs. Eustace Daintree differed at all from her husband upon the +subject of her sister's serene and perfect happiness, she, like a wise +woman, kept her doubts to herself, and spoke no word of them to destroy +the worthy vicar's peace of mind upon the subject.</p> + +<p>The next morning Sir John came down from the Hall to the vicarage with +a cloud upon his brow, and requested Vera to grant him a few minutes' +private conversation. Vera put on her sable cloak and hat, and went out +with him into the garden.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"I am exceedingly vexed with my brother," he answered.</p> + +<p>"What has Maurice done?"</p> + +<p>"He tells me this morning that he will not stop for the wedding, nor be +my best man. He talks of going away to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Vera glanced at him. He looked excessively annoyed; his face, usually so +kind and placid, was ruffled and angry; he flicked the grass impatiently +with his stick.</p> + +<p>"I have been talking to him for an hour, and cannot get him to change his +mind, or even to tell me why he will not stay; in fact, he has no good +reason for going. He <i>must</i> stay."</p> + +<p>"Does it matter very much?" she asked, gently.</p> + +<p>"Of course it matters. My mother is not able to be present; it would not +be prudent after her late attack of bronchitis. My only brother surely +might make a point of being at my wedding."</p> + +<p>"But if he has other engagements——"</p> + +<p>"He has no other engagement!" he interrupted, angrily; "He cannot find +any but the most paltry excuses. It is behaving with great unkindness to +myself, but that is a small matter. What I do mind and will not submit to +is, that it is a deliberate insult to you."</p> + +<p>"An insult to me! Oh! John, how can that be?" she said, in some surprise; +and then, suddenly, she flushed hotly. She knew what he meant. There had +been plenty of people to say that Sir John Kynaston was marrying beneath +himself—a nobody who was unworthy of him: these murmurs had reached +Vera's ears, but she had not heeded them since Lady Kynaston had been on +her side. She saw, however, that Sir John feared that the absence of his +mother and his brother at his wedding might be misconstrued into a sign +that they also disapproved of his bride.</p> + +<p>"I don't think Maurice would wish to slight me," she said, gently.</p> + +<p>"No; but, then, he must not behave as though he did. I assure you, Vera, +if he perseveres in his determination, I shall be most deeply hurt. I +have always endeavoured to be a kind brother to him, and, if he cannot do +this small thing to please me, I shall consider him most ungrateful."</p> + +<p>"That I am sure he is not," she answered, earnestly; "little as I know +him, I can assure you that he never loses an occasion of saying how much +he feels your goodness and generosity to him."</p> + +<p>"Then he must prove it. Look here, Vera, will you go up to the Hall now +and talk to him? He is not hunting to-day; you will find him in the +library."</p> + +<p>"I?" she cried, looking half frightened; "what can I do? You had much +better ask him yourself."</p> + +<p>"I have asked him over and over again, till I am sick of asking! If you +were to put it as a personal request from yourself, I am sure he would +see how important to us both it is that he should be present at our +wedding."</p> + +<p>"Pray don't ask me to do such a thing; I really cannot," she said, +hastily.</p> + +<p>Sir John looked at her in some surprise; there was an amount of distress +in her face that struck him as inadequate to the small thing he had asked +of her.</p> + +<p>"Why, Vera! have you grown shy? Surely you will not mind doing so small a +thing to please me? You need not stay long, and you have your hat on all +ready. I have to speak to your brother-in-law about the chancel; I have a +letter from the architect this morning; and everything must be settled +about it before we go. If you will go up and speak to Maurice now, I will +join you—say in twenty minutes from now," consulting his watch, "at the +lodge gates. You will go, won't you, dear, just to please me?"</p> + +<p>She did not know how to refuse; she had no excuse to give, no reason that +she could put into words why she should shrink with such a dreadful +terror from this interview with his brother which he was forcing upon +her. She told him that she would go, and Sir John, leaving her, went into +the house well satisfied to do his business with the vicar.</p> + +<p>And Vera went slowly up the lane alone towards the Hall. She did not know +what she was going to say to Maurice; she hardly knew, indeed, what it +was she had been commissioned to ask of him; nor in what words her +request was to be made. She thought no longer of her wedding-day, nor of +the lover who had just parted with her. Only before her eyes there came +again the little wintry copse of birch-trees; the horses standing by, the +bare fields stretching around, and back into her heart there flashed the +memory of those quick, hot kisses pressed upon her outstretched hand; the +one short—and alas! all too perilous—glimpse that had been revealed to +her of the inner life and soul of the man whose lightest touch she had +learnt that day to fear as she feared no other living thing.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<h3>VERA'S MESSAGE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alas! how easily things go wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A word too much, or a sigh too long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there comes a mist and a driving rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And life is never the same again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>The library at Kynaston was the room which Sir John had used as his only +sitting-room since he had come down to stay in his own house. When his +wedding with Miss Nevill had been definitely fixed, there had come down +from town a whole army of decorators and painters and upholsterers, who +had set to work to renovate and adorn the rest of the house for the +advent of the bride, who was so soon to be brought home to it.</p> + +<p>They had altered things in various ways, they had improved a few, and +they had spoiled a good many more; they had, at all events, introduced a +wholesome and thorough system of cleansing and cleaning throughout the +house, that had been very welcome to the soul of Mrs. Eccles; but into +the library they had not penetrated. The old bookshelves remained +untouched; the old books, in their musty brown calf bindings, were +undesecrated by profaning hands. All sorts of quaint chairs and bureaus, +gathered together out of every other room in the house, had congregated +here. The space over the mantelpiece was adorned by a splendid portrait +by Vandyke, flanked irreverently on either side by a series of old +sporting prints, representing the whole beginning, continuation, and +end of a steeple-chase course, and which, it is melancholy to state, were +far more highly appreciated by Sir John than the beautiful and valuable +picture which they surrounded. Below these, and on the mantelpiece +itself, were gathered together a heterogeneous collection of pipes, +spurs, horse-shoes, bits, and other implements, which the superintending +hands of any lady would have straightway relegated to the stables.</p> + +<p>In this library Sir John and his brother fed, smoked, wrote and read, +and lived, in fact, entirely in full and disorderly enjoyment of their +bachelorhood and its privileges. The room, consequently, was in a +condition of untidiness and confusion, which was the despair of Mrs. +Eccles and the delight of the two men themselves, who had even forbidden +the entrance of any housemaid into it upon pain of instant dismissal. +Mrs. Eccles submitted herself with resignation to the inevitable, and +comforted herself with the reflection that the time of unchecked +masculine dominion was well-nigh over, and that the days were very near +at hand when "Miss Vera" was coming to alter all this.</p> + +<p>"Ah, well, it won't last long, poor gentleman!" the worthy lady said to +herself, in allusion to Sir John's uninvaded sanctum; "let him enjoy his +pigstye while he can. When his wife comes she will soon have the place +swept clean out for him."</p> + +<p>So the papers, and the books, and the pipes, and the tobacco-tins were +left heaped up all over the tables and chairs, and the fox-terriers sat +in high places on the sofa cushions; and the brothers smoked their pipes +after their meals, emptied their ashes on to the tables, threw their +empty soda-water bottles into a corner of the room, wore their slippers +at all hours, and lapsed, in fact, into all those delightful methods of +living at ease practised by the vicious nature inherent in man when he is +unchecked by female influence; whilst Mrs. Eccles groaned in silence, but +possessed her soul in patience by reason of that change which she knew to +be coming over the internal economy of Kynaston Hall.</p> + +<p>Maurice Kynaston reclines at ease in the most comfortable arm-chair in +the room, his feet reposing upon a second chair; his pipe is in his +mouth, and his hands in his trouser pockets; he wears a loose, gray +shooting-jacket, and Sir John's favourite terrier, Vic, has curled +herself into a little round white ball upon his outstretched legs. +Maurice has just been reading his morning's correspondence, and a letter +from Helen, announcing that her grandfather is ill and confined to his +room by bronchitis, is still in his hand. He looks gloomily and +abstractedly into the red logs of the wood fire. The door opens.</p> + +<p>"Any orders for the stable, Captain?"</p> + +<p>"None to-day, Mrs. Eccles."</p> + +<p>"You are not going out hunting?"</p> + +<p>"No, I am going to take a rest. By the way, Mrs. Eccles, I shall be +leaving to-morrow, so you can see about packing my things."</p> + +<p>"Dear me! sir, I hope we shall see you again, at the wedding."</p> + +<p>"Very unlikely; I don't like weddings, Mrs. Eccles; the only one I ever +mean to dance at is yours. When you get married, you let me know."</p> + +<p>"Law! sir, how you do go on!" said the old lady, laughing; not +ill-pleased at the imputation. "Dear me," she went on, looking round the +room uneasily, "did I ever see such a mess in all my born days. Now Sir +John is out, sir, I suppose you couldn't let me——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Certainly not</i>—if you mean bring in a broom and a dust-pan! Just let +me catch you at it, that's all!"</p> + +<p>The housekeeper shook her head with a resigned sigh.</p> + +<p>"Ah, well! it can't last long; when Miss Vera comes she'll turn the whole +place inside-out, and all them nasty pipes, and dogs and things will be +cleared away."</p> + +<p>"Do you think so?" suddenly sitting upright in his chair. "Wait a bit, +Mrs. Eccles; don't go yet. Do you think Miss Vera will have things her +own way with my brother?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! sir, what do you ask me for?" she answered, with discreet +evasiveness. "Surely you must know more about Miss Vera than I can tell +you."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Eccles went away, and Maurice got up and leant against the +mantelpiece looking down gloomingly, into the fire. Vic, dislodged from +his knee, sat up beside him, resting her little white paws on the edge of +the fender, warming her nose.</p> + +<p>"What a fool I am!" said Maurice, aloud to himself. "I can't even hear +her name mentioned by a servant without wanting to talk about her. Yes, +it's clear he loves her—but does she love him? Will she be happy? Yes, +of course, she will get her own way. Will that be enough for her? Ah!" +turning suddenly round and taking half-a-dozen steps across the room. "It +is high time I went. I am a coward and a traitor to linger on here; I +will go. Why did I say to-morrow—why have I not settled to go this very +day? If I were not so weak and so irresolute, I should be gone by this +time. I ought never, knowing what I do know of myself—I ought never to +have come back at all." He went back to the fire and sat down again, +lifting the little dog back on to his knee. "I shall get over it, I +suppose," he murmured. "Men don't die of this sort of thing; she will +marry, and she will think me unkind because I shall never come near her; +but even if she knew the truth, it would never make any difference to +her; and by-and-by I too, I suppose, shall marry." The soliloquy died +away into silence. Maurice stroked the dog and looked at the fire +dreamily and somewhat drearily.</p> + +<p>Some one tapped at the door.</p> + +<p>"Come in! What is it, Mrs. Eccles?" he cried, rousing himself.</p> + +<p>The door softly opened and there entered, not Mrs. Eccles, but Vera +Nevill.</p> + +<p>Captain Kynaston sprang hastily to his feet. "Oh, Vera! I beg your +pardon—how do you do? I suppose you have come for John? You must have +missed him; he started for the vicarage half-an-hour ago."</p> + +<p>"No, I have seen him. I have come to see you, Maurice, if you don't +mind." She spoke rather timidly, not looking at him.</p> + +<p>"I am delighted, of course," he answered, a little constrainedly.</p> + +<p>Vera stood up on the hearth divesting herself of her long fur cloak; she +flung it over the back of a chair, and then took off her hat and gloves. +Maurice was strangely unlike himself this morning, for he never offered +to help her in these operations, he only stood leaning against the corner +of the mantelpiece opposite her, looking at her.</p> + +<p>Vera stooped down and stroked the little fox-terrier; when she had done +so, she raised her head and met his eyes.</p> + +<p>Did she see, ere he hastily averted them, all the hunger and all the +longing that filled them as he watched her? He, in his turn, stooped and +replenished the fire.</p> + +<p>"John sent me to talk to you, Maurice," began Vera, hurriedly, like one +repeating a lesson; "he tells me you will not be with us on the 27th; is +that so?"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, but I am obliged to go away," he answered.</p> + +<p>"John is dreadfully hurt, Maurice. I hope you will alter your mind."</p> + +<p>"Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?" he asked, +looking at her.</p> + +<p>"For both of us. Of course it will be a great disappointment if you are +not there. You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply."</p> + +<p>"And you; will you feel it?" he persisted. She coloured a little.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall be very sorry," she answered, nervously. "I should not like +John to be vexed on his wedding-day; he has been a kind brother to you, +Maurice, and it seems hard that you cannot do this little thing to show +your sense of it."</p> + +<p>"Believe me, I show my gratitude to my brother just as well in staying +away as in remaining," he answered, earnestly. "Do not urge me any +further, Vera; I would do anything in the world to please John, but +I cannot be present at your wedding."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence; the fire flickered up merrily between them; +a red-hot cinder fell out noisily from the grate; the clock ticked +steadily on the chimney-piece; the little terrier sniffed at the edge +of Vera's dress.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there came into her heart a wild desire <i>to know</i>, to eat for +once of that forbidden fruit of the tree of Eden, whence the flaming +swords in vain beckoned her back; to eat, and afterwards, perchance, to +perish of the poisonous food.</p> + +<p>A wild conflict of thought thronged into her soul. Prudence, wisdom, her +very heart itself counselled her to be still and to go. But something +stronger than all else was within her too; and something that was new and +strange, and perilously sweet to her; a something that won the day.</p> + +<p>She turned to him, stretching out her hands; the warm glow of the fire +lit up her lovely face and her eloquent pleading eyes, and flickered over +the graceful and beautiful figure, whose perfect outlines haunted his +fancy for ever.</p> + +<p>"Stay, for my sake, because I ask you!" she cried, with a sudden passion; +"or else tell me why you must go."</p> + +<p>There came no answering flash into his eyes, only he lowered them beneath +hers; he sat down suddenly, as though he was weary, on the chair whence +he had risen at her entrance, so that she stood before him, looking down +at him.</p> + +<p>There was a certain repression in his face which made him look stern and +cold, as one who struggles with a mortal temptation. He stooped over the +little dog, and became seemingly engrossed in stroking it.</p> + +<p>"I cannot stop," he said, in a cold, measured voice; "it is an +impossibility. But, since you ask me, I will tell you why. It can make no +possible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interest +or your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it is +over and you go away you will forget it again. I do not ask you to +remember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget. +This is what it is. Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing you +happiness and love. I can rejoice in your happiness. I am not so selfish +as to lament it; but you will not wish me to be there to see it when I +tell you that I have been fool enough to dare to love you myself. It is +the folly of a madman, is it not? since I have never had the slightest +hope or entertained the faintest wish to alter the conditions of your +life; nor have I even asked myself what effect such a confession as this +that you have wrung from me can have upon you. Whether it excites your +pity or your contempt, or even your amusement, it cannot in any case make +any difference to me. My folly, at all events, cannot hurt you or my +brother; it can hurt no one but myself: it cannot even signify to you. +It is only for my own sake that I am going, because one cannot bear more +than a certain amount, can one? I thought I might have been strong +enough, but I find that it would be too much; that is all. You will not +ask me to stay any more, will you?"</p> + +<p>Not once had he looked at her; not by a single sign or token had he +betrayed the slightest emotion or agitation. His voice had been steady +and unbroken; he spoke in a low and somewhat monotonous manner; it was +as though he had been relating something that in no way concerned +himself—some story that was of some other, and that other of no great +interest either to him who told it or to her who listened to the tale. +Any one suddenly coming into the room would have guessed him to be +entirely engrossed in the contemplation of the little dog between his +hands; that he was relating the story of his own heart would not have +been imagined for an instant.</p> + +<p>When he had done speaking there was an absolute silence in the room. What +he had spoken seemed to admit of no answer of any sort or kind from his +listener. He had asked for nothing; he had pleaded neither for her +sympathy nor her forgiveness, far less for any definite expression of the +effect of his words upon her. He had not, seemingly, cared to know how +they affected her. He had simply told his own story—that was all; it +concerned no one but himself. She might pity him, she might even be +amused at him, as he had said: anyhow, it made no difference to him; +he had chosen to present a picture of his inner life to her as a +doctor might have described some complicated disease to a chance +acquaintance—it was a physiological study, if she cared to look upon it +as such; if not, it did not matter. There was no possible answer that she +could make to him; no form of words by which she could even acknowledge +that she had heard him speak.</p> + +<p>She stood perfectly silent for the space of some two or three seconds; +she scarcely breathed, her very heart seemed to have ceased to beat; it +was as if she had been turned to stone. She knew not what she felt; it +was neither pain, nor joy, nor regret; it was only a sort of dull apathy +that oppressed her very being.</p> + +<p>Presently she put forth her hands, almost mechanically, and reached her +cloak and hat from the chair behind her.</p> + +<p>The soft rustle of her dress upon the carpet struck his ear; he looked up +with a start, like one waking out of a painful dream.</p> + +<p>"You are going!" he said, in his usual voice.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I am going."</p> + +<p>He stood up, facing her.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing more to be said, is there?" He said it not as though he +asked her a question, but as one asserting a fact.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, I suppose," she answered, rather wearily, not looking at him as +she spoke.</p> + +<p>"I shall not see you again, as I leave to-morrow morning by the early +train. You will, at least, wish me good-bye?"</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Maurice."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Vera; God bless you."</p> + +<p>She opened the door softly and went out. She went slowly away down the +avenue, wrapping her cloak closely around her; the wind blew cold and +chill, and she shivered a little as she walked. Presently she struck +aside along a narrow pathway through the grass that led her homewards by +a shorter cut. She had forgotten that Sir John was to wait for her at the +lodge-gates.</p> + +<p>She had forgotten his very existence. For she <i>knew</i>. She had eaten of +the tree of knowledge, and the scales had fallen for ever from her eyes.</p> + +<p>She knew that Maurice loved her—and, alas! for her—she knew also that +she loved him. And between them a great gulf was fixed; deep, and wide, +and impassable as the waters of Lethe.</p> + +<p>Out of the calm, unconscious lethargy of her maidenhood's untroubled +dreams the soul of Vera had awakened at length to the realization of the +strong, passionate woman's heart that was within her.</p> + +<p>She loved! It had come to her at last; this thing that she had scorned +and disbelieved in, and yet that, possibly, she had secretly longed for. +She had deemed herself too cold, too wise, too much set upon the good +things of earth, to be touched by that scorching fire; but now she was no +colder than any other love-sick maiden, no wiser than every other foolish +woman who had been ready to wreck her life for love in the world's +history.</p> + +<p>Surely no girl ever learnt the secret of her own heart with such dire +dismay as did Vera Nevill. There was neither joy nor gladness within her, +only a great anger against herself and her fate, and even against him +who, as he had said, had dared to love her. She had courted the avowal +from his lips, and yet she resented the words she had wrung from him. +But, more than all, she resented the treachery of the heart that was +within her.</p> + +<p>"Why did I ever see him?" she cried aloud in her bitterness, striking her +hands wildly against each other. "What evil fate brought us together? +What fool's madness induced me to go near him to-day? I was happy enough; +I had all I wanted; I was content with my fate—and now—now!" Her +passionate words died away into a wail. In her haste and her abstraction +her foot caught against a long, withered bramble trail that lay across +her path; she half stumbled. It was sufficient to arrest her steps. She +stood still, and leant against the smooth, whitened trunk of a beech +tree. Her hands locked themselves tightly together; her face, white and +miserable, lifted itself despairingly towards the pitiless winter sky +above her.</p> + +<p>"How am I to live out my life?" she asked herself, in her anguish.</p> + +<p>It had not entered into her head that she could alter it. It did not +occur to her to imagine that she could give up anything to which she now +stood pledged. To be John Kynaston's wife, and to love his brother, that +was what struck upon her with horror; no other possible contingency had +as yet suggested itself to her.</p> + +<p>Presently, as she moved slowly onwards, still absorbed in her new-found +misfortune, a fresh train of thought came into her mind. She thought no +longer about herself, but about him.</p> + +<p>"How cruel I was to leave him like that," she said to herself, +reproachfully; "without a word, or so much as a look, of +consolation—for, if I suffer, has not he suffered too!"</p> + +<p>She forgot that he had asked her for nothing; she only knew that, little +enough as she had to give him, she had withheld that little from him.</p> + +<p>"What must he think of me?" she repeated to herself, in dismay. "How +heartless and how cold I must be in his eyes to have parted from him thus +without one single kind word. I might, at least, have told him that I was +grateful for the love I cannot take. I wonder," she continued, half aloud +to herself, "I wonder what it is like to be loved by Maurice——" She +paused again, this time leaning against the wicket-gate that led out of +the park into the high road.</p> + +<p>A little smile played for one instant about her lips, a soft, far-away +look lingered in her dreaming eyes for just a moment—just the space of +time it might take you to count twenty; she let her fancy carry her +away—<i>where</i>?</p> + +<p>Ah, sweet and perilous reverie! too dear and too dangerous to be safely +indulged in. Vera roused herself with a start, passing her hand across +her brow as though to brush away the thoughts that would fain have +lingered there.</p> + +<p>"Impossible!" she said aloud to herself, moving on again rapidly. "I must +be a fool to stand here dreaming—I, whose fate is irrevocably fixed; and +I would sooner die than alter it. The best match in the county, it is +called. Well, so it is; and nothing less would satisfy me. But—but—I +think I will see him once again, and wish him good-bye more kindly."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<h3>"POOR WISDOM."</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No; vain, alas! the endeavour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From bonds so sweet to sever,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is now as weak as ever!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Thos. Moore.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>The station at Sutton stood perched up above the village on a high +embankment, upon which the railway crossed the valley from the hills that +lay to the north to those that lay to the south of it. Up at the station +it was always draughty and generally cold. To-day, this very early +morning, about ten minutes before the first up train is due, it is not +only cold and draughty, but it is also wet and foggy. A damp, white mist +fills the valley below, and curls up the bare hill sides above; it hangs +chillingly about the narrow, open shed on the up side of the station, +covering the wooden bench within it with thick beads of moisture, so that +no man dare safely sit down on it, and clinging coldly and penetratingly +to the garments of a tall young lady in a long ulster and a thick veil, +who is slowly walking up and down the platform.</p> + +<p>The solitary porter on duty eyes her inquiringly. "Going by the up train, +Miss?" he says, touching his hat respectfully as he passes her.</p> + +<p>"No," says Vera, blushing hotly under the thick shelter of her veil, and +then adds with that readiness of explanation to which persons who have a +guilty conscience are prone, "I am only waiting to see somebody off." An +uncalled-for piece of information which has only the effect of setting +the bucolic mind of the local porter agog with curiosity and wonderment.</p> + +<p>Presently the few passengers for the early train begin to arrive; a +couple of farmers going into the market town, a village girl in a smart +bonnet, an old woman in a dirty red shawl, carrying a bundle; that is +all. Maurice is very late. Vera remembers that he always puts off +starting to catch a train till the very last minute. She stands waiting +for him at the further end of the platform, as far away as she can from +the knot of rustic passengers, with a beating heart and a fever of +impatience within her.</p> + +<p>The train is signalled, and at that very minute the dog-cart from +Kynaston drives up at last! Even then he has to get his ticket, and to +convey himself and his portmanteau across from the other side of the +line. Their good-bye will be short indeed!</p> + +<p>The train steams up, and Maurice hurries forward followed by the porter +bearing his rugs and sticks; he does not even see her, standing a little +back, as she does, so as not to attract more attention than need be. But +when all his things are put into the carriage, and the porter has been +duly tipped and has departed, Captain Kynaston hears a soft voice behind +him.</p> + +<p>"I have come to wish you good-bye again." He turns, flushing at the sound +of the sweet familiar voice, and sees Vera in her long ulster, and her +face hidden behind her veil, by his side.</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens, Vera! <i>you</i>—out on such a morning?"</p> + +<p>"I could not let you go away without—without—one kind word," she +begins, stammering painfully, her voice shaking so, as she speaks, that +he cannot fail to divine her agitation, even though he cannot see the +lovely troubled face that has been so carefully screened from his gaze.</p> + +<p>"This is too good of you," he begins. That very minute a brougham dashes +rapidly up to the station.</p> + +<p>"It is the Shadonake carriage!" cried Vera, casting a terrified glance +behind her. "Who can it be? they will see me."</p> + +<p>"Jump into the train," he answers, hurriedly, and, without a thought +beyond an instinct of self-preservation for the moment, she obeys him. +Maurice follows her quickly, closing the carriage door behind him. +"Nobody can have seen you," he says. "I daresay it is only some visitors +going away; they could not have noticed you. Oh! Vera," turning with +sudden earnestness to her; "how am I ever to thank you for this great +kindness to me?"</p> + +<p>"It is nothing; only a five minutes' walk before breakfast. It is no +trouble to me; and I did not want you to think me unfeeling, or unkind +to you."</p> + +<p>Before she could speak another word the carriage door was violently +slammed to, and the guard's sharp shrill whistle heralded the departure +of the train. With a cry, Vera sprang towards the door; before she could +reach it, Maurice, who had perceived instantly what had happened, had let +down the window and was shouting to the porter. It was too late. The +train was off.</p> + +<p>Vera sank back hopelessly upon the seat; and Maurice, according to the +manners and customs of infuriated Britons, gave utterance to a very +laconic word of bad import below his breath.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds!" he said, after +a minute, looking at her in blank despair.</p> + +<p>Vera was taking off her veil mechanically; when he could see her face, he +perceived that she was very white.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," she said, with a faint smile; "there is no real harm done. +It is unfortunate, that is all. The train stops at Tripton. I can get out +there and walk home."</p> + +<p>"Five miles! and it is I who have got you into this scrape! What a +confounded fool I was to make you get into the carriage! I ought to have +remembered how late it was. How are you to walk all that way?"</p> + +<p>"Pray don't reproach yourself, Maurice; I shall not mind the walk a bit. +I shall have to confess my escapade to Marion, and tell her why I am late +for breakfast—that is all; as it is, I can, at all events, finish what I +wanted to say to you."</p> + +<p>And then she was silent, looking away from him out of the further window. +The train, gradually accelerating its pace, sped quickly on through the +fog-blotted landscape. Hills, villages, church spires, all that made the +country familiar, were hidden in the mist; only here and there, in the +nearer hedge-rows, an occasional tree stood out bleak and black against +the white veil beyond like a sentinel alone on a limitless plain. +Absolute silence—only the train rushing on faster and faster through +the white, wet world without.</p> + +<p>Then, at last, it was Maurice, not Vera, that spoke.</p> + +<p>"I blame myself bitterly for this, Vera," he said in a low, pained voice. +"Had it not been for my foolish, unthinking words to you yesterday, you +would not have been tempted to do this rash act of kindness. I spoke to +you in a way that I had no right to speak, believing that my words would +make no impression upon you beyond the fact of showing you that it was +impossible for me to stay for your wedding. I never dreamt that your +kindly interest in me would lead you to waste another thought upon me. +I did not know how good and pitying your nature is, nor give you credit +for so much generosity."</p> + +<p>She turned round to him sharply and suddenly. "What are you saying?" she +cried, with a harsh pain in her voice. "What words are you using to me? +<i>Kindness, pity, generosity</i>!—have they any place here between you +and me?"</p> + +<p>There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, only their eyes met, +and the secret that was hidden in their souls lay suddenly revealed to +each of them.</p> + +<p>In another instant Vera had sunk upon her knees before him.</p> + +<p>"While you live," she cried, passionately, lifting her beautiful dark +eyes, that were filled with a new light and a new glory, to his—"while +you live I will never be another man's wife!"</p> + +<p>And there was no other word spoken. Only a shower of close, hot kisses +upon her lips, and two strong arms that drew her nearer and tighter to +the beating heart against which she rested, for he was only human after +all.</p> + +<p>Oh, swift and divine moment of joy, that comes but once in a man's life, +when he holds the woman he loves for the first time to his heart! Once, +and once only, he tastes of heaven and forgets life itself in the short +and delirious draught. What envious deity shall grudge him those moments +of rapture, all too sweet, and, alas! all too short!</p> + +<p>To Vera and Maurice, locked in each other's arms, time had no shore, and +life was not. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been an +eternity—they could not have told—no pang entered that serene haven +where their souls were lapped in perfect happiness; no serpent entered +into Eden; no harsh note struck upon their enchanted ears, nor jarring +sight upon their sun-dazzled vision. Where in that moment was the duty +and the honour that was a part of the man's very self? What to Vera was +the rich marriage and the life of affluence, and all the glitter and +tinsel which it had been her soul's desire to attain? She remembered it +not; like a house of cards, it had fallen shattered to the ground.</p> + +<p>They loved, and they were together. There was neither duty, nor faith, +nor this world's wisdom between them; nothing but that great joy which on +earth has no equal, and which Heaven itself cannot exceed.</p> + +<p>But brief are the moments whilst joy, with bated breath and folded wings, +pauses on his flight; too soon, alas! is the divine elixir dashed away +from our lingering lips.</p> + +<p>Already, for Maurice and for Vera, it is over, and they have awakened to +earth once more.</p> + +<p>It is the man who is the first to remember. "Good God, Vera!" he cries, +pushing her back from him, "what terrible misfortune is this? Can it be +true that you must suffer too, that you love me?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she answered, looking at him; happy still, but troubled too; +for already for her also Paradise is over. "Is it so hard to believe? And +yet many women must have loved you. But I—I have never loved before. +Listen, Maurice: when I accepted your brother, I liked him, I thought I +could be very happy with him; and—and—do not think ill of me—I wanted +so much to be rich; it was so miserable being poor and dependent, and I +knew life so well, and how hard the struggle is for those who are poor. +I was so determined I would do well for myself; and he was good, and I +liked him."</p> + +<p>At the mention of the brother, whom he had wronged, Maurice hid his face +in his hands and groaned aloud.</p> + +<p>She laid her hand softly upon his knee; she had half raised herself upon +the seat by his side, and her head, from which her hat had fallen, +pillowed itself with a natural caressing action against his shoulder.</p> + +<p>At the soft touch he shivered.</p> + +<p>"It was dreadful, was it not? But then, I am not perfect, and I liked the +idea of being rich, and I had never loved—I did not even know what it +meant. And then I met you—long ago your photograph had arrested my +fancy; and do you remember that evening at Shadonake when I first saw +you?"</p> + +<p>Could he ever forget one single detail of that meeting?</p> + +<p>"You stood at the foot of the staircase, waiting, and I came down softly +behind you. You did not see me till I was close to you, and then you +turned, and you took my hands, and you looked and looked at me till my +eyes could no longer meet yours. There came a vague trouble into my +heart; I had never felt anything like it before. Maurice, from that +instant I must have loved you."</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, Vera!" he cried out wildly, as though the gentle words +gave him positive pain, "do not speak of it. Do you not see the abyss +which lies between us—which must part us for ever?"</p> + +<p>"Loving you, I will never marry your brother!" she answered, earnestly.</p> + +<p>"And I will never rob my brother of his bride. Darling, darling, do not +tempt me too far, or God knows what I may say and do! To reach you, love, +would be to dip my hands in dishonour and basest treachery. Not even for +you can I do this vile thing. Kiss me once more, sweet, and let me go out +of your life for ever; believe me, it is better so; best for us both. In +time you will forget, you will be happy. He will be good to you, and you +will be glad that you were not tempted to betray him."</p> + +<p>"You do not know what you ask of me," she cried, lifting her face, all +wet with tears, to his. "Leave me, if you will—go your way—forget +me—it is all the same to me; henceforth there is no other man on earth +to me but you. I will never swear vows at God's altar that I cannot keep, +or commit the frightful sin of marrying one man whilst I know that I love +another. Yes, yes; I know it is a horrible, dreadful misfortune. Have I +sought it, or gone out of my way to find it? Have I not struggled to +keep it away from me? striven to blind my eyes to it and to go on as I +was, and never to acknowledge it to myself? Do I not love wealth above +all things; do I not know that he is rich, and you poor? And yet I cannot +help loving you!"</p> + +<p>He took her clasped, trembling hands within his own, and held them +tightly. In that moment the woman was weak, and the man was her master.</p> + +<p>"Listen," he said. "Yes, you are right, I am poor; but that is not all. +Vera, for Heaven's sake, reflect, and pause before you wreck your whole +life. I cannot marry you—not only because I am poor, but also, alas! +because I am bound to another woman."</p> + +<p>"Helen Romer!" she murmured, faintly; "and you love <i>her</i>?" A sick, cold +misery rushed into her heart. She strove to withdraw her hands from his; +but he only held them the tighter.</p> + +<p>"No; by the God above us, I love you, and only you," he answered her, +almost roughly; "but I am bound to her. I cannot afford to marry her—we +have neither of us any money; but I am bound all the same. Only one thing +can set me free; if, in five years, we are, neither of us, better off +than now, she has told me that I may go free. Under no other conditions +can I ever marry any one else. That is my secret, Vera. At any moment she +can claim me, and for five years I must wait for her."</p> + +<p>"Then I will wait for you five years too," she cried, passionately. "Is +my love less strong, less constant, than hers, do you think? Can I not +wait patiently too?" She wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face +down to hers.</p> + +<p>"Five years," she murmured; "it is but a small slice out of one's life +after all; and when it is over, it seems such a little space to look back +upon. Dearest, some day we shall remember how miserable, and yet how +happy too, we have been this morning; and we shall smile, as we remember +it all, out of the fulness of our content."</p> + +<p>How was he to gainsay so sweet a prophet? Already the train was +slackening, and the moment when they must part drew near. The beautiful +head lay upon his breast; the deep, shadowy eyes, which love for the +first time had softened into the perfection of their own loveliness, +mirrored themselves in his; the flower-shaped, trembling lips were close +up to his. How could he resist their gentle pleading? There was no time +for more words, for more struggles between love and duty.</p> + +<p>"So be it, then," he murmured, and caught her in one last, passionate +embrace to his heart.</p> + +<p>Five minutes later a tall young lady, deeply veiled as when she had +entered the train, got out of it and walked swiftly away from Tripton +station down the hill towards the high road. So absorbed was she in her +own reflections that she utterly failed to notice another figure, also +female and also veiled, who, preceding her through the mist, went on +swiftly before her down the road. Nor did she pay the slightest attention +to the fact until a turn in the road brought her suddenly face to face +with two persons who stood deep in conversation under the shelter of +the tall, misty hedge-row.</p> + +<p>As Vera approached these two persons sprang apart with a guilty +suddenness, and revealed to her astonished eyes—Beatrice Miller and Mr. +Herbert Pryme.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<h3>AN UNLUCKY LOVE-LETTER.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some banished lover, or some captive maid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pope</span>, "Eloisa and Abelard."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<p>To ascertain rightly how Mr. Pryme and Miss Miller came to be found in +the parish of Tripton at nine o'clock in the morning, standing together +under a wet hedge-row, it will be necessary to take a slight retrospect +of what had taken place in the history of these two people since the time +when the young barrister had spent that memorable week at Shadonake.</p> + +<p>The visit had come to an end uneventfully for either of them; but two +days after his departure from the house Mr. Pryme had been guilty of a +gross piece of indiscretion. He had forgotten to observe a golden rule +which should be strongly impressed upon every man and woman. The maxim +should be inculcated upon the young with at least as much earnestness as +the Catechism or the Ten Commandments. In homely language, it runs +something in this fashion: "Say what you like, but never commit yourself +to paper."</p> + +<p>Mr. Pryme had observed the first portion of this maxim religiously, but +he had failed to pay equal regard to the latter. He <i>had</i> committed +himself to paper in the shape of a very bulky and very passionate +love-letter, which was duly delivered by the morning postman and laid at +the side of Miss Miller's plate upon the breakfast-table.</p> + +<p>Now, Miss Miller, as it happened on that particular morning, had a +very heavy influenza cold, and had stayed in bed for breakfast. When, +therefore, Mrs. Miller prepared to send a small tray up to her daughter's +bedroom with her breakfast, she took up her letters also from the table +to put upon it with her tea and toast. The very thick envelope of one +of them first attracted her notice; then the masculine nature of the +handwriting; and when, upon turning it over, she furthermore perceived a +very large-sized monogram of the letters "H. P." upon the envelope, her +mind underwent a sudden revolution as to the sending of her daughter's +correspondence upstairs.</p> + +<p>"There, that will do," she said to the lady's maid, "you can take up +the tray; I will bring Miss Miller's letters up to her myself after +breakfast."</p> + +<p>After which, without more ado, she walked to the window and opened the +letter. Some people might have had scruples as to such a strong measure. +Mrs. Miller had none at all. Her children, she argued, were her own +property and under her own care; as long as they lived under her roof, +they had no right over anything that they possessed independently of +their mother.</p> + +<p>Under ordinary circumstances she would not have opened a letter addressed +to any of her children; but if there was anything of a suspicious nature +in their correspondence, she certainly reserved to herself the perfect +right of dealing with it as she thought fit.</p> + +<p>She opened the letter and read the first line; it ran thus:—</p> + +<p>"My dearest darling Beatrice." She then turned to the end of it and read +the last; it was this: "Your own most devoted and loving Herbert."</p> + +<p>That was quite enough for Mrs. Miller; she did not want to read any more +of it. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and went back to the +breakfast-table and poured out the tea and coffee for her husband and her +sons.</p> + +<p>But when the family meal was over, it was with a very angry aspect that +Mrs. Miller went upstairs and stood by her eldest daughter's bedside.</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, here is a letter which has come for you this morning, of which +I must ask you an explanation."</p> + +<p>"You have read it, mamma!" flushing angrily, as she took it from her +mother's hand.</p> + +<p>"I have read the first line and the last. I certainly should not take the +trouble to wade all through such contemptible trash!" Which was an +unprovoked insult to poor Beatrice's feelings.</p> + +<p>She snatched the letter from her mother's hand, and crumpled it jealously +under her pillow.</p> + +<p>"How can you call it trash, then, if you have not read it?"</p> + +<p>It was hard, certainly; to have her letter opened was bad enough, but to +have it called names was worse still. The letter, which to Beatrice would +be so full of sacred charm and delight—such a poem on love and its +sweetness—was nothing more to her mother than "contemptible trash!"</p> + +<p>But where in the whole world has a love-letter been indited, however +delightful and perfect it may be to the writer and the receiver of it, +that is nothing but an object of ridicule or contempt to the whole world +beside? Love is divine as Heaven itself to the two people who are +concerned in its ever new delights; but to us lookers-on its murmurs are +but fooleries, its sighs are ludicrous, and its written words absolute +imbecilities; and never a memory of our own lost lives can make the +spectacle of it in others anything but an irritating and idiotic +exhibition.</p> + +<p>"I have read quite enough," continued Mrs. Miller, sternly, "to +understand the nature of it. It is from Mr. Pryme, I imagine?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, mamma."</p> + +<p>"And by what right, may I ask, does Mr. Pryme commence a letter to you in +the warm terms of affection which I have had the pleasure of reading?"</p> + +<p>"By the right which I myself have given him," she answered, boldly.</p> + +<p>Regardless of her cold, she sat upright in her bed; a flush of defiance +in her face, her short dark hair flung back from her brow in wild +confusion. She understood at once that all had been discovered, and she +was going to do battle for her lover.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to tell me, Beatrice, that you have engaged yourself to this +Mr. Pryme?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly I have."</p> + +<p>"You know very well that your father and I will never consent to it."</p> + +<p>"Never is a long day, mamma."</p> + +<p>"Don't take up my words like that. I consider, Beatrice, that you have +deceived me shamefully. You persuaded me to ask that young man to the +house because you said that Sophy Macpherson was fond of him."</p> + +<p>"So she is."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, how can you be so wicked and tell such lies in the face of +that letter to yourself?"</p> + +<p>"I never said he was fond of her," she answered, with just the vestige of +a twinkle in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"If I had known, I would never have asked him to come," continued her +mother.</p> + +<p>"No; I am sure you would not. But I did not tell you, mamma."</p> + +<p>"I have other views for you. You must write to this young man and tell +him you will give him up."</p> + +<p>"I certainly shall not do that."</p> + +<p>"I shall not give my consent to your engagement."</p> + +<p>"I never imagined that you would, mamma, and that is why I did not ask +for it."</p> + +<p>And then Mrs. Miller got very angry indeed.</p> + +<p>"What on earth do you intend to do, you ungrateful, disobedient, +rebellious child?"</p> + +<p>"I mean to marry Herbert some day because I love him," answered her +daughter, coolly; "but I will not run away with him unless you force me +to it; and I hope, by-and-by, when Geraldine is grown up and can take my +place, that you will give us your consent and your blessing. I am quite +willing to wait a reasonable time for the chance of it."</p> + +<p>"Is it likely that I shall give my consent to your marrying a young man +picked up nobody knows where—out of the gutter, most likely? Who are his +people, I should like to know?"</p> + +<p>"I daresay his father is as well connected as mine," answered Beatrice, +who knew all about her mother's having married a <i>parvenu</i>.</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, I am ashamed of you, sneering at your own father!"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, mamma; I did not mean to sneer, but you say very +trying things; and Mr. Pryme is a gentleman, and every bit as good as we +are!"</p> + +<p>"And where is the money to be found for this precious marriage, I should +like to know? Do you suppose Mr. Pryme can support you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh dear, no; but I know papa will not let me starve."</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Miller knew it too. However angry she might be, and however +unsuitably Beatrice might choose to marry, Mr. Miller would never allow +his daughter to be insufficiently provided for. Beatrice's marriage +portion would be a small fortune to a poor young man.</p> + +<p>"It is your money he is after!" she said, angrily.</p> + +<p>"I don't think so, mamma; and of course of that I am the best judge."</p> + +<p>"He shall never set foot here again. I shall write to him myself and +forbid him the house."</p> + +<p>"That, of course, you may do as you like about, mamma; I cannot prevent +your doing so, but it will not make me give him up, because I shall never +marry any one else."</p> + +<p>And there Mrs. Miller was, perforce, obliged to let the matter rest. She +went her way angry and vexed beyond measure, and somewhat baffled too. +How is a mother to deal with a daughter who is so determined and so +defiant as was Beatrice Miller? There is no known method in civilized +life of reducing a young lady of twenty to submission in matters of the +heart. She could not whip her, or put her on bread and water, nor could +she shut her up in a dark cupboard, as she might have done had she been +ten years old.</p> + +<p>All she could do was to write a very indignant letter to Mr. Pryme, +forbidding him ever to enter her doors, or address himself in any way to +her daughter again. Having sent this to the post, she was at the end of +her resources. She did, indeed, confide the situation with very strong +and one-sided colouring to her husband; but Mr. Miller had not the strong +instincts of caste which were inherent in his wife. She could not make +him see what dreadful deed of iniquity Herbert Pryme and his daughter +had perpetrated between them.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong with the young fellow?" he asked, looking up from the pile +of parliamentary blue-books on the library table before him.</p> + +<p>"Nothing is wrong, Andrew; but he isn't a suitable husband for Beatrice."</p> + +<p>"Why? you asked him here, Caroline. I suppose, if he was good enough to +stay in the house, he is no different to the boys, or anybody else who +was here."</p> + +<p>"It is one thing to stay here, and quite another thing to want to marry +your daughter."</p> + +<p>"Well, if he's an honest man, and the girl loves him, I don't see the +good of making a fuss about it; she had better do as she likes."</p> + +<p>"But, Andrew, the man hasn't a penny; he has made nothing at the bar +yet." It was no use appealing to his exclusiveness, for he had none; it +was a better move to make him look at the money-point of the question.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, he will get on some day, I daresay, and meanwhile I shall give +Beatrice quite enough for them both when she marries."</p> + +<p>"You don't understand, Andrew."</p> + +<p>"No, my dear," very humbly, "perhaps I don't; but there, do as you think +best, of course; I am sure I don't wish to interfere about the children; +you always manage all these kind of things; and if you wouldn't mind, my +dear, I am so very busy just now. You know there is to be this attack +upon the Government as soon as the House meets, and I have the whole of +the papers upon the Patagonian and Bolivian question to look up, and most +fraudulent misstatements of the truth I believe them to be; although, as +far as I've gone, I haven't been able to make it quite out yet, but I +shall come to it—no doubt I shall come to it. I am going to speak upon +this question, my dear, and I mean to tell the House that a grosser +misrepresentation of facts was never yet promulgated from the Ministerial +benches, nor flaunted in the faces of an all too leniently credulous +Opposition; that will warm 'em up a bit, I flatter myself; those fellows +in office will hang their heads in shame at the word Patagonia for weeks +after."</p> + +<p>"But who cares about Patagonia?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, nobody much, I suppose. But there's bound to be an agitation against +the Government, and that does as well as anything else. We can't afford +to neglect a single chance of kicking them out. I have planned my speech +pretty well right through; it will be very effective—withering, I +fancy—but it's just these plaguy blue-books that won't quite tally with +what I've got to say. I must go through them again though——"</p> + +<p>"You had better have read the papers first, and settled your speech +afterwards," suggested his wife.</p> + +<p>"Oh dear, no! that wouldn't do at all; after all, you know, between you +and me, the facts don't go for much; all we want is, to denounce them; +any line of argument, if it is ingenious enough, will do; lay on the big +words thickly—that's what your constituents like. Law bless you! <i>they</i> +don't read the blue books; they'll take my word for granted if I say they +are full of lies; it would be a comfort, however, if I could find a few. +Of course, my dear, this is only between you and me."</p> + +<p>A man is not always heroic to the wife of his bosom. Mrs. Miller went +her way and left him to his righteous struggle among the Patagonian +blue-books. After all, she said to herself, it had been her duty to +inform him of his daughter's conduct, but it was needless to discuss +the question further with him. He was incapable of approaching it from +her own point of view. It would be better for her now to go her own way +independently of him. She had always been accustomed to manage things her +own way. It was nothing new to her.</p> + +<p>Later in the day she attempted to wrest a promise from Beatrice that +she would hold no further communication with the prohibited lover. But +Beatrice would give no such promise.</p> + +<p>"Is it likely that I should promise such a thing?" she asked her mother, +indignantly.</p> + +<p>"You would do so if you knew what your duty to your mother was."</p> + +<p>"I have other duties besides those to you, mamma; when one has promised +to marry a man, one is surely bound to consider him a little. If I have +the chance of meeting him, I shall certainly take it."</p> + +<p>"I shall take very good care that you have no such chances, Beatrice."</p> + +<p>"Very well, mamma; you will, of course, do as you think best."</p> + +<p>It was in consequence of these and sundry subsequent stormy conversations +that Mr. Herbert Pryme suddenly discovered that he had a very high regard +and affection for Mr. Albert Gisburne, the vicar of Tripton, the same +to whom once Vera's relations had wished to unite her.</p> + +<p>The connection between Mr. Gisburne and Herbert Pryme was a slender one; +he had been at college with an elder brother of his, who had died in his +(Herbert's) childhood. He did not indeed very clearly recollect what this +elder brother had been like; but having suddenly called to mind that, +during the course of his short visit to Shadonake, he had discovered the +fact of the college friendship, of which, indeed, Mr. Gisburne had +informed him, he now was unaccountably inflamed by a desire to cultivate +the acquaintance of the valued companion of his deceased brother's youth.</p> + +<p>He opened negotiations by the gift of a barrel of oysters, sent down +from Wilton's, with an appropriate and graceful accompanying note. Mr. +Gisburne was surprised, but not naturally otherwise than pleased by the +attention. Next came a box of cigars, which again were shortly followed +by two brace of pheasants purporting to be of Herbert's own shooting, but +which, as a matter of fact, he had purchased in Vigo Street.</p> + +<p>This munificent succession of gifts reaped at length the harvest for +which they had been sown. In his third letter of grateful acknowledgment +for his young friend's kind remembrance of him, Mr. Gisburne, with some +diffidence, for Tripton Rectory was neither lively nor remarkably +commodious, suggested how great the pleasure would be were his friend to +run down to him for a couple of days or so; he had nothing, in truth, to +offer him but a bachelor's quarters and a hearty welcome; there was next +to no attraction beyond a pretty rural village and a choral daily +service; but still, if he cared to come, Mr. Gisburne need not say how +delighted he would be, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>It is not too much to say that the friend jumped at it. On the shortest +possible notice he arrived, bag and baggage, professing himself charmed +with the bachelor's quarters; and, burning with an insatiable desire to +behold the rurality of the village, to listen to the beauty and the +harmony of the daily choral performances, he took up his abode in the +clergyman's establishment; and the very next morning he sent a rural +villager over to Shadonake with a half-crown for himself and a note to be +given to Miss Miller the very first time she walked or rode out alone. +This note was duly delivered, and that same afternoon Beatrice met her +lover by appointment in an empty lime-kiln up among the chalk hills. This +romantic rendezvous was, however, discontinued shortly, owing to the fact +of Mrs. Miller having become suspicious of her daughter's frequent and +solitary walks, and insisting on sending out Geraldine and her governess +with her.</p> + +<p>A few mornings later a golden chance presented itself. Mr. and Mrs. +Miller went away for the night to dine and sleep at a distant country +house. Beatrice had not been invited to go with them. She did not venture +to ask her lover to the house he had been forbidden to enter, but she +ordered the carriage for herself, caught the early train to Tripton, met +Herbert, by appointment, outside the station, and stood talking to him in +the fog by the wayside, where Vera suddenly burst upon their astonished +gaze.</p> + +<p>There was nothing for it but to take Vera into their confidence; and they +were so much engrossed in their affairs that they entirely failed to +notice how mechanically she answered, and how apathetically she appeared +for the first few minutes to listen to their story. Presently, however, +she roused herself into a semblance of interest. She promised not to +betray the fact of the stolen interview, all the more readily because it +did not strike either of them to inquire what she herself was doing in +the Tripton road.</p> + +<p>In the end Vera walked on slowly by herself, and the Shadonake carriage, +ordered to go along at a foot's pace from Sutton station towards Tripton, +picked both girls up and conveyed them safely, each to their respective +homes.</p> + +<p>"You will never tell of me, will you, Vera?" said Beatrice to her, for +the twentieth time, ere they parted.</p> + +<p>"Of course not; indeed, I would gladly help you if I could," she +answered, heartily.</p> + +<p>"You will certainly be able to help us both very materially some day," +said Beatrice, who had visions of being asked to stay at Kynaston, to +meet Herbert.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid not," answered Vera, with a sigh. Already there was regret +in her mind for the good things of life which she had elected to +relinquish. "Put me down at this corner, Beatrice; I don't want to drive +up to the vicarage. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Vera—and—and you won't mind my saying it—but I like you so +much."</p> + +<p>Vera smiled, and, with a kiss, the girls parted; and Mrs. Daintree never +heard after all the story of her sister's early visit to Tripton, for she +returned so soon that she had not yet been missed. The vicar and his +family had but just gathered round the breakfast-table, when, after +having divested herself of her walking garments, she came in quietly and +took her vacant place amongst them unnoticed and unquestioned.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<h3>LADY KYNASTON'S PLANS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brief as the lightning in the collied night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And ere a man hath power to say, "Behold!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The jaws of darkness do devour it up:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So quick bright things come to confusion.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Midsummer Night's Dream."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Sir John Kynaston sat alone in his old-bachelor rooms in London. They +were dark, dingy rooms, such as are to be found in countless numbers +among the narrow streets that encompass St. James's Street. They were +cheerless and comfortless, and, withal, high-rented, and possessed of +no other known advantage than that of their undeniably central situation. +They were not rooms that one would suppose any man would care to linger +in in broad daylight; and yet Sir John remained in them now a days +almost from morning till night.</p> + +<p>He sat for the most part as he is sitting now—in a shabby, leathern +arm-chair, stooping a little forward, and doing nothing. Sometimes he +wrote a few necessary letters, sometimes he made a feint of reading the +paper; but oftenest he did nothing, only sat still, staring before him +with a hopeless misery in his face.</p> + +<p>For in these days Sir John Kynaston was a very unhappy man. He had +received a blow such as strikes at the very root and spring of a man's +life—a blow which a younger man often battles through and is none the +worse in the end for, but under which a man of his age is apt to be +crushed and to succumb. Within a week of his wedding-day Vera Nevill +had broken her engagement to him. It had been a nine days' wonder in +Meadowshire—the county had rung with the news—everybody had marvelled +and speculated, but no one had got any nearer to the truth than that Vera +was supposed to have "mistaken her feelings." The women had cried shame +upon her for such capriciousness, and had voted her a fool into the +bargain for throwing over such a match; and if a male voice, somewhat +less timid than the rest, had here and there uplifted itself in her +defence and had ventured to hint that she might have had sufficient and +praiseworthy motives for her conduct, a chorus of feminine indignation +had smothered the kindly suggestion in a whole whirl-wind of abuse and +reviling.</p> + +<p>As to Sir John, he blamed her not, and yet he knew no more about it than +any of them; he, too, could only have told you that Vera had mistaken her +feelings—he knew no more than that—for it was but half the truth that +she had told him. But it had been more than enough to convince him that +she was perfectly right. When, after telling him plainly that she found +she did not love him enough, that there had been other and extraneous +reasons that had blinded her to the fact at the time she had accepted +him, but that she had found it out later on; when, after saying this she +had asked him plainly whether he would wish to have a wife who valued his +name, and his wealth, and his fine old house at least as much as he did +himself, Sir John had been able to give her but one answer. No, he would +not have a wife who loved him in such a fashion. And he had thought well +of her for telling him the truth beforehand instead of leaving him to +find it out for himself later. If there had been a little, a very little, +falling of his idol from the high pillar upon which he had set her up, in +that she should at any time have been guided by mercenary and worldly +motives; there had been at the same time a very great amount of respect +for her brave and straightforward confession of her error at a time when +most women would have found themselves unequal to the task of drawing +back from the false position into which they had drifted. No, he could +not blame her in any way.</p> + +<p>But, all the same, it was hard to bear. He said to himself that he was +a doomed and fated man; twice had love and joy and domestic peace been +within his grasp, and twice they had been wrested from his arms; these +things, it was plain, were not for him. He was too old, he told himself, +ever to make a further effort. No, there was nothing before him now but +to live out his loveless life alone, to sink into a peevish, selfish old +bachelor, and to make a will in Maurice's favour, and get himself out of +the world that wanted him not with as much expedition as might be.</p> + +<p>And he loved Vera still. She was still to him the most pure and perfect +of women—good as she was beautiful. Her loveliness haunted him by day +and by night, till the bitter thought of what might have been and the +contrast of the miserable reality drove him half wild with longings +which he did not know how to repress. He sat at home in his rooms and +moped; there were more streaks of white in his hair than of old, and +there were new lines of care upon his brow—he looked almost an old man +now. He sat indoors and did nothing. It was April by this time, and the +London season was beginning; invitations of all kinds poured in upon him, +but he refused them all; he would go nowhere. Now and then his mother +came to see him and attempted to cheer and to rouse him; she had even +asked him to come down to Walpole Lodge, but he had declined her request +almost ungraciously.</p> + +<p>He never had much in common with his mother, and he felt no desire now +for her sympathy; besides, the first time she had come she had been +angry, and had called Vera a jilt, and that had offended him bitterly; he +had rebuked her sternly, and she had been too wise to repeat the offence; +but he had not forgotten it. Maurice, indeed, he would have been glad to +see, but Maurice did not come near him. His regiment had lately moved to +Manchester, and either he could not or would not get leave; and yet he +had been idle enough at one time, and glad to run up to town upon the +smallest pretext. Now he never came. It added a little to his irritation, +but scarcely to his misery. On this particular afternoon, as he sat as +usual brooding over the past, there came the sudden clatter of carriage +wheels over the flagged roadway of the little back street, followed by a +sharp ring at his door. It was his mother, of course; no other woman came +to see him; he heard the rustle of her soft silken skirts up the narrow +staircase, and her pleasant little chatter to the fat old landlady who +was ushering her up, and presently the door opened and she came in.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, John. Dear me, how hot and stuffy this room is," holding +up her soft old face to her son.</p> + +<p>He just touched her cheek. "I am sorry you find it so—shall I open the +window?"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" sinking down in a chair, and throwing back her cloak; "how can you +stand a fire in the room, it is quite mild and spring-like out. Have you +not been out, John? it would do you good to get a little fresh air."</p> + +<p>"I shall go round to the club presently, I daresay," he answered, +abstractedly, sitting down in his arm-chair again; all the pleasant +flutter that the bright old lady brought with her, the atmosphere of life +and variety that surrounded her, only vexed and wearied him, and jarred +upon his nerves. She was always telling him to go somewhere or to do +something; why couldn't she let him alone? he thought, irritably.</p> + +<p>"To your club? No further than that? Why, you might as well stay at home. +Really, my dear, it's a great pity you don't go about and see some of +your old friends; you can't mean to shut yourself up like a dormouse for +ever, I suppose!"</p> + +<p>"I haven't the least idea what I mean to do," he answered, not +graciously; she was his mother, and so he could not very well put her out +at the door, but that was what he would have liked to do.</p> + +<p>"I don't see," continued Lady Kynaston, with unwonted courage, "I don't +at all see why you should let this unfortunate affair weigh on you for +ever; there is really no reason why you should not console yourself and +marry some nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only too +ready to have you if you will only take that trouble——"</p> + +<p>"Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that," he said, +interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, and +there was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat. +"Never speak to me of marrying again. I shall never marry any one." He +looked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashes +in the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity—if he had +only added, "I have suffered too much, I love her still"—all her +mother's heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not her +favourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity, +he only wanted her to go away.</p> + +<p>"It is a great pity," she answered, stiffly, "because of Kynaston."</p> + +<p>"I shall never set foot at Kynaston again."</p> + +<p>Her colour rose a little—after all, she was a cunning little old lady. +The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down and +patted it. "Good dog, good little Vic," she said, a little nervously; +then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again. "John, it +is a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin; +though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped that +you would. It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thought +that the old place was always to lie empty."</p> + +<p>"I cannot help it," he answered, moodily, wishing more than ever that she +would go.</p> + +<p>"John;" she fidgeted with her bonnet strings, and her voice trembled a +little; "John, if you are quite sure you will never live there yourself, +why should not Maurice have it?"</p> + +<p>"Maurice! Has he told you to ask for it?" He sat bolt upright in +his chair; he was attentive enough now; the idea that Maurice had +commissioned his mother to ask for something he had not ventured to ask +for himself was not pleasant to him. "Is it Maurice who has sent you?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, my dear John; certainly not; why, I haven't seen Maurice for +weeks and weeks; he never comes to town now. But I'll tell you why the +idea came to me. I called just now in Princes Gate; poor old Mr. Harlowe +has had a stroke—it is certain he cannot live long now, after the severe +attack he had of bronchitis, too, two months ago. I just saw Helen for a +minute, she reported him to be unconscious. If he dies, he must surely +leave Helen something; it may not be all, but it will be at least a +competency; and I was thinking, John, that if you did not want Kynaston, +and would let them live there, the marriage might come off at last; they +have been attached to each other a long time, and to live rent free would +be a great thing."</p> + +<p>"How are they to keep it up? Kynaston is an expensive place."</p> + +<p>"Well, I thought, John, perhaps, if Maurice looks after the property, you +might consider him as your agent, and allow him something, and that and +her money——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I understand; well, I will see; wait, at all events, till Mr. +Harlowe is dead. I will think it over. No, I don't see any reason why +they should not live there if they like;" he sighed, wearily, and his +mother went away, feeling that she had reason to be satisfied with her +morning's work.</p> + +<p>She was in such a hurry to install her darling there—to see him viceroy +in the place where now it was certain he must eventually be king. Why +should he be doomed to wait till Kynaston came to him in the course of +nature; why should he not enter upon his kingdom at once, since Sir John, +by his own confession, would never marry or live there himself?</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston was very far from wishing evil to her eldest son, but for +years she had hoped that he would remain unmarried; for a short time she +had been forced to lay her dreams aside, and she had striven to forget +them and to throw herself with interest into her eldest son's engagement; +but now that the marriage was broken off, all her old schemes and plans +came back to her again. She was working and planning again for Maurice's +happiness and aggrandisement. She wanted to see him in his father's +house, "Kynaston of Kynaston," before she died, and to know that his +future was safe. To see him married to Helen and living at Kynaston +appeared to her to be the very best that she could desire for him. In +time, of course, the title and the money would be his too; meanwhile, +with old Mr. Harlowe's fortune, an ample allowance from his brother, and +all the prestige of his old name and his old house, she should live to +see him take his own rightful place among the magnates of his native +county. That would be far better than to be a captain in a line regiment, +barely able to live upon his income. That was all she coveted for him, +and she said to herself that her ambition was not unreasonable, and that +it would be hard indeed if it might not be gratified.</p> + +<p>As she drove homewards to Walpole Lodge she felt that her schemes were in +a fair way for success. She was not going to let Maurice know of them too +soon; by-and-by, when all was settled, she would tell him; she would keep +it till then as a pleasant surprise.</p> + +<p>All the same, she had been unable to refrain from telling Helen Romer +something of what was in her mind.</p> + +<p>"If John does not marry, he might perhaps make Maurice his agent and let +him live at Kynaston," she had said to her a few days ago when they had +been speaking of old Mr. Harlowe's illness.</p> + +<p>"How would Maurice like to leave the army?" Helen had asked.</p> + +<p>"If he marries, he must do so," his mother had replied, significantly; +and Helen's heart had beat high with hope and triumph.</p> + +<p>Again to-day, on her way to her eldest son's rooms, she had stopped at +Princes Gate and had alluded to it.</p> + +<p>"I am on my way to see Sir John; I shall sound him about his intentions +with regard to Kynaston, but, of course, I must go to work cautiously;" +and Helen had perfectly understood that she herself had entered into the +old lady's scheme for her younger son's future.</p> + +<p>Sitting alone in the hushed house, where the doctors are coming and +going in the darkened room above, Helen feels that at last the reward +of all her long waiting may be at hand. Love and wealth at last seemed +to beckon to her. Her grandfather dead; his fortune hers; and this offer +of a home at Kynaston, which Maurice himself would be sure to like so +much—everything good seemed coming to her at last.</p> + +<p>And there was something about the idea of living at Kynaston that +gratified her particularly. Helen had not forgotten the week at +Shadonake. Too surely had her woman's instinct told her that Maurice and +Vera had been drawn to each other by a strong and mutual attraction. The +wildest jealousy and hatred against Vera burnt fiercely in her lawless, +untutored heart. She hated her, for she knew that Maurice loved her. To +live thus under her very eyes as Maurice's wife, in the very house her +rival herself had once been on the point of inhabiting, was a notion that +commended itself to her with all the sweetness of gratified revenge, with +all the charm of flaunting her success and triumph in the face of the +other woman's failure which is dear to such a nature as Helen's.</p> + +<p>She alone, of all those who had heard of Vera's broken engagement, had +divined its true cause. She loved Maurice—that was plain to Helen; that +was why she had thrown over Sir John, and at her heart Helen despised her +for it. A woman must be a fool indeed to wreck herself at the last moment +for a merely sentimental reason. There was much, however, that was +incomprehensible to Helen Romer in the situation of things, which she +only half understood.</p> + +<p>If Maurice loved Vera, why was it that he was in Manchester whilst she +was still in Meadowshire? that was what Helen could not understand. A +sure instinct told her that Maurice must know better than any one why his +brother's marriage had been broken off. But, if so, then why were he and +Vera apart? It did not strike her that his honour to his brother and his +promises to herself were what kept him away. Helen said to herself, +scornfully, that they were both of them timid and cowardly, and did not +half know how to play out life's game.</p> + +<p>"In her place, with her cards in my hand, I would have married him by +this," she said to herself, as she sat alone in her grandfather's +drawing-room, while her busy fingers ran swiftly through the meshes of +her knitting, and the doctor and the hired nurse paced about the room +overhead. "But she has not the pluck for it; his heart may be hers, but, +for all that, I shall win him; and how bitterly she will repent that she +ever interfered with him when she sees him daily there—my husband! And +in time he will forget her and learn to love me; Maurice will never be +false to a woman when once she is his wife; I am not afraid of that. How +dared she meddle with him?—<i>my</i> Maurice!"</p> + +<p>The door softly opened, and one of the doctors stepped in on tip-toe. +Helen rose and composed her face into a decorous expression of mournful +anxiety.</p> + +<p>"I am happy to tell you, Mrs. Romer," began the doctor. Helen's heart +sank down chill and cold within her.</p> + +<p>"Is he better?" she faltered, striving to conceal the dismay which she +felt.</p> + +<p>"He has rallied. Consciousness has returned, and partial use of the +limbs. We may be able to pull your grandfather through this time, I +trust."</p> + +<p>Put off again! How wretched and how guilty she felt herself to be! It was +almost a crime to wish for any one's death so much.</p> + +<p>She sank down again pale and spiritless upon her chair as the doctor left +the room.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," she said to herself, presently; "it can't last for ever. It +must be soon now, and I shall be Maurice's wife in the end."</p> + +<p>But all this time she had forgotten Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet, whom +she had not seen again since the night she had driven him home from +Walpole Lodge.</p> + +<p>He had left England, she knew. Helen privately hoped he had left this +earth. Any way, he had not troubled her, and she had forgotten him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<h3>WHAT SHE WAITED FOR.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Go, forget me; why should sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er that brow a shadow fling?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go, forget me, and to-morrow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brightly smile and sweetly sing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smile—though I shall not be near thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing—though I shall never hear thee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Chas. Wolfe.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>All this time what of Vera? Would any one of them at the vicarage ever +forget that morning when she had come in after her walk with Sir John +Kynaston, and had stood before them all and, pale as a ghost, had said to +them,</p> + +<p>"I am not going to be married; I have broken it off."</p> + +<p>It had been a great blow to them, but neither the prayers of her weeping +sister, nor the angry indignation of old Mrs. Daintree, nor even the +gentle remonstrances of her brother-in-law could serve to alter her +determination, nor would she enter into any explanation concerning her +conduct.</p> + +<p>It was not pleasant, of course, to be reviled and scolded, to be +questioned and marvelled at, to be treated like a naughty child in +disgrace; and then, whenever she went out, to feel herself tabooed by her +acquaintances as a young woman who had behaved very disgracefully; or +else to be stared at as a natural curiosity by persons whom she hardly +knew.</p> + +<p>But she lived through all this bravely. There was a certain amount of +unnatural excitement which kept up her courage and enabled her to face +it. It was no more than what she had expected. The glow of her love and +her impulse of self-sacrifice were still upon her; her nerves had been +strung to the uttermost, and she felt strong in the knowledge of the +justice and the right of her own conduct.</p> + +<p>But by-and-by all this died away. Sir John left the neighbourhood; +people got tired of talking about her broken-off marriage; there was no +longer any occasion for her to be brave and steadfast. Life began to +resume for her its normal aspect, the aspect which it had worn in the old +days before Sir John had ever come down to Kynaston, or ever found her +day-dreaming in the churchyard upon Farmer Crupps' family sarcophagus. +The tongue of the sour-tempered old lady, snapping and snarling at her +with more than the bitterness of old, and the suppressed sighs and +mournful demeanour of her sister, whose sympathy and companionship she +had now completely forfeited, and who went about the house with a face +of resigned woe and the censure of an ever implied rebuke in her voice +and manner.</p> + +<p>Only the vicar took her part somewhat. "Let her alone," he said, +sometimes, to his wife and mother; "she must have had a better reason +than we any of us know of; the girl is suffering quite enough—leave her +alone."</p> + +<p>And she was suffering. The life that she had doomed herself to was almost +unbearable to her. The everlasting round of parish work and parish talk, +the poor people and the coal-clubs—it was what she had come back to. She +had been lifted for a short time out of it all, and a new life, congenial +to her tastes and to her nature, had opened out before her; and yet with +her own hands she had shut the door upon this brighter prospect, and had +left herself out in the darkness, to go back to that life of dull +monotony which she hated.</p> + +<p>And what had she gained by it? What single advantage had she reaped +out of her sacrificed life? Was Maurice any nearer to her—was he not +hopelessly divided from her—helplessly out of her reach? She knew +nothing of him, no word concerning him reached her ears: a great blank +was before her. When she went over the past again and again in her mind, +she could not well see what good thing could ever come to her from what +she had done. There were moments indeed when the whole story of her +broken engagement seemed to her like the wild delusion of madness. She +had had no intention of acknowledging her love to Maurice when she had +gone up to the station to see him off; she had only meant to see him +once more, to hold his hand for one instant, to speak a few kind words; +to wish him God speed. She asked herself now what had possessed her that +she had not been able to preserve the self-control of affectionate +friendship when the unfortunate accident of her being taken on in the +train with him had left her entirely alone in his society. She did not +go the length of regretting what she had done for his sake; but she did +acknowledge to herself that she had been led away by the magnetism of his +presence and by the strange and unexpected chance which had thus left her +alone with him into saying and doing things which in a calmer moment she +would not have been betrayed into.</p> + +<p>For a few kisses—for the joy of telling him that his love was +returned—for a short moment of delirious and transient happiness, and +alas! for nothing more—she had thrown away her life!</p> + +<p>She had behaved hardly and cruelly to a good man who loved her, and whose +heart she had half broken, and she had lost a great many very excellent +and satisfactory things.</p> + +<p>And Maurice was no nearer to her. With his own lips he had told her +that he could not marry her. There had been mention, indeed, of that +problematical term of five years, in which he had bound himself to await +Mrs. Romer's pleasure—but, even had Mrs. Romer not existed, it was plain +that Maurice was the last man in the world to take advantage of a woman's +weakness in order to supplant his brother in her heart.</p> + +<p>Instinctively Vera felt that Maurice must be no less miserable than +herself; that his regret for what had happened between them must be as +great as her own, and his remorse far greater. They were, indeed, neither +of them blameless in the matter; for, if it was Maurice who had first +spoken of his love to his brother's promised wife, it was Vera who had +made that irrevocable step along the road of her destiny from which no +going back was now possible.</p> + +<p>It was a time of utter misery to her. If she sat indoors there was +the persecution of Mrs. Daintree's ill-natured remarks, and Marion's +depression of spirits and half-uttered regrets; and there was also the +scaffolding rising round the chancel walls to be seen from the windows, +and the sound of the sawing of the masonry in the churchyard, as a +perpetual, reproachful reminder of the friend whose kindness and +affection she had so ill requited. If she went out, she could not go up +the lane without passing the gates of Kynaston, or towards the village +without catching sight of the venerable old house among its terraced +gardens, which, so lately, she had thought would be her home. Sometimes +she met her old friend, Mrs. Eccles, in her wanderings, but she did not +venture to speak to her; the cold disapproval in the housekeeper's +passing salutation made her shrink, like a guilty creature, in her +presence; and she would hurry by with scarcely an answering sign, with +downcast eyes and heightened colour.</p> + +<p>Somehow, it came to pass in these days that Vera drifted into a degree +of intimacy with Beatrice Miller that would, possibly, never have come +about had the circumstances of her life been different. Ever since her +accidental meeting with the lovers outside Tripton station Vera had, +perforce, become a confidant of their hopes and fears; and Beatrice was +glad enough to have found a friend to whom she could talk about her +lover, for where is the woman who can completely hold her tongue +concerning her own secrets?</p> + +<p>Against all the long category of female virtues, as advantageously +displayed in contradistinction to masculine vices, there is still this +one peculiarity which, of itself, marks out the woman as the inferior +animal.</p> + +<p>A man, to be worthy of the name, holds his tongue and keeps the +secret of his heart to himself, enjoying it and delighting in it the +more, possibly, for his reticence. A woman may occasionally—very +occasionally—be silent respecting her neighbour, but concerning herself +she is bound to have at least one confidant to whom she will rashly tell +the long story of her loves and her sorrows; and not a consideration +either of prudence or of worldly wisdom will suffice to restrain her too +ready tongue.</p> + +<p>Beatrice Miller was a clever girl, with a fair knowledge of the world; +yet she was in no way dismayed that Vera should have discovered her +secret; on the contrary, she was overjoyed that she had now found some +one to talk to about it.</p> + +<p>Vera became her friend, but Beatrice was not Vera's friend—the +confidences were not mutual. Over and over again Beatrice was on the +point of questioning her concerning the story that had been on every +one's lips for a time; of asking her what, indeed, was the truth about +her broken engagement; but always the proud, still face restrained her +curiosity, and the words died away unspoken upon her lips.</p> + +<p>Vera's story, indeed, was not one that could be easily revealed. There +was too much of bitter regret, too great an element of burning shame at +her heart, for its secrets to be laid bare to a stranger's eye.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Beatrice's society amused and distracted her mind, and kept +her from brooding over her own troubles. She was glad enough to go over +to Shadonake; even to sit alone with Beatrice and her mother was better +than the eternal monotony of the vicarage, where she felt like a prisoner +waiting for his sentence.</p> + +<p>Yes, she was waiting. Waiting for some sign from the man she loved. +Sooner or later, whether it was for good or for evil, she knew it must +come to her; some token that he remembered her existence; some indication +as to what he would have her do with the life that she had laid at his +feet. For, after all, when a woman loves a man, she virtually makes him +the ruler of her destiny; she leaves the responsibility of her fate in +his hands. For the nonce, Maurice Kynaston held the skein of Vera's life +in his grasp; it was for him to do what he pleased with it. Some day, +doubtless, he would tell her what she had to do: meanwhile, she waited.</p> + +<p>What else, indeed, can a woman do but wait? To sit still with folded +hands and bated breath, to possess her soul in patience as best she may, +to still the wild beatings of her all too eager spirit—that is what a +woman has to do, and does often enough. God help her, all too badly.</p> + +<p>It is so easy when one is old, and the pulses are sluggish, and the hot +passions of youth are quelled, it is so easy then to learn that lesson +of waiting; but when we are young, and our best days slipping away, and +life's hopes all before us, and life's burdens well-nigh unbearable; then +it is that it is hard, that waiting in itself becomes terrible—more +terrible almost than the worst of our woes.</p> + +<p>So wearily, feverishly, impatiently enough, Vera waited.</p> + +<p>Winter died away into spring. The rough wind of March, worn out with its +own boisterous passions, sobbed itself to rest like a tired child, and +little green buds came cropping up sparsely and timidly out of the brown +bosom of the earth; and, presently, all the glory of the golden crocuses +unfolded itself in long golden lines in the vicarage garden; and there +were twittering of birds and flutterings of soft breezes among the +tree-tops, and a voice seemed to go forth over the face of the earth. +The winter is over, and summer is nigh at hand.</p> + +<p>And then it came to her at last. An envelope by the side of her plate +at breakfast; a few scrawled words in a handwriting she had never seen +before, and yet identified with an unfailing instinct, ere even she broke +the seal. One minute of wild hope, to be followed by a sick, chill +numbness, and the story of her love and its longings shrank away into +the despair of impossibility.</p> + +<p>How small a thing to make so great a misery! What a few words to make a +wilderness of a human life!</p> + +<p><i>"Her grandfather is dead, and she has claimed me. Good-bye; forget me +and forgive me."</i></p> + +<p>That was all; nothing more. No passionate regrets, no unavailing +self-pity; nothing to tell her what it cost him to resign her; no word to +comfort her for the hopelessness of his desertion; nothing but those two +lines.</p> + +<p>There was a chattering going on at the table around her. Tommy was +clamouring for bread and butter; the vicar was reading out the telegrams +from the seat of war; Marion was complaining that the butter was not +good; the maid-servant was bringing in the hot bacon and eggs—it all +went on like a dream around her; presently, like a voice out of a fog, +somebody spoke to her:</p> + +<p>"Vera, are you not feeling well? You look as if you were going to faint."</p> + +<p>And then she crunched the letter in her hand and recalled herself to +life.</p> + +<p>"I am quite well, thanks," and busied herself with attending to the wants +of the children.</p> + +<p>The vicar glanced up over his spectacles. "No bad news, I hope, my dear."</p> + +<p>Oh! why could they not let her alone? But somehow she sat through the +breakfast, and answered all their questions, and bore herself bravely; +and when it was over and she was free to go away by herself with her +trouble, then by that time the worst of it was over.</p> + +<p>There are some people whom sorrow softens and touches, but Vera was not +one of them. Her whole soul revolted and rebelled against her fate. She +said to herself that for once she had let her heart guide her; she had +cast aside the crust of worldliness and self-indulgence in which she had +been brought up. She had listened to the softer whisperings of the better +nature within her—she had been true to herself—and lo! what had come of +it?</p> + +<p>But now she had learnt her lesson; there were to be no more dreams of +pure and unsullied happiness for her,—no more cravings after what was +good and true and lovely; henceforth she would go back to the teachings +of her youth, to the experience which had told her that a handsome woman +can always command her life as she pleases, and that wealth, which is a +tangible reality, is better worth striving after than the vain shadow +called love, which all talk about and so few make any practical +sacrifices for. Well, she, Vera Nevill, had tried it, and had made her +sacrifices; and what remained to her? Only the fixed determination to +crush it down again within her as if it had never been, and to carve out +her fortunes afresh. Only that she started again at a disadvantage—for +now she knew to her cost that she possessed the fatal power of +loving—the knowledge of good and evil, of which she had eaten +the poisoned fruit.</p> + +<p>There were no tears in Vera's eyes as she wandered slowly up and down the +garden paths between the straight yellow lines of the crocus heads.</p> + +<p>Her lover had forsaken her. Well, let him go. She told herself that, had +he loved her truly, no power on earth would have been great enough to +keep him from her. She said to herself scornfully—she, Vera Nevill, who +was prepared to sell herself to the highest bidder—that it was Mrs. +Romer's money that kept him from her. Well, let him go to her, then? but +for herself life must begin afresh.</p> + +<p>And then she set to work to think about what she could do. To remain here +at Sutton any longer was impossible. It was absolutely necessary that she +should get away from it all, from the family upon whose hands she was +nothing now but a beautiful, helpless burden, and still more from the +haunting memories of Kynaston and all the unfortunate things that had +happened to her here.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, out of the memories of her girlhood, she recollected the +existence of a woman who had been her friend once in the old happy days, +when she had lived with her sister Theodora. It was one of those passing +friendships which come and go for a month or two in one's life.</p> + +<p>A pretty, spoilt girl, married four, perhaps five, years ago to a rich +man, a banker; who had taken a fancy to Vera, and had pleased herself by +decking her out in a quaint costume to figure at a carnival party; who +had kissed her rapturously at parting, swearing eternal friendship, +giving her her address in London, and making her promise never to be in +England without going to see her. And then she had gone her way, and had +never come back again the next winter, as she had promised to do; a +letter or two had passed between them, and afterwards Vera had forgotten +her. But somewhere upstairs she must have got her direction still.</p> + +<p>It was to this friend she would go; and, turning her back for a time +at least upon Meadowshire and its memories, she would see whether, in +the whirl of London life, she could not crush out the pain at her heart, +and live down the fatal weakness that had led her astray from all the +traditions of her youth, and from that cold and prudent wisdom which had +stood her in good stead for so many years.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<h3>A MORNING WALK.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Goldsmith.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>A bright May morning, cold, it is true, and with a biting wind from the +east—as indeed our English May mornings generally are—but sunny and +cloudless as the heart can desire. On such a morning people do their best +to pretend that it is summer. Crowds turn out into the park, and sit +about recklessly on the iron chairs, or lounge idly by the railings; and +the women-folk, with that fine disregard of what is, when it is +antagonistic of what they wish it to be, don their white cottons and +muslins, and put up their parasols against the sun's rays, and, shivering +inwardly, poor things, openly brave the terrors of rheumatism and +lumbago, and make up their minds that it <i>shall</i> be summer.</p> + +<p>The sunblinds are drawn all along the front windows of a house in Park +Lane, and though the gay geraniums and calceolarias in the flower-boxes, +which were planted only yesterday, look already nipped and shrivelled up +with the cold, the house, nevertheless, presents from the exterior a +bright and well-cared-for appearance.</p> + +<p>Within the drawing-room are two ladies. One, the mistress of the house, +is seated at the writing-table with her back to the room, scribbling off +invitations for dear life, cards for an afternoon "at-home," at the rate +of six per minute; the other sits idle in a low basket-chair doing +nothing.</p> + +<p>There is no sound but the scratching of the quill pen as it flies over +the paper, and the chirping of a bullfinch in a cage in the bow-window.</p> + +<p>"What time is it, Vera?"</p> + +<p>"A quarter to twelve."</p> + +<p>"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are you +going to wear—white?"</p> + +<p>Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying—it must be dreadfully cold +out—I should like to put on a fur jacket."</p> + +<p>"<i>Do</i>," says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, and +attract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than you +are."</p> + +<p>Vera smiles, and does not answer.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task.</p> + +<p>"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, and +piling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at your +orders."</p> + +<p>She comes forward into the room—a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman, +with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplement +all that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restless +movements and an ever-ready tongue—a thorough daughter of the London +world she lives in.</p> + +<p>Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy," she +says, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day."</p> + +<p>"Go home! certainly not, my dear. Don't you know that I have sworn to +find you a husband before the season is out? I must really get you +married, Vera. I have half a mind," she adds, reflectively, as she +smooths down her shining brown hair at the glass, and contemplates, not +ill satisfied, her image there—"I have really half a mind to let you +have the boy if I could manage to spare him."</p> + +<p>"Do you think he would make a devoted husband?" asks Vera, with a lazy +smile.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, don't be a fool. What is the use of devotion in a +husband? All one wants is a good fellow, who will let one alone. After +all, the boy might not answer. I am afraid, Vera," turning round suddenly +upon her, "I am very much afraid that boy is in love with you; it's +horrid of you to take him from me, because he is so useful, and I really +can't well do without him. I am going to pay him out to-night though: he +is to sit opposite you at dinner; he will only be able to gaze at you."</p> + +<p>"That is hard upon us both."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! don't waste your time upon him. I shall do better than that for +you; he is an eldest son, it is true, but Sir Charles looks as young as +his son, and is quite as likely to live as long. It is only married women +who can afford the luxury of ineligibles. Go and dress, child."</p> + +<p>Half-an-hour later Mrs. Hazeldine and Miss Nevill are to be found upon +two chairs on the broad and shady side of the Row, where a small crowd of +men is already gathered around them.</p> + +<p>Vera, coming up a stranger, and self-invited to the house of her old +acquaintance a few weeks ago, had already created a sensation in London. +Her rare beauty, the strange charm of her quiet, listless manner, the +shade of melancholy which had of late imperceptibly crept over her, +aroused a keen admiration and interest in her, even in that city, which +more than all others is satiated with its manifold types of beautiful +women.</p> + +<p>There was a rush to get introduced to her; a <i>furore</i> to see her. As she +went through a crowd people whispered her name and made way for her to +pass, staring at her after a fashion which is totally modern and +detestably ill-bred; and yet which, sad token of the <i>decadence</i> of +things in these later days, is not beneath the dignity or the manners +of persons whose breeding is supposed to be beyond dispute.</p> + +<p>Already the "new beauty" had been favourably contrasted with the +well-known reigning favourites; and it was the loudly expressed opinion +of more than one-half of the <i>jeunesse dorée</i> of the day that not one of +the others could "hold a candle to her, by Jove!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Hazeldine was delighted. It was she to whom belonged the honour of +bringing this new star into notice; the credit of launching her upon +London society was her own. She found herself courted and flattered and +made up to in a wholly new and delightful manner. The men besieged her +for invitations to her house; the women pressed her to come to theirs. It +was all for Miss Nevill's sake, of course, but, even so, it was very +pleasant, and Mrs. Hazeldine dearly loved the importance of her position.</p> + +<p>It came to pass that, whereas she had been somewhat put out at the letter +of her old Roman acquaintance, offering to come and stay with her, and +had been disposed to resent the advent of her self-invited guest as an +infliction, which a few needlessly gushing words in the past had brought +upon herself, she had, in a very short time, discovered that she could +not possibly exist without her darling Vera, and that she would not and +could not let her go back again to her country vicarage.</p> + +<p>It was, possibly, what Vera had counted upon. It was pretty certain to +have been either one thing or the other. Either her beauty would arouse +Mrs. Hazeldine's jealousy, and she would be glad to be rid of her as +quickly as possible, or else she would be proud of her, and wish to +retain her as an attraction to her house. Fortunately for Vera, Cissy +Hazeldine, worldly, frivolous, pleasure-loving as she was, was, +nevertheless, utterly devoid of the mean and petty spitefulness which +goes far to disfigure many a better woman's character. She was not +jealous of Vera; on the contrary, she was as unfeignedly proud of her as +though she had created her. Besides, as she said to herself, "Our style +is so different, we are not likely to clash."</p> + +<p>When she found that in a month's time Vera's beauty had made her house +the most popular one in London, and that people struggled for her +invitation-cards and prayed to be introduced to her, Mrs. Hazeldine was +at the zenith of her delight and self-importance. If only Vera herself +had been a little more practicable!</p> + +<p>"I don't despair of getting you introduced to royalty before the season +is out," she would say, triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to be introduced to royalty," Vera would answer +indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Vera, how can you be so disloyal? And it's quite wicked too; almost +against Scripture. Honour the King, you know it says somewhere; of course +that means the Prince of Wales too."</p> + +<p>"I can honour him very well without being introduced to him," said Vera, +who, however, let me assure you, was filled with feelings of profound +loyalty towards the reigning family.</p> + +<p>"But only think what a triumph it would be over those other horrid women +who think themselves at the top of the tree!" Mrs. Hazeldine would urge, +with a curious conglomeration of ideas, sacred and profane.</p> + +<p>But Vera was indifferent to the honour of becoming acquainted with his +Royal Highness.</p> + +<p>Another of Mrs. Hazeldine's troubles was that she absolutely refused to +be photographed.</p> + +<p>"Your portrait might be in every shop window if you chose!" Mrs. +Hazeldine would exclaim, despairingly.</p> + +<p>"I may be very depraved, Cissy," Vera would answer, indignantly, "but I +have not yet sunk so low as to desire that every draper's assistant may +have the privilege of buying my likeness for a shilling to stick up on +his mantelshelf, with a tight-rope dancer on one side, and a burlesque +actress on the other!"</p> + +<p>"My dear, it is done by every one; and women who are beautiful as you are +ought not to mind being admired."</p> + +<p>"But I prefer being admired by my friends only, and by those of my own +class. I have no ambition to expose myself, even in effigy, in a shop +window for the edification of street boys and city clerks."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can't help your name having been in <i>Vanity Fair</i> this week!"</p> + +<p>"No, and I only wish I could get hold of the man who put it there!" cried +Miss Nevill, viciously; and it is certain that unfortunate literary +person would not have relished the interview.</p> + +<p>A "beauty" with such strange and unnatural views was, it must be +confessed, as much of a trial as a triumph to an anxious chaperon.</p> + +<p>There was a certain amount of fashionable routine, the daily treadmill +of pleasure, to which, however, Vera submitted readily enough, and even +extracted a good deal of enjoyment out of it. There was the morning +saunter into the Row, the afternoons spent at garden parties or +"at-homes," the evenings filled up with dinner parties, to be followed +almost invariably by balls lasting late into the night. All these things +repeat themselves year after year: they are utter weariness to some of +us, but to her they were still new, and Vera entered into the daily whirl +of the London season with an amount of zest which was almost a surprise +to herself.</p> + +<p>Just at first there had been a daily terror upon her, that of meeting Sir +John Kynaston or his brother; but London is a large place, and you may go +out to different houses for many nights running without ever coming +across the friend or the foe whom you desire or dread most to encounter.</p> + +<p>After a little while, she forgot to glance hurriedly and fearfully around +her every time she entered a ball-room, or to look up shudderingly each +time the door was opened and a fresh guest announced at a dinner-party. +She never met either of them, nor did the name of Kynaston ever strike +upon her ear.</p> + +<p>She told herself that she had forgotten the two brothers, whose fate had +seemed at one time so intimately bound up with her own—the one as well +as the other. They were nothing more to her now—they had passed away out +of her life. Henceforth she had entered upon a new course, in which her +beauty and her mother wit were to exact their full value, but in which +her heart was to count for nothing more. It was to be smothered up within +her. That, together with all the best, and sweetest, and truest part of +her, once awakened for a brief space by the magic touch of love, was now +to be extinguished within her as though they had never been.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Vera enjoys herself.</p> + +<p>She looks happy enough now as she sits by her friend's side in the park, +with a little knot of admirers about her; not taking very much trouble to +talk to them, indeed, but smiling serenely from one to the other, letting +herself be talked to and amused, with just a word here and there, to show +them she is listening to what they say. It is, perhaps, the secret of her +success that she is so thoroughly indifferent to it all. It matters so +little to her whether they come or go; there is so little eagerness about +her, so perfect an <i>insouciance</i> of manner. Other women lay themselves +out to attract and to be admired; Vera only sits still, and waits with a +certain queenliness of manner for the worship that is laid at her feet, +and which she receives as her due.</p> + +<p>Behind her, with his hand on the back of her chair, stands a young fellow +of about two or three and twenty; he does not speak to her much, nor join +in the merry, empty chatter that is going on around her; but it is easy +to see by the way he looks down at her, by the fashion in which he +watches her slightest movement, that Vera exercises no ordinary influence +over him.</p> + +<p>He is a tall, slight-figured boy, with very fair yellow hair and delicate +features; his blue eyes are frank and pleasant, but his mouth is a trifle +weak and vacillating, and the lips are too sensitively cut for strength +of character, whilst his chest is too narrow for strength of body. He is +carefully dressed, and wears a white, heavy-scented flower in his coat, +a flower which, five minutes ago, he had ineffectually attempted to +transfer to Miss Nevill's dress; but Vera had only gently pushed back his +hand. "My dear boy, pray keep your gardenia; a flower in one's dress is +such a nuisance, it is always tumbling out."</p> + +<p>Denis Wilde, "the boy," as Mrs. Hazeldine called him with a flush on his +fair face, had put it back quietly in his button-hole, too well bred to +show the pain he felt by flinging it, as he would have liked to do, over +the railing, to be trampled under the feet of the horses.</p> + +<p>The little group kept its place for some time, the two well-dressed and +good-looking women sitting down, the two or three idlers who stood in +front of them gossiping about nothing at all—last night's ball, to-day's +plans, a little bit of scandal about one passer-by, somebody's rumoured +engagement, somebody else's reported elopement. Denis Wilde stood behind +Vera's chair and listened to it all, the well-known familiar chatter +of a knot of London idlers. There was nothing new or interesting or +entertaining about it. Only a string of names, some of which were strange +to him, but most of which were familiar; and always some little story, +ill-natured or harmless as the case might be, about each name that was +mentioned. And Vera listened, smiling, assenting, but only half +attentive, with her eyes dreamily fixed upon the long procession of +riders passing ever ceaselessly to and fro along the ride.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Denis Wilde felt a sudden movement of the chair beneath his +hand. Vera had started violently.</p> + +<p>"Here comes Sir John Kynaston," the man before her was saying to his +companion. "What a time it is since he has shown himself; he looks as if +he had had a bad illness."</p> + +<p>"Some woman jilted him, I've heard," answered the other man: "some girl +down in the country. People say, Miss Nevill, he is going to die of that +old-fashioned complaint, which you certainly will not believe in, a +broken heart! Poor old boy, he looks as if he had been buried, and had +come up again for a breath of air!"</p> + +<p>Vera followed the direction of their eyes. Sir John was walking slowly +towards them; he was thin and careworn; he looked aged beyond all belief. +He walked slowly, as though it were an effort to him, with his eyes upon +the ground. He had not seen her yet; in another minute he would be within +a couple of yards of her. It was next to impossible that he could avoid +seeing her, the centre, as she was, of that noisy, chattering group.</p> + +<p>A sort of despair seized her. How was she to meet him—this man whom she +had so cruelly treated? She could <i>not</i> meet him; she felt that it was an +impossibility. Like an imprisoned bird that seeks to escape, she looked +about instinctively from side to side. What possible excuse could she +frame? In what direction could she fly to avoid the glance of reproach +that would smite her to the heart.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Denis Wilde bent down over her.</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill, there goes a <i>Dachshund</i>, exactly like the one you wanted; +come quickly, and we shall catch him up. He ran away down here."</p> + +<p>She sprang up and turned after him; a path leading away from the crowded +Row, towards the comparatively empty park at the back, opened out +immediately behind her chair.</p> + +<p>Young Wilde strode rapidly along it before her, and Vera followed him +blindly and thankfully.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes he stopped and turned round.</p> + +<p>"Where is—the dog—wasn't it a dog, you said? Where is it?" She was +white and trembling.</p> + +<p>"There is no dog," he answered, not looking at her. "I—I saw you wanted +to get away for a minute. You will forgive me, won't you?"</p> + +<p>Vera looked at him with a sudden earnestness. The watchfulness which had +seen her distress, the ready tact which had guessed at her desire to +escape, and had so promptly suggested the manner of it, touched her +suddenly. She put forth her hand gently and almost timidly.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she said, simply. "I did not imagine you were so clever—or +so kind."</p> + +<p>The boy blushed deeply with pleasure. He did not know her trouble, but +the keen eye of love had guessed at its existence. It had been easy for +him who watched her every look, who knew every shade and every line of +her face, to tell that she was in distress, to interpret her pallor and +her trembling terror aright.</p> + +<p>"You don't want to go back?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, I cannot go back! Besides, I am tired; it is time to go home."</p> + +<p>"Stay here, then, and I will call Mrs. Hazeldine."</p> + +<p>He left her standing alone upon the grass, and went back to the crowded +path. Presently he returned with her friend.</p> + +<p>"My dear Vera, what is the matter? The boy says you have such a headache! +I am so sorry, and I wouldn't let any of those chattering fools come back +to lunch. Why, you look quite pale, child! Will it be too much for you to +have the boy, because we will send him away, too, if you like?"</p> + +<p>But Vera turned round and smiled upon the boy.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, let him come, certainly; but let us go home, all three of us at +once, if you don't mind."</p> + +<p>The thoughtfulness that had kept her secret for her, even from the eyes +of the woman who was supposed to be her intimate friend, surely deserved +its reward.</p> + +<p>They walked home slowly together across the park, and, when Vera came +down to luncheon, a white gardenia had somehow or other found its way to +the bosom of her dress.</p> + +<p>That was Denis Wilde's reward.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<h3>MAURICE'S INTERCESSION.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">B. Disraeli</span>, "Coningsby."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Two or three days later the east wind was still blowing, and the chilled +sunshine still feebly shining down upon the nipped lilac and laburnum +blossoms. The garden at Walpole Lodge was shorn of half its customary +beauty, yet to Helen Romer, pacing slowly up and down its gravel walks, +it had never possibly presented a fairer appearance. For Mrs. Romer had +won her battle. All that she had waited for so long and striven for so +hard was at length within her grasp. Her grandfather was dead, his money +had been all left to her, her engagement to Captain Kynaston was an +acknowledged fact, and she herself was staying as an honoured and welcome +guest in her future mother-in-law's house. Everything in the present and +the future seemed to smile upon her, and yet there were drawbacks—as are +there not in most earthly delights?—to the full enjoyment of her +happiness.</p> + +<p>For instance, there was that unreasonable and unaccountable codicil to +her grandfather's will, of which no one had been able to discern either +the sense or the meaning, and which stated that, should his beloved +grand-daughter, Helen Romer, be still unmarried within two months of the +date of his death, the whole of the previous bequests and legacies were +to be revoked and cancelled, and, with the exception of five thousand +pounds which she would retain, the whole bulk of his fortune was to +devolve upon the Crown, for the special use of the pensioners of +Greenwich and Chelsea Hospitals.</p> + +<p>Why such an extraordinary clause had been added to the old man's will it +was difficult to say. Possibly he feared that his grand-daughter might be +tempted to remain unmarried, in order that she might the more freely +squander her newly-acquired fortune in selfish pleasures; possibly he +desired to ensure her future by the speedy shelter and support of a +husband's name and authority, or perhaps he only hoped at his heart that +she would be unable to fulfil his condition; and, whilst his memory would +be left free from blame towards his daughter's orphaned child, his money +might go away from her by her own fault, and enrich the institutions of +his country at the expense of the grand-daughter, whom he had always +disliked.</p> + +<p>Be that as it may, it was sufficient to place Helen in a very awkward and +uncomfortable position. She had not only to claim Maurice's promised +troth to her, but she had also to urge on him an almost immediate +marriage; the task was a thankless and most unpleasant one.</p> + +<p>Besides that, there was the existence of a certain little French vicomte +which caused Mrs. Romer not a little anxiety. Now, if ever, was the time +when she had reason to dread his re-appearance with those fatal letters +with which he had once threatened to spoil her life should she ever +attempt to marry again.</p> + +<p>But her grandfather had died and had left her his money, and her +engagement and approaching marriage to another man was no secret, yet +still Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet made no sign, and gave forth no token +of his promised vengeance.</p> + +<p>Helen dared not flatter herself that he was dead, but she did hope, +and hoped rightly, that he was not in England, and had not heard of +the change in her fortunes. She had been afraid to make any inquiries +concerning him; such a step might only excite suspicion, and defeat her +own object of remaining hidden from him. If only she could be safely +married before he heard of her again—all, she thought, might yet be well +with her. Of what use, then, would be his vengeance? for she did not +think it likely he could be so cruel as to wreak an idle and profitless +revenge upon her after she herself and her fortune were beyond his power.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, had she known that her enemy had been on a distant journey to +Constantinople, from which he was now returning, and that every hour she +lived brought him nearer and nearer to her, she would have been less easy +in her mind concerning him. As it was, she consoled herself by thinking +in how short a time her marriage would put her out of his power, and +hoped, for the rest, that things would all turn out right for her. +Nevertheless, strive how she would, she could not quite put away the +dread of it out of her mind—it was an anxiety.</p> + +<p>And then there was Maurice himself. She had known, of course, for long, +how slight was her hold upon her lover's heart, but never had he appeared +so cold, so unloving, so full of apathetic indifference towards her as he +had seemed to be during the few days since he had arrived at his mother's +house. His every word and look, the very change in his voice when he +turned from his mother to her, told her, as plainly as though he had +spoken it, that she was forcing him into a marriage that was hateful and +repulsive to him, and which duty alone made him submit to. However little +pride a woman may retain, such a position must always bring a certain +amount of bitterness with it.</p> + +<p>To Helen it was gall and wormwood, yet she was all the more determined +upon keeping him. She said to herself that she had toiled, and waited, +and striven for him for too long to relinquish him now that the victory +was hers at length.</p> + +<p>Poor Helen, with all her good looks, and all her many attractions, she +had been so unfortunate with this one man whom she loved! She had always +gone the wrong way to work with him.</p> + +<p>Even now she could not let him alone; she was foolishly jealous and +suspicious.</p> + +<p>He had come to her, all smarting and bleeding still with the sacrifice +he had made of his heart to his duty. He had shut the woman he loved +determinedly out of his thoughts, and had set his face resolutely to do +his duty to the woman whom he seemed destined to marry. Even now a little +softness, a little womanly gentleness and sympathy, and, above all, a +wise forbearance from probing into his still open wounds, might have won +a certain amount of gratitude and affection from him. But Helen was +unequal to this. She only drove him wild with causeless and senseless +jealousy, and goaded him almost to madness by endless suspicions and +irritating cross-questioning.</p> + +<p>It is difficult to know what she expected more of him. He slept under +the same roof with her, he dined at his mother's table, and spent the +evenings religiously in her society. She could not well expect to keep +him also at her side all day long; and yet his daily visits to town, +amounting usually to between three and four hours of absence, were a +constant source of annoyance and disquiet to her. Where did he go? What +did he do with himself? Whom did he see in these diurnal expeditions into +London? She wore herself into a fever with her perpetual effort to fathom +these things.</p> + +<p>Even now she is fretting and fuming because he has promised to be home to +luncheon, and he is twenty minutes late.</p> + +<p>She paces impatiently up and down the garden. Lady Kynaston opens the +French window and calls to her from the house:</p> + +<p>"Come, my dear, lunch is on the table; are you not coming in?"</p> + +<p>"I had rather wait for Maurice, please; do sit down without me," she +answers, with the irritation of a spoilt child. Lady Kynaston closes the +window. "Oh, these lovers!" she groans to herself, somewhat impatiently, +as she sits down alone to the well-furnished luncheon-table; but she +bears it pretty composedly because Helen has her grandfather's money, and +is to bring her son wealth as well as love, and Lady Kynaston is not at +all above being glad of it. One can stand little faults of manner and +temper from a daughter-in-law, who is an heiress, which one would be +justly indignant at were she a pauper.</p> + +<p>A sound of wheels turning in at the lodge-gates—it is Maurice's hansom.</p> + +<p>Helen hurries forward to meet him in the hall; Captain Kynaston is +handing a lady out of the hansom; Helen peers at her suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"I am bringing you ladies a friend to lunch," says Maurice, gaily, and +Mrs. Romer's face clears when she sees that it is Beatrice Miller.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Beatrice, it is you! I am delighted to see you! Go in to the +dining-room, you will find Lady Kynaston. Maurice," drawing him back a +minute, "how late you are again! What have you been doing?"</p> + +<p>"I waited whilst Miss Miller put her bonnet on."</p> + +<p>"Why, where did you meet her?"</p> + +<p>"I met her at her mother's, where I went to call. Have you any +objection?" He looked at her almost defiantly as he answered her +questions; it was intolerable to him that she should put him through +such a catechism.</p> + +<p>"You can't have been there all the morning," she continued, suspiciously; +unable or unwilling, perhaps, to notice his rising displeasure. "Where +did you go first?"</p> + +<p>Maurice bit his lip, but controlled himself with an effort.</p> + +<p>"My dear child," he said, lightly, "one can't sell out of the army, or +prepare for the holy estate of matrimony, without a certain amount of +business on one's hands. Suppose now we go in to lunch." She stepped +aside and let him pass her into the dining-room.</p> + +<p>"He is shuffling again," she said to herself, angrily; "that was no +answer to my question. Is it possible that he sees <i>her</i>? But no, what +folly; if she is at Sutton, how can he get at her?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Helen," cried out Beatrice to her from the table as she entered, +"you and Lady Kynaston are positively out of the world this season. You +know none of the gossip."</p> + +<p>"I go nowhere, of course, now; my grandfather's death is so recent. I +have so many preparations to make just now; and dear Lady Kynaston is +good enough to shut herself up on my account."</p> + +<p>"Exactly; you are a couple of recluses," cried Beatrice. "Now, I daresay +you will never guess who is the new beauty whom all the world is talking +about; no other than our friend Vera Nevill. She is creating a perfect +sensation!"</p> + +<p>"Indeed!" politely, but with frigid unconcern, from Lady Kynaston.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I assure you there is a regular rage about her. Oh, how stupid I +am! Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned her, Lady Kynaston, for of +course she did not behave very well to Sir John, as we all know; but now +that is all over, isn't it? and everybody is wild about her beauty."</p> + +<p>"I am glad to hear that Miss Nevill is prospering in any way," said her +ladyship, stiffly. "I owe her no ill-will, poor girl."</p> + +<p>Helen Romer is looking at Maurice Kynaston; he has not said one single +word, nor has he raised his eyes once from his plate; but a deep flush +has overspread his handsome face at the sound of Vera's name.</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> is where he goes," said Helen, to herself. "I knew it; he has +seen her, and he loves her still."</p> + +<p>The conversation drifted on to other matters. Beatrice passed all the +gossip and scandal of the town under review for Lady Kynaston's benefit; +presently Maurice roused himself, and joined in the talk. But Mrs. Romer +uttered not a word; she sat in her place with a thunder-cloud upon her +brow until the luncheon was over; then, as they rose from the table, she +called her lover to her side.</p> + +<p>"I want to speak to you," she said, and detained him until the others had +left the room.</p> + +<p>"You knew that Vera Nevill was in town, and you have seen her!" she burst +forth impetuously.</p> + +<p>"If I had seen her, I do not know that it would signify, would it?" he +answered, calmly.</p> + +<p>"Not signify? when you knew that it was for <i>your</i> sake that she threw +over John, because——"</p> + +<p>"Be silent, Helen, you have no right to say that, and no authority for +such a statement," he said, interrupting her hotly.</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose you can deceive me? Did not everybody see that she could +not keep her eyes off you? What is the use of denying it? You have seen +her probably; you have been with her to-day."</p> + +<p>"As it happens, I have <i>not</i> been with her either to-day or any day; nor +did I know she was in town until Beatrice Miller told us so just now."</p> + +<p>"You have not seen her?"</p> + +<p>"No, I have not."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you!" she answered, angrily. Now, no man likes to be +given the lie direct even by a lady; and Maurice was a man who was +scrupulously truthful, and proud of his veracity; he lost his temper +fairly.</p> + +<p>"I have never told you a lie yet," he began furiously; "and if you think +so, it is time——"</p> + +<p>"Maurice! Maurice!" she cried, frantically, stopping the outspoken words +upon his lips, and seeing in one minute that she had gone too far. "My +darling, forgive me; I did not mean to say it. Yes, of course, I believe +you; don't say anything unkind to me, for pity's sake. You know how much +I love you; kiss me, darling. No, Maurice, I won't let you go till you +kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish, jealous little Helen!"</p> + +<p>It was the old story over again; angry reproaches—bitter words—insults +upon her side; to be succeeded, the minute he turned round upon her, by +wild cries of regret and entreaties for forgiveness, and by the pleading +of that love which he valued so little.</p> + +<p>She drove him wild with anger and indignation; but she never would let +him go—no, never, however much he might strain against the chain by +which she held him.</p> + +<p>The quarrel was patched up again; he stooped and kissed her. A man must +kiss a lady when she asks him. How, indeed, is he to refuse to do so? A +woman's kisses are the roses of life—altogether sweet, and lovely, and +precious. No man can say he dislikes a rose, nor refuse so harmless and +charming a gift when it is freely offered to him without absolute +churlishness. Maurice could not well deny her the embrace for which her +upturned lips had pleaded. He kissed her, indeed; but it will be easily +understood that there was very little spontaneity of affection in that +kiss.</p> + +<p>"Now let me go," he said, putting her from him gently but coldly; "I want +to speak to my mother."</p> + +<p>The two younger ladies wandered out into the garden, whilst Maurice +sought his mother's room.</p> + +<p>"Mother, I have been to see John this morning. I am afraid he is really +very ill," he said, gravely.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston shrugged her shoulders. "He is like a baby over that +foolish affair," she said, impatiently. "He does not seem able to get +over it; why does he shut himself up in his rooms? If he were to go out +a little more——"</p> + +<p>"He has been out; it is that that has made him ill. He went out a few +mornings ago—the wind was very cold; he says it is that which gave him a +chill. But, from what he says, I fancy he saw, or he thinks he saw, Miss +Nevill."</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston sat at her davenport with all the litter of her daily +correspondence before her; her son stood up by the mantelpiece, leaning +his back against it, and looked away out of window at the figures of +Beatrice and his future wife sauntering up and down the garden walks. She +could not well see his face as he spoke these last words.</p> + +<p>"Tiresome woman!" cried Lady Kynaston, angrily; "there is no end to the +trouble she causes. John ought to be thankful he is well rid of her. Did +you hear what Beatrice Miller said at lunch about her? I call it shocking +bad taste, her coming up to town and flirting and flaunting about under +poor John's nose—heartless coquette! Creating 'a sensation,' indeed! +That is one of those horrible American expressions that are the fashion +just now!"</p> + +<p>"It is no wonder she is admired," said Maurice, dreamily: "she is very +beautiful."</p> + +<p>"I wish to goodness she would keep out of John's way. Where did he see +her?"</p> + +<p>"It was in the Row, I think, and, from what he said, he only fancied he +saw her back, walking away. I told him, of course, it could not be her, +because I thought she was down at Sutton; but, after what Beatrice told +us at lunch, I make no doubt that it was her, and that John really did +see her."</p> + +<p>"I should have thought that your brother would have had more spirit than +to sit down and whine over a woman in that way," said her ladyship, +sharply; "it is really contemptible."</p> + +<p>"But if he is ill in body as well as in mind, poor fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Pooh! fiddlesticks! I am quite sure, if Helen jilted you, you would bear +it a great deal better—losing the money and all—than he does."</p> + +<p>Maurice smiled.</p> + +<p>"That is very possible; but a man can't help his disposition, and John +has been utterly shattered by it."</p> + +<p>"Well, I am sorry for him, of course; but I confess that I don't see that +anybody can do anything for him."</p> + +<p>And then Maurice was silent for a minute. God only knew what passed +through his soul at that minute—what agonies of self-renunciation, what +martyrdom of all that makes life pleasant and dear to a man! It is +certain his mother did not know it.</p> + +<p>"I think," he said, after a minute, and only a slight harshness in his +voice marked the internal struggle that the words were to cost him—"I +think, mother, <i>you</i> might do a great deal for him. Miss Nevill is in +town. Could you not see her?"</p> + +<p>"I see her! What on earth for?"</p> + +<p>"If you were to tell her how ill John is, how desperately he feels her +treatment of him—how——"</p> + +<p>"Stop, stop, my dear! You cannot possibly suppose that I am going down +upon my knees to entreat Miss Nevill to marry my son after she has thrown +him over!"</p> + +<p>"It is no question of going on your knees, mother. A few words would +suffice to show her the misery she is causing to John, and if those few +words would restore his lost happiness——"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell that anything I can say would influence her? I suppose +she had good reasons for throwing him over. She cared for some one else, +I suppose, or, at all events, she did not care for him."</p> + +<p>"I am quite certain, on the contrary, that she had a very sincere +affection for my brother; and, as to the some one else, I do not think +that will prevent her returning to him. Oh, mother!" he cried, with a +sudden passion, "the world is full of miserable misunderstandings and +mistakes. For God's sake, let us try to put some of its blunders right! +Do not let any poor, mean feelings of false pride stand in our way if we +can make one single life happy!"</p> + +<p>She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnestness. It did not +strike her at the minute that his interest in Vera was unusual, but only +that his affection for his brother was stronger than she imagined it to +be. "You know," she said, "I do not want things to come right in that +way. I do not want John to marry. I want the old place to come to you and +your children; and now that John has agreed to let you and Helen live +there——"</p> + +<p>He waved his hand impatiently. "And you know, mother dear, that such +desires are unlawful. John is the eldest, and I will never move a step to +take his birthright from him. To stand in the way of his marriage for +such a cause would be a crime. Is it not better that I should speak +plainly to you, dear? As to my living at Kynaston, I think it highly +unlikely that I should do so in any case, much as you and Helen seem to +wish it. But that has nothing to do with John's affairs. Promise me, +little mother, that you will try and set that right by seeing Miss +Nevill?"</p> + +<p>"I do not suppose I should do any good," she answered, with visible +reluctance.</p> + +<p>"Never mind; you can but try."</p> + +<p>"You can't expect me to go and call upon her for such a purpose, nor +speak to her, without John's authority."</p> + +<p>"You might ask her to come here, or go to some house where you will meet +her naturally in public."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that would be best; perhaps she will be at Lady Cloverdale's ball +next week."</p> + +<p>"It is easy, at all events, to ensure her an invitation to it; ask +Beatrice Miller to get her one."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes; that is easy enough. Oh, dear me, Maurice, you always manage to +get your own way with me; but you have given me a dreadfully hard task +this time."</p> + +<p>"As if a woman of your known tact and <i>savoir faire</i> was not capable of +any hard and impossible task!" answered her son, smiling, as he bent and +kissed her soft white face.</p> + +<p>The gentle flattery pleased her. The old lady sat smiling happily to +herself, with her hands idle before her, for some minutes after he had +left her.</p> + +<p>How dear he was to her, how good, how upright, how thoroughly generous +too, and unselfish to think so much of his brother's troubles just now, +in the midst of all his own happiness.</p> + +<p>She got up and went to the window, and watched him as he strolled across +the garden to join the ladies, smiling and kissing her hand to him when +he looked back and saw her.</p> + +<p>"Dear fellow, I hope he will be happy!" she said to herself, turning away +with a half sigh. And then suddenly something brought back the ball at +Shadonake to her recollection. There flashed back into her memory a +certain scene in a cool, dimly-lit conservatory: two people whispering +together under a high-swung Chinese lamp, and a background of dark-leaved +shrubs behind them.</p> + +<p>She had been puzzled that night. There had been something going on that +she had not quite understood. And now again that feeling of unsatisfied +comprehension came back to her. For the first time it struck her +painfully that the son whom she idolized so much—whose life and +character had been her one study and her one delight ever since the day +of his birth—was nevertheless a riddle to her. That the secret of his +inner self was as much hidden from her—his mother—as though she had +been the merest stranger; that the life she had striven so closely to +entwine with her own was nothing after all but a separate existence, in +the story of whose soul she herself had no part. He was a man struggling +single-handed in all the heat and turmoil of the battle of life, and she, +nothing but a poor, weak old woman, standing feebly aside, powerless to +help or even to understand the creature to whom she had given birth.</p> + +<p>There fell a tear or two down upon her wrinkled little hands as she +thought of it. She could not understand him; there was something in his +life she could not fathom. Oh, what did it all mean?</p> + +<p>Alas, sooner or later, is not that what comes to every mother concerning +the child she loves best?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<h3>MR. PRYME'S VISITORS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For courage mounteth with occasion.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>, "King John."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Mr. Herbert Pryme stood by a much ink-stained and littered table in his +chambers in the Temple, with his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling +a slow and melancholy tune.</p> + +<p>It was Mr. Pryme's habit to whistle when he was dejected or perplexed; +and the whistling generally partook of the mournful condition of his +feelings. Indeed, everything that this young man did was of a ponderous +and solemn nature; there was always the inner consciousness of the +dignity of the Bar vested in his own person, to be discerned in his outer +bearing. Even in the strictest seclusion of the, alas! seldom invaded +privacy of his chambers Mr. Pryme never forgot that he was a +barrister-at-law.</p> + +<p>But when this young gentleman was ill at ease within himself he was in +the habit of whistling. He also was given to the thrusting of his hands +into his pockets. The more unhappy he was, the more he whistled, and the +deeper he stuffed in his hands.</p> + +<p>Just now, to all appearances, he was very unhappy indeed.</p> + +<p>The air he had selected for his musical self-refreshment was the lively +and slightly vulgar one of "Tommy make Room for your Uncle;" but let +anybody just try to whistle that same vivacious tune to the time of the +Dead March in "Saul," and with a lingering and plaintive emphasis upon +each note, with "linked sweetness long drawn out," and then say whether +the gloomiest of dirges would not be festive indeed in comparison.</p> + +<p>Thus did Herbert Pryme whistle it as he looked down upon the piles of +legal documents heaped up together upon his table.</p> + +<p>All of them meant work, but none of them meant money. For Herbert was +fain to accept the humble position of "devil" to a great legal light who +occupied the floor below him, and who considered, and perhaps rightly, +that he was doing the young man above him, who had been sent up from the +country with a letter of introduction to him from a second cousin, a +sufficient and inestimable benefit in allowing him to do his dirty work +gratis.</p> + +<p>It was all very useful to him, doubtless, but it was not remunerative; +and Herbert wanted money badly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, if I could only reckon upon a couple of hundred a year," he sighed, +half aloud to himself, "I might have a chance of winning her! It seems +hard that heaps of these fellows can make hundreds a week by a short +speech, or a few strokes of the pen, that cost them no labour and little +forethought, whilst I, with all my hard work, can make nothing! What +uphill work it is! Not that the Bar is not a fine profession; quite the +finest there is," for not even to himself would Herbert Pryme decry the +legal muse whom he worshipped; "but, I suppose, like every other +profession, it is overstocked; there are too many struggling for the same +prizes. The fact is, that England is over-populated. Now, if a law were +to be passed compelling one-half of the adult males in this country to +remain in a state of celibacy for the space of fifteen years——" but +here he stopped short in his soliloquy and smiled; for was not the one +desire of his life at present to marry Beatrice Miller immediately? And +how was the extra population to be stayed if every one of the doomed +quota of marriageable males were of the same mind as himself?</p> + +<p>Presently Mr. Pryme sauntered idly to the window, and stood looking +drearily out of it, still whistling, of course.</p> + +<p>The prospect was not a lively one. His chambers looked out upon a little +square, stone-flagged court, with a melancholy-looking pump in the centre +of it. There was an arched passage leading away to one side, down which a +distant footstep echoed drearily now and then, and a side glimpse of the +empty road at the other end, beyond the corner of the opposite houses. +Now and then some member of the learned profession passed rapidly across +the small open space with the pre-occupied air of a man who has not a +minute to spare, or a clerk, bearing the official red bag, ran hastily +along the passage; for the rest, the London sparrows had it pretty much +to themselves. As things were, Mr. Pryme envied the sparrows, who were +ready clothed by Providence, and had no rates and taxes to pay, as well +as the clerks, who, at all events, had plenty to do and no time to +soliloquize upon the hardness and hollowness of life. To have plenty of +brains, and an indefinite amount of spare time to use them in; to desire +ardently to hasten along the road towards fortune and happiness, and to +be forced to sit idly by whilst others, duller-witted, perchance, and +with less capacity for work, are amassing wealth under your very +nose—when this is achieved by sheer luck, or good interest, or any other +of those inadequate causes which get people on in life independent of +talent and industry—that is what makes a radical of a man. This is what +causes him to dream unwholesome dreams about equality and liberty, about +a republic, where there shall be no more principalities and powers, where +plutocracy, as well as aristocracy, shall be unregarded, and where every +good man and true shall rise on his own merits, and on none other.</p> + +<p>Oh, happy and impossible Arcadia! You must wait for the millennium, my +friend, before your aspirations shall come to pass. Wait till jealousy, +and selfishness, and snobbism—that last and unconquerable dragon—shall +be destroyed out of the British heart, then, and only then, when jobbery, +and interest, and mammon-worship shall be abolished; then will men be +honoured for what they are, and not for what they seem to be.</p> + +<p>Something of all this passed through our friend's jaundiced mind as he +contemplated those homely and familiar little birds, born and bred and +smoke-dried in all the turmoil of the City's heart, who ruffled their +feathers and plumed their wings with contented chirpings upon the dusty +flags of the little courtyard.</p> + +<p>Things were exceptionally bad with Herbert Pryme just now. His exchequer +was low—had never been lower—and his sweetheart was far removed out of +his reach. Beatrice had duly come up with her parents to the family +mansion in Eaton Square for the London season, but although he had, it is +true, the satisfaction, such as it was, of breathing the same air as she +did, she was far more out of his reach in town than she had been in the +country. As long as she was at Shadonake Mr. Pryme had always been able +to run down to his excellent friend, the parson of Tripton, and once +there, it had been easy to negotiate a surreptitious meeting with +Beatrice. The fields and the lanes are everybody's property. If Tom and +Maria are caught love-making at the stile out of the wood, and they both +swear that the meeting was purely accidental, I don't see how any one is +to prove that it was premeditated; nor can any parents, now that it is no +longer the fashion to keep grown women under lock and key, prevent their +daughters from going out in the country occasionally unattended, nor +forbid strange young men from walking along the Queen's highway in the +same direction.</p> + +<p>But remove your daughter to London, and the case is altered at once. To +keep a girl who goes out a great deal in the whirl of London society out +of the way of a man who goes out very little, who is not in the inner +circle of town life, and is not in the same set as herself, is the +easiest thing in the world.</p> + +<p>So Mrs. Miller found it. She kept Beatrice hard at work at the routine of +dissipation. Not an hour of her time was unoccupied, not a minute of her +day unaccounted for; and, of course, she was never alone—it is not yet +the fashion for young girls to dance about London by themselves—her +mother, as a matter of course, was always with her.</p> + +<p>As a natural sequence, the lovers had a hard time of it. Beatrice had +been six weeks in London, and Herbert, beyond catching sight of her once +or twice as she was driven past in her mother's carriage down Bond +Street, or through the crowd in the Park, had never seen her at all.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller was congratulating herself upon the success of her tactics; +she flattered herself that her daughter was completely getting over that +unlucky fancy for the penniless and briefless barrister. Beatrice gave no +sign; she appeared perfectly satisfied and contented, and seemed to be +enjoying herself thoroughly, and to be troubled by no love-sick +hankerings after her absent swain.</p> + +<p>"She has forgotten him," said Mrs. Miller, to herself.</p> + +<p>But the mother did not take into account that indomitable spirit and +stubborn determination in her own character which had served to carry out +successfully all the schemes of her life, and which she had probably +transmitted to her child.</p> + +<p>In Beatrice's head, under its short thick thatch of dark rough hair, and +in her sturdily-built little frame, there lurked the tenacity of a +bulldog. Once she had taken an idea firmly into her mind, Beatrice Miller +would never relinquish it until she had got her own way. Herbert, in +the dingy solitude of his untempting chambers, might despair and look +upon life and its aims as a hopeless enigma. Beatrice did not despair at +all. She only bided her time.</p> + +<p>One day, if she waited for it patiently, the opportunity would come to +her, and when it came she would not be slow to make use of it. It came to +her in the shape of a morning visit from Captain Maurice Kynaston.</p> + +<p>"Come down and see my mother," Maurice had said to her; "she has not seen +you for a long while. I am just going back to Walpole Lodge to lunch."</p> + +<p>"I should like to come very much. You have no objection, I suppose, +mamma?"</p> + +<p>No; Mrs. Miller could have no possible objection. Lady Kynaston was +amongst her oldest and most respected friends; under whose house could +Beatrice be safer? And even Maurice, as an escort, engaged to be married +so shortly as he was known to be, was perfectly unobjectionable.</p> + +<p>Beatrice went, and, as we have seen, lunched at Walpole Lodge. She had +told her mother not to expect her till late in the afternoon, as, in all +probability, Lady Kynaston would drive her into town and would drop her +in Eaton Square at the end of her drive. Mrs. Miller, to whose watchful +maternal mind the Temple and Kew appeared to be in such totally different +directions that they presented no connecting suggestions, agreed, +unsuspiciously, not to expect her daughter back until after six o'clock.</p> + +<p>In this way Beatrice secured the whole afternoon to herself to do what +she liked with it. She was not slow to make use of it. There was all +the pluck of the Esterworths in her veins, together with all the +determination and energy which had raised her father's family from +a race of shopkeepers to take their place amongst gentlemen.</p> + +<p>As soon as Captain Kynaston joined the two ladies in the garden at +Walpole Lodge after luncheon Beatrice requested him to order a hansom to +be fetched for her.</p> + +<p>"Why should you hurry away?" said Maurice, politely. "My mother will take +you back to town in the carriage if you will wait."</p> + +<p>Helen was stooping over the flower-beds, gathering some violets. Beatrice +stepped closer to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Don't say a word, there's a good fellow, but get me the +hansom—and—and—please don't mention it at home."</p> + +<p>Then Maurice, who was no tyro in such matters, understood that it was +expected of him that he should ask no questions, but do what he was told +and hold his tongue.</p> + +<p>The sequence of which proceedings was, that a hansom cab drew up at the +far corner of the little stone-flagged court in the Temple between four +and five that afternoon.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pryme was no longer by the window when it did so, so that he was +totally unprepared for the visitor, whose trembling and twice-repeated +tap at his door he answered somewhat impatiently—</p> + +<p>"Come in, and be d——d to you, and don't stand rapping at that door all +day."</p> + +<p>The people, as a rule, who solicited admittance to his chambers were +either the boy from the legal light below, who came to ask whether the +papers were ready that had been sent up this morning, or else they were +smiling and sleek-faced tradesmen who washed their hands insinuatingly +whilst they requested that Mr. Pryme would be kind enough to settle that +little outstanding account.</p> + +<p>Either of these visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be some +excuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language.</p> + +<p>The door was softly pushed ajar.</p> + +<p>"Now, then—come in, can't you; who the deuce are you—<i>Beatrice</i>!"</p> + +<p>Enter Miss Miller, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir."</p> + +<p>"Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother? Are you +alone?" looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught her +outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am quite alone; don't be very shocked. I know I am a horrid, bold +girl to come all by myself to a man's chambers; it's dreadful, isn't it! +Oh, what would people say of it if they knew—why, even <i>you</i> look +horrified! But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so. I was determined to +get at you somehow—and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed it +beautifully—no one will ever find out where I have been. Mamma thinks I +am driving with Lady Kynaston!"</p> + +<p>And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it.</p> + +<p>She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure, +sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his. Not so +Herbert. He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by a +thousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit for +breaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to come +to him; but he was horribly nervous all the same. Supposing that boy were +to come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if the +great Q.C. were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognize +her from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller's reputation +be then?</p> + +<p>"It is very imprudent of you—most rash and foolish," he kept on +repeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed her +between every other word.</p> + +<p>"Now, don't waste any more time spooning," says Beatrice, with decision, +drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa. "An +hour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you. Herbert," with great +solemnity, "<i>I mean to elope with you!</i>"</p> + +<p>Herbert gives an irrepressible start.</p> + +<p>"<i>Now!</i> this minute?" he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftly +that, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence in +ready money.</p> + +<p>"No; don't be a goose; not now, because I haven't any clothes." Herbert +breathes more freely. "But some day, very soon, before the end of the +season."</p> + +<p>"But, my pet, you are not of age," objects her lover; whilst sundry +clauses in the laws concerning the marriages of minors without the +consent of their parents pass hurriedly through his brain.</p> + +<p>"What do I care about my age?" says Beatrice, with the recklessness of an +impetuous woman bent upon having her own way. "Of course, I don't wish to +do anything disreputable, or to make a scandal, but mamma is driving me +to it by never allowing me to see you, and forbidding you to come to the +house, and by encouraging all sorts of men whom she wants me to marry."</p> + +<p>"Ah! And these men, do they make love to you?" The instinct of the lover +rises instantly superior to the instinct of legal prudence within him. +"That is hard for me to bear."</p> + +<p>"Now, Herbert, don't be a fool!" cries Beatrice, jumping up and making a +grimace at herself in the dusty glass over his mantelpiece. "Do I look +like a girl whom men would make love to? Am I not too positively hideous? +Oh, you needn't shake your head and look indignant. Of course I am ugly, +everybody but you thinks so. Of course it's not me, myself, but because +papa is rich, and they think I shall have money. Oh, what a curse this +money is!"</p> + +<p>"I think the want of it a far greater one," says Herbert, ruefully.</p> + +<p>"At any rate," continues Beatrice, "I am determined to put an end to this +state of things; we must take the law into our own hands."</p> + +<p>"Am I to wait for you in a carriage and pair at the corner of Eaton +Square in the middle of the night?" inquires Herbert, grimly.</p> + +<p>"No; don't be foolish; people don't do things now-a-days in the way our +grandmothers did. I shall go to morning service one day at some out +of-the-way church, where you will meet me with a licence in your pocket; +it will be the simplest thing in the world."</p> + +<p>"And afterwards?"</p> + +<p>"Afterwards I shall go home to lunch."</p> + +<p>"And what am I to do?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! you will come back here, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"I don't think that will be very amusing," objects the bridegroom elect, +dubiously.</p> + +<p>"No; but then we shall be really married, and when we know that no one +can part us, we shan't mind waiting; and then, some day, after about six +months or so, I shall confess to papa, and there will be a terrible +scene, ending in tears on my part, and in forgiveness on the part of my +parents. Once the deed is done, you see, they will be forced to make the +best of it; and, of course, they will not allow us to starve. I think it +is a very ingenious plan. What do you think of it, Herbert? You don't +look very much delighted at the idea."</p> + +<p>"I don't think that I should play a very noble part in such a scheme as +that. Dearly as I love you, Beatrice, I do not think I could consent to +steal you away in such a pitiful and cowardly manner."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! you would have nothing to do with it; it is all my doing, of +course. Hush! is not that somebody coming up the stairs?"</p> + +<p>They were silent for half a minute, listening to the sound of advancing +steps upon the wooden staircase.</p> + +<p>"It is nothing—only somebody to see the man above me. By Jove, though, +it <i>is</i> for me!" as somebody suddenly stopped outside and knocked at the +door. "Wait one minute, sir! Good heavens, Beatrice, what am I to do with +you?"</p> + +<p>Herbert looked frightened out of his life. Beatrice, on the contrary, +could hardly smother her laughter.</p> + +<p>"I must hide!" she said, in a choked whisper. "Oh, Herbert, it is like +a scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!"</p> + +<p>Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door of +which stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber! +There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned the +key upon herself, and Herbert called out "Come in!" to the intruder. +Neither of them had noticed that Beatrice's little white lace sunshade +lay upon the table with her gloves and veil beside it.</p> + +<p>If Mr. Pryme had been alarmed at the bare fact of an unknown and possibly +unimportant visitor, it may be left to the imagination to describe the +state of his feelings when the door, upon being opened, disclosed the +Member for North Meadowshire standing without!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<h3>A WHITE SUNSHADE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An unrelenting foe to love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when we meet a mutual heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come in between, and bid us part?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>"Well, Mr. Pryme, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Miller, in his rough, hearty +voice, holding out his hand. "I dare say you are surprised to see me +here. I haven't met you since you were staying down with us at Christmas +time. Well, and how goes the world with you, young man?"</p> + +<p>Herbert, who at first had thought nothing less than that Mr. Miller had +tracked his daughter to his rooms, and that he was about to have the +righteous wrath of an infuriated and exasperated parent to deal with, by +this time began to perceive that, to whatever extraordinary cause his +visit was owing, Beatrice, at all events, had nothing to do with it. He +recovered himself sufficiently to murmur, in answer to his visitor's +greeting, that the world went pretty well with him, and to request his +guest to be seated.</p> + +<p>And then, as he pushed an arm-chair forward for him, his eye fell upon +Beatrice's things upon the table, and his heart literally stood still +within him. What was he to do? They lay so close to the father's elbow +that, to move them without attracting attention was impossible, and to +attract attention to them was to risk their being recognized.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Mr. Miller had put on his spectacles, and was drawing some +voluminous papers out of his breast coat-pocket.</p> + +<p>"Now, I dare say, young man, you are wondering what brings me to see you? +Well, the fact is, there is a little matter about which I am going to +law. I'm going to bring an action for libel against a newspaper; it is +that rascally paper the <i>Cat o' Nine Tails</i>. They had an infamous +paragraph three weeks ago concerning my early life, which, let me tell +you, sir, was highly respectable in every way, sir—in every way."</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure of that, Mr. Miller."</p> + +<p>"I've brought the paragraph with me. Oh, here it is. Well, I've had a +good deal of correspondence with the editor, and he refuses to publish an +apology, and so I'm tired of the whole matter, and have placed it in the +hands of my solicitors. I'm going to prosecute them, sir, and I don't +care what it costs me to do it; and I'll expose the whole system of these +trumped-up fabrications, that contain, as a rule, one grain of truth to a +hundredweight of lies. Well, now, Mr. Pryme, I want a clever barrister to +take up this case, and I have instructed Messrs. Grainge, my solicitors, +to retain you."</p> + +<p>"I am sure, sir, you are very kind; I hardly know how to thank you," +faltered poor Herbert. Never in the whole course of his life had he felt +so overcome with shame and confusion! Here was this man come to do him a +really great and substantial benefit, whilst his own daughter was hidden +away in a shameful fashion in the next room! Herbert would sooner that +Mr. Miller had pointed a pistol at his head and threatened to shoot him. +The deception that he was practising towards this kind-hearted and +excellent gentleman struck him to the heart with a sense of guilty +remorse.</p> + +<p>But what on earth was he to do? He could not reveal the truth to the +unconscious father, nor open the door and disclose Beatrice hiding in his +bedroom, without absolutely risking the reputation of the girl he loved. +There was nothing for it but to go on with the serio-comedy as best he +could, and to try and get Mr. Miller off the premises as speedily as +possible.</p> + +<p>He made an effort to decline the proffered employment.</p> + +<p>"It is most kind, most generous of you to have thought of me, but I must +tell you that there are many better men, even amongst the juniors, who +would do your case more justice than I should."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I believe you have plenty of talent, Mr. Pryme. I've been making +inquiries about you. You only want an opportunity, and I like giving a +young fellow a chance. One must hold out a helping hand to the young ones +now and then."</p> + +<p>"Of course, sir, I would do my very best for you, but I really think you +are risking your own case by giving it to me."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense—take it and do what you can for me; if you fail, I shall not +blame you;" and here suddenly Mr. Miller's eyes rested upon the sunshade +and the gloves upon the table half-a-yard behind his arm. Now, had it +been Miss Miller's mother who, in the place of her father, had been +seated in Herbert's wooden arm-chair, the secret of her proximity would +have been revealed the very instant the maternal eyes had been set upon +that sunshade and those gloves. Mrs. Miller could have sworn to that +little white lace, ivory-handled toy, with its coquettish pink ribbon +bows, had she seen it amongst a hundred others, nor would it have been +easy to have deceived the mother's eyes in the matter of the gray <i>peau +de suède</i> gloves and the dainty little veil, such as her daughter was in +the habit of wearing. But a father's perceptions in these matters are not +accurate. Mr. Miller had not the remotest idea what his child's sunshade +was like, nor, indeed, whether she had any sunshade at all. Nevertheless, +as his eyes alighted upon these indications of a feminine presence which +lay upon the young barrister's table, they remained fixed there with +distinct disapproval. These obnoxious articles of female attire of course +conveyed clearly to the elder man's perceptions, in a broad and general +sense, the fatal word "woman," and woman in this case meant "vice."</p> + +<p>Mr. Miller strove to re-direct his attention to his case and the papers +in his hand. Herbert made a faint and ineffectual attempt to remove the +offending objects from the table. Mr. Miller only looked back at them +with an ever-increasing gloom upon his face, and Herbert's hand, morally +paralyzed by the glance, sank powerlessly down by his side. He imagined, +of course, that the father had recognized his daughter's property.</p> + +<p>"Well, to continue the subject," said Mr. Miller, looking away with +an effort, and turning over the papers he had brought with him; "there +are several points in the case I should like to mention to you." He +paused for a minute, apparently to collect his thoughts, and to +Herbert's sensitive ears there was a sudden coldness and constraint +in his voice and manner. "You will, of course, take instructions in +the main from Grainge and Co.; but what I wished to point out to you +was—ahem——" here his voice unaccountably faltered, and his eyes, as +though drawn by a magnet, returned once more with ominous displeasure to +that little heap of feminine finery that lay between them. Mr. Miller +flung down his papers, and turning round in his chair, rested both elbows +upon the table.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Pryme," he said, with decision, "I think it is best that I should be +frank with you!" He looked the young barrister full in the face.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, certainly, if you please, Mr. Miller," said Herbert, not +quite knowing what he had to fear, and turning hot and cold alternately +under his visitor's scrutinizing gaze.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, let me tell you fairly that I came to seek you to-day with +the friendliest motives."</p> + +<p>"I am sure you did, and you are most kind to me, sir," murmured Herbert, +playing nervously with an ivory paper-cutter that lay on the table.</p> + +<p>Mr. Miller waved his hand, as though to dispense with his grateful +acknowledgments.</p> + +<p>"The fact is," he continued, "I had understood from Mrs. Miller that you +were a suitor for my daughter's hand. Well, sir, Mrs. Miller, as you +know, disapproves of your suit. My daughter will be well off, Mr. Pryme, +and you, I understand, have no income at all. You have no other resource +than a profession, at which, as yet, you have made nothing. There is some +reason in Mrs. Miller's objection to you. Nor should I be willing to let +my daughter marry an idle man who will live upon her money. Then, on the +other hand, Mr. Pryme, I find that my girl is fond of you, and, if this +is the case, I am unwilling to make her unhappy. I said to myself that I +would give you an opening in this case of mine, and if you will work hard +and make yourself known and respected in your profession, I should not +object, in the course of time, to your being engaged to her, and I would +endeavour to induce her mother to agree to it. I came here to-day, Mr. +Pryme, to give you a fair chance of winning her."</p> + +<p>"You are too good, Mr. Miller," cried Herbert, with effusion, stretching +forth his hand. "I do not know how to thank you enough, nor how to assure +you of my grateful acceptance of your terms."</p> + +<p>But Mr. Miller drew back from the young man's proffered hand.</p> + +<p>"Wait, there is no occasion to thank me;" and again his eyes fell sternly +upon that unlucky little heap of lace and ribbon. "I am sorry to tell you +that, since I have come here, my friendly and pleasant intentions towards +you have undergone a complete change."</p> + +<p>"Sir!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mr. Pryme; I came here prepared to treat you—well, I may as well +confess it—as a son, under the belief that you were an upright and +honourable man, and were sincerely and honestly attached to my daughter."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller, is it possible that you can doubt it?"</p> + +<p>The elder man pointed with contemptuous significance to the sunshade +before him.</p> + +<p>"I find upon your table, young man, the evidences of the recent presence +of some wretched woman in your rooms, and your confusion of manner shows +me too plainly that you are not the kind of husband to which a man may +safely entrust his daughter's happiness."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Miller, I assure you you are mistaken; it is not so."</p> + +<p>"Every man in this country has a right to justify himself when he is +accused. If I am mistaken, Mr. Pryme, explain to me the meaning of +<i>that</i>," and the heavy forefinger was again levelled at the offending +objects before him.</p> + +<p>Not one single word could Herbert utter. In vain ingenious fabrications +concerning imaginary sisters, maiden aunts, or aged lady clients rushed +rapidly through his brain; the natural answer on Mr. Miller's part to all +such inventions would have been, "Then, where is she?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Miller must know as well as he did himself that the lady, whoever she +might be, must still be in his rooms, else why should her belongings be +left on his table; and if in the rooms, then, as there was no other +egress on the staircase than the one by which he had entered, clearly, +she must be secreted in his bedroom. Mr. Miller was not a young man, and +his perceptions in matters of intrigue and adventure might no longer be +very acute, but it was plain to Herbert that he probably knew quite as +well as he did himself that the owner of the gloves and sunshade was in +the adjoining room.</p> + +<p>"Have you any satisfactory explanation to give me?" asked Mr. Miller, +once more, after a solemn silence, during which he glared in a stern and +inquisitorial manner over his spectacles at the young man.</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to say," was the answer, given in a low and dejected +voice.</p> + +<p>Mr. Miller sprang to his feet and hurriedly gathered up his papers.</p> + +<p>"Then, sir," he said, furiously, "I shall wish you good afternoon; and +let me assure you, most emphatically, that you must relinquish all claim +to my daughter's hand. I will never consent to her union with a man whose +private life will not bear investigation; and should she disobey me in +this matter, she shall never have one single shilling of my money."</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence. Mr. Miller was buttoning-up his coat with +the air of a man who buttons up his heart within it at the same time. He +regarded the young man fiercely, and yet there was a lingering +wistfulness, too, in his gaze. He would have given a good deal to hear, +from his lips, a satisfactory explanation of the circumstances which told +so suspiciously against him. He liked the young barrister personally, and +he was fond enough of his daughter to wish that she might be happy in her +own way. He spoke one word more to the young man.</p> + +<p>"Have you nothing to say; Mr. Pryme?"</p> + +<p>Herbert shook his head, with his eyes gloomily downcast.</p> + +<p>"I can only tell you, sir, that you are mistaken in what you imagine. If +you will not believe my word, I can say nothing more."</p> + +<p>"And what of <i>these</i>, Mr. Pryme—what of <i>these</i>?" pointing furiously +downwards to Beatrice's property.</p> + +<p>"I cannot explain it any further to you, Mr. Miller. I can only ask you +to believe me."</p> + +<p>"Then, I do not believe you, sir—I do not believe you. Would any man in +his senses believe that you haven't got a woman hidden in the next room? +Do you suppose I'm a fool? I have the honour of wishing you good day, +sir, and I am sorry I ever took the trouble of calling upon you. It is, +of course, unnecessary for you to trouble yourself concerning my case, in +these altered circumstances, Mr. Pryme; I beg to decline the benefit of +your legal assistance. Good afternoon."</p> + +<p>The door closed upon him, and the sound of his retreating footsteps +echoed noisily down the stairs. Herbert sank into a chair and covered his +face with his hands. So lately hope and fortune seemed to have smiled +upon him for one short, blissful moment, only to withdraw the sunshine +of their faces again from him more completely, and to leave him more +utterly in the dark than ever. Was ever man so unfortunate, and so +unlucky?</p> + +<p>But for the <i>contretemps</i> concerning that wretched sunshade, he would now +have been a hopeful, and almost a triumphant, lover. Now life was all +altered for him!</p> + +<p>The door between the two rooms opened softly, and Beatrice, no longer +brave, and defiant, and laughing as she had been when she went in, but +white, and scared, and trembling, crept hesitatingly forth, and knelt +down by her lover's side.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Herbert! what has happened? It was papa—I heard his voice; but I +could not hear what you talked about, only I heard that he was angry at +the last, when he went away. Oh! tell me, dearest, what has happened?"</p> + +<p>Herbert pointed bitterly to her belongings on the table.</p> + +<p>"What fatality made me overlook those wretched things?" he cried, +miserably; "they have ruined us!"</p> + +<p>Beatrice uttered an exclamation of dismay.</p> + +<p>"Papa saw them—he recognized them!"</p> + +<p>"Not as <i>yours</i>, thank God!"</p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"He thinks me unworthy of you," answered the lover, in a low voice, and +Beatrice understood. "He has forbidden me ever to think of you now; and +he will leave you penniless if you disobey him; it is a terrible +misfortune, my darling; but still, thank God that your good name is +safe!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, at the expense of yours, Herbert!" cried the girl, frantically; "I +see it all now, and, if I dared, I would confess to papa the truth."</p> + +<p>"Do not think of it!"</p> + +<p>"I dare not; but, Herbert, don't despair; I see now how wicked and how +foolish I was to come here to-day, and what a terrible risk I have run, +for if papa knew that it was I who was in the next room, he would never +forgive me; we can do nothing now but wait until brighter and happier +days; believe me, Herbert, if you will be true to me, I will be true to +you, and I will wait for you till I am old and grey."</p> + +<p>He strained her passionately to his heart.</p> + +<p>"I will never forget what you have done for me to-day, never!" said the +girl, as she clung to his neck.</p> + +<p>And then she put on her gloves and veil, and took up the sunshade that +had been the cause of such a direful ending to her escapade, and went her +way. And after she was gone, Mr. Pryme, with his hands in his pockets, +began once more to whistle, as though the events of the afternoon had +never taken place.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<h3>HER SON'S SECRET.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But love is such a mystery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I cannot find it out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For when I think I'm best resolved,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I then am most in doubt."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Sir J. Suckling.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Lady Kynaston sat alone in her little morning-room; as far as she knew, +she was alone in the house; Mrs. Romer had driven into London, on the +cares of her trousseau intent, and she believed that Maurice had gone +with her; at all events, she had heard him state his intention of going, +and the departing carriage had, some time since, driven away from the +door.</p> + +<p>The morning-room looked on to the garden side of the house, and the +windows were wide open; the east wind had departed, and summer had set in +at last. Real summer, coming in with a rush when it did come, with warm +whiffs of flower-scented wind, with flutterings of lime blossoms from the +trees along the high brick wall, with brown bees and saffron butterflies +hovering over the reviving flower-borders, and dragon-flies darting out +of the shadows into the hot blinding sunshine. Summer at last; and oh, +how welcome when it comes upon our rain-drenched and winter-pinched land.</p> + +<p>The gardener was bedding out the geraniums along the straight ribbon +border. Lady Kynaston went out once to superintend his operations, +holding up a newspaper in her hand to shield her head from the rays of +the sun. But it was hot, and old McCloud, the Scotch gardener, was +intelligent enough to be safely left to his own devices, so she did not +stop out long.</p> + +<p>She came in again, and sat down in a low basket-chair by the window, and +thought how wise she had been to settle herself down in the old house +with its velvet lawns and its wide shadowy trees, instead of in the heat +and turmoil of a London home.</p> + +<p>She looked a little anxious and worried to-day—she was not happy about +her eldest son—somebody had told her last night that he was talking +about going to Australia, and turning sheep farmer. Lady Kynaston was +annoyed at the report; it did not strike her as seemly or right that the +head of the Kynaston family should become a sheep farmer. Moreover, she +knew very well that he only wanted to get himself away out of the country +where no one would know of his story, or remind him of his trouble again. +The man's heart was broken. He did not want to farm sheep, or to take to +any other rational or healthful employment; he only wanted, like a sick +animal, to creep away and hide his hurt. Little as Lady Kynaston had in +common with her eldest son, she was sorry for him. She would have done +what she could to help him had she known how. She had written to him only +yesterday, begging him to come to her, but he had not replied to her +letter.</p> + +<p>The Cloverdales' ball had come and gone, and Lady Kynaston had taken +pains to ensure that an invitation might be sent to Mrs. Hazeldine and +Miss Nevill. She had also put herself to some inconvenience in order to +be present at it herself, but all to no purpose—Vera was not there. +Perhaps she had had another engagement that evening.</p> + +<p>The old lady's promise to her youngest son was still unfulfilled. She +half repented now that she had given him any such promise. What good was +she to do by interceding between her son and Miss Nevill? and why was she +to lay herself open to the chance of a rebuff from that young lady? It +had been a senseless and quixotic idea on Maurice's part altogether. +Young women do not take back a jilted lover because the man's mother +advises them to do so; nor is a broken-off marriage likely to get itself +re-settled in consequence of the interference of a third person.</p> + +<p>The old lady had taken out her fancy-work, a piece of crewel work such as +is the fashion of the day. But she was not fond of work; the leaves of +muddy-shaded greens grew but slowly under her fingers, and, truth to say, +the occupation bored her. It was artistic, certainly, and it was +fashionable; but Lady Kynaston would have been happier over a pair of +cross-stitch slippers for her son, or a knitted woollen petticoat for the +old woman at her lodge gate. All the same, she took out her crewels and +put in a few stitches; but the afternoon was warm, there was a humming of +insects in the summer air, a click-clicking from the gardener as he +dropped one empty red flower-pot into the other along the edge of the +ribbon border, a cawing of rooks from the elms over the wall, a very +harmony of soft soothing sounds, just enough to lull worry to rest, not +enough to scare drowsiness from one's brain.</p> + +<p>By degrees, it all became mixed up in a delicious confusion. The rooks, +and the bees, and the gardener made one continuous murmur to her, like +the swishing of summer waves upon a sandy shore, or the moaning of soft +winds in the tree tops.</p> + +<p>Then the crewel work slipped off her lap, and Lady Kynaston slept.</p> + +<p>How long she was asleep she could not rightly have said: it might have +been an hour, it might have been but twenty minutes; but suddenly she +awoke with a start.</p> + +<p>The rustle of a woman's dress was beside her, and somebody spoke her +name.</p> + +<p>"Lady Kynaston! Oh, I am so sorry I have disturbed you; I did not see you +were asleep."</p> + +<p>The old lady opened her eyes wide, and came back suddenly from dreamland. +Vera Nevill stood before her.</p> + +<p>"Vera, is it <i>you</i>? Good gracious! how did you get in? I never even heard +the door open."</p> + +<p>"I came in by the front-door quite correctly," said Vera, smiling and +reaching out her hand for a chair, "and was duly announced by the +footman; but I had no idea you were asleep."</p> + +<p>"Only dozing. Sit down, my dear, sit down; I am glad to see you." And, +somehow, all the awkwardness of the meeting between the two vanished. It +was as though they had parted only yesterday on the most friendly terms. +In Vera's absence, Lady Kynaston had thought hard things of her, and had +spoken condemning words concerning her; but in her presence all this +seemed to be altered.</p> + +<p>There was something so unspeakably refreshing and soothing about Vera; +there was a certain quiet dignity in her movements, a calm serenity in +her manner, which made it difficult to associate blame and displeasure +with her. Faults she might have, but they could never be mean or ignoble +ones; there was nothing base or contemptible about her. The pure, proud +profile, the broad grave brow, the eyes that, if a trifle cold, were as +true withal as the soul that looked out, sometimes earnestly, sometimes +wistfully, from their shadowy depths; everything about her bade one judge +her, not so much by her actions, which were sometimes incomprehensible, +but by a certain standard that she herself created in the minds of +all who knew her.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston had called her a jilt and a heartless coquette; she had +made no secret of saying, right and left, how badly she had behaved: what +shameful and discreditable deductions might be drawn from her conduct +towards Sir John. Yet, the very instant she set eyes upon her, she felt +sorry for the hard things she had said of her, and ashamed of herself +that she should have spoken them.</p> + +<p>Vera drew forward a chair, and sat down near her. The dress she wore was +white, of some clear and delicate material, softened with creamy lace; it +had been one of kind-hearted Cissy Hazeldine's many presents to her. +Looking at her, Lady Kynaston thought what a lovely vision of youth and +beauty she made in the sombre quiet of the little room.</p> + +<p>"They tell me half the men in London have gone mad over you," were her +first words following the train of her own thoughts, and she liked her +visitor none the less, that world-loving little old woman, because she +could not but acknowledge the reasonableness of the madness of which +she accused her of being the object.</p> + +<p>"I care very little for the men in London, Lady Kynaston," answered Vera, +quietly.</p> + +<p>"My dear, what <i>do</i> you care for?" asked her ladyship, with earnestness, +and Vera understood that she was expected to state her business.</p> + +<p>"Lady Kynaston, I have come to ask you about your son," she answered, +simply.</p> + +<p>"About John?"</p> + +<p>"Of course, it is Sir John I mean," she said, quickly, a hot flush +rising for one instant to her face, and dying away rapidly again, to +leave her a trifle paler than before. "I know," she continued, with a +little hesitation—"I know that I have no right to inquire—but I cannot +forget all that is past—all his goodness and generosity to me. I shall +never forget it; and oh, I hear such dreadful things of him, that he is +ill—that he is talking of going to Australia. Oh, Lady Kynaston, is it +all true?"</p> + +<p>She had clasped her hands together, and bent a little forward towards +the old lady in her earnestness; she looked at her piteously, almost +entreatingly.</p> + +<p>"Does she love him after all?" thought Lady Kynaston, as she watched her; +and the meaning of the whole story of her son's love seemed more +unfathomable than ever.</p> + +<p>"John is neither well nor happy," she said, aloud. "I think, Vera, you +must know the reason of it better than any of us."</p> + +<p>"It is my fault—my doing," cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret in +her voice. "Yes," she added, looking away sadly out of the open window; +"that is why I have come. Do you know that I saw him once? I don't think +he saw me—it was in the Park one morning. He looked so aged, so +saddened, I realized then what I had done—his face haunts me."</p> + +<p>"Vera, you could alter all that if you chose," said the old lady, +earnestly.</p> + +<p>A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled.</p> + +<p>"You don't suppose I came here to say <i>that</i>, Lady +Kynaston?"</p> + +<p>"No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you. Vera, I entreat you to +tell me the truth. What is it that stands between you and John?"</p> + +<p>She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over the +other upon her knee.</p> + +<p>"I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston," she answered, at length, in a low +voice.</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed.</p> + +<p>"And you cannot, marry him?"</p> + +<p>Vera shook her head.</p> + +<p>"No, it would not be right."</p> + +<p>The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor's arm.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me for asking you. Do you love some one else? is it that?"</p> + +<p>She bent her head silently.</p> + +<p>"Have you any hopes of marrying the man you love?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, none—not the slightest," she said, hurriedly; "I shall never +marry."</p> + +<p>"Then, Vera, will you listen to an old woman's advice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear Lady Kynaston."</p> + +<p>"My dear, if you cannot marry the man you love, put him out of your +mind."</p> + +<p>"I must do that in any case," she said, wearily.</p> + +<p>"Listen to me, my dear. Don't sacrifice your own life and the life of a +man who is good and loves you dearly to a caprice of your heart. Hush! +don't interrupt me; I dare say you don't think it a caprice; you think it +is to last for ever. But there is no 'for ever' in these matters; the +thing comes to us like an ordinary disease; some of us take it strongly, +and it half kills us; some of us are only a very little ill; but we all +get over it. There is a pain that goes right through one's heart: it is +worse to bear than any physical suffering: but, thank God, that pain +always wears itself out. My dear, I, who speak to you, have felt it, and +I tell you that no man is worth it. You can cure yourself of it if you +will; and the remedy is work and change of the conditions of your life. +You don't think I look very much like a blighted being, do you? and yet I +did not marry the man I loved. I could not; he was poor, and my parents +would not allow it. I thought I should die, but you see I did not. I took +up my life bravely, and I married a most estimable man; I lived an active +and healthy life, so that by degrees it became a happy one. Now, Vera, +why should you not do the same? Your people have a right to expect that +you should marry; they cannot afford to support you for always. Because +you are disappointed in one thing, why are you not to make the best you +can of your life?"</p> + +<p>"I do mean to marry—in time," said Vera, brokenly, with tears in her +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Then why not marry John?"</p> + +<p>There was a minute's silence. Was it possible that Lady Kynaston did not +know? Vera asked herself. Was it possible that she could, in cold blood, +advise her to marry one son whilst the other one loved her! That was what +was so terrible to her mind. To marry was simple enough, but to marry Sir +John Kynaston! She thought of what such an action might bring upon them +all. The daily meetings, the struggles with temptation, the awful +tampering with deadly sin. Could any one so constituted as she was walk +deliberately and with open eyes into such a situation?</p> + +<p>She shuddered.</p> + +<p>"I cannot do it," she said, wringing her hands together; "don't ask me; +I cannot do it!"</p> + +<p>Lady Kynaston got up, and went and stood by her chair.</p> + +<p>"Vera, I entreat you not to let any false pride stand in the way of +this. Do not imagine that I ask you to do anything that would wound your +vanity, or humble you in your own eyes. It would be so easy for me to +arrange a meeting between you and John; it shall all come about simply +and naturally. As soon as he sees you again, he will speak to you."</p> + +<p>"It is not that, it is not that!" she murmured, distractedly; but Lady +Kynaston went on as if she had not heard her.</p> + +<p>"You must know that I should not plead like this with you if I were not +deeply concerned. For myself, I had sooner that John remained unmarried. +I had sooner that Maurice's children came into Kynaston. It is wrong, I +know, but it is the case, because Maurice is my favourite. But when we +hear of John shutting himself up, of his refusing to see any of his +friends, and of his talking of going to Australia, why, then we all feel +that it is you only who can help us; that is why I have promised Maurice +to plead with you."</p> + +<p>She looked up quickly.</p> + +<p>"You promised Maurice! It is <i>Maurice</i> who wants me to marry his +brother." She turned very pale.</p> + +<p>"Certainly he does. You don't suppose Maurice likes to see his brother so +unhappy."</p> + +<p>The darkened room, the spindle-legged furniture, Lady Kynaston's little +figure, in her black dress and soft white tulle cap, the bright garden +outside, the belt of trees beyond the lawn, all swam together before her +eyes.</p> + +<p>She drew a long breath; then she rose slowly from her place, a little +unsteadily, perhaps, and walked across the Persian rug to the empty +fireplace. She stood there half a minute leaning with both hands upon the +mantelshelf, her head bent forwards.</p> + +<p><i>Maurice wished it!</i> To him, then, there were no fears, and no dangers. +He could look forward calmly to meeting her constantly as his brother's +wife; it would be nothing to him, that temptation that she dreaded so +much; nothing that an abyss which death itself could never bridge over +would be between them to all eternity!</p> + +<p>And then the woman's pride, without which, God help us, so many of us +would break our hearts and die, came to her aid.</p> + +<p>Very well, then, if he was strong, she would learn to be strong too; +if the danger to him was so slight that he could contemplate it with +calmness and with indifference, then she, too, would show him that it was +nothing to her. Only, then, what a poor thing was this love of his! And +surely the man she had loved so fatally was not Maurice Kynaston at all, +but only some creature of her own imagination, whom she had invested with +things that the man himself had not lost because he had never possessed +them.</p> + +<p>If this was so, then why, indeed, listen to the voice of her heart when +everything urged her to stifle it? Why not make Sir John Kynaston happy +and herself prosperous and rich, as everybody round her seemed to +consider it her duty to do?</p> + +<p>It passed rapidly through her mind what a fine place Kynaston was; how +dear everything that wealth can bring had always been to her, what a wise +and prudent match it was in every way for her, and what a good indulgent +husband Sir John would be.</p> + +<p>Who in the wide world would blame her for going back to him? Would not +everybody, on the contrary, praise her for reconsidering her folly, and +for becoming Lady Kynaston, of Kynaston? The errors of the successful +in this world's race are leniently treated; it is only when we are +unfortunate and our lives become failures that our friends turn their +backs upon our misdeeds in righteous condemnation.</p> + +<p>"So long as thou doest well unto thyself men will speak good of thee."</p> + +<p>Surely, surely, it was the best and the wisest thing she could do. And +yet even at that moment Eustace Daintree's pale, earnest face came for +one instant before her. What side in all this would he take—he of the +pure heart, of the stainless life? If he knew all, what would he say?</p> + +<p>Pooh! he was a dreamer—an idealist, a man of impossible aims; his +theories, indeed, were beautiful, but impracticable. Vera knew that he +expected better things of her; but she had striven to be what he would +have desired, and if she had failed, was it her fault? was it not rather +the fault of the world and the generation in which her life had been +cast?</p> + +<p>She had struggled, and she had failed; henceforth let her life be as fate +should ordain for her.</p> + +<p>"What is it you wish me to say, Lady Kynaston?" she asked, turning +suddenly towards Maurice's mother.</p> + +<p>"My dear child, I only want you to say that if John asks you again to be +his wife, you will consent, or say only, if you like it better, that you +will agree to meet him here. There shall be nothing unpleasant for you; I +will write to him and settle everything."</p> + +<p>"If you write to him, I will come," she said, briefly, and then Lady +Kynaston came up to her and kissed her, taking her hands within her own, +and drawing her to her with motherly tenderness. "My dear, everybody will +think well of you for this."</p> + +<p>And the words ran so nearly in the current of her own bitter thoughts +that Vera laughed, shortly and disdainfully, a low laugh of scorn at the +world, whose mandates she was prepared to obey, even though she despised +herself for doing so.</p> + +<p>"You will be glad by-and-by that you were so sensible and so reasonable," +said Lady Kynaston.</p> + +<p>"Yes—I dare say I shall be glad by-and-by; and now I am going, dear Lady +Kynaston; I have a hansom waiting all this time, and Mrs. Hazeldine will +be wondering what has become of me."</p> + +<p>At this moment they both heard the sound of a carriage driving up to the +door.</p> + +<p>"It must be some visitors," said Lady Kynaston; "wait a minute, or you +will meet them in the hall. Oh, stay, go through this door into the +dining-room, and you can get through the dining-room window by the garden +round to the front of the house; I dare say you would rather not meet +anybody—you might know them."</p> + +<p>"Thank you—yes, I should much prefer to get away quickly and quietly—I +will go through the dining-room; do not come with me, I can easily find +my way."</p> + +<p>She gathered up her gloves and her veil and opened the door which +communicated between the morning-room and the dining-room. She heard the +chatter of women's voices and the fluttering of women's garments in the +hall; it seemed as though they were about to be ushered into the room she +was leaving.</p> + +<p>She did not want to be seen; besides, she wanted to get away quickly and +return to London. She closed the morning-room door behind her, and took a +couple of steps across the dining-room towards the windows.</p> + +<p>Then she stopped suddenly short; Maurice sat before her at the table. He +lifted his eyes and looked at her; he did not seem surprised to see her, +but there was a whole world of grief and despair in his face. It was as +though he had lived through half a lifetime since she had last seen him.</p> + +<p>Pride, anger, wounded affection, all died away within her—only the woman +was left, the woman who loved him. Little by little she saw him only +through the blinding mist of her own tears.</p> + +<p>Not one single word was spoken between them. What was there that they +could say to each other? Then suddenly she turned away, and went swiftly +back into the room she had just left, closing the door behind her.</p> + +<p>It was empty. Lady Kynaston was gone. Vera stooped over the +writing-table, and, taking up a sheet of paper, she wrote in pencil:—</p> + +<p>"Do not write to Sir John—it is beyond my strength—forgive me and +forget me. <span class="smcap">Vera.</span>" And then she went out through the other door, +and got herself away from the place in her hansom.</p> + +<p>Twenty minutes later, when her bevy of chattering visitors had left her, +Lady Kynaston came back into her morning-room and found the little pencil +note left upon her writing-table. Wondering, perplexed and puzzled beyond +measure, she turned it over and over in her fingers.</p> + +<p>What had happened? Why had Vera so suddenly altered her mind again? What +had influenced her? Half by accident, half, perhaps, with an instinct of +what was the truth, she softly opened the door of communication between +the morning-room and the dining-room, opened it for one instant, and then +drew back again, scared and shocked, closing it quickly and noiselessly. +What she had seen in the room was this—</p> + +<p>Maurice, half stretched across the table, his face downwards upon his +arm, whilst those tearless, voiceless sobs, which are so terrible to +witness in a man, sobs which are the gasps of a despairing heart, shook +the strong broad shoulders and the down-bent head that was hidden from +her sight.</p> + +<p>And then the mother knew at last the secret of her son's heart. It was +Vera whom Maurice loved.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<h3>ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hide in thy bosom, poor unfortunate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That love which is thy torture and thy crime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or cry aloud to those departed hosts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of ghostly lovers! can they be more deaf<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To thy disaster than the living world?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, with a careless smile, will note the pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Caused by thy foolish, self-inflicted wound.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Violet Fane</span>, "Denzil Place."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Upon the steps of the Charing Cross Hotel stood, one morning in June, a +little French gentleman buttoning his lavender gloves. He wore a glossy +new hat, a frock-coat, and a flower in his button-hole; he had altogether +a smart and jaunty appearance.</p> + +<p>He hailed a passing hansom and jumped into it, taking care as he did so +to avoid brushing against the muddy wheel, lest he should tarnish the +glories of his light-coloured trousers. Monsieur D'Arblet was more than +usually particular about his appearance this morning. He said to himself, +with a chuckle, as he was driven west-ward, that he was on his way to win +a bride, and a rich bride, too. It behoved him to be careful of his outer +man on such an occasion.</p> + +<p>He had heard of Mr. Harlowe's death and of his grand-daughter's good +fortune when he was at Constantinople, for he had friends in London who +kept him <i>au courant</i> with the gossip of society, and he had straightway +made his preparations to return to England. He had not hurried himself, +however, for what he had not heard of was that clause in the old man's +will which made his grand-daughter's marriage within two months the <i>sine +quâ non</i> of her inheriting his fortune. Such an idea as that had never +come into Monsieur D'Arblet's head; he had no conception but that he +should be in plenty of time.</p> + +<p>When he got to the house in Princes Gate he found it shut up. This, +however, did not disconcert him, it was no more than he expected. After +a considerable amount of ringing at both bells, there was a grating sound +within as of the unfastening of bolts and chains, and an elderly woman, +evidently fresh from her labours over the scouring of the kitchen grate, +appeared at the door, opening it just a couple of inches, as though she +dreaded the invasion of a gang of housebreakers.</p> + +<p>"Will you please tell me where Mrs. Romer is now living?"</p> + +<p>The woman grinned. "She has been living at Walpole Lodge, at Kew—Lady +Kynaston's, sir."</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you;" and he was preparing to re-enter his hansom.</p> + +<p>"But I don't think you will see her to-day, sir."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" turning half-round again.</p> + +<p>"It is Mrs. Romer's wedding-day."</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>"</p> + +<p>That elderly female, who had been at one time a housemaid in Mr. +Harlowe's household, confided afterwards to her intimate friend, the +kitchenmaid next door, that she was so frightened at the way that +foreign-looking gentleman shouted at her, that she felt as if she should +have dropped. "Indeed, my dear, I was forced to go down and get a drop of +whisky the very instant he was gone, I felt so fluttered, like."</p> + +<p>Monsieur Le Vicomte turned round to her, with his foot midway between the +pavement and the step of the hansom, and shouted at her again.</p> + +<p>"<i>What</i> did you say it was, woman?"</p> + +<p>"Why, Mrs. Romer's wedding-day, to be sure, sir; and no such wonder after +all, I should say; and a lovely morning for the wedding it be, too."</p> + +<p>Lucien D'Arblet put his hand vaguely up to his head, as though he had +received a blow; she had escaped him, then, after all.</p> + +<p>"So soon after the old man's death," he murmured, half aloud; "who could +have expected it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, and soon it is, as you say," replied the ancient +ex-housemaid, who had caught the remark; "but people do say as how Mr. +Harlowe, my late master, wished it so, and of course Mrs. Romer, she were +quite ready, so to speak, for the Captain had been a-courting her for +ever so long, as we who lived in the house could have told."</p> + +<p>The vicomte was fumbling at his breast-coat pocket, his face was as +yellow as the rose in his button-hole.</p> + +<p>"Where was the wedding to be? At Kew?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir; at Saint Paul's church, in Wilton Crescent. Mrs. Romer would +have it so, because that's the place of worship she used to go to when +she lived here. You'd be in time to see them married now, sir, if you was +to look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it's not that yet; +my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there. I let +her go, because she'd never seen a grand wedding. I'd like to have gone +myself, but, in course, we couldn't both be out of the house——"</p> + +<p>The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom.</p> + +<p>"Drive to Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go," he +called out to the cabman. "I might even now be in time; it would be a +<i>coup d'état</i>," he muttered.</p> + +<p>Round the door of Saint Paul's church a crowd had gathered, waiting to +see the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across the +pavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; big +footmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot of +decently-dressed women were pressing up as close to the porch as the +official personage, with a red collar on his coat and gold lace on his +hat, would allow them to go; and an indiscriminate collection of those +chance passers-by who never seem to be in any hurry, or to have anything +better to do than to stand and stare at any excitement, great or small, +that they may meet on their road, were blocking up the pavement on either +side of the red cloth carpeting.</p> + +<p>Two ladies came walking along from the direction of the Park.</p> + +<p>"There's a wedding going on; do let us go in and see it, Vera."</p> + +<p>"My dear Cissy, I detest looking at people being married; it always makes +me low-spirited."</p> + +<p>"And I love it. I always get such hints for dresses from a wedding. I'd +go anywhere to see anybody married. I've been to the Jewish synagogue, to +Spurgeon's tabernacle, and to the pro-cathedral, all in one week, before +now just to see weddings."</p> + +<p>"There must be a sameness about the performances. Don't you get sick of +them?"</p> + +<p>"Never. I wonder whose wedding it is; there must be thirty carriages +waiting. I'll ask one of these big footmen. Whose wedding is it?"</p> + +<p>"Captain Kynaston's, ma'am."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I used to know him once; he is such a handsome fellow. Come along, +Vera."</p> + +<p>"Cissy, I <i>cannot</i> come."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Vera; don't be so foolish; make haste, or we shan't get in."</p> + +<p>Somebody just then dashed up in a hansom, and came hurrying up behind +them. Somehow or other, what with Mrs. Hazeldine dragging her by the arm, +and an excited-looking gentleman pushing his way through the crowd behind +her, Vera got swept on into the church.</p> + +<p>"You are very late, ladies," whispered the pew-opener, who supposed them +to belong to the wedding guests; "it is nearly over. You had better take +these seats in this pew; you will see them come out well from here." And +she evidently considered them to be all one party, for she ushered them +all three into a pew; first, Mrs. Hazeldine, then Vera, and next to her +the little foreign-looking gentleman who had bustled up so hurriedly.</p> + +<p>It was an awful thing to have happened to Vera that she should have been +thus entrapped by a mere accident into being present at Maurice's +wedding; and yet, when she was once inside the church, she felt not +altogether sorry for it.</p> + +<p>"I can at least see the last of him, and pray that he may be happy," she +said to herself, as she sank on her knees in the shelter of the pew, and +buried her face in her hands.</p> + +<p>The church was crowded, and yet the wedding itself was not a particularly +attractive one, for, owing to the fact that the bride was a widow, there +was, of course, no bevy of bridesmaids in attendance in diaphanous +raiment. Instead of these, however, there was a great concourse of the +best-dressed women in London, all standing in rows round the upper end of +the nave; and there was a little old lady, in brown satin and point lace, +who stood out conspicuously detached from the other groups, who bent her +head solemnly over the great bouquet of exotics in her hands, and prayed +within herself, with a passionate fervour such as no other soul present +could pray, save only the pale, beautiful girl on her knees, far away +down at the further end of the church. Surely, if God ever gave happiness +to one of his creatures because another prayed for it, Maurice Kynaston, +with the prayers of those two women being offered up for him, would have +been a happy man.</p> + +<p>And the mother, by this time, knew that it was all a mistake—a mistake, +alas, which she, in her blindness, had fostered.</p> + +<p>No wonder that she trembled as she prayed.</p> + +<p>The service, that portion of it which makes two people man and wife, +was over; the clergyman was reading the final exhortation to the +newly-married pair.</p> + +<p>They stood together close to the altar rails. The bride was in a pale +lavender satin, covered with lace, which spread far away behind her +across the tesselated pavement. The bridegroom stood by her side, erect +and handsome, but pale and stern, and with a far-away look in his eyes +that would have made any one fancy, had any one been near enough or +attentive enough to remark it, that he was only an indifferent spectator +of the scene, in no way interested in what was going on. He looked as if +he were thinking of something else.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of something else. He was thinking of a railway carriage, +of a train rushing onwards through a fog-blotted landscape, and of two +arms, warm and soft, cast up round his neck, and a trembling, passionate +voice, ever crying in his ears—</p> + +<p>"While you live I will never marry another man."</p> + +<p>That was what the bridegroom was thinking about.</p> + +<p>As to the bride, she was debating to herself whether she should have the +body of her wedding-dress cut V or square when she left it with her +dressmaker to be altered into a dinner-dress.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile the clergyman, who mumbled his words slightly, and whose +glasses kept on tumbling off his nose, waded through the several duties +of husbands towards their wives, and of wives towards their husbands, as +expounded by Scripture, in a monotonous undertone, until, to the great +relief of the weary guests, the ceremony at last came to an end.</p> + +<p>Then the best man, Sir John, who stood behind his brother, looking, if +possible, more like a mute at a funeral even than the bridegroom himself, +stepped forward out of the shadow. The new-married couple went into the +vestry, followed by Sir John, his mother, and a select few, upon which +the door was closed. All the rest of the company then began to chatter +in audible whispers together; they fidgeted backwards and forwards, +from one pew to the other. There were jokes, and smiles, and nods, and +hand-shakings between the different members of the wedding party. All in +a low and decorous undertone, of course, but still there was a distinct +impression upon every one that all the religious part of the business +being well got over, they were free to be jolly about it now, and to +enjoy themselves as much as circumstances would admit of.</p> + +<p>All at once there was a sudden hush, everybody scuffled back into their +places. The best man put his nose out of the vestry door, and the +"Wedding March" struck up. Then came a procession of chorister boys down +the church, each bearing a small bouquet of fern and white flowers. They +ranged themselves on either side of the porch, and the bride and +bridegroom came down the aisle alone.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to see +them pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side.</p> + +<p>She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in her +eyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who has +to impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself. Nobody in all that +gaily-dressed chattering crowd noticed her, for were not all eyes fixed +upon the bride, the queen of the day? Nobody save the man who stood by +her side. Only he saw that fixed white look of despair, only he heard the +long shuddering sigh that burst from her pale lips as the bridegroom +went by. Monsieur D'Arblet said, to himself:</p> + +<p>"This woman loves Monsieur le Capitaine! <i>Bon!</i> Two are better than one; +we will avenge ourselves together, my beautiful incognita."</p> + +<p>And then he looked sharply at her companion, and found that her face was +familiar to him. Surely he had dined at that woman's house once. Oh, yes! +to be sure, it was that insufferable little chatterbox, Mrs. Hazeldine. +He remembered all about her now.</p> + +<p>There was a good deal of pushing and cramming at the doorway. By the time +Vera could get out of the stifling heat of the crowded church most of the +wedding party had driven off, and the rest were clamouring wildly for +their carriages; she herself had got separated from her companion, and +when she could rejoin her in the little gravelled yard outside, she found +her shaking hands with effusion with the foreign-looking gentleman who +had sat next her in the church, but whom, truth to say, she had hardly +noticed.</p> + +<p>"Let me present to you my friend," said Cissy. "Miss Nevill, Monsieur +D'Arblet—you will walk with us as far as the park, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"I shall be enchanted, Mrs. Hazeldine."</p> + +<p>"And wasn't it a pretty wedding," continued Mrs. Hazeldine, rapturously, +as they all three walked away together down the shady side of the street; +"so remarkably pretty considering that there were no bridesmaids; but +Mrs. Romer is so graceful, and dresses so well. I don't visit her myself, +you know; but of course I know her by sight. One knows everybody by sight +in London; it's rather embarrassing sometimes, because one is tempted to +bow to people one doesn't visit, or else one fancies one ought not to bow +to somebody one does. I've made some dreadfully stupid mistakes myself +sometimes. Did you notice the rose point on that old lady's brown satin, +Vera?"</p> + +<p>"That was Lady Kynaston."</p> + +<p>"Oh, was it? By the way, of course, you must know some of the Kynastons, +as they come from your part of the world. I wonder they didn't ask you to +the wedding."</p> + +<p>Vera murmured something unintelligible. Monsieur D'Arblet looked at her +sharply. He saw that she had in no way recovered her agitation yet, and +that she could hardly bear her companion's brainless chatter over this +wedding.</p> + +<p>"That has been no ordinary love affair," said this astute Frenchman to +himself. "I must decidedly cultivate this young lady's acquaintance, for +I mean to pay you out well yet, ma belle Hélène."</p> + +<p>"How fortunate it was we happened to be passing just as it was going on. +I wouldn't have missed seeing that lovely lavender satin the bride wore +for worlds; did you notice the cut of the jacket front, Vera; it was +something new; she looked as happy as possible too. I daresay her first +marriage was a <i>coup manqué</i>; they generally are when women marry again."</p> + +<p>"Suppose we take these three chairs in the shade," suggested Monsieur +D'Arblet, cutting short, unceremoniously the string of her remarks, which +apparently were no more soothing to himself than to Miss Nevill.</p> + +<p>They sat down, and for the space of half an hour Monsieur D'Arblet +proceeded to make himself politely agreeable to Miss Nevill, and he +succeeded so well in amusing her by his conversation, that by the time +they all got up to go the natural bloom had returned to her cheeks, and +she was talking to him quite easily and pleasantly, as though no +catastrophe in her life had happened but an hour ago.</p> + +<p>"You will come back with us to lunch, Monsieur D'Arblet?"</p> + +<p>"I shall be delighted, madame."</p> + +<p>"If you will excuse me, Cissy, I am not going to lunch with you to-day," +said Vera.</p> + +<p>"My dear! where are you going, then?"</p> + +<p>"I have a visit to pay—an engagement, I mean—in—in Cadogan Place. I +will be home very soon, in time for your drive, if you don't mind my +leaving you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course, do as you like, dear."</p> + +<p>Lucien D'Arblet was annoyed at her defection, but, of course, having +accepted Mrs. Hazeldine's invitation, there was nothing for it but to go +on with her; so he swallowed his discomfiture as best he could, and +proceeded to make himself agreeable to his hostess.</p> + +<p>As to Vera, she turned away and retraced her steps slowly towards St. +Paul's Church. It was a foolish romantic fancy, she could not tell what +impelled her to it, but she felt as though she must go back there once +more.</p> + +<p>The church was not closed. She pushed open the swing-door and went in. It +was all hushed and silent and empty. Where so lately the gay throng of +well-dressed men and women had passed in and out, chattering, smiling, +nodding—displaying their radiant toilettes one against the other, there +were only now the dark, empty rows of pews, and the bent figure of one +shabbily-dressed old woman gathering together the prayer-books and +hymn-books that had been tumbled out of their places in the scuffle, and +picking up morsels of torn finery that had dropped about along the nave.</p> + +<p>Vera passed by her and went up into the chancel. She stood where Maurice +had stood by the altar rails. A soft, subdued light came streaming in +through the coloured glass window; a bird was chirping high up somewhere +among the oak rafters of the roof, the roar of the street without was +muffled and deadened; the old woman slammed-to the door of a pew, the +echo rang with a hollow sound through the empty building, and her +departing footsteps shuffled away down the aisle into silence.</p> + +<p>Vera lifted her eyes; great tears welled down slowly, one by one, over +her cheeks—burning, blistering tears, such as, thank God, one sheds but +once or twice in a lifetime—that seem to rend our very hearts as they +rise.</p> + +<p>Presently she sank down upon her knees and prayed—prayed for him, that +he might be happy and forget her, but most of all for herself, that she +might school her rebellious heart to patience, and her wild passion of +misery into peace and submission.</p> + +<p>And by degrees the tempest within her was hushed. Then, ere she rose from +her knees, something lying on the ground, within a yard of where she +knelt, caught her eye. It was a little Russia-leather letter-case. She +recognized it instantly; she had often seen Maurice take it out of his +pocket.</p> + +<p>She caught at it hungrily and eagerly, as a miser clutches a +treasure-trove, pressing it wildly to her bosom, and covering it with +passionate kisses. Dear little shabby case, that had been so near his +heart; that his hand, perchance, only on hour ago had touched. Could +anything on earth be more priceless to her than this worn and faded +object!</p> + +<p>It seemed to be quite empty. It had fallen evidently from his pocket +during the service. If he ever missed it, there was nothing in it to +lose; and now it was hers, hers by every right; she would never part with +it, never. It was all she had of him; the one single thing he had touched +which she possessed.</p> + +<p>She rose hurriedly. She was in haste now to be gone with her treasure, +lest any one should wrest it from her. She carried it down the church +with a guilty delight, kissing it more than once as she went. And then, +as she opened the church door, some one ran up the steps outside, and she +stood face to face with Sir John Kynaston.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<h3>THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Never again," so speaketh one forsaken,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the blank desolate passion of despair:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never again shall the bright dream I cherished<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never again, my heart—never again!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A. Procter.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>"Vera!"</p> + +<p>Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white.</p> + +<p>"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand.</p> + +<p>They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idle +cabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gaping +nursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel on +suddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or a +heart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings and +misunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed. +It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; it +is safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?"</p> + +<p>That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir John +took her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. By +the time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind.</p> + +<p>"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said, +rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this +morning?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; I was in the church."</p> + +<p>"Were you? How glad I am I did not know it," almost involuntarily.</p> + +<p>There was a little pause; then Vera asked him if he was going to Walpole +Lodge.</p> + +<p>"Eventually; but I have come back here to look for something. My brother +has lost a little Russia-leather case; he thinks he may have dropped it +in the church; there were two ten-pound notes in it. I am going in to +look for it. Why, what is that in your hand? I believe that is the very +thing."</p> + +<p>"I—I—just picked it up," stammered Vera. She began searching in the +pockets of the case. "I did not think there was anything in it. Yes, here +are the notes, quite safe."</p> + +<p>She took them out and gave them to him. He held out his hand mechanically +for the case also.</p> + +<p>"Thank you; you have saved me the trouble of looking for it. I will take +it back to him at once."</p> + +<p>But she could not part with her treasure; it was all she had got of him.</p> + +<p>"The letter-case is very shabby," she said, crimsoning with a painful +confusion. "I do not think he can want it at all; it is quite worn out."</p> + +<p>Sir John looked at her with a slight surprise.</p> + +<p>"It can be very little use to him. One likes sometimes to have a little +remembrance of those—of people—one has known; he would not mind my +keeping it, I think. Tell him—tell him I asked for it." The tears were +very near her voice; she could scarcely keep them back out of her eyes.</p> + +<p>John Kynaston dropped his hand, and Vera slipped the little case quickly +into her pocket.</p> + +<p>"Would you mind walking a little way with me, Vera?" he said, gently and +very gravely.</p> + +<p>She drew down her veil, and went with him in silence. They had walked +half-way down Wilton Crescent before he spoke to her again; then he +turned towards her, and looked at her earnestly and sadly.</p> + +<p>"Why did you go back again into the church, Vera?"</p> + +<p>"I wanted to think quietly a little," she murmured. There was another +pause.</p> + +<p>"So <i>that</i> is what parted us!" he exclaimed, with a sudden bitterness, at +length.</p> + +<p>She looked up, startled and pale.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" she stammered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, child! I see it all now. How blind I have been. Ah, why did you not +trust me, love? Why did you fear to tell me your secret? Do you not think +that I, who would have laid down my life for you to make you happy, do +you not suppose I would have striven to make your path smooth for you?"</p> + +<p>She could not answer him; the kind words, the tender voice, were too much +for her. Her tears fell fast and silently.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," he said, turning to her almost roughly, "tell me the truth. +Has he ill-treated you, this brother of mine, who stole you from me, and +then has left you desolate?"</p> + +<p>"No, no; do not say that; it was never his fault at all, only mine; and +he was always bound to her. He has been everything that is good and loyal +and true to you and to her; it has been only a miserable mistake, and now +it is over. Yes, thank God, it is over; never speak of it again. He was +never false to you; only I was false. But it is ended."</p> + +<p>They were walking round Belgrave Square by this time, not near the +houses, but round the square garden in the middle. All recollection of +his brother's marriage, of the wedding breakfast at Walpole Lodge, of the +speech the best man would be expected to make, had gone clean out of his +head; he thought of nothing but Vera and of the revelation concerning her +that had just come to him. It was the quiet hour of the day; there were +very few people about; everybody was indoors eating heavy luncheons, +with sunblinds drawn down to keep out the heat. They were almost as much +alone as in a country lane in Meadowshire.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do with yourself?" he said to her, presently. +"What use are you going to make of your life?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she answered, drearily; "I suppose I shall go back to +Sutton. Perhaps I shall marry."</p> + +<p>"But not me?"</p> + +<p>She looked up at him piteously.</p> + +<p>"Listen, child," he said, eagerly. "If I were to go away for a year, and +then come back to you, how would it be? Oh, my darling! I love you so +deeply that I could even be content to do with but half your heart, so +that I could win your sweet self. I would exact nothing from you, love, +no more than what you could give me freely. But I would love you so well, +and make your life so sweet and pleasant to you, that in time, perhaps, +you would forget the old sorrow, and learn to be happy, with a quiet kind +of happiness, with me; I would ask for no more. Look, child, I have +grieved sorely for you; I have sat down and wept, and mourned for you as +though I had no strength or life left in me. But now I am ashamed of my +weakness, for it is unworthy of <i>you</i>. I am going away abroad, across the +world, I care not where, so long as I can be up and doing, and forget the +pain at my heart. Vera, tell me that I may come back to you in a year. +Think with what fresh life and courage I should go if I had but that hope +before my eyes. In a year's time your pain will be less; you will have +forgotten many things; you will be content, perhaps, to come to me, +knowing that I will never reproach you with the past, nor expect more +than you can give me in the future. Vera, let me come back and claim you +in a year!"</p> + +<p>How strange it was that the chance of marrying this man was perpetually +being presented to her. Never, perhaps, had the temptation been stronger +to her than it was now. He had divined her secret; there would be no +concealment between them; he would ask her for no love it was not in her +power to give; he would be content with her as she was, and he would love +her, and worship her, and surround her with everything that could make +her life pleasant and easy for her. Could a man offer more? Oh! why could +she not take him at his word, and give him the hope he craved for?</p> + +<p>Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good and +evil—that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life's +race, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself so +strong—so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and wound +weaker woman—this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature, +wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer; +her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strong +character, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness.</p> + +<p>To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all the +good things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love his +brother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill.</p> + +<p>"I cannot do it; do not ask me," she said, distractedly. "Your goodness +to me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be."</p> + +<p>"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered."</p> + +<p>"I shall not alter."</p> + +<p>"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me."</p> + +<p>"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happy +enough; that is not why I cannot marry you."</p> + +<p>"Why not, then?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I dare not</i>," she said, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so bad +with you as that?"</p> + +<p>She bent her head in silent assent.</p> + +<p>"That is hard," he said, almost to himself, looking gloomily before him. +Presently he spoke again. "Thank you, Vera," he said, rather brokenly. +"You are a brave woman and a true one. Many would have taken my all, +and given me back only deception and falseness. But you are incapable of +that, and—and you fear your own strength; is that it?"</p> + +<p>"Whilst he lives," she said, with a sudden burst of passion, "I can know +no safety. Never to see his face again can be my only safeguard, and with +you I could never be safe. Why, even to bear your name would be to scorch +my heart every time I was addressed by it. Forgive me, John," turning to +him with a sudden penitence, "I should not have pained you by saying +these things; you who have been so infinitely good to me. Go your way +across the world, and forget me. Ah! have I not been a curse to every one +who bears the name of Kynaston?"</p> + +<p>He was silent from very pity. Vera was no longer to him the goddess of +his imagination; the one pure and peerless woman, above all other women, +such as he had once fancied her to be. But surely she was dearer to him +now, in all her weakness and her suffering, than she had ever been on +that lofty pedestal of perfection upon which he had once lifted her.</p> + +<p>He pitied her so much, and yet he could not help her; her malady was past +remedy. And, as she had told him, it was no one's fault—it was only a +miserable mistake. He had never had her heart—he saw it plainly now. +Many little things in the past, which he had scarcely remembered at the +time, came back to his memory—little details of that week at Shadonake, +when Maurice had lived in the same house with her, whilst he had only +gone over daily to see her. Always, in those days, Maurice had been by +her side, and Vera had been dreamily happy, with that fixed look of +content with which the presence of the man she loves best beautifies and +poetises a woman's face. Sir John was not a very observant man; but now, +after it was all over, these things came back to him. The night of the +ball, Mrs. Romer's mysterious hints, and his own vague disquietude at her +words; later on Maurice's reasonless refusal to be present at his +wedding, and Vera's startled face of dismay when he had asked her to go +and plead with him to stay for it.</p> + +<p>They had struggled against their hearts, it was clear, these poor lovers, +whose lives were both tied up and bound before ever they had met each +other. But nature had been too strong for them; and the woman, at least, +had torn herself free from the chains that had become insupportable to +her.</p> + +<p>They walked on silently, side by side, round the square. Some girls were +playing at lawn-tennis within the garden. There was an occasional shout +or a ringing laugh from their fresh young voices. A footman was walking +along the pavement opposite, with two fat pugs and a white Spitz in the +last stage of obesity in tow, which it was his melancholy duty to parade +daily up and down for their mid-day airing. An occasional hansom dashing +quickly by broke the stillness of the "empty" hour. Years and years +afterwards every detail of the scene came back to his memory with the +distinctness of a photograph when he passed once more through the square.</p> + +<p>"You have been no curse to me, Vera," he said, presently, breaking the +silence. "Do not reproach yourself; it is I who was a madman to deem that +I could win your love. Child, we are both sufferers; but time heals most +things, and we must learn to wait and be patient. Will you ever marry, +Vera?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Perhaps I may be obliged to. It might be better for me. I +cannot say. Don't speak of it. Why, is there nothing else for a woman to +do but to marry? John, it must be late. Ought you not to go back—to—to +your mother's?"</p> + +<p>Insensibly, she resumed a lighter manner. On that other subject there was +nothing left to be said. She had had her last chance of becoming John +Kynaston's wife. After what she had said to him, she knew he would never +ask her again. That chapter in her life was closed for ever.</p> + +<p>They parted, unromantically enough, in front of St. George's Hospital. He +called a hansom for her, and stood holding her hand, one moment longer, +possibly, than was strictly necessary, looking intently into her face as +he did so.</p> + +<p>"Will you think of me sometimes?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, surely."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Vera."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, John. God bless you wherever you may go."</p> + +<p>She got into her hansom, and he told the cabman where to drive her; then +he lifted his hat to her with grave politeness, and walked away in the +opposite direction. It was a common-place enough parting, and yet these +two never saw each other's faces again in this world.</p> + +<p>So it is with our lives. Some one or other who has been a part of our +very existence for a space goes his way one day, and we see him no more. +For a little while our hearts ache, and we shed tears in secret for him +who is gone, but by-and-by we get to understand that he is part of our +past, never, to be recalled, and after a while we get used to his +absence; we think of him less and less, and the death of him, who was +once bound up in our very lives, strikes us only with a mild surprise, +hardly even tinged with a passing melancholy.</p> + +<p>"Poor old so-and-so, he is dead," we say. "What a time it is since we +met," and then we go our way and think of him no more.</p> + +<p>But Vera knew that, in all human probability, she would never see him +again, this man, who had once so nearly been her husband. It was another +link of her past life severed. It saddened her, but she knew it was +inevitable.</p> + +<p>The little letter-case, at all events, was safely hers; and for many a +night Vera slept with it under her pillow.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<h3>DINNER AT RANELAGH.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is the whole set, a character dead at every word.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Sheridan.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>It was the fag end of the London season; people were talking about +Goodwood and the Ryde week, about grouse and about salmon-fishing. +Members of Parliament went about, like martyrs at the stake, groaning +over the interminable nature of every debate, and shaking their heads +over the prospect of getting away. Women in society knew all their own +and their neighbours' dresses by heart, and were dead sick of them all; +and even the very gossip and scandal that is always afloat to keep up the +spirits of the idlers and the chatterers had lost all the zest, all the +charm of novelty that gave flavour and piquancy to every <i>canard</i> that +was started two months ago.</p> + +<p>It was all stale, flat, and unprofitable.</p> + +<p>What was the use of constantly asserting, on the very best authority, +that Lady So-and-so was on the eve of running away with that handsome +young actor, whose eyes had taken the female population by storm, when +Lady So-and-so persisted in walking about arm-in-arm with her husband day +after day, with a child on either side of them, in the most provoking +way, as though to prove the utter fallacy of the report, and her own +incontestable domestic felicity? Or, what merit had a man any longer who +had stated in May that the heiress <i>par excellence</i> of the season was +about to sell herself and her gold to that debauched and drunken marquis, +who had evidently not six months of life left in him in which to enjoy +his bargain, when the heiress herself gave the lie to the <i>on dit</i> in +July by talking calmly about going to Norway with her papa for a month's +retirement and rest after the fatigues of the season?</p> + +<p>What a number of lies are there not propounded during the months of May +and June by the inventive Londoner, and how many of them are there not +proved to be so during the latter end of July!</p> + +<p>Heaven only knows how and where the voice of scandal is first raised. Is +it at the five o'clock tea-tables? Or, is it in the smoking-rooms of the +clubs that things are first spoken of, and the noxious breath of slander +started upon its career? Or, are there evil-minded persons, both men and +women, prowling about, like unclean animals, at the skirts of that +society into whose inner recesses they would fain gain admittance, +picking up greedily, here and there, in their eaves-dropping career, +some scrap or morsel of truth out of which they weave a well-varnished +tale wherewith to delight the ears of the vulgar and the coarse-minded? +There are such men and such women; God forgive them for their wickedness!</p> + +<p>Do any of these scandal-mongers ever call to mind, I wonder, an ancient +and, seemingly, a well-nigh forgotten injunction?</p> + +<p>"Thou shalt not bear false witness," said the same Voice who has also +said, "Thou shalt do no murder."</p> + +<p>And which is the worst—to kill a man's body, or to slay a man's honour, +or a woman's reputation?</p> + +<p>In truth, there seems to me to be but little difference between the two; +and the man or the woman who will do the one might very possibly be +guilty of the other—but for the hanging!</p> + +<p>We should all do a great many more wicked things than we do if there were +no consequences.</p> + +<p>It is a very trite observation, which is, nevertheless, never spoken with +more justice or more truth than at or about Hyde Park Corner between May +and July, that the world we live in is a very wicked one.</p> + +<p>Well, the season, as I have said, was well-nigh over, and all the scandal +had run dry, and the gossip, for the most part, been proved to be +incorrect, and there was nobody in all London who excited so much +irritation among the talkers as the new beauty, Vera Nevill.</p> + +<p>For Vera was Miss Nevill still, and there was every prospect of her +remaining so. What on earth possessed the girl that she would not marry? +Had not men dangled at her elbow all the season? Could she not have had +such and such elder sons, or such and such wealthy commoner? What was she +waiting for? A girl without a penny, who came nobody knew from where, +ushered in under Mrs. Hazeldine's wings, with not a decent connection +in the world to her name! What did she want—this girl who had only her +beauty to depend upon? and everybody knows how fleeting <i>that</i> is!</p> + +<p>And then, presently, the women who were envious of her began to whisper +amongst themselves. There was something against her; she was not what she +seemed to be. The men flirted, of course—men will always flirt! but +they were careful not to commit themselves! And even that mysterious word +"adventuress," which has an ugly sound, but of which no one exactly knows +the precise meaning, began to be bruited about.</p> + +<p>"There was an unpleasant story about her, somebody told me once," said +one prettily-dressed nonentity to another, as they wandered slowly up and +down the velvet lawns at Ranelagh. "She was mixed up in some way with the +Kynaston family. Sir John was to have married her, and then something +dreadful came out, and he threw her over."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I thought she jilted him."</p> + +<p>"I daresay it was one or the other; at all events, there was some fracas +or other. I believe her mother was—hum, hum—you understand—she +couldn't be swallowed by the Kynastons at any price; they must have been +thankful to get out of it."</p> + +<p>"It looks very bad, her not marrying any one, with all the fuss there has +been made over her."</p> + +<p>"Yes; even Cissy Hazeldine told me, in confidence, yesterday, she could +not try her again next season. It wouldn't do, you know; it would look +too much as if she had some object of her own in getting her married. +Cissy must find something else for another year. Of course, with a +husband, she could sail her own course and make her own way; but a girl +can't go on attracting attention with impunity—she gets herself talked +about—it is only we married women can do as we like."</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Do you suppose <i>that</i> will come to anything?" casting a glance +towards the further end of the lawn, where Vera Nevill sat in a low +basket-chair, under the shadow of a spreading tulip-tree, whilst a slight +boyish figure, stretched at her feet, alternately chewed blades of grass +and looked up worshippingly into her face.</p> + +<p>"<i>That!</i>" following the direction of her companion's eyes. "Oh dear, no! +Denis Wilde is too wideawake to be caught, though he is such a boy! They +say she is crazy to get him; everybody else has slipped through her +fingers, you see, and he would be better than nothing. Now we are in the +last week in July, I daresay she is getting desperate; but young Wilde +knows pretty well what he is about, I expect!"</p> + +<p>"He seems to admire her."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I daresay; those large kind of women do get admired; men look +upon them as fine animals. <i>I</i> should not care to be admired in that way, +would you?"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed! it is disgusting," replied the other, who was fain to +conceal the bony corners of her angular figure with a multiplicity of +lace ruchings and puffings.</p> + +<p>"As to Miss Nevill, she is nothing else. A most material type; why, her +waist must be twenty-two inches round!"</p> + +<p>"Quite that, dear," with sweetness, from the owner of a nineteen-inch +article, which two maids struggled with daily in order to reduce it to +the required measurement.</p> + +<p>"Well, I never could—between you and me—see much to admire in her."</p> + +<p>"Neither could I, although, of course, it has been the fashion to rave +over her."</p> + +<p>And, with that, these two amiable young women fell at it tooth and nail, +and proceeded to cry down their victim's personal appearance in the most +unmeasured and sweeping terms.</p> + +<p>After the taking away of a fellow-woman's character, comes as a natural +sequence the condemnation of her face and figure, and it is doubtful +which indictment is the most grave in eyes feminine. Meanwhile the +object of all this animadversion sat tranquilly unconscious under her +tulip-tree, whilst Denis Wilde, that astute young gentleman, whom they +had declared to be too well aware of what he was about to be entrapped +into matrimony, was engaged in proposing to her for the fourth time.</p> + +<p>"I thought we had settled this subject long ago, Mr. Wilde," says Vera, +tranquilly unfolding her large, black, feather fan—for it is hot—and +slowly folding it up again.</p> + +<p>"It will never be settled for me, Vera; never, so long as you are +unmarried."</p> + +<p>"What a dreadful mistake life is!" sighs Vera, wearily, more to herself +than to the boy at her feet. Was anybody ever happy in this world? she +began to wonder.</p> + +<p>"I know very well," resumed Denis Wilde, "that I am not good enough for +you; but, then, who is? My prospects, such as they are, are very distant, +and your friends, I daresay, expect you to marry well."</p> + +<p>"How often must I tell you that that has nothing to do with it," cries +Vera, impatiently. "If I loved a beggar, I should marry him."</p> + +<p>Young Wilde plucked at the grass again, and chewed a daisy up almost +viciously. There was a supreme selfishness in the way she had of +perpetually harping upon her lack of love for him.</p> + +<p>"There is always some fellow or other hanging about you," grumbles the +young man, irritably; "you are an inveterate flirt!"</p> + +<p>"No woman is worthy of the name who is not!" retorts Vera, laughing.</p> + +<p>"I <i>hate</i> a flirt," angrily.</p> + +<p>"This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. +Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!"</p> + +<p>"Pooh!—mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are very +different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very +soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his +face and send him to the devil."</p> + +<p>"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to this +shocking conduct."</p> + +<p>"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing the +same game with that you have already done with me; he follows you like +a shadow."</p> + +<p>"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious. +"But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about that +man—I can't think why he follows me about so."</p> + +<p>"<i>Can't</i> you!" very grimly.</p> + +<p>"I assure you the man is in no more love with me than—than——"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> am! I suppose you will say next."</p> + +<p>"Oh dear, no, you are utterly incorrigible and quite in earnest; but +Monsieur D'Arblet is <i>pretending</i> to be in love with me."</p> + +<p>"He makes a very good pretence of it, at all events. Here he comes, +confound him! If I had known Mrs. Hazeldine had asked <i>him</i>, I would +never have come."</p> + +<p>At which Vera, who had heard these outbursts of indignant jealousy +before, and knew how little poor Denis meant the terrible threats he +uttered, only laughed with the pitiless amusement of a woman who knows +her own power.</p> + +<p>Lucien D'Arblet came towards her smiling, and sank down into a vacant +basket-chair by her side with the air of a man who knows himself to be +welcome.</p> + +<p>He had been paying a great deal of attention latterly to the beautiful +Miss Nevill; he had followed her about everywhere, and had made it patent +in every public place where he had met her that she alone was the sole +aim and object of his thoughts. And yet, with it all, Monsieur Le Vicomte +was only playing a part, and not only that, but he was pretty certain +that she knew it to be so. He gazed rapturously into her beautiful face, +he lowered his voice tenderly in speaking to her, he pressed her hand +when she gave it to him, and even on occasions he raised it furtively to +his lips; but, with all this, he knew perfectly well that she was not one +whit deceived by him. She no more believed him to be in love with her +than he believed it of himself. She was clever and beautiful, and he +admired and even liked her, but in the beginning of their acquaintance +Monsieur D'Arblet had had no thought of making her the object of any +sentimental attentions. He had been driven to it by a discovery that he +had made concerning her character.</p> + +<p>Miss Nevill had a good heart. She was no enraged, injured woman, +thirsting for revenge upon the woman who had stolen her lover from +her—such as he had desired to find in her; she was only a true-hearted +and unhappy girl, who was not in any case likely to develop into the +instrument of vengeance which he sought for.</p> + +<p>It was a disappointment to him, but he was not completely disheartened. +It was through her that he desired to punish Helen for daring to brave +him, and he swore to himself that he would do it still; only he must now +set about it in a different way, so he began to make love to Miss Nevill.</p> + +<p>And Vera was shrewd enough to perceive that he was only playing a part. +Nevertheless, there were times when she felt so completely puzzled by his +persistent adoration, that she could hardly tell what to make of it. Was +he trying to make some other woman jealous? It even came into her head, +once or twice, to suspect that Cissy Hazeldine was the real object of his +devotion, so utterly incomprehensible did his conduct appear to her.</p> + +<p>If she had been told that Lucien D'Arblet's real quest was not love, but +revenge, she would have laughed. An Englishman does not spend his time +nor his energies in plotting a desperate retaliation on a lady who has +disregarded his threats and evaded his persecution; it is not in the +nature of any Briton, however irascible, to do so; but a Frenchman is +differently constituted. There is something delightfully refreshing to +him in an atmosphere of plotting and intrigue. There is the same instinct +of the chase in both nationalities, but it is more amusing to the +Frenchman to hunt down his fellow-creatures than to pursue unhappy little +beasts of the field; and he understands himself in the pursuit of the +larger game infinitely better.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, Monsieur D'Arblet had no intention of getting himself into +trouble, nor of risking the just fury of an indignant British husband, +who stood six feet in his stockings, nor did he desire, by any anonymous +libel, to bring himself in any way under the arm of the law. All he meant +to do was to dig his trench and to lay his mine, to place the fuse in +Vera Nevill's hands—leave her to set fire to it—and then retire +himself, covered with satisfaction at his cleverness, to his own side +of the Channel.</p> + +<p>Who could possibly grudge him so harmless an entertainment?</p> + +<p>Monsieur D'Arblet, as he sat down by her side under the tulip-tree, began +by paying Miss Nevill a prettily turned compliment upon her fresh white +toilette; as he did so Vera smiled and bent her head; she had seen him +before to-day.</p> + +<p>"Fine evening, Mr. Wilde," said the Frenchman, turning civilly, but with +no evident <i>empressement</i>, towards the gentleman he addressed.</p> + +<p>Denis only answered by a sulky grunt.</p> + +<p>Then began that process between the two men which is known in polite +society as the endeavour to sit each other out.</p> + +<p>Monsieur D'Arblet discoursed upon the weather and the beauty of the +gardens, with long and expressive pauses between each insignificant +remark, and the air of a man who wishes to say, "I could talk about much +more interesting things if that other fellow was out of the way."</p> + +<p>Denis Wilde simply reversed himself, that is to say, he lay on his +back instead of his face, stared up at the sky, and chewed grass +perseveringly. He had evidently no intention of being driven off the +field.</p> + +<p>"I had something of great importance to say to you this evening," +murmured Monsieur D'Arblet, at length, looking fixedly at his enemy's +upturned face.</p> + +<p>"All right, go ahead, don't mind me," says the young gentleman, amiably. +"I'm never in the way, am I, Miss Nevill?"</p> + +<p>"Never, Mr. Wilde," answers Vera, sweetly. Like a true woman, she quite +appreciates the fun of the situation, and thoroughly enjoys it; "pray +tell me what you have to say, monsieur."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Ces choses-là ne se disent qu'à deux!" murmurs he Frenchman, with a +sentimental sigh.</p> + +<p>"It is no use your saying it in French," says Denis, with a chuckle, +twisting himself round again upon his chest, "because I have the good +fortune, D'Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, +absolutely like a native."</p> + +<p>"You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, +and three is none," retorts D'Arblet, with a smile.</p> + +<p>"I'm awfully sorry, old fellow; but I am so exceedingly comfortable, I +really can't get up; if I could oblige you in any other way, I certainly +would."</p> + +<p>"Come to dinner!" cries out Mrs. Hazeldine, coming towards them from the +garden side of the lawn; "we are all here now."</p> + +<p>The two men sprang simultaneously to their feet. This is, of course, the +moment that they have both been waiting for. Each offers an arm to Miss +Nevill; Monsieur D'Arblet bends blandly and smilingly forward; Denis +Wilde has a thunder-cloud upon his face, and holds out his arm as though +he were ready to knock somebody down with it.</p> + +<p>"What am I to do?" cries Vera, laughing, and looking with feigned +indecision from one to the other.</p> + +<p>"Make haste and decide, my dear," says Mrs. Hazeldine; "for whichever of +you two gentlemen does <i>not</i> take in Miss Nevill must go and take that +eldest Miss Frampton for me."</p> + +<p>The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large and +bony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the military +men she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, +like a man. She goes familiarly amongst her acquaintance by the name of +the Dragoon.</p> + +<p>A cold shiver passes visibly down Mr. Wilde's back; unfortunately Miss +Nevill perceives it, and makes up her mind instantly.</p> + +<p>"I would not deprive you of so charming a companion," she says, smiling +sweetly at him, and passes her arm through that of the French vicomte.</p> + +<p>At dinner, poor Denis Wilde curses Monsieur D'Arblet; Miss Frampton, and +his own fate, indiscriminately and ineffectually. He is sitting exactly +opposite to his divinity, but he cannot even enjoy the felicity of +staring at her, for Miss Frampton will not let him alone. She chatters +unceasingly and gushingly. At an early period of the repast the string of +her amber-bead necklace suddenly gives way with a snap. The beads trickle +slowly down, one by one; half a dozen of them drop with a cracking noise, +like little marbles, upon the polished floor, where there is a general +scramble of waiters and gentlemen under the table together after them; +two fall into her own soup, three more on to Denis Wilde's table-napkin; +as fast as the truants are picked up others are shed down in their wake +from the four apparently inexhaustible rows that garnish her neck.</p> + +<p>Miss Frampton bears it all with serene and smiling good temper.</p> + +<p>"Dear me, I am really very sorry to give so much trouble. It doesn't +signify in the least, Mr. Wilde—thanks, that is one more. Oh, there goes +another into the sweet-breads; but I really don't mind if they are lost. +Jameson, of the 17th, gave them to me. Do you know Jameson? cousin of +Jameson, in the 9th; he brought them from Italy, or Turkey, or somewhere. +I am sure I don't remember where amber comes from; do you, Mr. Wilde?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Wilde, if he is vague as to where it comes from, is quite decided +as to where he would desire it to go. At this moment he had crunched a +tender tooth down upon one of these infernal beads, having helped himself +to it unconsciously out of the sweetbread dish.</p> + +<p>Is he doomed to swallow amber beads for the remainder of the repast? he +asks himself.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever meet Archdale, the man who was in the 16th?" continues Miss +Frampton, glibly, unconscious of his agonies; "he exchanged afterwards +into the 4th—he is such a nice fellow. I lunched every day at Ascot this +year on the 16th's drag. The first day I met Lester—that's the major, +you know—and Lester is <i>such</i> a pet! He told me to come every day to +lunch, and bring any of my friends with me; so, of course, I did, and +there wasn't a better lunch on the course; and, on the cup-day, Archdale +came up and talked to me—he abused the champagne-cup, though; he said +there was more soda-water than champagne in it—the more he drank of it +the more dreadfully sober he got. However, I am invited to lunch with the +4th at Goodwood. They are going to have a spread under the trees, so I +shall be able to compare notes about the champagne-cup. I know two other +men in the 4th; Hopkins and Lambert; do you know them?" and so on, until +pretty well half the army list and all the luncheon-giving regiments in +the service had been passed under review.</p> + +<p>And there, straight opposite to him, was Vera, laughing at his +discomfiture, he was sure, but also listening to the flattering rubbish +which that odious little Frenchman was pouring into her ears.</p> + +<p>Did ever young man sit through such a detestable and abominable repast?</p> + +<p>If Denis Wilde had been rash enough to nourish insane hopes with regard +to moonlight wanderings in the pleasant garden after dinner, these hopes +were destined to be blighted.</p> + +<p>They were a party of twelve; the waiting was bad, and the courses +numerous; the dinner was a lengthy affair altogether. By the time it was +over, and coffee had been discussed on the terrace outside the house, the +carriages came round to the door, and the ladies of the party voted that +it was time to go home.</p> + +<p>Soon everybody stood clothed in summer ulsters or white dust-cloaks, +waiting in the hall. The coach started from the door with much noise +and confusion, with a good deal of plunging from the leaders, and some +jibbing from the wheelers, accompanied by a very feeble performance on +that much-abused instrument, the horn, by an amateur who occupied a back +seat; and after it had departed, a humble train of neat broughams and +victorias came trooping up in its wake.</p> + +<p>"You will see," said nonentity number one, in her friend's ear; "you will +see that Nevill girl will go back in some man's brougham—that is what +she has been waiting for; otherwise, she would have perched herself up on +the box-seat of the coach, in the most conspicuous place she could find."</p> + +<p>"What a disgraceful creature she must be!" is the indignantly virtuous +reply.</p> + +<p>The "Nevill girl," however, disappointed the expectations of both these +charitable ladies by quietly taking her place in Mrs. Hazeldine's +brougham, by her friend's side, amid a shower of "Good-nights" from the +remainder of the party.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the nonentity, with a vicious gasp, "you may be sure she has +some disreputable supper of men, and cigars, and brandies and sodas +waiting for her up in town, or she would never go off so meekly as that +in Mrs. Hazeldine's brougham. Still waters run deep, my dear!"</p> + +<p>"She is a horrid, disreputable girl, I am quite sure of that," is the +answer. "I am very thankful, indeed, that I haven't the misfortune of +knowing her."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<h3>MRS. HAZELDINE'S "LONG ELIZA."</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the<br /></span> +<span class="i0">dove; that is, more knave than fool.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Christopher Marlowe.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">For every inch that is not fool is rogue.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Dryden.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>The scene is Mrs. Hazeldine's drawing-room, in Park Lane, the hour is +four o'clock in the afternoon, and the <i>dramatis personæ</i> are Miss +Nevill, very red in the face, standing in a corner, behind an oblong +velvet table covered with china ornaments, and Monsieur Le Vicomte +D'Arblet, also red in the face, gesticulating violently on the further +side of it.</p> + +<p>Miss Nevill, having retired behind the oblong table, purely from +prudential motives of personal safety, is devoured with anxiety +concerning the too imminent fate of her hostess' china. There is a little +Lowestoft tea-service that was picked up only last week at Christie and +Manson's, a turquoise blue crackle jar that is supposed to be priceless, +and a pair of "Long Eliza" vases, which her hostess loves as much as she +does her toy terrier, and far better than she loves her husband.</p> + +<p>What will become of her, Vera Nevill, if Mrs. Hazeldine comes in +presently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon the +floor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only too +probable a catastrophe.</p> + +<p>Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bull +in the crockery shop—terror mingled with an overpowering sense of +responsibility. All personal considerations are well-nigh merged in +the realization of the danger which menaces her hostess' property.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself," she says, +desperately.</p> + +<p>"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak of +shattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing about +frantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three square +yards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he is +surrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructible +objects.</p> + +<p>"<i>Pray</i> be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in +the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish.</p> + +<p>"And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, +when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase," +murmurs Vera, piteously.</p> + +<p>"No, I will never leave this room, never, mademoiselle, until you give +me hope; never will I cease to importune you until your heart relents +towards the <i>miserable</i> who adores you!"</p> + +<p>Here Monsieur D'Arblet made an attempt to get at his charmer by coming +round the end of the velvet table.</p> + +<p>Vera felt distracted. To allow him to execute his maneuver was to run +the chance of being clasped in his arms; to struggle to get free was the +almost certainty of upsetting the table.</p> + +<p>She cast a despairing glance across the room at the bell-handle, which +was utterly beyond her reach. There was no hope in that direction. +Apparently, moral persuasion was her only chance.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur D'Arblet, I <i>forbid</i> you to advance a step nearer to me!"</p> + +<p>He fell back with a profound sigh.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle, I love you to distraction. I am unable to disobey your +commands."</p> + +<p>"Very well, then, listen to me. I cannot understand this violent outburst +of emotion. You have done me the honour to propose to marry me, and I +have, with many thanks for your most flattering distinction, declined +your offer. Surely, between a lady and a gentleman, there can be nothing +further to say; it is not incumbent upon you to persecute me in this +fashion."</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill, you have treated me with a terrible cruelty. You have +encouraged my ardent passion for you until you did lift me up to Heaven." +Here Monsieur D'Arblet stretched up both his arms with a suddenness which +endangered the branches of the tall Dresden candelabra on the high +mantelpiece behind him. "After which you do reject me and cast me down +to hell!" and down came both hands heavily upon the velvet table between +them. The blue crackle jar, the two "Long Eliza" vases, and all the +Lowestoft cups and saucers, literally jumped upon their foundations.</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake!" cried Vera.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" in a tone of deep reproach, "do not plead with me, mademoiselle; +you have broken my heart."</p> + +<p>"And you have nearly broken the china," murmured Vera.</p> + +<p>"What is this miserable china that you talk about in comparison with my +happiness?" and the vicomte made as though he would tear his hair out +with both hands.</p> + +<p>The comedy of the situation began to be too much for Vera's self-control; +another ten minutes of it, and she felt that she should become +hysterical; all the more so because she knew very well that the whole +thing was nothing but a piece of acting; with what object, however, she +was at a loss to imagine.</p> + +<p>"For goodness sake, do be reasonable, Monsieur D'Arblet; you know +perfectly well that I never encouraged you, as you call it, for the very +good reason that there has never been anything to encourage. We have been +very good friends, but never anything more."</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle, you do me injustice."</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, I give you credit for a great deal more common sense, +as a rule, than you seem disposed to evince to-day. I am quite certain +that you have never entertained any warmer feeling towards me than +friendship."</p> + +<p>This was an injudicious statement. Monsieur D'Arblet felt that his +reputation as a <i>galant homme</i> and an adorer of the fair sex was +impugned; he instantly flew into the most violent passion, and jumped +about amongst the gipsy tables and the <i>étagères</i>, and the dainty little +spindle-legged cabinets more vehemently than ever.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i>, not love you! Lucien D'Arblet profess a sentiment which he does not +experience! <i>Ah! par exemple, Mademoiselle, c'est trop fort!</i> Next you +will say that I am a <i>menteur</i>, a <i>fripon</i>, a <i>lâche</i>! You will tell me +that I have no honour, and no sense of the generosity due to a woman; +that I am a brute and an imbecile," and at every epithet he dashed his +hands violently out in front of him, or thrust them wildly through his +disordered locks. The whole room shook, every ornament on every table +shivered with the strength of his agitation.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I will say any single thing you like," cried Vera, "if only you will +keep still——"</p> + +<p>"Do not insult me by denying my affection!"</p> + +<p>"I will deny nothing," said poor Vera, at her wits' ends. "If what I have +said has pained you, I am sincerely sorry for it; but for Heaven's sake +control yourself, and—and—<i>do</i> go away!"</p> + +<p>Then Monsieur D'Arblet stood still and looked at her fixedly and +mournfully; his hands had dropped feebly by his side, there was an air +of profound melancholy in his aspect; he regarded her with a searching +intensity. He was asking himself whether his agitation and his despair +had produced the very slightest effect upon her; and he came to the +conclusion they had not.</p> + +<p>"<i>Peste soit de cette femme!</i>" he said to himself. "She is the first I +ever came across who refused to believe in vows of eternal love. As a +rule, women never fail to give them credit, if they are spoken often +enough and shouted out loud enough the more one despairs and declares +that one is about to expire, the more the dear creatures are impressed, +and the more firmly they are convinced of the power of their own charms. +But this woman does not believe in me one little bit. Love, despair, +rage—it is all the same to her—I might as well talk to the winds! She +only wants to get rid of me before her friend comes in, and before I +break her accursed china. Ah it is these miserable little pots and jugs +that she is thinking about! Very well, then, it is by them that I will do +what I want. A great genius can bend to small things as well as soar to +large ones—Voyons done, ma belle, which of us will be the victor!"</p> + +<p>All this time he was gazing at her fixedly and dejectedly.</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill," he said, gloomily, "I will accept your rejection; +to-morrow I will say good-bye to this country for ever!"</p> + +<p>"We are all going away this week," said Vera, cheerfully: "this is the +end of July. You will come back again next year, and enjoy your season as +much as ever."</p> + +<p>"Never—never. Lucien D'Arblet will visit this country no more. The words +that I am about to speak to you now—the request that I am about to make +of you are like the words of a dying man; like the parting desire of one +who expires. Mademoiselle, I have a request to make of you."</p> + +<p>"I am sure," began Vera, politely, "if there is anything I can do +for you——" She breathed more freely now he talked about going away +and dying; it would be much better that he should so go away, and so +die, than remain interminably on the rampage in Mrs. Hazeldine's +drawing-room. Vera had stood siege for close upon an hour. The moment of +her deliverance was apparently drawing near; in the hour of victory she +felt that she could afford to be generous; any little thing that he liked +to ask of her she would be glad enough to do with a view to expediting +his departure. Perhaps he wanted her photograph, or a lock of her hair; +to either he would be perfectly welcome.</p> + +<p>"There is something I am forced to go away from England without having +done; a solemn duty I have to leave unperformed. Miss Nevill, will you +undertake to do it for me?"</p> + +<p>"Really, Monsieur D'Arblet, you are very mysterious; it depends, of +course, upon what this duty is—if it is very difficult, or very +unpleasant."</p> + +<p>"It is neither difficult nor unpleasant. It is only to give a small +parcel to a gentleman who is not now in England; to give it him yourself, +with your own hands."</p> + +<p>"That does not sound difficult, certainly," said Vera, smiling; after +all, she was glad he had not asked for a photograph, or a lock of hair; +"but how am I to find this friend of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill, do you know a man called Kynaston? Captain Maurice +Kynaston?" He was watching her keenly now.</p> + +<p>Vera turned suddenly very white: then controlling herself with an effort, +she answered quietly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know him. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because that is the man I want you to give my parcel to." He drew +something out of his breast coat-pocket, and handed it to her across the +oblong table that was still between them. She took it in her hands, and +turned it over doubtfully and uneasily. It was a small square parcel, +done up in brown paper, fastened round with string, and sealed at both +ends.</p> + +<p>It might have been a small book; it probably was. She had no reason to +give why she should not do his commission for him, and yet she felt a +strange and unaccountable reluctance to undertake it.</p> + +<p>"I had very much rather that you asked somebody else to do this for you, +Monsieur D'Arblet," she said, handing the packet back to him. He did not +attempt to take it from her.</p> + +<p>"It concerns the most sacred emotions of my heart, mademoiselle," he +said, sensationally. "I could not entrust it to an indifferent person. +You, who have plunged me into such an abyss of despair by your cruel +rejection of my affection, cannot surely refuse to do so small a thing +for me."</p> + +<p>Miss Nevill was again looking at the small parcel in her hands.</p> + +<p>"Will it hurt or injure Captain Kynaston in any way?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Far from it; it will probably be of great service to him. Come, Miss +Nevill, promise me that you will give it to him; any time will do before +the end of the year, any time that you happen to see him, or to be near +enough to visit him; I only want to be sure that it reaches him. All you +have to do is to give it him into his hands when no one else is near. +After all, it is a very small favour I ask you."</p> + +<p>"And it is precisely because it is so small, Monsieur D'Arblet," said +Vera, decidedly, "that I cannot imagine why you should make such a point +of a trifle like this; and as I don't like being mixed up in things I +don't understand, I must, I think, decline to have anything to do with +it."</p> + +<p>"<i>Allons donc!</i>" said the vicomte to himself. "I am reduced to the +china."</p> + +<p>He took an excited turn up and down the room, then came back again to +where she stood.</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill!" he cried, with rising anger, "you seem determined to wound +my feelings and to insult my self-respect. You reject my offers, you +sneer at my professions of affection; and now you appear to me to throw +sinister doubts upon the meaning of the small thing I have asked you to +do for me." At each of these accusations he waved his arm up and down to +emphasize his remarks; and now, as if unconsciously, his hand suddenly +fell upon the neck of one of the "Long Eliza" vases on the table before +him. He lifted it up in the air.</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake, Monsieur D'Arblet, take care—please put down that +vase," cried Vera; suddenly returning to her former terrors.</p> + +<p>He looked at the object in his hand as though it were utterly beneath +consideration.</p> + +<p>"Vase! what is a vase, I ask? Do you not suppose, before relinquishing +what I ask of you, I would dash a hundred vases such as this into ten +thousand fragments to the earth?" He raised his arm above his head as +though on the point of carrying his threat into execution.</p> + +<p>Vera uttered a scream.</p> + +<p>"Good gracious! What on earth are you doing? It is Mrs. Hazeldine's +favourite piece of china; she values it more than anything she has got. +If you were to break it, she would go half out of her mind."</p> + +<p>"Never mind this wretched vase. Answer me, Mademoiselle Nevill, will you +give that parcel to Captain Kynaston?"</p> + +<p>"I am not at all likely to meet him; I assure you nothing is so +improbable. I know him very little. Ah! what are you doing?"</p> + +<p>The infuriated Frenchman was whirling the blue-and-white treasure madly +round in the air.</p> + +<p>"You are, then, determined to humiliate and to insult me; and to prove to +you how great is my just indignation, I will dash——"</p> + +<p>"No, no, no!" cried Vera, frantically; "for Heaven's sake, do not be so +mad. Mrs. Hazeldine will never forgive me. Put it down, I entreat you. +Yes, yes, I will promise anything you like. I am sure I have no wish to +insult you."</p> + +<p>"Ah, then, you will give that to him?" He paused with the vase still +uplifted, looking at her.</p> + +<p>Vera felt convinced by this time that she had to do with a raving +lunatic. After all, was it not better to do this small thing for him, and +to get rid of him. She knew that, sooner or later, down at Sutton, or up +in London, she and Maurice were likely to meet. It would not be much +trouble to her to place the small parcel in his hands. Surely, to deliver +herself from this man—to save Cissy's beloved china, and, perchance, +her own throat—for what might he not take a fancy to next!—from the +clutches of this madman, it would be easier to do what he wanted.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will give it to him. I promise you, if you will only put that +vase down and go away."</p> + +<p>"You will promise me faithfully?"</p> + +<p>"Faithfully."</p> + +<p>"On your word of honour, and as you hope for salvation?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. There is no need for oaths; if I have promised, I will do it."</p> + +<p>"Very well." He placed the vase back upon the table and walked to the +door. "Mademoiselle," he said, making her a low bow, "I am infinitely +obliged to you;" and then, without another word, he opened the door and +was gone.</p> + +<p>Three minutes later Mrs. Hazeldine came in. She was just back from +her drive. She found Vera lying back exhausted and breathless in an +arm-chair.</p> + +<p>"My dear, what have you done to Monsieur D'Arblet? I met him running out +of the house like a madman, and laughing to himself like a little fiend. +He nearly knocked me down. What has happened! Have you accepted him?"</p> + +<p>"No, I have refused him," gasped Vera; "but, thank God, I have saved your +'Long Eliza,' Cissy!"</p> + +<p>Early the following morning one of Mrs. Hazeldine's servants was +despatched in a hansom with a small brown paper parcel and a note to the +Charing Cross Hotel.</p> + +<p>During the night watches Miss Nevill had been seized with misgivings +concerning the mysterious mission wherewith she had been charged.</p> + +<p>But the servant, the parcel, and the note all returned together just as +they had been sent.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur D'Arblet has left town, Miss; he went by the tidal train last +night on his way to the Continent, and has left no address."</p> + +<p>So Vera tore up her own note, and locked up the offending parcel in her +dressing-case.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<h3>A WEDDING TOUR.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus Grief still treads upon the heels of Pleasure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Congreve.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>We all know that weddings are as old as the world, but who is it +that invented wedding tours? Owing to what delusion were they first +instituted?</p> + +<p>For a wedding feast there is a reasonable cause, just as there is for +a funeral luncheon, or a christening dinner. There has been in each +instance a trying ordeal to be gone through in a public church. It is +quite right that there should be eating and drinking, and a certain +amount of jollification afterwards amongst the unoffending guests who +have been dragged in as spectators on the occasion. But why on earth, +when the day is over, cannot the unhappy couple be left alone to eat +a Darby-and-Joan dinner together in the house in which they propose to +live, and return peacefully on the morrow to the avocation of their +daily lives? Why must they be sent off amid a shower of rice and +shabby satin shoes into an enforced banishment from the society of their +fellow-creatures, and so thrown upon each other that, in nine cases out +of ten, for want of something better to do, they have learnt the way to +quarrel, tooth and nail, before the week is out?</p> + +<p>I believe that a great many marriages that are as likely as not to turn +out in the end very happily are utterly prevented from doing so by that +pernicious and utterly childish custom of keeping up the season known as +the honeymoon. "Honey," by the way, is very sweet, doubtless; but there +is nothing on earth which sensible people get sooner tired of. Three days +of an exclusively saccharine diet is about as much as any grown man or +woman can be reasonably expected to stand; after that period there comes +upon the jaded appetite unlawful longings after strong meats and +anchovies, after turtle-soup and devilled bones, such as no sugar-fed +couple has the poetic right to indulge in. Nevertheless, like a snake in +the grass, the insidious desire will creep into the soul of one or other +of the two. There will be, doubtless, a noble struggle to stifle the +treacherous thought; a vigorous effort to bring back the wandering mind +into the path of duty; a conscientious effort to go on enjoying honeycomb +as though no flavour of richer viands had been wafted to the nostrils of +the imagination. The sweet and poetical food will be lifted once more +resolutely to the lips, but only to create a sickening satiety from which +the nauseated victim finally revolts in desperation. Then come yearnings +and weariness, loss of appetite, and consequent loss of temper; tears on +the one side, an oath or two on the other, and the "happy couple" come +home eventually very much wiser, as a rule, than they started, and +certainly in a position to understand several unpleasant truths +concerning each other of which they had not a suspicion before they went +away.</p> + +<p>Now, if this is too often the melancholy finale to a wedding trip, even +with regard to persons who start forth on it full of hopes of happiness, +of faith in each other, and of fervent affection on both sides, how much +worse is not the case when there are small hopes of happiness, no faith +whatever on one side, and of affection none at all on the other?</p> + +<p>This was how it was with Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston on their six +weeks' wedding trip abroad. They went to a great many places they had +neither of them seen before. They stayed a week in Paris, where Helen +bought more dresses and declared herself supremely happy; they visited +the falls of the Rhine, which Maurice said deafened him; and ran +through Switzerland, which they both voted detestably uncomfortable and +dirty—the hotels, <i>bien entendu</i>, not the mountains. They stopped a +night on the St. Gothard, which was too cold for them, and a week or two +at the Italian lakes, which were too hot. They sauntered through the +picture-galleries of Milan and Turin, at which places Maurice's yawns +became prolonged and audible; and they floated through the canals of +Venice in gondolas, which Helen asserted to be more ragged and full of +fleas than any London four-wheeler. And then they turned homewards, and +by the time they neared the shores of the Channel once more they had had +so many quarrels that they had forgotten to count them, and they had both +privately discovered that matrimony is an egregious and, alas! an +irreparable mistake. Such a discovery was possibly inevitable; perhaps +they would have come in time to the same conclusion had they remained at +home, but they certainly found it out all the quicker for having gone +abroad.</p> + +<p>Helen, perhaps, was the most to be pitied of the two. For Maurice there +had been no illusions to dispel, no dreams to be dissipated, no castles +built upon the sand to fall shattered into atoms; he had known very well +what he had to expect; he did not love the wife he was marrying, and he +did love somebody else. It had not, therefore, been a brilliant prospect +of bliss. Nevertheless, he had certainly hoped, with that vague kind of +hope in which Englishmen are prone to indulge, that things would "come +right" in some fashion, and that he and Helen would manage "to get on" +together. That they did not do so was an annoyance, but hardly a surprise +to him.</p> + +<p>But to Helen there was a good deal of unexpected grief and mortification +of soul. She, at all events, had loved him; it was her own strength of +will, the fervour of her own lawless passion for him that had carried the +day, and had, in the end, made her his wife. And she had said to herself +that, once married to him, she would make him love her.</p> + +<p>Alas, in love there is no such thing as compulsion! The heart that loves, +loves freely, spontaneously, unreasonably; and, where love is dead, there +neither entreaties nor prayers, nor yet a whole ocean of tears can serve +to re-awaken the frail blossom into life.</p> + +<p>But Helen had made sure that, once absolutely her own, once irrevocably +separated from the girl whom instinct had taught her to regard as her +rival, Maurice would return to the old allegiance, and learn to love her +once more, as in days now long gone by.</p> + +<p>A very short experience served to convince her of the contrary. Maurice +yawned too openly, was too evidently wearied and bored with her society, +too utterly indifferent to her sayings and her doings, for her to delude +herself long with the hope of regaining his affection. It was all the +same to him whatever she did. If she showered caresses upon him, he +submitted meekly, it is true, but with so evident a distaste to the +operation that she learnt to discontinue the kisses he cared for so +little; if she tried to amuse him with her conversation, he appeared to +be thinking of other things; if she gave her opinion, he hardly seemed to +listen to it. Only when they quarrelled did the slightest animation enter +into their conjugal relations; and it was almost better to quarrel than +to be at peace on such terms as these.</p> + +<p>And then Helen got angry with him; angry and sore, wounded in her heart, +and hurt in her vanity. She said to herself that she had been ready to +become the best and most devoted of wives; to study his wishes, to defer +to his opinion, to surround him with loving attentions; but since he +would not have it so, then so much the worse for him. She would be no +model wife; no meek slave, subservient to his caprices. She would go her +own way, and follow her own will, and make him do what she liked, whether +it pleased him or not.</p> + +<p>Had Maurice cared to struggle with her for the mastery, things might have +ended differently, but it did not seem worth his while to struggle; as +long as she let him alone, and did not fret him with her incessant +jealousies and suspicions, he was content to let her do as she liked.</p> + +<p>Even in that matter of living at Kynaston he learnt, in the end, to +give way to her. Sir John, who had already started for Australia, had +particularly requested him to occupy the house. Lady Kynaston did nothing +but urge it in every letter. Helen herself was bent upon it. There was +no good reason that he could bring forward against so reasonable and +sensible a plan. The house was all ready, newly decorated, and newly +furnished; they had nothing to do but to walk into it. It would save +all trouble in looking out for a country home elsewhere, and would, +doubtless, be an infinitely pleasanter abode for them than any other +house could be. It was the natural and rational thing for them to do. +Maurice knew of only one argument against it, and that one was in his own +heart, and he could speak of it to no one.</p> + +<p>And yet, after all, what did it matter, what difference would it make? A +little nearer, a little further, how could it alter things for either of +them? How lessen the impassable gulf between her and him? It was in the +natural course of things that he must meet her at times; there would be +the stereotyped greeting, the averted glance, the cold shake of hands +that could never hope to meet without a pang; these things were almost +inevitable for them. A little oftener or a little seldomer, would it +matter very much then?</p> + +<p>Maurice did not think it would; bound as he was to the woman whom he had +made his wife—tied to her by every law of God and of man, of honour, and +of manly feeling—that there should be any actual danger to be run by the +near proximity of the woman he had loved, did not even enter into his +head. If he had known how to do his duty towards Helen before he had +married her, would he not tenfold know how to do so now? Possibly he +over-rated his own strength; for, however high are our principles, +however exalted is our sense of honour—after all, we are but mortals, +and unspeakably weak at the very best.</p> + +<p>It did not in any case occur to him to look at the question from Vera's +point of view. It is never easy for a man to put himself into a woman's +place, or to enter into the extra sensitiveness of soul with which she is +endowed.</p> + +<p>So it was that he agreed to go straight back to Kynaston, and to make the +old house his permanent home according to his wife's wishes.</p> + +<p>It was whilst the newly-married couple were passing through Switzerland +on their homeward journey that they suddenly came across Mr. Herbert +Pryme, who had been performing a melancholy and solitary pilgrimage in +the land of tourists.</p> + +<p>It was at the table d'hôte at Vevay, upon coming down to that lengthy +and untempting repast, chiefly composed of aged goats and stringy hens, +which the inventive Swiss waiter exalts, with the effort of a soaring +imagination, into "Chamois," and "Salmi de Poulet," that Captain and Mrs. +Kynaston, who had scarcely recovered from a passage of arms in the +seclusion of their bed-chamber, suddenly descried a familiar face amongst +the long array of uncongenial people ranged down either side of the +table.</p> + +<p>What the print of a hob-nailed boot must be to the lonely traveller +across the desert, what the sight of a man from one's own club going down +Pall Mall is in mid-September, or as a draught of Giesler's '68 to an +epicure who has been about to perish on ginger-beer—so did Herbert +Pryme's face shine upon Maurice Kynaston out of the arid waste of that +Vevay <i>salle-à-manger</i>.</p> + +<p>In England he had been only an acquaintance—at Vevay he became his most +intimate friend. The delight of having a man to speak to, and a man who +knew others of his friends, was almost intoxicating. To think of getting +one evening—nay, one hour of liberty from that ever-present chain of +matrimonial intercourse which was galling him so sorely, was a bliss for +which he could hardly find words to express his gratitude.</p> + +<p>Herbert, who could not quite understand the reason of it, was almost +overpowered by the warmth of Captain Kynaston's greeting. To have his +place removed next to his own, and to grasp him heartily by both hands, +wringing them with affectionate fervour, was the work of a few seconds. +And then, who so lively, so full of anecdote and laughter, so interested +in all that could be said to him, as Maurice Kynaston during that dinner?</p> + +<p>It made Helen angry to hear him. He could be agreeable enough, she +thought, bitterly, to a chance acquaintance, picked up nobody knew where; +he could find plenty of conversation for this almost unknown young man; +it was only when they were alone together that he sat by glumly and +silently, without a smile and without a word!</p> + +<p>She did not take it into account how surfeited the man was with his +honeycomb. Herbert Pryme, individually, was nothing much to him; but he +came as the sight of a distant sail is to a shipwrecked mariner. It is +doubtful, indeed, whether, under the circumstances, Maurice would not +have been equally delighted to have met his tailor or his bootmaker. +After dinner was over the two men went out and smoked their cigars +together. This was a fresh offence to Mrs. Kynaston; usually she enjoyed +an evening stroll with her husband after dinner, but when he asked her to +come out with him on this occasion, she refused, shortly and +ungraciously.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you; if you and Mr. Pryme are going to smoke, I could not +possibly come; you know that I hate smoke."</p> + +<p>Poor Herbert was about to protest that nothing would induce him to smoke; +but Maurice passed his arm hurriedly through his.</p> + +<p>"Come along, then, and have a cigar in the garden," he said, with +scarcely concealed eagerness; he felt like a schoolboy let out of school.</p> + +<p>Helen went up to her bedroom, and sat sulkily by her open window, looking +over the lake on to the mountains. Long after it was dark she could see +the two red specks of their cigars wandering about like fire-flies in the +garden, and could hear the crush of the rough gravel under their +footsteps, and the low murmur of their voices as they talked.</p> + +<p>"You are coming into Meadowshire, are you not?" asked Maurice, ere they +parted.</p> + +<p>Herbert shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Not to the Millers?"</p> + +<p>"No, I am afraid I shall never be asked to Shadonake again," answered the +younger man, gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Why, I thought you and Beatrice—forgive me—but is it not the case?"</p> + +<p>"Her parents have stopped all that, Kynaston."</p> + +<p>"But I am sure Beatrice herself will never let it stop; I know her too +well," said Maurice, cheerily.</p> + +<p>"There are laws in connection with minors," began Mr. Pryme, solemnly.</p> + +<p>"Fiddlesticks!" was Maurice's rejoinder. "There are no laws to prevent +young women falling in love, or the world would not be in such a +confounded muddle as it frequently is. Don't be downhearted, Pryme; you +stick to her, and it will all come right; and look here, if they won't +ask you to Shadonake, I ask you to Kynaston; drop me a line, and come +whenever you like—as soon as you get home."</p> + +<p>"You are exceedingly kind; I shall be only too delighted."</p> + +<p>"When will you be home?"</p> + +<p>"I can be home at any time—there is nothing to keep me."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, come as soon as you like, the sooner the better. And now +I must say good-night and good-bye too, I fear, for we are off early +to-morrow. I shall be glad enough to be home; I'm dead sick of the +travelling. Good-night, old fellow; it has been a real pleasure to meet +you."</p> + +<p>And, positively, this was the only evening out of his whole wedding-trip +that Maurice had thoroughly enjoyed.</p> + +<p>"What on earth kept you out so late with that solemn young prig?" says +his wife to him as he opens her door.</p> + +<p>"I find him a very pleasant companion, and I have asked him to come to +Kynaston," answers Maurice, shortly.</p> + +<p>"Umph!" grunts Helen, and inwardly determines that his visit shall be a +short one.</p> + +<p>Four days later they were in England again.</p> + +<p>It was only when the train had actually stopped at Sutton, and he was +handing his wife into her own carriage under the arch of greenery across +the road, and amid the ringing cheers of the rustics, who had gathered +to see them arrive, that Maurice began to realise how powerfully that +home-coming was to be tinged in his own mind with thoughts of her who was +once so nearly going as a bride to the same house where now he was taking +Helen.</p> + +<p>All along the lane, as they drove under the arches of flags and flowers +that had been put up from the station to the park gates, and as they +responded to the hearty welcome from the village-folk who lined the road, +Maurice was asking himself, with a painful anxiety, whether <i>she</i> was at +Sutton now; whether her eyes had rested upon these rustic decorations, +whether her steps had passed along under these mottoes of welcome and of +happiness. And then, as they neared the church, the clang of the bells +burst forth loudly and jarringly.</p> + +<p>Was <i>she</i>, perchance, there in the house, kneeling alone, white and +stricken by her bedside, whilst those joy-bells rang out their deafening +clamour from the church hard by?</p> + +<p>For the life of him, Maurice could not help casting a glance at the +vicarage as they drove swiftly by it.</p> + +<p>The windows were wide open, but no one looked out of them, the muslin +blinds fluttered in the wind, the Gloire de Dijon roses nodded upon the +wall, the Virginia creeper hung in crimson festoons over the porch; but +there was not a living creature to be seen.</p> + +<p>He had caught no glimpse of the woman that was ever in his heart; and it +was a great pity that he had looked for her, because his wife, whose +sharp eyes nothing ever escaped, had seen him look.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<h3>"IF I COULD DIE!"</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why cannot I forgo, forget<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ever I loved thee, that ever we met?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is not a single link or sign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bind thy life in this world with mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">M. W. Praed.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>But it was not until Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston had been at home +for more than a fortnight that Vera came back to her brother-in-law's +house.</p> + +<p>She had kept away, poor girl, as long as she could. She had put off the +evil hour of her return as long as possible. The Hazeldines had gone to +Scotland, and Vera had, in desperation, accepted an invitation to stay +with some acquaintances whom she neither knew very well nor liked +overmuch. It had kept her from Sutton a little longer. But the visit had +come to an end at last, and what was she to do? She had no other visits +to prolong her absence, and her sister wrote to her perpetually, urging +her to return. Her home was at Sutton; she had no other place to go to. +She had told Sir John that in absence from his brother lay her only hope +of safety. But where was she to seek that safety? Where find security, +when he; reckless, or, perchance, heedless of her danger, had come to +plant himself at her very doors? They should have been far as the poles +asunder, and a malevolent fate had willed that the same parish should +contain them.</p> + +<p>For whatever Maurice did, Vera in no way underrated the danger. Too well +she knew her own heart; too surely she estimated the strength of a +passion which, repressed and thwarted, and half-smothered, as it had been +within her, yet burnt but the fiercer and the wilder. For that is the way +with love: if it may not flourish and thrive openly and bravely before +the eyes of the world, it will eat into the very heart and life, till all +that is fair and sweet in the garden of the soul is choked and blighted +and overgrown, till the main-spring of life becomes poisoned, and all +things that are happy, withered and dried up.</p> + +<p>In Vera's love for Maurice there had been nothing of joy, and all of +pain. There had never been for her that sweet illusion of dawning +affection—that intangible sense of delight in the consciousness of an +unspoken sympathy that is the very essence of a happy love. She had no +memories that were serene and untroubled—no days of calm and delicious +happiness to recall. His first conscious look had been a terror to her; +his words of hopeless love had given her a shock that had been almost +physical; and his few passionate kisses had burnt into her very soul till +they had seemed to have been printed upon her lips in fire. Vera's love +had brought her no good thing that she could count. But it had done one +thing for her: if it had cursed her life, it had purified her soul.</p> + +<p>The Vera who had come back to Sutton Vicarage in August was no longer the +same woman who had stood months ago on the terrace at Kynaston among the +falling autumn leaves, and who had told herself that it was money +alone that was worth living for.</p> + +<p>She came back to everything that was full of pain, and to much in which +there was absolute fear.</p> + +<p>Five minutes after she had entered the vicarage drawing-room her tortures +began.</p> + +<p>"You have not asked after the bride and bridegroom," says old Mrs. +Daintree, as she sits in her corner, darning everlastingly at those brown +worsted socks of her son's. Vera thinks she must have been sitting there +darning incessantly, day and night, ever since she had been away. "We are +all full of it down here. Such a pretty welcome home they had—arches +across the road, and processions with flags, and a band inside the +lodge-gates. You should have been here to have seen it. Everybody is +making much of Mrs. Kynaston; she is a very pretty woman, I must say, +and called here three days ago in the most beautiful Paris gown."</p> + +<p>"She seemed very sorry not to see you," says Marion, "and quite disposed +to be friendly. I do hope you and she will get on, Vera, in spite of the +awkwardness of her being in your place, as it were."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" rather sharply.</p> + +<p>"Only, of course, dear, that it will be rather painful to you just at +first to see anybody else the mistress at Kynaston, where you yourself +might have been——"</p> + +<p>"If you had not been a fool," interpolated the old lady, bluntly.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I shall mind that much," says Vera, quietly. "Where is +Eustace?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he will be in presently; he has gone up to the Hall about the +chancel. The men have made all kinds of mistakes about the tesselated +pavement; the wrong pattern was sent down from town, and we have had so +much trouble about it, and there has been nobody to appeal to to set +things right. Captain Kynaston is all very well, and now he is back, I +hope we may get things into a little order; but I am sorry to say he +takes very little interest in the church or the parish; he is not half +so good a squire as poor dear Sir John." And there was a whole volume of +unspoken reproach in the sigh with which Marion wound up her remarks.</p> + +<p>"Decidedly," said Vera, to herself, as she went slowly upstairs to her +own little room; "decidedly I must get away from all this. I shall have +to marry." She leant out of her open window in a frame-work of roses +and jessamine, and looked out over the lime-trees towards the Hall. +Now that the trees were in full leaf, she could catch no glimpse of its +red-stacked chimneys and its terraced gardens; but, by-and-by, when the +leaves were down and the trees were bare, she knew she should see it. +Every morning when she got up the sun would be shining full upon it; +every night when she went to bed she would see the twinkling lights of +the many windows gleaming through the darkness; she would be in her +room alone, and <i>he</i> would be out there, happy with his wife.</p> + +<p>"I shall not be able to bear it," said Vera, slowly, speaking aloud to +herself. "I had better marry, and go away; there is nothing else to be +done. Poor Denis! He is worthy of a better woman; but I think he will be +good to me."</p> + +<p>For it had come to this now, that when Vera thought about marrying, it +was upon Denis Wilde that she also pondered.</p> + +<p>To be at Sutton, and not to come face to face with Maurice, was of course +an impossibility. Carefully as Vera confined herself to the house and +garden for the next three days, she could not avoid going to church when +Sunday came. And at church were Captain and Mrs. Kynaston. During the +service she only saw his back, erect and broad-shouldered, in the seat in +front of her, for the pews had been cleared away, and open sittings had +been substituted all through the church. Maurice looked neither to the +right nor to the left; he stood, or sat, or knelt, and scarcely turned +his head an inch, but Helen's butterfly bonnet was twisted in every +direction throughout the service. It is certain that she very soon knew +who it was who had come into the vicarage seat behind her.</p> + +<p>When Vera came out of church, having purposely lingered as long as she +could inside, until the rest of the congregation had all gone out, she +found the bride and bridegroom waiting for her in the churchyard.</p> + +<p>Helen stood with her hand twined with easy familiarity round her +husband's arm; possibly she had studied the attitude with a view to +impressing Vera with the perfection of her conjugal happiness. She turned +quite delightedly to greet her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, here you are at last, Miss Nevill. We have been waiting for you, +have we not, Maurice dear? We both felt how pleased we should be to see +you. I am very glad you have come back; it will make it much more +pleasant for me at Kynaston; you will come up to see me, won't you? +I should like you to see my boudoir, it is lovely!"</p> + +<p>"You forget that Miss Nevill has seen it all long ago," said Maurice, +gravely; their hands had just met, but he had not looked at her.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, to be sure; how stupid I am! Of course, I remember now, it was +all done up for <i>you</i> by poor dear old John. Doesn't it seem funny that +I should be going to live in the house? Ah, how d'ye do, Mr. Daintree?" +as Eustace came out of the vestry door; "here we are, chattering to your +sister. What a delightful sermon, dear Mr. Daintree, and what a treat to +be in a Christian church—I mean a Protestant church—again after those +dreadful Sundays on the Continent."</p> + +<p>Vera had turned to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Have you any news of Sir John yet?"</p> + +<p>"No; we cannot expect to hear of his arrival till next month. I dare say +you will like to hear about him. I will let you know as soon as he +writes."</p> + +<p>"Thank you; I should like to know about him very much."</p> + +<p>Helen, in the middle of Eustace's polite acknowledgment of her compliment +to his sermon, was casting furtive glances at her husband; even the two +or three grave words he had exchanged with Vera were sufficient to make +her uneasy. She desired to torture Vera with envy and with jealousy; she +had forgotten to take into account how very easily her own suspicious +jealousy could be aroused. She interrupted the vicar in the very middle +of his speech.</p> + +<p>"Now, really, we must run away. Come, Maurice, darling, we shall be late +for lunch; you and Miss Nevill must finish your confidences another day. +You will come up soon, won't you? Any day at five I am in—good-bye." +She shook hands with them, and hurried her husband away.</p> + +<p>"What an odd thing it is that you and that girl never can meet without +having all sorts of private things to say to each other," she said, +angrily, as soon as they were out of earshot.</p> + +<p>"Private things! what can you possibly mean, Helen? Miss Nevill was +asking me if I had heard of John's arrival."</p> + +<p>"I wonder she has the face to mention John's name!"</p> + +<p>"Why, pray?"</p> + +<p>"After her disgraceful conduct to him."</p> + +<p>"I think you know very little about Miss Nevill's conduct, Helen."</p> + +<p>"No, I dare say not. And <i>you</i> have always known a great deal more about +it than anybody else. That I have always understood, Maurice."</p> + +<p>Maurice looked very black, but he was silent.</p> + +<p>"I am very glad I told her about the boudoir," continued Helen, +spitefully. "How mortified she must feel to think that it has all slipped +through her fingers and into mine. I do hope she will come up to the +house. I shall show her all over it; she will wish she had not been +such a fool!"</p> + +<p>Maurice was looking at his wife with a singular expression.</p> + +<p>"I begin to think you have a very bad heart, Helen," he said, with +a contempt in his voice that was very near akin to disgust.</p> + +<p>She looked up, a little startled, and put her hand back, caressingly, +under his arm.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't look at me like that, Maurice; I don't want to vex you. You +know very well how much I love you—and—and"—looking up with a little +smile into his face that was meant as a peace offering—"I suppose I am +jealous!"</p> + +<p>"Suppose you wait to be jealous until I give you cause to be so," +answered her husband, gravely and coldly, but not altogether unkindly, +for he meant to do his duty to her, God helping him, as far as he knew +how.</p> + +<p>But all the way home he walked silently by her side, and wondered whether +the sacrifice he had made of his love to his duty had been, indeed, worth +it.</p> + +<p>It had been hard for him, this first meeting with Vera. He had felt it +more than he had believed possible. Instinctively he had realized what +she must have suffered; and that her sufferings were utterly beyond his +power to console. It began to come into his mind that, meaning to deal +rightly by Helen, he had dealt cruelly and badly by Vera. He had +sacrificed the woman he loved to the woman he did not love.</p> + +<p>Had it, indeed, been such a right and praiseworthy action on his part? +Maurice lost himself in speculation as to what would have happened had he +broken his faith to Helen, and allowed himself to follow the dictates of +his heart rather than those of his conscience.</p> + +<p>That was what Vera had done for his sake; but what he had been unable to +do for hers.</p> + +<p>There was a certain hardness about the man, a rigid sense of honour that +was almost a fault; for, if it be a virtue to cleave to truth and good +faith above everything, to swear to one's neighbour and disappoint him +not—even though it be to one's own hindrance—it is certainly not a fine +or noble thing to mistake tenderness for a weakness only fit to be +crushed out of the soul with firm hands and an iron determination.</p> + +<p>Guilty once of one irreparable action of weakness, Maurice had set +himself determinedly ever after to undo the evil that he had done.</p> + +<p>To be true to his brother, to keep his faith with Helen, these had been +the only objects he had steadily kept in view: he had succeeded in his +efforts, but had scarcely realized that, in doing so, he had not only +wrecked his own life, but also that of the woman whom he had so +infinitely wronged.</p> + +<p>But when he saw her once again—when he held for an instant the cold hand +within his own—when he marked, with a pang, the dark circles round the +averted eyes that spoke so mutely and touchingly of sleepless vigils and +of many tears—when he noted how the lovely sensitive lips trembled a +little as she spoke her few common-place words to him—then Maurice began +to understand what he had done to her; and, for the first time, something +that was almost remorse, with regard to his own conduct towards her, came +into his soul.</p> + +<p>Such meditations were not, however, safe or profitable to indulge in for +long. Maurice recalled his wandering thoughts with an effort, and with +something of repentance for having given them place, turned his attention +resolutely to his wife's chatter during the remainder of the walk home.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Vera and the vicar are walking back, side by side, to the +vicarage.</p> + +<p>"Something," says Eustace, with solemn displeasure, "something must +really be done, and that soon, about Ishmael Spriggs; that man will drive +me into my grave before my time! Anything more fearfully and awfully out +of tune than the Te Deum I never heard in the whole course of my life. I +can hear his voice shouting and bellowing above the whole of the rest of +the choir; he leads all the others wrong. It is not a bit of use to tell +me that he is the best behaved man in the parish; it is not a matter of +conduct, as I told Mr. Dale; it is a matter of voice, and if the man +can't be taught to sing in tune, out of the choir he shall go; it's a +positive scandal to the Service. Marion says we shall turn him into an +enemy if we don't let him sing, and that he will go to the dissenting +chapel, and never come to church any more. Well, I can't help that; I +must give him up to the dissenters. As to keeping him in the choir, it is +out of the question after that Te Deum. I shall never forget it. It will +give me a nightmare to-night, I am convinced. Wasn't it dreadful, Vera?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, very likely, Eustace," answered Vera, at random. She has not heard +one single word he has said.</p> + +<p>Eustace Daintree looks round at her sharply. He sees that she is very +white, and that there are tears upon her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"Why, Vera!" he cries, standing still, you have not listened to a word +I have been saying. "What is the matter, child? Why are you crying?"</p> + +<p>They are in the vicarage garden now; among the beds of scarlet geraniums, +and the tall hollyhocks, and the glaring red gladioli; a whole bank of +greenery, rhododendrons and lauristinas, conceals them from the windows +of the house; a garden bench sheltered beneath a nook of the laurel +bushes is close by.</p> + +<p>With a sudden gesture of utter misery Vera sinks down upon it, and bursts +into a passion of tears.</p> + +<p>"My dear child; my poor Vera! What is it? What has happened? What can be +the reason of this?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Daintree is infinitely distressed and puzzled; he bends over her, +taking her hand between his own. There is something in this wild outburst +of grief, from one habitually so calm and self-contained as Vera, that is +an absolute shock to him. He had learnt to love her very dearly; he had +thought he had understood all the workings of her candid maiden soul; he +had fancied that the story of her broken engagement was no secret to him, +that it was but the struggle of a conscientious nature after what was +true and honest. It had seemed to him that there had been no mystery in +her conduct, for he could appreciate all her motives. And surely, as she +had done right, she must be now at peace. He had told himself that the +pure instincts of a naturally stainless soul had triumphed in Vera over +the carelessness and worldliness of her early training; and lo, here was +the passionate weeping of a tempest-tossed woman, whose agony he could +not fathom, and whose sorrows he knew not how to divine.</p> + +<p>"Vera, will you not tell me?" he asked her, in his distress. "Will you +not make a friend of me? My dear, forget that I am a clergyman; remember +only that I am your brother, and that I shall know how to feel for +you—for you, my dear sister."</p> + +<p>But she could not tell him. There are some troubles that must be kept for +ever buried within our own souls; to speak of some things is only to make +them worse. Only she choked back her sobs, and lifted her face, white +and tear-stained; there was a look of hunted despair in her eyes, that +bewildered, and even half-terrified him.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she said, with a sort of anger, "tell me, you that are a +clergyman—Do you think God has made us only to torment us? You have got +a daughter, Eustace; pray God, night and morning, that she may have a +hard heart, and that she may never have one gleam of womanly tenderness +within her; for only so are women happy!"</p> + +<p>He did not answer her wild words. Instinctively he felt that common-place +speeches of rebuke or of consolation would be trivial and out of place +before the great anguish of her heart. The man's soul was above the +narrow limits of his training; he felt, dimly, that here was something +with which it were best not to intermeddle, some trouble for which he +could offer no consolation.</p> + +<p>She rose and stood before him, holding his hands and gazing earnestly at +his anxious face.</p> + +<p>"It has come to this with me," she said, below her voice, "that there are +times when there is but one good thing in all the world that I know any +longer how to desire. God has so ordered my life that there is no road +open for me that does not lead to sin or to misery. Surely, if He were +merciful, He would take back the valueless gift."</p> + +<p>"Vera! what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"I mean," she exclaimed, wearily, "that if I could die, I should be at +peace."</p> + +<p>She had walked slowly on; her voice, that had trembled at first with a +passionate wildness, had sunk into the spiritless apathy of despair; her +head was bent, her hands clasped before her; her dress trailed with a +soft rustle across the grass, sweeping over a whole wilderness of white +daisies, that bent their heads beneath its folds as she walked. A gleam +of sunshine fell upon her hair, and a bird sang loud and shrill in the +lime trees overhead.</p> + +<p>Often and often, in the after days, Eustace Daintree thought of her thus, +and remembered with a pang the sole sad gift that she had craved at +Heaven's hands. Often and often the scene came back to him; the sunny +garden, the scarlet geraniums flaring in the borders, the smooth green +lawn, speckled with shadows from the trees, the wide open windows of his +pleasant vicarage beyond, and the beautiful figure of the girl at his +side, with her bent head, and her low broken voice—the girl who, at +twenty-three, sighed to be rid of the life that had become too hard for +her; that precious gift of life which, too often, at three-score years +and ten, is but hardly resigned!</p> + +<p>"If I could die, I should be at peace," she had said. And she was only +twenty-three!</p> + +<p>Eustace Daintree never forgot it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<h3>AN EVENTFUL DRIVE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>, "Henry IV."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>I imagine that the most fretting and wearing of all the pains and +penalties which it is the lot of humanity to undergo in this troublesome +and naughty world are those which, by our own folly, our own +shortsightedness, and our own imprudence, we have brought upon ourselves.</p> + +<p>There is a degree of irritation in such troubles which adds a whole +armoury of small knife-cuts to intensify the agony of the evil from which +we suffer. It is more dreadful to be moaning over our own mistakes than +over the inscrutable perversity of an unpropitious fate.</p> + +<p>Somebody once has said that most men grieve over the smallest mistake +more bitterly than over the greatest sin. This is decidedly a perversion +of the moral nature; nevertheless, there is a good deal of truth in it.</p> + +<p>"If only I had not been such a fool! If I could only have foreseen such +and such results?"</p> + +<p>These are more generally the burden of our bitterest self-reproaches.</p> + +<p>And this was what Miss Miller was perpetually repeating to herself during +the months of August and September. Beatrice, in these days, was a +thoroughly miserable young woman. She was more utterly separated than +ever from her lover, and that entirely by her own fault. That foolish +escapade of hers to the Temple had been fatal to her; her father, who +had been inclined to become her lover's friend, had now peremptorily +forbidden her ever to mention his name again, and her own lips were +sealed as to the unlucky incident in which she had played so prominent +a part.</p> + +<p>Beatrice knew that, in going alone and on the sly to her lover's +chambers, she had undoubtedly compromised her own good name. To confess +to her own folly and imprudence was almost beyond her power, and to clear +her lover's name at the expense of her own was what she felt he himself +would scarcely thank her for.</p> + +<p>Mr. Miller had, of course, said something of what he had discovered at +Mr. Pryme's chambers to the wife of his bosom.</p> + +<p>"The young man is not fit for her," he had said; "his private life will +not bear investigation. You must tell Beatrice to put him out of her +head."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller had, of course, been virtuously indignant over Mr. Pryme's +offences, but she had also been triumphantly elated over her own +sagacity.</p> + +<p>"Did I not tell you he was not a proper husband for her? Another time, +Andrew, you will, I hope, allow that I am the best judge in these +matters."</p> + +<p>"My dear, you are always right," was the meekly conjugal reply, and then +Mrs. Miller went her way and talked to Beatrice for half-an-hour over the +sinful lives which are frequently led by young men of no family residing +in the Temple, and the shame and disgrace which must necessarily accrue +to any well-brought-up young woman who, in an ill-advised moment, shall +allow her affections to rove towards such unsanctified Pariahs of +society.</p> + +<p>And Beatrice, listening to her blushingly, knew what she meant, and yet +had no words wherewith to clear her lover's character from the defamatory +evidence furnished against him by her own sunshade and gloves.</p> + +<p>"Your father has seen with his own eyes, my dear, that which makes it +impossible for us ever to consent to your marrying that young man."</p> + +<p>How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I—your daughter—who was +there, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom." She could not speak the words.</p> + +<p>The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded its +velvet lawns. Below, the Bath slumbered darkly in the shadow of its +ancient steps and its encircling belt of fir-trees; and beyond the +flower-gardens, half-an-acre of pineries, and vineries, and +orchard-houses glittered in a dazzling parterre of glass-roofs and white +paint. Something new—it was an orchard-house—was being built. There was +always something new, and Mr. Miller was superintending the building of +it. He stood over the workmen who were laying the foundation, watching +every brick that was laid down with delighted and absorbed interest. He +held a trowel himself, and had tucked up his shirt cuffs in order to lend +a helping hand in the operations. There was nothing that Andrew Miller +loved so well. Fate and his Caroline had made him a member of Parliament, +and had placed him in the position of a gentleman, but nature had +undoubtedly intended him for a bricklayer.</p> + +<p>Beatrice came out of the drawing-room windows across the lawn to him. She +was in her habit, and stood tapping her little boot with her riding whip +for some minutes by her father's side.</p> + +<p>"I am going to see uncle Tom, papa," she said; "have you any message?"</p> + +<p>"Going to Lutterton? Ah, that's right; the ride will do you good, my +dear. No; I have no message."</p> + +<p>Beatrice went back into the house; her little bay mare stood at the door. +She met her mother in the hall.</p> + +<p>"I am going to see uncle Tom," she said, to her also.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller always encouraged her children in their attentions to her +brother. He was rich, and he was a bachelor; he must have saved a good +deal one way or another. Who could tell how it would be left? And then +Beatrice was undoubtedly his favourite. She nodded pleasantly to her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"Tell uncle Tom to come over to lunch on Sunday, and, of course, he must +come here early for Guy's birthday next week," for there were to be great +doings on Guy's birthday. "Ride slowly, Beatrice, or you will get so +hot."</p> + +<p>Lutterton Castle was a good six miles off. The house stood well, and even +imposingly, on a high wooded knoll that overlooked the undulating park, +and the open valley at its feet. It was a great rambling building with a +central tower and four smaller ones at each corner. When Mr. Esterworth +was at home, which was almost always, it was his vanity to keep a red +flag flying from the centre tower as though he had been royalty. All the +reception-rooms and more than half the bedrooms were permanently +shuttered up, and there was a portly and very dignified housekeeper, +who rattled her keys at her châtelaine, and went through all the unused +apartments daily, followed by a meek phalanx of housemaids, to see that +all the rooms were well-aired and well kept in order, so that at any +minute they might be fit for occupation. Five or six times during the +hunting season the large rooms were all thrown open, and there was a hunt +breakfast held in the principal dining-hall; but, with that exception, +Mr. Esterworth rarely entertained at all.</p> + +<p>He occupied three rooms opening out of each other in the small western +tower. They consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, and a small and +rather inconvenient study, where the huntsman, whips, and other official +personages connected with the hunt were received at all hours of the day +and night. The room was consequently pervaded by a faint odour of stables +and tobacco; there were usually three or four dogs upon the hearthrug, +and it was a rare thing to find Mr. Esterworth in it unaccompanied by +some personage in breeches and gaiters, wearing a blue spotted neckcloth +and a horseshoe pin.</p> + +<p>Such an individual was receiving an audience at the moment of Miss +Miller's arrival, and shuffled awkwardly and hurriedly out of the room by +one door as she entered it by another.</p> + +<p>"All right, William," calls the M.F.H. after his departing satellite. +"Look in again to-night. I shall have her fired, I think, and throw her +up till December. Hallo! Pussy, how are you?"</p> + +<p>All the four dogs rose from the hearthrug and wagged their tails solemnly +in respectful greeting to her. Beatrice had a pat and a word for each, +and a kiss for her uncle, before she sat down on the chair he pulled +forward for her.</p> + +<p>"What brings you, Pussy? What are you riding?"</p> + +<p>"Kitty; they have taken her round to the stable. I thought I'd have lunch +with you, uncle Tom."</p> + +<p>"Very well; you won't get anything but a mutton-chop."</p> + +<p>"I don't ask for anything better."</p> + +<p>Beatrice felt that her heart was beating. She had taken a desperate +resolution during her six miles' solitary ride; she had determined to +take her uncle into her confidence. He had always been indulgent and kind +to her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as her +mother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Tom, I'm in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it," +she began, trembling.</p> + +<p>"I'm very sorry, Pussy; what is it?"</p> + +<p>"I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London. I went to a young +man's rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom."</p> + +<p>"The deuce you did!" says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes," continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame and +confusion; "and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in the +sitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it was +mine, and—and—he thinks—he thinks——"</p> + +<p>"That's the best joke I ever heard in my life!" cries Mr. Esterworth, +laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Tom!" Beatrice could hardly believe her ears.</p> + +<p>"Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!" cries her uncle, between the +outbursts of his mirth. "Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one; +there isn't much Miller blood in your veins. You are an Esterworth all +over."</p> + +<p>"But, uncle, indeed, it's no laughing matter."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't see much to cry at if your father did not find you out; +the young man is never likely to talk."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but uncle Tom; papa and mamma think so badly of him, and I can't +tell them that I was there; and they will never let me marry him."</p> + +<p>"Oh! so you are in love, Pussy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, uncle."</p> + +<p>Tom Esterworth smote his hand against his corduroy thigh.</p> + +<p>"What a mistake!" he exclaimed; "a girl who can go across country as you +do—what on earth do you want to be married for? Is it Mr. Pryme, Pussy?"</p> + +<p>Beatrice nodded.</p> + +<p>"And he can't go a yard," said her uncle, sorrowfully and reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I think he goes very well, uncle; his seat is capital; it is only +his hands that are a bit heavy; but then he has had very little +practice."</p> + +<p>"Tut—tut, don't talk to me, child; he is no horseman. He may be a good +young man in his way, but what can have made you take a fancy to a fellow +who can't ride is a mystery to me! Now tell me the whole story, Pussy."</p> + +<p>And then Beatrice made a clean breast of it.</p> + +<p>"I will see if I can help you," said her uncle, seriously, when she had +finished her story; "but I can't think how you can have set your heart +upon a fellow who can't ride!"</p> + +<p>This was evidently a far more fatal error in Tom Esterworth's eyes than +the other matter of her being shut up in Mr. Pryme's rooms. Beatrice +began to think she had not done anything so very terrible after all.</p> + +<p>"I must turn it over in my mind. Now come and eat your mutton-chop, +Pussy, and when we have finished our lunch, you shall come out with me +in the dog-cart. I am going to put Clochette into harness for the first +time."</p> + +<p>"Will she go quietly?"</p> + +<p>"Like a lamb, I should say. You won't be nervous?"</p> + +<p>"Dear, no! I am never nervous; I shall enjoy the fun."</p> + +<p>The mutton-chop over, Clochette and the dog-cart came round to the door. +She was a raking, bright chestnut mare, with a coat like satin. Even as +she stood at the door she chafed somewhat at her new position between +the shafts. This, however, was no more than might have been expected. Mr. +Esterworth declining the company of the groom, helped his niece up and +took the reins.</p> + +<p>"We will go round by Tripton and back by the common," he said, "and talk +this matter well over, Pussy; we shall enjoy ourselves much better with +nobody in the back seat. A man sits there with his arms crossed and his +face like a blank sheet of paper, but one never knows how much they hear, +and their ears are always cocked, like a terrier's on the scent of a +rat."</p> + +<p>Clochette went off from the door with a bound, but soon settled down into +a good swinging trot. She kept turning her head nervously from side to +side, and there was evidently a little uncertainty in her mind as to +whether she should keep to the drive, or deviate on to the grass by the +side of it; but, upon the whole, she behaved fairly well, and turned out +of the lodge gates into the high road with perfect docility and good +breeding.</p> + +<p>There was a whole avalanche of dogs in attendance. A collie, rushing on +tumultuously in front; a "plum-pudding" dog between the wheels; a couple +of fox-terriers snapping joyfully at each other in the rear; and there +was also an ill-conditioned animal—half lurcher, half terrier—who +killed cats, and murdered fowls, and worried sheep, and flew at the +heels of unwary strangers; and was given, in short, to every sort of +canine iniquity, and who possessed but one redeeming feature in his +character—that of blind adoration to his master.</p> + +<p>This animal, who followed uncle Tom whithersoever he went, came skurrying +out of the stables as the dog-cart drove off, and joined in the general +scamper.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the dogs may have been too much for Clochette's nerves, or +perhaps the effort of behaving well as far as the park gates with those +horrible wheels rattling behind her was as much as any hunter born and +bred could be expected to do, or perhaps uncle Tom was too free with that +whip with which he caressed her shining flanks; but be that as it may, no +sooner was Clochette's head well turned along the straight high-road with +its high-tangled hedge-rows on either side than she began to show symptoms +of behaving very badly indeed. She bucked and pranced, and stood on her +hind legs; she whipped suddenly round, pirouetted upon her own axis with +the dexterity of a circus performer, and demonstrated very plainly that, +if she only dared, she would like to take to her heels in the reverse +direction to that which her driver desired her to go.</p> + +<p>All this was, however, equally delightful and exciting both to Tom +Esterworth and his niece. There was no apprehension in Beatrice's mind, +for her uncle drove as well as he rode, and she felt perfectly secure in +the strong, supple hands that guided Clochette's erratic movements.</p> + +<p>"There is not a kick in her," uncle Tom had said, as they started, and he +repeated the observation now; and kicking being out of the category of +Clochette's iniquities, there was nothing else to fear.</p> + +<p>No sooner, however, had the words left his lips than a turn of the road +brought them within sight of a great volume of black smoke rushing slowly +but surely towards them; whilst a horrible roaring and howling, as of an +antediluvian monster in its wrath, filled the silence of the summer +afternoon with a hideous and unholy confusion.</p> + +<p>Talk about there being no wild animals in our peaceful land! What +could have been the Megatherium and the Ichthyosaurus, and all the +fire-spitting dragons of antiquity compared to the traction engines of +the nineteenth century?</p> + +<p>"It's a steam plough!" ejaculated Beatrice, below her breath.</p> + +<p>"D——n!" cried her uncle, not at all below <i>his</i> breath.</p> + +<p>As to Clochette, she stood for an instant stock still, with her ears +pricked and her head well up, facing the horrors of her situation; next +she gave an angry snort as though to say, "No! <i>this</i> is too much!" Then +she turned short round and began a series of peculiar bounds and plunges, +accompanied by an ominous uplifting of her hind quarters, which had +plainly but one object in view—the correct conjugation of the verb +active "to kick."</p> + +<p>There was a crunching of woodwork, a cracking as of iron hoofs against +the splash-board. Beatrice instinctively put up her hands before her +face, but she did not utter a sound.</p> + +<p>"Do you think you could get down, Pussy, and go to her head?"</p> + +<p>"Shall I hold the reins, uncle?"</p> + +<p>"No, you couldn't hold her; she'll be over the hedge if I let go of her. +Get down if you can."</p> + +<p>It was not easy. Beatrice was in her habit, and to jump from the +vacillating height of a dog-cart to the earth is no easy matter even to +a man unencumbered with petticoats.</p> + +<p>"Try and get over the back," said her uncle, who was in momentary terror +lest the mare's heels should be dashed into her face. And Beatrice, with +that finest trait of a woman's courage in danger, which consists in doing +exactly what she is told, began to scramble over the back of her seat.</p> + +<p>The situation was critical in the extreme; the traction engine came on +apace, the man with the red flag having paused at a public-house round +the corner, was only now running back into his place. Uncle Tom shouted +vainly to him; his voice was drowned in the deafening roar of the +advancing monster.</p> + +<p>But already help was at hand, unheard and unperceived by either uncle or +niece; a horseman had come rapidly trotting up the road behind them. To +spring from his horse, who was apparently accustomed to traction engines, +and stood quietly by, to rush to the plunging, struggling mare, and to +seize her by the head was the work of a moment.</p> + +<p>"All right, Mr. Esterworth," shouted the new comer. "I can hold her if +you can get down; we can lead her into the field; there is a gate ten +yards back."</p> + +<p>Uncle Tom threw the reins to his niece and slipped to the ground; between +them the two men contrived to quiet the terrified Clochette, and to lead +her towards the gate.</p> + +<p>In another three minutes they were all safely within the shelter of the +hedge. The traction engine passed, snorting forth fire and smoke, on its +devastating way; and Clochette stood by, panting, trembling, and covered +with foam. Beatrice, safely on the ground, was examining ruefully the +amount of damage done to the dog-cart, and Mr. Esterworth was shaking +hands with his deliverer.</p> + +<p>It was Herbert Pryme.</p> + +<p>"That's the last time I ever take a lady out, driving without a +man-servant behind me," quoth the M.F.H. "What we should have done +without your timely assistance, sir, I really cannot say; in another +minute she would have kicked the trap into a thousand bits. You have +saved my niece's life, Mr. Pryme."</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I did very little," said Herbert, modestly, glancing at Beatrice +who was trembling and rather pale; but, perhaps, that was only from her +recent fright. She had not spoken to him, only she had given him one +bewildered glance, and then had looked hastily away.</p> + +<p>"You have saved her life," repeated Mr. Esterworth, with decision. "I +hope you do not mean to contradict my words, sir? You have saved +Beatrice's life, sir, and it's the most providential thing in this world +for you, as Clochette very nearly kicked her to pieces under your nose. +I shall tell Mr. and Mrs. Miller that they are indebted to you for their +daughter's life. Young people, I am going to lead this brute of a mare +home, and, if you like to walk on together to Lutterton in front of me, +why you may."</p> + +<p>That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the good +graces of his lady love's father and mother.</p> + +<p>Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account of +the danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic and +highly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity in +rushing to her rescue, that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had no other course left +than to shake hands gratefully with the man to whom, as uncle Tom said, +they literally owed her life.</p> + +<p>"I could not have saved her without him," said uncle Tom, drawing +slightly upon his imagination; "in another minute she must have been +kicked to pieces, or dashed violently to the earth among the broken +fragments of the cart, and"—with a happy after-thought—"the steam +plough would have crushed its way over her mangled body."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller shuddered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Tom, I never can trust her to you again!"</p> + +<p>"No, my dear; but I think you must trust her to Mr. Pryme; that young man +deserves to be rewarded."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear Tom, there are things against his character. I assure you, +Andrew himself saw——"</p> + +<p>"Pooh! pooh!" interrupted Mr. Esterworth. "Young men who sow their wild +oats early are all the better husbands for it afterwards. I will give him +a talking to if you like, but you and your husband must let Pussy have +her own way; it is the least you can do after his conduct; and don't +worry about his being poor, Caroline; I have nothing better to do with my +money, and I shall take care that Pussy is none the worse off for my +death. She is worth all the rest of your children put together—an +Esterworth, every inch of her!"</p> + +<p>That, it is to be imagined, was the clenching argument in Mrs. Miller's +mind. Uncle Tom's money was not to be despised, and, by reason of his +money, uncle Tom's wishes were bound to carry some weight with them.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pryme, who had been staying for a few days at Kynaston, where, +however, the cordial welcome given to him by its master was, in a great +measure, neutralised by the coldness and incivility of its mistress, +removed himself and his portmanteau, by uncle Tom's invitation, to +Lutterton, and his engagement to Miss Miller became a recognised fact.</p> + +<p>"All the same, it is a very bad match for her," said Mrs. Miller, in +confidence, to her husband.</p> + +<p>"And I should very much like to know who that sunshade belonged to," +added the M.P. for Meadowshire, severely.</p> + +<p>"I think, my dear, we shall have to overlook that part of the business, +for, as Tom will leave them his money, why——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I quite understand; we must hope the young man has had a good +lesson. Let bygones be bygones, certainly," and Mr. Miller took a pinch +of snuff reflectively, and wondered what Tom Esterworth would "cut up +for."</p> + +<p>"But I am <i>determined</i>," said Mrs. Miller, ere she closed the discussion, +"I am determined that I will do better for Geraldine."</p> + +<p>After all, the mother had a second string to her bow, so the edict went +forth that Beatrice was to be allowed to be happy in her own way, and the +shadow of that fatal sunshade was no longer to be suffered to blacken the +moral horizon of her father's soul.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> + +<h3>BY THE VICARAGE GATE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Before our lives divide for ever,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While time is with us and hands are free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Time swift to fasten, and swift to sever<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hand from hand....)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will say no word that a man might say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose whole life's love goes down in a day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For this could never have been. And never<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Though the gods and the years relent) shall be.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Swinburne.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>The peacocks had it all to themselves on the terrace walk at Kynaston. +They strutted up and down, craning and bridling their bright-hued necks +with a proud consciousness of absolute proprietorship in the place, and +their long tails trailed across the gravel behind them with the soft +rustle of a woman's garments. Now and then their sad, shrill cries echoed +weirdly through the deserted gardens.</p> + +<p>There was no one to see them—the gardeners had all gone home—and no one +was moving from the house. Only one small boy, with a rough head and a +red face, stood below the stone balustrade, half-hidden among the +hollyhocks and the roses, looking wistfully up at the windows of the +house.</p> + +<p>"What am I to do with it?" said Tommy Daintree, half-aloud to himself, +and looked sorely perplexed and bewildered.</p> + +<p>Tommy had a commission to fulfil, a commission from Vera. He carried a +little note in his hands, and he had promised Vera faithfully that he +would wait near the house till he saw Captain Kynaston come in from his +day's shooting, and give him the note into his own hands.</p> + +<p>"You quite understand, Tommy; no one else."</p> + +<p>"Yes, auntie, I quite understand."</p> + +<p>And Tommy had been waiting there an hour, but still there was no sign of +Captain Kynaston's return; he was getting very tired and very hungry by +this time, for he had had no tea. He had heard the dressing-bell ring +long ago in the house—it must be close upon their dinner hour. Tommy +could not guess that, by an unaccustomed chance, the master of the house +had gone in by the back-door to-day, and that he had been in some time.</p> + +<p>Presently some one pushed aside the long muslin curtains, and came +stepping out of the long French window on to the terrace. It was Helen.</p> + +<p>She was dressed for dinner; she wore a pale blue dress, cut open at the +neck, a string of pearls and a jewelled locket hung at her throat; she +turned round, half laughing, to some one who was following her.</p> + +<p>"You will see all the county magnates at Shadonake to-morrow. You will +have quite enough of them, I promise you; they are neither lively nor +entertaining."</p> + +<p>A young man, also in evening dress, had followed her out on to the +terrace; it was Denis Wilde; he had arrived from town by the afternoon +train. Why he should have thrown over several very good invitations to +country houses in Norfolk and Suffolk, where there were large and +cheerful parties gathered together, and partridge shooting to make a man +dream of, in order to come down to the poor sport of Kynaston and the +insipid society of a newly married couple, with whom he was not on very +intimate terms, is a problem which Mr. Wilde alone could have +satisfactorily solved. Being here, he was naturally disposed to make +himself extremely agreeable to his hostess.</p> + +<p>"You can't think how anxious I am to inspect the <i>élite</i> of Meadowshire!" +he said, laughing. "My life is an incomplete thing without a sight of +it."</p> + +<p>"You will witness the last token of mental aberration in a +decently-brought up young woman in the person of Beatrice Miller. You +know her. Well, she has actually engaged herself to a barrister whom +nobody knows anything about, and who—<i>bien entendu</i>—has no briefs—they +never have any. He was staying here for a couple of days; a slow, heavy +young man, who quoted Blackstone. Maurice took a fancy to him abroad; +however, he was clever enough to save Beatrice's life by stopping a +run-away horse. Some people say the accident was the invention of the +lovers' own imaginations; however, the parents believed in it, and it +turned the scales in his favour; but he has taken himself off, I am +thankful to say, and is staying at Lutterton with her uncle. Beatrice +might have married well, but girls are such fools. Hallo, Topsy, what are +you barking at?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Kynaston's pug had come tearing out of the house with a whole chorus +of noisy yappings. The peacocks, deeply wounded in their tenderest +feelings, instantly took wing, and went sailing away majestically over +the crimson and gold parterre of flowers below.</p> + +<p>"What can possess her to bark at the peacocks?" said Helen. "Be quiet, +Topsy."</p> + +<p>But Topsy refused to be tranquillized.</p> + +<p>"She is barking at something below the terrace; perhaps there is a cat +there," said Denis.</p> + +<p>"If so, it would be Dutch courage, indeed," answered Helen, laughing. +They went to the edge of the stone parapet and looked over; there stood +Tommy Daintree below them, among the hollyhocks.</p> + +<p>"Why, little boy, who are you, and what do you want? Why, are you not Mr. +Daintree's little boy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then what are you waiting for?"</p> + +<p>"I want to give a note to Captain Kynaston," said Tommy, crimson with +confusion. "Is he ever coming in?"</p> + +<p>"He is in now; give me the note."</p> + +<p>"I was to give it to himself, to nobody else."</p> + +<p>"Who told you?"</p> + +<p>"Aunt Vera."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" There was a whole volume of meaning in the simple exclamation. +Mrs. Kynaston held out her hand. "You can give it to me, I am Captain +Kynaston's wife, you know. Give it to me, Tommy. Your name is Tommy, +isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Mr. Wilde, will you be so kind as to fetch +Tommy a peach off the dinner-table? Give the note to me, my dear, and you +can tell your aunt that it shall be given to Captain Kynaston directly."</p> + +<p>When Denis returned from his mission to the dining-room he only found +Tommy waiting for his peach upon the terrace steps. Mrs. Kynaston had +gone back into the house.</p> + +<p>Tommy went off devouring his prey with, it must be confessed, rather a +guilty conscience over it. Somehow or other, he felt that he had failed +in the trust his aunt had placed in him; but then, Mrs. Kynaston had been +very kind and very peremptory; she had almost taken the letter out of his +hand, and she had smiled and looked quite like a fairy princess out of +one of Minnie's story-books in her pretty blue silk dress and shining +locket—and then, peaches were so very nice!</p> + +<p>What happened to Denis Wilde after the small boy's departure was this. He +sauntered back to the drawing-room windows and looked in; no one was +there. He then wandered further down the terrace till he came opposite +the window of the boudoir—Mrs. Kynaston's own boudoir—which Sir John's +loving hands had once lined with blue and silver for his Vera. Here he +caught sight of Mrs. Kynaston's fair head and slender figure. Her back +was turned to him; he was on the point of calling out to her, when +suddenly the words upon his lips were arrested by something which he saw +her doing. Instead of speaking, he simply stood still and stared at her.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Kynaston, unconscious of observation, held the note which Tommy had +just given her over the steam of a small jug of hot water, which she had +hastily ordered her maid to bring to her. In less than a minute the +envelope unfastened of itself. Helen then deliberately took out the note +and read it.</p> + +<p>What she read was this:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dear Captain Kynaston,—I have something that I have promised to give +to you when you are alone. Would you mind coming round to the vicarage +after dinner to-night, at nine o'clock? You will find me at the +gate.—Sincerely yours,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Vera Nevill.</span>"</p></div> + +<p>Then Helen lit a candle, and fastened the letter up again with +sealing-wax.</p> + +<p>And Denis Wilde crept away from the window on tip-toe with a sense of +shocked horror upon him such as he never remembered having experienced in +his life before.</p> + +<p>All at once his pretty, pleasant hostess, with whom he had been glad +enough to banter, and with whom even he had been ready to enter upon a +mild and innocent flirtation, became horrible and hateful to him; and +there came into his mind, like an inspiration, the knowledge of her +enmity to Vera; for it was Vera's note that she had opened and read. Then +his instincts were straightway all awake with the acuteness of a danger, +to something—he knew not what—that threatened the woman he loved.</p> + +<p>"Thank God, I am here," he said to himself. "That woman is her foe, and +she will be dangerous to her. I would not have come to her house had I +known it; but now I am here, I will stay, for it is certain that she will +need a friend."</p> + +<p>At dinner-time the note lay by Maurice's side on the table. Whilst the +soup was being helped he took it up and opened it. He little knew how +narrowly both his wife and his guest watched him as he read it.</p> + +<p>But his face was inscrutable. Only he talked a little more, and seemed, +perhaps, in better spirits than usual; but that is what a stranger could +not have noticed, although it is possible that Helen may have done so.</p> + +<p>"By the vicarage gate," she had said, and it was there that he found her. +Behind her lay the dark and silent garden, beyond it the house, with its +wide-open drawing-room windows, and the stream of yellow light from the +lamp within, lying in a golden streak across the lawn. She leant over the +gate; an archway of greenery, dark in the night's dim light, was above +her head, and clusters of pale, creamy roses hung down about her on every +side.</p> + +<p>It was that sort of owl's light that has no distinctness in it, and yet +is far removed from darkness. Vera's perfect figure, clad in some white, +clinging garment that fell about her in thick, heavy folds, stood out +with a statue-like clearness against the dark shrubs behind her. She +seemed like some shadowy queen of the night. Out of the dimness, the +clear oval of her perfect face shone pale as the waning moon far away +behind the church tower, whilst the dusky veil of her dark hair lost +itself vaguely in the shadows, and melted away into the background. +A poet might have hymned her thus, but no painter could have painted her.</p> + +<p>And it was thus that he found her. For the first time for many weary +weeks and months he was alone with her; for the first time he could speak +to her freely and from his heart. He knew not what it was that had made +her send for him, or why it was that he had come. He did not remember her +note, or that she had said that she had something for him. All he knew +was, that she had sent for him, and that he was with her.</p> + +<p>There was the gate between them, but her white soft hands were clasped +loosely together over the top of it. He took them feverishly between his +own.</p> + +<p>"I am late—you have waited for me, dear? Oh, Vera, how glad I am to be +with you!"</p> + +<p>There was a dangerous tenderness in his voice that frightened her. She +tried to draw away her hands.</p> + +<p>"I had something for you, or I should not have sent—please, Captain +Kynaston—Maurice—please let my hands go."</p> + +<p>He was alone under the star-flecked heavens with the woman he loved, +there was all the witchery of the pale moonlight about her, all the +sweet perfumes of the summer night to intensify the fascination of her +presence. There was a nameless glamour in the luminous dimness—a subtle +seduction to the senses in the silence and the solitude; a bird chirruped +once among the tangled roses overhead, and a soft, sighing breeze +fluttered for one instant amid its long, trailing branches. And then, +God knows how it came to pass, or what madness possessed the man; +but suddenly there was no longer any faith, or honour, or truth for +him—nothing on the face of the whole earth but Vera.</p> + +<p>He caught her passionately in his arms, and showered upon her lips the +maddest, wildest kisses that man ever gave to woman.</p> + +<p>For one instant she lay still upon his heart; all the fury of her misery +was at rest—all the storm of her sorrow was at peace—for one instant of +time she tasted of life's sublimest joy ere the waters of blackness and +despair closed in once more over her soul. For one instant only—then she +remembered, and withdrew herself shudderingly from his grasp.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, have pity upon me, Maurice!" she wailed. It was the cry +of a broken heart that appealed to his manhood and his honour more surely +and more directly than a torrent of reproach or a storm of indignation.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," he murmured, humbly; "I am a brute to you. I had forgotten +myself. I ought to have spared you, sweet. See, I have let you go; I will +not touch you again; but it was hard to see you alone, to be near you, +and yet to remember how we are parted. Vera, I have ruined your life; it +is wonderful that you do not hate me."</p> + +<p>"A true woman never hates the man who has been hard on her," she +answered, smiling sadly.</p> + +<p>"If it is any comfort to you to know it, I too am wretched; now it is too +late: I know that my life is spoilt also."</p> + +<p>"No; why should that comfort me?" she said, wearily. She leant half back +against the gate—if he could have seen her well in the uncertain light, +he would have been shocked at the worn and haggard face of his beautiful +Vera.</p> + +<p>Presently she spoke again.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry that I asked you to come—it was not wise, was it, Maurice? +How long must you stop at Kynaston? Can you not go away? We are neither +of us strong enough to bear this—I, I cannot go—but you, <i>must</i> you be +always here?"</p> + +<p>"Before God," he answered, earnestly, "I swear to you that I will go away +if it is in my power to go."</p> + +<p>"Thank you." Then, with an effort, she roused herself to speak to him: +"But that is not what I wanted to say; let me tell you why I sent for +you. I made a promise, a wretched, stupid thing, to a tiresome little man +I met in London—a Monsieur D'Arblet, a Frenchman; do you know him?"</p> + +<p>"D'Arblet! I never heard the name in my life that I know of."</p> + +<p>"Really, that seems odd, for I have a little parcel from him to you, and, +strangely enough, he made me promise on my word of honour to give it to +you when no one was near. I did not know how to keep my promise, for, +though we may sometimes meet in public, we are not often likely to meet +alone. I have it here; let me give it to you and have done with the +thing; it has been on my mind."</p> + +<p>She drew a small packet from her pocket, and was about to give it to him, +when suddenly his ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; he +looked nervously round, then he put forth his hand quickly and stopped +her.</p> + +<p>"Hush, give me nothing now!" he said, in a low, hurried voice. "To-morrow +we shall meet at Shadonake; if you will go near the Bath some time +during the day after lunch is over, I will join you there, and you can +give it to me; it can be of no possible importance; go in now quickly; +good-night. It is my wife."</p> + +<p>She turned and fled swiftly back to the house through the darkness, and +Maurice was left face to face with Helen.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> + +<h3>DENIS WILDE'S LOVE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A mighty pain to love it is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'tis a pain that love to miss;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, of all pains, the greatest pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is to love, but love in vain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cowley.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>He had not been mistaken. It was Helen who had crept out after him in the +darkness, and whose slight figure, in her pale blue dress, stood close by +him in an angle of the road.</p> + +<p>How long she had stood there and what she had heard he did not know. He +expected a torrent of abuse and a storm of reproaches from her, but she +refrained from either. She passed her arm within his, and walked beside +him for several minutes in silence. Maurice, who felt rather guilty, was +weak enough to say, hesitatingly,</p> + +<p>"The night was so fine, I strolled out to smoke——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Qui s'excuse s'accuse</i>," quoted Helen; "only you are not smoking, +Maurice!"</p> + +<p>"My cigar has gone out; I—I met Miss Nevill at the gate of the +vicarage."</p> + +<p>"So I saw," rather significantly.</p> + +<p>"I stopped to have a little talk to her. There is no harm, I suppose, in +that!" he added, irritably.</p> + +<p>Helen laughed shortly and harshly.</p> + +<p>"Harm! oh dear, no; whoever said there was? By the way, is not this freak +of yours of going out into the roads to smoke, as you say, alone, rather +a slight on your guest? Here is Mr. Wilde; how very amusing! we all seem +to be drawn out towards the vicarage to-night."</p> + +<p>Denis Wilde, in fact, had followed in the wake of his hostess, and they +met him now by the lodge gates.</p> + +<p>"How very strange!" called out Helen to him, in her scornful, bantering +voice; "how strange that we should all have gone out for solitary +rambles, and all meet in the same place; and there was Miss Nevill out +in the vicarage garden, also on a solitary ramble."</p> + +<p>"Is Miss Nevill there? I think I will go on and call upon her," said +Denis.</p> + +<p>"You too, Mr. Wilde!" cried Helen. "Have you fallen a victim to the +beauty? We heard enough of her in town; she turned all the men's heads; +even married men are not safe from her snares, and yet it is singular +that none of her admirers care to marry her; there are some women whom +all men make love to, but whom none care to make wives of!"</p> + +<p>And Maurice was a coward, and spoke no word in her defence; he did not +dare; but young Denis Wilde drew himself up proudly.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Kynaston," he said, sternly, "I must ask you not to speak +slightingly of Miss Nevill."</p> + +<p>"Good gracious, why not? I suppose we are all free to use our tongues and +our eyes in this world! Why should you become the woman's champion?"</p> + +<p>"Because," answered Denis, gravely, "I hope to make her my wife."</p> + +<p>Maurice was man enough to hold out his hand to him in the darkness.</p> + +<p>"I am glad of it," he said, rather hoarsely; "make her happy, Denis, if +you can."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I shall go on to see her now."</p> + +<p>Helen murmured an unintelligible apology, and Denis Wilde passed onwards +towards the vicarage.</p> + +<p>He had taken her good name into his keeping, he had shielded her from +that other woman's slandering tongue; but he had done so in his despair. +He had spoken no lie in saying that he hoped to make her his wife; but it +was no doubt a fact that Helen and her husband would now believe him to +be engaged to her. Would Vera be induced to verify his words, and to +place herself and her life beneath the shelter of his love, or would she +only be angry with him for venturing to presume upon his hopes? Denis +could not tell.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later he stood alone with her in the vicarage dining-room; +he had sent in his card with a pencilled line upon it to ask for a few +minutes' conversation with her.</p> + +<p>Vera had desired that her visitor might be shown into the dining-room. +Old Mrs. Daintree had been amazed and scandalized, and even Marion had +opened her eyes at so unusual a proceeding; but the vicar was out by a +sick bedside in the village, and no one else ever controlled Vera's +actions.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, she herself looked somewhat surprised at so late a visit +from him. And then, somehow or other, Denis made it plain to her how it +was he had come, and what he had said of her. Her name, he told her, had +been lightly spoken of; to have defended it without authority would have +been to do her more harm than good; to take it under his lawful +protection had been instinctively suggested to him by his longing to +shield her. Would she forgive him?</p> + +<p>"It was Mrs. Kynaston who spoke evil things of me," said Vera, wearily. +She was very tired, she hardly understood, she scarcely cared about what +he was saying to her; it mattered very little what was said to her. There +was that other scene under the shadow of the roses of the gateway so +vividly before her; the memory of Maurice's passionate kisses upon her +lips, the sound of his beloved voice in her ears. What did anything else +signify?</p> + +<p>And meanwhile Denis Wilde was pouring out his whole soul to her.</p> + +<p>"My darling, give me the right to defend you now and always," he pleaded; +"do not refuse me the happiness of protecting your dear name from such +women. I know you don't love me, dear, not as I love you, but I will not +mind that; I will ask you for nothing that you will not give me freely; +only try me—I think I could make you happy, love. At any rate, you shall +have anything that tenderness and devotion can give you to bring peace +into your life. Vera, darling, answer me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am very tired," was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passing +her hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child.</p> + +<p>It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! What +were all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was driving +her into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave her +in peace?</p> + +<p>And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his love +struck upon her soul and arrested her attention. There is something so +touching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing in +return, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; that +amongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men, +it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not of +answering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such rare +devotion.</p> + +<p>It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading, +and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis's earnest eyes, and +the traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was, +perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laid +at her feet.</p> + +<p>There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as to +his grief. Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered?</p> + +<p>"Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife. I do not ask you for your +heart; only give me your dear self. Only let me be always with you to +brighten your life and to take care of you."</p> + +<p>How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness?</p> + +<p>"Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!" burst from her lips. "How can I take +you at your word? Do you not know that my heart is gone from me? I have +no love to give you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, darling," he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips. "Do +not pain yourself by speaking of it. I have guessed it. I have always +seemed to know it. But it is hopeless, is it not? And I—I would so +gladly take you away and comfort you if I could."</p> + +<p>And so, in the end, she half yielded to him. What else was she to do? She +gave him a sort of promise.</p> + +<p>"If I can, it shall be as you wish," she said; "but give me till +to-morrow night. I will think of it all day, and if you will come here +again to-morrow evening, I will answer you. Give me one more day—only +one," she repeated, with a dull reiteration, out of her utter weariness.</p> + +<p>"One day will soon be gone," he said, joyfully, as he bade her good +night.</p> + +<p>Alas, how little he knew what that day was to bring forth!</p> + +<p>That night the heavens were overcast with heavy clouds, and torrents of +rain poured down upon the face of the earth, and peal after peal of +thunder boomed through the heavy heated air. Helen could not sleep; she +rose, feverish and unrested from her husband's side, and paced wildly and +miserably about the room. Then she went to the window and drew back the +curtain, and looked out upon the storm-driven world. The clouds racked +wildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind; +the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer still +was the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston's heart. Hatred, jealousy, +and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still—a +terror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night her +husband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning or +preparation—</p> + +<p>"Helen, do you know a Frenchman called D'Arblet?"</p> + +<p>Helen had been at her dressing-table—her back was turned to him—he did +not see the livid pallor which blanched her cheeks at his question.</p> + +<p>A little pause, during which she busied herself among the trifles upon +the table.</p> + +<p>"No, I never heard the name in my life," she said, at length.</p> + +<p>"That is odd—because neither have I—and yet the man has sent me a +parcel." It was of so little importance to him, that it did not occur +to him that there could possibly be any occasion for secresy concerning +Vera's commission. What could an utter stranger have to send to him that +could possibly concern him in any way?</p> + +<p>It did not strike him how strained and forced was the voice in which his +wife presently asked him a question.</p> + +<p>"And the parcel! You have opened it?"</p> + +<p>"No, not yet," began Maurice, stifling a yawn; and he would have gone +on to explain to her that it was not yet actually in his possession, +although, probably, he would not have told her that it was Vera who was +to give it to him; only at that minute the maid came into the room, and +he changed the subject.</p> + +<p>But Helen had guessed that it was Vera who was the bearer of that parcel. +How it had come to pass she could not tell, but too surely she divined +that Vera had in her possession those fatal letters that she had once +written to the French vicomte; the letters that would blast her for ever +in her husband's estimation, and turn his luke-warmness and his coldness +into actual hatred and repulsion.</p> + +<p>And was it likely that Vera, with such a weapon in her hands, would spare +her? What woman, with so signal a revenge in her power, would forego the +delight of wreaking it upon the woman who had taken from her the man she +loved? Helen knew that in Vera's place she would show no mercy to her +rival.</p> + +<p>It was all clear as daylight to her now; the appointment at the vicarage +gate, the something which she had said in her note she had for him; the +whole mystery of the secret meeting between them—it was Vera's revenge. +Vera, whom Maurice loved, and whom she, Helen, hated with such a deadly +hatred!</p> + +<p>And then, in the silence of the night, whilst her husband slept, and +whilst the thunder and the wind howled about her home, Helen crept forth +from her room, and sought for that fatal packet of letters which her +husband had told her he had "not yet" opened.</p> + +<p>Oh, if she could only find them and destroy them before he ever saw them +again! Long and patiently she looked for them, but her search was in +vain. She ransacked his study and his dressing-room; she opened every +drawer, and fumbled in every pocket, but she found nothing.</p> + +<p>She was frightened, too, to be about the house like a thief in the night. +Every gust of wind that creaked among the open doors made her start, +every flash of lightning that lighted up the faces of the old family +portraits, looking down upon her with their fixed eyes, made her turn +pale and shiver, lest she should see them move, or hear them speak.</p> + +<p>Only her jealousy and her hatred burnt fiercely above her terror; she +would not give in, she told herself, until she found it.</p> + +<p>Denis Wilde, who was restless too, had heard her soft footsteps along the +passage outside his door; and, with a vague uneasiness as to who could be +about at such an hour, he came creeping out of his room, and peeped in at +the library door.</p> + +<p>He saw her sitting upon the floor, a lighted candle by her side, an open +drawer, out of her husband's writing-table, upon her lap, turning over +papers, and bills, and note-books with eager, trembling hands. And he saw +in her white, set face, and wild, scared eyes, that which made him draw +back swiftly and shudderingly from the sight of her.</p> + +<p>"Good God!" he murmured to himself, as he sought his room again, "the +woman has murder in her face!"</p> + +<p>And at last she had to give it up; the letters were not to be found. The +storm without settled itself to rest, the thunder died away in the far +distance over the hills, and Helen, worn out with fatigue and emotion, +sought a troubled slumber upon the sofa in her dressing-room.</p> + +<p>"She cannot have given it to him," was the conclusion she came to at +last. "Well, she will do so to-morrow, and I—I will not let her out of +my sight, not for one instant, all the day!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> + +<h3>A GARDEN PARTY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have done for ever with all these things:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The songs are ended, the deeds are done;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There shall none of them gladden me now, not one.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is nothing good for me under the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to perish—as these things perished.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A. L. Gordon.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Mr. Guy Miller is a young gentleman who has not played an important part +in these pages; nevertheless, but for him, sundry events which took place +at Shadonake at this time would not have had to be recorded.</p> + +<p>It so happened that Guy Miller's twenty-first birthday was in the third +week of September, and that it was determined by his parents to celebrate +the day in an appropriate and fitting manner. Guy was a youth of no +particular looks, and no particular manners; he had been at Oxford, +but his father had lately taken him away from it, with a view to his +travelling, and seeing something of the world before he settled down +as a country gentleman. He had had no opportunity, therefore, of +distinguishing himself at college; but as he was not overburdened with +brains, and had, moreover, never been known to study with interest any +profounder literature than "Handley Cross" and "Mr. Sponge's Sporting +Tour," it is possible that, even had he been left undisturbed to pursue +his studies at the university, he would never have developed into a +bright or shining ornament at that seat of learning.</p> + +<p>As it was, Guy came home to the paternal mansion an ignorant but amiable +and inoffensive young man, with a small, fluffy moustache, and no +particular bent in life beyond smoking short pipes, and loafing about the +premises with his hands in his trousers pockets.</p> + +<p>He was a tolerable shot, and a plucky, though not a graceful horseman. He +hated dancing because he trod on his partner's toes, and shunned ladies' +society because he had to make himself agreeable to them. Nevertheless, +having been fairly "licked into shape" by a course successively of Eton +and of Oxford, he was able to behave like a gentleman in his mother's +house when it was necessary for him to do so, and he quite appreciated +the fact of his being an important personage in the Miller family.</p> + +<p>It was to celebrate the coming of age of this interesting young gentleman +that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had settled to give a monster entertainment to +several hundreds of their fellow-creatures.</p> + +<p>The proceedings were to include a variety of instructive and amusing +pastimes, and were to last pretty nearly all day. There was to be a +country flower-show in a big tent on the lawn; that was pure business, +and concerned the farmers as much as the gentry. There were also to be +athletic sports in a field for the active young men, lawn-tennis for the +active young women, an amateur polo match got up by the energy and pluck +of Miss Beatrice and her uncle Tom; a "cold collation" in a second tent +to be going on all the afternoon; the whole to be finished up with a +dance in the large drawing room, for a select few, after sunset.</p> + +<p>The programme, in all conscience, was varied enough; and the day broke +hopefully, after the wild storm of the previous night, bright and cool +and sunny, with every prospect of being perfectly fine.</p> + +<p>Beatrice, happy in the possession of her lover, was full of life and +energy; she threw herself into all the preparations of the <i>fête</i> with +her whole heart. Herbert, who came over from Lutterton at an early hour, +followed her about like a dog, obeying her orders implicitly, but +impeding her proceedings considerably by a constant under-current of +love-making, by which he strove to vary and enliven the operation of +sticking standard flags into the garden borders, and nailing up wreaths +of paper roses inside the tent.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller, having consented to the engagement, like a sensible woman, +was resolved to make the best of it, and was, if not cordial, at least +pleasantly civil to her future son-in-law. She had given over Beatrice +as a bad job; she had resolved to find suitable matches for Guy and for +Geraldine.</p> + +<p>By one o'clock the company was actually beginning to arrive, the small +fry of the neighbourhood being, of course, the first to appear. By-and-by +came the rank and fashion of Meadowshire, and by three o'clock the +gardens were crowded.</p> + +<p>It was a brilliant scene; there was the gaily-dressed crowd going in and +out of the tents, groups of elderly people sitting talking under the +trees, lawn-tennis players at one end of the garden, the militia band +playing Strauss's waltzes at the other, the scarlet and white flags +floating bravely over everybody in the breeze, and a hum of many voices +and a sound of merry laughter in every direction.</p> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and Guy, the hero of the day, moved about amongst +the guests from group to group. Guy, it must be owned, looking +considerably bored. Beatrice, with her lover in attendance, looking +flushed and rosy with the many congratulations which the news of her +engagement called forth on every side; and the younger boys, home from +school for the occasion, getting in everybody's way, and directing their +main attention to the ices in the refreshment-tent. Such an afternoon +party, it was agreed, had not been held in Meadowshire within the memory +of man; but then, dear Mrs. Miller had such energy and such a real talent +for organization; and if the company <i>was</i> a little mixed, why, of +course, she must recollect Mr. Miller's position, and how important it +was for him, with the prospect of a general election coming on, to make +himself thoroughly popular with all classes.</p> + +<p>No one in all the gay crowd was more admired or more noticed than "the +bride," as she was still called, young Mrs. Kynaston. Helen had surpassed +herself in the elaboration of her toilette. The country dames and +damsels, in their somewhat dowdy home-made gowns, could scarcely remember +their manners, so eager were they to stare at the marvels of that +wondrous garment of sheeny satin, and soft, creamy gauze, sprinkled over +with absolute works of art in the shape of wreaths of many-hued +embroidered birds and flowers, with which the whole dress was cunningly +and dexterously adorned. It was a masterpiece of the great Worth; rich +without being gaudy, intricate without losing its general effect of +colour, and, above all, utterly and absolutely inimitable by the hands +of any meaner artist.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Kynaston looked well; no one had ever seen her look better; there +was an unusual colour in her cheeks, an unusual glitter in her blue eyes, +that always seemed to be roving restlessly about her as though in search +of something even all the time she was saying her polite commonplaces in +answer to the pleasant and pretty speeches that she received on all sides +from men and women alike.</p> + +<p>But through it all she never let Vera Nevill out of her sight; where Vera +moved, she moved also. When she walked across the lawn, Mrs. Kynaston +made some excuse to go in the same direction; when she entered either of +the tents, Helen also found it necessary to go into them. But the crowd +was too great for any one to remark this; no one saw it save Denis Wilde, +whose eyes were sharpened by his love.</p> + +<p>Once Helen saw that Maurice and Vera were speaking to each other. She +could not get near enough to hear what they said, but she saw him bend +down and speak to her earnestly, and there was a sad, wistful look in +Vera's upturned eyes as she answered him. Helen's heart beat with a wild, +mad jealousy as she watched them; and yet it was but a few words that had +passed between them.</p> + +<p>"Vera, young Wilde says you are going to marry him; is it true?"</p> + +<p>"He wants me to do so, but I don't think I can."</p> + +<p>"Why not? It would be happier for you, child; forget the past and begin +afresh. He is a good boy, and by-and-by he will be well off."</p> + +<p>"You, too—you advise me to do this?" she answered with unwonted +bitterness. "Oh, how wise and calculating one ought to be to live happily +in this miserable world!"</p> + +<p>He looked pained.</p> + +<p>"I cannot do you any good," he said, rather brokenly. "God knows I would +if I could. I can only be a curse to you. Give me at least the credit of +unselfishly wishing you to be less unhappy than you are."</p> + +<p>And then the crowd, moving onwards, parted them from each other.</p> + +<p>"Do not forget to meet me at the Bath," she called out to him as he went.</p> + +<p>"Oh, to be sure! I had forgotten. I will be there just before the dancing +begins."</p> + +<p>And then Denis Wilde took his place by her side.</p> + +<p>If Mrs. Kynaston surpassed herself in looks and animation that day, Vera, +on the contrary, had never looked less well.</p> + +<p>Her eyes were heavy with sleepless nights and many tears; her movements +were slower and more languid than of wont, and her face was pale and +thin.</p> + +<p>Meadowshire generally, that had ceased to trouble itself much about her +when she had thrown over the richest baronet in the county, considered +itself, nevertheless, to be somewhat aggrieved by the falling off in her +appearance, and passed its appropriate and ill-natured comments upon the +fact.</p> + +<p>"How ill she looks," said one woman to another.</p> + +<p>"Positively old. I suppose she thought she could whistle poor Sir John +back again whenever she chose; now he is out of the country she would +give her eyes for him!"</p> + +<p>"I daresay; and looks as if she had cried them out; but he must be glad +to have escaped her! Well, it serves her right for behaving so badly. I'm +sure I don't pity her."</p> + +<p>"Nor I, indeed."</p> + +<p>And the two amiable women passed onwards to discuss some other ill-fated +victim.</p> + +<p>But to the two men who loved her Vera that day was as beautiful as ever; +for love sees no flaw in the face that reigns supreme in the soul. And +Vera sat still in her corner of the tent where she had taken refuge, and +leant her tired, aching head against a gaudy pink-and-white striped +pillar. It was the tent where the flower-show was going on. From her +sheltered nook there was not much that was lovely to be seen, not a +vestige of a rose or a carnation to refresh her tired eyes, only a +counter covered with samples of potatoes and monster cauliflowers; +and there was a slab of white wood with pats of yellow butter, done up in +moss and ferns, which had been sent from the principal dairy-farms of the +county, and before which there was a constant succession of elderly and +interested housewives tasting and comparing notes. There seemed some +difficulty in deciding to whom the butter prize was to be awarded, and at +last a committee of ladies was formed; they all tasted, solemnly, of each +sample all round, and then they each gave their verdict differently, so +that it had all to be done over again amidst a good deal of laughter and +merriment.</p> + +<p>Vera was vaguely amused by this scene that went on just in front of her. +When the knotty point was settled, the committee moved on to decide upon +something else, and she was left again to the uninterrupted contemplation +of the Flukes and the York Regents.</p> + +<p>Denis Wilde had sat by her for some time, but at last she had begged him +to leave her. Her head ached, she said; if he would not mind going, and +he went.</p> + +<p>Presently, Beatrice, beaming with happiness, found her out in her corner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Vera!" she said, coming up to her, all radiant with smiles, "you are +the only one of my friends who has not yet wished me joy."</p> + +<p>"That is not because I have not thought of you, Beatrice, dear," she +answered, heartily grasping her friend's outstretched hands. "I was so +very glad to hear that everything has come right for you at last. How did +it all happen?"</p> + +<p>"I will come over to the vicarage to-morrow, and tell you the whole +story. Oh! do you remember meeting Herbert and me, that foggy morning, +outside Tripton station?"</p> + +<p>Would Vera ever forget it?</p> + +<p>"I little thought then how happily everything was to end for us. I used +to think we should have to elope! Poor Herbert, he was always frightened +out of his life when I said that. But we have had a very narrow escape +of being blighted beings to the end of our lives. If it hadn't been for +uncle Tom and that dear darling mare, Clochette, whom I should like +to keep in a gold and jewelled stall to the end of her ever-blessed +days!—--Ah, well! I've no time to tell you now—I will come over to +Sutton to-morrow, and I may bring him, may I not?"</p> + +<p>"Him," of course, meaning Mr. Herbert Pryme. Vera requested that he might +be brought by all means.</p> + +<p>"Well, I must run away now—there are at least a hundred of these stupid +people to whom I must go and make myself agreeable. By the way, Vera, how +dull you look, up in this corner by yourself. Why do you sit here all +alone?"</p> + +<p>"My head aches; I am glad to be quiet."</p> + +<p>"But you mean to dance by-and-by, I hope?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I daresay. Go back to your guests, Beatrice; I am getting on +very well."</p> + +<p>Beatrice went off smiling and waving her hand. Vera could watch her +outside in the sunshine, moving about from group to group, shaking hands +with first one and then another, laughing at some playful sally, or +smiling demurely over some graver words of kindness. She was always +popular, was Beatrice, with her bright talk and her plain clever face, +and there was not a man or woman in all that crowd who did not wish her +happiness.</p> + +<p>And so the day wore away, and the polo match—very badly played—was +over, and the votaries of lawn-tennis were worn out with running up and +down, and the flowers and the fruits in the show-tent began to look +limp and dusty. The farmers and those people of small importance who had +only been invited "from two to five," began now to take their departure, +and their carriage wheels were to be heard driving away in rapid +succession from the front door. Then the hundred or so of the "best +county people," who were remaining later for the dancing, began to think +of leaving the lawns before the dew fell. There was a general move +towards the house, and even the band "limbered up," and began to transfer +itself from the garden into the hall, where its labours were to begin +afresh.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Vera crept forth out of her sheltered corner, and, +unseen and unnoticed save by one watchful pair of eyes, wended her way +through the shrubbery walks in the direction of the Bath.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> + +<h3>SHADONAKE BATH.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A jolly place—in times of old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But something ails it now:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spot is cursed!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Wordsworth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>Calm and still, like the magic mirror of the legend, Shadonake Bath lay +amongst its everlasting shadows.</p> + +<p>The great belt of fir-trees beyond it, the sheltering evergreens on +the nearer side, the tiers of grey, moss-grown steps that encompassed +it about, all found their image again upon its smooth and untroubled +surface. There was a golden light from the setting sun to the west, +and the pale mist of a shadowy crescent moon had risen in the east.</p> + +<p>It was all quiet here—faint echoes of distant voices and far-away +laughter came up in little gusts from the house; but there was no trace +of the festivities down by the desolate water, nothing but the dark +fir-trees above it, and the great white heads of the water-lilies that +lay like jewels upon its silent bosom.</p> + +<p>Vera sat down upon the steps, and rested her chin in her hands, and +waited. The house and the gardens behind her were shut out by the thick +screen of laurels and rhododendrons. Before her, on the other side, were +the fir-trees, with their red, bronzed trunks, and the soft, dark brown +carpet that lay at their feet; there was not even a squirrel stirring +among their branches, nor a bird that fluttered beneath their shadows.</p> + +<p>Vera waited. She was not impatient nor anxious. She had nothing to say +to Maurice when he came—she did not mean to keep him, not even for five +minutes, by her side; she did not want to run any further risks with +him—it was better not—better that she should never again be alone with +him. She only meant just to give him that wretched little brown paper +parcel that weighed upon her conscience with the sense of an unfulfilled +vow, and then to go back with him to the house at once. They could have +nothing more to say to each other.</p> + +<p>Strangely enough, as she sat there musing all her life came back in +review before her. The old days at Rome, with the favourite sister who +was dead and gone; her own gay, careless life, with its worldly aims and +desires; her first arrival at Sutton, her determination to make herself +Sir John Kynaston's wife, and then her fatal love for his brother; it all +came back to her again. All kinds of little details that she had long +forgotten came flooding in upon her memory. She remembered how she had +first seen Maurice standing at the foot of the staircase, with the light +of the lamp upon his handsome head; and then, again, how one morning she +and he had stood together in this very place by the Bath, and how she had +told him, shuddering, that it would be dreadful to be drowned there, and +she had cried out in a nameless terror that she wished she had not seen +it for the first time with him by her side; and then Helen had come down +from the house and joined them, and they had all three gone away +together. She smiled a little to herself over that foolish, reasonless +terror. The quiet pool of water did not look dreadful to her now—only +cool, and still, and infinitely restful.</p> + +<p>By-and-by other thoughts came into her mind. She recalled her interview +with old Lady Kynaston at Walpole Lodge, when she had so nearly promised +her to give back her hand to her eldest son, when she would have done so +had it not been for that sight of Maurice's face in the adjoining room. +She wondered what Lady Kynaston had thought of her sudden change of mind; +what she had been able to make of it; whether she had ever guessed at +what had been the truth. It seemed only yesterday that the old lady had +told her to be wise and brave, and to begin her life over again, and to +make the best of the good things of this world that were still left to +her.</p> + +<p>"There is a pain that goes right through the heart," Maurice's mother had +said to her; "I who speak to you have felt it. I thought I should die of +it, but you see I did not."</p> + +<p>Alas! did not Vera know that pain all too well; that heartache that +banishes peace by day and sleep by night, and that will not wear itself +out?</p> + +<p>And yet other women had borne it, and had lived and been even happy in +other ways; but she could not be happy. Was it because her heart was +deeper, or because her sense of pain was greater than that of others?</p> + +<p>Vera could not tell. She only wished, and longed, and even prayed that +she might have the strength to become Denis Wilde's wife; that she might +taste once more of peace, if not of joy; and yet all her longings and all +her prayers only made her realize the more how utterly the thing was +beyond her power.</p> + +<p>To Maurice, and Maurice alone, belonged her life and her soul, and Vera +felt that it would be easier for her to be true to the sad, dim memory +of his love than to give her heart and her allegiance to any other upon +earth.</p> + +<p>So she sat and mused, and pondered, and the amber light in the east faded +away into palest saffron, and the solemn shadows deepened and lengthened +upon the still bosom of the water.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there came a sharp footstep and the rustle of a woman's silken +skirts across the stone flags behind her. She looked up quickly; Helen +stood beside her. Helen, in all the sheen of her gay Paris garments, +with the evening light upon her uncovered head, and the glow of a +passion, fiercer than madness, in her glittering eyes. Some prescience +of evil—she knew not of what—made Vera spring to her feet.</p> + +<p>Helen spoke to her shortly and defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill, you are waiting here for my husband, are you not?"</p> + +<p>A faint flush rose in Vera's face.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, very quietly. "I am waiting to speak a few words to +him."</p> + +<p>"You have something to give him, have you not? Some letters that are +mine, and which you have probably read."</p> + +<p>Helen said the words quickly and feverishly; her voice shook and +trembled. Vera looked surprised and even indignant.</p> + +<p>"I don't understand you, Mrs. Kynaston," she began, coldly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, you understand me perfectly. Give me my letters, Miss Nevill; +you have no doubt read them all," and she laughed harshly and sneeringly.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Kynaston, you are labouring under some delusion," said Vera, +quietly; "I have no letters of yours, and if I had," with a ring of utter +contempt, "I should not be likely to have opened them."</p> + +<p>For it did not occur to her that Helen was speaking of Monsieur +D'Arblet's parcel; that did not in the least convey the idea of letters +to her mind; nor had it ever entered into her head to speculate about +what that unhappy little packet could possibly contain; she had never +even thought about it.</p> + +<p>"I have no letters of yours," she repeated.</p> + +<p>"You are saying what is false," cried Helen, angrily. "How can you dare +to deny it? You know you have got them, you are here to give them to +Maurice, knowing that they will ruin me. You <i>shall</i> not give them to +him. I have come to take them from you—I <i>will</i> have them."</p> + +<p>"I do not even know what you are speaking about," answered Vera. "Why +should I want to ruin you, if, indeed, such a thing is to be done?"</p> + +<p>"Because you hate me as much as I hate you."</p> + +<p>"Hate is an ugly word," said Vera, rather scornfully. "I have no reason +to hate you, and I do not know why you should hate me."</p> + +<p>"Don't imagine you can put me off with empty words," cried Helen, wildly. +She made a step forward; her white hands clenched themselves together +with a reasonless fury; she was as white as the crescent moon that rose +beyond the trees.</p> + +<p>"Give me my letters—the letters you are waiting here to give to my +husband!" she cried.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Kynaston, do not be so angry," said Vera, becoming almost +bewildered by her violence; "you are really mistaken—pray calm yourself. +I have no letters: what I was going to give your husband was only a +little parcel from a man who is abroad—he is a foreigner. I do not think +it is of the slightest importance to anybody. I have not opened it, I +have no idea what it contains, and your husband himself said it was +nothing—only I have promised to give it him alone; it was a whim of the +little Frenchman who entrusted me with it, and whom, I must honestly tell +you, I believe to have been half-mad. Only, unfortunately, I have +promised to deliver it in this manner."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died +away.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you."</p> + +<p>"That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered me +until I foolishly undertook his commission. I am sorry now that I did so, +as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters in +the parcel, and I certainly have not opened it."</p> + +<p>Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you," she said; "they are my letters, sure enough, and +you have read them. What woman would not do so in your place? and you +know that they will ruin me with my husband."</p> + +<p>"It is you yourself that tell me so!" cried Vera, impatiently, beginning +to lose her temper. "I do not even know what you are talking about!"</p> + +<p>"Miss Nevill!" cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; "give that parcel +to me, I entreat you."</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, you can—you will," said Helen, imploringly. "What can it matter +to you now? It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of a +mere empty revenge. Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart? +I know well enough that he loves you, but——"</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words to +me!" cried Vera, deeply distressed.</p> + +<p>"Why should I not say them! You and I know well enough that it is true. +I hate you, I am jealous of you, for I know that my husband loves you; +and yet, if you will only give me that parcel, I will forgive you—I +will try to live at peace with you—I will even pray and strive for your +happiness! Let me have a chance of making him love me!"</p> + +<p>"For God's sake, Mrs. Kynaston, do not say these things to me!" cried +Vera. She was crimson with pain and shame, and shocked beyond measure +that his wife should be so lost to all decency and self-respect as to +speak so openly of her husband's love for herself.</p> + +<p>"I will not and cannot listen to you!"</p> + +<p>"But you will not be so cruel as to ruin me?" pleaded Helen; "only give +me that parcel, and I shall be safe! You say you have not opened it; +well, I can hardly believe it, because in your place I should have read +every word; yet, if you will give them to me, I will forgive you."</p> + +<p>"You do not understand what you are saying!" cried Vera, impatiently. +"How can I give you what is not mine to give? I have no right to dispose +of this parcel"—she held it in her hand—"and I have given my word that +I will give it to your husband alone. How could I be so false as to do +anything else with it? You are asking impossibilities, Mrs. Kynaston."</p> + +<p>"You will not give it to me?" There was a sudden change in Helen's +voice—she pleaded no longer.</p> + +<p>"No, certainly not."</p> + +<p>"And that is your last word?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>There was a silence. Helen looked away over the water towards the +fir-trees. She was pale, but very quiet; all her angry agitation seemed +to have died away. Vera stood a little beneath her on the lowest step, +close down to the water; she held the little parcel that was the object +of the dispute in her hands, and was looking at it with an expression of +deep annoyance; she was wishing heartily that she had never seen either +it or the wretched little Frenchman who had insisted upon confiding it to +her care.</p> + +<p>Neither of them spoke; for an instant neither of them even moved. There +was a striking contrast between them: Helen, slight and fragile in her +bird-of-paradise garments, with jewels about her neck, and golden chains +at her wrist; her pretty piquant face, almost childish in the contour of +the small, delicate features. Vera, in her plain, tight-fitting dress, +whose only beauty lay in the perfect simplicity with which it followed +the lines of her glorious figure; her pure, lovely face, laden with its +burden of deep sadness, a little turned away from the other woman who had +taken everything from her, and left her life so desolate. And there was +the silent pool at their feet, and the darkening belt of fir-trees +beyond, and the pale moon ever brightening in the shadowy heavens. It was +a picture such as a painter might have dreamt of.</p> + +<p>Not a sound—only once the faint cry of some wild animal in the far-off +woods, and the flutter of a night-moth on the wing. Helen's face was +turned eastwards towards the fast-fading evening glow.</p> + +<p>What is it that sends the curse of Cain into the human heart?</p> + +<p>Did some foul and evil thing, wandering homeless around that fatal spot, +enter then and there, unbidden, into her sin-stained soul? Or had the +hellish spirit been always there within her, only biding its time to +burst forth in all its naked and hideous horror?</p> + +<p>God only knows.</p> + +<p>"Vera, gather me a water-lily! See how lovely they are. I am going back +to dance; I want a water-lily."</p> + +<p>Vera looked up startled. The sudden change of manner and the familiar +mention of her name struck her as strange. Helen was leaning towards her, +all flushed and eager, pointing with her glistening, jewelled fingers +over the water.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see how white they are, and how they gleam in the moonlight +like silver? Would not one of them look lovely in my hair?"</p> + +<p>"I do not think I can reach them," said Vera, slowly. She was puzzled and +half-frightened by the quick, feverish words and manner.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, your arms are long—much longer than mine; you can reach them +very well. See, I will hold the sleeve of your dress like this; it is +very strong. I can hold you quite safely. Kneel down and reach out for +it, Vera. Do, please, I want it so much. There is one so close there, +just beyond your hand. Stoop over a little further; don't be afraid; +I have got you tightly."</p> + +<p>And Vera knelt and stretched out over the dark face of the waters.</p> + +<p>Then, all at once, there was a cry—a wild struggle—a splash of the +dark, seething waves—and Helen stood up again in her bright raiment +alone on the margin of the pool; whilst ever-widening circles stretched +hurriedly away and away, as though terror-stricken, from the baleful +spot where Vera Nevill had sunk below the ill-fated waters.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Someone came madly rushing out of the bushes behind her. Helen screamed +aloud.</p> + +<p>"It was an accident! She slipped forward—her footing gave way!" gasped +the unhappy woman in her terror. "Oh, Maurice, for pity's sake, believe +me; it was an accident!" She sunk upon her knees, with wildly +outstretched arms, and trembling, and uplifted hands.</p> + +<p>"Stand aside," he said, hoarsely, pushing her roughly from him, so that +she almost fell to the earth, and he plunged deep into the still +quivering waters.</p> + +<p>It was the water-lilies that brought her to her death. The long clinging +stems amongst which she sank held her fair body in their cold, clammy +embraces, so that she never rose again. It was long before they found +her.</p> + +<p>And, oh! who shall ever describe that dreadful scene by the margin of +Shadonake Bath, whilst the terrified crowd that had gathered there +quickly waited for her whom all knew to be hopelessly gone from them for +ever!</p> + +<p>The sobbing, frightened women; the white, stricken faces of the men; the +agony of those who had loved her; the distress and dismay of those who +had only admired her; and there was one trembling, shuddering wretch, in +her satin and her jewels, standing white and haggard apart, with knees +that shook together, and teeth that clattered, and tearless sobs that +shook her from head to foot, staring with a half-maddened stare upon the +fatal waters.</p> + +<p>Then, when all was at an end and the worst was known, when the poor +dripping body had been reverently covered over and borne away by loving +arms amid a torrent of sobs and wailing tears towards the house, then +some one came near her and spoke to her—some one off whom the water came +pouring in streams, and whose face was white and wild as her own.</p> + +<p>"Get you away out of my sight," said the man whom she had loved so +fruitlessly to her.</p> + +<p>"Have pity! have pity!" was the cry of despair that burst from her +quivering lips. "Was it not all an accident?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, let it be so to the world, because you bear my name, and I will not +have it dragged through the mire—to all others it is an accident—but +never to me, for <i>I saw you let her go</i>! There is the stain of murder +upon your hands. I will never call you wife, nor look upon your face +again; get yourself away out of my sight!"</p> + +<p>With a low sobbing cry she turned and fled away from him, and away from +the place, out among the shadows of the fir-trees. Once again some one +stopped her in her terror-stricken flight.</p> + +<p>It was Denis Wilde, who came striding towards her under the trees, and +caught her roughly by the wrist.</p> + +<p>"It is <i>you</i> who have killed her!" he said, savagely.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" she murmured, faintly.</p> + +<p>"I saw it in your face last night when you were wandering about the house +during the thunderstorm; you meant her death then. I saw it in your eyes. +My God! why did I not watch over her better, and save her from such a +devil as you?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, it is not true; it was an accident. Oh, spare me, spare me!" +with a piteousness of terror, was all she could say.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I will spare you, poor wretch, for your husband's sake—because she +loved him—and his burden, God help him! is heavy enough as it is. Go!" +flinging her arm rudely from him. "Go, whilst you have got time, lest the +thirst for your blood be too strong for me."</p> + +<p>And this time no one saw her go. Like a hunted animal, she fled away +among the trees, her gleaming many-hued dress trailing all wet and +drabbled on the sodden earth behind her, and the darkness of the +gathering night closed in around her, and covered her in mercy with +its pitiful mantle.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> + +<h3>AT PEACE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Open, dark grave, and take her:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though we have loved her so,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet we must now forsake her:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love will no more awake her:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Oh bitter woe!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Open thine arms and take her<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To rest below!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A. Procter.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>So Vera was at peace at last. The troubled life was over; the vexed +question of her fate was settled for her. There was to be no more +struggling of right against wrong, of expediency against truth, for her +for evermore. She had all—nay, more than all she wanted now.</p> + +<p>"It was what she desired herself," said the vicar, brokenly, as he knelt +by the side of her who had been so dear and precious to him. "Only a +Sunday or two ago she said to me 'If I could die, I should be at peace.'"</p> + +<p>And Maurice, with hidden face at the foot of the bed, could not answer +him for tears.</p> + +<p>It was there, by that white still presence, that lay so calm and so +lovely amongst the showers of heavy-scented waxen flowers, wherewith +loving hands had decked her for her last long sleep; it was there that +Eustace learnt at last the secret of her life, and the fatal love that +had so wrecked her happiness. It was all clear to him now. Her struggles, +her temptations, her pitiful moments of weakness and misery, her +courageous strife against the hopelessness of her fate—all was made +plain now: he understood her at last.</p> + +<p>In Maurice Kynaston's passion of despairing grief he read the story of +her sad life's trouble.</p> + +<p>Truly, Maurice had enough to bear; for he alone, and one other, who spoke +no word of it to him, knew the terrible secret of her death; to all else +it was "an accident;" to him and to Denis Wilde alone it was "murder." To +him, too, the motive of the foul, cowardly deed had been revealed; for, +tightly clasped in that poor dead hand, true to the last to the trust +that had been given her, was the fatal packet of letters that had been +the cause of her death. They were all blotted and blurred, and sodden +with the water, but there were whole sentences in the inner folds that +were sufficient for him to recognize his wife's handwriting, and to see +what was the drift and the meaning of them.</p> + +<p>Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew nor +cared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written by +her, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep and +sickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered the +blackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost a +human life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would not +have died.</p> + +<p>The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath the +coloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at her +desire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, and +people shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonake +was shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world went +its way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew her +no more.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small and +not at all gay. Indeed, Geraldine Miller considered her sister next door +to a lunatic, and she told herself it would be hardly worth while to be +married at all if there was to be no more fuss made over her marriage +than over Beatrice's. For there were no bridesmaids and no wedding +guests, only all the Millers, from the eldest down to the youngest, uncle +Tom, and an ancient Miss Esterworth, unearthed from the other end of +England for the occasion; and there were also a Mr. and Mrs. Pryme, +a grave and aged couple—uncle and aunt to the bridegroom.</p> + +<p>There was, however, one remarkable feature at this particular wedding: +when the family party came down into the dining-room to take their places +for the conventional breakfast upon the plate of the bride's father were +to be seen some very curious things.</p> + +<p>These were a faded white lace parasol with pink bows; a pair of soiled +grey <i>peau de suède</i> gloves, and a little black wisp of a spotted net +veil.</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul!" said the member for Meadowshire, putting up his +eye-glasses; "what on earth is all this?"</p> + +<p>"I think you have seen them before, papa," says the bride, demurely, +whilst uncle Tom bursts into a loud and hearty guffaw of laughter.</p> + +<p>"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and looking +bewilderedly from his daughter to his wife: "I don't really understand. +Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these—these—most +extraordinary objects?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finery +critically. "Why, Beatrice!" she exclaims, in astonishment, "it is your +last summer's sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves: how on earth did +they come here on your papa's plate?"</p> + +<p>"I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again," cries +Beatrice, laughing; "he met them in Herbert's rooms in the Temple one day +last summer."</p> + +<p>"<i>Beatrice!</i>" falters her father, staring in amazement at her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, papa, dear, don't be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, your +very naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in the +Temple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you come +in, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table! I don't think, +now I am Herbert's wife, that it matters very much how much I confess of +my improprieties, does it?"</p> + +<p>"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round and +shakes hands with his son-in-law. "And I might have retained you for that +libel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it for +me!" was all he said. And then the sunshade and the gloves were swept +away, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank to +the bride and bridegroom's health none the less heartily for that curious +little explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says, +they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although no +one thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of his +adoption and return to England.</p> + +<p>Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting very +aged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadness +at her heart.</p> + +<p>Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera, +and the whole truth about her death. The old lady knows that Vera and her +fatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons. There will be no +tender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merry +grandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years. They will live +away from her, and she will die alone. She knows it—and she is very, +very sad.</p> + +<p>In South Kensington there lives a gay, world-loving woman who keeps open +house, and entertains perpetually. She has horses and carriages, and a +box at the opera, and is always to be seen faultlessly dressed and the +gayest of the gay at every race meeting, and at every scene of pleasure.</p> + +<p>People admire her and flatter her, and speak lightly of her too, +sometimes, for it is generally known that Mrs. Kynaston is "separated" +from her husband; and though a separation is a perfectly respectable +thing, and has no possible connection with a divorce, yet there are ugly +whispers in this case as to what is the cause of the dissension between +the husband in Australia and the wife in London; whispers that often +do not fall very far short of the truth. And, gay as she is, and +light-hearted as she seems to be, there are times when pretty Mrs. +Kynaston is more to be pitied than any wretched beggar who toils along +the streets, for always there is the terror of detection at her heart, +and the fear that her dreadful secret, known as it is to at least two +persons on earth, may ooze out—be guessed by others.</p> + +<p>There are things Mrs. Kynaston can never do: to read of some dreadful +murder such as occasionally fills all the papers for days with its +sickening details makes her shut herself in her own room till the +horrible tragedy is over and forgotten; to hear of such things spoken +of in society causes her to faint away with terror. To walk by a pond, +or even to speak of being rowed upon a lake or river, fills her with +such horror of soul that none of her friends ever care to suggest a +water-party of any kind to her.</p> + +<p>"She saw that poor Miss Nevill drowned," say her compassionate +acquaintances; "it has upset her nerves, poor dear; she cannot bear the +sight of water." And there are a few who think, and who are not ashamed +to whisper their thoughts with bated breath, that she saw Miss Nevill's +sad death too near and too well to be utterly spotless in the matter.</p> + +<p>That she allowed her to perish without attempting to save her, because +she was jealous of her, is the generally received impression; but there +is no one who has quite realized that she was actually guilty of her +death.</p> + +<p>Did they think so, they could not eat her dinners with decency. And they +do eat her dinners, which are uncommonly good ones; and they flock to her +house, and they sit in her carriage and her opera-box, and they take all +they can get from her, although at their hearts they do not care to be +intimate with her. But then money covers a multitude of sins. And a great +many crimes may be glossed over if we are only rich enough and popular +enough, and sufficiently the fashion.</p> + +<p>As to Denis Wilde, he was young, and in time he got over it and married +an amiable young lady who bore him three children and loved him +devotedly, so that after a while he forgot his first love.</p> + +<p>Shadonake Bath has been drained. Mr. Miller has at last been allowed to +have his own way about it. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, +and there could be found no voice to plead for its preservation after +that terrible tragedy of which it was the scene.</p> + +<p>So the old steps have all been cleared away, and brick walls line the +straight deep sides, whereon grow the finest peaches and nectarines in +the county, whilst a parterre of British Queens and Hautboys cover the +spot where Vera died with their rich red fruit and their luxuriant +foliage.</p> + +<p>And at Sutton things go on much the same as of old. Old Mrs. Daintree is +dead, and no one sorrowed much for her loss, whilst the domestic harmony +is decidedly enhanced by her absence. Tommy and Minnie are growing big +and lanky, and the subject of schools and education is beginning to +occupy the minds of Marion and her husband.</p> + +<p>But the vicar has grown grey and old; his back is more bent and his face +more careworn than it used to be. He has never been quite the same since +Vera's death.</p> + +<p>There is a white marble monument in the middle of the chancel, raised by +the loving hands of two brothers far away in Australia. It is by the best +sculptor of the day, and on it lies a pale white figure, with a pure +delicate profile, and hands always meekly crossed upon the bosom.</p> + +<p>Every Sunday, as Eustace Daintree passes from his place at the +reading-desk up to the altar to read the Communion Service, there falls +upon it a streak of sunshine from the painted window above, which he +himself and his wife had put up to her memory, lighting up the pale +marble image with a chequered glory of gold and crimson. And the vicar's +eye as he passes alights for a moment with a never-dying sadness upon the +simple words carved at the foot of her tomb—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Vera Nevill, aged</span> 23.</p> + +<p>AT PEACE.</p></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h3>MRS. CAMERON'S NOVELS.</h3> + +<p>Jack's Secret.</p> + +<p>A Sister's Sin.</p> + +<p>A Lost Wife.</p> + +<p>The Cost of a Lie.</p> + +<p>This Wicked World.</p> + +<p>A Devout Lover.</p> + +<p>A Life's Mistake.</p> + +<p>Worth Winning.</p> + +<p>Vera Neville.</p> + +<p>Pure Gold.</p> + +<p>In a Grass Country.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Mrs. Cameron's numerous efforts in the line of fiction have +won for her a wide circle of admirers. Her experience in novel +writing, as well as her skill in inventing and delineating characters, +enables her to put before the reading public stories that +are full of interest and pure in tone."—<i>Harrisburg Telegraph</i>.</p></div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera Nevill, by Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA NEVILL *** + +***** This file should be named 18385-h.htm or 18385-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/3/8/18385/ + +Produced by Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Vera Nevill + Poor Wisdom's Chance + +Author: Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron + +Release Date: May 14, 2006 [EBook #18385] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERA NEVILL *** + + + + +Produced by Mary Meehan and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + VERA NEVILL; + + OR, POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. + + _A NOVEL_. + + BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON + + Author of "Pure Gold," "In a Grass Country," etc., etc. + + + PHILADELPHIA: + J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. + 1893. + + + + + "No. Vain, alas! th' endeavour + From bonds so sweet to sever. + Poor Wisdom's Chance + Against a glance + Is now as weak as ever." + + _Moore's Melodies_. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAPTER I. The Vicar's Family + + CHAPTER II. Kynaston Hall + + CHAPTER III. Fanning Dead Ashes + + CHAPTER IV. The Lay Rector + + CHAPTER V. "Little Pitchers" + + CHAPTER VI. A Soiree at Walpole Lodge + + CHAPTER VII. Evening Reveries + + CHAPTER VIII. The Member for Meadowshire + + CHAPTER IX. Engaged + + CHAPTER X. A Meeting on the Stairs + + CHAPTER XI. An Idle Morning + + CHAPTER XII. The Meet at Shadonake + + CHAPTER XIII. Peacock's Feathers + + CHAPTER XIV. Her Wedding Dress + + CHAPTER XV. Vera's Message + + CHAPTER XVI. "Poor Wisdom" + + CHAPTER XVII. An Unlucky Love-Letter + + CHAPTER XVIII. Lady Kynaston's Plans + + CHAPTER XIX. What She Waited For + + CHAPTER XX. A Morning Walk + + CHAPTER XXI. Maurice's Intercession + + CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Pryme's Visitors + + CHAPTER XXIII. A White Sunshade + + CHAPTER XXIV. Her Son's Secret + + CHAPTER XXV. St. Paul's, Knightsbridge + + CHAPTER XXVI. The Russia-Leather Case + + CHAPTER XXVII. Dinner at Ranelagh + + CHAPTER XXVIII. Mrs. Hazeldine's "Long Eliza" + + CHAPTER XXIX. A Wedding Tour + + CHAPTER XXX. "If I could Die!" + + CHAPTER XXXI. An Eventful Drive + + CHAPTER XXXII. By the Vicarage Gate + + CHAPTER XXXIII. Denis Wilde's Love + + CHAPTER XXXIV. A Garden Party + + CHAPTER XXXV. Shadonake Bath + + CHAPTER XXXVI. At Peace + + + + +VERA NEVILL + +OR + +POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE VICAR'S FAMILY. + + With that regal indolent air she had + So confident of her charm. + + Owen Meredith. + + Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. + + Shakespeare. + + +Amongst the divers domestic complications into which short-sighted man is +prone to fall there is none which has been more conclusively proved to be +an utter and egregious failure than that family arrangement which, for +lack of a better name, I will call a "composite household." + +No one could have spoken upon this subject with greater warmth of +feeling, nor out of the depths of a more painful experience, than +could the Rev. Eustace Daintree, sometime vicar of the parish of +Sutton-in-the-Wold. + +Mr. Daintree's family circle consisted of himself, his mother, his wife, +and his wife's sister, and I should like to know how a man could expect +to lead a life of peace and tranquillity with such a combination of +inharmonious feminine elements! + +There were two children also, who were a fruitful source of discord and +disunion. It is certain that, had he chosen to do so, the Rev. Eustace +might have made many heart-rending and harrowing revelations concerning +the private life and customs of the inhabitants of his vicarage. It is +equally certain, however, that he would not have chosen to do so, for he +was emphatically a man of peace and gentleness, kind hearted and given +to good works; and was, moreover, sincerely anxious to do his duty +impartially to those whom Providence or fate, or a combination of chances +and changes, had somehow contrived to bring together under his roof. + +Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of their +married life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home to +themselves, and right well had they enjoyed it. A fairly good living +backed up by independent means, a small rural parish, a pleasant +neighbourhood, a pretty and comfortable vicarage-house--what more can the +hearts of a clergyman of the Church of England and his wife desire? Mr. +and Mrs. Daintree, at all events, had wished for nothing better. But this +blissful state of things was not destined to last; it was, perhaps, +hardly to be expected that it should, seeing that man is born to trouble, +and that happiness is known to be as fleeting as time or beauty or any +other good thing. + +When Eustace Daintree had been married five years, his father died, +and his mother, accepting his warmly tendered invitation to come to +Sutton-in-the-Wold upon a long visit, took up her abode in the pleasant +vicarage-house. + +Her visit was long indeed. In a weak moment her son consented to her +urgent request to be allowed to subscribe her quota to the household +expenses--this was as good as giving her a ninety-nine years' lease of +her quarters. The thin end of the wedge thus inserted, Mrs. Daintree +_mere_ became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, and +the doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing short +of death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongst +them. For the future her son's house became her home. + +But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was a +soft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman. It cannot be said that she +regarded the permanent instalment of her mother-in-law in her home with +pleasurable feelings; she would have been more than human had she done +so. But then she was unfeignedly fond of her husband, and desired so +earnestly to make his home happy that, not seeing her way to oust the +intruder without a warfare which would have distressed him, she +determined to make the best of the situation, and to preserve the +family peace and concord at all risks. + +She succeeded in her praiseworthy efforts, but at what cost no one but +herself ever knew. Marion's whole life became one propitiatory sacrifice +to her mother-in-law. To propitiate Mrs. Daintree was a very simple +matter. Bearing in mind that her leading characteristics were a bad +temper and an ungovernable desire to ride rough-shod over the feelings of +all those who came into contact with her, in order to secure her favour +it was only necessary to study her moods, and to allow her to tread you +under foot as much as her soul desired. Provided that she had her own way +in these little matters, Mrs. Daintree became an amiable old lady. Marion +did all that was needful; figuratively speaking, she laid down in the +dust before her, and the Juggernaut of her fate consented to be appeased +by the lowly attitude, and crushed its way triumphantly over her fallen +body. + +Thus Marion accepted her fate, and peace was preserved in her husband's +house. But by-and-by there came somebody into the family who would by no +manner of means consent to be so crushed and trodden under foot. This +somebody was Vera Nevill. + +In order duly to set forth who and what was this young woman, who thus +audaciously set at defiance the powers that were, it will be necessary +that I should take a brief survey of Marion's family history. + +Marion, then, be it known, was the eldest of three sisters; so much the +eldest, that when Mr. Daintree had met her and married her in Rome during +one of his brief holidays, the two remaining sisters had been at the time +hardly more than children. Colonel Nevill, their father, had married an +Italian lady, long since dead, and had lived a nomad life ever since he +had become a widower; moving about chiefly between Nice, Rome, and Malta. +Wherever pleasant society was to be found, there would Colonel Nevill and +his daughters instinctively drift, and year after year they became more +and more enamoured of their foreign life, and less and less disposed to +venture back to the chill fogs and cloudy skies of their native land. + +Three years after Marion had left them, and gone away with her husband to +his English vicarage; Theodora, the second daughter, had at eighteen +married an Italian prince, whose lineage was ancient, but whose acres +were few; and Colonel Nevill, dying rather suddenly almost immediately +after, Vera, the youngest daughter, as was most natural, instantly found +a home with Princess Marinari. + +All this time Marion lived at Sutton-in-the-Wold, and saw none of them. +She wept copiously at the news of her father's death, regretting bitterly +her inability to receive his parting blessing; but, her little Minnie +being born shortly after, her thoughts were fortunately diverted into a +happier channel, and she suffered from her loss less keenly and recovered +from it more quickly than had she had no separate life and no separate +interests of her own to engross her. Still, being essentially +affectionate and faithful, she clung to the memory of the two sisters now +separated so entirely from her. For some years she and Theodora kept up a +brisk correspondence. Marion's letters were full of the sayings and +doings of Tommy and Minnie, and Theodora's were full of nothing but Vera. + +What Vera had looked like at her first ball, how Prince this and Marquis +so-and-so had admired her; how she had been smothered with bouquets and +bonbons at Carnival time; how she had sat to some world-famed artist, who +had entreated to be allowed to put her face into his great picture, and +how the house was literally besieged with her lovers. By all this, and +much more in the same strain, Marion perceived that her young sister, +whom she had last seen in all the raw unformed awkwardness of early +girlhood, had developed somehow into a beautiful woman. + +And there came photographs of Vera occasionally, fully confirming the +glowing accounts Princess Marinari gave of her; fantastic photographs, +portraying her in strange and different ways. There was Vera looking out +through clouds of her own dark hair hanging loosely about her face; Vera +as a Bacchante crowned with vine leaves, laughing saucily; Vera draped as +a _devote_, with drooping eyes and hands crossed meekly upon her bosom. +Sometimes she would be in a ball-dress, with lace about her white +shoulders; sometimes muffled up in winter sables, her head covered with +a fur cap. But always she was beautiful, always a young queen, even in +these poor, fading photographs, that could give but a faint idea of her +loveliness to those who knew her not. + +"She must be very handsome," Eustace Daintree would say heartily, as his +wife, with a little natural flush of pride, handed some picture of her +young sister across the breakfast-table to him. "How I wish we could see +her, she must be worth looking at, indeed. Mother, have you seen this +last one of Vera?" + +"Beauty is a snare," the old lady would answer viciously, hardly deigning +to glance at the lovely face; "and your sister seems to me, Marion, to be +dressed up like an actress, most unlike my idea of a modest English +girl." + +Then Marion would take her treasure away with her up into her own room, +out of the way of her mother-in-law's stern and repelling remarks. + +But one day there came sad news to the vicarage at Sutton. Theodora, +Princess Marinari, caught the Roman fever in its worst form, and after +a few agonizing letters and telegrams, that came so rapidly one upon the +other that she had hardly time to realize the dreadful truth, Marion +learnt that her sister was dead. + +After that, the elder sister's English home became naturally the right +and fitting place for Vera to come to. So she left her gay life and her +lovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worth +living for, and came back to her father's country and took up her abode +in Eustace Daintree's quiet vicarage, where she became shortly her +sister's idol and her sister's mother-in-law's mortal foe. + +And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to put +three grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to live +together in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as to +shut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expect +them to behave like so many lambs. + +It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in her +brother-in-law's house. Let me waste no further time, but introduce her +to you at once. + +The time of the year is October--the time of day is five o'clock. In the +vicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, and +the fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windows +leading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps into +the room. + +There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across the +garden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, against +which the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, stand +out clearly and distinctly. Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but of +a goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form. She is +tall--very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a young +queen conscious of her own power. + +She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, and +pauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is white +and well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to the +warmth. + +The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face--her face, with +its pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamy +eyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague and +indistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves. Her hair, a soft +dusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered up +at the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that would +not suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the stately +young head it adorns. + +"Tea, Vera?" says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers. + +Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light. +There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind the +piano; it is Tommy in disgrace. Vera turns round; Marion's kind face +looks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmly +and savagely. + +Vera takes the cup from her sister's hands, and putting it down again on +the table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spread +it thickly with strawberry jam. + +"Come here, Tommy, and have some of Auntie's bread and jam." + +Out comes a small person, with a very swollen face and a very dirty +pinafore, from the distant seclusion of the corner, and flies swiftly +to Vera's sheltering arm. + +Mrs. Daintree drops her work angrily into her lap. + +"Vera, I must beg of you not to interfere with Tom; are you aware that he +is in the corner by my orders?" + +"Perfectly, Mrs. Daintree; and also that he was there before I went out, +exactly three-quarters of an hour ago; there are limits to all human +endurance." + +"I consider it extremely impertinent," begins the old lady, nodding her +head violently. + +"Darling Vera," pleads Marion, almost in tears; "perhaps you had better +let him go back." + +"Tommy is quite good now," says Vera, calmly passing her hand over the +rough blonde head. Master Tommy's mouth is full of bread and jam, and he +looks supremely indifferent to the warfare that is being carried on on +his account over his head. + +His crime having been the surreptitious purloining of his grandmamma's +darning cotton, and the subsequent immersion of the same in the inkstand, +Vera feels quite a warm glow of approval towards the little culprit and +his judiciously-planned piece of mischief. + +"Vera, I _insist_ upon that child being sent back into the corner!" +exclaims Mrs. Daintree, angrily, bringing her large fist heavily down +upon her knee. + +"The child has been over-punished already," she answers, calmly, still +administering the soothing solace of strawberry jam. + +"Oh, Vera, _pray_ keep the peace!" cries Marion, with clasped hands. + +"Here, I am thankful to say, comes my son;" as a shadow passes the +window, and Eustace's tall figure with the meekly stooping head comes +in at the door. "Eustace, I beg that you will decide who is to be in +authority in this house--your mother or this young lady. It is +insufferable that every time I send the children into the corner Vera +should call them out and give them cakes and jam." + +Eustace Daintree looks helplessly from one to the other. + +"My dear mother--my dear girls--what is it all about? I am sure Vera does +not mean----" + +"No, Vera only means to be kind, grandmamma," cries Marion, nervously; +"she is so fond of the children----" + +"Hold your tongue, Marion, and don't take your sister's part so +shamelessly!" + +Meanwhile Vera rises silently and pushes Tommy and all his enormities +gently by the shoulders out of the room. Then she turns round and faces +her foe. + +"Judge between us, Eustace!" the old lady is crying; "am I to be defied +and set at nought? are we all to bow down and worship Miss Vera, the most +useless, lazy person in the house, who turns up her nose at honest men +and prefers to live on charity, a burden to her relations?" + +"Vera is no burden, only a great pleasure to me, my dear mother," said +the clergyman, holding out his hand to the girl. + +"Oh, grandmamma, how unkind you are," says Marion, bursting into tears. +But Vera only laughs lazily and amusedly, she is so used to it all! It +does not disturb her. + +"Is she to be mistress here, I ask, or am I?" continues Mrs. Daintree, +furiously. + +"Marion is the mistress here," says Vera, boldly; "neither you nor I have +any authority in her house or over her children." And then the old lady +gathers up her work and sails majestically from the room, followed by her +weak, trembling daughter-in-law, bent on reconciliation, on cajolement, +on laying herself down for her own sins, and her sister's as well, before +the avenging genius of her life. + +The clergyman stands by the hearth with his head bent and his hands +behind him. He sighs wearily. + +Vera creeps up to him and lays her hand softly upon his coat sleeve. + +"I am a firebrand, am I not, Eustace?" + +"My dear, no, not that; but if you could try a little to keep the peace!" +He stayed the caressing hand within his own and looked at her tenderly. +His face is a good one, but not a handsome one; and, as he looks at his +wife's young sister, it is softened into its best and kindest. Who can +resist Vera, when she looks gentle and humble, with that rare light in +her dark eyes? + +"Vera, why don't you look like that at Mr. Gisburne?" he says, smiling. + +"Oh, Eustace! am I indeed a burden to you, as your mother says?" she +exclaims, evasively. + +"No, no, my dear, but it seems hard for you here; a home of your own +might be happier for you; and Gisburne is a good man." + +"I don't like good men who are poor!" says Vera, with a little grimace. + +Her brother-in-law looks shocked. "Why do you say such hard worldly +things, Vera? You do not really mean them." + +"Don't I? Eustace, look at me: do I look like a poor clergyman's wife? Do +survey me dispassionately." She holds herself at arm's length from him, +and looks comically up and down the length of her gray skirts. "Think of +the yards and yards of stuff it takes to clothe me; and should not a +woman as tall as I am be always in velvet and point lace, Eustace? What +is the good of condemning myself to workhouse sheeting for the rest of my +days?" + +Mr. Daintree looks at her admiringly; he has learnt to love her; this +beautiful southern flower that has come to blossom in his home. Women +will be hard enough on Vera through her life--men, never. + +"You have great gifts and great temptations, my child," he says, +solemnly. "I pray that I may be enabled to do my duty to you. Do not say +you do not like good men, Vera, it pains me to hear you say it." + +"I like _one_ good man, and his name is Eustace Daintree!" she answers, +softly; "is not that a hopeful sign?" + +"You are a little flatterer, Vera," he says, kissing her; but, though he +is a middle-aged clergyman and her brother-in-law, he is by no means +impervious to the flattery. + +Meanwhile, upstairs, Marion is humbling herself into the dust, at the +footstool of her tyrant. Mrs. Daintree is very angry with Marion's +sister, and Mr. Gisburne is also the text whereon she hangs her sermon. + +"I wish her no harm, Marion; why should I? She is most impertinent to me, +but of that I will not speak." + +"Indeed, grandmamma, you do not understand Vera. I am sure she----" + +"Oh, yes, excuse me, my dear, I understand her perfectly--the +impertinence to myself I waive--I hope I am a Christian, but I cannot +forgive her for turning up her nose at Mr. Gisburne--a most excellent +young man; what can a girl want more?" + +"Dear Mrs. Daintree, does Vera look like a poor clergyman's wife?" said +Marion, using unconsciously Vera's own arguments. + +"Now, Marion, I have no patience with such folly! Whom do you suppose she +is to wait for? We haven't got any Princes down at Sutton to marry her; +and I say it's a shame that she should go on living on her friends, a +girl without a penny! when she might marry a respectable man, and have +a home of her own." + +And then even Marion said that, if Vera could be brought to like Mr. +Gisburne, it might possibly be happier for her to marry him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +KYNASTON HALL. + + Only the wind here hovers and revels + In a round where life seems barren as death. + Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, + Haply of lovers none ever will know. + + Swinburne, "A Forsaken Garden." + + +It seemed to be generally acknowledged by the Daintree family that if +Vera would only consent to yield to the solicitations of the Reverend +Albert Gisburne, and transfer herself to Tripton Rectory for life, it +would be the simplest and easiest solution of a good many difficult +problems concerning her. + +In point of fact, Vera Nevill was an incongruous element in the Daintree +household. In that quiet humdrum country clergyman's life she was as much +out of her proper place as a bird of paradise in a chicken yard, or a +Gloire de Dijon rose in a field of turnips. + +It was not her beauty alone, but her whole previous life which unfitted +her for the things amongst which she found herself suddenly transplanted. +She was no young unformed child, but a woman of the world, who had been +courted and flattered and sought after; who had learnt to hold her own, +and to fight her battles single-handed, and who knew far more about +the dangers and difficulties of life than did the simple-hearted +brother-in-law, under whose charge she now found herself, or the timid, +gentle sister who was so many years her senior. + +But if she was cognizant of the world and its ways, Vera knew absolutely +nothing about the life of an English vicarage. Sunday schools and +mothers' meetings were enigmas to her; clothing clubs and friendly +societies, hopeless and uninteresting mysteries which she had no desire +to solve. She had no place in the daily routine. What was she to do +amongst it all? + +Vera did what was most pleasant and also most natural to her--she did +nothing. She was by habit and by culture essentially indolent. The +southern blood she inherited, the life of the Italian fine lady she had +led, made her languid and fond of inaction. To lie late in bed, to sip +chocolate, and open her letters before she rose; to be dressed and +re-dressed by a fashionable lady's maid; to recline in luxurious +carriages, and to listen lazily to the flattery and adulation that had +surrounded her--that had been Vera's life from morning till night ever +since she grew up. + +How, with such antecedents, was she to enter suddenly into all the +activity of an English clergyman's home? There were the schools, and the +vestry meetings, and the sick and the destitute to be fretted after from +Monday morning till Saturday night--Eustace and Marion hardly ever had a +moment's respite or a leisure hour the whole week; whilst Sunday, of +course, was the hardest day's work of all. + +But Vera could not turn her life into these things. She would not have +known how to set about them, and assuredly she had no desire to try. + +So she wandered about the garden in the summer time, or sat dreamily by +the fire in winter. She gathered flowers and decorated the rooms with +them; she spoilt the children, she quarrelled with their grandmother, but +she did nothing else; and the righteous soul of Eustace Daintree was +disquieted within him on account of her. He felt that her life was +wasted, and the responsibility of it seemed, to his over-sensitive +conscience, to rest upon himself. + +"The girl ought to be married," he would say to his wife, anxiously. "A +husband and a home of her own is what she wants. If she were happily +settled she would find occupation enough." + +"I don't see whom she could marry, Eustace; men are so scarce, and there +are so many girls in the county." + +"Well, she might have had Barry." Barry was a curate whom Vera had lately +scorned, and who had, in consequence of the crushed condition of his +affections, incontinently fled. "And then there is Gisburne. Why couldn't +she marry Gisburne? He is quite a catch, and a good young man too." + +"Yes, it is a pity; perhaps she may change her mind, and he will ask her +again after Christmas; he told me as much." + +"You must try and persuade her to think better of it by then, my dear. +Now I must be off to old Abraham, and be sure you send round the port to +Mary Williams; and you will find the list for the blanket club on my +study table, love." + +Her husband started on his morning rounds, and Marion, coming down into +the drawing-room, found old Mrs. Daintree haranguing Vera on the same +all-important topic. + +"I am only speaking for your good, Vera; what other object could I have?" +she was saying, as she dived into the huge basket of undarned socks on +the floor before her, and extracted thereout a ragged specimen to be +operated upon. "It is sheer obstinacy on your part that you will not +accept such a good offer. And there was poor Mr. Barry, a most worthy +young man, and his second cousin a bishop, too, quite sure of a living, +I should say." + +"Another clergyman!" said Vera, with a soft laugh, just lifting up her +hands and letting them fall down again upon her lap, with a little, +half-foreign movement of impatience. "Are there, then, no other men but +the clergy in this country?" + +"And a very good thing if there were no others," glared the old lady, +defiantly, over her spectacles. + +"I do not like them," said Vera, simply. + +"Not like them! Considering that I am the daughter, the widow, and the +mother of clergymen, I consider that remark a deliberate insult to me!" + +"Dear Mrs. Daintree, I am sure Vera never meant----" cried Marion, +trembling for fear of a fresh battle. + +"Don't interrupt me, Marion; you ought to have more proper pride than to +stand by and hear the Church reviled." + +"Vera only said she did not like them." + +"No more I do, Marion," said Vera, stifling a yawn--"not when they are +young; when they are old, like Eustace, they are far better; but when +they are young they are all exactly alike--equally harmless when out of +the pulpit, and equally wearisome when in it!" + +A few moments of offended silence on the part of the elder lady, +during which she tugs fiercely and savagely at the ragged sock in her +hands--then she bursts forth again. + +"You may scorn them as much as you like, but let me tell you that the +life of a clergyman's wife--honoured, respected, and useful--is a more +profitable one than the idle existence which you lead, utterly +purposeless and lazy. You never do one single thing from morning till +night." + +"What shall I do? Shall I help you to darn Eustace's socks?" reaching at +one of them out of the basket. + +Mrs. Daintree wrenched it angrily from her hand. + +"Good gracious! as if you could! What a bungle it would be. Why, I never +saw you with a piece of work in your hand in my life. I dare say you +could not even thread a needle." + +"I am quite sure I have never threaded one yet," laughed Vera, lazily. "I +might try; but you see you won't let me be useful, so I had better resign +myself to idleness." And then she rose and took her hat, and went out +through the French window, out among the fallen yellow leaves, leaving +the other women to discuss the vexed problem of her existence. + +She discussed it to herself as she walked dreamily along under the trees +in the lane beyond the garden, her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon the +ground; she swung her hat idly in her hand, for it was warm for the time +of year, and the gold-brown leaves fluttered down about her head and +rustled under the dark, trailing skirts behind her. + +About half a mile up the lane, beyond the vicarage, stood an old iron +gateway leading into a park. It was flanked by square red-brick columns, +upon whose summits two stone griffins, "rampant," had looked each other +in the face for the space of some two hundred years or so, peering grimly +over the tops of the shields against which they stood on end, upon which +all the family arms and quarterings of the Kynastons had become softly +coated over by an indistinct veil of gray-green moss. + +Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within, +who looked out for a minute at her as she passed. It was her daily walk, +for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wander +unreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to its +ancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house. + +Vera did so often. The square, red-brick building, with its stone +copings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunning +themselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in the +stone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden--all had a +certain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature. Then turning in at +the high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, +had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through the +deserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentle +reverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits, +and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead and +gone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, in +the now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim and +faded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the only +sound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they had +reigned supreme. + +She got to know them all at last by name--whole generations of them. +There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and a +farthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, his +brother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles. A whole succession of Sir +Martins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife in +powder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whose +elaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs. +Eccles, who had them all at her fingers' ends, had considerable +difficulty in clearly comprehending. It was a relief to be firmly landed +with Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, "the +present baronet's grandfather," and, lastly, Sir John, "the present +baronet's father," in a deputy-lieutenant's scarlet uniform, with a +cocked hat under his arm--by far the worst and most inartistic painting +in the whole collection. + +It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera. She elaborated whole +romances to herself out of these portraits. She settled their loves and +their temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers' meetings +between them. Each one had his or her history woven out of the slender +materials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives. Only one +thing disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John. +She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who was +unmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of his +fathers. She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it. +She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark, +dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from one +station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet +old-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the +long chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable +associations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, some +sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt. + +But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her to +talk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of the +man who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely honourable to +have spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred her dreams. One +day, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the little room which +Mrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's morning room," Vera came +upon a modern photograph that arrested her attention wonderfully. + +It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only a +broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and a +close-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written in +pencil, "My son--for Mrs. Eccles." Lady Kynaston, she supposed, must +therefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was Sir +John. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, as +though she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and she +said no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later she +sought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away. + +But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forget +it; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested him +with the living likeness of the photograph she had seen. + +On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the old +house she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms; the +sunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the air was +too full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to care to +go indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the housekeeper's +room, and called the old lady by name. + +The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she wandered +on to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked over the +gardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and she thought +of the photograph in the drawer. + +And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that, +beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended in +a set and determined purpose. + +The thought was this:-- + +"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him." + +She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightest +particle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what her +relations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning the +desirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was perfectly +just and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to marry; her +life was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself or to any +one else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton Vicarage; it +had only been an intermediate condition of things. She had no vocation +for visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but unexciting family +office of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that, with all their +kindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not to be burdened +with her support for longer than was necessary. As to turning governess, +or companion, or lady-help, there was an incongruity in the idea that +made it too ludicrous to contemplate even for an instant. There is no +other way that a handsome and penniless woman can deliver her friends +of the burden of her existence than by marriage. + +Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way averse +to the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the most +practical and matter-of-fact point of view. + +She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashly +consenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable husband +that her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed in one +important respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the present +day--she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what marriage might +bring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it. She wanted wealth +and position, because she knew what they were and what life became +without them; and because she knew that she was utterly unfitted to be +the wife of any one but a rich man. + +And therefore it was that Vera looked from the square red house behind +her over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble avenues +that spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is what +will suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love it +dearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that such +a position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he whom +I will marry, and none other." + +As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus proposed +to marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into consideration at all. +She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she possessed any feelings; they +had never incommoded her hitherto. Probably they had no existence. Such +vague fancy as had been ever roused within her had been connected with a +photograph seen once in a writing-table drawer. The photograph of Sir +John Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, only +she said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sure +to get on with him." + +She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenary +even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exact +its full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetry +and refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name. + +The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never +loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed +the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the +world, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her +brain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still. +Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened. + +She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand, +dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in +straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her, +the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were +sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one +motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the +deserted scene. + + * * * * * + +Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followed +by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted. + +"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place so +choked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day's +notice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had the +house tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of the +family, and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used to +be----" + +"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I only +wanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitable +in case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. The +stables, I find, are in good repair." + +"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is that +old-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use." + +"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all. +It is quite uncertain whether I shall come----Who is that?" stopping +suddenly short before the window. + +"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hope +you won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you was +back. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds." + +"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?" + +"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from +abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is +Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come +and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it +amiss that I should have allowed her to come." + +"Take it amiss--good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss--Miss Nevill, did you +say?--come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?" + +"I will get the key, Sir John." The housekeeper precedes him out of the +room, but Sir John stands still by the window. + +"What a picture," he says to himself below his breath; "how well she +looks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks--has +always lacked ever since I have known it--the presence of a beautiful +woman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles, I am coming." This last aloud, and he hastens +downstairs. + +Five minutes later, Sir John Kynaston says to his housekeeper, + +"You need not scare that young lady away from the place by telling her +I was here to-day and saw her. And you may get the rooms ready, Mrs. +Eccles, and order anything that is wanted, and get in a couple of maids, +for I have made up my mind to bring my horses down next month." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FANNING DEAD ASHES. + + Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, + Sorrow calls no time that's gone, + Violets plucked, the sweetest rain + Makes not fresh, nor grow again. + + Fletcher. + + +"Have you heard of Sir John's latest vagary, grandpapa? He is gone down +to Kynaston to hunt--so there's an end of _him_." + +"Humph! Where did you hear that?" + +"I've been lunching at Lady Kynaston's." + +The speaker stood by the window of one of the large houses at Prince's +Gate overlooking the Horticultural Gardens. She was a small, slight +woman, with fair pale features and a mass of soft yellow hair. She had a +delicate complexion and very clear blue eyes. Altogether she was a pretty +little woman. A stranger would have guessed her to be a girl barely out +of her teens. Helen Romer was in reality five-and-twenty, and she had +been a widow four years. + +Of her brief married life few people could speak with any certainty, +although there were plenty of surmises and conjectures concerning it. All +that was known was that Helen had lived with her grandfather till she was +nineteen; that one fine morning she had walked out of the house and had +been married to a man whom her grandfather disapproved of, and to whom +she had always professed perfect indifference. It was also known that +eighteen months later her husband, having rapidly wasted his existence by +drink and other irregular courses, had died in miserable poverty; and +that Helen, not being able to set up a home of her own, upon her slender +fortune of some five or six thousand pounds, had returned to her +grandfather's house in Prince's Gate, where she had lived ever since. + +Why she had married William Romer no one ever exactly knew--perhaps Helen +herself least of any one. It certainly was not for love; it could hardly +have been from any worldly motive. Some people averred, and possibly they +were not far wrong, that she had done so out of pique because the man she +loved did not want her. + +However that might be, Mrs. Romer returned a widow, and not a very +disconsolate one, to her grandfather's house. + +It is certain that she would not have lived there could she have helped +it. She did not love old Mr. Harlowe, neither did Mr. Harlowe love her. A +sense of absolute duty to his dead daughter's child on the one side, a +sense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Their +natures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacy +openly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common. + +It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked his +grand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had been +nothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a young +lady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presence +entailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he was +dragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had not +striven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling, +drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now, +when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, she +refused to make the slightest effort to meet his views. + +Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was a +pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient +money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a +single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other +occupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herself +to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her +life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden +fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often +do, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet as +honeydew--and behold, it was nothing but bitterness! + +She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November +afternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy +old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at +her watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending over +the fire behind her. + +"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him +off." + +"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short, +hard laugh. + +"You know very well what I mean," answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Set +your cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of, +and who don't want you." + +Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa," she +said, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love to +Sir John Kynaston to please you. Is that what you wanted me to do?" + +"I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keep +you. What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston's then? +And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of the +year if it wasn't for that? You have played your cards badly as usual. +You might have had him if you had chosen." + +"I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John's +head," said Helen, scornfully. + +"You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing young +spendthrift's head fast enough if you choose it." + +"I don't in the least know whom you mean," she said, shortly. + +The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes, you know well enough--the brother who +spends his time racing and betting. You are a fool, Helen; he doesn't +want you; and if he did, he couldn't afford to keep you." + +"Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston's name out of the discussion, +grandpapa," she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and her +hands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain. "Are +you not going to your study this evening?" + +"Oh yes, I'm going, fast enough. You want me out of the way, I suppose. +Somebody coming to tea, eh? Oh yes, I'll clear out. I don't want to +listen to your rubbish." + +The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of the +room, muttering to himself as he went. + +The servant came in, bringing the lamp, replenished the fire and drew the +curtains, shutting out the light of day. + +"Any one to tea, ma'am?" he inquired, respectfully. + +"One gentleman--no one else. Bring up tea when he comes." + +"Very well, ma'am;" and the servant withdrew. Mrs. Romer paced +impatiently up and down the room, stopping again and again before the +clock. + +"Late again! A whole half-hour behind his time! It is insufferable that +he should treat me like this. He would go quickly enough to see some new +face--some fresh fancy that had attracted him." + +She took out her watch and laid it on the table. "Let me see if he will +come before the minute-hand touches the quarter; he _must_ be here by +then!" + +She continued to pace steadily up and down the room. The clock ticked on, +the minute-hand of the watch crept ever stealthily forward over the +golden dial; now and then a passing vehicle without made her heart beat +with sudden hope, and then sink down again with disappointment, as the +sound of the wheels went by and died away in the distance. + +Suddenly she sank into an arm-chair, covering her face with her hands. + +"Oh, what a fool--what a fool I am!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why have I not +strength of mind to go out before he comes, to show him that I don't +care? Why, at least, can I not call up grandpapa, and pretend I had +forgotten he was coming? That would be the best way to treat him; the way +to show him that I am not the miserable slave he thinks me. Why can I, +who know so well how to manage all other men, never manage the one man +whose love I want? That horrid old man was right--he does not want me--he +never did. Oh, if I only could be proud, and pretend I do not care! But I +can't, I can't--there is always this miserable sickening pain at my heart +for him, and he knows it. I have let him know it!" + +A ring at the bell made her spring to her feet, whilst a glad flush +suddenly covered her face. + +In another minute the man she loved was in the room. + +"Nearly three-quarters of an hour late!" she cried, angrily, as he +entered. "How shamefully you treat me!" + +He stood in front of the fire, pulling off his dogskin gloves: +a broad-shouldered, handsome fellow, with an aquiline nose and a +close-cropped head. + +"Am I late?" he said, indifferently. "I really did not know it. I have +had fifty places to go to in as many minutes." + +"Of course I shall forgive you if you have been so busy," she said, +softening at once. "Maurice, darling, are you not going to kiss me?" She +stood up by his side upon the hearthrug, looking at him with all her +heart in her eyes, whilst his were on the fire. She wound her arms round +his neck, and drew his head down. He leant his cheek carelessly towards +her lips, and she kissed him passionately; and he--he was thinking of +something else. + +"Poor little woman," he said, almost with an effort recalling himself +to the present; he patted her cheek lightly and turned round to toss +his gloves into his hat on the table behind him. "How cold it has +turned--aren't you going to give me some tea?" And then he sat down on +the further side of the fire and stretched himself back in his arm-chair, +throwing his arms up behind his head. + +Helen rang the bell for the tea. + +"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, poutingly. + +Maurice Kynaston looked distressed. + +"Upon my word, Helen, I am sure I don't know what you expect. I haven't +heard any particular news. I saw you only yesterday, you know. I don't +know what you want me to say." + +Helen was silent. She knew very well what she wanted, she wanted him to +say and do things that were impossible to him--to play the lover to her, +to respond to her caresses, to look glad to see her. + +Maurice was so tired of it all! tired alike of her reproaches and her +caresses. The first irritated him, the second gave him no pleasure. There +was no longer any attraction to him about her, her love was oppressive to +him. He did not want it, he had never wanted it; only somehow she had +laid it so openly and freely at his feet, that it had seemed almost +unmanly to him not to put forth his hand and take it. And now he was +tired of his thraldom, sick of her endearments, satiated with her kisses. +And what was it all to end in? He could not marry her, he would not have +desired to do so had he been able; but as things were, there was no money +to marry on either side. At his heart Maurice Kynaston was glad of it, +for he did not want her for a wife, and yet he feared that he was bound +to her. + +Man-like, he had no courage to break the chains that bound him, and yet +to-night he had said to himself that he would make the effort--the state +of his affairs furnished him with a sufficiently good pretext for +broaching the subject. + +"There is something I wanted to say to you," he said, after the tea had +been brought in and they were alone again. He sat forward in his chair +and stroked his moustache nervously, not looking at her as he spoke. + +Helen came and sat on the hearthrug at his feet, resting her cheek +caressingly against his knee. + +"What is it, Maurice?" + +"Well, it's about myself. I have been awfully hard hit this last week at +Newmarket, you know." + +"Yes, so you told me. I am so sorry, darling." But she did not care much +as long as he was with her and was kind to her--nothing else signified +much to her. + +"Yes, but I am pretty well broke this time--I had to go to John again. He +is an awfully good fellow, is old John; he has paid everything up for me. +But I've had to promise to give up racing, and now I've got to live on +my pay." + +"I could lend you fifty pounds." + +"Fifty pounds! pooh! what nonsense! What would be the good of fifty +pounds to me?" + +He said it rather ungraciously, perhaps, and her eyes filled with tears. +When a man does not love a woman, her little childish offers of help do +not touch him as they would if he loved her. He would not have taken five +thousand from her, yet he was angry with her for talking of fifty pounds. + +"What I wanted to say to you, Helen, was that, of course, now I am so +hard up it's no good thinking of--of marrying--or anything of that kind; +and don't you think it would be happiest if you and I--I mean, wisest for +us both--for you, of course, principally----" + +"_What!_" She lifted her head sharply. She saw what he meant at once. A +wild terror filled her heart. "You mean that you want to throw me over!" +she said, breathlessly. + +"My dear child, do be reasonable. Throw you over! of course not--but what +is it all to lead to? How can we possibly marry? It was bad enough +before, when I had my few hundreds a year. But now even that is gone. +A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry. Why, +I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too. I cannot drag +you down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable to +continue to bind you to my broken fortunes." + +She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute. + +"Why do you make so many excuses? You want to be rid of me." + +"My dear child, how unjust you are." + +"Am I unjust? Wait! let me speak. How have we altered things? Could you +marry me any more before you lost this money? You know you could not. +Have we not always agreed to wait till better times? Why cannot we go on +waiting?" + +"It would not be fair to tie you." + +He had not the courage to say, "I do not love you--money or no money, I +do not wish to marry you." How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to say +such a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professed +affection? Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so. + +"It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:" +that was all he could find to say. And then Helen burst forth +impetuously, + +"I wish to be tied--I do not want to be free--I will not marry any other +man on earth but you. Oh! Maurice, my love, my darling!" casting herself +down again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him. "Whom else +do I want but you--whom else have I ever loved? You know I have always +been yours--always--long ago, in the old days when you never even gave me +a look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not care +what became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I was +doing, only because my life was so unbearable at home. And now that I +have got you, do you think I will give you up? And you love me--surely, +surely, you _must_ love me. You said so once, Maurice--tell me so again. +You do love me, don't you?" + +What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though +he would withdraw her arms from about his neck. + +"Of course," he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and all +that, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that as +well as I do." + +"No; but we can wait." + +"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably. + +"Oh, a hundred things might happen--your brother might die." + +"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time. + +"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever, +and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich." + +"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes," said Maurice, with a +little shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leave +his money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the National +Gallery--you could not count upon anything." + +"We could at all events wait and see." + +"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily; +"that is a miserable prospect." + +"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at him +suspiciously; "you have seen some other woman." + +"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair, +leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when she +speaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on the +wane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly without +foundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one had +never been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he the +slightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyond +measure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his own +shortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one. + +"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughly +pig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth, +angrily. + +She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quick +enough--sharp as a needle--where her love did not, as love invariably +does, warp and blind her judgment. + +"I am sorry, Maurice," she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, of +course. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please." + +He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt that +some concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and stroked +it softly. She knew so well that he did not love her, and yet she clung +so desperately to the hope that she could win him back; she would not own +to herself even in the furthermost recesses of her own heart that his +love was dead. She would not believe it; to put it in words to herself +even would have half killed her; but still she was forced to acknowledge +that unless she met him half-way she might lose him altogether. + +"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice," she said thoughtfully. "I will +consent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I will +cease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and I +will not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will deny +any engagement between us--we will say that we are each of us free--but +on one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on your +honour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money--should +there be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next five +years----" + +"My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to be +presented with the regalia." + +"Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse--or the better, +whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, give +me your word of honour that you will come to me at once--that, in fact, +our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospects +no brighter, in five years from now--well, then, let us each be free to +marry elsewhere." + +There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forward +in his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily into +the fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it was +not enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course, +an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principal +contractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be in +ignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chance +too, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly; +though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said to +be altogether satisfactory. + +Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. How +passionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate the +half-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he should +take her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to her +terms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient to +revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire. +Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life +and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that +had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his +heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all +that, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passion +for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers +willingly, he should be hers by force. + +"Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to +consent to--you who--who love me?" + +He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of +gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused +by her gentle words. + +"Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be as +you say." + +And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be alone +again with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LAY RECTOR. + + Or art thou complaining + Of thy lowly lot, + And, thine own disdaining, + Dost ask what thou hast not? + Of the future dreaming, + Weary of the past, + For the present scheming + All but what thou hast. + + L. E. Landon. + + +In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, for +downright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in the +whole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of gray +granite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object like +unto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erected +by one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon the +death of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had been +previously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the death +of the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, that +Nathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by one +bold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granite +monstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it was +touchingly and naively stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strict +impartiality." + +It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggy +morning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in front +of her. She was not engaged in any sentimental musings appropriate to the +situation. She was neither meditating upon the briefness of life in +general, nor upon the many virtues of the ladies of the Crupps family, +over whose remains she was standing. She was simply waiting for Jimmy +Griffiths, and looking at the church because she had nothing else to look +at. The church, indeed, afforded her some food for reflection, purely, I +regret to state, of a practical and mundane character. It was a large and +handsome building, with a particularly fine old tower, that was sadly out +of repair; but the chancel was a modern and barn-like structure of brick +and plaster, which ought, of course, to be entirely swept away, and a new +and more appropriate one built in its stead. The chancel belonged, as +most chancels do, to the lay rector, and the lay rector was Sir John +Kynaston. + +As soon as it became bruited abroad that Sir John was coming down to the +old house for the winter, there was a general excitement throughout the +parish, but no one partook of the excitement to a greater degree than did +its worthy vicar. + +It was the dream of Eustace Daintree's life to get his church restored, +and more especially to get the chancel rebuilt. There had been a +restoration fund accumulating for some years, and could he have had the +slightest assistance from the lay rector concerning the chancel, Mr. +Daintree would assuredly have sent for the architect, and the builders, +and the stone-cutters, and have begun his church at once with that +beautiful disregard of the future chances of being able to get the money +to pay for it, and with that sparrow-like trust in Providence, which is +usually displayed by those clerical gentlemen who, in the face of an +estimate which tells them that eight thousand pounds will be the sum +total required, are ready to dash into bricks and mortar upon the actual +possession of eight hundred. But there was the chancel! To leave it as it +was whilst restoring the nave would have been too heart-rending; to touch +it without Sir John Kynaston's assistance, impossible and illegal. +Several times Eustace Daintree had applied to Sir John in writing upon +the subject. The answers had been vague and unsatisfactory. He would +promise nothing at all; he would come down and see it some day possibly, +and then he would be able to say more about it; meanwhile, for the +present, things must remain as they were. + +When, therefore, the news was known that Sir John was actually coming +down, Mr. Daintree's thoughts flew at once to his beloved church. + +"Now we shall get the chancel done at last," he said to his wife +gleefully, rubbing his hands. And the very day after Sir John's arrival +Eustace went up to the Hall after dinner to see him upon the subject. + +"Had you not better wait a day or two?" counselled his more prudent wife. +"Wait till you meet him, naturally. You don't very well know what kind of +man he is, nor how he will take it." + +"What is the use of waiting? I knew him well enough eight years ago; he +was a pleasant fellow enough then. He won't kill me, I suppose, and the +chancel is a disgrace--a positive disgrace to him. It is my duty to point +it out to him; the thing can't afford to wait, it ought to be done at +once." + +So he disregarded Marion's advice, and Vera helped him on with his +great-coat in the hall, and wound his woollen comforter round his neck, +and bade him good luck on his expedition to Kynaston. + +He came back sorrowful and abashed. Sir John had been civil, very civil; +he had insisted on his sitting down at his table--for he had apparently +not finished his dinner--and had opened a bottle of fine old port in his +honour. He had inquired about many of the old people, and had expressed +a friendly interest in the parish generally; but with regard to the +chancel, he had been as adamant. + +He did not see, he had said, why it could not go on well enough as it +was. If it was in bad repair, Davis should see to it; a man with a +barrowful of bricks and a shovelful of mortar should be sent down. That, +of course, it was his duty to do. Sir John did not understand that more +could possibly be expected of him. The chancel had been good enough for +his father, it would probably be good enough for him; it would last his +time, he supposed, in any case. + +But the soul of the Rev. Eustace became as water within him. It was +not of a barrowful of bricks and shovelful of mortar that he had been +dreaming, but of lancet windows and stone mouldings; of polished oak +rafters within, and of high gables and red tiles without. + +He came down from the Hall disheartened and discomfited, with all the +spirit crushed out of him; and the ladies of his family, for once, +were of one mind about the matter. There arose about him a storm of +indignation and a gush of sympathy, which could not fail to soothe him +somewhat. Eustace went to rest that night sore and heavy-hearted, it is +true, but with all the damnatory verses in the Scriptures concerning the +latter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditation +which, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolation +and comfort. + +And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsian +sarcophagus, and thought about it. + +"Poor old Eustace," she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich, +and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what a +good fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there are +in people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable this +morning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it _is_ +hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least. +What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not have +thought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face he +seemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one. +I wonder where that wretched boy can be!" + +The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth +who was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was also +the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be +unable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to take +his place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played, +nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ +a little--a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertake +the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she +could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the +chants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera, +with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard, +and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps. + +She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage +garden--very bleak and very desolate by this time--lay behind her. To the +right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the +village. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she +stood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almost +to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister +Theodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree always +told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Her +back was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was looking +up at poor Eustace's bug-bear--the barn-like chancel. + +Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her. + +"Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?" + +A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke. Vera started +a little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly and +unconfusedly, + +"They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk's +cottage." + +"Thank you; then I will go and fetch them." + +"But they are not there now," said Vera, as though finishing her former +remark. + +"If you will kindly tell me where I can find them," continued the +stranger, very politely, "I will go and get them." + +"I am afraid you can't do that," said Vera, with just the vestige of a +smile playing upon her face, "because they are at present in my pocket." + +"Oh, I beg your pardon;" and the stranger smiled outright. + +"But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what you +wish?" she said, quite simply. + +"Yes, if you please." Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentleman +following her. She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open. "If +you will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them in +the door." The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by. + +Most uninteresting! was her verdict as he passed her; forty at the very +least! What a beautiful situation for an adventure! What a romantic +incident! And how excessively tame is the _denouement_! A middle-aged +gentleman, tall and slightly bald, with close-cropped whiskers and grave, +set features; who on earth could he be? A stranger, evidently; perhaps he +was staying at some neighbouring country house, and had walked over to +Sutton for the sake of exercise; but what on earth could he want to see +the church for! + +The stranger stood just inside the door with his hat off, looking at her. + +"Won't you come in and show it to me?" he asked, rather hesitatingly. + +"The church? oh, certainly, if you like, but there is nothing to see in +it." She came in, closing the door behind her, and stood beside him. It +did not strike her as unusual or interesting, or as anything, in fact, +but the most common-place and unexciting proceeding, that she should do +the honours of the church to this middle-aged stranger. + +They stood side by side in the centre of the small nave with all the +ugly, high, red-cushioned pews around them. Vera looked up and down the +familiar place as though she and not he were seeing it for the first +time; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows; +from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring gallery +along the west end. + +"It is very hideous," she said, almost apologetically, "especially the +chancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can't +be done at all now." + +"Why can't it be done?" + +"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; that +belongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it." + +"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector." + +"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?" + +The gentleman passed his hand over his chin. + +"Slightly," he answered, not looking at her. + +"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for he +certainly ought to do it," continued Vera. "You see I cannot help being +interested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has worked +so hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quite +counted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed; +but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you." + +"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in this +light to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?" + +"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and he +would not promise to do anything." + +The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himself +into the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minute +examination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly down +again, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from the +whitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet; +Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinking +about. + +He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. And +then he made this most remarkable speech: + +"If _you_ were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore the +chancel!" he said. + +For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turned +haughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation. + +"There is nothing more to see in the church," she said, shortly, and +walked straight out of it. + +The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he said +to her, quite humbly, + +"I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry, +to begin with." + +Vera looked at him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he? +He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression, +that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, before +she could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of the +vicarage garden, coming towards them. + +The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her. + +"Good-bye," he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don't +be angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quickly +down the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone. + +"Vera," said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through the +garden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has he +been saying anything to you about the chancel?" + +"_Who_ was it? _who_ did you say?" cried Vera, aghast. + +"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?" + +She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered. + +"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why he +went off in such a hurry when he saw me?" + +Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side. +The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then is +the photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?" + +"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?" +pursued her brother-in-law. + +"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told him +the chancel ought to be restored--by himself." + +Eustace Daintree looked dismayed. + +"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided to +do nothing." + +Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace," was all she said. +But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart that +his chancel would be restored for him. + +Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over her +morning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a little +regretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put the +thought away from her. + +After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still Sir +John Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while to +marry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John was +not the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hall +belonged to him all the same. + +They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams of +Vera's girlhood. But neither were they quite so coarse and unlovely as +would have been those of a purely mercenary woman. She was free from the +vulgarity of desiring the man's money and his name from any desire to +raise herself above her relations, or to feed her own vanity and ambition +at their expense. It was only that, marriage being a necessity for her, +to marry anything but a rich man would have been, with her tastes and the +habits to which she had been brought up, the sheerest and rankest folly. +She thought she could make a good wife to any man whose life she would +like to share--that is to say, a life of ease and affluence. She knew she +would make a very bad wife to a poor man. Therefore she determined upon +so carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure of +herself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character. + +She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if he +was to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happened +to be the man in the photograph. She hardly knew why she wished it--but +the wish was there. + +She sat bending over her fire, with all her soft, dark hair loose about +her face and flowing down her back, and her eyes fixed dreamily upon the +flames. Her past life came back to her, her old life in the whirl and +turmoil of pleasure which had suited her so well. She compared it, a +little drearily, with the present; with the humdrum routine of the +vicarage; with the parish talk about the old women and the schools; and +the small tittle-tattle about the schoolmaster and the choir, going on +around her all day; with old Mrs. Daintree's sharp tongue and her +sister's meek rejoinders. She was very tired of it. It did not amuse her. +She was not exactly discontented with her lot. Eustace and her sister +were very kind to her, and she loved them dearly; but she did not live +their life--she was with them, but not of them. As for herself, for her +interests and her delights, they stagnated amongst them all. How long was +it to last? + +And Kynaston, by contrast, appeared very fair, with its smooth lawns and +its terrace walks, and its great desolate rooms, that she would so well +understand how to fill with life and brightness; but Kynaston's master +counted for very little to her. She knew the power of her own beauty so +well. Experience had taught her that Vera Nevill had but to smile and to +win; it had been so easy to her to be loved and wooed. + +"Only," she said to herself, as she stood up before her fire, and +stretched up her arms so that her long hair fell back like a cloud around +her, "only he is a different sort of man to what I had pictured him. It +will, perhaps, not be such an easy matter to win a man like that." + +She went to bed and dreamt--not of Sir John Kynaston--but of the man +whose pictured face once seen had haunted her ever since. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +"LITTLE PITCHERS." + + Once at least in a man's life, if only for a brief space, he reverences + the saint in the woman he desires. He may love and pursue again and + again, but she who has power to hold him back, who can make him tremble + instead of woo, who can make him silent when he feels eloquent, and + restrained when most impassioned, has won from him what never again can + be given. + + +It was an easier matter to win him than Vera thought. + +A week later Sir John Kynaston sat alone by his library fire, after +breakfast, and owned to himself that he had fallen hopelessly and +helplessly in love with Vera Nevill. + +This was all the more remarkable because Sir John was not a very young +man, and that he was, moreover, not of a nature to do things rashly or +impulsively. + +He was, on the contrary, of a slow and hesitating disposition. He was in +the habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted, +his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he was +cautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange and +unaccustomed direction. + +Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate with +all the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens. + +Vera was like no other woman he had ever seen; she was as far removed +above common young-ladyhood as Raphael's Madonnas are beyond and above +Greuze's simpering maidens; there could be no other like her--she was +a queen, a goddess among women. + +From the very first moment that he had caught sight of her on the terrace +outside his house her absolute mastery over him had begun. Her rare +beauty, her quiet smile, her slow, indolent movements, the very tones of +her rich, low voice, all impressed him in a strange and wonderful manner. +She seemed to him to be the incarnation of everything that was pure and +elevated in womanhood. To have imagined that such a one as she could have +thought of his wealth or his position would have been the rankest +blasphemy in his eyes. + +He raised her up on a pedestal of his own creating, and then he fell down +before her and adored her. + +John Kynaston had but little knowledge of women. Shy and retiring in +manner--somewhat suspicious and distrustful also--he had kept out of +their way through life. Once, in very early manhood, he had been +deceived; he had become engaged to a girl whom he afterwards discovered +to have accepted him only for his money and his name, whilst her heart +really belonged to another and a poorer man. He had shaken himself free +of her, with horror and disgust, and had sworn to himself that he would +never be so betrayed again. Since then he had been suspicious--and not +without just cause--of the young ladies who had smiled upon him, and of +their mothers, who had pressed him with gracious invitations to their +houses. He was a rich man, but he did not mean to be loved for his +wealth; he said to himself that, sooner than be so, he would die +unmarried and leave to Maurice the task of keeping up the old name and +the old family. + +But he had seen Vera; and all at once all the old barriers of pride and +reserve were broken down! Here was the one woman on earth who realized +his dreams, the one woman whom he would wait and toil for, even as Jacob +waited and toiled for Rachel! + +He had come down to Kynaston to hunt; but hitherto hunting had been very +little in his thoughts. He had been down to the vicarage once or twice, +he had met her once in the lanes, and he had longed for a glimpse of her +daily; as yet he had done nothing else. He opened his letters on this +particular morning slowly and abstractedly, tossing them into the fire, +one after the other, as he read them, and not paying very much attention +to their contents. + +There was one, however, from his brother, "I wish you would ask me down +to Kynaston for a week or two, old fellow," wrote Maurice. "I know you +would mount me--now I have got rid of all my horses to please you--and +I should like a glimpse of the old country. Write and tell me if I shall +come down on Monday." + +This letter Sir John did pay attention to. He rose hastily, as though not +a moment was to be lost, and answered it:-- + +"Dear Maurice,--I can't possibly have you down here yet. My own plans are +very uncertain, and if you are going to take your leave after Christmas, +you had far better not go away from your work now. If I am still here in +January, I shall be delighted if you will come down, and will mount you +as much as you like." + +He was happier when he had written and directed this letter. + +"I must be alone just now," he murmured. "I could not bear Maurice's +chatter--it would jar upon me." + +Then he put on his hat and strolled out. He looked in at the stables one +minute, and called the head groom to him. + +"Wright, did not Mr. Beavan say, when I bought that new bay mare of him, +that she had carried a lady to hounds?" + +"Yes, Sir John; Miss Beavan rode her last season." + +"Ah, she is a good rider. Well, I wish you would put a side-saddle and a +skirt on her, and exercise her this morning. I might want to--to lend her +to a lady; but she must be perfectly quiet. You can take her out every +day this week." + +Sir John went on his way, leaving the worthy Wright a prey to speculation +as to who the mysterious lady might be for whom the bay mare was to be +exercised. + +His master, meanwhile, bent his steps almost instinctively to the +vicarage. + +Vera was undergoing a periodical persecution concerning Mr. Gisburne +at the hands of old Mrs. Daintree. She was standing up by the table +arranging some scarlet berries and some long trails of ivy which the +children had brought to her in a vase. Tommy and Minnie stood by watching +her intently; Mrs. Daintree sat at a little distance, her lap full of +undarned socks, and rated her. + +"It is not as if you were a girl who could earn her living in case of +need. There is not one single thing you can do." + +"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma," interpolates +Tommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?" + +"Yes, she do," assented the smaller child, with emphasis. + +"I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be--" + +"Heard and not seen," puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that, +grandma." + +Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture. + +"Many girls in your position are very accomplished; can teach the piano, +and history, and the elements of Latin; but it seems to me you have been +brought up in idleness." + +"Idleness is not to be despised in its way," answers Vera, composedly. +"Another bit of ivy, Tommy. What shall I do, Mrs. Daintree?" she +continues, whilst her deft fingers wind the trailing greenery round and +round the glass stem of the vase. "Shall I go down to the village school +and sit at the feet of Mr. Dee? I have no doubt he could teach me a great +many things I know nothing about." + +"That is nonsense; of course I don't mean that you can educate yourself +to any purpose now; it is too late for that; but you need not, at all +events, turn up your nose at the blessings that Providence sets before +you; and I must say, that for a young woman deliberately to choose to +remain a burden upon her friends, betokens an amount of servility and +a lack of the spirit of independence which I should not have supposed +possible even in you!" + +"What do you want me to do?" said Vera, without a sign of impatience. +"Shall I walk over to Tripton this afternoon, and make a low curtsey to +Mr. Gisburne, and say to him very politely, 'Here is an idle and +penniless young woman who would be very pleased to stop here and marry +you!' Would that be the way to do it, Mrs. Daintree?" + +"No, no, _no_!" imperatively from Tommy, who was listening with rapidly +crimsoning cheeks; "you shall _not_ go and stop at Tripton, and tell Mr. +Gisburne you will marry him!" + +Vera laughed. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will; not, that is to say, if +you are a good boy. I think I can do something better than that with +myself!" she added, softly, as if to herself. Mrs. Daintree caught the +words. + +"And _what_ better, pray? What better chance are you ever likely to have? +Let me tell you, bachelors who want penniless wives don't grow on the +blackberry bushes down here! If you were not so selfish and so conceited, +you would see where your duty to my son, who is supporting you, lay. You +would see that to be married to an honest, upright man like Albert +Gisburne is a chance that most girls would catch at only too thankfully." + +The old lady had raised her voice; she spoke loud and angrily; she was +rapidly working herself into a passion. Tommy, accustomed to family rows, +stood on the hearthrug, looking excitedly from his grandmother to his +aunt. He was a precocious child; he did not quite understand, and yet he +understood partly. He knew that his grandmother was scolding Vera, and +telling her she was to go away and marry Mr. Gisburne. That Vera should +go away! That, in itself, was sufficiently awful. Tommy adored Vera with +all the intensity of his childish soul; that she should go away from him +to Mr. Gisburne seemed to him the most terrible visitation that could +possibly happen. His little heart swelled within him; the tears were very +near his eyes. + +At this very minute the door softly opened, and Sir John Kynaston, whose +ring had been unheard in the commotion, was ushered in. + +Tommy thought he saw a deliverer, specially sent in by Providence for the +occasion. He made one spring at him and caught him round the legs, after +the manner of enthusiastic small boys. + +"Please--please--don't let grandmamma send aunt Vera away to Tripton +to marry Mr. Gisburne! He has red hair, and I hate him; and aunt Vera +doesn't want to go, she wants to stop at home and do something better!" + +A moment of utter confusion on all sides; then Vera, crimson to the roots +of her hair, stepped forward and held out her hand. + +"Little pitchers have long ears!" she said, laughing: "and Tommy is a +very silly little boy." + +"No, but, aunt Vera, you said--you said," cried the child. What further +revelations he might have made were fortunately not destined to be known. +His aunt placed her hand unceremoniously over his small, eager mouth, and +hustled both children in some haste out of the room. + +Meanwhile, Sir John, looking the picture of distress and embarrassment, +had shaken hands with the old lady, and inquired if he could speak with +her son. + +"Mr. Daintree is in his study; I will take you to him," she said, rising, +and led him away out of the room. She looked at him sharply as she showed +him into the study; and it did come across her mind, "I wonder what you +come so often for." Still, no thought of Vera entered into her head. Sir +John was the great man of the place, the squire, the potentate in the +hollow of whose hand lay Sutton-in-the-Wold and all its inhabitants, and +Vera was a nobody in the old lady's eyes,--a waif, whose presence was of +no account at all. Sir John was no more likely to notice her than any of +the village girls; except, indeed, that he would speak politely to her +because she was Eustace's sister-in-law. Still, it did come across her +mind to wonder what he came so often for. + +Five minutes later the two gentlemen were seen going across the vicarage +garden towards the church. + +They remained there a very long time, more than half an hour. When they +came back Marion had finished her housekeeping and was in the room busy +cutting out unbleached calico into poor men's shirts, on the grand piano, +an instrument which she maintained had been specially and originally +called into existence for no other purpose. Mrs. Daintree still sat in +her chimney corner. Vera was at the writing-table with her back to the +room, writing a letter. + +The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight; +his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and of +a pleasant character had happened. + +"My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John. I am happy +to tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel." + +"Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!" cried Marion, coming +forward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude. Sir John +looked as if he didn't want to be thanked, but he glanced towards the +writing-table. Vera's back was turned; she made no sign of having heard. + +"I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether," continued the +vicar. "You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you about +it before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind." + +"Some one--I mean--I thought it over--and--and it was presented to my +notice--in another light," stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly. + +"And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in my +own way, according to the plans I had wished to follow." + +"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely +to do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to +leave it entirely in your hands." + +"Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?" + +"Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. +Daintree; I can't wait just now." + +He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room. He looked again +wistfully at Vera's back. Was it possible that she was not going to give +him one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence he +had been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel! + +Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, when +his hand was already on the handle, she looked up. Her eyes, all softened +with pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his. He +stopped suddenly short. + +"Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk's +cottage? I--I forget which it is!" + +It was the lamest and most blundering excuse. Any six-year-old child in +the village could have pointed out the cottage to him. Mrs. Daintree +looked up in astonishment. Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, saw +nothing, and began eagerly, + +"I am walking that way myself; we can go together----" Suddenly his coat +tails were violently pulled from behind. "Quite impossible, Eustace; I +want you at home for the next hour," says Marion, quietly standing by his +side, with a look of utter innocence upon her face. The vicar, almost +throttled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceived +that, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not to +have said. He deemed it wisest to subside into silence. + +Vera rose from the writing-table. "I will go and put my hat on," she +said, quietly, and left the room. + +Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together. + +"Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life," said +Eustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone. "It is my belief," +tapping his forehead significantly, "that he is a little touched _here_. +I don't believe he quite knows what he is talking about. Why, the other +night he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn't even listen +to me, cut me so short about it I really couldn't venture to pursue the +subject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, and +proposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and most +expensive way--purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion, +just what I wanted; gives me absolute _carte blanche_ about it. I only +hope he won't take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mind +again." + +"Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it," +suggested his mother. + +Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico. + +"And then, again, about old Hoggs' cottage," pursued Mr. Daintree. "What +on earth could make him forget where it was? He might as well forget the +way to his own house. I really do think he must be a little gone in the +upper storey, poor fellow! Marion, what have you to say about it?" + +"I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, we +shall never get anything done. I want to speak to you immediately, +Eustace, in the other room." + +She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the door +upon them. + +What then was the Rev. Eustace's amazement to behold his wife suddenly +execute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraced +a _coryphee_ at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping with +the demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar of +Sutton-in-the-Wold! + +Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning. + +"My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?" + +"Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!" exclaimed his wife, +finishing her _pas seul_ in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as a +finale to the entertainment. "Do you mean to say that you don't see it?" + +"See it? See what?" repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortal +bewilderment, staring at her hard. + +"Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it's as plain as daylight. Can't +you guess?" + +Eustace shook his head dolefully. + +"Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!" + +"_Marion!_ impossible!" in an awe-struck whisper. "What can make you +imagine such a thing?" + +"Why, everything--the chancel, of course. She must have spoken to him +about it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her? And +then, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs' +cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn't think of anything better." + +Eustace literally gasped with the magnitude of the revelation. + +"Great Heavens! and I offered to go with him instead of her." + +"Yes, you great blundering baby!" + +"Oh, my dear, are you sure--are you quite sure? Remember his position and +Vera's." + +"Well, and isn't Vera good enough, and beautiful enough, for any +position?" answered her sister, proudly. + +"Yes, yes; that is true; God bless her!" he said, fervently. "Marion, +what a clever woman you are to find it out." + +"Of course I am clever, sir. But, Eustace, it is only beginning, you +know; so we must just let things take their course, and not seem to +notice anything. And, mind, not a word to your mother." + +Meanwhile Vera and Sir John Kynaston were walking down the village street +together. The man awkward and ill at ease, the woman calm and composed, +and thoroughly mistress of the occasion. + +"It is very good of you about the chancel," said Vera, softly, breaking +the embarrassment of the silence between them. + +"You _knew_ I should do it," he said, looking at her. + +She smiled. "I thought perhaps you would." + +"You know _why_ I am going to do it--for whose sake, do you not?" he +pursued, still keeping his eyes upon her downcast face. + +"Because it is the right thing to do, I hope; and for the sake of doing +good," she answered, sedately; and Sir John felt immediately reproved and +rebuked, as though by the voice of an angelic being. + +"Tell me," he said, presently, "is it true that they want you to +marry--that parson--Gisburne, of Tripton? Forgive me for asking." + +Vera coloured a little and laughed. + +"What dreadful things little boys are!" was all she said. + +"Nay, but I want to know. Are you--are you _engaged_ to him?" with a +sudden painful eagerness of manner. + +"Most decidedly I am not," she answered, earnestly. + +Sir John breathed again. + +"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am very +impertinent. I know I have no right to question you." + +"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me," she answered, +gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes that +came into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best. + +They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lane +beyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or his +cottage, had come into either of their heads by the way. + +Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too. + +"I thought--it seemed to me by what I overheard," he said, hesitatingly, +"that they were tormenting you--persecuting you, perhaps--into a marriage +you do not wish for." + +"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne," Vera admitted, in a low +voice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed on +the ground. + +"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listen +to them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously. + +Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled. + +"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne," she +answered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make me +betray that poor man's secrets." + +And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her if +she would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought would +carry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queen +accepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her as +heartily as though she had promised him some great thing. + +"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage," she said, smiling. And they +turned back towards the village. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +A SOIREE AT WALPOLE LODGE. + + When the lute is broken, + Sweet notes are remembered not; + When the lips have spoken, + Loved accents are soon forgot. + As music and splendour + Survive not the lamp and the lute, + The heart's echoes render + No song when the spirit is mute. + + Shelley. + + +About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roads +between Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house, +within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brick +wall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores within +the immediate neighbourhood of London--of which there still are dozens, +although, alas! they are yearly disappearing to make room for gay rows of +pert, upstart villas, whose tawdry flashiness ill replaces the sedate +respectability of their last-century predecessors. But, uncoveted by the +contractor's lawless eye, untouched by the builder's desecrating hand, +Walpole Lodge stands on, as it did a hundred years ago, hidden behind +the shelter of its venerable walls, and half smothered under masses of +wisteria and Virginia creeper. On the wall, in summer time, grow +countless soft green mosses, and brown, waving grasses. Thick masses of +yellow stonecrop and tufts of snapdragon crown its summit, whilst the +topmost branches of the long row of lime-trees within come nodding +sweet-scented greetings to the passers-by along the dusty high road +below. + +But in the winter the wall is flowerless and the branches of the +lime-trees are bare, and within, in the garden, there are only the +holly-trees and the yew-hedge of the shrubbery walks, and the empty brown +flower-beds set in the faded grass. But winter and summer alike, old Lady +Kynaston holds her weekly receptions, and thither flock all the wit, and +the talent, and the fashion of London. In the summer they are garden +parties, in the winter they become evening receptions. How she manages it +no one can quite tell; but so it is, that her rooms are always crowded, +that no one is ever bored at her house, that people are always keen to +come to her, and that there are hundreds who would think it an effort to +go to other people's parties across the street who think it no trouble at +all to drive nearly to Richmond, to hers. She has the rare talent of +making society a charm in itself. No one who is not clever, or beautiful, +or distinguished in some way above his or her fellows ever gains a +footing in her drawing-rooms. Every one of any note whatever is sure to +be found there. There are savants and diplomatists, poets and painters, +foreign ambassadors, and men of science. The fashionable beauty is sure +to be met there side by side with the latest type of strong-minded woman; +the German composer, with the wild hair, whose music is to regenerate +the future, may be seen chatting to a cabinet minister; the most rising +barrister of the day is lingering by the side of a prima-donna, or +discoursing to an Eastern traveller. Old Lady Kynaston herself has +charming manners, and possesses the rare tact of making every one feel +at home and happy in her house. + +It was not done in a day--this gathering about her of so brilliant and +delightful a society. She had lived many years at Walpole Lodge, ever +since her widowhood, and was now quite an old lady. In her early life she +had written several charming books--chiefly biographies of distinguished +men whom she had known, and even now she occasionally put pen again to +paper, and sent some delightful social essay or some pleasantly written +critique to one or other of the Reviews of the day. + +Her married life had been neither very long nor very happy. She had never +learnt to love her husband's country home. At his death she had turned +her back thankfully upon Kynaston, and had never seen it again. Of her +two sons, she stood in some awe of the elder, whose cold and unresponsive +character resembled her dead husband's, whilst she adored Maurice, who +was warm-hearted and affectionate in manner, like herself. There were ten +years between them, for she had been married twelve years; and at her +secret heart Lady Kynaston hoped and believed that John would remain +unmarried, so that the estates and the money might in time become +Maurice's. + +It is the second Thursday in December, and Lady Kynaston is "at home" to +the world. Her drawing-rooms--there are three of them, not large, but +low, comfortable rooms, opening one out of the other--are filled, as +usual, with a mixed and brilliant crowd. + +Across the square hall is the dining-room, where a cold supper, not very +sumptuous or very _recherche_, but still sufficient of its kind for the +occasion, is laid out; and beyond that is Lady Kynaston's boudoir, where +there is a piano, and which is used on these occasions as a music-room, +so that those who are musical may retire there, and neither interfere, +nor be interfered with, by the rest of the company. Some one is singing +in the music-room now--singing well, you may be sure, or he would not be +at Walpole Lodge--but the strains of the song can hardly be heard at all +across dining-room and hall, in the larger of the three rooms, where most +of the guests are congregated. + +Lady Kynaston, a small, slight woman in soft gray satin and old lace, +moves about graciously and gracefully still, despite her seventy years, +among her guests--stopping now at one group, now at another, talking +politics to one, science to a second, whispering a few discreet words +about the latest scandal to this great lady, murmuring words of approval +upon her clever book or her charming poem to another. Her smiles are +equally dispensed, no one is passed over, and she has the rare talent of +making every single individual in the crowded room feel himself to be the +one particular person whom Lady Kynaston is especially rejoiced to see. +She has tact, and she has sympathy--two invaluable gifts in a woman. + +Conspicuous among the crowd of well-dressed and handsome women is Helen +Romer. She sits on an ottoman at the further end of the room, where she +holds a little court of her own, dispensing her smiles and pleasant words +among the little knot of men who linger admiringly by her side. + +She is in black, with masses of gold embroidery about her, and she +carries a large black and gold feather fan in her hands, which she +moves rapidly, almost restlessly, up and down; her eyes wander often +to the doorway, and every now and then she raises her hand with a short, +impatient action to her blonde head, as though she were half weary of +the talk about her. + +Presently, Lady Kynaston, moving slowly among her guests, comes near her, +and, leaning for a moment on the back of the ottoman, presses her hand as +she passes. + +Mrs. Romer is a favourite of hers; she is pretty, and she is piquant in +manner and conversation; two very good things, which she thinks highly of +in any young woman. Besides that, she knows that Helen loves her younger +son; and, although she hardly understands how things are between them, +nor how far Maurice himself is implicated, she believes that Helen will +eventually inherit her grandfather's money, and, liking her personally, +she has seen no harm in encouraging her too plainly displayed affection. +Moreover, the love they both bear to him has been a link between them. +They talk of him together almost as a mother and a daughter might do; +they have the same anxieties over his health, the same vexations over +his debts, the same rejoicings when his brother comes forward with his +much-needed help. Lady Kynaston does not want her darling to marry yet, +but when the time shall come for him to take unto himself a wife, she +will raise no objection to pretty Helen Romer, should he bring her to +her, as a daughter-in-law. + +As the old lady stoops over her, Helen's upturned wistful eyes say as +plainly as words can say it-- + +"Is he coming to-night?" + +"Maurice will be here presently, I hope," says his mother, answering the +look in her eyes; "he was to come up by the six o'clock train; he will +dine at his club and come on here later." Helen's face became radiant, +and Lady Kynaston passed on. + +Maurice Kynaston's regiment was quartered at Northampton; he came up to +town often for the day or for the night, as he could get leave; but his +movements were never quite to be depended upon. + +Half-an-hour or so more of feverish impatience. Helen watches the gay +crowd about her with a feeling of sick weariness. Two members of +Parliament are talking of Russian aggression and Turkish misrule close to +her; they turn to her presently and include her in the conversation; Mrs. +Romer gives her opinion shrewdly and sensibly. An elderly duchess is +describing some episode of Royalty's last ball; there is a general laugh, +in which Helen joins heartily; a young attache bends over her and +whispers some admiring little speech in her ear, and she blushes and +smiles just as if she liked it above all things; while all the time her +eyes hardly stray for one second from the open doorway through which +Maurice will come, and her heart is saying to itself, over and over +again, + +"Will he come, will he come?" + +He comes at last. Long before the servant, who opens the door to him, has +taken his coat and hat from him, Helen catches sight of his handsome head +and his broad shoulders through an opening in the crowd. In another +minute he is in the room standing irresolute in the doorway, looking +round as if to see who is and who is not there to-night. + +He is, after all, only a very ordinary type of a good-looking soldierly +young Englishman, just such a one as may be seen any day in our parks or +our drawing-rooms. He has clearly-cut and rather _prononce_ features, a +strong-built, well made figure, a long moustache, close-shaven cheeks, +and eyes that are rather deep-set, and are, when you are near enough to +see them well, of a deep blue-gray. In all that Maurice Kynaston is in no +way different from scores of other good-looking young men whom we may +have met. But there is just something that makes his face a remarkable +one: it is a strong-looking face--a face that looks as if he had a will +of his own and knew how to stick to it; a face that looks, too, as if he +could do and dare much for truth and honour's sake. It is almost stern +when he is silent; it can soften into the tenderness of a woman when he +speaks. + +Look at him now as he catches sight of his mother, and steps forward for +a minute to press her loving hands. All the hardness and all the strength +are gone out of his face now; he only looks down at her with eyes full of +love and gentleness--for life as yet holds nothing dearer or better for +him than that little white-haired old woman. Only for a minute, and then +he leaves go of her hands, and passes on down the room, speaking to the +guests whom he knows. + +"He does not see me," says Helen, bitterly, to herself; "he will go on +into the next room, and never know that I am here." + +But he had seen her perfectly. Next to the woman he most wishes to see in +a room, the one whom a man first catches sight of is the woman he would +sooner were not there. He had seen Helen the very instant he came in, but +he had noticed thankfully that some one was talking to her, and he said +to himself that there was no occasion for him to hurry to her side; it +was not as if they were openly engaged; there could be no necessity for +him to rush into slavery at once; he would speak to her, of course, +by-and-by; and whenever he came to her he well knew that he would be +equally welcomed: he was so sure of her. Nothing on earth or under Heaven +is so fatal to a man's love as that. There was no longer any uncertainty; +there was none of the keenness of pursuit dear to the old hunting +instinct inherent in man; there was not even the charm of variety in her +moods. She was always the same to him; always she pouted a little at +first, and looked ill-tempered, and reproached him; and always she came +round again at his very first kind word, and poured out her heart in a +torrent of worship at his feet. Maurice knew it all by heart, the sulks +and the cross words, and then the passionate denials, and the wild +protestations of her undying love. He was sorry for her, too, in his way; +he was too tender-hearted, too chivalrous, to be anything but kind to +her; but though he was sorry, he could not love her; and, oh! how +insufferably weary of her he was! + +Presently he did come up to her, and took the seat by her side just +vacated by the attache. The little serio-comedy instantly repeated +itself. + +A little pout and a little toss of the head. + +"You have been as long coming to speak to me as you possibly could be." + +"Do you think it would look well if I had come rushing up to you the +instant I came in?" + +"You need not, at all events, have stood talking for ten minutes to that +great black-eyed Lady Anderleigh. Of course, if you like her better than +me, you can go back to her." + +"Of course I can, if I choose, you silly little woman; but seeing that +I am by you, and not by her, I suppose it is a proof that I prefer your +society, is it not?" + +Very polite, but not strictly true, Captain Maurice! At his heart he +preferred talking to Lady Anderleigh, or to any other woman in the room. +The admission, however, was quite enough for Helen. + +"Dear Maurice," she whispered, "forgive me; I am a jealous, bad-tempered +wretch, but," lower still, "it is only because I love you so much." + +And had there been no one in the room, Maurice knew perfectly that at +this juncture Mrs. Romer would have cast her arms around his neck--as +usual. + +To his unspeakable relief, a man--a clever lawyer, whose attention was a +flattering thing to any woman--came up to Helen at this moment, and took +a vacant chair beside her. Maurice thankfully slipped away, leaving his +inamorata in a state of rage and disgust with that talented and elderly +lawyer, such as no words can describe. + +Captain Kynaston took the favourable opportunity of escaping across the +hall, where he spent the remainder of the evening, dividing his attention +between the music and supper rooms, and Helen saw him no more that night. + +She saw, however, some one she had not reckoned upon seeing. Glancing +carelessly across to the end of the room, she perceived, talking to Lady +Kynaston, a little French gentleman, with a smooth black head, a neat, +pointed, little black beard, and the red ribbon of the Legion d'Honneur +in his button-hole. + +What there was in the sight of so harmless and inoffensive a personage to +upset her it may be difficult to say; but the fact is that, when Mrs. +Romer perceived this polite little Frenchman talking to her hostess, she +turned suddenly so sick and white, that a lady sitting near her asked her +if she was going to faint. + +"I feel it a little hot," she murmured; "I think I will go into the next +room." She rose and attempted to escape--whether from the heat or the +observation of the little Frenchman was best known to herself. + +Her maneuver, however, was not destined to succeed. Before she could +work her way half-way through the crush to the door, the man whom she was +bent upon avoiding turned round and saw her. A look of glad recognition +flashed into his face, and he instantly left Lady Kynaston's side, and +came across the room to speak to her. + +"This is an unlooked-for pleasure, madame." + +"I certainly never expected to meet you here, Monsieur D'Arblet," +faltered Helen, turning red and white alternately. + +"Will you not come and have a little conversation with me?" + +"I was just going away." + +"So soon! Oh, bien! then I will take you to your carriage." He held out +his arm, and Helen was perforce obliged to take it. + +There was a little delay in the hall, whilst Helen waited for her, or +rather for her grandfather's carriage, during which she stood with her +hand upon her unwelcome friend's arm. Whilst they were waiting he +whispered something eagerly in her ear. + +"No, no; it is impossible!" reiterated Helen, with much apparent +distress. + +Monsieur D'Arblet whispered something more. + +"Very well, if you insist upon it!" she said, faintly, and then got into +her carriage and was driven away. + +Before, however, she had left Walpole Lodge five minutes, she called out +to the servants to stop the carriage. The footman descended from the box +and came round to the window. + +They had drawn up by the side of a long wall quite beyond the crowd of +carriages that was waiting at Lady Kynaston's house. + +"I want to wait here a few minutes, for--for a gentleman I am going to +drive back to town," she said to the servant, confusedly. She was ashamed +to give such an order to him. + +She was frightened too, and trembled with nervousness lest any one should +see her waiting here. + +It was a cold, damp night, and Helen shivered, and drew her fur cloak +closer about her in the darkness. Presently there came footsteps along +the pathway, and a man came through the fog up to the door. It was opened +for him in silence, and he got in, and the carriage drove off again. + +Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet had a mean, cunning-looking countenance; +strictly speaking, indeed, he was rather handsome, his features being +decidedly well-shaped, but the evil and vindictive expression of his +face made it an unpleasant one to look upon. As he took his seat in the +brougham by Helen's side she shrank instinctively away from him. + +"So, ma mie!" he said, peering down into her face with odious +familiarity, "here I find you again after all this time, beautiful as +ever! It is charming to be with you again, once more." + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessity +would have induced me to drive you home to-night," said Helen, who was +trembling violently. + +"You are not polite, ma belle--there is a charming _franchise_ about you +Englishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation." + +"You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone," +she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration. + +"_Le souvenir du beau passe!_" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly. +"Is that it, ma belle Helene?" + +"Monsieur," she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity's +sake tell me what you have done with my letters--have you destroyed +them?" + +"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my +heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?" + +"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly. + +"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one--every single +one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter +in his black eyes. + +"Not that--_that_ one?" pleaded Helen, piteously. + +"Yes--that one too--that charming and delightful letter in which you so +generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection--do you remember +it?" + +"Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands. + +"Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which +resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah! +it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of +Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to +rush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband was +lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him--ce pauvre mari! +Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he was +not what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and I +had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the +theatre and the bal d'Opera--do you remember?" + +"Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" cried +Helen, despairingly. + +He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were good +enough to write me several letters--there were one, two, three, four of +them," counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth--that +one you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone out +of Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband had +left for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is my +consolation, my tresor!" + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-like +feeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat you +to do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was so +unhappy--do you not see that they compromise me fatally; that it is my +good name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had half +sunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her hands +entreatingly together. + +Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with _empressement_. + +"Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you be +afraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?" + +Helen burst into bitter tears. + +"How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat a +lady in this way." + +"Your Englishmen are fools, ma chere--and I--I am French!" he replied, +shrugging his shoulders expressively. + +"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those +wretched letters?" + +He bent his face down close to hers. + +"Shall I tell you, belle Helene? It is this: You are beautiful and you +have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you +will have money--then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with +that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will +marry me, ma chere, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see? +Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as +much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will +not venture to marry--because I have these letters?" + +"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly. + +"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to +be your husband after he had read that last letter--the fifth, you know?" + +No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion. + +Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did +not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had +buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage. + +"Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your +house. We have had our little talk, have we not?" + +The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door. + +"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet, +raising his hat politely. + +In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness had +concealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, was +driven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +EVENING REVERIES. + + For nothing on earth is sadder + Than the dream that cheated the grasp, + The flower that turned to the adder, + The fruit that changed to the asp, + When the dayspring in darkness closes, + As the sunset fades from the hills, + With the fragrance of perished roses, + And the music of parched-up rills. + + A. L. Gordon. + + +It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, +when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a +man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet. + +It had begun in all innocence--on her part, at least. She had been very +miserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriage +had been. She had felt herself to be fatally separated from Maurice, the +man she loved, for ever; and Monsieur D'Arblet had been kind to her; he +had pitied her for being tied to a husband who drank and who gambled, and +Helen had allowed herself to be pitied. D'Arblet had charming manners, +and an accurate knowledge of the weakness of the fair sex; he knew when +to flatter and when to cajole her, when to be tenderly sympathetic to her +sorrows, and when to divert her thoughts to brighter and pleasanter +topics than her own miseries. He succeeded in fascinating her completely. +Whilst her husband was occupied with his own disreputable friends, Helen, +sooner than remain alone in their hotel night after night, was persuaded +to accept Monsieur D'Arblet's escort to theatres and operas, and other +public places, where her constant presence with him very soon compromised +her amongst the few friends who knew her in Paris. + +Then came scenes with her husband; frantic letters of misery to this +French vicomte, whom she imagined to be so devotedly attached to her, +and, finally, one ever-to-be-repented letter, in which she offered to +leave her husband for ever and to come to him. + +True, this letter did not reach its destination till too late, and Helen +was mercifully saved from the fate which, in her wicked despair, she was +ready to rush upon. Twenty-four hours after her return to England she saw +the horrible abyss upon which she had stood, and thanked God from the +bottom of her heart that she had been rescued, in spite of herself, from +so dreadful a deed. But the letter had been written, and was in Lucien +D'Arblet's possession. Later on she learnt, by a chance conversation, the +true character of the man, and shuddered when she remembered how nearly +she had wrecked her whole life for him. And when her husband's death had +placed her once more in the security and affluence of her grandfather's +house, with fresh hopes and fresh chances before her, she had but one +wish with regard to that Parisian episode of her life,--to forget it as +though it had never been. + +She hoped, and, as time went on, she felt sure, that she would never see +Monsieur D'Arblet again. New hopes and new excitements occupied her +thoughts. The man to whom in her youth she had given her heart once more +came across her life; she was thrown very much into his society; she +learnt to love him more devotedly than ever, and when at last she had +succeeded in establishing the sort of engagement which existed between +them, she had assured him, and also assured herself, that no other man +had ever, for one instant, filled her fancy. That stormy chapter of her +married life was forgotten; she resolutely wiped it out of her memory, as +if it had never existed. + +And now, after all this time--it was five years ago--she had met him +again--this Frenchman, who had once compromised her name, and who now had +possession of her letters. + +There was a cruel irony of fate in the fact that she should be destined +to meet him again at Lady Kynaston's, the very house of all others where +she would least have wished to see him. + +There was, however, had she thought of it, nothing at all extraordinary +in her having done so. No house in all London society was so open to +foreigners as Walpole Lodge, and Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet was no +unknown upstart; he bore a good old name; he was clever, had taken an +active part in diplomatic life, and was a very well-known individual in +Parisian society. He had been brought to Lady Kynaston's by a member of +the French Embassy, who was a frequenter of her soirees. + +Neither, however, was meeting with Mrs. Romer entirely accidental on +Monsieur D'Arblet's part. He had never forgotten the pretty Englishwoman +who had so foolishly and recklessly placed herself in his power. + +It is true he had lost sight of her, and other intrigues and other +pursuits had filled his leisure hours; but when he came to England he had +thought of her again, and had made a few careless inquiries after her. It +was not difficult to identify her; the Mrs. Romer who was now a widow, +who lived with her rich grandfather, who was very old, who would probably +soon die and leave her all his wealth, was evidently the same Mrs. Romer +whom he had known. The friend who gave him the information spoke of her +as lovely and _spirituelle_, and as a woman who would be worth marrying +some day. "She is often at Lady Kynaston's receptions," he had added. + +"Mon cher, take me to your Lady Kynaston's soirees," had been Lucien +D'Arblet's lazy rejoinder as they finished their evening smoke together. +"I would like to meet my friend, la belle veuve, again, and I will see if +she has forgotten me." + +Bitter, very bitter, were Mrs. Romer's remorseful meditations that night +when she reached her grandfather's house at Prince's Gate. Every detail +of her acquaintance with Lucien D'Arblet came back to her with a horrible +and painful distinctness. Over and over again she cursed her own folly, +and bewailed the hardness of the fate which placed her once more in the +hands of this man. + +Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her? Would he bring forward +those letters to spoil her life once more--to prevent her from marrying +Maurice should she ever have the chance of doing so? + +Stooping alone over her fire, with all the brightness, and all the +freshness gone out of her, with an old and almost haggard look in the +face that was so lately beaming with smiles and dimples, Helen Romer +asked herself shudderingly these bitter questions over and over again. + +Had she been sure of Maurice's love, she would have been almost tempted +to have confessed her fault, and to have thrown herself upon his mercy; +but she knew that he did not love her well enough to forgive her. Too +well she knew with what disgust and contempt Maurice would be likely to +regard her past conduct; such a confession would, she knew, only induce +him to shake himself clear of her for ever. Indeed, had he loved her, it +is doubtful whether Maurice would have been able to condone so grave a +fault in the past history of a woman; his own standard of honour stood +too high to allow him to pass over lightly any disgraceful or +dishonourable conduct in those with whom he had to do. But, loving her +not, she would have been utterly without excuse in his eyes. + +She knew it well enough. No, her only chance was in silence, and in vague +hopes that time might rescue her out of her difficulties. + +Meanwhile, whilst Helen Romer sat up late into the early morning, +thinking bitterly over her past sins and her future dangers, Maurice +Kynaston and his mother also kept watch together at Walpole Lodge after +all the guests had gone away, and the old house was left alone again to +the mother and son. + +"Something troubles you, little mother," said Maurice, as he stretched +himself upon the rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head down +caressingly upon her knees. + +Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair. "How well +you know my face, Maurice! Yes, something has worried me all day--it is a +letter from your brother." + +Maurice looked up laughingly. "What, is old John in trouble? That would +be something new. Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and dropped +his money at Newmarket, too?" + +"No, you naughty boy? John has got more sense. No!" with a sigh--"I wish +it were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that." + +"My dear mother, you alarm me," cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay; +"why, whatever has he been and gone and done?" + +"Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at--it is some woman--a girl he has +met down at Kynaston; some nobody--a clergyman's daughter, or sister, or +something--whom he says he is going to marry!" Lady Kynaston looked the +picture of distress and dismay. + +Maurice laughed softly. "Well, well, mother; there is nothing very +dreadful after all--I am sure I wish him joy." + +"My boy," she said, below her breath, "I had so hoped, so trusted he +would never marry--it seemed so unlikely--he seemed so completely happy +in his bachelor's life; and I had hoped that you--that you----" + +"Yes, yes, mother dear, I know," he said, quickly, and twisted himself +round till he got her hand between his, kissing it as he spoke; "but I--I +never thought of that--dear old John, he has been the best of brothers to +me; and, mother dear, I know it is all your love to me; but you and I, +dear, we will not grudge him his happiness, will we?" + +He knew so well her weakness--how that she had loved him at the expense +of the other son, who was not so dear to her; he loved her for it, and +yet he did not at his heart think it right. + +Lady Kynaston wiped a few tears away. "You are always right, my boy, +always, and I am a foolish old woman. But oh, Maurice, that is only half +the trouble! Who is this woman whom he has chosen? Some country girl, +ignorant of the ways of the world, unformed and awkward--not fitted to be +his wife!" + +"Does he say so?" laughed Maurice. + +"No, no, of course not. Stay, where is his letter? Oh, there, on the +dressing-table; give it me, my dear. No, this is what he says: 'Miss +Nevill seems to me in every way to fulfil my ideal of a good and perfect +woman, and, if she will consent to marry me, I intend to make her my +wife.'" + +"Well, a good and perfect woman is a _rara avis_, at all events mother." + +"Oh, dear! but all men say that of a girl when they are in love--it +amounts to very little." + +"You see, he has evidently not proposed to her yet; perhaps she will +refuse him." + +"Refuse Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall! A poor clergyman's daughter! +My dear Maurice, I gave you credit for more knowledge of the world. +Besides, John is a fine-looking man. Oh, no, she is not in the least +likely to refuse him." + +"Then all we have got to do is to make the best of her," said Maurice, +composedly. + +"That is easily said for you, who need see very little of her. But +John's wife is a person who will be of great importance to my +happiness. Dear me! and to think he might have had Lady Mary Hendrie +for the asking: a charming creature, well born, highly educated and +accomplished--everything that a man could wish for. And there were the De +Vallery girls--either of them would have married him, and been a suitable +wife for him; and he must needs go and throw himself away on a little +country chit, who could have been equally happy, and much more suitably +mated, with her father's curate. Maurice, my dear," with a sudden change +of voice, "I wish you would go down and cut him out; if you made love to +her ever so little you could turn her head, you know." + +Maurice burst out laughing. "Oh, you wicked, immoral little mother! Did I +ever hear such an iniquitous proposition! Do you want _me_ to marry her?" + +"No, no!" laughed his mother; "but you might make her think you meant to, +and then, perhaps, she would refuse John." + +"I have not Kynaston Hall at my back, remember, after which you have +given her the credit of angling. Besides, mother dear, to speak plainly, +I honestly do not think my taste in women is in the least likely to be +the same as John's. No, I think I will keep out of the way whilst the +love-making is going on. I will go down and have a look at the young +woman by-and-by when it is all settled, and let you know what I think of +her. I dare say a good, honest country lass will suit John far better +than a beautiful woman of the world, who would be sure to be miserable +with him. Don't fret, little mother; make the best of her if you can." + +He rose and stretched himself up to his full height before the fire. Lady +Kynaston looked up at him admiringly. Oh, she thought, if the money and +the name could only have been his! How well he would have made use of it; +how proud she would have been of him--her handsome boy, whom all men +liked, and all women would gladly love. + +"A good son makes a good husband," she said aloud, following her own +thoughts. + +"And John has been a good son, mother," said Maurice, cordially. + +"Yes, yes, in his way, perhaps; but I was thinking of you, my boy, not +of him, and how lucky will be the woman who is your wife, Maurice--will +it be----" + +Maurice stooped quickly, and laid his hand playfully over her lips. + +"I don't know, mother dear--never ask me--for I don't know it myself." +And then he kissed her, and wished her good-night, and left her. + +She sat long over her fire, dreaming, by herself, thinking a little, +perhaps, of the elder son, and the bride he was going to bring her, whom +she should have to welcome whether she liked her or no, but thinking more +of the younger, whose inner life she had studied, and who was so entirely +dear and precious to her. It was very little to her that he had been +extravagant and thoughtless, that he had lost money in betting and +racing--these were minor faults--and she and John between them had always +managed to meet his difficulties; they had not been, in truth, very +tremendous. But for that, he had never caused her one day's anxiety, +never given her one instant's pain. "God grant he may get a wife who +deserves him," was the mother's prayer that night. "I doubt if Helen +be worthy of him; but if he loves her, as I believe he must do, no word +of mine shall stand between him and his happiness." + +And then she went to bed, and dreamed, as mothers dream of the child they +love best. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE MEMBER FOR MEADOWSHIRE. + + Honour and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part, there all the honour lies. + + Pope, "Essay on Man." + + +About five miles from Kynaston Hall, as the crow flies, across the +fields, stood, as the house-agents would have described it, "a large +and commodious modern mansion, standing in about eighty acres of +well-timbered park land." + +I do not know that any description that could be given of Shadonake would +so well answer to the reality as the above familiar form of words. + +The house was undoubtedly large, very large, and it was also modern, very +modern. It was a handsome stone structure, with a colonnade of white +pillars along the entrance side, and with a multiplicity of large +plate-glass windows stretching away in interminable vistas in every +direction. A broad gravel sweep led up to the front door; to the right +were the stables, large and handsome too, with a clock-tower and a belfry +over the gateway; and to the left were the gardens and the shrubberies. + +There had been an old house once at Shadonake, old and picturesque and +uncomfortable; but when the property had been purchased by the present +owner--Mr. Andrew Miller--after he had been returned as Conservative +member for the county, the old house was swept away, and a modern +mansion, more suited to the wants and requirements of his family, arose +in its place. + +The park was flat, but well wooded. The old trees, of course, remained +intact; but the gardens of the first house, being rambling and +old-fashioned, had been done away with, to make room for others on a +larger and more imposing scale; and vineries and pineries, orchid-houses, +and hot-houses of every description arose rapidly all over the site of +the old bowling-green and the wilderness, half kitchen garden, half +rosary, that had served to content the former owners of Shadonake, now +all lying dead and buried in the chancel of the village church. + +The only feature of the old mansion which had been left untouched was +rather a remarkable one. It was a large lake or pond, lying south of the +gardens, and about a quarter of a mile from the house. It lay in a sort +of dip in the ground, and was surrounded on all four sides--for it was +exactly square--by very steep high banks, which had been cut into by +steep stone steps, now gray, and broken, and moss-grown, which led down +straight into the water. This pool was called Shadonake Bath. How long +the steps had existed no one knew; probably for several hundred years, +for there was a ghost story connected with them. Somebody was supposed, +before the memory of any one living, to have been drowned there, and to +haunt the steps at certain times of the year. + +It is certain that but for the fact of a mania for boating, and punting, +and skating indulged in by several of his younger sons, Mr. Miller, in +his energy for sweeping away all things old, and setting up all things +new, would not have spared the Bath any more than he had spared the +bowling-green. He had gone so far, indeed, as to have a plan submitted to +him for draining it, and turning it into a strawberry garden, and for +doing away with the picturesque old stone steps altogether in order to +encase the banks in red brick, suitable to the cultivation of peaches and +nectarines; but Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys, had thought about +their punts and their canoes, and had pleaded piteously for the Bath; so +the Bath was allowed to remain untouched, greatly to the relief of many +of the neighbours, who were proud of its traditions, and who, in the +general destruction that had been going on at Shadonake, had trembled for +its safety. + +Where Mr. Miller had originally come from nobody exactly knew. It was +generally supposed that he had migrated early in life from northern and +manufacturing districts, where his father had amassed a large fortune. +In spite, however, of his wealth, it is doubtful whether he would ever +have achieved the difficult task of being returned for so exclusive and +aristocratic a county as Meadowshire had he not made a most prudent and +politic marriage. He had married one of the Miss Esterworths, of +Lutterton. + +Now, everybody who has the slightest knowledge of Meadowshire and its +internal politics will see at once that Andrew Miller could not have done +better for himself. The Esterworths are the very oldest and best of the +old county families; there can be no sort of doubt whatever as to their +position and standing. Therefore, when Andrew Miller married Caroline +Esterworth, there was at once an end of all hesitation as to how he was +to be treated amongst them. Meadowshire might wonder at Miss Caroline's +taste, but it kept its wonder to itself, and held out the right hand of +fellowship to Andrew Miller then and ever after. + +It is true that there were five Miss Esterworths, all grown up, and all +unmarried, at the time when Andrew came a-wooing to Lutterton Castle; +they were none of them remarkable for beauty, and Caroline, who was the +eldest of the five, less so than the others. Moreover, there were many +sons at Lutterton, and the daughters' portions were but small. Altogether +the love-making had been easy and prosperous, for Caroline, who was a +sensible young woman, had readily recognized the superior advantages +of marrying an excellent man of no birth or breeding, with twenty +thousand a year, to remaining Miss Esterworth to her dying day, in +dignified but impecunious spinsterhood. Time had proved the wisdom of her +choice. For some years the Millers had rented a small but pretty little +house within two miles of Lutterton, where, of course, everybody visited +them, and got used to Andrew's squat, burly figure, and agreed to +overlook his many little defects of speech and manner in consideration of +his many excellent qualities--and his wealth--and where, in course of +time, all their children, two daughters and six sons, were born. + +And then, a vacancy occurring opportunely, Mrs. Miller determined that +her husband should stand in the Conservative interest for the county. She +would have made a Liberal of him had she thought it would answer better. +How she toiled and how she slaved, and how she kept her Andrew, who was +not by any means ambitious of the position, up to the mark, it boots not +here to tell. Suffice it to say, that the deed was accomplished, and that +Andrew Miller became M.P. for North Meadowshire. + +Almost at the same time Shadonake fell into the market, and Mrs. Miller +perceived that the time had now come for her husband's wealth to be +recognized and appreciated; or, as he himself expressed it, in vernacular +that was strictly to the point if inelegant in diction, the time was +come for him "to cut a splash." + +She had been very clever, this daughter of the Esterworths. She had kept +a tight rein over her husband all through the early years of their +married life. She would have no ostentation, no vulgar display of wealth, +no parading and flaunting of that twenty thousand per annum in their +neighbours' faces. And she had done what she had intended; she had +established her husband's position well in the county--she had made him +to be accepted, not only by reason of his wealth, but also because he was +her husband; she had roused no one's envy--she had never given cause for +spite or jealousy--she had made him popular as well as herself. They had +lived quietly and unobtrusively; they had, of course, had everything of +the best; their horses and carriages were irreproachable, but they had +not had more of them than their neighbours. They had entertained freely, +and they had given their guests well-cooked dinners and expensive wines; +but there had been nothing lavish in their entertainments, nothing that +could make any of them go away and say to themselves, with angry +discontent, that "those Millers" were purse-proud and vulgar in their +wealth. When she had gone to her neighbours' houses Mrs. Miller had been +handsomely but never extravagantly dressed; she had praised their cooks, +and expressed herself envious of their flowers, and had bemoaned her own +inability to vie with their peaches and their pineapples; she had never +talked about her own possessions, nor had she ever paraded her own eight +thousand pounds' worth of diamonds before the envious eyes of women who +had none. + +In this way she had made herself popular--and in this way she had won the +county seat for her husband. + +When, however, that great end and aim of her existence was accomplished, +Caroline Miller felt that she might now fairly launch out a little. The +time was come when she might reap the advantage of her long years of +repression and patient waiting. Her daughters were growing up, her sons +were all at school. For her children's sake, it was time that she should +take the lead in the county which their father's fortune and new position +entitled them to, and which no one now was likely to grudge them. +Shadonake therefore was bought, and the house straightway pulled down, +and built up again in a style, and with a magnificence, befitting Mr. +Miller's wealth. + +Bricks and mortar were Andrew Miller's delight. He was never so happy as +during the three years that Shadonake House was being built; every stone +that was laid was a fresh interest to him; every inch of brick wall a +keen and special delight. He had been disappointed not to have had the +spoliation of Shadonake Bath; it had been a distinct mortification to him +to have to forego the four brick walls which would have replaced its +ancient steps; but then he had made it up to himself by altering the +position of the front door three times before it was finally settled +to his satisfaction. + +But all this was over by this time, and when my story begins Shadonake +new House, as it was sometimes called, was built, and furnished and +inhabited in every corner of its lofty rooms, and all along the spacious +length of its many wide corridors. + +One afternoon--it is about a week later than that soiree at Walpole +Lodge, mentioned in a previous chapter--Mrs. Miller and her eldest +daughter are sitting together in the large drawing-room at Shadonake. The +room is furnished in that style of high artistic decoration that is now +the fashion. There are rich Persian rugs over the polished oak floor; a +high oak chimney-piece, with blue tiles inserted into it in every +direction, and decorated with old Nankin china bowls and jars; a wide +grate below, where logs of wood are blazing between brass bars; +quantities of spindle-legged Chippendale furniture all over the room, +and a profusion of rich gold embroidery and "textile fabrics" of all +descriptions lighting up the carved oak "dado" and the sombre sage green +of the walls. There are pictures, too, quite of the best, and china of +every period and every style, upon every available bracket and shelf and +corner where a cup or a plate can be made to stand. Four large windows on +one side open on to the lawn; two, at right angles to them, lead into +a large conservatory, where there is, even at this dead season of the +year, a blaze of exotic blossoms that fill the room with their sweet rich +odour. + +Mrs. Miller sits before a writing bureau of inlaid satin-wood of an +ancient pattern. She has her pen in her hand, and is docketing her +visiting list. Beatrice Miller sits on a low four-legged stool by her +mother's side, with a large Japanese china bowl on her knees filled with +cards, which she takes out one after the other, reading the names upon +them aloud to her mother before tossing them into a basket, also of +Japanese structure, which is on the floor in front of her. + +Beatrice is Mrs. Miller's eldest daughter, and she is twenty. Guy is only +eleven months older, and Edwin is a year younger--they are both at +Oxford; next comes Geraldine, who is still in the school-room, but who is +hoping to come out next Easter; then Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys; +and lastly, Teddy and Ralph, who are at a famous preparatory school, +whence they hope, in process of time, to be drafted on to Eton, following +in the footsteps of their elder brothers. + +Of all this large family it is Beatrice, the eldest daughter, who causes +her mother the most anxiety. Beatrice is like her mother--a plain but +clever-looking girl, with the dark swart features and colouring of the +Esterworths, who are not a handsome race. Added to which, she inherits +her father's short and somewhat stumpy figure. Such a personal appearance +in itself is enough to cause uneasiness to any mother who is anxious for +her daughter's future; but when these advantages of looks are rendered +still more peculiar by the fact that her hair had to be shaved off some +years ago when she had scarlet fever, and that it has never grown again +properly, but is worn short and loose about her face like a boy's, with +its black tresses tumbling into her eyes every time she looks down--and +when, added to this, Mrs. Miller also discovered to her mortification +that Beatrice possessed a will of her own, and so decided a method of +expressing her opinions and convictions, that she was not likely to be +easily moulded to her own views, you will, perhaps, understand the extent +of the difficulties with which she has to deal. + +For, of course, so clever and so managing a woman as Mrs. Miller has not +allowed her daughter to grow up to the age of twenty without making the +most careful and judiciously-laid schemes for her ultimate disposal. That +Beatrice is to marry is a matter of course, and Mrs. Miller has well +determined that the marriage is to be a good one, and that her daughter +is to strengthen her father's position in Meadowshire by a union with one +or other of its leading families. Now, when Mrs. Miller came to pass the +marriageable men of Meadowshire under review, there was no such eligible +bachelor amongst them all as Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall. + +It was on him, therefore, that her hopes with regard to Beatrice were +fixed. Fortune hitherto had seemed to smile favourably upon her. Beatrice +had had one season in town, during which she had met Sir John frequently, +and he had, contrary to his usual custom, asked her to dance several +times when he had met her at balls. Mrs. Miller said to herself that Sir +John, not being a very young man, did not set much store upon mere +personal beauty; that he probably valued mental qualities in a woman more +highly than the transient glitter of beauty; and that Beatrice's good +sense and sharp, shrewd conversation had evidently made a favourable +impression upon him. + +She never was more mistaken in her life. True, Sir John did like Miss +Miller, he found her unconventional and amusing; but his only object in +distinguishing her by his attentions had been to pay a necessary +compliment to the new M.P.'s daughter, a duty which he would have +fulfilled equally had she been stupid as well as plain: moreover, as we +have seen, few men were so intensely sensitive to beauty in a woman as +was Sir John Kynaston. Mrs. Miller, however, was full of hopes concerning +him. To do her justice, she was not exactly vulgarly ambitious for her +daughter; she liked Sir John personally, and had a high respect for his +character, and she considered that Beatrice's high spirit and self-willed +disposition would be most desirably moderated and kept in check by a +husband so much older than herself. Lady Kynaston, moreover, was one of +her best and dearest friends, and was her beau-ideal of all that a clever +and refined lady should be. The match, in every respect, would have been +a very acceptable one to her. Whether or no Miss Beatrice shared her +mother's views on her behalf remains to be seen. + +The mother and daughter are settling together the preliminaries of a +week's festivities which Mrs. Miller has decided shall be held at +Shadonake this winter. The house is to be filled, and there are to be a +series of dinner parties, culminating in a ball. + +"The Bayleys, the Westons, the Foresters, and two daughters, I suppose," +reads Mrs. Miller, aloud, from the list in her hand, "Any more for the +second dinner-party, Beatrice?" + +"Are you not going to ask the Daintrees, of Sutton, mother?" + +"Oh, dear me, another parson, Beatrice! I really don't think we can; I +have got three already. They shall have a card for the ball." + +"You will ask that handsome girl who lives with them, won't you?" + +"Not the slightest occasion for doing so," replied her mother, shortly. +Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. + +"Why, she is the best-looking woman in all Meadowshire; we cannot leave +her out." + +"I know nothing about her, not even her name; she is some kind of poor +relation, I believe--acts as the children's governess. We have too many +women as it is. No, I certainly shall not ask her. Go on to the next, +Beatrice." + +"But, mother, she is so very handsome! Surely you might include her." + +"Dear me, Beatrice, what a stupid girl you are! What is the good of +asking handsome girls to cut you out in your own house? I should have +thought you would have had the sense to see that for yourself," said Mrs. +Miller, impatiently. + +"I think you are horribly unjust, mamma," says Miss Beatrice, +energetically; "and it is downright unkind to leave her out because +she is handsome--as if I cared." + +"How can I ask her if I do not know her name?" said her mother, +irritably, with just that amount of dread of her daughter's rising temper +to make her anxious to conciliate her. "If you like to find out who she +is and all about her----" + +"Yes, I will find out," said Beatrice, quietly; "give me the note, I will +keep it back for the present." + +"Now, for goodness sake, go on, child, and don't waste any more time. Who +are coming from town to stay in the house?" + +"Well, there will be Lady Kynaston, I suppose." + +"Yes. She won't come till the end of the week. I have heard from her; she +will try and get down in time for the ball." + +"Then there will be the Macpherson girls and Helen Romer. And, as a +matter of course, Captain Kynaston must be asked?" + +"Yes. What a fool that woman is to advertise her feelings so openly that +one is obliged to ask her attendant swain to follow her wherever she +goes!" + +"On the contrary, I think her remarkably clever; she gets what she wants, +and the cleverest of us can do no more. It is a well-known fact to all +Helen's acquaintances that not to ask Captain Kynaston to meet her would +be deliberately to insult her--she expects it as her right." + +"All the same, it is in very bad taste and excessively underbred of her. +However, I should ask Captain Kynaston in any case, for his mother's +sake, and because I like him. He is a good shot, too, and the coverts +must be shot that week. Who next?" + +"Mr. Herbert Pryme." + +"Goodness me! Beatrice, what makes you think of _him_? We don't know +anything about him--where he comes from or who are his belongings--he is +only a nobody!" + +"He is a barrister, mamma!" + +"Yes, of course, I know that--but, then, there are barristers of all +sorts. I am sure I do not know what made you fix upon him; you only met +him two or three times in town." + +"I liked him," said Beatrice, carelessly; "he is a gentleman, and would +be a pleasant man to have in the house." + +Her mother looked at her sharply. She was playing with the gold locket +round her neck, twisting it backwards and forwards along its chain, her +eyes fixed upon the heap of cards on her lap. There was not the faintest +vestige of a blush upon her face. + +"However," she continued, "if you don't care about having him, strike his +name out. Only it is a pity, because Sophy Macpherson is rather fond of +him, I fancy." + +This was a lie; it was Miss Beatrice herself who was fond of him, but not +even her mother, keen and quick-scented as she was, could have guessed it +from her impassive face. Mrs. Miller was taken in completely. + +"Oh," she said, "if Sophy Macpherson likes him, that alters the case. Oh, +yes, I will ask him by all means--as you say, he is a gentleman and +pleasant." + +"Look, mamma!" exclaimed Beatrice, suddenly; "there is uncle Tom riding +up the drive." + +Now, Tom Esterworth was a very important personage; he was the present +head of the Esterworth family, and, as such, the representative of its +ancient honours and traditions. He was a bachelor, and reigned in +solitary grandeur at Lutterton Castle, and kept the hounds as his +fathers had done before him. + +Uncle Tom was thought very much of at Shadonake, and his visits always +caused a certain amount of agitation in his sister's mind. To her dying +day she would be conscious that in Tom's eyes she had been guilty of a +_mesalliance_. She never could get that idea out of her head; it made her +nervous and ill at ease in his presence. She hustled all her notes and +cards hurriedly together into her bureau. + +"Uncle Tom! Dear me, what can he have come to-day for! I thought the +hounds were out. Ring the bell, Beatrice; he will like some tea. Where +is your father?" + +"Papa is out superintending the building of the new pigsties," said +Beatrice as she rang the bell. "I think uncle Tom has been hunting; he is +in boots and breeches I see." + +"Dear me, I hope your father won't come in with his muddy feet and his +hands covered with earth," said Mrs. Miller, nervously. + +Uncle Tom came in, a tall, dark-faced, strong-limbed man of fifty--an +ugly man, if you will, but a gentleman, and an Esterworth, every inch of +him. He kissed his sister, and patted his niece on the cheek. + +"Why weren't you out to-day, Pussy?" + +"You met so far off, uncle. I had no one to ride with to the meet. The +boys will be back next week. Have you had a good run?" + +"No, we've done nothing but potter about all the morning; there isn't a +scrap of scent." + +"Uncle Tom, will you give us a meet here when we have our house-warming?" + +"Humph! you haven't got any foxes at Shadonake," answered her uncle. He +had drawn his chair to the fire, and was warming his hands over the +blazing logs. Beatrice was rather a favourite with him. "I will see about +it, Pussy," he added, kindly, seeing that she looked disappointed. Mrs. +Miller was pouring him out a cup of tea. + +"Well, I've got a piece of news for you women!" says Mr. Esterworth, +stretching out his hand for his tea. "John Kynaston's going to be +married!" + +Mrs. Miller never knew how it was that the old Worcester tea-cup in her +hand did not at this juncture fall flat on the ground into a thousand +atoms at her brother's feet. It is certain that only a very strong +exercise of self-control and presence of mind saved it from destruction. + +"Engaged to be married!" she said, with a gasp. + +"That is news indeed," cried Beatrice, heartily, "I am delighted." + +"Don't be so foolish, Beatrice," said her mother, quite sharply. "How on +earth can you be delighted when you don't even know who it is? Who is it, +Tom?" + +"Ah, that is the whole pith of the matter," said Mr. Esterworth, who was +not above the weakness of liking to be the bearer of a piece of gossip. +"I'll give you three guesses, and I'll bet you won't hit it." + +"One of the Courtenay girls?" + +"No." + +"Anna Vivian?" + +"I know," says Beatrice, nodding her head sagely; "it is that girl who +lives with the Daintrees." + +"Beatrice, how silly you are!" cries her mother. + +Tom Esterworth turns round in his chair, and looks at his niece. + +"By Jove, you've hit it!" he exclaims. "What a clever pussy you are to be +sure." + +And then the soul of the member's wife became filled with consternation +and disgust. + +"Well, I call it downright sly of John Kynaston!" she exclaims, angrily; +"picking out a nobody like that behind all our backs, and keeping it so +quiet, too; he ought to be ashamed of himself for such an unsuitable +selection!" + +Beatrice laughed. "You know, uncle Tom, mamma wanted him to marry me." + +"Beatrice, you should not say such things," said her mother, colouring. + +"Whew!" whistled Mr. Esterworth. "So that was the little game, Caroline, +was it? John Kynaston has better taste. He wouldn't have looked at an +ugly little girl like our pussy here, would he, Puss? Miss Nevill is one +of the finest women I ever saw in my life. She was at the meet to-day on +one of his horses; and, by Jove! she made all the other women look plain +by the side of her! Kynaston is a very lucky fellow." + +"I think, mamma, there can be no doubt about sending Miss Nevill an +invitation to our ball now," said Beatrice, laughingly. + +"She will have to be asked to stay in the house," said Mrs. Miller, with +something akin to a groan. "I cannot leave her out, as Lady Kynaston is +coming. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what fools men are, to be sure!" + +But Beatrice was wicked enough to laugh again over her mother's +discomfiture. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +ENGAGED. + + I wonder did you ever count + The value of one human fate, + Or sum the infinite amount + Of one heart's treasures, and the weight + Of one heart's venture. + + A. Procter. + + +It was quite true what Mr. Thomas Esterworth had said, that Vera was +engaged to Sir John Kynaston. + +It had all come about so rapidly, and withal so quietly, that, when Vera +came to think of it, it rather took her breath away. She had expected it, +of course; indeed, she had even planned and tried for it; but, when it +had actually come to her, she felt herself to be bewildered by the +suddenness of it. + +In the end the climax of the love-making had been prosaic enough. Sir +John had not felt himself equal to the task of a personal interview with +the lady of his affections, with the accompanying risks of a personal +rejection, which, in his modesty and humility with reference to her, he +had believed to be quite on the cards. So he had written to her. The note +had been taken up to the vicarage by the footman, and had been brought +into the dining-room by the vicarial parlour-maid, just as the three +ladies were finishing breakfast, and after the vicar himself had left the +room. + +"A note from Kynaston, please 'm," says rosy-cheeked Hannah, holding it +forth before her, upon a small japanned tray, as an object of general +family interest and excitement. + +"For your master, Hannah?" says old Mrs. Daintree. "Are they waiting for +an answer? You will find him in his study." + +"No, ma'am, it's for Miss Vera." + +"Dear me!" with a suspicious glance across the table; "how very odd!" + +Vera takes up the note and opens it. + +"May I have the crest, auntie?" clamours Tommy before she had read three +words of it. + +"Is it about the horse he has offered you to ride?" asks his mother. + +But Vera answers nothing; she gets up quietly, and leaves the room +without a word. + +"Extraordinary!" gasps Mrs. Daintree; "Vera's manners are certainly most +abrupt and unlady-like at times, Marion. I think you ought to point it +out to her." + +Marion murmurs some unintelligible excuse and follows her sister--leaving +the unfortunate Tommy a prey to his grandmother's tender mercies. So +brilliant an opportunity is not, of course, to be thrown away. Tommy's +fingers, having incontinently strayed in the direction of the +sugar-basin, are summarily slapped for their indiscretion, and an +admonition is straightway delivered to him in forcible language +concerning the pains and penalties which threaten the ulterior destiny of +naughty little boys in general and of such of them in particular who are +specially addicted to the abstraction of lumps of sugar from the +breakfast-table. + +Meanwhile, Marion has found her sister in the adjoining room standing up +alone upon the hearthrug with Sir John Kynaston's letter in her hands. +She is not reading it now, she is looking steadfastly into the fire. It +has fulfilled--nay, more than fulfilled--her wishes. The triumph of her +success is pleasant to her, and has brought a little more than their +usual glow into her cheeks, and yet--Heaven knows what vague and +intangible dreams and fancies have not somehow sunk down chill and cold +within her during the last five minutes. + +Gratified ambition--flattered vanity--the joy of success--all this she +feels to the full; but nothing more! There is not one single other +sensation within her. Her pulses have not quickened, ever so little, as +she read her lover's letter; her heart has not throbbed, even once, with +a sweeter, purer delight--such as she has read and heard that other women +have felt. + +"I suppose I have no heart," said Vera to herself; "it must be that I am +cold by nature. I am happy; but--but--I wonder what it feels like--this +_love_--that there is so much talked and written about?" + +And then Marion came in breathlessly. + +"Oh, Vera, what is it?" + +Vera turns round to her, smiling serenely, and places the note in her +hands. + +This is what Sir John Kynaston has written:-- + + "Dear Miss Nevill,--I do not think what I am about to say will be + altogether unexpected by you. You must have surely guessed how sincere + an affection I have learnt to feel for you. I know that I am unworthy + of you, and I am conscious of how vast a disparity there is between + my age and your own youth and beauty. But if my great love and devotion + can in any way bridge over the gap that lies between us, believe me, + that if you will consent to be my wife, my whole life shall be devoted + to making you happy. If you can give me an answer to-day, I shall be + very grateful, as suspense is hard to bear. But pray do not decide + against me in haste, and without giving me every chance in your power. + + "Yours devotedly, + "John Kynaston." + +"Oh! Vera, my darling sister, I am so glad!" cries Marion, in tearful +delight, throwing her arms up round the neck of the young sister, who is +so much taller than she is; "I had guessed it, dearest; I saw he was in +love with you; and oh, Vera, I shall have you always near me!" + +"Yes, that will be nice," assents Vera, quietly, and a trifle absently, +stroking her sister's cheek, with her eyes still fixed on the fire; "and +of course," rousing herself with an effort, "of course I am a very lucky +woman." + +And then Mr. Daintree came in, and his wife rushed to him rapturously to +impart the joyful news. There was a little pleasant confusion of broken +words and explanations between the three, and then Marion whisked away, +brimming over with triumphant delight to wave the flags of victory +exultingly in her mother-in-law's face. + +Eustace Daintree and Vera were alone. He took her hands within his, and +looked steadfastly in her face. + +"Vera, are you sure of yourself, my dear, in this matter?" + +Her eyes met his for a moment, and then fell before his earnest gaze. She +coloured a little. + +"I am quite sure that I mean to accept Sir John's proposal," she said, +with a little uneasy laugh. + +"Child, do you love him?" + +Her eyes met his again; there was a vague trouble in them. The man had a +power over her, the power of sheer goodness of soul. She could never be +untrue to herself with Eustace Daintree; she was always at her very best +with him, humble and gentle; and she could no more have told him a lie, +or put him off with vague conventionalities, than she could have +committed a deadly sin. + +What is it about some people that, in spite of ourselves, they thus force +out of us the best part of our nature; that base and unworthy thoughts +cannot live in us before them,--that they melt out of our hearts as the +snow before the rays of the sun? Even though the effect may be transient, +such is the power of their faith, and their truth, and their goodness, +that it must needs call forth in us something of the same spirit as their +own. + +Such was Eustace Daintree's influence over Vera. It was not because of +his office, for no one was less susceptible than Vera--a Protestant +brought up, with but vague ideas of her own faith, in a Catholic land--to +any of those recognized associations with which a purely English-bred +girl might have felt the character of the clergyman of the parish where +she lived to be invested. It was nothing of that sort that made him great +to her; it was, simply and solely, the goodness of the man that impressed +her. His guilelessness, his simplicity of mind, his absolute uprightness +of character, and, with it all, the absence in him of any assumption of +authority, or of any superiority of character over those about him. His +very humility made her humble with him, and exalted him into something +saintly in her eyes. + +When Eustace looked at her fixedly, with all his good soul in his earnest +eyes, and said to her again, "Do you love him, Vera?" Vera could but +answer him simply and frankly, almost against her will, as it were. + +"I don't think I do, Eustace; but then I do not quite know what love is. +I do not think, however, that it can be what I feel." + +"My child, no union can be hallowed without love. Vera, you will not run +into so great a danger?" he said anxiously. + +She looked up at him smiling. + +"I like him better than any one else, at all events. Better than Mr. +Gisburne, for instance. And I think, I do really think, Eustace, it will +be for my happiness." + +The vicar looked grave. "If Sir John Kynaston were a poor man, would you +marry him?" + +And Vera answered bravely, though with a heightened colour-- + +"No; but it is not only for the money, Eustace; indeed it is not. +But--but--I should be miserable without it; and I must do something with +my life." + +He drew her near to him, and kissed her forehead. He understood her. With +that rare gift of sympathy--the highest, the most God-like of all human +attributes--he felt at once what she meant. It was wonderful that this +man, who was so unworldly, so unselfish, so pure of the stains of earth +himself, should have seen at once her position from her own point of +view; that was neither a very exalted one, nor was it very free from the +dross of worldliness. But it was so. All at once he seemed to know by a +subtle instinct what were the weaknesses, and the temptations, and the +aims of this girl, who, with all her faults, was so dear to him. He +understood her better, perhaps, than she understood herself. Her soul was +untouched by passion; the story of her life was unwritten; there was no +danger for her yet; and perchance it might be that the storms of life +would pass her by unscathed, and that she might remain sheltered for ever +in the safe haven which had opened so unexpectedly to receive her. + +"There is a peril in the course you have chosen," he said, gravely; "but +your soul is pure, and you are safe. And I know, Vera, that you will +always do your duty." + +And the tears were in her eyes as he left her. + +When he had gone she sat down to write her answer to Sir John Kynaston. +She dipped her pen into the ink, and sat with it in her hand, thinking. +Her brother-in-law's words had aroused a fresh train of thought within +her. There seemed to be an amount of solemnity in what she was about to +do that she had not considered before. It was true that she did not love +him; but then, as she had told Eustace just now, she loved no one else; +she did not rightly understand what love meant, indeed. And is a woman to +wait on in patience for years until love comes to her? Would it ever +come? Probably not, thought Vera; not to her, who thought herself to be +cold, and not easily moved. There must be surely many women to whom this +wonderful thing of love never comes. In all her experience of life there +was nothing to contradict this. It was not as if she had been a girl who +had never left her native village, never tasted of the pleasures of life, +never known the sweet incense of flattery and devotion. Vera had known it +all. Many men had courted her; one or two had loved her dearly, but she +had not loved them. Amongst them all, indeed, there had been never one +whom she had liked with such a sincere affection as she now felt for this +man, who seemed to love her so much, and who wrote to her so diffidently, +and yet so devotedly. + +"I love him as well as I am ever likely to love any one," said Vera, to +herself. Yet still she leant her chin upon her hand and looked out of the +window at the gray bare branches of the elm-trees across the damp green +lawn, and still her letter was unwritten. + +"Vera!" cries Marion, coming in hurriedly and breaking in upon her +reverie, "the footman from Kynaston is waiting all this time to know if +there is any answer! Shall I send him away? Or have you made up your +mind?" + +"Oh yes, I have made up my mind. My note will be ready directly; he may +as well take it. It will save the trouble of sending up to the Hall +later." For Vera remembers that there is not a superfluity of servants +at the vicarage, and that they all of them have plenty to do. + +And thus, a mere trifle--a feather, as it were, on the river of +life--settled her destiny for her out of hand. + +She dipped her pen into the ink once more, and wrote:-- + + "Dear Sir John,--You have done me a great honour in asking me to be + your wife. I am fully sensible of your affection, and am very grateful + for it. I fear you think too highly of me; but I will endeavour to + prove myself worthy of your good opinion, and to make you as good a + wife as you deserve. + + "Yours, + "Vera Nevill." + +She was conscious herself of the excessive coldness of her note, but she +could not help it. She could not, for the life of her, have made it +warmer. Nothing, indeed, is so difficult as to write down feelings that +do not exist; it is easier to simulate with our spoken words and our +looks; but the pen that is urged beyond its natural inclination seems to +cool into ice in our fingers. But, at all events, she had accepted him. + +It was a relief to her when the thing was done, and the note sent off +beyond the possibility of recall. + +After that there had been no longer any leisure for her doubting +thoughts. There was her sister's delighted excitement, Mrs. Daintree's +oppressive astonishment, and even Eustace's calmer satisfaction in her +bright prospects, to occupy and divert her thoughts. Then there came her +lover himself, tender and grateful, and with so worshipful a respect in +every word and action that the most sensitive woman could scarcely have +been ruffled or alarmed by the prospects of so deferential a husband. + +In a few days Vera became reconciled to her new position, which was in +truth a very pleasant one to her. There were the congratulations of +friends and acquaintances to be responded to; the pleasant flutter of +adulation that surrounded her once more; the little daily excitement +of John Kynaston's visits--all this made her happy and perfectly +satisfied with the wisdom of her decision. + +Only one thing vexed her. + +"What will your mother say, John?" she had asked the very first day she +had been engaged to him. + +"It will not make much difference to me, dearest, whatever she may say." + +Nor in truth would it, for Sir John, as we have seen, had never been a +devoted son, nor had he ever given his confidence to his mother; he had +always gone his own way independently of her. + +"But it must needs make a difference to me," Vera had insisted. "You have +written to her, of course." + +"Oh, yes; I wrote and told her I was engaged to you." + +"And she has not written?" + +"Yes, there was a message for you--her love or something." + +Sir John evidently did not consider the subject of much importance. But +Vera was hurt that Lady Kynaston had not written to her. + +"I will never enter any family where I am not welcome," she had said to +her lover, proudly. + +And then Sir John had taken fright, for she was so precious to him that +the fear of losing her was becoming almost as a nightmare to him, and, +possibly, at the bottom of his heart he knew how feeble was his hold +over her. He had written off to his mother that day a letter that was +almost a command, and had told her to write to Vera. + +This letter was not likely to prepossess Lady Kynaston, who was a +masterful little lady herself, in her daughter-in-law's favour; it did +more harm than good. She had obeyed her son, it is true, because he was +the head of the family, and because she stood in awe of him; but the +letter, thus written under compulsion, was not kind--it was not even +just. + +"Horrid girl!" had said Lady Kynaston, angrily, to herself, as she had +sat down to her writing-table to fulfil her son's mandate. "It is not +likely that I can be very loving to her--some wretched, second-rate girl, +evidently--for not even Caroline Miller who, goodness knows, rakes up all +the odds and ends of society--ever heard of her before!" + +It is not to be supposed that a letter undertaken under such auspices +could be in any way conciliatory or pleasant in its tone. Such as it was, +Vera put it straight into the fire directly she had read it; no one ever +saw it but herself. + +"I have heard from your mother," she said to Sir John. + +"Yes? I am very glad. She wrote everything that was kind, no doubt." + +"I dare say she meant to be kind," said Vera; which was not true, because +she knew perfectly that there had been no kindness intended. But she +pursued the subject no further. + +"I hope you will like Maurice," said Sir John, presently; "he is a +good-hearted boy, though he has been sadly extravagant, and given me +a good deal of trouble." + +"I shall be glad to know your brother," said Vera, quietly. "Is he coming +to Kynaston?" + +"Yes, eventually; but you will meet him first at Shadonake when you go +to stay there: they have asked a large party for that week, I hear, and +Maurice will be there." + +Now, by this time Vera knew that the photograph she had once found in the +old writing-table drawer at Kynaston was that of her lover's brother +Maurice. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A MEETING ON THE STAIRS. + + Since first I saw your face + I resolved to honour and renown you; + If now I be disdained, + I wish my heart had never known you. + + The Sun whose beams most glorious are + Rejecteth no beholder, + And your sweet beauty past compare + Made my poor eyes the bolder. + +Thomas Ford. + + +I have often wondered why, in the ordering of human destinies, +some special Providence, some guardian spirit who is gifted with +foreknowledge, is not mercifully told off to each of us so to order the +trifles of our lives that they may combine to the working together of our +weal, instead of conspiring, as they too often and too evidently do, for +our woe. + +Look back upon your own life, and upon the lives of those whose story you +have known the most intimately, and see what straws, what nonentities, +what absurd trivialities have brought about the most important events of +existence. Recollect how, and in what manner, those people whom it would +have been well for you never to have known came across you. How those +whose influence over you is for good were kept out of your way at the +very crisis of your life. Think what a different life you would have led; +I do not mean only happier, but how much better and purer, if some absurd +trifle had not seemed to play into the hands, as it were, of your +destiny, and to set you in a path whereof no one could at the time +foresee the end. + +Some one had looked out their train in last month's Bradshaw, unwitting +of the autumn alterations, and was kept from you till the next day. You +took the left instead of the right side of the square on your way home, +or you stood for a minute gossiping at your neighbour's door, and there +came by some one who ultimately altered and embittered your whole life, +and who, but for that accidental meeting, you would, probably, never have +seen again; or some evil adviser was at hand, whilst one whose opinion +you revered, and whose timely help would have saved you from taking that +false step you ever after regretted, was kept to the house, by Heaven +knows what ridiculous trifle--a cold in the head, or finger-ache--and +did not see you to warn and to keep you back from your own folly until it +was too late. + +People say these things are ordered for us. I do not know; it may be so, +but sometimes it seems rather as if we were irresponsible puppets, tossed +and buffeted about, blindly and helplessly, upon life's river, as +fluttering dead leaves are danced wildly along the swift current of a +Highland stream. Such a trifle might have saved us! yet there was no +pitying hand put forth to avert that which, in our human blindness, +appeared to us to be as unimportant as any other incident of our lives. + +Life is an unsolvable problem. Shall we ever, in some other world, +I wonder, read its riddles aright? + +All these moral dissertations have been called forth because Vera Nevill +went to stay for a week at Shadonake. If she had known--what we none of +us know--the future, she doubtless would have stayed away. Fate--a +beneficent fate, indeed--made, I am bound to confess, a valiant effort in +her behalf. Little Minnie fell ill the day before her departure; and the +symptoms were such that everybody in the house believed that she was +sickening for scarlet fever. The doctor, however, having been hastily +summoned, pronounced the disease to be an infantile complaint of a +harmless and innocuous nature, which he dignified by the delusively +poetical name of "Rosalia." + +"It is not infectious, Mr. Smee, I hope?" asked Marion, anxiously. +"Nothing to prevent my sister going to stay at the Millers' to morrow?" + +"Not in the least infectious, Mrs. Daintree, and anybody in the house can +go wherever they like, except the child herself, who must be kept in a +warm room for two days, when she will probably be quite well again." + +"I am glad, dear, there is nothing to put a stop to your visit; it would +have been such a pity," said Marion, in her blindness, to her sister +afterwards. + +So the fates had a game of pitch and toss with Vera's future, and settled +it amongst them to their own satisfaction, probably, but not, it will be +seen, for Vera's own good or ultimate happiness. + +On the afternoon of the 3rd day of January, therefore, Eustace +Daintree drove his sister-in-law over to Shadonake in the open +basket pony-carriage, and deposited her and her box safely at the +stone-colonnaded door of that most imposing mansion, which she entered +exactly ten minutes before the dressing-bell rang, and was conducted +almost immediately upstairs to her own room. + +Some twenty minutes later there are still two ladies sitting on in the +small tea-room, where it is the fashion at Shadonake to linger between +the hours of five and seven, who alone have not yet moved to obey the +mandate of the dressing-bell. + +"What _is_ the good of waiting?" says Beatrice, impatiently; "the train +is often late, and, besides, he may not come till the nine o'clock +train." + +"That is just what I want to wait for," answers Helen Romer. "I want +just to hear if the carriage has come back, and then I shall know for +certain." + +"Well, you know how frightfully punctual papa is, and how angry it makes +him if anybody is late." + +"Just two minutes more, Beatrice; I can dress very quickly when once +I set to work," pleads Helen. + +Beatrice sits down again on the arm of the sofa, and resigns herself to +her fate; but she looks rather annoyed and vexed about it. + +Mrs. Romer paces the room feverishly and impatiently. + +"What did you think of Miss Nevill?" asks Beatrice. + +"I could hardly see her in her hat and that thick veil; but she looked as +if she were handsome." + +"She is _beautiful_!" says Beatrice, emphatically, "and uncle Tom +says----" + +"Hush!" interrupts Helen, hurriedly. "Is not that the sound of +wheels?--Yes, it is the carriage." + +She flies to the door. + +"Take care, Helen," says Beatrice, anxiously; "don't open the door +wide, don't let the servants think we have been waiting, it looks so +bad--so--so unlady-like." + +But Helen Romer does not even hear her; she is listening intently to the +approaching sounds, with the half-opened door in her hand. + +The tea-room door opens into a large inner hall, out of which leads the +principal staircase; the outer or entrance-hall is beyond; and presently +the stopping of the carriage, the opening and shutting of doors from the +servants' departments, and all the usual bustle of an arrival are heard. + +The two girls stand close together listening, Beatrice hidden in the +shadow of the room. + +"There are _two_ voices!" cries Helen, in a disappointed tone; "he is not +alone!" + +"I suppose it is Mr. Pryme--mamma said he might come by this train," +answers Beatrice, so quietly that no one could ever have guessed how her +heart was beating. + +"Helen, _do_ let us run upstairs; I really cannot stay. Let _me_ go, at +all events!" she adds, with a sudden agony of entreaty as the guests were +heard advancing towards the door of the inner hall. And as Helen made not +the slightest sign of moving, Beatrice slipped past her and ran lightly +and swiftly across the hall upstairs, and disappeared along the landing +above just as Captain Kynaston and Mr. Herbert Pryme appeared upon the +scene below. + +No such scruples of modesty troubled Mrs. Romer. As the young men entered +the inner hall preceded by the butler, who was taking them up to their +rooms, and followed by two footmen who were bearing their portmanteaus, +Helen stepped boldly forward out of the shelter of the tea-room, and held +out her hand to Captain Kynaston. + +"How do you do? How late your train is." + +Maurice looked distinctly annoyed, but of course he shook hands with her. + +"How are you, Mrs. Romer? I did not expect you to be here till to-morrow. +Yes, we are late," consulting his watch; "only twenty minutes to dress +in--I must look sharp." + +Meanwhile the stranger, Mr. Pryme, was following the butler upstairs. + +Helen lowered her voice. + +"I _must_ speak to you a minute, Maurice; it is six weeks since we have +met, and to meet in public would be too trying. Please dress as quickly +as ever you can; I know you can dress quickly if you choose; and wait for +me here at the bottom of the stairs--we might get just three minutes +together before dinner." + +There were the footmen and the portmanteaus within six yards of them, and +Mr. Pryme and the butler still within earshot. What was Maurice to do? He +could not really listen to a whole succession of prayers, and entreaties, +and piteous appeals. There was neither the time, nor was it the place, +for either discussion or remonstrance. All he could do was to nod a hasty +assent to her request. + +"Then I must make haste," he said, and ran quickly upstairs in the wake +of the other guest. + +The staircase at Shadonake was very wide and very handsome, and +thoroughly in keeping with the spacious character of the house. It +consisted of one wide flight of shallow steps, with a richly-carved +balustrade on either side of it, leading straight down from a large +square landing above. Both landing and steps were carpeted with thick +velvet-pile carpet, so that no jarring footfall was ever heard upon them. +The hall into which the staircase led was paved in coloured mosaic tiles, +and was half covered over with rich Persian rugs. A great many doors, +nearly all the sitting-rooms of the house, in fact, opened into it, +and the blank spaces of the wall were filled in with banks of large +handsome plants, palms and giant ferns, and azaleas in full bloom, which +were daily rearranged by the gardeners in every available corner. + +At the foot of the staircase, and with his back to it, leaning against +the balustrade, stood Captain Kynaston, exactly four minutes before the +dinner was announced. + +Most people were in the habit of calling Maurice a good-looking man, but +if anybody had seen him now for the first time it is doubtful whether +they would have endorsed that favourable opinion upon his personal +appearance. A thoroughly ill-tempered expression of face seldom enhances +any one's good looks, and if ever a man looked in a bad temper, Maurice +Kynaston did so at the present moment. + +He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, and his eyes fixed upon +his own boots, and he looked as savage as it was well possible for a man +to look. + +He was waiting here for Helen, because he had told her that he would do +so, and when Captain Kynaston promised anything to a lady he always kept +his word. + +But to say that he hated being there is but a mild term for the rage and +disgust he experienced. + +To be waylaid and attacked thus, directly he had set foot in the house, +with a stranger and three servants looking on so as to render him +absolutely helpless; to be uncomfortably hurried over his toilet, and +inveigled into a sort of rendezvous at the foot of a public staircase, +where a number of people might at any minute enter from any one of the +six or eight surrounding doors, was enough of itself to try his temper; +but when he came to consider how Helen, in thus appropriating him and +making him obey her caprices, was virtually breaking her side of the +treaty between them; that she was exacting from him the full amount of +servitude and devotion which an open engagement would demand, and yet she +had agreed to deny any such engagement between them openly--it was, he +felt, more than he could continue to bear with meekness. + +Meekness, indeed, was in no way Maurice Kynaston's distinguishing +characteristic. He was masterful and imperious by nature; to be the slave +of any woman was neither pleasant nor profitable to him. Honour, indeed, +had bound him to Helen, and had he loved her she might have led him. Her +position gave her a certain hold over him, and she knew how to appeal to +his heart; but he loved her not, and to control his will and his spirit +was beyond her power. + +Maurice said to himself that he would put a stop to this system of +persecution once and for all--that this interview, which she herself had +contrived, should be made the opportunity of a few forcible words, that +should frighten her into submission. + +So he stood fretting, and fuming, and raging, waiting for her at the foot +of the stairs. + +There was a soft rustle, as of a woman's dress, behind him. He turned +sharply round. + +Halfway down the stairs came a woman whom he had never seen before. +A black velvet dress, made high in the throat, with a wide collar of +heavy lace upon her shoulders, hung clingingly about the outlines of her +tall and perfect figure; her hands, with some lace ruffles falling about +her wrists, were simply crossed before her. The light of a distant +hanging-lamp shone down upon her, just catching one diamond star that +glittered among the thick coils of her hair--she wore no other ornament. +She came down the stairs slowly, almost lingeringly, with a certain +grace in her movements, and without a shadow of embarrassment or +self-consciousness. + +Maurice drew aside to let her pass him--looking at her--for how could he +choose but look? But when she reached the bottom of the steps, she turned +her face towards him. + +"You are Maurice--are you not?" she said, and put forth both her hands +towards him. + +An utter bewilderment as to who she was made him speechless; his mind had +been full of Helen and his own troubles; everything else had gone out of +his head. She coloured a little, still holding out her hands to him. + +"I am Vera," she said, simply, and there was a little deprecating appeal +in the words as though she would have added, "Be my friend." + +He took the hands--soft slender hands that trembled a very little in his +grasp--within his own, and some nameless charm in their gentle touch +brought a sudden flush into his face, but no appropriate words concerning +his pleasure at meeting her, or his gratification at their future +relations, fell from Maurice Kynaston's lips. He only held her thus by +her hands, and looked at her--looked at her as if he could never look at +her enough--from her head to her feet, and from her feet up again to her +head, till a sudden wave of colour flooded her face at the earnestness +of his scrutiny. + +"Vera--_Vera Nevill_!" was all he said; and then below his breath, as +though his absolute amazement were utterly irrepressible: "_By Jove!_" +And Vera laughed softly at the thoroughly British character of the +exclamation. + +"How like an Englishman!" she said. "An Italian would have paid me fifty +pretty compliments in half the time you have taken just to stare at me!" + +"What a charming _tableau vivant_!" exclaims a voice above them as Mrs. +Romer comes down the staircase. "You really look like a scene in a play! +Pray don't let me disturb you." + +"I am making friends with my sister-in-law that is to be, Mrs. Romer," +says Maurice, who has dropped Vera's hands with a guilty suddenness, and +now endeavours to look completely at his ease--an effort in which he +signally fails. + +"Were you? Dear me! I thought you and Miss Nevill were practising the +pose of the 'Huguenots'!" + +Now the whole armoury of feminine weapons--impertinence, spite, and bad +manners, born of jealousy--is utterly beneath the contempt of such a +woman as Vera; but she is no untried, inexperienced country girl such as +Mrs. Romer imagines her to be disconcerted or stricken dumb by such an +attack. She knew instantly that she had been attacked, and in what +manner, and she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. + +"I have never seen that picture, the 'Huguenots,' Mrs. Romer," she +said, quietly; "do you think there is a photograph or a print of it +at Kynaston, Maurice? If so, you or John must show it to me." + +And how Mrs. Romer hated her then and there, from that very minute until +her life's end, it would not be easy to set forth! + +The utter _insouciance_, the lady-like ignoring of Helen's impertinence, +the quiet assumption of what she knew her own position in the Kynaston +family to be, down to the sisterly "Maurice," whereby she addressed the +man whom in public, at least, Mrs. Romer was forced to call by a more +formal name--all proved to that astute little woman that Vera Nevill was +no ordinary antagonist, no village maiden to be snubbed or patronised at +her pleasure, but a woman of the world, who understood how to fight her +own battles, and was likely, as she was forced to own to herself, to +"give back as good as she got." + +Not another single word was spoken between them, for at that very minute +a door was thrown open, and the whole of the party in the house came +trooping forth in pairs from the drawing-room in a long procession on +their way to the dining-room. + +First came Mr. Miller with old Mrs. Macpherson on his arm. Then Mr. Pryme +and Miss Sophy Macpherson; her sister behind with Guy Miller; Beatrice, +looking melancholy, with the curate in charge; and her mother last with +Sir John, who had come over from Kynaston to dinner. Edwin Miller, the +second son, by himself brought up the rear. + +There was some laughter at the expense of the three defaulters, who, of +course, were supposed to have only just hurried downstairs. + +"Aha! just saved your soup, ladies!" cried Mr. Miller, laughingly. "Fall +in, fall in, as best you can!" + +Mrs. Miller came to the rescue, and, by a rapid stroke of generalship, +marshalled them into their places. + +Miss Nevill, of course, was a stranger; Helen had been on intimate terms +with them all for years; Vera, besides, was standing close to Maurice. + +"Please take in Miss Nevill, Captain Kynaston; and Edwin, my dear, give +your arm to Mrs. Romer." + +Edwin, who was a pleasant-looking boy, with plenty to say for himself, +hurried forward with alacrity; and Helen had to accept her fate with the +best grace she could. + +"Well, how did you get on with Vera, and how did you like her?" asked Sir +John, coming round to his brother's side of the table when the ladies had +left the room. He had noted with pleasure that Vera and Maurice had +talked incessantly throughout the dinner. + +"My dear fellow!" cried Maurice, heartily, "she is the handsomest woman I +ever met in my life! I give you my word that, when she introduced herself +to me coming downstairs, I was so surprised, she was so utterly different +to what I and the mother have been imagining, that upon my life I +couldn't speak a word--I could do nothing but stare at her!" + +"You like her, then?" said his brother, smiling, well pleased at his +openly expressed admiration. + +"I think you are a very lucky fellow, old man! Like her! of course I do; +she's a downright good sort!" + +And if Sir John was slightly shocked at the irreverence of alluding to so +perfect and pure a woman as his adored Vera by so familiar a phrase as "a +good sort," he was, at all events, too pleased by Maurice's genuine +approval of her to find any fault with his method of expressing it. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +AN IDLE MORNING. + + We loved, sir; used to meet; + How sad, and bad, and mad it was; + But then, how it was sweet! + + Browning. + + +Leaning against a window-frame at the end of a long corridor on the +second floor, and idly looking out over the view of the wide lawns and +empty flower-beds which it commands, stands Mr. Herbert Pryme, on the +second morning after his arrival at Shadonake House. + +It is after breakfast, and most of the gentlemen of the house have +dispersed; that is to say, Mr. Miller has gone off to survey his new +pigsties, and his sons and a Mr. Nethercliff, who arrived last night, +have ridden to a meet some fifteen miles distant, which the ladies had +voted to be too far off to attend. + +Mr. Pryme, however, is evidently not a keen sports-man; he has declined +the offer of a mount which Guy Miller has hospitably pressed upon him, +and he has also declined to avail himself of his host's offer of the +services of the gamekeeper. Curiously enough, another guest at Shadonake, +whose zeal for hunting has never yet been impeached, has followed his +example. + +"What on earth do they meet at Fretly for!" Maurice Kynaston had +exclaimed last night to young Guy, as the morrow's plans had been +discussed in the smoking-room; "it's the worst country I ever was in, all +plough and woodlands, and never a fox to be found. Your uncle ought to +know better than to go there. I certainly shan't take the trouble to get +up early to go to that place." + +"Not go?" repeated Guy, aghast; "you don't mean to say you won't go, +Kynaston?" + +"That's just what I do mean, though." + +"What the deuce will you do with yourself all day?" + +"Lie in bed," answered Maurice, between the puffs of his pipe; "we've +had a precious hard day's shooting to-day, and I mean to take it easy +to-morrow." + +And Captain Kynaston was as good as his word. He did not appear in the +breakfast-room the next morning until the men who were bound for Fretly +had all ridden off and were well out of sight of the house. What he had +stayed for he would have been somewhat puzzled to explain. He was not the +kind of man who, as a rule, cared to dawdle about all day with women when +there was any kind of sport to be had from hunting down to ratting; more +especially was he disinclined for any such dawdling when Helen Romer was +amongst the number of the ladies so left to be danced attendance upon. +And yet he distinctly told himself that he meant to be devoted for this +one day to the fair sex. All yesterday he had been crossed and put out; +the men had been out shooting from breakfast till dinner; some of the +ladies had joined them with the Irish-stew at lunch time; Helen had been +amongst them, but not Miss Nevill. Maurice, in spite of the pheasants +having been plentiful and the sport satisfactory, had been in a decidedly +bad temper all the afternoon in consequence. In the evening the party at +dinner had been enlarged by an influx of country neighbours; Vera had +been hopelessly divided from him and absorbed by other people the whole +evening; he had not exchanged a single word with her all day. + +Captain Kynaston was seized with an insatiable desire to improve his +acquaintance with his sister-in-law to be. It was his duty, he told +himself, to make friends with her; his brother would be hurt, he argued, +and his mother would be annoyed if he neglected to pay a proper attention +to the future Lady Kynaston. There could be no doubt that it was his +duty; that it was also his pleasure did not strike him so forcibly as it +should have done, considering the fact that a man is only very keen to +create duties for himself when they are proportionately mingled with that +which is pleasant and agreeable. The exigencies of his position, with +regard to his elder brother's bride having been forcibly borne in upon +him--combined possibly with the certain knowledge that the elder brother +himself would be hunting all day--compelled him to stop at home and +devote himself to Vera. Mr. Herbert Pryme, however, had no such excuse, +real or imaginary, and yet he stands idly by the corridor window, idly, +yet perfectly patiently--relieving the tedium of his position by the +unexciting entertainment of softly whistling the popular airs from the +"Cloches de Corneville" below his breath. + +Herbert Pryme is a good-looking young fellow of about six-and-twenty; he +looks his profession all over, and is a good type of the average young +barrister of the present day. He has fair hair, and small, close-cropped +whiskers; his face is retrieved from boyishness by strongly-marked +and rather heavy features; he studiously affects a solemn and imposing +gravity of face and manner, and a severe and elderly style of dress, +which he hopes may produce a favourable effect upon the non-legal minds +of his somewhat imaginary clients. + +It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. Pryme has not found a shorter and +pleasanter road to fortune than that slow and toilsome route along which +the legal muse leads her patient votaries. + +Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapse, and still Mr. Pryme looks patiently +out of the window, and still he whistles the Song of the Bells. The only +sign of weariness he gives is to take out his watch, which, by the way, +is suspended by a broad black ribbon, and lives, not in his waistcoat +pocket, but in a "fob," and is further decorated by a very large and +old-fashioned seal. Having consulted a time piece which for size and +thickness might have belonged to his great-grandfather, he returns it to +his fob, and resumes his whistling. + +Presently a door at the further end of the corridor softly opens and +shuts, and Mr. Pryme looks up quickly. + +Beatrice Miller, looking about her a little guiltily, comes swiftly +towards him along the passage. + +"Mamma kept me such ages!" she says, breathlessly; "I thought I should +never get away." + +"Never mind, so long as you are here," he answers, holding her by +both hands. "My darling, I must have a kiss; I hungered for one all +yesterday." + +He looks into her face eagerly and lovingly. To most people Beatrice is a +plain girl, but to this man she is beautiful; his own love for her has +invested her with a charm and a fascination that no one else has seen in +her. + +Oh! divine passion, that can thus glorify its object. It is like a dash +of sunshine over a winter landscape, which transforms it into the +loveliness of spring; or the magic brush of the painter, which can turn a +ploughed field and a barren common into the golden glories of a Cuyp or a +Turner. + +Thus it was with Herbert Pryme. He looked at Beatrice with the blinding +glamour of his own love in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him. Truth +to say, Beatrice was a woman whom to love once was to love always. There +was so much that was charming and loveable in her character, so great a +freshness of mind and soul about her, that, although from lack of beauty +she had hitherto failed to attract love, having once secured it, she +possessed that rare and valuable faculty of being able to retain it, +which many women, even those who are the most beautiful, are incapable +of. + +"It is just as I imagined about Mr. Nethercliff," says Beatrice, +laughing; "he has been asked here for my benefit. Mamma has just been +telling me about him; he is Lord Garford's nephew and his heir. Lord +Garford's place, you know, is quite the other side of the county; he is +poor, so I suppose I might do for him," with a little grimace. "At all +events, I am to sit next to him at dinner to-night, and make myself +civil. You see, I am to be offered to all the county magnates in +succession." + +Herbert Pryme still holds her hands, and looks down with grave vexation +into her face. + +"And how do you suppose I shall feel whilst Mr. Nethercliff is making +love to you?" + +"You may make your mind quite easy; it is impossible that there should be +another man foolish enough in all England to want to make love to such an +'ugly duckling' as I am!" + +"Don't be silly, child, and don't fish for compliments," he answers, +fondly, stroking her short dark hair, which he thinks so characteristic +of herself. + +Beatrice looks up happily at him. A woman is always at her very best when +she is alone with the man she loves. Unconsciously, all the charms she +possesses are displayed in her glistening eyes, and in the colour which +comes and goes in her contented face. There is no philtre which beauty +can use, there is neither cosmetic nor rouge that can give that tender, +lovely glow with which successful love transforms even a plain face into +radiance and fascination. + +"I wish, Beatrice, you would let me speak to your father," continued +Herbert; "I cannot bear to be here under false pretences. Why will you +not let me deal fairly and openly with your parents?" + +"And be sent about your business by the evening train. No, thank you! +My dear boy, speaking to papa would be as much use as speaking to the +butler; they would both of them refer you instantly to mamma; and with +an equally lamentable result. Please leave things to me. When mamma has +offered me ineffectually to every marriageable man in Meadowshire, she +will get quite sick of it, and, I dare say, I shall be allowed to do as +I like then without any more fuss." + +"And how long is this process to last?" + +"About a year; by which time Geraldine will be nearly eighteen, and ready +to step into my shoes. Mamma will be glad enough to be rid of me then, +and to try her hand upon her instead. Geraldine is meek and tractable, +and will be quite willing to do as she is told." + +"And, meanwhile, what am I to do?" + +"You! You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson. Do you not know that she +is the excuse for your having been asked here at all?" + +"I don't like it, Beatrice," repeats her lover, gravely--not, however, +alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had been +urging upon him. "Upon my life, I don't." He looks away moodily out of +the window. "I hate doing things on the sly. And, besides, I am a poor +man, and your parents are rich. I could not afford to support a wife at +present on my own income." + +"All the more reason that we should wait," she interrupts, quickly. + +"Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to steal +your heart." + +"You did not steal it," she says, nestling up to his side. "I presented +it to you, free, gratis." + +Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty, +prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; and +Herbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of his +own poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earth +and under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful and +ecstatic. + +"You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice. + +"Of course I will," answers her lover. And then there is a complete +stagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of five +minutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of the +corridor has things entirely its own way. + +"There is another couple who are happy," says Herbert Pryme, breaking the +charmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who are +wandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following the +direction of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera. + +"Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy--not in our +way. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know." + +"Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then." + +"Herbert! what _can_ you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes in +astonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. +Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him." + +"Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?" + +"Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly. + +"Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman," kissing her lightly; "I only +said they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark them +through the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspect +that I have noticed. If they are happy, it won't last long. Why should +not one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves? Let them be +happy whilst they can." + +Herbert Pryme was right. Maurice and Vera wandering side by side along +the broad gravel walks in the wintry gardens were happy--without so much +as venturing to wonder what it was that made them so. + +"I did not want to hunt to-day," Maurice is saying; "I thought I would +stop at home and talk to you." + +"That was kind of you," answers Vera, with a smile. + +If she had known him better, she would have been more sensible of the +compliment implied. To give up a day's hunting for a woman's sake is what +very few keen sports-men have been known to do; the attraction must be +great indeed. + +"You will go out, of course, on Monday, the day the hounds meet here? +I should like to see you on a horse." + +"I shall at all events put on a habit and get up on the mare John has +given me. But I know very little of English hunting; I have only ridden +in Italy. We used to go out in winter over the Campagna--that is very +different to England." + +"You must look very well in a habit." He turned to look at her as he +spoke. There was no reticence in his undisguised admiration of her. + +Vera laughed a little. "You shall look at me if you like when I have it +on," she said, blushing faintly under his scrutiny. + +"I am grateful to you for the permission; but I am bound to confess that +I should look all the same had you forbidden me to do so." + +Vera was pleased. She felt glad that he admired her. Was it not quite +right and most desirable that her husband's brother should appreciate her +beauty and ratify his good taste? + +"When does your mother come?" she said, changing the subject quietly, but +without effort. + +"Only the very night of the ball, I am afraid. Tuesday, is it not?" + +"Have you written to her about me? She does not like me, I fear." + +"No; I will not write. She shall see you and judge for herself. I am not +the least afraid of her not liking you when she knows you; and you will +love her." + +By this time they had wandered away from the house through the belt of +shrubbery, and had emerged beyond upon the margin of the pool of water. + +Vera stood still, suddenly struck with the sight. + +"Is this Shadonake Bath?" she asked, below her breath. + +"Yes; have you never seen it before?" he answered, in some surprise. + +"Never. I have not lived in Meadowshire long, you know, and the Millers +were moving into the house and furnishing it all last summer. I have +never been in the gardens till to-day. How strangely sad the place looks! +Let us walk round it." + +They went round to the further side. + +The pool of water lay dark and silent within its stone steps; not a +ripple disturbed its surface; not a dead leaf rested on its bosom. Only +the motionless water looked up everlastingly at the gray winter skies +above, and reflected them back blackly and gloomily upon its solemn face. + +Vera stood still and looked at it. Something in its aspect--she could not +have told what--affected her powerfully. She went down two or three steps +towards the water, and stooped over it intently. + +Maurice, watching her curiously, saw, to his surprise, that she trembled. +She turned round to him. + +"Does it not look dark and deep? Is it very deep?" + +"I believe it is. There are all sorts of stories about it. Come up, Vera; +why do you tremble so?" + +"How dreadful to be drowned here!" she said, below her breath, and she +shuddered. + +He stretched out his hand to her. + +"Do not say such horrid things! Give me your hand--the steps are +slippery. What has put drowning into your head? And--why, how pale you +are; what has frightened you?" + +She took his hand and came back again to where he stood. + +"Do you believe in presentiments?" she said, slowly, with her eyes fixed +still, as though by some fascination, upon the dark waters beneath them. + +"Not in the very least," he answered, cheerily; "do not think of such +things. John would be the first to scold you--and to scold me for +bringing you here." + +He stood, holding her hand, looking at her kindly and compassionately; +suddenly she looked at him, and as their eyes met once more, she trembled +from head to foot. + +"Vera, you are frightened; tell me what it is!" + +"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried, with a sudden wail, like a +person in pain; "only--oh! I wish I had not seen it for the first time +with _you_!" + +Before he could answer her, some one, _beckoning_ to them from the +further side of the pool, caused them both to turn suddenly round. + +It was not only Herbert Pryme who had seen them wander away down the +garden from the house. Mrs. Romer, too, had been at another window and +had noticed them. To run lightly upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and +to follow them, had been the work of but a very few minutes. Helen was +not minded to allow Maurice to wander about all the morning with Vera. + +"Are you going for a walk?" she called out to them across the water. +"Wait for me; I am coming with you." + +Vera turned quickly to her companion. + +"Is it true that you are engaged to her?" she asked him rapidly, in a low +voice. + +Maurice hesitated. Morally speaking, he was engaged to her; but, then, it +had been agreed between them that he was to deny any such engagement. He +felt singularly disinclined to let Vera know what was the truth. + +"People say you are," she said, once more. "Will you tell me if it is +true?" + +"No; there is no engagement between us," he answered, gravely. + +"I am very glad," she answered, earnestly. He coloured, but he had no +time to ask her why she was glad--for Helen came up to them. + +"How interested you look in each other's conversation!" she said, looking +suspiciously at them both. "May I not hear what you have been talking +about?" + +"Anybody might hear," answered Vera, carelessly, "were it worth one's +while to take the trouble of repeating it." + +Maurice said nothing. He was angry with Helen for having interrupted +them, and angry with himself for having denied his semi-engagement. He +stood looking away from them both, prodding his stick into the gravel +walk. + +For half a minute they stood silently together. + +"Let us go on," said Vera, and they began to walk. + +Once again in the days that were to come those three stood side by side +upon the margin of Shadonake Bath. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE MEET AT SHADONAKE. + + The desire of the moth for the star, + Of the night for the morrow, + The devotion to something afar. + + Shelley. + + +Mrs. Macpherson had brought up her daughters with one fixed and +predominant idea in her mind. Each of them was to excel in some one taste +or accomplishment, by virtue of which they might be enabled to shine in +society. They were taught to do one thing well. Thus, Sophy, the eldest, +played the piano remarkably, whilst Jessie painted in water-colours with +charming exactitude and neatness. They had both had first-rate masters, +and no pains had been spared to make each of them proficient in the +accomplishment that had been selected for her. But, as neither of these +young ladies had any natural talent, the result was hardly so +satisfactory as their fond mother could have desired. They did exactly +what they had been taught to do with precision and conscientiousness; no +less and no more; and the further result of their entire devotion to one +kind of study was, that they could do nothing else. + +Mrs. Macpherson began to realize that her system of education had +possibly left something to be desired on the Monday morning that Mr. +Esterworth brought up his hounds to Shadonake House. It was provoking +to see all the other ladies attired in their habits, whilst her own +daughters had to come down to breakfast in their ordinary morning +dresses, because they had never been taught to ride. + +"Are you not going to ride?" she heard Guy Miller ask of Sophy, who was +decidedly the best looking and the pleasantest of the sisters. + +"No, we have never ridden at all; mamma never thought we had the time for +it," answers Sophy. + +"I think," said Mrs. Macpherson, turning to her hostess, "that I shall +pursue a different course with my younger girls. I feel sorry now that +Sophy and Jessie do not ride. Music and painting are, of course, the most +charming accomplishments that a woman can have; but still it is not at +all times that they are useful." + +"No, you cannot be always painting and playing." + +"Neither can you be always riding," said Mrs. Macpherson, with some +asperity, for there was a little natural jealousy between these ladies on +the subject of their girls; "but still----" + +"But still, you will acknowledge that I have done right in letting +Beatrice hunt. You may be quite sure that there is no accomplishment +which brings a girl so much into notice in the country. Look at her now." + +Mrs. Macpherson looked and saw Beatrice in her habit at the far end of +the dining-room surrounded by a group of men in pink, and she also saw +her own daughters sitting neglected by themselves on the other side of +the room. She made no observation upon the contrast, for it would hardly +have been polite to have done so; but she made a mental note of the fact +that Mrs. Miller was a very clever woman, and that, if you want an ugly +daughter to marry, you had better let her learn how to ride across +country. And she furthermore decided that her third daughter, Alice, who +was not blessed with the gift of beauty, should forthwith abandon the +cultivation of a very feeble and uncertain vocal organ and be sent to the +nearest riding-school the very instant she returned to her home. + +Beatrice Miller rode very well indeed; it was the secret of her uncle's +affection for her, and many a good day's sport had the two enjoyed side +by side across the flat fields and the strong fences and wide ditches of +their native country. Her brothers, Guy and Edwin, were fond of hunting +too, but they rode clumsily and awkwardly, floundering across country in +what their uncle called, contemptuously, a thoroughly "provincial style." +But Beatrice had the true Esterworth seat and hand; she looked as if she +were born to her saddle, and, in truth, she was never so happy as when +she was in it. It was a proof of how great and real was her love to +Herbert Pryme that she fully recognized that, in becoming his wife, she +would have to live in London entirely and to give up her beloved hunting +for his sake. + +A woman who rides, as did Beatrice, is sure to be popular on a hunting +morning; and, with the consciousness of her lover's hands resting upon +the back of her chair, with her favourite uncle by her side, and with +several truly ardent admirers of her good riding about her, Miss Miller +was evidently enjoying herself thoroughly. + +The scene, indeed, was animated to the last degree. The long dining-room +was filled with guests, the table was covered with good things, a repast, +half breakfast, half luncheon, being laid out upon it. Everybody helped +themselves, with much chattering and laughter, and there was a pleasant +sense of haste and excitement, and a charming informality about the +proceedings, which made the Shadonake Hunt breakfast, which Tom +Esterworth had been prevailed upon by his niece's entreaties to allow, +a thorough and decided success. + +Outside there were the hounds, drawn up in patient expectation on the +grass beyond the gravel sweep, the bright coats and velvet caps of the +men, and the gray horses--on which it was the Meadowshire tradition that +they should be always mounted--standing out well against the dark +background of the leafless woods behind. Then there were a goodly company +who had not dismounted, and to whom glasses of sherry were being handed +by the servants, and who also were chattering to each other, or to those +on foot, whilst before the door, an object of interest to those within as +to those without, Sir John Kynaston was putting Miss Nevill upon her +horse. + +There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for her +beauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make some +depreciatory remark. The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly for +the undoubted success she had created than did the former. + +Maurice was standing by one of the dining-room windows, Mrs. Romer, as +usual, by his side. He alone, perhaps, of all the men who saw her vault +lightly into her saddle, made no audible remark, but perhaps his +admiration was all too plainly written in his eyes, for it called +forth a contemptuous remark from his companion-- + +"She is a great deal too tall to look well on a horse; those big women +should never ride." + +"What! not with a figure so perfect as hers?" + +"Yes, that is the third time you have spoken about her figure to-day," +said Helen, irritably. "What on earth can you see in it?" for Mrs. Romer, +who was slight almost to angularity, was, as all thin women are, openly +indignant at the masculine foible for more flowing outlines, which was +displayed with greater candour than discretion by her quasi-lover. + +"What do I see in it?" repeated Maurice, who was dimly conscious of her +jealousy, and was injudicious enough to lose his temper slightly over its +exhibition. "I see in it the beauty of a goddess, and the perfection of +a woman!" + +"Really!" with a sarcastic laugh; "how wonderfully enthusiastic and +poetical you become over Miss Nevill's charms; it is something quite new +in you, Maurice. Your interest in this 'goddess-like' young lady strikes +me as singularly warmly expressed; it is more lover-like than fraternal." + +"What do you mean?" he said, looking at her coldly and angrily. Helen had +seen that look of hard contempt in his face before; she quailed a little +before it, and was frightened at what she had said. + +"Of course," she said, reddening, "I know it's all right; but it does +really sound peculiar, your admiring her so much; and--and--it is hardly +flattering to me." + +"I don't see that it has anything to do with you," and he turned shortly +away from her. + +She made a step or two after him. "You will ride with me, will you not, +Maurice? You know I can't go very hard; you might give me a lead or two, +and keep near me." + +"You must not ask me to make any promises," he said, politely, but +coldly. "Guy Miller says there is a groom told off to look after you +ladies. Of course, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy, but +it is no use making rash engagements as to what one will do in a run." + +"Come, come, it's time we were off," cries out Tom Esterworth at the +further end of the room, and his stalwart figure makes its way in the +direction of the door. + +In a very few minutes the order "to horse" has gone forth, and the whole +company have sallied forth and are busy mounting their horses in front of +the house. + +Off goes the master, well in front, at a sharp trot, towards the woods on +the further slope of the hill, and off go the hounds and the whips, and +the riders, in a long and gay procession after him, down the wide avenue. + +"Promise me you will not stop out long, Vera," says Sir John to her as +they go side by side down the drive. "You look white and tired as it is. +Have you got a headache?" + +"Yes, a little," confesses Vera, with a blush. "I did not sleep well." + +"This sitting up late night after night is not good for you," says her +lover, anxiously; "and there is the ball to-morrow night." + +"Yes; and I want to look my best for your mother," she said, smiling. "I +will take care of myself, John; I will go home early in time for lunch." + +"You are always so ready to do what I ask you. Oh, Vera, how good you +are! how little I deserve such a treasure!" + +"Don't," she answers, almost sharply, whilst an expression of pain +contracts her brow for an instant. "Don't say such things to me, John; +don't call me good." + +John Kynaston looks at her fondly. "I will not call you anything you +don't wish," he says, gently, "but I am free to think it, Vera!" + +The first covert is successfully drawn without much delay. A fox is +found, and breaks away across the open, and a short but sharp burst of +fifteen or twenty minutes follows. The field is an unusually large one, +and there are many out who are not in it at all. Beatrice, however, is +well up, and so is Herbert Pryme, who is not likely to be far from her +side. Close behind them follows Sir John Kynaston, and Mrs. Romer, who is +well mounted upon one of Edwin Miller's horses, keeps well up with the +rest. + +Vera never quite knew how it was that somehow or other she got thrown out +of that short but exciting run. She was on the wrong side of the covert +to begin with; several men were near her, but they were all strangers, +and at the time "Gone away!" was shouted, there was no one to tell her +which way to take. Two men took the left side of the copse, three others +turned to the right. Vera followed the latter, and found that the hounds +must have gone in the opposite direction, for when she got round the wood +not a trace of them was to be seen. + +She did not know the country well, and she hardly knew which way to turn. +It seemed to her, however, that by striking across a small field to the +left of her she would cut off a corner, and eventually come up with the +hounds again. + +She turned her mare short round, and put her at a big straggling hedge +which she had no fears of her being unable to compass. There was, +however, more of a drop on the further side than she had counted upon, +and in some way, as the mare landed, floundering on the further side, +something gave way, and she found that her stirrup-leather had broken. + +Vera pulled up and looked about her helplessly. She found herself in +a small spinney of young birch-trees, filling up the extremity of a +triangular field into which she had come. Not a sign of the hounds, or, +indeed, of any living creature was to be seen in any direction. She did +not feel inclined to go on--or even to go back home with her broken +stirrup-leather. It occurred to her that she would get off and see what +she could do towards patching it together herself. + +With some little difficulty, her mare being fidgety, and refusing to +stand still, she managed to dismount; but in doing so her wrist caught +against the pommel of her saddle, and was so severely wrenched backwards, +as she sprang to the ground, that she turned quite sick with the pain. + +It seemed to her that her wrist must be sprained; at all events, her +right hand was, for the minute, perfectly powerless. The mare, perceiving +that nothing further was expected of her, amused herself by cropping the +short grass at her feet, whilst Vera stood by her side in dire perplexity +as to what she was to do next. Just then she heard the welcome sound of a +horse's hoofs in the adjoining field, and in another minute a hat and +black coat, followed by a horse's head and forelegs appeared on the top +of the fence, and a man dropped over into the spinney just ten yards in +front of her. + +Vera took it to be her lover, for the brothers both hunted in black, and +there was a certain family resemblance between their broad shoulders and +the square set of their heads. She called out eagerly, + +"Oh, John! how glad I am to see you! I have come to grief!" + +"So I see; but I am not John. I hope, however, I may do as well. What is +the matter?" + +"It is you, Maurice? Oh, yes, you will do quite as well. I have broken my +stirrup-leather, and I am afraid I have sprained my wrist." + +"That sounds bad--let me see." + +In an instant he had sprung from his horse to help her. + +She looked up at him as he came, pushing the tall brushwood away as +he stepped through it. It struck her suddenly how like he was to the +photograph she had found of him at Kynaston long ago, and what a +well-made man he was, and how brave and handsome he looked in his +hunting gear. + +"How have you managed to hurt your wrist? Let me see it." + +"I wrenched it somehow in jumping down; but I don't think that it can be +sprained, for I find I can move it now a little; it is only bruised, but +it hurts me horribly." + +She turned back her cuff and held out the injured hand to him. Maurice +stooped over it. There was a moment's silence, the two horses stood +waiting patiently by, the solitary fields lay bare and lifeless on every +side of them, the little birch-trees rustled mysteriously overhead, the +leaden sky, with its chill curtain of unbroken gray cloud, spread +monotonously above them; there was no living thing in all the winter +landscape besides to listen or to watch them. + +Suddenly Maurice Kynaston caught the hand that he held to his lips, and +pressed half a dozen passionate kisses upon its outstretched palm. + +It was the work of half a minute, and in the next Maurice felt as if he +should die of shame and remorse. + +"For God's sake, forgive me!" he cried, brokenly. "I am a brute--I forgot +myself--I must be mad, I think; for Heaven's sake tell me that I have not +offended you past forgiveness, Vera!" + +His pulses were beating wildly, his face was flushed, the hands that +still held hers shook with a nameless emotion; he looked imploringly into +her face, as if to read his sentence in her eyes, but what he saw there +arrested the torrent of repentance and regret that was upon his lips. + +Upon Vera's face there was no flush either of shame or anger. No storm +of indignation, no passion of insulted feeling; only eyes wide open and +terror-stricken, that met his with the unspeakable horror that one sees +sometimes in those of a hunted animal. She was pale as death. Then +suddenly the colour flushed hotly back into her face; she averted her +eyes. + +"Let me go home," she said, in a faint voice; "help me to get on to my +horse, Maurice." + +There was neither resentment nor anger in her voice, only a great +weariness. + +He obeyed her in silence. Possibly he felt that he had stood for one +instant upon the verge of a precipice, and that miraculously her face had +saved him, he knew not how, where words would only have dragged him down +to unutterable ruin. + +What had it been that had thus saved him? What was the meaning of that +terror that had been written in her lovely eyes? Since she was not angry, +what had she feared? + +Maurice asked himself these questions vainly all the way home. Not a word +was spoken between them; they rode in absolute silence side by side until +they reached the house. + +Then, as he lifted her off her horse at the hall-door, he whispered, + +"Have you forgiven me?" + +"There was nothing to forgive," she answered, in a low, strained voice. +She spoke wearily, as one who is suffering physical pain. But, as she +spoke, the hand that he still held seemed almost, to his fancy, to linger +for a second with a gentle fluttering pressure within his grasp. + +Miss Nevill went into the house, having utterly forgotten that she had +sprained her wrist; a fact which proves indisputably, I suppose, that the +injury could not have been of a very serious nature. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +PEACOCK'S FEATHERS. + + That practised falsehood under saintly show, + Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge. + + Milton, "Paradise Lost." + + +Old Lady Kynaston arrived at Shadonake in the worst possible temper. Her +butler and factotum, who always made every arrangement for her when she +was about to travel, had for once been unequal to cope with Bradshaw; +he had looked out the wrong train, and had sent off his lady and her maid +half-an-hour too late from Walpole Lodge. + +The consequence was that, instead of reaching Shadonake comfortably at +half-past six in the afternoon, Lady Kynaston had to wait for the next +train. She ate her dinner alone, in London, at the Midland Railway Hotel, +and never reached her destination till half-past nine on the night of the +ball. + +Before she had half completed her toilette the guests were beginning to +arrive. + +"I am afraid I must go down and receive these people, dear Lady +Kynaston," said Mrs. Miller, who had remained in her guest's room full +of regret and sympathy at the _contretemps_ of her journey. + +"Oh, dear me! yes, Caroline--pray go down. I shall be all the quicker for +being left alone. Not _that_ cap, West; the one with the Spanish point, +of course. Dear me, how I do hate all this hurry and confusion!" + +"I am so afraid you will be tired," murmured Mrs. Miller, soothingly. +"Would you like me to send Miss Nevill up to your room? It might be +pleasanter for you than to meet her downstairs." + +"Good gracious, no!" exclaimed the elder lady, testily. "What on earth +should I be in such a hurry for! I shall see quite as much of her as I +want by-and-by, I have no doubt." + +Mrs. Miller retired, and the old lady was left undisturbed to finish +her toilette, during which it may fairly be assumed that that dignified +personage, Mrs. West, had a hard time of it. + +When she issued forth from her room, dressed, like a little fairy +godmother, in point lace and diamonds, the dancing downstairs was in +full swing. + +Lady Kynaston paused for a minute at the top of the broad staircase to +look down upon the bright scene below. The hall was full of people. Girls +in many-coloured dresses passed backwards and forwards from the ball-room +to the refreshment-room, laughing and chatting to their partners; elderly +people were congregated about the doorways gossiping and shaking hands +with new-comers, or watching their daughters with pleased or anxious +faces, according to the circumstances of their lot. Everybody was talking +at once. There came up a pleasant confusion of sound--happy voices +mingling with the measured strains of the dance-music. In a sheltered +corner behind the staircase, Beatrice and Herbert Pryme had settled +themselves down comfortably for a chat. Lady Kynaston saw them. + +"Caroline is a fool!" she muttered to herself. "All the balls in the +world won't get that girl married as she wishes. She has set her heart +upon that briefless barrister. I saw it as plain as daylight last season. +As to entertaining all this _cohue_ of aborigines, Caroline might spare +her trouble and her money, as far as the girl is concerned." + +And then, coming slowly down the staircase, Lady Kynaston saw something +which restored her to good temper at once. + +The something was her younger son. She had caught sight of him through an +open doorway in the conservatory. His back was turned to her, and he was +bending over a lady who was sitting down, and whose face was concealed +behind him. + +Lady Kynaston stood still with that sudden _serrement de coeur_ which +comes to us all when we see the creature we love best on earth. He did +not see her, and she could not see his face, because it was turned away +from her; but she knew, by his very attitude, the way he bent down over +his companion, by the eager manner in which he was talking to her, and by +the way in which he was evidently entirely engrossed and absorbed in what +he was saying--that he was enjoying himself, and that he was happy. + +The mother's heart all went out towards him; the mother's eyes moistened +as she looked. + +The couple in the conservatory were alone. A Chinese lantern, swung high +up above, shed down a soft radiance upon them. Tall camellia bushes, +covered with waxen blossoms and cool shiny leaves, were behind them; +banks of long-fronded, feathery ferns framed them in like a picture. +Maurice's handsome figure stood up tall and strong amongst the greenery; +the dress of the woman he was with lay in soft diaphanous folds upon the +ground beyond him. One white arm rested on her lap, one tiny foot peeped +out from below the laces of her skirt. But Lady Kynaston could not see +her face. + +"I wonder who she is," she said to herself. "It is not Helen. She has +peacock's feathers on her dress--bad luck, I believe! Dear boy, he looks +thoroughly happy. I will not disturb him now." + +And she passed on through the hall into the large drawing-room, where the +dancing was going on. + +The first person she caught sight of there was her eldest son. He was +dancing a quadrille, and his partner was a short young lady in a +strawberry-coloured tulle dress, covered with trails of spinach-green +fern leaves. This young person had a round, chubby face, with bright +apple-hued cheeks, a dark, bullet-shaped head, and round, bead-like eyes +that glanced about her rapidly like those of a frightened dickey-bird. +Her dress was cut very low, and the charms she exhibited were not +captivating. Her arms were very red, and her shoulders were mottled: the +latter is considered to be a healthy sign in a baby, but is hardly a +beautiful characteristic in a grown woman. + +"_That_ is my daughter-in-law," said Lady Kynaston to herself, and she +almost groaned aloud. "She is _worse_ even than I thought! Countrified +and common to the last degree; there will be no licking that face or that +figure into shape--they are hopeless! Elise and Worth combined could do +nothing with her! John must be mad. No wonder she is good, poor thing," +added the naughty little old lady, cynically. "A woman with _that_ +appearance can never be tempted to be anything else!" + +The quadrille came to an end, and Sir John, after depositing his partner +at the further side of the room, came up to his mother. + +"My dear mother, how are you? I am so sorry about your journey; you must +be dead beat. What a fool Bates was to make such a mistake." He was +looking about the room as he spoke. "I must introduce you to Vera." + +"Yes, introduce me to her at once," said his mother, in a resigned and +depressed tone of voice. She would like to have added, "And pray get it +over as soon as you can." What she did say was only, "Bring her up to me +now. The young lady you have just been dancing with, I suppose!" + +"What!" cried Sir John, and burst out laughing. "Good Heavens, mother! +that was Miss Smiles, the daughter of the parson of Lutterton. You don't +mean to say you thought a little ugly chit like _that_ was my Vera!" + +His mother suddenly laid her hand upon his arm. + +"Who is that lovely woman who has just come in with Maurice?" she +exclaimed. + +Her son followed the direction of her eyes, and beheld Vera standing in +the doorway that led from the conservatory by his brother's side. + +Without a word he passed his mother's hand through his arm and led her +across the room. + +"Vera, this is my mother," he said. And Lady Kynaston owned afterwards +that she never felt so taken aback and so utterly struck dumb with +astonishment in her life. + +Her two sons looked at her with amusement and some triumph. The little +surprise had been so thoroughly carried out; the contrast of the truth to +what they knew she had expected was too good a joke not to be enjoyed. + +"Not much what you expected, little mother, is it?" said Maurice, +laughingly. But to Vera, who knew nothing, it was no laughing matter. + +She put both her hands out tremblingly and hesitatingly--with a pretty +pleading look of deprecating deference in her eyes--and the little old +lady, who valued beauty and grace and talent so much that she could +barely tolerate goodness itself without them, was melted at once. + +"My dear," she said, "you are beautiful, and I am going to love you; but +these naughty boys made me think you were something like little Miss +Smiles." + +"Nay, mother, it was your own diseased imagination," laughed Maurice; +"but come, Vera, I am not going to be cheated of this waltz--if John does +not want you to dance with him, that is to say." + +John nodded pleasantly to them, and the two whirled away together into +the midst of the throng of dancers. + +"Well, mother?" + +"My dear, she is a very beautiful creature, and I have been a silly, +prejudiced old woman." + +"And you forgive her for being poor, and for living in a vicarage instead +of a castle?" + +"She would be a queen if she were a beggar and lived in a mud hovel!" +answered his mother, heartily, and Sir John was satisfied. + +Lady Kynaston's eyes were following the couple as they danced: for all +her admiration and her enthusiasm, there was a little anxiety in their +gaze. She had not forgotten the little picture she had caught a glimpse +of in the conservatory, nor had her woman's eyes failed to notice that +Vera's dress was trimmed with peacock's feathers. + +Where was Helen? Lady Kynaston said to herself; and why was Maurice +devoting himself to his future sister-in-law instead of to her? + +Mrs. Romer, you may be sure, had not been far off. Her sharp eyes had +seen Vera and Maurice disappear together into the conservatory. She could +have told to a second how long they had remained there; and again, when +they came out, she had watched the little family scene that had taken +place at the door. She had seen the look of delighted surprise on Lady +Kynaston's face; she had noted how pleased and how proud of Vera the +brothers had looked, and then how happily Maurice and Vera had gone off +again together. + +"What does it mean?" Helen asked herself, bitterly. "Is Sir John a fool +or blind that he does not see what is going on under his nose? She has +got him, and his money, and his place; what does she want with Maurice +too? Why can't she let him alone--she is taking him from me." + +She watched them eagerly and feverishly. They stood still for a moment +near her; she could not hear what they said, but she could see the look +in Maurice's eyes as he bent towards his partner. + +Can a woman who has known what love is ever be mistaken about that? + +Vera, all wondering and puzzled, might be but dimly conscious of the +meaning in the eyes that met hers; her own drooped, half troubled, half +confused, before them. But to Helen, who knew what love's signals were, +there was no mystery whatever in the passion in his down-bent glance. + +"He loves her!" she said to herself, whilst a sharp pang, almost of +physical pain, shot through her heart. "She shall never get him!--never! +never! Not though one of us die for it! They are false, both of them. I +swear they shall never be happy together!" + +"Why are you not dancing, Mrs. Romer?" said a voice at her elbow. + +"I will dance with you, Sir John, if you will ask me," answers Helen, +smiling. + +Sir John responds, as in duty bound, by passing his arm around her waist. + +"When are you going to be married, Sir John?" she asks him, when the +first pause in the dance gives her the opportunity of speech. + +Sir John looks rather confused. "Well, to tell you the truth, I have +not spoken to Vera yet. I have not liked to hurry her--I thought, +perhaps----" + +"Why don't you speak to her? A woman never thinks any better of a man +for being diffident in such matters." + +"You think not? But you see Vera is----" + +"Vera is very much like all other women, I suppose; and you are not +versed in the ways of the sex." + +Sir John demurred in his own mind as to the first part of her speech. +Vera was certainly not like other women; but then he acknowledged the +truth of Mrs. Romer's last remark thoroughly. + +"No, I dare say I don't know much about women's ways," he admitted; "and +you think----" + +"I think that Vera would be glad enough to be married as soon as she can. +An engagement is a trying ordeal. One is glad enough to get settled down. +What is the use of waiting when once everything is arranged?" + +Sir John flushed a little. The prospect of a speedy marriage was pleasant +to him. It was what he had been secretly longing for--only that, in his +slow way, he had not yet been able to suggest it. + +"Do you really think she would like it?" he asked, earnestly. + +"Of course she would; any woman would." + +"And how long do you think the preparations would take?" + +"Oh, a month or three weeks is ample time to get clothes in." + +His pulses beat hotly at the bare possibility of such a thing. To possess +his Vera in so short a time seemed something too great and too wonderful +to be true. + +"Do not lose any more time," continued Helen, following up the impression +she saw she had made upon him. "Speak to her this evening; get her to fix +your wedding-day within the month; believe me, a man gets no advantage by +putting things off too long; and there are dangers, too, in your case." + +"Dangers! How do you mean?" he said, quickly. + +"Oh, nothing particular--only she is very handsome, and she is young, and +not accustomed, I dare say, to admiration. Other men may admire her as +well as you." + +"If they did, it could do her no harm," he answered, stiffly. + +"Oh, no, of course not; but you can't keep other men from looking at +her. When once she is your wife you will have her more completely to +yourself." + +Sir John made no particular answer to this; but when he had done dancing +with Mrs. Romer, he led her back to her seat and thanked her gravely and +courteously for her suggestions. + +"You have done me a great service, Mrs. Romer, and I am infinitely +obliged to you," he said, and then went his way to find Vera. + +He was not jealous; but there was a certain uneasiness in his mind. It +might be, indeed, true that others would admire and love Vera; others +more worthy of her, more equally mated with her youth and loveliness; and +he, he said to himself in his humility with regard to her, he had so +little to offer her--nothing but his love. He knew himself to be grave +and quiet; there was nothing about him to enchain her to him. He lacked +brilliancy in manner and conversation; he was dull; he was, perhaps, +even prosy. He knew it very well himself; but suppose Vera should find it +out, and find that she had made a mistake! The bare thought of it was +enough to make him shudder. + +No; Mrs. Romer was a clever, well-intentioned little woman. She had meant +to give him a hint in all kindness, and he would not be slow to take it. +What she had meant to say was, "Take her yourself quickly, or some one +else will take her from you." + +And Sir John said to himself that he would so take her, and that as +quickly as possible. + +Standing talking to her younger son, later on that evening, Lady Kynaston +said to him, suddenly, + +"Why does Vera wear peacock's feathers?" + +"Why should she not?" + +"They are bad luck." + +Maurice laughed. "I never knew you to be superstitious before, mother." + +"I am not so really; but from choice I would avoid anything that bears an +unlucky interpretation. I saw her with you in the conservatory as I came +downstairs." + +Maurice turned suddenly red. "Did you?" he asked, a little anxiously. + +"Yes. I did not know it was her, of course. I did not see her face, only +her dress, and I noticed that it was trimmed with peacock's feathers; +that was what made me recognize her afterwards." + +"That was bad luck, at all events," said Maurice, almost involuntarily. + +"Why?" asked Lady Kynaston, looking up at him sharply. But Maurice would +not tell her why. + +Lady Kynaston asked no more questions; but she pondered, and she watched. +Captain Kynaston did not dance again with Vera that night, and he did +dance several times with Mrs. Romer; it did not escape her notice, +however, that he seemed absent and abstracted, and that his face bore its +hardest and sternest aspect throughout the remainder of the evening. + +So the ball at Shadonake came to an end, as balls do, with the first +gleams of daylight; and nothing was left of all the gay crowd who had so +lately filled the brilliant rooms but several sleepy people creeping up +slowly to bed, and a great _chiffonade_ of tattered laces, and flowers, +and coloured scraps littered all over the polished floor of the +ball-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +HER WEDDING DRESS. + + Those obstinate questionings + Of sense and outward things, + Fallings from us, vanishings, + Blank misgivings-- + High instincts before which our moral nature + Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. + + Wordsworth. + + +"Vera, are you not coming to look at it?" + +"Presently." + +"It is all laid out on your bed, and you ought to try it on; it might +want alterations." + +"Oh, there is plenty of time!" + +"It is downright affectation!" says old Mrs. Daintree, angrily, to her +daughter-in-law, as she and Marion leave the room together; "no girl can +really be indifferent to a wedding dress covered with yards of lovely +Brussels lace flounces; she ought to be ashamed of herself for her +ingratitude to Lady Kynaston for such a present; she must really want +to see it, only she likes playing the fine lady beforehand!" + +"I don't think it is that," says Marion, gently; "I don't believe Vera is +well." + +"Fiddlesticks!" snorts her mother-in-law. "A woman who is going to marry +ten thousand a year within ten days is bound to be well." + +Vera sits alone; she leans her head against the window, her hands lie +idle in her lap, her eyes mechanically follow the rough, gray clouds that +rack across the winter sky. In little more than a week she will be Vera +Nevill no longer; she will have gained all that she desired and tried +for--wealth, position, Kynaston--and Sir John! She should be well +content, seeing that it has been her own doing all along. No one has +forced or persuaded her into this engagement, no one has urged her on to +a course contrary to her own inclination, or her own judgment. It has +been her own act throughout. And yet, as she sits alone in the twilight, +and counts over on her fingers the few short days that intervene between +to-day and her bridal morning, hot miserable tears rise to her eyes, +and fall slowly down, one by one, upon her clasped hands. She does not +ask herself why she weeps; possibly she dares not. Only her thoughts +somehow--by that strange connection of ideas which links something in +our present to some other thing in our past, and which apparently is in +no way dependent upon it--go back instinctively, as it were, to her dead +sister, the Princess Marinari. + +"Oh, my poor darling Theodora!" she murmurs, half aloud; "if you had +lived, you would have taken care of your Vera; if you had not died, I +should never have come here, nor ever have known--any of them." + +And then she hears Marion's voice calling to her from the top of the +stairs. + +"Vera! Vera! do come up and see it before it gets quite dark." + +She rises hastily and dashes away her tears. + +"What is the matter with me to-day!" she says to herself, impatiently. +"Have I not everything in the world I wish for? I am happy--of course +I am happy. I am coming, Marion, instantly." + +Upstairs her wedding dress, a soft cloud of rich silk and fleecy lace, +relieved with knots of flowers, dark-leaved myrtle, and waxen orange +blossoms, lies spread out upon her bed. Marion stands contemplating it, +wrapt in ecstatic admiration; old Mrs. Daintree has gone away. + +"It is perfectly lovely! I am so glad you had silk instead of satin; +nothing could show off Lady Kynaston's lace so well: is it not beautiful? +you ought to try it on. Why, Vera! what is the matter? I believe you have +been crying." + +"I was thinking of Theodora," she murmurs. + +"Ah! poor dear Theodora!" assents Marion, with a compassionate sigh; "how +she would have liked to have known of your marriage; how pleased she +would have been." + +Vera looks at her sister. "Marion," she says, in a low earnest voice; +"if--if I should break it off, what would you say?" + +"Break it off!" cries her sister, horror-struck. "Good heavens, Vera! +what can you mean? Have you gone suddenly mad? What is the matter with +you? Break off a match like this at the last minute? You must be +demented!" + +"Oh, of course," with a sudden change of manner; "of course I did not +mean it, it only came into my head for a minute; of course, as you say, +it is a splendid match for me. What should I want to break it off for? +What should I gain? what, indeed?" She spoke feverishly and excitedly, +laughing a little harshly as she spoke. + +Marion looked at her anxiously. "I hope to goodness you will never say +such horrid things to anybody else; it sounds dreadful, Vera, as if +Eustace and I were forcing you into it; as if you did not want to marry +Sir John yourself." + +"Of course I want to marry him!" interrupted Vera, with unreasonable +sharpness. + +"Then, pray don't make a fool of yourself, my dear, by talking about +breaking it off." + +"It was only a joke. Break it off! how could I? The best match in the +county, as you say. I am not going to make a fool of myself; don't be +afraid, Marion. It would be so inconvenient, too; the trousseau all +bought, the breakfast ordered, the guests invited; even the wedding dress +here, all finished and ready to put on, and ten thousand a year waiting +for me! Oh, no, I am not going to be such an utter fool!" + +She laughed; but her laughter was almost more sad than her tears, and her +sister left her, saddened and puzzled by her manner. + +It was now nearly two months since the ball at Shadonake; and, soon after +that eventful visit, Vera had begun to be employed in preparing for her +wedding-day, which had been fixed for the 27th of February; for Sir John +had taken Mrs. Romer's hint, and had pressed an early marriage upon her. +Vera had made no objection; what objection, indeed, could she have found +to make? She had acquiesced readily in her lover's suggestions, and had +set to work to prepare herself for her marriage. + +All this time Captain Kynaston had not been in Meadowshire at all; he had +declined his brother's hospitality, and had gone to spend his leave +amongst other friends in Somersetshire, where he had started a couple of +hunters, and wrote word to Sir John that the sport was of such a very +superior nature that he was unable to tear himself away. + +Within a fortnight, however, of Sir John's wedding, Maurice did yield at +last to his brother's pressing request, and came up from Somersetshire to +Kynaston. Last Sunday he had suddenly appeared in the Kynaston pew in +Sutton Church by Sir John's side, and had shaken hands with Vera and her +relations on coming out of church, and had walked across the vicarage +garden by the side of Mrs. Daintree, Vera having gone on in front with +Tommy and Minnie. And it was from that moment that Vera had as suddenly +discovered that she was utterly and thoroughly wretched, and that she +dreaded her wedding-day with a strange and unaccountable terror. + +She told herself that she was out of health, that the excitement and +bustle of the necessary preparations had over-tried her, that her nerves +were upset, her spirits depressed by reason of the solemnity a woman +naturally feels at the approach of so important a change in her life. +She assured herself aloud, day after day, that she was perfectly happy +and content, that she was the very luckiest and most fortunate of women, +and that she would sooner be Sir John's wife than the wife of any one +else in the world. And she told it to herself so often and so +emphatically, that there were whole hours, and even whole days together, +when she believed in these self-assurances implicitly and thoroughly. + +All this time she saw next to nothing of Maurice Kynaston; the weather +was mild and open, and he went out hunting every day. Sir John, on the +other hand, was much with her; a constant necessity for his presence +seemed to possess her. She was never thoroughly content but when he was +with her; ever restless and ill at ease in his absence. + +No one could be more thoroughly convinced than Vera of the entire wisdom +of the marriage she was about to make. It was, she felt persuaded, the +best and the happiest thing she could have done with her life. Wealth, +position, affection, were all laid at her feet; and her husband, +moreover, would be a man whose goodness and whose devotion to her could +never fail to command her respect. What more could a woman who, like +herself, was fully alive to the importance of the good things of this +world desire? Surely nothing more. Vera, when she was left alone with +the glories of her wedding garment, took herself to task for her foolish +words to her sister. + +"I am a fool!" she said to herself, half angrily, as she bundled all the +white silk and the rich lace unceremoniously away into an empty drawer of +her wardrobe. "I am a fool to say such things even to Marion. It looks, +as she says, as if I were being forced into a rich marriage by my +friends. I am very fond of John; I shall make him a most exemplary wife, +and I shall look remarkably well in the family diamonds, and that is all +that can possibly be required of me." + +Having thus settled things comfortably in her own mind, she went +downstairs again, and was in such good spirits, and so radiant with +smiles for the rest of the evening, that Mr. Daintree remarked to his +wife, when they had retired into their conjugal chamber, that he had +never seen Vera look so well or so happy. + +"Dear child," he said, "it is a great comfort to me to see it, for just +at first I feared that she had been influenced by the money and the +position, and that her heart was not in it; but now she has evidently +become much attached to Sir John, and is perfectly happy; and he is a +most excellent man, and in every way worthy of her. Did I tell you, +Marion, that he told me the chancel should be begun immediately after the +wedding? It is a pity it could not have been done before; but we shall +just get it finished by Easter." + +"I am glad of that. We must fill the church with flowers for the 27th, +and then its appalling ugliness will not be too visible. Of course, the +building could hardly have been begun in the middle of winter." + +But if Mrs. Eustace Daintree differed at all from her husband upon the +subject of her sister's serene and perfect happiness, she, like a wise +woman, kept her doubts to herself, and spoke no word of them to destroy +the worthy vicar's peace of mind upon the subject. + +The next morning Sir John came down from the Hall to the vicarage with +a cloud upon his brow, and requested Vera to grant him a few minutes' +private conversation. Vera put on her sable cloak and hat, and went out +with him into the garden. + +"What is the matter?" + +"I am exceedingly vexed with my brother," he answered. + +"What has Maurice done?" + +"He tells me this morning that he will not stop for the wedding, nor be +my best man. He talks of going away to-morrow." + +Vera glanced at him. He looked excessively annoyed; his face, usually so +kind and placid, was ruffled and angry; he flicked the grass impatiently +with his stick. + +"I have been talking to him for an hour, and cannot get him to change his +mind, or even to tell me why he will not stay; in fact, he has no good +reason for going. He _must_ stay." + +"Does it matter very much?" she asked, gently. + +"Of course it matters. My mother is not able to be present; it would not +be prudent after her late attack of bronchitis. My only brother surely +might make a point of being at my wedding." + +"But if he has other engagements----" + +"He has no other engagement!" he interrupted, angrily; "He cannot find +any but the most paltry excuses. It is behaving with great unkindness to +myself, but that is a small matter. What I do mind and will not submit to +is, that it is a deliberate insult to you." + +"An insult to me! Oh! John, how can that be?" she said, in some surprise; +and then, suddenly, she flushed hotly. She knew what he meant. There had +been plenty of people to say that Sir John Kynaston was marrying beneath +himself--a nobody who was unworthy of him: these murmurs had reached +Vera's ears, but she had not heeded them since Lady Kynaston had been on +her side. She saw, however, that Sir John feared that the absence of his +mother and his brother at his wedding might be misconstrued into a sign +that they also disapproved of his bride. + +"I don't think Maurice would wish to slight me," she said, gently. + +"No; but, then, he must not behave as though he did. I assure you, Vera, +if he perseveres in his determination, I shall be most deeply hurt. I +have always endeavoured to be a kind brother to him, and, if he cannot do +this small thing to please me, I shall consider him most ungrateful." + +"That I am sure he is not," she answered, earnestly; "little as I know +him, I can assure you that he never loses an occasion of saying how much +he feels your goodness and generosity to him." + +"Then he must prove it. Look here, Vera, will you go up to the Hall now +and talk to him? He is not hunting to-day; you will find him in the +library." + +"I?" she cried, looking half frightened; "what can I do? You had much +better ask him yourself." + +"I have asked him over and over again, till I am sick of asking! If you +were to put it as a personal request from yourself, I am sure he would +see how important to us both it is that he should be present at our +wedding." + +"Pray don't ask me to do such a thing; I really cannot," she said, +hastily. + +Sir John looked at her in some surprise; there was an amount of distress +in her face that struck him as inadequate to the small thing he had asked +of her. + +"Why, Vera! have you grown shy? Surely you will not mind doing so small a +thing to please me? You need not stay long, and you have your hat on all +ready. I have to speak to your brother-in-law about the chancel; I have a +letter from the architect this morning; and everything must be settled +about it before we go. If you will go up and speak to Maurice now, I will +join you--say in twenty minutes from now," consulting his watch, "at the +lodge gates. You will go, won't you, dear, just to please me?" + +She did not know how to refuse; she had no excuse to give, no reason that +she could put into words why she should shrink with such a dreadful +terror from this interview with his brother which he was forcing upon +her. She told him that she would go, and Sir John, leaving her, went into +the house well satisfied to do his business with the vicar. + +And Vera went slowly up the lane alone towards the Hall. She did not know +what she was going to say to Maurice; she hardly knew, indeed, what it +was she had been commissioned to ask of him; nor in what words her +request was to be made. She thought no longer of her wedding-day, nor of +the lover who had just parted with her. Only before her eyes there came +again the little wintry copse of birch-trees; the horses standing by, the +bare fields stretching around, and back into her heart there flashed the +memory of those quick, hot kisses pressed upon her outstretched hand; the +one short--and alas! all too perilous--glimpse that had been revealed to +her of the inner life and soul of the man whose lightest touch she had +learnt that day to fear as she feared no other living thing. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +VERA'S MESSAGE. + + Alas! how easily things go wrong, + A word too much, or a sigh too long; + And there comes a mist and a driving rain, + And life is never the same again. + + +The library at Kynaston was the room which Sir John had used as his only +sitting-room since he had come down to stay in his own house. When his +wedding with Miss Nevill had been definitely fixed, there had come down +from town a whole army of decorators and painters and upholsterers, who +had set to work to renovate and adorn the rest of the house for the +advent of the bride, who was so soon to be brought home to it. + +They had altered things in various ways, they had improved a few, and +they had spoiled a good many more; they had, at all events, introduced a +wholesome and thorough system of cleansing and cleaning throughout the +house, that had been very welcome to the soul of Mrs. Eccles; but into +the library they had not penetrated. The old bookshelves remained +untouched; the old books, in their musty brown calf bindings, were +undesecrated by profaning hands. All sorts of quaint chairs and bureaus, +gathered together out of every other room in the house, had congregated +here. The space over the mantelpiece was adorned by a splendid portrait +by Vandyke, flanked irreverently on either side by a series of old +sporting prints, representing the whole beginning, continuation, and +end of a steeple-chase course, and which, it is melancholy to state, were +far more highly appreciated by Sir John than the beautiful and valuable +picture which they surrounded. Below these, and on the mantelpiece +itself, were gathered together a heterogeneous collection of pipes, +spurs, horse-shoes, bits, and other implements, which the superintending +hands of any lady would have straightway relegated to the stables. + +In this library Sir John and his brother fed, smoked, wrote and read, +and lived, in fact, entirely in full and disorderly enjoyment of their +bachelorhood and its privileges. The room, consequently, was in a +condition of untidiness and confusion, which was the despair of Mrs. +Eccles and the delight of the two men themselves, who had even forbidden +the entrance of any housemaid into it upon pain of instant dismissal. +Mrs. Eccles submitted herself with resignation to the inevitable, and +comforted herself with the reflection that the time of unchecked +masculine dominion was well-nigh over, and that the days were very near +at hand when "Miss Vera" was coming to alter all this. + +"Ah, well, it won't last long, poor gentleman!" the worthy lady said to +herself, in allusion to Sir John's uninvaded sanctum; "let him enjoy his +pigstye while he can. When his wife comes she will soon have the place +swept clean out for him." + +So the papers, and the books, and the pipes, and the tobacco-tins were +left heaped up all over the tables and chairs, and the fox-terriers sat +in high places on the sofa cushions; and the brothers smoked their pipes +after their meals, emptied their ashes on to the tables, threw their +empty soda-water bottles into a corner of the room, wore their slippers +at all hours, and lapsed, in fact, into all those delightful methods of +living at ease practised by the vicious nature inherent in man when he is +unchecked by female influence; whilst Mrs. Eccles groaned in silence, but +possessed her soul in patience by reason of that change which she knew to +be coming over the internal economy of Kynaston Hall. + +Maurice Kynaston reclines at ease in the most comfortable arm-chair in +the room, his feet reposing upon a second chair; his pipe is in his +mouth, and his hands in his trouser pockets; he wears a loose, gray +shooting-jacket, and Sir John's favourite terrier, Vic, has curled +herself into a little round white ball upon his outstretched legs. +Maurice has just been reading his morning's correspondence, and a letter +from Helen, announcing that her grandfather is ill and confined to his +room by bronchitis, is still in his hand. He looks gloomily and +abstractedly into the red logs of the wood fire. The door opens. + +"Any orders for the stable, Captain?" + +"None to-day, Mrs. Eccles." + +"You are not going out hunting?" + +"No, I am going to take a rest. By the way, Mrs. Eccles, I shall be +leaving to-morrow, so you can see about packing my things." + +"Dear me! sir, I hope we shall see you again, at the wedding." + +"Very unlikely; I don't like weddings, Mrs. Eccles; the only one I ever +mean to dance at is yours. When you get married, you let me know." + +"Law! sir, how you do go on!" said the old lady, laughing; not +ill-pleased at the imputation. "Dear me," she went on, looking round the +room uneasily, "did I ever see such a mess in all my born days. Now Sir +John is out, sir, I suppose you couldn't let me----" + +"_Certainly not_--if you mean bring in a broom and a dust-pan! Just let +me catch you at it, that's all!" + +The housekeeper shook her head with a resigned sigh. + +"Ah, well! it can't last long; when Miss Vera comes she'll turn the whole +place inside-out, and all them nasty pipes, and dogs and things will be +cleared away." + +"Do you think so?" suddenly sitting upright in his chair. "Wait a bit, +Mrs. Eccles; don't go yet. Do you think Miss Vera will have things her +own way with my brother?" + +"Oh! sir, what do you ask me for?" she answered, with discreet +evasiveness. "Surely you must know more about Miss Vera than I can tell +you." + +Mrs. Eccles went away, and Maurice got up and leant against the +mantelpiece looking down gloomingly, into the fire. Vic, dislodged from +his knee, sat up beside him, resting her little white paws on the edge of +the fender, warming her nose. + +"What a fool I am!" said Maurice, aloud to himself. "I can't even hear +her name mentioned by a servant without wanting to talk about her. Yes, +it's clear he loves her--but does she love him? Will she be happy? Yes, +of course, she will get her own way. Will that be enough for her? Ah!" +turning suddenly round and taking half-a-dozen steps across the room. "It +is high time I went. I am a coward and a traitor to linger on here; I +will go. Why did I say to-morrow--why have I not settled to go this very +day? If I were not so weak and so irresolute, I should be gone by this +time. I ought never, knowing what I do know of myself--I ought never to +have come back at all." He went back to the fire and sat down again, +lifting the little dog back on to his knee. "I shall get over it, I +suppose," he murmured. "Men don't die of this sort of thing; she will +marry, and she will think me unkind because I shall never come near her; +but even if she knew the truth, it would never make any difference to +her; and by-and-by I too, I suppose, shall marry." The soliloquy died +away into silence. Maurice stroked the dog and looked at the fire +dreamily and somewhat drearily. + +Some one tapped at the door. + +"Come in! What is it, Mrs. Eccles?" he cried, rousing himself. + +The door softly opened and there entered, not Mrs. Eccles, but Vera +Nevill. + +Captain Kynaston sprang hastily to his feet. "Oh, Vera! I beg your +pardon--how do you do? I suppose you have come for John? You must have +missed him; he started for the vicarage half-an-hour ago." + +"No, I have seen him. I have come to see you, Maurice, if you don't +mind." She spoke rather timidly, not looking at him. + +"I am delighted, of course," he answered, a little constrainedly. + +Vera stood up on the hearth divesting herself of her long fur cloak; she +flung it over the back of a chair, and then took off her hat and gloves. +Maurice was strangely unlike himself this morning, for he never offered +to help her in these operations, he only stood leaning against the corner +of the mantelpiece opposite her, looking at her. + +Vera stooped down and stroked the little fox-terrier; when she had done +so, she raised her head and met his eyes. + +Did she see, ere he hastily averted them, all the hunger and all the +longing that filled them as he watched her? He, in his turn, stooped and +replenished the fire. + +"John sent me to talk to you, Maurice," began Vera, hurriedly, like one +repeating a lesson; "he tells me you will not be with us on the 27th; is +that so?" + +"I am sorry, but I am obliged to go away," he answered. + +"John is dreadfully hurt, Maurice. I hope you will alter your mind." + +"Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?" he asked, +looking at her. + +"For both of us. Of course it will be a great disappointment if you are +not there. You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply." + +"And you; will you feel it?" he persisted. She coloured a little. + +"Yes, I shall be very sorry," she answered, nervously. "I should not like +John to be vexed on his wedding-day; he has been a kind brother to you, +Maurice, and it seems hard that you cannot do this little thing to show +your sense of it." + +"Believe me, I show my gratitude to my brother just as well in staying +away as in remaining," he answered, earnestly. "Do not urge me any +further, Vera; I would do anything in the world to please John, but +I cannot be present at your wedding." + +There was a moment's silence; the fire flickered up merrily between them; +a red-hot cinder fell out noisily from the grate; the clock ticked +steadily on the chimney-piece; the little terrier sniffed at the edge +of Vera's dress. + +Suddenly there came into her heart a wild desire _to know_, to eat for +once of that forbidden fruit of the tree of Eden, whence the flaming +swords in vain beckoned her back; to eat, and afterwards, perchance, to +perish of the poisonous food. + +A wild conflict of thought thronged into her soul. Prudence, wisdom, her +very heart itself counselled her to be still and to go. But something +stronger than all else was within her too; and something that was new and +strange, and perilously sweet to her; a something that won the day. + +She turned to him, stretching out her hands; the warm glow of the fire +lit up her lovely face and her eloquent pleading eyes, and flickered over +the graceful and beautiful figure, whose perfect outlines haunted his +fancy for ever. + +"Stay, for my sake, because I ask you!" she cried, with a sudden passion; +"or else tell me why you must go." + +There came no answering flash into his eyes, only he lowered them beneath +hers; he sat down suddenly, as though he was weary, on the chair whence +he had risen at her entrance, so that she stood before him, looking down +at him. + +There was a certain repression in his face which made him look stern and +cold, as one who struggles with a mortal temptation. He stooped over the +little dog, and became seemingly engrossed in stroking it. + +"I cannot stop," he said, in a cold, measured voice; "it is an +impossibility. But, since you ask me, I will tell you why. It can make no +possible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interest +or your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it is +over and you go away you will forget it again. I do not ask you to +remember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget. +This is what it is. Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing you +happiness and love. I can rejoice in your happiness. I am not so selfish +as to lament it; but you will not wish me to be there to see it when I +tell you that I have been fool enough to dare to love you myself. It is +the folly of a madman, is it not? since I have never had the slightest +hope or entertained the faintest wish to alter the conditions of your +life; nor have I even asked myself what effect such a confession as this +that you have wrung from me can have upon you. Whether it excites your +pity or your contempt, or even your amusement, it cannot in any case make +any difference to me. My folly, at all events, cannot hurt you or my +brother; it can hurt no one but myself: it cannot even signify to you. +It is only for my own sake that I am going, because one cannot bear more +than a certain amount, can one? I thought I might have been strong +enough, but I find that it would be too much; that is all. You will not +ask me to stay any more, will you?" + +Not once had he looked at her; not by a single sign or token had he +betrayed the slightest emotion or agitation. His voice had been steady +and unbroken; he spoke in a low and somewhat monotonous manner; it was +as though he had been relating something that in no way concerned +himself--some story that was of some other, and that other of no great +interest either to him who told it or to her who listened to the tale. +Any one suddenly coming into the room would have guessed him to be +entirely engrossed in the contemplation of the little dog between his +hands; that he was relating the story of his own heart would not have +been imagined for an instant. + +When he had done speaking there was an absolute silence in the room. What +he had spoken seemed to admit of no answer of any sort or kind from his +listener. He had asked for nothing; he had pleaded neither for her +sympathy nor her forgiveness, far less for any definite expression of the +effect of his words upon her. He had not, seemingly, cared to know how +they affected her. He had simply told his own story--that was all; it +concerned no one but himself. She might pity him, she might even be +amused at him, as he had said: anyhow, it made no difference to him; +he had chosen to present a picture of his inner life to her as a +doctor might have described some complicated disease to a chance +acquaintance--it was a physiological study, if she cared to look upon it +as such; if not, it did not matter. There was no possible answer that she +could make to him; no form of words by which she could even acknowledge +that she had heard him speak. + +She stood perfectly silent for the space of some two or three seconds; +she scarcely breathed, her very heart seemed to have ceased to beat; it +was as if she had been turned to stone. She knew not what she felt; it +was neither pain, nor joy, nor regret; it was only a sort of dull apathy +that oppressed her very being. + +Presently she put forth her hands, almost mechanically, and reached her +cloak and hat from the chair behind her. + +The soft rustle of her dress upon the carpet struck his ear; he looked up +with a start, like one waking out of a painful dream. + +"You are going!" he said, in his usual voice. + +"Yes; I am going." + +He stood up, facing her. + +"There is nothing more to be said, is there?" He said it not as though he +asked her a question, but as one asserting a fact. + +"Nothing, I suppose," she answered, rather wearily, not looking at him as +she spoke. + +"I shall not see you again, as I leave to-morrow morning by the early +train. You will, at least, wish me good-bye?" + +"Good-bye, Maurice." + +"Good-bye, Vera; God bless you." + +She opened the door softly and went out. She went slowly away down the +avenue, wrapping her cloak closely around her; the wind blew cold and +chill, and she shivered a little as she walked. Presently she struck +aside along a narrow pathway through the grass that led her homewards by +a shorter cut. She had forgotten that Sir John was to wait for her at the +lodge-gates. + +She had forgotten his very existence. For she _knew_. She had eaten of +the tree of knowledge, and the scales had fallen for ever from her eyes. + +She knew that Maurice loved her--and, alas! for her--she knew also that +she loved him. And between them a great gulf was fixed; deep, and wide, +and impassable as the waters of Lethe. + +Out of the calm, unconscious lethargy of her maidenhood's untroubled +dreams the soul of Vera had awakened at length to the realization of the +strong, passionate woman's heart that was within her. + +She loved! It had come to her at last; this thing that she had scorned +and disbelieved in, and yet that, possibly, she had secretly longed for. +She had deemed herself too cold, too wise, too much set upon the good +things of earth, to be touched by that scorching fire; but now she was no +colder than any other love-sick maiden, no wiser than every other foolish +woman who had been ready to wreck her life for love in the world's +history. + +Surely no girl ever learnt the secret of her own heart with such dire +dismay as did Vera Nevill. There was neither joy nor gladness within her, +only a great anger against herself and her fate, and even against him +who, as he had said, had dared to love her. She had courted the avowal +from his lips, and yet she resented the words she had wrung from him. +But, more than all, she resented the treachery of the heart that was +within her. + +"Why did I ever see him?" she cried aloud in her bitterness, striking her +hands wildly against each other. "What evil fate brought us together? +What fool's madness induced me to go near him to-day? I was happy enough; +I had all I wanted; I was content with my fate--and now--now!" Her +passionate words died away into a wail. In her haste and her abstraction +her foot caught against a long, withered bramble trail that lay across +her path; she half stumbled. It was sufficient to arrest her steps. She +stood still, and leant against the smooth, whitened trunk of a beech +tree. Her hands locked themselves tightly together; her face, white and +miserable, lifted itself despairingly towards the pitiless winter sky +above her. + +"How am I to live out my life?" she asked herself, in her anguish. + +It had not entered into her head that she could alter it. It did not +occur to her to imagine that she could give up anything to which she now +stood pledged. To be John Kynaston's wife, and to love his brother, that +was what struck upon her with horror; no other possible contingency had +as yet suggested itself to her. + +Presently, as she moved slowly onwards, still absorbed in her new-found +misfortune, a fresh train of thought came into her mind. She thought no +longer about herself, but about him. + +"How cruel I was to leave him like that," she said to herself, +reproachfully; "without a word, or so much as a look, of +consolation--for, if I suffer, has not he suffered too!" + +She forgot that he had asked her for nothing; she only knew that, little +enough as she had to give him, she had withheld that little from him. + +"What must he think of me?" she repeated to herself, in dismay. "How +heartless and how cold I must be in his eyes to have parted from him thus +without one single kind word. I might, at least, have told him that I was +grateful for the love I cannot take. I wonder," she continued, half aloud +to herself, "I wonder what it is like to be loved by Maurice----" She +paused again, this time leaning against the wicket-gate that led out of +the park into the high road. + +A little smile played for one instant about her lips, a soft, far-away +look lingered in her dreaming eyes for just a moment--just the space of +time it might take you to count twenty; she let her fancy carry her +away--_where_? + +Ah, sweet and perilous reverie! too dear and too dangerous to be safely +indulged in. Vera roused herself with a start, passing her hand across +her brow as though to brush away the thoughts that would fain have +lingered there. + +"Impossible!" she said aloud to herself, moving on again rapidly. "I must +be a fool to stand here dreaming--I, whose fate is irrevocably fixed; and +I would sooner die than alter it. The best match in the county, it is +called. Well, so it is; and nothing less would satisfy me. But--but--I +think I will see him once again, and wish him good-bye more kindly." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +"POOR WISDOM." + + No; vain, alas! the endeavour + From bonds so sweet to sever, + Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance + Is now as weak as ever! + + Thos. Moore. + + +The station at Sutton stood perched up above the village on a high +embankment, upon which the railway crossed the valley from the hills that +lay to the north to those that lay to the south of it. Up at the station +it was always draughty and generally cold. To-day, this very early +morning, about ten minutes before the first up train is due, it is not +only cold and draughty, but it is also wet and foggy. A damp, white mist +fills the valley below, and curls up the bare hill sides above; it hangs +chillingly about the narrow, open shed on the up side of the station, +covering the wooden bench within it with thick beads of moisture, so that +no man dare safely sit down on it, and clinging coldly and penetratingly +to the garments of a tall young lady in a long ulster and a thick veil, +who is slowly walking up and down the platform. + +The solitary porter on duty eyes her inquiringly. "Going by the up train, +Miss?" he says, touching his hat respectfully as he passes her. + +"No," says Vera, blushing hotly under the thick shelter of her veil, and +then adds with that readiness of explanation to which persons who have a +guilty conscience are prone, "I am only waiting to see somebody off." An +uncalled-for piece of information which has only the effect of setting +the bucolic mind of the local porter agog with curiosity and wonderment. + +Presently the few passengers for the early train begin to arrive; a +couple of farmers going into the market town, a village girl in a smart +bonnet, an old woman in a dirty red shawl, carrying a bundle; that is +all. Maurice is very late. Vera remembers that he always puts off +starting to catch a train till the very last minute. She stands waiting +for him at the further end of the platform, as far away as she can from +the knot of rustic passengers, with a beating heart and a fever of +impatience within her. + +The train is signalled, and at that very minute the dog-cart from +Kynaston drives up at last! Even then he has to get his ticket, and to +convey himself and his portmanteau across from the other side of the +line. Their good-bye will be short indeed! + +The train steams up, and Maurice hurries forward followed by the porter +bearing his rugs and sticks; he does not even see her, standing a little +back, as she does, so as not to attract more attention than need be. But +when all his things are put into the carriage, and the porter has been +duly tipped and has departed, Captain Kynaston hears a soft voice behind +him. + +"I have come to wish you good-bye again." He turns, flushing at the sound +of the sweet familiar voice, and sees Vera in her long ulster, and her +face hidden behind her veil, by his side. + +"Good Heavens, Vera! _you_--out on such a morning?" + +"I could not let you go away without--without--one kind word," she +begins, stammering painfully, her voice shaking so, as she speaks, that +he cannot fail to divine her agitation, even though he cannot see the +lovely troubled face that has been so carefully screened from his gaze. + +"This is too good of you," he begins. That very minute a brougham dashes +rapidly up to the station. + +"It is the Shadonake carriage!" cried Vera, casting a terrified glance +behind her. "Who can it be? they will see me." + +"Jump into the train," he answers, hurriedly, and, without a thought +beyond an instinct of self-preservation for the moment, she obeys him. +Maurice follows her quickly, closing the carriage door behind him. +"Nobody can have seen you," he says. "I daresay it is only some visitors +going away; they could not have noticed you. Oh! Vera," turning with +sudden earnestness to her; "how am I ever to thank you for this great +kindness to me?" + +"It is nothing; only a five minutes' walk before breakfast. It is no +trouble to me; and I did not want you to think me unfeeling, or unkind +to you." + +Before she could speak another word the carriage door was violently +slammed to, and the guard's sharp shrill whistle heralded the departure +of the train. With a cry, Vera sprang towards the door; before she could +reach it, Maurice, who had perceived instantly what had happened, had let +down the window and was shouting to the porter. It was too late. The +train was off. + +Vera sank back hopelessly upon the seat; and Maurice, according to the +manners and customs of infuriated Britons, gave utterance to a very +laconic word of bad import below his breath. + +"I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds!" he said, after +a minute, looking at her in blank despair. + +Vera was taking off her veil mechanically; when he could see her face, he +perceived that she was very white. + +"Never mind," she said, with a faint smile; "there is no real harm done. +It is unfortunate, that is all. The train stops at Tripton. I can get out +there and walk home." + +"Five miles! and it is I who have got you into this scrape! What a +confounded fool I was to make you get into the carriage! I ought to have +remembered how late it was. How are you to walk all that way?" + +"Pray don't reproach yourself, Maurice; I shall not mind the walk a bit. +I shall have to confess my escapade to Marion, and tell her why I am late +for breakfast--that is all; as it is, I can, at all events, finish what I +wanted to say to you." + +And then she was silent, looking away from him out of the further window. +The train, gradually accelerating its pace, sped quickly on through the +fog-blotted landscape. Hills, villages, church spires, all that made the +country familiar, were hidden in the mist; only here and there, in the +nearer hedge-rows, an occasional tree stood out bleak and black against +the white veil beyond like a sentinel alone on a limitless plain. +Absolute silence--only the train rushing on faster and faster through +the white, wet world without. + +Then, at last, it was Maurice, not Vera, that spoke. + +"I blame myself bitterly for this, Vera," he said in a low, pained voice. +"Had it not been for my foolish, unthinking words to you yesterday, you +would not have been tempted to do this rash act of kindness. I spoke to +you in a way that I had no right to speak, believing that my words would +make no impression upon you beyond the fact of showing you that it was +impossible for me to stay for your wedding. I never dreamt that your +kindly interest in me would lead you to waste another thought upon me. +I did not know how good and pitying your nature is, nor give you credit +for so much generosity." + +She turned round to him sharply and suddenly. "What are you saying?" she +cried, with a harsh pain in her voice. "What words are you using to me? +_Kindness, pity, generosity_!--have they any place here between you +and me?" + +There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, only their eyes met, +and the secret that was hidden in their souls lay suddenly revealed to +each of them. + +In another instant Vera had sunk upon her knees before him. + +"While you live," she cried, passionately, lifting her beautiful dark +eyes, that were filled with a new light and a new glory, to his--"while +you live I will never be another man's wife!" + +And there was no other word spoken. Only a shower of close, hot kisses +upon her lips, and two strong arms that drew her nearer and tighter to +the beating heart against which she rested, for he was only human after +all. + +Oh, swift and divine moment of joy, that comes but once in a man's life, +when he holds the woman he loves for the first time to his heart! Once, +and once only, he tastes of heaven and forgets life itself in the short +and delirious draught. What envious deity shall grudge him those moments +of rapture, all too sweet, and, alas! all too short! + +To Vera and Maurice, locked in each other's arms, time had no shore, and +life was not. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been an +eternity--they could not have told--no pang entered that serene haven +where their souls were lapped in perfect happiness; no serpent entered +into Eden; no harsh note struck upon their enchanted ears, nor jarring +sight upon their sun-dazzled vision. Where in that moment was the duty +and the honour that was a part of the man's very self? What to Vera was +the rich marriage and the life of affluence, and all the glitter and +tinsel which it had been her soul's desire to attain? She remembered it +not; like a house of cards, it had fallen shattered to the ground. + +They loved, and they were together. There was neither duty, nor faith, +nor this world's wisdom between them; nothing but that great joy which on +earth has no equal, and which Heaven itself cannot exceed. + +But brief are the moments whilst joy, with bated breath and folded wings, +pauses on his flight; too soon, alas! is the divine elixir dashed away +from our lingering lips. + +Already, for Maurice and for Vera, it is over, and they have awakened to +earth once more. + +It is the man who is the first to remember. "Good God, Vera!" he cries, +pushing her back from him, "what terrible misfortune is this? Can it be +true that you must suffer too, that you love me?" + +"Why not?" she answered, looking at him; happy still, but troubled too; +for already for her also Paradise is over. "Is it so hard to believe? And +yet many women must have loved you. But I--I have never loved before. +Listen, Maurice: when I accepted your brother, I liked him, I thought I +could be very happy with him; and--and--do not think ill of me--I wanted +so much to be rich; it was so miserable being poor and dependent, and I +knew life so well, and how hard the struggle is for those who are poor. +I was so determined I would do well for myself; and he was good, and I +liked him." + +At the mention of the brother, whom he had wronged, Maurice hid his face +in his hands and groaned aloud. + +She laid her hand softly upon his knee; she had half raised herself upon +the seat by his side, and her head, from which her hat had fallen, +pillowed itself with a natural caressing action against his shoulder. + +At the soft touch he shivered. + +"It was dreadful, was it not? But then, I am not perfect, and I liked the +idea of being rich, and I had never loved--I did not even know what it +meant. And then I met you--long ago your photograph had arrested my +fancy; and do you remember that evening at Shadonake when I first saw +you?" + +Could he ever forget one single detail of that meeting? + +"You stood at the foot of the staircase, waiting, and I came down softly +behind you. You did not see me till I was close to you, and then you +turned, and you took my hands, and you looked and looked at me till my +eyes could no longer meet yours. There came a vague trouble into my +heart; I had never felt anything like it before. Maurice, from that +instant I must have loved you." + +"For God's sake, Vera!" he cried out wildly, as though the gentle words +gave him positive pain, "do not speak of it. Do you not see the abyss +which lies between us--which must part us for ever?" + +"Loving you, I will never marry your brother!" she answered, earnestly. + +"And I will never rob my brother of his bride. Darling, darling, do not +tempt me too far, or God knows what I may say and do! To reach you, love, +would be to dip my hands in dishonour and basest treachery. Not even for +you can I do this vile thing. Kiss me once more, sweet, and let me go out +of your life for ever; believe me, it is better so; best for us both. In +time you will forget, you will be happy. He will be good to you, and you +will be glad that you were not tempted to betray him." + +"You do not know what you ask of me," she cried, lifting her face, all +wet with tears, to his. "Leave me, if you will--go your way--forget +me--it is all the same to me; henceforth there is no other man on earth +to me but you. I will never swear vows at God's altar that I cannot keep, +or commit the frightful sin of marrying one man whilst I know that I love +another. Yes, yes; I know it is a horrible, dreadful misfortune. Have I +sought it, or gone out of my way to find it? Have I not struggled to +keep it away from me? striven to blind my eyes to it and to go on as I +was, and never to acknowledge it to myself? Do I not love wealth above +all things; do I not know that he is rich, and you poor? And yet I cannot +help loving you!" + +He took her clasped, trembling hands within his own, and held them +tightly. In that moment the woman was weak, and the man was her master. + +"Listen," he said. "Yes, you are right, I am poor; but that is not all. +Vera, for Heaven's sake, reflect, and pause before you wreck your whole +life. I cannot marry you--not only because I am poor, but also, alas! +because I am bound to another woman." + +"Helen Romer!" she murmured, faintly; "and you love _her_?" A sick, cold +misery rushed into her heart. She strove to withdraw her hands from his; +but he only held them the tighter. + +"No; by the God above us, I love you, and only you," he answered her, +almost roughly; "but I am bound to her. I cannot afford to marry her--we +have neither of us any money; but I am bound all the same. Only one thing +can set me free; if, in five years, we are, neither of us, better off +than now, she has told me that I may go free. Under no other conditions +can I ever marry any one else. That is my secret, Vera. At any moment she +can claim me, and for five years I must wait for her." + +"Then I will wait for you five years too," she cried, passionately. "Is +my love less strong, less constant, than hers, do you think? Can I not +wait patiently too?" She wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face +down to hers. + +"Five years," she murmured; "it is but a small slice out of one's life +after all; and when it is over, it seems such a little space to look back +upon. Dearest, some day we shall remember how miserable, and yet how +happy too, we have been this morning; and we shall smile, as we remember +it all, out of the fulness of our content." + +How was he to gainsay so sweet a prophet? Already the train was +slackening, and the moment when they must part drew near. The beautiful +head lay upon his breast; the deep, shadowy eyes, which love for the +first time had softened into the perfection of their own loveliness, +mirrored themselves in his; the flower-shaped, trembling lips were close +up to his. How could he resist their gentle pleading? There was no time +for more words, for more struggles between love and duty. + +"So be it, then," he murmured, and caught her in one last, passionate +embrace to his heart. + +Five minutes later a tall young lady, deeply veiled as when she had +entered the train, got out of it and walked swiftly away from Tripton +station down the hill towards the high road. So absorbed was she in her +own reflections that she utterly failed to notice another figure, also +female and also veiled, who, preceding her through the mist, went on +swiftly before her down the road. Nor did she pay the slightest attention +to the fact until a turn in the road brought her suddenly face to face +with two persons who stood deep in conversation under the shelter of +the tall, misty hedge-row. + +As Vera approached these two persons sprang apart with a guilty +suddenness, and revealed to her astonished eyes--Beatrice Miller and Mr. +Herbert Pryme. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AN UNLUCKY LOVE-LETTER. + + Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, + Some banished lover, or some captive maid. + + Pope, "Eloisa and Abelard." + + +To ascertain rightly how Mr. Pryme and Miss Miller came to be found in +the parish of Tripton at nine o'clock in the morning, standing together +under a wet hedge-row, it will be necessary to take a slight retrospect +of what had taken place in the history of these two people since the time +when the young barrister had spent that memorable week at Shadonake. + +The visit had come to an end uneventfully for either of them; but two +days after his departure from the house Mr. Pryme had been guilty of a +gross piece of indiscretion. He had forgotten to observe a golden rule +which should be strongly impressed upon every man and woman. The maxim +should be inculcated upon the young with at least as much earnestness as +the Catechism or the Ten Commandments. In homely language, it runs +something in this fashion: "Say what you like, but never commit yourself +to paper." + +Mr. Pryme had observed the first portion of this maxim religiously, but +he had failed to pay equal regard to the latter. He _had_ committed +himself to paper in the shape of a very bulky and very passionate +love-letter, which was duly delivered by the morning postman and laid at +the side of Miss Miller's plate upon the breakfast-table. + +Now, Miss Miller, as it happened on that particular morning, had a +very heavy influenza cold, and had stayed in bed for breakfast. When, +therefore, Mrs. Miller prepared to send a small tray up to her daughter's +bedroom with her breakfast, she took up her letters also from the table +to put upon it with her tea and toast. The very thick envelope of one +of them first attracted her notice; then the masculine nature of the +handwriting; and when, upon turning it over, she furthermore perceived a +very large-sized monogram of the letters "H. P." upon the envelope, her +mind underwent a sudden revolution as to the sending of her daughter's +correspondence upstairs. + +"There, that will do," she said to the lady's maid, "you can take up +the tray; I will bring Miss Miller's letters up to her myself after +breakfast." + +After which, without more ado, she walked to the window and opened the +letter. Some people might have had scruples as to such a strong measure. +Mrs. Miller had none at all. Her children, she argued, were her own +property and under her own care; as long as they lived under her roof, +they had no right over anything that they possessed independently of +their mother. + +Under ordinary circumstances she would not have opened a letter addressed +to any of her children; but if there was anything of a suspicious nature +in their correspondence, she certainly reserved to herself the perfect +right of dealing with it as she thought fit. + +She opened the letter and read the first line; it ran thus:-- + +"My dearest darling Beatrice." She then turned to the end of it and read +the last; it was this: "Your own most devoted and loving Herbert." + +That was quite enough for Mrs. Miller; she did not want to read any more +of it. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and went back to the +breakfast-table and poured out the tea and coffee for her husband and her +sons. + +But when the family meal was over, it was with a very angry aspect that +Mrs. Miller went upstairs and stood by her eldest daughter's bedside. + +"Beatrice, here is a letter which has come for you this morning, of which +I must ask you an explanation." + +"You have read it, mamma!" flushing angrily, as she took it from her +mother's hand. + +"I have read the first line and the last. I certainly should not take the +trouble to wade all through such contemptible trash!" Which was an +unprovoked insult to poor Beatrice's feelings. + +She snatched the letter from her mother's hand, and crumpled it jealously +under her pillow. + +"How can you call it trash, then, if you have not read it?" + +It was hard, certainly; to have her letter opened was bad enough, but to +have it called names was worse still. The letter, which to Beatrice would +be so full of sacred charm and delight--such a poem on love and its +sweetness--was nothing more to her mother than "contemptible trash!" + +But where in the whole world has a love-letter been indited, however +delightful and perfect it may be to the writer and the receiver of it, +that is nothing but an object of ridicule or contempt to the whole world +beside? Love is divine as Heaven itself to the two people who are +concerned in its ever new delights; but to us lookers-on its murmurs are +but fooleries, its sighs are ludicrous, and its written words absolute +imbecilities; and never a memory of our own lost lives can make the +spectacle of it in others anything but an irritating and idiotic +exhibition. + +"I have read quite enough," continued Mrs. Miller, sternly, "to +understand the nature of it. It is from Mr. Pryme, I imagine?" + +"Yes, mamma." + +"And by what right, may I ask, does Mr. Pryme commence a letter to you in +the warm terms of affection which I have had the pleasure of reading?" + +"By the right which I myself have given him," she answered, boldly. + +Regardless of her cold, she sat upright in her bed; a flush of defiance +in her face, her short dark hair flung back from her brow in wild +confusion. She understood at once that all had been discovered, and she +was going to do battle for her lover. + +"Do you mean to tell me, Beatrice, that you have engaged yourself to this +Mr. Pryme?" + +"Certainly I have." + +"You know very well that your father and I will never consent to it." + +"Never is a long day, mamma." + +"Don't take up my words like that. I consider, Beatrice, that you have +deceived me shamefully. You persuaded me to ask that young man to the +house because you said that Sophy Macpherson was fond of him." + +"So she is." + +"Beatrice, how can you be so wicked and tell such lies in the face of +that letter to yourself?" + +"I never said he was fond of her," she answered, with just the vestige of +a twinkle in her eyes. + +"If I had known, I would never have asked him to come," continued her +mother. + +"No; I am sure you would not. But I did not tell you, mamma." + +"I have other views for you. You must write to this young man and tell +him you will give him up." + +"I certainly shall not do that." + +"I shall not give my consent to your engagement." + +"I never imagined that you would, mamma, and that is why I did not ask +for it." + +And then Mrs. Miller got very angry indeed. + +"What on earth do you intend to do, you ungrateful, disobedient, +rebellious child?" + +"I mean to marry Herbert some day because I love him," answered her +daughter, coolly; "but I will not run away with him unless you force me +to it; and I hope, by-and-by, when Geraldine is grown up and can take my +place, that you will give us your consent and your blessing. I am quite +willing to wait a reasonable time for the chance of it." + +"Is it likely that I shall give my consent to your marrying a young man +picked up nobody knows where--out of the gutter, most likely? Who are his +people, I should like to know?" + +"I daresay his father is as well connected as mine," answered Beatrice, +who knew all about her mother's having married a _parvenu_. + +"Beatrice, I am ashamed of you, sneering at your own father!" + +"I beg your pardon, mamma; I did not mean to sneer, but you say very +trying things; and Mr. Pryme is a gentleman, and every bit as good as we +are!" + +"And where is the money to be found for this precious marriage, I should +like to know? Do you suppose Mr. Pryme can support you?" + +"Oh dear, no; but I know papa will not let me starve." + +And Mrs. Miller knew it too. However angry she might be, and however +unsuitably Beatrice might choose to marry, Mr. Miller would never allow +his daughter to be insufficiently provided for. Beatrice's marriage +portion would be a small fortune to a poor young man. + +"It is your money he is after!" she said, angrily. + +"I don't think so, mamma; and of course of that I am the best judge." + +"He shall never set foot here again. I shall write to him myself and +forbid him the house." + +"That, of course, you may do as you like about, mamma; I cannot prevent +your doing so, but it will not make me give him up, because I shall never +marry any one else." + +And there Mrs. Miller was, perforce, obliged to let the matter rest. She +went her way angry and vexed beyond measure, and somewhat baffled too. +How is a mother to deal with a daughter who is so determined and so +defiant as was Beatrice Miller? There is no known method in civilized +life of reducing a young lady of twenty to submission in matters of the +heart. She could not whip her, or put her on bread and water, nor could +she shut her up in a dark cupboard, as she might have done had she been +ten years old. + +All she could do was to write a very indignant letter to Mr. Pryme, +forbidding him ever to enter her doors, or address himself in any way to +her daughter again. Having sent this to the post, she was at the end of +her resources. She did, indeed, confide the situation with very strong +and one-sided colouring to her husband; but Mr. Miller had not the strong +instincts of caste which were inherent in his wife. She could not make +him see what dreadful deed of iniquity Herbert Pryme and his daughter +had perpetrated between them. + +"What's wrong with the young fellow?" he asked, looking up from the pile +of parliamentary blue-books on the library table before him. + +"Nothing is wrong, Andrew; but he isn't a suitable husband for Beatrice." + +"Why? you asked him here, Caroline. I suppose, if he was good enough to +stay in the house, he is no different to the boys, or anybody else who +was here." + +"It is one thing to stay here, and quite another thing to want to marry +your daughter." + +"Well, if he's an honest man, and the girl loves him, I don't see the +good of making a fuss about it; she had better do as she likes." + +"But, Andrew, the man hasn't a penny; he has made nothing at the bar +yet." It was no use appealing to his exclusiveness, for he had none; it +was a better move to make him look at the money-point of the question. + +"Oh, well, he will get on some day, I daresay, and meanwhile I shall give +Beatrice quite enough for them both when she marries." + +"You don't understand, Andrew." + +"No, my dear," very humbly, "perhaps I don't; but there, do as you think +best, of course; I am sure I don't wish to interfere about the children; +you always manage all these kind of things; and if you wouldn't mind, my +dear, I am so very busy just now. You know there is to be this attack +upon the Government as soon as the House meets, and I have the whole of +the papers upon the Patagonian and Bolivian question to look up, and most +fraudulent misstatements of the truth I believe them to be; although, as +far as I've gone, I haven't been able to make it quite out yet, but I +shall come to it--no doubt I shall come to it. I am going to speak upon +this question, my dear, and I mean to tell the House that a grosser +misrepresentation of facts was never yet promulgated from the Ministerial +benches, nor flaunted in the faces of an all too leniently credulous +Opposition; that will warm 'em up a bit, I flatter myself; those fellows +in office will hang their heads in shame at the word Patagonia for weeks +after." + +"But who cares about Patagonia?" + +"Oh, nobody much, I suppose. But there's bound to be an agitation against +the Government, and that does as well as anything else. We can't afford +to neglect a single chance of kicking them out. I have planned my speech +pretty well right through; it will be very effective--withering, I +fancy--but it's just these plaguy blue-books that won't quite tally with +what I've got to say. I must go through them again though----" + +"You had better have read the papers first, and settled your speech +afterwards," suggested his wife. + +"Oh dear, no! that wouldn't do at all; after all, you know, between you +and me, the facts don't go for much; all we want is, to denounce them; +any line of argument, if it is ingenious enough, will do; lay on the big +words thickly--that's what your constituents like. Law bless you! _they_ +don't read the blue books; they'll take my word for granted if I say they +are full of lies; it would be a comfort, however, if I could find a few. +Of course, my dear, this is only between you and me." + +A man is not always heroic to the wife of his bosom. Mrs. Miller went +her way and left him to his righteous struggle among the Patagonian +blue-books. After all, she said to herself, it had been her duty to +inform him of his daughter's conduct, but it was needless to discuss +the question further with him. He was incapable of approaching it from +her own point of view. It would be better for her now to go her own way +independently of him. She had always been accustomed to manage things her +own way. It was nothing new to her. + +Later in the day she attempted to wrest a promise from Beatrice that +she would hold no further communication with the prohibited lover. But +Beatrice would give no such promise. + +"Is it likely that I should promise such a thing?" she asked her mother, +indignantly. + +"You would do so if you knew what your duty to your mother was." + +"I have other duties besides those to you, mamma; when one has promised +to marry a man, one is surely bound to consider him a little. If I have +the chance of meeting him, I shall certainly take it." + +"I shall take very good care that you have no such chances, Beatrice." + +"Very well, mamma; you will, of course, do as you think best." + +It was in consequence of these and sundry subsequent stormy conversations +that Mr. Herbert Pryme suddenly discovered that he had a very high regard +and affection for Mr. Albert Gisburne, the vicar of Tripton, the same +to whom once Vera's relations had wished to unite her. + +The connection between Mr. Gisburne and Herbert Pryme was a slender one; +he had been at college with an elder brother of his, who had died in his +(Herbert's) childhood. He did not indeed very clearly recollect what this +elder brother had been like; but having suddenly called to mind that, +during the course of his short visit to Shadonake, he had discovered the +fact of the college friendship, of which, indeed, Mr. Gisburne had +informed him, he now was unaccountably inflamed by a desire to cultivate +the acquaintance of the valued companion of his deceased brother's youth. + +He opened negotiations by the gift of a barrel of oysters, sent down +from Wilton's, with an appropriate and graceful accompanying note. Mr. +Gisburne was surprised, but not naturally otherwise than pleased by the +attention. Next came a box of cigars, which again were shortly followed +by two brace of pheasants purporting to be of Herbert's own shooting, but +which, as a matter of fact, he had purchased in Vigo Street. + +This munificent succession of gifts reaped at length the harvest for +which they had been sown. In his third letter of grateful acknowledgment +for his young friend's kind remembrance of him, Mr. Gisburne, with some +diffidence, for Tripton Rectory was neither lively nor remarkably +commodious, suggested how great the pleasure would be were his friend to +run down to him for a couple of days or so; he had nothing, in truth, to +offer him but a bachelor's quarters and a hearty welcome; there was next +to no attraction beyond a pretty rural village and a choral daily +service; but still, if he cared to come, Mr. Gisburne need not say how +delighted he would be, etc., etc. + +It is not too much to say that the friend jumped at it. On the shortest +possible notice he arrived, bag and baggage, professing himself charmed +with the bachelor's quarters; and, burning with an insatiable desire to +behold the rurality of the village, to listen to the beauty and the +harmony of the daily choral performances, he took up his abode in the +clergyman's establishment; and the very next morning he sent a rural +villager over to Shadonake with a half-crown for himself and a note to be +given to Miss Miller the very first time she walked or rode out alone. +This note was duly delivered, and that same afternoon Beatrice met her +lover by appointment in an empty lime-kiln up among the chalk hills. This +romantic rendezvous was, however, discontinued shortly, owing to the fact +of Mrs. Miller having become suspicious of her daughter's frequent and +solitary walks, and insisting on sending out Geraldine and her governess +with her. + +A few mornings later a golden chance presented itself. Mr. and Mrs. +Miller went away for the night to dine and sleep at a distant country +house. Beatrice had not been invited to go with them. She did not venture +to ask her lover to the house he had been forbidden to enter, but she +ordered the carriage for herself, caught the early train to Tripton, met +Herbert, by appointment, outside the station, and stood talking to him in +the fog by the wayside, where Vera suddenly burst upon their astonished +gaze. + +There was nothing for it but to take Vera into their confidence; and they +were so much engrossed in their affairs that they entirely failed to +notice how mechanically she answered, and how apathetically she appeared +for the first few minutes to listen to their story. Presently, however, +she roused herself into a semblance of interest. She promised not to +betray the fact of the stolen interview, all the more readily because it +did not strike either of them to inquire what she herself was doing in +the Tripton road. + +In the end Vera walked on slowly by herself, and the Shadonake carriage, +ordered to go along at a foot's pace from Sutton station towards Tripton, +picked both girls up and conveyed them safely, each to their respective +homes. + +"You will never tell of me, will you, Vera?" said Beatrice to her, for +the twentieth time, ere they parted. + +"Of course not; indeed, I would gladly help you if I could," she +answered, heartily. + +"You will certainly be able to help us both very materially some day," +said Beatrice, who had visions of being asked to stay at Kynaston, to +meet Herbert. + +"I am afraid not," answered Vera, with a sigh. Already there was regret +in her mind for the good things of life which she had elected to +relinquish. "Put me down at this corner, Beatrice; I don't want to drive +up to the vicarage. Good-bye." + +"Good-bye, Vera--and--and you won't mind my saying it--but I like you so +much." + +Vera smiled, and, with a kiss, the girls parted; and Mrs. Daintree never +heard after all the story of her sister's early visit to Tripton, for she +returned so soon that she had not yet been missed. The vicar and his +family had but just gathered round the breakfast-table, when, after +having divested herself of her walking garments, she came in quietly and +took her vacant place amongst them unnoticed and unquestioned. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +LADY KYNASTON'S PLANS. + + Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, + Brief as the lightning in the collied night. + + And ere a man hath power to say, "Behold!" + The jaws of darkness do devour it up: + So quick bright things come to confusion. + + "Midsummer Night's Dream." + + +Sir John Kynaston sat alone in his old-bachelor rooms in London. They +were dark, dingy rooms, such as are to be found in countless numbers +among the narrow streets that encompass St. James's Street. They were +cheerless and comfortless, and, withal, high-rented, and possessed of +no other known advantage than that of their undeniably central situation. +They were not rooms that one would suppose any man would care to linger +in in broad daylight; and yet Sir John remained in them now a days +almost from morning till night. + +He sat for the most part as he is sitting now--in a shabby, leathern +arm-chair, stooping a little forward, and doing nothing. Sometimes he +wrote a few necessary letters, sometimes he made a feint of reading the +paper; but oftenest he did nothing, only sat still, staring before him +with a hopeless misery in his face. + +For in these days Sir John Kynaston was a very unhappy man. He had +received a blow such as strikes at the very root and spring of a man's +life--a blow which a younger man often battles through and is none the +worse in the end for, but under which a man of his age is apt to be +crushed and to succumb. Within a week of his wedding-day Vera Nevill +had broken her engagement to him. It had been a nine days' wonder in +Meadowshire--the county had rung with the news--everybody had marvelled +and speculated, but no one had got any nearer to the truth than that Vera +was supposed to have "mistaken her feelings." The women had cried shame +upon her for such capriciousness, and had voted her a fool into the +bargain for throwing over such a match; and if a male voice, somewhat +less timid than the rest, had here and there uplifted itself in her +defence and had ventured to hint that she might have had sufficient and +praiseworthy motives for her conduct, a chorus of feminine indignation +had smothered the kindly suggestion in a whole whirl-wind of abuse and +reviling. + +As to Sir John, he blamed her not, and yet he knew no more about it than +any of them; he, too, could only have told you that Vera had mistaken her +feelings--he knew no more than that--for it was but half the truth that +she had told him. But it had been more than enough to convince him that +she was perfectly right. When, after telling him plainly that she found +she did not love him enough, that there had been other and extraneous +reasons that had blinded her to the fact at the time she had accepted +him, but that she had found it out later on; when, after saying this she +had asked him plainly whether he would wish to have a wife who valued his +name, and his wealth, and his fine old house at least as much as he did +himself, Sir John had been able to give her but one answer. No, he would +not have a wife who loved him in such a fashion. And he had thought well +of her for telling him the truth beforehand instead of leaving him to +find it out for himself later. If there had been a little, a very little, +falling of his idol from the high pillar upon which he had set her up, in +that she should at any time have been guided by mercenary and worldly +motives; there had been at the same time a very great amount of respect +for her brave and straightforward confession of her error at a time when +most women would have found themselves unequal to the task of drawing +back from the false position into which they had drifted. No, he could +not blame her in any way. + +But, all the same, it was hard to bear. He said to himself that he was +a doomed and fated man; twice had love and joy and domestic peace been +within his grasp, and twice they had been wrested from his arms; these +things, it was plain, were not for him. He was too old, he told himself, +ever to make a further effort. No, there was nothing before him now but +to live out his loveless life alone, to sink into a peevish, selfish old +bachelor, and to make a will in Maurice's favour, and get himself out of +the world that wanted him not with as much expedition as might be. + +And he loved Vera still. She was still to him the most pure and perfect +of women--good as she was beautiful. Her loveliness haunted him by day +and by night, till the bitter thought of what might have been and the +contrast of the miserable reality drove him half wild with longings +which he did not know how to repress. He sat at home in his rooms and +moped; there were more streaks of white in his hair than of old, and +there were new lines of care upon his brow--he looked almost an old man +now. He sat indoors and did nothing. It was April by this time, and the +London season was beginning; invitations of all kinds poured in upon him, +but he refused them all; he would go nowhere. Now and then his mother +came to see him and attempted to cheer and to rouse him; she had even +asked him to come down to Walpole Lodge, but he had declined her request +almost ungraciously. + +He never had much in common with his mother, and he felt no desire now +for her sympathy; besides, the first time she had come she had been +angry, and had called Vera a jilt, and that had offended him bitterly; he +had rebuked her sternly, and she had been too wise to repeat the offence; +but he had not forgotten it. Maurice, indeed, he would have been glad to +see, but Maurice did not come near him. His regiment had lately moved to +Manchester, and either he could not or would not get leave; and yet he +had been idle enough at one time, and glad to run up to town upon the +smallest pretext. Now he never came. It added a little to his irritation, +but scarcely to his misery. On this particular afternoon, as he sat as +usual brooding over the past, there came the sudden clatter of carriage +wheels over the flagged roadway of the little back street, followed by a +sharp ring at his door. It was his mother, of course; no other woman came +to see him; he heard the rustle of her soft silken skirts up the narrow +staircase, and her pleasant little chatter to the fat old landlady who +was ushering her up, and presently the door opened and she came in. + +"Good morning, John. Dear me, how hot and stuffy this room is," holding +up her soft old face to her son. + +He just touched her cheek. "I am sorry you find it so--shall I open the +window?" + +"Oh!" sinking down in a chair, and throwing back her cloak; "how can you +stand a fire in the room, it is quite mild and spring-like out. Have you +not been out, John? it would do you good to get a little fresh air." + +"I shall go round to the club presently, I daresay," he answered, +abstractedly, sitting down in his arm-chair again; all the pleasant +flutter that the bright old lady brought with her, the atmosphere of life +and variety that surrounded her, only vexed and wearied him, and jarred +upon his nerves. She was always telling him to go somewhere or to do +something; why couldn't she let him alone? he thought, irritably. + +"To your club? No further than that? Why, you might as well stay at home. +Really, my dear, it's a great pity you don't go about and see some of +your old friends; you can't mean to shut yourself up like a dormouse for +ever, I suppose!" + +"I haven't the least idea what I mean to do," he answered, not +graciously; she was his mother, and so he could not very well put her out +at the door, but that was what he would have liked to do. + +"I don't see," continued Lady Kynaston, with unwonted courage, "I don't +at all see why you should let this unfortunate affair weigh on you for +ever; there is really no reason why you should not console yourself and +marry some nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only too +ready to have you if you will only take that trouble----" + +"Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that," he said, +interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, and +there was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat. +"Never speak to me of marrying again. I shall never marry any one." He +looked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashes +in the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity--if he had +only added, "I have suffered too much, I love her still"--all her +mother's heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not her +favourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity, +he only wanted her to go away. + +"It is a great pity," she answered, stiffly, "because of Kynaston." + +"I shall never set foot at Kynaston again." + +Her colour rose a little--after all, she was a cunning little old lady. +The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down and +patted it. "Good dog, good little Vic," she said, a little nervously; +then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again. "John, it +is a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin; +though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped that +you would. It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thought +that the old place was always to lie empty." + +"I cannot help it," he answered, moodily, wishing more than ever that she +would go. + +"John;" she fidgeted with her bonnet strings, and her voice trembled a +little; "John, if you are quite sure you will never live there yourself, +why should not Maurice have it?" + +"Maurice! Has he told you to ask for it?" He sat bolt upright in +his chair; he was attentive enough now; the idea that Maurice had +commissioned his mother to ask for something he had not ventured to ask +for himself was not pleasant to him. "Is it Maurice who has sent you?" + +"No, no, my dear John; certainly not; why, I haven't seen Maurice for +weeks and weeks; he never comes to town now. But I'll tell you why the +idea came to me. I called just now in Princes Gate; poor old Mr. Harlowe +has had a stroke--it is certain he cannot live long now, after the severe +attack he had of bronchitis, too, two months ago. I just saw Helen for a +minute, she reported him to be unconscious. If he dies, he must surely +leave Helen something; it may not be all, but it will be at least a +competency; and I was thinking, John, that if you did not want Kynaston, +and would let them live there, the marriage might come off at last; they +have been attached to each other a long time, and to live rent free would +be a great thing." + +"How are they to keep it up? Kynaston is an expensive place." + +"Well, I thought, John, perhaps, if Maurice looks after the property, you +might consider him as your agent, and allow him something, and that and +her money----" + +"Yes, yes, I understand; well, I will see; wait, at all events, till Mr. +Harlowe is dead. I will think it over. No, I don't see any reason why +they should not live there if they like;" he sighed, wearily, and his +mother went away, feeling that she had reason to be satisfied with her +morning's work. + +She was in such a hurry to install her darling there--to see him viceroy +in the place where now it was certain he must eventually be king. Why +should he be doomed to wait till Kynaston came to him in the course of +nature; why should he not enter upon his kingdom at once, since Sir John, +by his own confession, would never marry or live there himself? + +Lady Kynaston was very far from wishing evil to her eldest son, but for +years she had hoped that he would remain unmarried; for a short time she +had been forced to lay her dreams aside, and she had striven to forget +them and to throw herself with interest into her eldest son's engagement; +but now that the marriage was broken off, all her old schemes and plans +came back to her again. She was working and planning again for Maurice's +happiness and aggrandisement. She wanted to see him in his father's +house, "Kynaston of Kynaston," before she died, and to know that his +future was safe. To see him married to Helen and living at Kynaston +appeared to her to be the very best that she could desire for him. In +time, of course, the title and the money would be his too; meanwhile, +with old Mr. Harlowe's fortune, an ample allowance from his brother, and +all the prestige of his old name and his old house, she should live to +see him take his own rightful place among the magnates of his native +county. That would be far better than to be a captain in a line regiment, +barely able to live upon his income. That was all she coveted for him, +and she said to herself that her ambition was not unreasonable, and that +it would be hard indeed if it might not be gratified. + +As she drove homewards to Walpole Lodge she felt that her schemes were in +a fair way for success. She was not going to let Maurice know of them too +soon; by-and-by, when all was settled, she would tell him; she would keep +it till then as a pleasant surprise. + +All the same, she had been unable to refrain from telling Helen Romer +something of what was in her mind. + +"If John does not marry, he might perhaps make Maurice his agent and let +him live at Kynaston," she had said to her a few days ago when they had +been speaking of old Mr. Harlowe's illness. + +"How would Maurice like to leave the army?" Helen had asked. + +"If he marries, he must do so," his mother had replied, significantly; +and Helen's heart had beat high with hope and triumph. + +Again to-day, on her way to her eldest son's rooms, she had stopped at +Princes Gate and had alluded to it. + +"I am on my way to see Sir John; I shall sound him about his intentions +with regard to Kynaston, but, of course, I must go to work cautiously;" +and Helen had perfectly understood that she herself had entered into the +old lady's scheme for her younger son's future. + +Sitting alone in the hushed house, where the doctors are coming and +going in the darkened room above, Helen feels that at last the reward +of all her long waiting may be at hand. Love and wealth at last seemed +to beckon to her. Her grandfather dead; his fortune hers; and this offer +of a home at Kynaston, which Maurice himself would be sure to like so +much--everything good seemed coming to her at last. + +And there was something about the idea of living at Kynaston that +gratified her particularly. Helen had not forgotten the week at +Shadonake. Too surely had her woman's instinct told her that Maurice and +Vera had been drawn to each other by a strong and mutual attraction. The +wildest jealousy and hatred against Vera burnt fiercely in her lawless, +untutored heart. She hated her, for she knew that Maurice loved her. To +live thus under her very eyes as Maurice's wife, in the very house her +rival herself had once been on the point of inhabiting, was a notion that +commended itself to her with all the sweetness of gratified revenge, with +all the charm of flaunting her success and triumph in the face of the +other woman's failure which is dear to such a nature as Helen's. + +She alone, of all those who had heard of Vera's broken engagement, had +divined its true cause. She loved Maurice--that was plain to Helen; that +was why she had thrown over Sir John, and at her heart Helen despised her +for it. A woman must be a fool indeed to wreck herself at the last moment +for a merely sentimental reason. There was much, however, that was +incomprehensible to Helen Romer in the situation of things, which she +only half understood. + +If Maurice loved Vera, why was it that he was in Manchester whilst she +was still in Meadowshire? that was what Helen could not understand. A +sure instinct told her that Maurice must know better than any one why his +brother's marriage had been broken off. But, if so, then why were he and +Vera apart? It did not strike her that his honour to his brother and his +promises to herself were what kept him away. Helen said to herself, +scornfully, that they were both of them timid and cowardly, and did not +half know how to play out life's game. + +"In her place, with her cards in my hand, I would have married him by +this," she said to herself, as she sat alone in her grandfather's +drawing-room, while her busy fingers ran swiftly through the meshes of +her knitting, and the doctor and the hired nurse paced about the room +overhead. "But she has not the pluck for it; his heart may be hers, but, +for all that, I shall win him; and how bitterly she will repent that she +ever interfered with him when she sees him daily there--my husband! And +in time he will forget her and learn to love me; Maurice will never be +false to a woman when once she is his wife; I am not afraid of that. How +dared she meddle with him?--_my_ Maurice!" + +The door softly opened, and one of the doctors stepped in on tip-toe. +Helen rose and composed her face into a decorous expression of mournful +anxiety. + +"I am happy to tell you, Mrs. Romer," began the doctor. Helen's heart +sank down chill and cold within her. + +"Is he better?" she faltered, striving to conceal the dismay which she +felt. + +"He has rallied. Consciousness has returned, and partial use of the +limbs. We may be able to pull your grandfather through this time, I +trust." + +Put off again! How wretched and how guilty she felt herself to be! It was +almost a crime to wish for any one's death so much. + +She sank down again pale and spiritless upon her chair as the doctor left +the room. + +"Never mind," she said to herself, presently; "it can't last for ever. It +must be soon now, and I shall be Maurice's wife in the end." + +But all this time she had forgotten Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet, whom +she had not seen again since the night she had driven him home from +Walpole Lodge. + +He had left England, she knew. Helen privately hoped he had left this +earth. Any way, he had not troubled her, and she had forgotten him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +WHAT SHE WAITED FOR. + + Go, forget me; why should sorrow + O'er that brow a shadow fling? + Go, forget me, and to-morrow + Brightly smile and sweetly sing. + Smile--though I shall not be near thee; + Sing--though I shall never hear thee. + + Chas. Wolfe. + + +All this time what of Vera? Would any one of them at the vicarage ever +forget that morning when she had come in after her walk with Sir John +Kynaston, and had stood before them all and, pale as a ghost, had said to +them, + +"I am not going to be married; I have broken it off." + +It had been a great blow to them, but neither the prayers of her weeping +sister, nor the angry indignation of old Mrs. Daintree, nor even the +gentle remonstrances of her brother-in-law could serve to alter her +determination, nor would she enter into any explanation concerning her +conduct. + +It was not pleasant, of course, to be reviled and scolded, to be +questioned and marvelled at, to be treated like a naughty child in +disgrace; and then, whenever she went out, to feel herself tabooed by her +acquaintances as a young woman who had behaved very disgracefully; or +else to be stared at as a natural curiosity by persons whom she hardly +knew. + +But she lived through all this bravely. There was a certain amount of +unnatural excitement which kept up her courage and enabled her to face +it. It was no more than what she had expected. The glow of her love and +her impulse of self-sacrifice were still upon her; her nerves had been +strung to the uttermost, and she felt strong in the knowledge of the +justice and the right of her own conduct. + +But by-and-by all this died away. Sir John left the neighbourhood; +people got tired of talking about her broken-off marriage; there was no +longer any occasion for her to be brave and steadfast. Life began to +resume for her its normal aspect, the aspect which it had worn in the old +days before Sir John had ever come down to Kynaston, or ever found her +day-dreaming in the churchyard upon Farmer Crupps' family sarcophagus. +The tongue of the sour-tempered old lady, snapping and snarling at her +with more than the bitterness of old, and the suppressed sighs and +mournful demeanour of her sister, whose sympathy and companionship she +had now completely forfeited, and who went about the house with a face +of resigned woe and the censure of an ever implied rebuke in her voice +and manner. + +Only the vicar took her part somewhat. "Let her alone," he said, +sometimes, to his wife and mother; "she must have had a better reason +than we any of us know of; the girl is suffering quite enough--leave her +alone." + +And she was suffering. The life that she had doomed herself to was almost +unbearable to her. The everlasting round of parish work and parish talk, +the poor people and the coal-clubs--it was what she had come back to. She +had been lifted for a short time out of it all, and a new life, congenial +to her tastes and to her nature, had opened out before her; and yet with +her own hands she had shut the door upon this brighter prospect, and had +left herself out in the darkness, to go back to that life of dull +monotony which she hated. + +And what had she gained by it? What single advantage had she reaped +out of her sacrificed life? Was Maurice any nearer to her--was he not +hopelessly divided from her--helplessly out of her reach? She knew +nothing of him, no word concerning him reached her ears: a great blank +was before her. When she went over the past again and again in her mind, +she could not well see what good thing could ever come to her from what +she had done. There were moments indeed when the whole story of her +broken engagement seemed to her like the wild delusion of madness. She +had had no intention of acknowledging her love to Maurice when she had +gone up to the station to see him off; she had only meant to see him +once more, to hold his hand for one instant, to speak a few kind words; +to wish him God speed. She asked herself now what had possessed her that +she had not been able to preserve the self-control of affectionate +friendship when the unfortunate accident of her being taken on in the +train with him had left her entirely alone in his society. She did not +go the length of regretting what she had done for his sake; but she did +acknowledge to herself that she had been led away by the magnetism of his +presence and by the strange and unexpected chance which had thus left her +alone with him into saying and doing things which in a calmer moment she +would not have been betrayed into. + +For a few kisses--for the joy of telling him that his love was +returned--for a short moment of delirious and transient happiness, and +alas! for nothing more--she had thrown away her life! + +She had behaved hardly and cruelly to a good man who loved her, and whose +heart she had half broken, and she had lost a great many very excellent +and satisfactory things. + +And Maurice was no nearer to her. With his own lips he had told her +that he could not marry her. There had been mention, indeed, of that +problematical term of five years, in which he had bound himself to await +Mrs. Romer's pleasure--but, even had Mrs. Romer not existed, it was plain +that Maurice was the last man in the world to take advantage of a woman's +weakness in order to supplant his brother in her heart. + +Instinctively Vera felt that Maurice must be no less miserable than +herself; that his regret for what had happened between them must be as +great as her own, and his remorse far greater. They were, indeed, neither +of them blameless in the matter; for, if it was Maurice who had first +spoken of his love to his brother's promised wife, it was Vera who had +made that irrevocable step along the road of her destiny from which no +going back was now possible. + +It was a time of utter misery to her. If she sat indoors there was +the persecution of Mrs. Daintree's ill-natured remarks, and Marion's +depression of spirits and half-uttered regrets; and there was also the +scaffolding rising round the chancel walls to be seen from the windows, +and the sound of the sawing of the masonry in the churchyard, as a +perpetual, reproachful reminder of the friend whose kindness and +affection she had so ill requited. If she went out, she could not go up +the lane without passing the gates of Kynaston, or towards the village +without catching sight of the venerable old house among its terraced +gardens, which, so lately, she had thought would be her home. Sometimes +she met her old friend, Mrs. Eccles, in her wanderings, but she did not +venture to speak to her; the cold disapproval in the housekeeper's +passing salutation made her shrink, like a guilty creature, in her +presence; and she would hurry by with scarcely an answering sign, with +downcast eyes and heightened colour. + +Somehow, it came to pass in these days that Vera drifted into a degree +of intimacy with Beatrice Miller that would, possibly, never have come +about had the circumstances of her life been different. Ever since her +accidental meeting with the lovers outside Tripton station Vera had, +perforce, become a confidant of their hopes and fears; and Beatrice was +glad enough to have found a friend to whom she could talk about her +lover, for where is the woman who can completely hold her tongue +concerning her own secrets? + +Against all the long category of female virtues, as advantageously +displayed in contradistinction to masculine vices, there is still this +one peculiarity which, of itself, marks out the woman as the inferior +animal. + +A man, to be worthy of the name, holds his tongue and keeps the +secret of his heart to himself, enjoying it and delighting in it the +more, possibly, for his reticence. A woman may occasionally--very +occasionally--be silent respecting her neighbour, but concerning herself +she is bound to have at least one confidant to whom she will rashly tell +the long story of her loves and her sorrows; and not a consideration +either of prudence or of worldly wisdom will suffice to restrain her too +ready tongue. + +Beatrice Miller was a clever girl, with a fair knowledge of the world; +yet she was in no way dismayed that Vera should have discovered her +secret; on the contrary, she was overjoyed that she had now found some +one to talk to about it. + +Vera became her friend, but Beatrice was not Vera's friend--the +confidences were not mutual. Over and over again Beatrice was on the +point of questioning her concerning the story that had been on every +one's lips for a time; of asking her what, indeed, was the truth about +her broken engagement; but always the proud, still face restrained her +curiosity, and the words died away unspoken upon her lips. + +Vera's story, indeed, was not one that could be easily revealed. There +was too much of bitter regret, too great an element of burning shame at +her heart, for its secrets to be laid bare to a stranger's eye. + +Nevertheless, Beatrice's society amused and distracted her mind, and kept +her from brooding over her own troubles. She was glad enough to go over +to Shadonake; even to sit alone with Beatrice and her mother was better +than the eternal monotony of the vicarage, where she felt like a prisoner +waiting for his sentence. + +Yes, she was waiting. Waiting for some sign from the man she loved. +Sooner or later, whether it was for good or for evil, she knew it must +come to her; some token that he remembered her existence; some indication +as to what he would have her do with the life that she had laid at his +feet. For, after all, when a woman loves a man, she virtually makes him +the ruler of her destiny; she leaves the responsibility of her fate in +his hands. For the nonce, Maurice Kynaston held the skein of Vera's life +in his grasp; it was for him to do what he pleased with it. Some day, +doubtless, he would tell her what she had to do: meanwhile, she waited. + +What else, indeed, can a woman do but wait? To sit still with folded +hands and bated breath, to possess her soul in patience as best she may, +to still the wild beatings of her all too eager spirit--that is what a +woman has to do, and does often enough. God help her, all too badly. + +It is so easy when one is old, and the pulses are sluggish, and the hot +passions of youth are quelled, it is so easy then to learn that lesson +of waiting; but when we are young, and our best days slipping away, and +life's hopes all before us, and life's burdens well-nigh unbearable; then +it is that it is hard, that waiting in itself becomes terrible--more +terrible almost than the worst of our woes. + +So wearily, feverishly, impatiently enough, Vera waited. + +Winter died away into spring. The rough wind of March, worn out with its +own boisterous passions, sobbed itself to rest like a tired child, and +little green buds came cropping up sparsely and timidly out of the brown +bosom of the earth; and, presently, all the glory of the golden crocuses +unfolded itself in long golden lines in the vicarage garden; and there +were twittering of birds and flutterings of soft breezes among the +tree-tops, and a voice seemed to go forth over the face of the earth. +The winter is over, and summer is nigh at hand. + +And then it came to her at last. An envelope by the side of her plate +at breakfast; a few scrawled words in a handwriting she had never seen +before, and yet identified with an unfailing instinct, ere even she broke +the seal. One minute of wild hope, to be followed by a sick, chill +numbness, and the story of her love and its longings shrank away into +the despair of impossibility. + +How small a thing to make so great a misery! What a few words to make a +wilderness of a human life! + +_"Her grandfather is dead, and she has claimed me. Good-bye; forget me +and forgive me."_ + +That was all; nothing more. No passionate regrets, no unavailing +self-pity; nothing to tell her what it cost him to resign her; no word to +comfort her for the hopelessness of his desertion; nothing but those two +lines. + +There was a chattering going on at the table around her. Tommy was +clamouring for bread and butter; the vicar was reading out the telegrams +from the seat of war; Marion was complaining that the butter was not +good; the maid-servant was bringing in the hot bacon and eggs--it all +went on like a dream around her; presently, like a voice out of a fog, +somebody spoke to her: + +"Vera, are you not feeling well? You look as if you were going to faint." + +And then she crunched the letter in her hand and recalled herself to +life. + +"I am quite well, thanks," and busied herself with attending to the wants +of the children. + +The vicar glanced up over his spectacles. "No bad news, I hope, my dear." + +Oh! why could they not let her alone? But somehow she sat through the +breakfast, and answered all their questions, and bore herself bravely; +and when it was over and she was free to go away by herself with her +trouble, then by that time the worst of it was over. + +There are some people whom sorrow softens and touches, but Vera was not +one of them. Her whole soul revolted and rebelled against her fate. She +said to herself that for once she had let her heart guide her; she had +cast aside the crust of worldliness and self-indulgence in which she had +been brought up. She had listened to the softer whisperings of the better +nature within her--she had been true to herself--and lo! what had come of +it? + +But now she had learnt her lesson; there were to be no more dreams of +pure and unsullied happiness for her,--no more cravings after what was +good and true and lovely; henceforth she would go back to the teachings +of her youth, to the experience which had told her that a handsome woman +can always command her life as she pleases, and that wealth, which is a +tangible reality, is better worth striving after than the vain shadow +called love, which all talk about and so few make any practical +sacrifices for. Well, she, Vera Nevill, had tried it, and had made her +sacrifices; and what remained to her? Only the fixed determination to +crush it down again within her as if it had never been, and to carve out +her fortunes afresh. Only that she started again at a disadvantage--for +now she knew to her cost that she possessed the fatal power of +loving--the knowledge of good and evil, of which she had eaten +the poisoned fruit. + +There were no tears in Vera's eyes as she wandered slowly up and down the +garden paths between the straight yellow lines of the crocus heads. + +Her lover had forsaken her. Well, let him go. She told herself that, had +he loved her truly, no power on earth would have been great enough to +keep him from her. She said to herself scornfully--she, Vera Nevill, who +was prepared to sell herself to the highest bidder--that it was Mrs. +Romer's money that kept him from her. Well, let him go to her, then? but +for herself life must begin afresh. + +And then she set to work to think about what she could do. To remain here +at Sutton any longer was impossible. It was absolutely necessary that she +should get away from it all, from the family upon whose hands she was +nothing now but a beautiful, helpless burden, and still more from the +haunting memories of Kynaston and all the unfortunate things that had +happened to her here. + +Suddenly, out of the memories of her girlhood, she recollected the +existence of a woman who had been her friend once in the old happy days, +when she had lived with her sister Theodora. It was one of those passing +friendships which come and go for a month or two in one's life. + +A pretty, spoilt girl, married four, perhaps five, years ago to a rich +man, a banker; who had taken a fancy to Vera, and had pleased herself by +decking her out in a quaint costume to figure at a carnival party; who +had kissed her rapturously at parting, swearing eternal friendship, +giving her her address in London, and making her promise never to be in +England without going to see her. And then she had gone her way, and had +never come back again the next winter, as she had promised to do; a +letter or two had passed between them, and afterwards Vera had forgotten +her. But somewhere upstairs she must have got her direction still. + +It was to this friend she would go; and, turning her back for a time +at least upon Meadowshire and its memories, she would see whether, in +the whirl of London life, she could not crush out the pain at her heart, +and live down the fatal weakness that had led her astray from all the +traditions of her youth, and from that cold and prudent wisdom which had +stood her in good stead for so many years. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A MORNING WALK. + + And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, + The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. + + Goldsmith. + + +A bright May morning, cold, it is true, and with a biting wind from the +east--as indeed our English May mornings generally are--but sunny and +cloudless as the heart can desire. On such a morning people do their best +to pretend that it is summer. Crowds turn out into the park, and sit +about recklessly on the iron chairs, or lounge idly by the railings; and +the women-folk, with that fine disregard of what is, when it is +antagonistic of what they wish it to be, don their white cottons and +muslins, and put up their parasols against the sun's rays, and, shivering +inwardly, poor things, openly brave the terrors of rheumatism and +lumbago, and make up their minds that it _shall_ be summer. + +The sunblinds are drawn all along the front windows of a house in Park +Lane, and though the gay geraniums and calceolarias in the flower-boxes, +which were planted only yesterday, look already nipped and shrivelled up +with the cold, the house, nevertheless, presents from the exterior a +bright and well-cared-for appearance. + +Within the drawing-room are two ladies. One, the mistress of the house, +is seated at the writing-table with her back to the room, scribbling off +invitations for dear life, cards for an afternoon "at-home," at the rate +of six per minute; the other sits idle in a low basket-chair doing +nothing. + +There is no sound but the scratching of the quill pen as it flies over +the paper, and the chirping of a bullfinch in a cage in the bow-window. + +"What time is it, Vera?" + +"A quarter to twelve." + +"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are you +going to wear--white?" + +Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying--it must be dreadfully cold +out--I should like to put on a fur jacket." + +"_Do_," says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, and +attract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than you +are." + +Vera smiles, and does not answer. + +Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task. + +"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, and +piling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at your +orders." + +She comes forward into the room--a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman, +with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplement +all that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restless +movements and an ever-ready tongue--a thorough daughter of the London +world she lives in. + +Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy," she +says, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day." + +"Go home! certainly not, my dear. Don't you know that I have sworn to +find you a husband before the season is out? I must really get you +married, Vera. I have half a mind," she adds, reflectively, as she +smooths down her shining brown hair at the glass, and contemplates, not +ill satisfied, her image there--"I have really half a mind to let you +have the boy if I could manage to spare him." + +"Do you think he would make a devoted husband?" asks Vera, with a lazy +smile. + +"My dear child, don't be a fool. What is the use of devotion in a +husband? All one wants is a good fellow, who will let one alone. After +all, the boy might not answer. I am afraid, Vera," turning round suddenly +upon her, "I am very much afraid that boy is in love with you; it's +horrid of you to take him from me, because he is so useful, and I really +can't well do without him. I am going to pay him out to-night though: he +is to sit opposite you at dinner; he will only be able to gaze at you." + +"That is hard upon us both." + +"Pooh! don't waste your time upon him. I shall do better than that for +you; he is an eldest son, it is true, but Sir Charles looks as young as +his son, and is quite as likely to live as long. It is only married women +who can afford the luxury of ineligibles. Go and dress, child." + +Half-an-hour later Mrs. Hazeldine and Miss Nevill are to be found upon +two chairs on the broad and shady side of the Row, where a small crowd of +men is already gathered around them. + +Vera, coming up a stranger, and self-invited to the house of her old +acquaintance a few weeks ago, had already created a sensation in London. +Her rare beauty, the strange charm of her quiet, listless manner, the +shade of melancholy which had of late imperceptibly crept over her, +aroused a keen admiration and interest in her, even in that city, which +more than all others is satiated with its manifold types of beautiful +women. + +There was a rush to get introduced to her; a _furore_ to see her. As she +went through a crowd people whispered her name and made way for her to +pass, staring at her after a fashion which is totally modern and +detestably ill-bred; and yet which, sad token of the _decadence_ of +things in these later days, is not beneath the dignity or the manners +of persons whose breeding is supposed to be beyond dispute. + +Already the "new beauty" had been favourably contrasted with the +well-known reigning favourites; and it was the loudly expressed opinion +of more than one-half of the _jeunesse doree_ of the day that not one of +the others could "hold a candle to her, by Jove!" + +Mrs. Hazeldine was delighted. It was she to whom belonged the honour of +bringing this new star into notice; the credit of launching her upon +London society was her own. She found herself courted and flattered and +made up to in a wholly new and delightful manner. The men besieged her +for invitations to her house; the women pressed her to come to theirs. It +was all for Miss Nevill's sake, of course, but, even so, it was very +pleasant, and Mrs. Hazeldine dearly loved the importance of her position. + +It came to pass that, whereas she had been somewhat put out at the letter +of her old Roman acquaintance, offering to come and stay with her, and +had been disposed to resent the advent of her self-invited guest as an +infliction, which a few needlessly gushing words in the past had brought +upon herself, she had, in a very short time, discovered that she could +not possibly exist without her darling Vera, and that she would not and +could not let her go back again to her country vicarage. + +It was, possibly, what Vera had counted upon. It was pretty certain to +have been either one thing or the other. Either her beauty would arouse +Mrs. Hazeldine's jealousy, and she would be glad to be rid of her as +quickly as possible, or else she would be proud of her, and wish to +retain her as an attraction to her house. Fortunately for Vera, Cissy +Hazeldine, worldly, frivolous, pleasure-loving as she was, was, +nevertheless, utterly devoid of the mean and petty spitefulness which +goes far to disfigure many a better woman's character. She was not +jealous of Vera; on the contrary, she was as unfeignedly proud of her as +though she had created her. Besides, as she said to herself, "Our style +is so different, we are not likely to clash." + +When she found that in a month's time Vera's beauty had made her house +the most popular one in London, and that people struggled for her +invitation-cards and prayed to be introduced to her, Mrs. Hazeldine was +at the zenith of her delight and self-importance. If only Vera herself +had been a little more practicable! + +"I don't despair of getting you introduced to royalty before the season +is out," she would say, triumphantly. + +"I don't want to be introduced to royalty," Vera would answer +indifferently. + +"Oh! Vera, how can you be so disloyal? And it's quite wicked too; almost +against Scripture. Honour the King, you know it says somewhere; of course +that means the Prince of Wales too." + +"I can honour him very well without being introduced to him," said Vera, +who, however, let me assure you, was filled with feelings of profound +loyalty towards the reigning family. + +"But only think what a triumph it would be over those other horrid women +who think themselves at the top of the tree!" Mrs. Hazeldine would urge, +with a curious conglomeration of ideas, sacred and profane. + +But Vera was indifferent to the honour of becoming acquainted with his +Royal Highness. + +Another of Mrs. Hazeldine's troubles was that she absolutely refused to +be photographed. + +"Your portrait might be in every shop window if you chose!" Mrs. +Hazeldine would exclaim, despairingly. + +"I may be very depraved, Cissy," Vera would answer, indignantly, "but I +have not yet sunk so low as to desire that every draper's assistant may +have the privilege of buying my likeness for a shilling to stick up on +his mantelshelf, with a tight-rope dancer on one side, and a burlesque +actress on the other!" + +"My dear, it is done by every one; and women who are beautiful as you are +ought not to mind being admired." + +"But I prefer being admired by my friends only, and by those of my own +class. I have no ambition to expose myself, even in effigy, in a shop +window for the edification of street boys and city clerks." + +"Well, you can't help your name having been in _Vanity Fair_ this week!" + +"No, and I only wish I could get hold of the man who put it there!" cried +Miss Nevill, viciously; and it is certain that unfortunate literary +person would not have relished the interview. + +A "beauty" with such strange and unnatural views was, it must be +confessed, as much of a trial as a triumph to an anxious chaperon. + +There was a certain amount of fashionable routine, the daily treadmill +of pleasure, to which, however, Vera submitted readily enough, and even +extracted a good deal of enjoyment out of it. There was the morning +saunter into the Row, the afternoons spent at garden parties or +"at-homes," the evenings filled up with dinner parties, to be followed +almost invariably by balls lasting late into the night. All these things +repeat themselves year after year: they are utter weariness to some of +us, but to her they were still new, and Vera entered into the daily whirl +of the London season with an amount of zest which was almost a surprise +to herself. + +Just at first there had been a daily terror upon her, that of meeting Sir +John Kynaston or his brother; but London is a large place, and you may go +out to different houses for many nights running without ever coming +across the friend or the foe whom you desire or dread most to encounter. + +After a little while, she forgot to glance hurriedly and fearfully around +her every time she entered a ball-room, or to look up shudderingly each +time the door was opened and a fresh guest announced at a dinner-party. +She never met either of them, nor did the name of Kynaston ever strike +upon her ear. + +She told herself that she had forgotten the two brothers, whose fate had +seemed at one time so intimately bound up with her own--the one as well +as the other. They were nothing more to her now--they had passed away out +of her life. Henceforth she had entered upon a new course, in which her +beauty and her mother wit were to exact their full value, but in which +her heart was to count for nothing more. It was to be smothered up within +her. That, together with all the best, and sweetest, and truest part of +her, once awakened for a brief space by the magic touch of love, was now +to be extinguished within her as though they had never been. + +Meanwhile Vera enjoys herself. + +She looks happy enough now as she sits by her friend's side in the park, +with a little knot of admirers about her; not taking very much trouble to +talk to them, indeed, but smiling serenely from one to the other, letting +herself be talked to and amused, with just a word here and there, to show +them she is listening to what they say. It is, perhaps, the secret of her +success that she is so thoroughly indifferent to it all. It matters so +little to her whether they come or go; there is so little eagerness about +her, so perfect an _insouciance_ of manner. Other women lay themselves +out to attract and to be admired; Vera only sits still, and waits with a +certain queenliness of manner for the worship that is laid at her feet, +and which she receives as her due. + +Behind her, with his hand on the back of her chair, stands a young fellow +of about two or three and twenty; he does not speak to her much, nor join +in the merry, empty chatter that is going on around her; but it is easy +to see by the way he looks down at her, by the fashion in which he +watches her slightest movement, that Vera exercises no ordinary influence +over him. + +He is a tall, slight-figured boy, with very fair yellow hair and delicate +features; his blue eyes are frank and pleasant, but his mouth is a trifle +weak and vacillating, and the lips are too sensitively cut for strength +of character, whilst his chest is too narrow for strength of body. He is +carefully dressed, and wears a white, heavy-scented flower in his coat, +a flower which, five minutes ago, he had ineffectually attempted to +transfer to Miss Nevill's dress; but Vera had only gently pushed back his +hand. "My dear boy, pray keep your gardenia; a flower in one's dress is +such a nuisance, it is always tumbling out." + +Denis Wilde, "the boy," as Mrs. Hazeldine called him with a flush on his +fair face, had put it back quietly in his button-hole, too well bred to +show the pain he felt by flinging it, as he would have liked to do, over +the railing, to be trampled under the feet of the horses. + +The little group kept its place for some time, the two well-dressed and +good-looking women sitting down, the two or three idlers who stood in +front of them gossiping about nothing at all--last night's ball, to-day's +plans, a little bit of scandal about one passer-by, somebody's rumoured +engagement, somebody else's reported elopement. Denis Wilde stood behind +Vera's chair and listened to it all, the well-known familiar chatter +of a knot of London idlers. There was nothing new or interesting or +entertaining about it. Only a string of names, some of which were strange +to him, but most of which were familiar; and always some little story, +ill-natured or harmless as the case might be, about each name that was +mentioned. And Vera listened, smiling, assenting, but only half +attentive, with her eyes dreamily fixed upon the long procession of +riders passing ever ceaselessly to and fro along the ride. + +Suddenly Denis Wilde felt a sudden movement of the chair beneath his +hand. Vera had started violently. + +"Here comes Sir John Kynaston," the man before her was saying to his +companion. "What a time it is since he has shown himself; he looks as if +he had had a bad illness." + +"Some woman jilted him, I've heard," answered the other man: "some girl +down in the country. People say, Miss Nevill, he is going to die of that +old-fashioned complaint, which you certainly will not believe in, a +broken heart! Poor old boy, he looks as if he had been buried, and had +come up again for a breath of air!" + +Vera followed the direction of their eyes. Sir John was walking slowly +towards them; he was thin and careworn; he looked aged beyond all belief. +He walked slowly, as though it were an effort to him, with his eyes upon +the ground. He had not seen her yet; in another minute he would be within +a couple of yards of her. It was next to impossible that he could avoid +seeing her, the centre, as she was, of that noisy, chattering group. + +A sort of despair seized her. How was she to meet him--this man whom she +had so cruelly treated? She could _not_ meet him; she felt that it was an +impossibility. Like an imprisoned bird that seeks to escape, she looked +about instinctively from side to side. What possible excuse could she +frame? In what direction could she fly to avoid the glance of reproach +that would smite her to the heart. + +Suddenly Denis Wilde bent down over her. + +"Miss Nevill, there goes a _Dachshund_, exactly like the one you wanted; +come quickly, and we shall catch him up. He ran away down here." + +She sprang up and turned after him; a path leading away from the crowded +Row, towards the comparatively empty park at the back, opened out +immediately behind her chair. + +Young Wilde strode rapidly along it before her, and Vera followed him +blindly and thankfully. + +After a few minutes he stopped and turned round. + +"Where is--the dog--wasn't it a dog, you said? Where is it?" She was +white and trembling. + +"There is no dog," he answered, not looking at her. "I--I saw you wanted +to get away for a minute. You will forgive me, won't you?" + +Vera looked at him with a sudden earnestness. The watchfulness which had +seen her distress, the ready tact which had guessed at her desire to +escape, and had so promptly suggested the manner of it, touched her +suddenly. She put forth her hand gently and almost timidly. + +"Thank you," she said, simply. "I did not imagine you were so clever--or +so kind." + +The boy blushed deeply with pleasure. He did not know her trouble, but +the keen eye of love had guessed at its existence. It had been easy for +him who watched her every look, who knew every shade and every line of +her face, to tell that she was in distress, to interpret her pallor and +her trembling terror aright. + +"You don't want to go back?" he asked. + +"Oh, no, I cannot go back! Besides, I am tired; it is time to go home." + +"Stay here, then, and I will call Mrs. Hazeldine." + +He left her standing alone upon the grass, and went back to the crowded +path. Presently he returned with her friend. + +"My dear Vera, what is the matter? The boy says you have such a headache! +I am so sorry, and I wouldn't let any of those chattering fools come back +to lunch. Why, you look quite pale, child! Will it be too much for you to +have the boy, because we will send him away, too, if you like?" + +But Vera turned round and smiled upon the boy. + +"Oh, no, let him come, certainly; but let us go home, all three of us at +once, if you don't mind." + +The thoughtfulness that had kept her secret for her, even from the eyes +of the woman who was supposed to be her intimate friend, surely deserved +its reward. + +They walked home slowly together across the park, and, when Vera came +down to luncheon, a white gardenia had somehow or other found its way to +the bosom of her dress. + +That was Denis Wilde's reward. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +MAURICE'S INTERCESSION. + + Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret. + + B. Disraeli, "Coningsby." + + +Two or three days later the east wind was still blowing, and the chilled +sunshine still feebly shining down upon the nipped lilac and laburnum +blossoms. The garden at Walpole Lodge was shorn of half its customary +beauty, yet to Helen Romer, pacing slowly up and down its gravel walks, +it had never possibly presented a fairer appearance. For Mrs. Romer had +won her battle. All that she had waited for so long and striven for so +hard was at length within her grasp. Her grandfather was dead, his money +had been all left to her, her engagement to Captain Kynaston was an +acknowledged fact, and she herself was staying as an honoured and welcome +guest in her future mother-in-law's house. Everything in the present and +the future seemed to smile upon her, and yet there were drawbacks--as are +there not in most earthly delights?--to the full enjoyment of her +happiness. + +For instance, there was that unreasonable and unaccountable codicil to +her grandfather's will, of which no one had been able to discern either +the sense or the meaning, and which stated that, should his beloved +grand-daughter, Helen Romer, be still unmarried within two months of the +date of his death, the whole of the previous bequests and legacies were +to be revoked and cancelled, and, with the exception of five thousand +pounds which she would retain, the whole bulk of his fortune was to +devolve upon the Crown, for the special use of the pensioners of +Greenwich and Chelsea Hospitals. + +Why such an extraordinary clause had been added to the old man's will it +was difficult to say. Possibly he feared that his grand-daughter might be +tempted to remain unmarried, in order that she might the more freely +squander her newly-acquired fortune in selfish pleasures; possibly he +desired to ensure her future by the speedy shelter and support of a +husband's name and authority, or perhaps he only hoped at his heart that +she would be unable to fulfil his condition; and, whilst his memory would +be left free from blame towards his daughter's orphaned child, his money +might go away from her by her own fault, and enrich the institutions of +his country at the expense of the grand-daughter, whom he had always +disliked. + +Be that as it may, it was sufficient to place Helen in a very awkward and +uncomfortable position. She had not only to claim Maurice's promised +troth to her, but she had also to urge on him an almost immediate +marriage; the task was a thankless and most unpleasant one. + +Besides that, there was the existence of a certain little French vicomte +which caused Mrs. Romer not a little anxiety. Now, if ever, was the time +when she had reason to dread his re-appearance with those fatal letters +with which he had once threatened to spoil her life should she ever +attempt to marry again. + +But her grandfather had died and had left her his money, and her +engagement and approaching marriage to another man was no secret, yet +still Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet made no sign, and gave forth no token +of his promised vengeance. + +Helen dared not flatter herself that he was dead, but she did hope, +and hoped rightly, that he was not in England, and had not heard of +the change in her fortunes. She had been afraid to make any inquiries +concerning him; such a step might only excite suspicion, and defeat her +own object of remaining hidden from him. If only she could be safely +married before he heard of her again--all, she thought, might yet be well +with her. Of what use, then, would be his vengeance? for she did not +think it likely he could be so cruel as to wreak an idle and profitless +revenge upon her after she herself and her fortune were beyond his power. + +Perhaps, had she known that her enemy had been on a distant journey to +Constantinople, from which he was now returning, and that every hour she +lived brought him nearer and nearer to her, she would have been less easy +in her mind concerning him. As it was, she consoled herself by thinking +in how short a time her marriage would put her out of his power, and +hoped, for the rest, that things would all turn out right for her. +Nevertheless, strive how she would, she could not quite put away the +dread of it out of her mind--it was an anxiety. + +And then there was Maurice himself. She had known, of course, for long, +how slight was her hold upon her lover's heart, but never had he appeared +so cold, so unloving, so full of apathetic indifference towards her as he +had seemed to be during the few days since he had arrived at his mother's +house. His every word and look, the very change in his voice when he +turned from his mother to her, told her, as plainly as though he had +spoken it, that she was forcing him into a marriage that was hateful and +repulsive to him, and which duty alone made him submit to. However little +pride a woman may retain, such a position must always bring a certain +amount of bitterness with it. + +To Helen it was gall and wormwood, yet she was all the more determined +upon keeping him. She said to herself that she had toiled, and waited, +and striven for him for too long to relinquish him now that the victory +was hers at length. + +Poor Helen, with all her good looks, and all her many attractions, she +had been so unfortunate with this one man whom she loved! She had always +gone the wrong way to work with him. + +Even now she could not let him alone; she was foolishly jealous and +suspicious. + +He had come to her, all smarting and bleeding still with the sacrifice +he had made of his heart to his duty. He had shut the woman he loved +determinedly out of his thoughts, and had set his face resolutely to do +his duty to the woman whom he seemed destined to marry. Even now a little +softness, a little womanly gentleness and sympathy, and, above all, a +wise forbearance from probing into his still open wounds, might have won +a certain amount of gratitude and affection from him. But Helen was +unequal to this. She only drove him wild with causeless and senseless +jealousy, and goaded him almost to madness by endless suspicions and +irritating cross-questioning. + +It is difficult to know what she expected more of him. He slept under +the same roof with her, he dined at his mother's table, and spent the +evenings religiously in her society. She could not well expect to keep +him also at her side all day long; and yet his daily visits to town, +amounting usually to between three and four hours of absence, were a +constant source of annoyance and disquiet to her. Where did he go? What +did he do with himself? Whom did he see in these diurnal expeditions into +London? She wore herself into a fever with her perpetual effort to fathom +these things. + +Even now she is fretting and fuming because he has promised to be home to +luncheon, and he is twenty minutes late. + +She paces impatiently up and down the garden. Lady Kynaston opens the +French window and calls to her from the house: + +"Come, my dear, lunch is on the table; are you not coming in?" + +"I had rather wait for Maurice, please; do sit down without me," she +answers, with the irritation of a spoilt child. Lady Kynaston closes the +window. "Oh, these lovers!" she groans to herself, somewhat impatiently, +as she sits down alone to the well-furnished luncheon-table; but she +bears it pretty composedly because Helen has her grandfather's money, and +is to bring her son wealth as well as love, and Lady Kynaston is not at +all above being glad of it. One can stand little faults of manner and +temper from a daughter-in-law, who is an heiress, which one would be +justly indignant at were she a pauper. + +A sound of wheels turning in at the lodge-gates--it is Maurice's hansom. + +Helen hurries forward to meet him in the hall; Captain Kynaston is +handing a lady out of the hansom; Helen peers at her suspiciously. + +"I am bringing you ladies a friend to lunch," says Maurice, gaily, and +Mrs. Romer's face clears when she sees that it is Beatrice Miller. + +"Oh, Beatrice, it is you! I am delighted to see you! Go in to the +dining-room, you will find Lady Kynaston. Maurice," drawing him back a +minute, "how late you are again! What have you been doing?" + +"I waited whilst Miss Miller put her bonnet on." + +"Why, where did you meet her?" + +"I met her at her mother's, where I went to call. Have you any +objection?" He looked at her almost defiantly as he answered her +questions; it was intolerable to him that she should put him through +such a catechism. + +"You can't have been there all the morning," she continued, suspiciously; +unable or unwilling, perhaps, to notice his rising displeasure. "Where +did you go first?" + +Maurice bit his lip, but controlled himself with an effort. + +"My dear child," he said, lightly, "one can't sell out of the army, or +prepare for the holy estate of matrimony, without a certain amount of +business on one's hands. Suppose now we go in to lunch." She stepped +aside and let him pass her into the dining-room. + +"He is shuffling again," she said to herself, angrily; "that was no +answer to my question. Is it possible that he sees _her_? But no, what +folly; if she is at Sutton, how can he get at her?" + +"Oh, Helen," cried out Beatrice to her from the table as she entered, +"you and Lady Kynaston are positively out of the world this season. You +know none of the gossip." + +"I go nowhere, of course, now; my grandfather's death is so recent. I +have so many preparations to make just now; and dear Lady Kynaston is +good enough to shut herself up on my account." + +"Exactly; you are a couple of recluses," cried Beatrice. "Now, I daresay +you will never guess who is the new beauty whom all the world is talking +about; no other than our friend Vera Nevill. She is creating a perfect +sensation!" + +"Indeed!" politely, but with frigid unconcern, from Lady Kynaston. + +"Yes; I assure you there is a regular rage about her. Oh, how stupid I +am! Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned her, Lady Kynaston, for of +course she did not behave very well to Sir John, as we all know; but now +that is all over, isn't it? and everybody is wild about her beauty." + +"I am glad to hear that Miss Nevill is prospering in any way," said her +ladyship, stiffly. "I owe her no ill-will, poor girl." + +Helen Romer is looking at Maurice Kynaston; he has not said one single +word, nor has he raised his eyes once from his plate; but a deep flush +has overspread his handsome face at the sound of Vera's name. + +"_That_ is where he goes," said Helen, to herself. "I knew it; he has +seen her, and he loves her still." + +The conversation drifted on to other matters. Beatrice passed all the +gossip and scandal of the town under review for Lady Kynaston's benefit; +presently Maurice roused himself, and joined in the talk. But Mrs. Romer +uttered not a word; she sat in her place with a thunder-cloud upon her +brow until the luncheon was over; then, as they rose from the table, she +called her lover to her side. + +"I want to speak to you," she said, and detained him until the others had +left the room. + +"You knew that Vera Nevill was in town, and you have seen her!" she burst +forth impetuously. + +"If I had seen her, I do not know that it would signify, would it?" he +answered, calmly. + +"Not signify? when you knew that it was for _your_ sake that she threw +over John, because----" + +"Be silent, Helen, you have no right to say that, and no authority for +such a statement," he said, interrupting her hotly. + +"Do you suppose you can deceive me? Did not everybody see that she could +not keep her eyes off you? What is the use of denying it? You have seen +her probably; you have been with her to-day." + +"As it happens, I have _not_ been with her either to-day or any day; nor +did I know she was in town until Beatrice Miller told us so just now." + +"You have not seen her?" + +"No, I have not." + +"I don't believe you!" she answered, angrily. Now, no man likes to be +given the lie direct even by a lady; and Maurice was a man who was +scrupulously truthful, and proud of his veracity; he lost his temper +fairly. + +"I have never told you a lie yet," he began furiously; "and if you think +so, it is time----" + +"Maurice! Maurice!" she cried, frantically, stopping the outspoken words +upon his lips, and seeing in one minute that she had gone too far. "My +darling, forgive me; I did not mean to say it. Yes, of course, I believe +you; don't say anything unkind to me, for pity's sake. You know how much +I love you; kiss me, darling. No, Maurice, I won't let you go till you +kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish, jealous little Helen!" + +It was the old story over again; angry reproaches--bitter words--insults +upon her side; to be succeeded, the minute he turned round upon her, by +wild cries of regret and entreaties for forgiveness, and by the pleading +of that love which he valued so little. + +She drove him wild with anger and indignation; but she never would let +him go--no, never, however much he might strain against the chain by +which she held him. + +The quarrel was patched up again; he stooped and kissed her. A man must +kiss a lady when she asks him. How, indeed, is he to refuse to do so? A +woman's kisses are the roses of life--altogether sweet, and lovely, and +precious. No man can say he dislikes a rose, nor refuse so harmless and +charming a gift when it is freely offered to him without absolute +churlishness. Maurice could not well deny her the embrace for which her +upturned lips had pleaded. He kissed her, indeed; but it will be easily +understood that there was very little spontaneity of affection in that +kiss. + +"Now let me go," he said, putting her from him gently but coldly; "I want +to speak to my mother." + +The two younger ladies wandered out into the garden, whilst Maurice +sought his mother's room. + +"Mother, I have been to see John this morning. I am afraid he is really +very ill," he said, gravely. + +Lady Kynaston shrugged her shoulders. "He is like a baby over that +foolish affair," she said, impatiently. "He does not seem able to get +over it; why does he shut himself up in his rooms? If he were to go out +a little more----" + +"He has been out; it is that that has made him ill. He went out a few +mornings ago--the wind was very cold; he says it is that which gave him a +chill. But, from what he says, I fancy he saw, or he thinks he saw, Miss +Nevill." + +Lady Kynaston sat at her davenport with all the litter of her daily +correspondence before her; her son stood up by the mantelpiece, leaning +his back against it, and looked away out of window at the figures of +Beatrice and his future wife sauntering up and down the garden walks. She +could not well see his face as he spoke these last words. + +"Tiresome woman!" cried Lady Kynaston, angrily; "there is no end to the +trouble she causes. John ought to be thankful he is well rid of her. Did +you hear what Beatrice Miller said at lunch about her? I call it shocking +bad taste, her coming up to town and flirting and flaunting about under +poor John's nose--heartless coquette! Creating 'a sensation,' indeed! +That is one of those horrible American expressions that are the fashion +just now!" + +"It is no wonder she is admired," said Maurice, dreamily: "she is very +beautiful." + +"I wish to goodness she would keep out of John's way. Where did he see +her?" + +"It was in the Row, I think, and, from what he said, he only fancied he +saw her back, walking away. I told him, of course, it could not be her, +because I thought she was down at Sutton; but, after what Beatrice told +us at lunch, I make no doubt that it was her, and that John really did +see her." + +"I should have thought that your brother would have had more spirit than +to sit down and whine over a woman in that way," said her ladyship, +sharply; "it is really contemptible." + +"But if he is ill in body as well as in mind, poor fellow?" + +"Pooh! fiddlesticks! I am quite sure, if Helen jilted you, you would bear +it a great deal better--losing the money and all--than he does." + +Maurice smiled. + +"That is very possible; but a man can't help his disposition, and John +has been utterly shattered by it." + +"Well, I am sorry for him, of course; but I confess that I don't see that +anybody can do anything for him." + +And then Maurice was silent for a minute. God only knew what passed +through his soul at that minute--what agonies of self-renunciation, what +martyrdom of all that makes life pleasant and dear to a man! It is +certain his mother did not know it. + +"I think," he said, after a minute, and only a slight harshness in his +voice marked the internal struggle that the words were to cost him--"I +think, mother, _you_ might do a great deal for him. Miss Nevill is in +town. Could you not see her?" + +"I see her! What on earth for?" + +"If you were to tell her how ill John is, how desperately he feels her +treatment of him--how----" + +"Stop, stop, my dear! You cannot possibly suppose that I am going down +upon my knees to entreat Miss Nevill to marry my son after she has thrown +him over!" + +"It is no question of going on your knees, mother. A few words would +suffice to show her the misery she is causing to John, and if those few +words would restore his lost happiness----" + +"How can I tell that anything I can say would influence her? I suppose +she had good reasons for throwing him over. She cared for some one else, +I suppose, or, at all events, she did not care for him." + +"I am quite certain, on the contrary, that she had a very sincere +affection for my brother; and, as to the some one else, I do not think +that will prevent her returning to him. Oh, mother!" he cried, with a +sudden passion, "the world is full of miserable misunderstandings and +mistakes. For God's sake, let us try to put some of its blunders right! +Do not let any poor, mean feelings of false pride stand in our way if we +can make one single life happy!" + +She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnestness. It did not +strike her at the minute that his interest in Vera was unusual, but only +that his affection for his brother was stronger than she imagined it to +be. "You know," she said, "I do not want things to come right in that +way. I do not want John to marry. I want the old place to come to you and +your children; and now that John has agreed to let you and Helen live +there----" + +He waved his hand impatiently. "And you know, mother dear, that such +desires are unlawful. John is the eldest, and I will never move a step to +take his birthright from him. To stand in the way of his marriage for +such a cause would be a crime. Is it not better that I should speak +plainly to you, dear? As to my living at Kynaston, I think it highly +unlikely that I should do so in any case, much as you and Helen seem to +wish it. But that has nothing to do with John's affairs. Promise me, +little mother, that you will try and set that right by seeing Miss +Nevill?" + +"I do not suppose I should do any good," she answered, with visible +reluctance. + +"Never mind; you can but try." + +"You can't expect me to go and call upon her for such a purpose, nor +speak to her, without John's authority." + +"You might ask her to come here, or go to some house where you will meet +her naturally in public." + +"Yes, that would be best; perhaps she will be at Lady Cloverdale's ball +next week." + +"It is easy, at all events, to ensure her an invitation to it; ask +Beatrice Miller to get her one." + +"Oh, yes; that is easy enough. Oh, dear me, Maurice, you always manage to +get your own way with me; but you have given me a dreadfully hard task +this time." + +"As if a woman of your known tact and _savoir faire_ was not capable of +any hard and impossible task!" answered her son, smiling, as he bent and +kissed her soft white face. + +The gentle flattery pleased her. The old lady sat smiling happily to +herself, with her hands idle before her, for some minutes after he had +left her. + +How dear he was to her, how good, how upright, how thoroughly generous +too, and unselfish to think so much of his brother's troubles just now, +in the midst of all his own happiness. + +She got up and went to the window, and watched him as he strolled across +the garden to join the ladies, smiling and kissing her hand to him when +he looked back and saw her. + +"Dear fellow, I hope he will be happy!" she said to herself, turning away +with a half sigh. And then suddenly something brought back the ball at +Shadonake to her recollection. There flashed back into her memory a +certain scene in a cool, dimly-lit conservatory: two people whispering +together under a high-swung Chinese lamp, and a background of dark-leaved +shrubs behind them. + +She had been puzzled that night. There had been something going on that +she had not quite understood. And now again that feeling of unsatisfied +comprehension came back to her. For the first time it struck her +painfully that the son whom she idolized so much--whose life and +character had been her one study and her one delight ever since the day +of his birth--was nevertheless a riddle to her. That the secret of his +inner self was as much hidden from her--his mother--as though she had +been the merest stranger; that the life she had striven so closely to +entwine with her own was nothing after all but a separate existence, in +the story of whose soul she herself had no part. He was a man struggling +single-handed in all the heat and turmoil of the battle of life, and she, +nothing but a poor, weak old woman, standing feebly aside, powerless to +help or even to understand the creature to whom she had given birth. + +There fell a tear or two down upon her wrinkled little hands as she +thought of it. She could not understand him; there was something in his +life she could not fathom. Oh, what did it all mean? + +Alas, sooner or later, is not that what comes to every mother concerning +the child she loves best? + + + + +CHAPTER XXIL. + +MR. PRYME'S VISITORS. + + For courage mounteth with occasion. + + Shakespeare, "King John." + + +Mr. Herbert Pryme stood by a much ink-stained and littered table in his +chambers in the Temple, with his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling +a slow and melancholy tune. + +It was Mr. Pryme's habit to whistle when he was dejected or perplexed; +and the whistling generally partook of the mournful condition of his +feelings. Indeed, everything that this young man did was of a ponderous +and solemn nature; there was always the inner consciousness of the +dignity of the Bar vested in his own person, to be discerned in his outer +bearing. Even in the strictest seclusion of the, alas! seldom invaded +privacy of his chambers Mr. Pryme never forgot that he was a +barrister-at-law. + +But when this young gentleman was ill at ease within himself he was in +the habit of whistling. He also was given to the thrusting of his hands +into his pockets. The more unhappy he was, the more he whistled, and the +deeper he stuffed in his hands. + +Just now, to all appearances, he was very unhappy indeed. + +The air he had selected for his musical self-refreshment was the lively +and slightly vulgar one of "Tommy make Room for your Uncle;" but let +anybody just try to whistle that same vivacious tune to the time of the +Dead March in "Saul," and with a lingering and plaintive emphasis upon +each note, with "linked sweetness long drawn out," and then say whether +the gloomiest of dirges would not be festive indeed in comparison. + +Thus did Herbert Pryme whistle it as he looked down upon the piles of +legal documents heaped up together upon his table. + +All of them meant work, but none of them meant money. For Herbert was +fain to accept the humble position of "devil" to a great legal light who +occupied the floor below him, and who considered, and perhaps rightly, +that he was doing the young man above him, who had been sent up from the +country with a letter of introduction to him from a second cousin, a +sufficient and inestimable benefit in allowing him to do his dirty work +gratis. + +It was all very useful to him, doubtless, but it was not remunerative; +and Herbert wanted money badly. + +"Oh, if I could only reckon upon a couple of hundred a year," he sighed, +half aloud to himself, "I might have a chance of winning her! It seems +hard that heaps of these fellows can make hundreds a week by a short +speech, or a few strokes of the pen, that cost them no labour and little +forethought, whilst I, with all my hard work, can make nothing! What +uphill work it is! Not that the Bar is not a fine profession; quite the +finest there is," for not even to himself would Herbert Pryme decry the +legal muse whom he worshipped; "but, I suppose, like every other +profession, it is overstocked; there are too many struggling for the same +prizes. The fact is, that England is over-populated. Now, if a law were +to be passed compelling one-half of the adult males in this country to +remain in a state of celibacy for the space of fifteen years----" but +here he stopped short in his soliloquy and smiled; for was not the one +desire of his life at present to marry Beatrice Miller immediately? And +how was the extra population to be stayed if every one of the doomed +quota of marriageable males were of the same mind as himself? + +Presently Mr. Pryme sauntered idly to the window, and stood looking +drearily out of it, still whistling, of course. + +The prospect was not a lively one. His chambers looked out upon a little +square, stone-flagged court, with a melancholy-looking pump in the centre +of it. There was an arched passage leading away to one side, down which a +distant footstep echoed drearily now and then, and a side glimpse of the +empty road at the other end, beyond the corner of the opposite houses. +Now and then some member of the learned profession passed rapidly across +the small open space with the pre-occupied air of a man who has not a +minute to spare, or a clerk, bearing the official red bag, ran hastily +along the passage; for the rest, the London sparrows had it pretty much +to themselves. As things were, Mr. Pryme envied the sparrows, who were +ready clothed by Providence, and had no rates and taxes to pay, as well +as the clerks, who, at all events, had plenty to do and no time to +soliloquize upon the hardness and hollowness of life. To have plenty of +brains, and an indefinite amount of spare time to use them in; to desire +ardently to hasten along the road towards fortune and happiness, and to +be forced to sit idly by whilst others, duller-witted, perchance, and +with less capacity for work, are amassing wealth under your very +nose--when this is achieved by sheer luck, or good interest, or any other +of those inadequate causes which get people on in life independent of +talent and industry--that is what makes a radical of a man. This is what +causes him to dream unwholesome dreams about equality and liberty, about +a republic, where there shall be no more principalities and powers, where +plutocracy, as well as aristocracy, shall be unregarded, and where every +good man and true shall rise on his own merits, and on none other. + +Oh, happy and impossible Arcadia! You must wait for the millennium, my +friend, before your aspirations shall come to pass. Wait till jealousy, +and selfishness, and snobbism--that last and unconquerable dragon--shall +be destroyed out of the British heart, then, and only then, when jobbery, +and interest, and mammon-worship shall be abolished; then will men be +honoured for what they are, and not for what they seem to be. + +Something of all this passed through our friend's jaundiced mind as he +contemplated those homely and familiar little birds, born and bred and +smoke-dried in all the turmoil of the City's heart, who ruffled their +feathers and plumed their wings with contented chirpings upon the dusty +flags of the little courtyard. + +Things were exceptionally bad with Herbert Pryme just now. His exchequer +was low--had never been lower--and his sweetheart was far removed out of +his reach. Beatrice had duly come up with her parents to the family +mansion in Eaton Square for the London season, but although he had, it is +true, the satisfaction, such as it was, of breathing the same air as she +did, she was far more out of his reach in town than she had been in the +country. As long as she was at Shadonake Mr. Pryme had always been able +to run down to his excellent friend, the parson of Tripton, and once +there, it had been easy to negotiate a surreptitious meeting with +Beatrice. The fields and the lanes are everybody's property. If Tom and +Maria are caught love-making at the stile out of the wood, and they both +swear that the meeting was purely accidental, I don't see how any one is +to prove that it was premeditated; nor can any parents, now that it is no +longer the fashion to keep grown women under lock and key, prevent their +daughters from going out in the country occasionally unattended, nor +forbid strange young men from walking along the Queen's highway in the +same direction. + +But remove your daughter to London, and the case is altered at once. To +keep a girl who goes out a great deal in the whirl of London society out +of the way of a man who goes out very little, who is not in the inner +circle of town life, and is not in the same set as herself, is the +easiest thing in the world. + +So Mrs. Miller found it. She kept Beatrice hard at work at the routine of +dissipation. Not an hour of her time was unoccupied, not a minute of her +day unaccounted for; and, of course, she was never alone--it is not yet +the fashion for young girls to dance about London by themselves--her +mother, as a matter of course, was always with her. + +As a natural sequence, the lovers had a hard time of it. Beatrice had +been six weeks in London, and Herbert, beyond catching sight of her once +or twice as she was driven past in her mother's carriage down Bond +Street, or through the crowd in the Park, had never seen her at all. + +Mrs. Miller was congratulating herself upon the success of her tactics; +she flattered herself that her daughter was completely getting over that +unlucky fancy for the penniless and briefless barrister. Beatrice gave no +sign; she appeared perfectly satisfied and contented, and seemed to be +enjoying herself thoroughly, and to be troubled by no love-sick +hankerings after her absent swain. + +"She has forgotten him," said Mrs. Miller, to herself. + +But the mother did not take into account that indomitable spirit and +stubborn determination in her own character which had served to carry out +successfully all the schemes of her life, and which she had probably +transmitted to her child. + +In Beatrice's head, under its short thick thatch of dark rough hair, and +in her sturdily-built little frame, there lurked the tenacity of a +bulldog. Once she had taken an idea firmly into her mind, Beatrice Miller +would never relinquish it until she had got her own way. Herbert, in +the dingy solitude of his untempting chambers, might despair and look +upon life and its aims as a hopeless enigma. Beatrice did not despair at +all. She only bided her time. + +One day, if she waited for it patiently, the opportunity would come to +her, and when it came she would not be slow to make use of it. It came to +her in the shape of a morning visit from Captain Maurice Kynaston. + +"Come down and see my mother," Maurice had said to her; "she has not seen +you for a long while. I am just going back to Walpole Lodge to lunch." + +"I should like to come very much. You have no objection, I suppose, +mamma?" + +No; Mrs. Miller could have no possible objection. Lady Kynaston was +amongst her oldest and most respected friends; under whose house could +Beatrice be safer? And even Maurice, as an escort, engaged to be married +so shortly as he was known to be, was perfectly unobjectionable. + +Beatrice went, and, as we have seen, lunched at Walpole Lodge. She had +told her mother not to expect her till late in the afternoon, as, in all +probability, Lady Kynaston would drive her into town and would drop her +in Eaton Square at the end of her drive. Mrs. Miller, to whose watchful +maternal mind the Temple and Kew appeared to be in such totally different +directions that they presented no connecting suggestions, agreed, +unsuspiciously, not to expect her daughter back until after six o'clock. + +In this way Beatrice secured the whole afternoon to herself to do what +she liked with it. She was not slow to make use of it. There was all +the pluck of the Esterworths in her veins, together with all the +determination and energy which had raised her father's family from +a race of shopkeepers to take their place amongst gentlemen. + +As soon as Captain Kynaston joined the two ladies in the garden at +Walpole Lodge after luncheon Beatrice requested him to order a hansom to +be fetched for her. + +"Why should you hurry away?" said Maurice, politely. "My mother will take +you back to town in the carriage if you will wait." + +Helen was stooping over the flower-beds, gathering some violets. Beatrice +stepped closer to Maurice. + +"Don't say a word, there's a good fellow, but get me the +hansom--and--and--please don't mention it at home." + +Then Maurice, who was no tyro in such matters, understood that it was +expected of him that he should ask no questions, but do what he was told +and hold his tongue. + +The sequence of which proceedings was, that a hansom cab drew up at the +far corner of the little stone-flagged court in the Temple between four +and five that afternoon. + +Mr. Pryme was no longer by the window when it did so, so that he was +totally unprepared for the visitor, whose trembling and twice-repeated +tap at his door he answered somewhat impatiently-- + +"Come in, and be d----d to you, and don't stand rapping at that door all +day." + +The people, as a rule, who solicited admittance to his chambers were +either the boy from the legal light below, who came to ask whether the +papers were ready that had been sent up this morning, or else they were +smiling and sleek-faced tradesmen who washed their hands insinuatingly +whilst they requested that Mr. Pryme would be kind enough to settle that +little outstanding account. + +Either of these visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be some +excuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language. + +The door was softly pushed ajar. + +"Now, then--come in, can't you; who the deuce are you--_Beatrice_!" + +Enter Miss Miller, smiling. + +"Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir." + +"Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother? Are you +alone?" looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught her +outstretched hand. + +"Yes, I am quite alone; don't be very shocked. I know I am a horrid, bold +girl to come all by myself to a man's chambers; it's dreadful, isn't it! +Oh, what would people say of it if they knew--why, even _you_ look +horrified! But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so. I was determined to +get at you somehow--and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed it +beautifully--no one will ever find out where I have been. Mamma thinks I +am driving with Lady Kynaston!" + +And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it. + +She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure, +sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his. Not so +Herbert. He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by a +thousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit for +breaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to come +to him; but he was horribly nervous all the same. Supposing that boy were +to come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if the +great Q.C. were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognize +her from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller's reputation +be then? + +"It is very imprudent of you--most rash and foolish," he kept on +repeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed her +between every other word. + +"Now, don't waste any more time spooning," says Beatrice, with decision, +drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa. "An +hour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you. Herbert," with great +solemnity, "_I mean to elope with you!_" + +Herbert gives an irrepressible start. + +"_Now!_ this minute?" he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftly +that, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence in +ready money. + +"No; don't be a goose; not now, because I haven't any clothes." Herbert +breathes more freely. "But some day, very soon, before the end of the +season." + +"But, my pet, you are not of age," objects her lover; whilst sundry +clauses in the laws concerning the marriages of minors without the +consent of their parents pass hurriedly through his brain. + +"What do I care about my age?" says Beatrice, with the recklessness of an +impetuous woman bent upon having her own way. "Of course, I don't wish to +do anything disreputable, or to make a scandal, but mamma is driving me +to it by never allowing me to see you, and forbidding you to come to the +house, and by encouraging all sorts of men whom she wants me to marry." + +"Ah! And these men, do they make love to you?" The instinct of the lover +rises instantly superior to the instinct of legal prudence within him. +"That is hard for me to bear." + +"Now, Herbert, don't be a fool!" cries Beatrice, jumping up and making a +grimace at herself in the dusty glass over his mantelpiece. "Do I look +like a girl whom men would make love to? Am I not too positively hideous? +Oh, you needn't shake your head and look indignant. Of course I am ugly, +everybody but you thinks so. Of course it's not me, myself, but because +papa is rich, and they think I shall have money. Oh, what a curse this +money is!" + +"I think the want of it a far greater one," says Herbert, ruefully. + +"At any rate," continues Beatrice, "I am determined to put an end to this +state of things; we must take the law into our own hands." + +"Am I to wait for you in a carriage and pair at the corner of Eaton +Square in the middle of the night?" inquires Herbert, grimly. + +"No; don't be foolish; people don't do things now-a-days in the way our +grandmothers did. I shall go to morning service one day at some out +of-the-way church, where you will meet me with a licence in your pocket; +it will be the simplest thing in the world." + +"And afterwards?" + +"Afterwards I shall go home to lunch." + +"And what am I to do?" + +"Oh! you will come back here, I suppose." + +"I don't think that will be very amusing," objects the bridegroom elect, +dubiously. + +"No; but then we shall be really married, and when we know that no one +can part us, we shan't mind waiting; and then, some day, after about six +months or so, I shall confess to papa, and there will be a terrible +scene, ending in tears on my part, and in forgiveness on the part of my +parents. Once the deed is done, you see, they will be forced to make the +best of it; and, of course, they will not allow us to starve. I think it +is a very ingenious plan. What do you think of it, Herbert? You don't +look very much delighted at the idea." + +"I don't think that I should play a very noble part in such a scheme as +that. Dearly as I love you, Beatrice, I do not think I could consent to +steal you away in such a pitiful and cowardly manner." + +"Pooh! you would have nothing to do with it; it is all my doing, of +course. Hush! is not that somebody coming up the stairs?" + +They were silent for half a minute, listening to the sound of advancing +steps upon the wooden staircase. + +"It is nothing--only somebody to see the man above me. By Jove, though, +it _is_ for me!" as somebody suddenly stopped outside and knocked at the +door. "Wait one minute, sir! Good heavens, Beatrice, what am I to do with +you?" + +Herbert looked frightened out of his life. Beatrice, on the contrary, +could hardly smother her laughter. + +"I must hide!" she said, in a choked whisper. "Oh, Herbert, it is like +a scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!" + +Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door of +which stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber! +There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned the +key upon herself, and Herbert called out "Come in!" to the intruder. +Neither of them had noticed that Beatrice's little white lace sunshade +lay upon the table with her gloves and veil beside it. + +If Mr. Pryme had been alarmed at the bare fact of an unknown and possibly +unimportant visitor, it may be left to the imagination to describe the +state of his feelings when the door, upon being opened, disclosed the +Member for North Meadowshire standing without! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A WHITE SUNSHADE. + + For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove + An unrelenting foe to love, + And when we meet a mutual heart, + Come in between, and bid us part? + + +"Well, Mr. Pryme, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Miller, in his rough, hearty +voice, holding out his hand. "I dare say you are surprised to see me +here. I haven't met you since you were staying down with us at Christmas +time. Well, and how goes the world with you, young man?" + +Herbert, who at first had thought nothing less than that Mr. Miller had +tracked his daughter to his rooms, and that he was about to have the +righteous wrath of an infuriated and exasperated parent to deal with, by +this time began to perceive that, to whatever extraordinary cause his +visit was owing, Beatrice, at all events, had nothing to do with it. He +recovered himself sufficiently to murmur, in answer to his visitor's +greeting, that the world went pretty well with him, and to request his +guest to be seated. + +And then, as he pushed an arm-chair forward for him, his eye fell upon +Beatrice's things upon the table, and his heart literally stood still +within him. What was he to do? They lay so close to the father's elbow +that, to move them without attracting attention was impossible, and to +attract attention to them was to risk their being recognized. + +Meanwhile Mr. Miller had put on his spectacles, and was drawing some +voluminous papers out of his breast coat-pocket. + +"Now, I dare say, young man, you are wondering what brings me to see you? +Well, the fact is, there is a little matter about which I am going to +law. I'm going to bring an action for libel against a newspaper; it is +that rascally paper the _Cat o' Nine Tails_. They had an infamous +paragraph three weeks ago concerning my early life, which, let me tell +you, sir, was highly respectable in every way, sir--in every way." + +"I am quite sure of that, Mr. Miller." + +"I've brought the paragraph with me. Oh, here it is. Well, I've had a +good deal of correspondence with the editor, and he refuses to publish an +apology, and so I'm tired of the whole matter, and have placed it in the +hands of my solicitors. I'm going to prosecute them, sir, and I don't +care what it costs me to do it; and I'll expose the whole system of these +trumped-up fabrications, that contain, as a rule, one grain of truth to a +hundredweight of lies. Well, now, Mr. Pryme, I want a clever barrister to +take up this case, and I have instructed Messrs. Grainge, my solicitors, +to retain you." + +"I am sure, sir, you are very kind; I hardly know how to thank you," +faltered poor Herbert. Never in the whole course of his life had he felt +so overcome with shame and confusion! Here was this man come to do him a +really great and substantial benefit, whilst his own daughter was hidden +away in a shameful fashion in the next room! Herbert would sooner that +Mr. Miller had pointed a pistol at his head and threatened to shoot him. +The deception that he was practising towards this kind-hearted and +excellent gentleman struck him to the heart with a sense of guilty +remorse. + +But what on earth was he to do? He could not reveal the truth to the +unconscious father, nor open the door and disclose Beatrice hiding in his +bedroom, without absolutely risking the reputation of the girl he loved. +There was nothing for it but to go on with the serio-comedy as best he +could, and to try and get Mr. Miller off the premises as speedily as +possible. + +He made an effort to decline the proffered employment. + +"It is most kind, most generous of you to have thought of me, but I must +tell you that there are many better men, even amongst the juniors, who +would do your case more justice than I should." + +"Oh! I believe you have plenty of talent, Mr. Pryme. I've been making +inquiries about you. You only want an opportunity, and I like giving a +young fellow a chance. One must hold out a helping hand to the young ones +now and then." + +"Of course, sir, I would do my very best for you, but I really think you +are risking your own case by giving it to me." + +"Nonsense--take it and do what you can for me; if you fail, I shall not +blame you;" and here suddenly Mr. Miller's eyes rested upon the sunshade +and the gloves upon the table half-a-yard behind his arm. Now, had it +been Miss Miller's mother who, in the place of her father, had been +seated in Herbert's wooden arm-chair, the secret of her proximity would +have been revealed the very instant the maternal eyes had been set upon +that sunshade and those gloves. Mrs. Miller could have sworn to that +little white lace, ivory-handled toy, with its coquettish pink ribbon +bows, had she seen it amongst a hundred others, nor would it have been +easy to have deceived the mother's eyes in the matter of the gray _peau +de suede_ gloves and the dainty little veil, such as her daughter was in +the habit of wearing. But a father's perceptions in these matters are not +accurate. Mr. Miller had not the remotest idea what his child's sunshade +was like, nor, indeed, whether she had any sunshade at all. Nevertheless, +as his eyes alighted upon these indications of a feminine presence which +lay upon the young barrister's table, they remained fixed there with +distinct disapproval. These obnoxious articles of female attire of course +conveyed clearly to the elder man's perceptions, in a broad and general +sense, the fatal word "woman," and woman in this case meant "vice." + +Mr. Miller strove to re-direct his attention to his case and the papers +in his hand. Herbert made a faint and ineffectual attempt to remove the +offending objects from the table. Mr. Miller only looked back at them +with an ever-increasing gloom upon his face, and Herbert's hand, morally +paralyzed by the glance, sank powerlessly down by his side. He imagined, +of course, that the father had recognized his daughter's property. + +"Well, to continue the subject," said Mr. Miller, looking away with +an effort, and turning over the papers he had brought with him; "there +are several points in the case I should like to mention to you." He +paused for a minute, apparently to collect his thoughts, and to +Herbert's sensitive ears there was a sudden coldness and constraint +in his voice and manner. "You will, of course, take instructions in +the main from Grainge and Co.; but what I wished to point out to you +was--ahem----" here his voice unaccountably faltered, and his eyes, as +though drawn by a magnet, returned once more with ominous displeasure to +that little heap of feminine finery that lay between them. Mr. Miller +flung down his papers, and turning round in his chair, rested both elbows +upon the table. + +"Mr. Pryme," he said, with decision, "I think it is best that I should be +frank with you!" He looked the young barrister full in the face. + +"Certainly, certainly, if you please, Mr. Miller," said Herbert, not +quite knowing what he had to fear, and turning hot and cold alternately +under his visitor's scrutinizing gaze. + +"Well, then, let me tell you fairly that I came to seek you to-day with +the friendliest motives." + +"I am sure you did, and you are most kind to me, sir," murmured Herbert, +playing nervously with an ivory paper-cutter that lay on the table. + +Mr. Miller waved his hand, as though to dispense with his grateful +acknowledgments. + +"The fact is," he continued, "I had understood from Mrs. Miller that you +were a suitor for my daughter's hand. Well, sir, Mrs. Miller, as you +know, disapproves of your suit. My daughter will be well off, Mr. Pryme, +and you, I understand, have no income at all. You have no other resource +than a profession, at which, as yet, you have made nothing. There is some +reason in Mrs. Miller's objection to you. Nor should I be willing to let +my daughter marry an idle man who will live upon her money. Then, on the +other hand, Mr. Pryme, I find that my girl is fond of you, and, if this +is the case, I am unwilling to make her unhappy. I said to myself that I +would give you an opening in this case of mine, and if you will work hard +and make yourself known and respected in your profession, I should not +object, in the course of time, to your being engaged to her, and I would +endeavour to induce her mother to agree to it. I came here to-day, Mr. +Pryme, to give you a fair chance of winning her." + +"You are too good, Mr. Miller," cried Herbert, with effusion, stretching +forth his hand. "I do not know how to thank you enough, nor how to assure +you of my grateful acceptance of your terms." + +But Mr. Miller drew back from the young man's proffered hand. + +"Wait, there is no occasion to thank me;" and again his eyes fell sternly +upon that unlucky little heap of lace and ribbon. "I am sorry to tell you +that, since I have come here, my friendly and pleasant intentions towards +you have undergone a complete change." + +"Sir!" + +"Yes, Mr. Pryme; I came here prepared to treat you--well, I may as well +confess it--as a son, under the belief that you were an upright and +honourable man, and were sincerely and honestly attached to my daughter." + +"Mr. Miller, is it possible that you can doubt it?" + +The elder man pointed with contemptuous significance to the sunshade +before him. + +"I find upon your table, young man, the evidences of the recent presence +of some wretched woman in your rooms, and your confusion of manner shows +me too plainly that you are not the kind of husband to which a man may +safely entrust his daughter's happiness." + +"Mr. Miller, I assure you you are mistaken; it is not so." + +"Every man in this country has a right to justify himself when he is +accused. If I am mistaken, Mr. Pryme, explain to me the meaning of +_that_," and the heavy forefinger was again levelled at the offending +objects before him. + +Not one single word could Herbert utter. In vain ingenious fabrications +concerning imaginary sisters, maiden aunts, or aged lady clients rushed +rapidly through his brain; the natural answer on Mr. Miller's part to all +such inventions would have been, "Then, where is she?" + +Mr. Miller must know as well as he did himself that the lady, whoever she +might be, must still be in his rooms, else why should her belongings be +left on his table; and if in the rooms, then, as there was no other +egress on the staircase than the one by which he had entered, clearly, +she must be secreted in his bedroom. Mr. Miller was not a young man, and +his perceptions in matters of intrigue and adventure might no longer be +very acute, but it was plain to Herbert that he probably knew quite as +well as he did himself that the owner of the gloves and sunshade was in +the adjoining room. + +"Have you any satisfactory explanation to give me?" asked Mr. Miller, +once more, after a solemn silence, during which he glared in a stern and +inquisitorial manner over his spectacles at the young man. + +"I have nothing to say," was the answer, given in a low and dejected +voice. + +Mr. Miller sprang to his feet and hurriedly gathered up his papers. + +"Then, sir," he said, furiously, "I shall wish you good afternoon; and +let me assure you, most emphatically, that you must relinquish all claim +to my daughter's hand. I will never consent to her union with a man whose +private life will not bear investigation; and should she disobey me in +this matter, she shall never have one single shilling of my money." + +There was a moment's silence. Mr. Miller was buttoning-up his coat with +the air of a man who buttons up his heart within it at the same time. He +regarded the young man fiercely, and yet there was a lingering +wistfulness, too, in his gaze. He would have given a good deal to hear, +from his lips, a satisfactory explanation of the circumstances which told +so suspiciously against him. He liked the young barrister personally, and +he was fond enough of his daughter to wish that she might be happy in her +own way. He spoke one word more to the young man. + +"Have you nothing to say; Mr. Pryme?" + +Herbert shook his head, with his eyes gloomily downcast. + +"I can only tell you, sir, that you are mistaken in what you imagine. If +you will not believe my word, I can say nothing more." + +"And what of _these_, Mr. Pryme--what of _these_?" pointing furiously +downwards to Beatrice's property. + +"I cannot explain it any further to you, Mr. Miller. I can only ask you +to believe me." + +"Then, I do not believe you, sir--I do not believe you. Would any man in +his senses believe that you haven't got a woman hidden in the next room? +Do you suppose I'm a fool? I have the honour of wishing you good day, +sir, and I am sorry I ever took the trouble of calling upon you. It is, +of course, unnecessary for you to trouble yourself concerning my case, in +these altered circumstances, Mr. Pryme; I beg to decline the benefit of +your legal assistance. Good afternoon." + +The door closed upon him, and the sound of his retreating footsteps +echoed noisily down the stairs. Herbert sank into a chair and covered his +face with his hands. So lately hope and fortune seemed to have smiled +upon him for one short, blissful moment, only to withdraw the sunshine +of their faces again from him more completely, and to leave him more +utterly in the dark than ever. Was ever man so unfortunate, and so +unlucky? + +But for the _contretemps_ concerning that wretched sunshade, he would now +have been a hopeful, and almost a triumphant, lover. Now life was all +altered for him! + +The door between the two rooms opened softly, and Beatrice, no longer +brave, and defiant, and laughing as she had been when she went in, but +white, and scared, and trembling, crept hesitatingly forth, and knelt +down by her lover's side. + +"Oh, Herbert! what has happened? It was papa--I heard his voice; but I +could not hear what you talked about, only I heard that he was angry at +the last, when he went away. Oh! tell me, dearest, what has happened?" + +Herbert pointed bitterly to her belongings on the table. + +"What fatality made me overlook those wretched things?" he cried, +miserably; "they have ruined us!" + +Beatrice uttered an exclamation of dismay. + +"Papa saw them--he recognized them!" + +"Not as _yours_, thank God!" + +"What then?" + +"He thinks me unworthy of you," answered the lover, in a low voice, and +Beatrice understood. "He has forbidden me ever to think of you now; and +he will leave you penniless if you disobey him; it is a terrible +misfortune, my darling; but still, thank God that your good name is +safe!" + +"Yes, at the expense of yours, Herbert!" cried the girl, frantically; "I +see it all now, and, if I dared, I would confess to papa the truth." + +"Do not think of it!" + +"I dare not; but, Herbert, don't despair; I see now how wicked and how +foolish I was to come here to-day, and what a terrible risk I have run, +for if papa knew that it was I who was in the next room, he would never +forgive me; we can do nothing now but wait until brighter and happier +days; believe me, Herbert, if you will be true to me, I will be true to +you, and I will wait for you till I am old and grey." + +He strained her passionately to his heart. + +"I will never forget what you have done for me to-day, never!" said the +girl, as she clung to his neck. + +And then she put on her gloves and veil, and took up the sunshade that +had been the cause of such a direful ending to her escapade, and went her +way. And after she was gone, Mr. Pryme, with his hands in his pockets, +began once more to whistle, as though the events of the afternoon had +never taken place. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +HER SON'S SECRET. + + But love is such a mystery, + I cannot find it out, + For when I think I'm best resolved, + I then am most in doubt." + + Sir J. Suckling. + + +Lady Kynaston sat alone in her little morning-room; as far as she knew, +she was alone in the house; Mrs. Romer had driven into London, on the +cares of her trousseau intent, and she believed that Maurice had gone +with her; at all events, she had heard him state his intention of going, +and the departing carriage had, some time since, driven away from the +door. + +The morning-room looked on to the garden side of the house, and the +windows were wide open; the east wind had departed, and summer had set in +at last. Real summer, coming in with a rush when it did come, with warm +whiffs of flower-scented wind, with flutterings of lime blossoms from the +trees along the high brick wall, with brown bees and saffron butterflies +hovering over the reviving flower-borders, and dragon-flies darting out +of the shadows into the hot blinding sunshine. Summer at last; and oh, +how welcome when it comes upon our rain-drenched and winter-pinched land. + +The gardener was bedding out the geraniums along the straight ribbon +border. Lady Kynaston went out once to superintend his operations, +holding up a newspaper in her hand to shield her head from the rays of +the sun. But it was hot, and old McCloud, the Scotch gardener, was +intelligent enough to be safely left to his own devices, so she did not +stop out long. + +She came in again, and sat down in a low basket-chair by the window, and +thought how wise she had been to settle herself down in the old house +with its velvet lawns and its wide shadowy trees, instead of in the heat +and turmoil of a London home. + +She looked a little anxious and worried to-day--she was not happy about +her eldest son--somebody had told her last night that he was talking +about going to Australia, and turning sheep farmer. Lady Kynaston was +annoyed at the report; it did not strike her as seemly or right that the +head of the Kynaston family should become a sheep farmer. Moreover, she +knew very well that he only wanted to get himself away out of the country +where no one would know of his story, or remind him of his trouble again. +The man's heart was broken. He did not want to farm sheep, or to take to +any other rational or healthful employment; he only wanted, like a sick +animal, to creep away and hide his hurt. Little as Lady Kynaston had in +common with her eldest son, she was sorry for him. She would have done +what she could to help him had she known how. She had written to him only +yesterday, begging him to come to her, but he had not replied to her +letter. + +The Cloverdales' ball had come and gone, and Lady Kynaston had taken +pains to ensure that an invitation might be sent to Mrs. Hazeldine and +Miss Nevill. She had also put herself to some inconvenience in order to +be present at it herself, but all to no purpose--Vera was not there. +Perhaps she had had another engagement that evening. + +The old lady's promise to her youngest son was still unfulfilled. She +half repented now that she had given him any such promise. What good was +she to do by interceding between her son and Miss Nevill? and why was she +to lay herself open to the chance of a rebuff from that young lady? It +had been a senseless and quixotic idea on Maurice's part altogether. +Young women do not take back a jilted lover because the man's mother +advises them to do so; nor is a broken-off marriage likely to get itself +re-settled in consequence of the interference of a third person. + +The old lady had taken out her fancy-work, a piece of crewel work such as +is the fashion of the day. But she was not fond of work; the leaves of +muddy-shaded greens grew but slowly under her fingers, and, truth to say, +the occupation bored her. It was artistic, certainly, and it was +fashionable; but Lady Kynaston would have been happier over a pair of +cross-stitch slippers for her son, or a knitted woollen petticoat for the +old woman at her lodge gate. All the same, she took out her crewels and +put in a few stitches; but the afternoon was warm, there was a humming of +insects in the summer air, a click-clicking from the gardener as he +dropped one empty red flower-pot into the other along the edge of the +ribbon border, a cawing of rooks from the elms over the wall, a very +harmony of soft soothing sounds, just enough to lull worry to rest, not +enough to scare drowsiness from one's brain. + +By degrees, it all became mixed up in a delicious confusion. The rooks, +and the bees, and the gardener made one continuous murmur to her, like +the swishing of summer waves upon a sandy shore, or the moaning of soft +winds in the tree tops. + +Then the crewel work slipped off her lap, and Lady Kynaston slept. + +How long she was asleep she could not rightly have said: it might have +been an hour, it might have been but twenty minutes; but suddenly she +awoke with a start. + +The rustle of a woman's dress was beside her, and somebody spoke her +name. + +"Lady Kynaston! Oh, I am so sorry I have disturbed you; I did not see you +were asleep." + +The old lady opened her eyes wide, and came back suddenly from dreamland. +Vera Nevill stood before her. + +"Vera, is it _you_? Good gracious! how did you get in? I never even heard +the door open." + +"I came in by the front-door quite correctly," said Vera, smiling and +reaching out her hand for a chair, "and was duly announced by the +footman; but I had no idea you were asleep." + +"Only dozing. Sit down, my dear, sit down; I am glad to see you." And, +somehow, all the awkwardness of the meeting between the two vanished. It +was as though they had parted only yesterday on the most friendly terms. +In Vera's absence, Lady Kynaston had thought hard things of her, and had +spoken condemning words concerning her; but in her presence all this +seemed to be altered. + +There was something so unspeakably refreshing and soothing about Vera; +there was a certain quiet dignity in her movements, a calm serenity in +her manner, which made it difficult to associate blame and displeasure +with her. Faults she might have, but they could never be mean or ignoble +ones; there was nothing base or contemptible about her. The pure, proud +profile, the broad grave brow, the eyes that, if a trifle cold, were as +true withal as the soul that looked out, sometimes earnestly, sometimes +wistfully, from their shadowy depths; everything about her bade one judge +her, not so much by her actions, which were sometimes incomprehensible, +but by a certain standard that she herself created in the minds of +all who knew her. + +Lady Kynaston had called her a jilt and a heartless coquette; she had +made no secret of saying, right and left, how badly she had behaved: what +shameful and discreditable deductions might be drawn from her conduct +towards Sir John. Yet, the very instant she set eyes upon her, she felt +sorry for the hard things she had said of her, and ashamed of herself +that she should have spoken them. + +Vera drew forward a chair, and sat down near her. The dress she wore was +white, of some clear and delicate material, softened with creamy lace; it +had been one of kind-hearted Cissy Hazeldine's many presents to her. +Looking at her, Lady Kynaston thought what a lovely vision of youth and +beauty she made in the sombre quiet of the little room. + +"They tell me half the men in London have gone mad over you," were her +first words following the train of her own thoughts, and she liked her +visitor none the less, that world-loving little old woman, because she +could not but acknowledge the reasonableness of the madness of which +she accused her of being the object. + +"I care very little for the men in London, Lady Kynaston," answered Vera, +quietly. + +"My dear, what _do_ you care for?" asked her ladyship, with earnestness, +and Vera understood that she was expected to state her business. + +"Lady Kynaston, I have come to ask you about your son," she answered, +simply. + +"About John?" + +"Of course, it is Sir John I mean," she said, quickly, a hot flush +rising for one instant to her face, and dying away rapidly again, to +leave her a trifle paler than before. "I know," she continued, with a +little hesitation--"I know that I have no right to inquire--but I cannot +forget all that is past--all his goodness and generosity to me. I shall +never forget it; and oh, I hear such dreadful things of him, that he is +ill--that he is talking of going to Australia. Oh, Lady Kynaston, is it +all true?" + +She had clasped her hands together, and bent a little forward towards +the old lady in her earnestness; she looked at her piteously, almost +entreatingly. + +"Does she love him after all?" thought Lady Kynaston, as she watched her; +and the meaning of the whole story of her son's love seemed more +unfathomable than ever. + +"John is neither well nor happy," she said, aloud. "I think, Vera, you +must know the reason of it better than any of us." + +"It is my fault--my doing," cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret in +her voice. "Yes," she added, looking away sadly out of the open window; +"that is why I have come. Do you know that I saw him once? I don't think +he saw me--it was in the Park one morning. He looked so aged, so +saddened, I realized then what I had done--his face haunts me." + +"Vera, you could alter all that if you chose," said the old lady, +earnestly. + +A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled. + +"You don't suppose I came here to say _that_, Lady +Kynaston?" + +"No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you. Vera, I entreat you to +tell me the truth. What is it that stands between you and John?" + +She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over the +other upon her knee. + +"I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston," she answered, at length, in a low +voice. + +Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed. + +"And you cannot, marry him?" + +Vera shook her head. + +"No, it would not be right." + +The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor's arm. + +"Forgive me for asking you. Do you love some one else? is it that?" + +She bent her head silently. + +"Have you any hopes of marrying the man you love?" + +"Oh no, none--not the slightest," she said, hurriedly; "I shall never +marry." + +"Then, Vera, will you listen to an old woman's advice?" + +"Yes, dear Lady Kynaston." + +"My dear, if you cannot marry the man you love, put him out of your +mind." + +"I must do that in any case," she said, wearily. + +"Listen to me, my dear. Don't sacrifice your own life and the life of a +man who is good and loves you dearly to a caprice of your heart. Hush! +don't interrupt me; I dare say you don't think it a caprice; you think it +is to last for ever. But there is no 'for ever' in these matters; the +thing comes to us like an ordinary disease; some of us take it strongly, +and it half kills us; some of us are only a very little ill; but we all +get over it. There is a pain that goes right through one's heart: it is +worse to bear than any physical suffering: but, thank God, that pain +always wears itself out. My dear, I, who speak to you, have felt it, and +I tell you that no man is worth it. You can cure yourself of it if you +will; and the remedy is work and change of the conditions of your life. +You don't think I look very much like a blighted being, do you? and yet I +did not marry the man I loved. I could not; he was poor, and my parents +would not allow it. I thought I should die, but you see I did not. I took +up my life bravely, and I married a most estimable man; I lived an active +and healthy life, so that by degrees it became a happy one. Now, Vera, +why should you not do the same? Your people have a right to expect that +you should marry; they cannot afford to support you for always. Because +you are disappointed in one thing, why are you not to make the best you +can of your life?" + +"I do mean to marry--in time," said Vera, brokenly, with tears in her +eyes. + +"Then why not marry John?" + +There was a minute's silence. Was it possible that Lady Kynaston did not +know? Vera asked herself. Was it possible that she could, in cold blood, +advise her to marry one son whilst the other one loved her! That was what +was so terrible to her mind. To marry was simple enough, but to marry Sir +John Kynaston! She thought of what such an action might bring upon them +all. The daily meetings, the struggles with temptation, the awful +tampering with deadly sin. Could any one so constituted as she was walk +deliberately and with open eyes into such a situation? + +She shuddered. + +"I cannot do it," she said, wringing her hands together; "don't ask me; +I cannot do it!" + +Lady Kynaston got up, and went and stood by her chair. + +"Vera, I entreat you not to let any false pride stand in the way of +this. Do not imagine that I ask you to do anything that would wound your +vanity, or humble you in your own eyes. It would be so easy for me to +arrange a meeting between you and John; it shall all come about simply +and naturally. As soon as he sees you again, he will speak to you." + +"It is not that, it is not that!" she murmured, distractedly; but Lady +Kynaston went on as if she had not heard her. + +"You must know that I should not plead like this with you if I were not +deeply concerned. For myself, I had sooner that John remained unmarried. +I had sooner that Maurice's children came into Kynaston. It is wrong, I +know, but it is the case, because Maurice is my favourite. But when we +hear of John shutting himself up, of his refusing to see any of his +friends, and of his talking of going to Australia, why, then we all feel +that it is you only who can help us; that is why I have promised Maurice +to plead with you." + +She looked up quickly. + +"You promised Maurice! It is _Maurice_ who wants me to marry his +brother." She turned very pale. + +"Certainly he does. You don't suppose Maurice likes to see his brother so +unhappy." + +The darkened room, the spindle-legged furniture, Lady Kynaston's little +figure, in her black dress and soft white tulle cap, the bright garden +outside, the belt of trees beyond the lawn, all swam together before her +eyes. + +She drew a long breath; then she rose slowly from her place, a little +unsteadily, perhaps, and walked across the Persian rug to the empty +fireplace. She stood there half a minute leaning with both hands upon the +mantelshelf, her head bent forwards. + +_Maurice wished it!_ To him, then, there were no fears, and no dangers. +He could look forward calmly to meeting her constantly as his brother's +wife; it would be nothing to him, that temptation that she dreaded so +much; nothing that an abyss which death itself could never bridge over +would be between them to all eternity! + +And then the woman's pride, without which, God help us, so many of us +would break our hearts and die, came to her aid. + +Very well, then, if he was strong, she would learn to be strong too; +if the danger to him was so slight that he could contemplate it with +calmness and with indifference, then she, too, would show him that it was +nothing to her. Only, then, what a poor thing was this love of his! And +surely the man she had loved so fatally was not Maurice Kynaston at all, +but only some creature of her own imagination, whom she had invested with +things that the man himself had not lost because he had never possessed +them. + +If this was so, then why, indeed, listen to the voice of her heart when +everything urged her to stifle it? Why not make Sir John Kynaston happy +and herself prosperous and rich, as everybody round her seemed to +consider it her duty to do? + +It passed rapidly through her mind what a fine place Kynaston was; how +dear everything that wealth can bring had always been to her, what a wise +and prudent match it was in every way for her, and what a good indulgent +husband Sir John would be. + +Who in the wide world would blame her for going back to him? Would not +everybody, on the contrary, praise her for reconsidering her folly, and +for becoming Lady Kynaston, of Kynaston? The errors of the successful +in this world's race are leniently treated; it is only when we are +unfortunate and our lives become failures that our friends turn their +backs upon our misdeeds in righteous condemnation. + +"So long as thou doest well unto thyself men will speak good of thee." + +Surely, surely, it was the best and the wisest thing she could do. And +yet even at that moment Eustace Daintree's pale, earnest face came for +one instant before her. What side in all this would he take--he of the +pure heart, of the stainless life? If he knew all, what would he say? + +Pooh! he was a dreamer--an idealist, a man of impossible aims; his +theories, indeed, were beautiful, but impracticable. Vera knew that he +expected better things of her; but she had striven to be what he would +have desired, and if she had failed, was it her fault? was it not rather +the fault of the world and the generation in which her life had been +cast? + +She had struggled, and she had failed; henceforth let her life be as fate +should ordain for her. + +"What is it you wish me to say, Lady Kynaston?" she asked, turning +suddenly towards Maurice's mother. + +"My dear child, I only want you to say that if John asks you again to be +his wife, you will consent, or say only, if you like it better, that you +will agree to meet him here. There shall be nothing unpleasant for you; I +will write to him and settle everything." + +"If you write to him, I will come," she said, briefly, and then Lady +Kynaston came up to her and kissed her, taking her hands within her own, +and drawing her to her with motherly tenderness. "My dear, everybody will +think well of you for this." + +And the words ran so nearly in the current of her own bitter thoughts +that Vera laughed, shortly and disdainfully, a low laugh of scorn at the +world, whose mandates she was prepared to obey, even though she despised +herself for doing so. + +"You will be glad by-and-by that you were so sensible and so reasonable," +said Lady Kynaston. + +"Yes--I dare say I shall be glad by-and-by; and now I am going, dear Lady +Kynaston; I have a hansom waiting all this time, and Mrs. Hazeldine will +be wondering what has become of me." + +At this moment they both heard the sound of a carriage driving up to the +door. + +"It must be some visitors," said Lady Kynaston; "wait a minute, or you +will meet them in the hall. Oh, stay, go through this door into the +dining-room, and you can get through the dining-room window by the garden +round to the front of the house; I dare say you would rather not meet +anybody--you might know them." + +"Thank you--yes, I should much prefer to get away quickly and quietly--I +will go through the dining-room; do not come with me, I can easily find +my way." + +She gathered up her gloves and her veil and opened the door which +communicated between the morning-room and the dining-room. She heard the +chatter of women's voices and the fluttering of women's garments in the +hall; it seemed as though they were about to be ushered into the room she +was leaving. + +She did not want to be seen; besides, she wanted to get away quickly and +return to London. She closed the morning-room door behind her, and took a +couple of steps across the dining-room towards the windows. + +Then she stopped suddenly short; Maurice sat before her at the table. He +lifted his eyes and looked at her; he did not seem surprised to see her, +but there was a whole world of grief and despair in his face. It was as +though he had lived through half a lifetime since she had last seen him. + +Pride, anger, wounded affection, all died away within her--only the woman +was left, the woman who loved him. Little by little she saw him only +through the blinding mist of her own tears. + +Not one single word was spoken between them. What was there that they +could say to each other? Then suddenly she turned away, and went swiftly +back into the room she had just left, closing the door behind her. + +It was empty. Lady Kynaston was gone. Vera stooped over the +writing-table, and, taking up a sheet of paper, she wrote in pencil:-- + +"Do not write to Sir John--it is beyond my strength--forgive me and +forget me. Vera." And then she went out through the other door, +and got herself away from the place in her hansom. + +Twenty minutes later, when her bevy of chattering visitors had left her, +Lady Kynaston came back into her morning-room and found the little pencil +note left upon her writing-table. Wondering, perplexed and puzzled beyond +measure, she turned it over and over in her fingers. + +What had happened? Why had Vera so suddenly altered her mind again? What +had influenced her? Half by accident, half, perhaps, with an instinct of +what was the truth, she softly opened the door of communication between +the morning-room and the dining-room, opened it for one instant, and then +drew back again, scared and shocked, closing it quickly and noiselessly. +What she had seen in the room was this-- + +Maurice, half stretched across the table, his face downwards upon his +arm, whilst those tearless, voiceless sobs, which are so terrible to +witness in a man, sobs which are the gasps of a despairing heart, shook +the strong broad shoulders and the down-bent head that was hidden from +her sight. + +And then the mother knew at last the secret of her son's heart. It was +Vera whom Maurice loved. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE. + + Hide in thy bosom, poor unfortunate, + That love which is thy torture and thy crime, + Or cry aloud to those departed hosts + Of ghostly lovers! can they be more deaf + To thy disaster than the living world? + Who, with a careless smile, will note the pain + Caused by thy foolish, self-inflicted wound. + + Violet Fane, "Denzil Place." + + +Upon the steps of the Charing Cross Hotel stood, one morning in June, a +little French gentleman buttoning his lavender gloves. He wore a glossy +new hat, a frock-coat, and a flower in his button-hole; he had altogether +a smart and jaunty appearance. + +He hailed a passing hansom and jumped into it, taking care as he did so +to avoid brushing against the muddy wheel, lest he should tarnish the +glories of his light-coloured trousers. Monsieur D'Arblet was more than +usually particular about his appearance this morning. He said to himself, +with a chuckle, as he was driven west-ward, that he was on his way to win +a bride, and a rich bride, too. It behoved him to be careful of his outer +man on such an occasion. + +He had heard of Mr. Harlowe's death and of his grand-daughter's good +fortune when he was at Constantinople, for he had friends in London who +kept him _au courant_ with the gossip of society, and he had straightway +made his preparations to return to England. He had not hurried himself, +however, for what he had not heard of was that clause in the old man's +will which made his grand-daughter's marriage within two months the _sine +qua non_ of her inheriting his fortune. Such an idea as that had never +come into Monsieur D'Arblet's head; he had no conception but that he +should be in plenty of time. + +When he got to the house in Princes Gate he found it shut up. This, +however, did not disconcert him, it was no more than he expected. After +a considerable amount of ringing at both bells, there was a grating sound +within as of the unfastening of bolts and chains, and an elderly woman, +evidently fresh from her labours over the scouring of the kitchen grate, +appeared at the door, opening it just a couple of inches, as though she +dreaded the invasion of a gang of housebreakers. + +"Will you please tell me where Mrs. Romer is now living?" + +The woman grinned. "She has been living at Walpole Lodge, at Kew--Lady +Kynaston's, sir." + +"Oh, thank you;" and he was preparing to re-enter his hansom. + +"But I don't think you will see her to-day, sir." + +"Why not?" turning half-round again. + +"It is Mrs. Romer's wedding-day." + +"_What?_" + +That elderly female, who had been at one time a housemaid in Mr. +Harlowe's household, confided afterwards to her intimate friend, the +kitchenmaid next door, that she was so frightened at the way that +foreign-looking gentleman shouted at her, that she felt as if she should +have dropped. "Indeed, my dear, I was forced to go down and get a drop of +whisky the very instant he was gone, I felt so fluttered, like." + +Monsieur Le Vicomte turned round to her, with his foot midway between the +pavement and the step of the hansom, and shouted at her again. + +"_What_ did you say it was, woman?" + +"Why, Mrs. Romer's wedding-day, to be sure, sir; and no such wonder after +all, I should say; and a lovely morning for the wedding it be, too." + +Lucien D'Arblet put his hand vaguely up to his head, as though he had +received a blow; she had escaped him, then, after all. + +"So soon after the old man's death," he murmured, half aloud; "who could +have expected it?" + +"Well, sir, and soon it is, as you say," replied the ancient +ex-housemaid, who had caught the remark; "but people do say as how Mr. +Harlowe, my late master, wished it so, and of course Mrs. Romer, she were +quite ready, so to speak, for the Captain had been a-courting her for +ever so long, as we who lived in the house could have told." + +The vicomte was fumbling at his breast-coat pocket, his face was as +yellow as the rose in his button-hole. + +"Where was the wedding to be? At Kew?" + +"No, sir; at Saint Paul's church, in Wilton Crescent. Mrs. Romer would +have it so, because that's the place of worship she used to go to when +she lived here. You'd be in time to see them married now, sir, if you was +to look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it's not that yet; +my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there. I let +her go, because she'd never seen a grand wedding. I'd like to have gone +myself, but, in course, we couldn't both be out of the house----" + +The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom. + +"Drive to Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go," he +called out to the cabman. "I might even now be in time; it would be a +_coup d'etat_," he muttered. + +Round the door of Saint Paul's church a crowd had gathered, waiting to +see the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across the +pavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; big +footmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot of +decently-dressed women were pressing up as close to the porch as the +official personage, with a red collar on his coat and gold lace on his +hat, would allow them to go; and an indiscriminate collection of those +chance passers-by who never seem to be in any hurry, or to have anything +better to do than to stand and stare at any excitement, great or small, +that they may meet on their road, were blocking up the pavement on either +side of the red cloth carpeting. + +Two ladies came walking along from the direction of the Park. + +"There's a wedding going on; do let us go in and see it, Vera." + +"My dear Cissy, I detest looking at people being married; it always makes +me low-spirited." + +"And I love it. I always get such hints for dresses from a wedding. I'd +go anywhere to see anybody married. I've been to the Jewish synagogue, to +Spurgeon's tabernacle, and to the pro-cathedral, all in one week, before +now just to see weddings." + +"There must be a sameness about the performances. Don't you get sick of +them?" + +"Never. I wonder whose wedding it is; there must be thirty carriages +waiting. I'll ask one of these big footmen. Whose wedding is it?" + +"Captain Kynaston's, ma'am." + +"Oh, I used to know him once; he is such a handsome fellow. Come along, +Vera." + +"Cissy, I _cannot_ come." + +"Nonsense, Vera; don't be so foolish; make haste, or we shan't get in." + +Somebody just then dashed up in a hansom, and came hurrying up behind +them. Somehow or other, what with Mrs. Hazeldine dragging her by the arm, +and an excited-looking gentleman pushing his way through the crowd behind +her, Vera got swept on into the church. + +"You are very late, ladies," whispered the pew-opener, who supposed them +to belong to the wedding guests; "it is nearly over. You had better take +these seats in this pew; you will see them come out well from here." And +she evidently considered them to be all one party, for she ushered them +all three into a pew; first, Mrs. Hazeldine, then Vera, and next to her +the little foreign-looking gentleman who had bustled up so hurriedly. + +It was an awful thing to have happened to Vera that she should have been +thus entrapped by a mere accident into being present at Maurice's +wedding; and yet, when she was once inside the church, she felt not +altogether sorry for it. + +"I can at least see the last of him, and pray that he may be happy," she +said to herself, as she sank on her knees in the shelter of the pew, and +buried her face in her hands. + +The church was crowded, and yet the wedding itself was not a particularly +attractive one, for, owing to the fact that the bride was a widow, there +was, of course, no bevy of bridesmaids in attendance in diaphanous +raiment. Instead of these, however, there was a great concourse of the +best-dressed women in London, all standing in rows round the upper end of +the nave; and there was a little old lady, in brown satin and point lace, +who stood out conspicuously detached from the other groups, who bent her +head solemnly over the great bouquet of exotics in her hands, and prayed +within herself, with a passionate fervour such as no other soul present +could pray, save only the pale, beautiful girl on her knees, far away +down at the further end of the church. Surely, if God ever gave happiness +to one of his creatures because another prayed for it, Maurice Kynaston, +with the prayers of those two women being offered up for him, would have +been a happy man. + +And the mother, by this time, knew that it was all a mistake--a mistake, +alas, which she, in her blindness, had fostered. + +No wonder that she trembled as she prayed. + +The service, that portion of it which makes two people man and wife, +was over; the clergyman was reading the final exhortation to the +newly-married pair. + +They stood together close to the altar rails. The bride was in a pale +lavender satin, covered with lace, which spread far away behind her +across the tesselated pavement. The bridegroom stood by her side, erect +and handsome, but pale and stern, and with a far-away look in his eyes +that would have made any one fancy, had any one been near enough or +attentive enough to remark it, that he was only an indifferent spectator +of the scene, in no way interested in what was going on. He looked as if +he were thinking of something else. + +He was thinking of something else. He was thinking of a railway carriage, +of a train rushing onwards through a fog-blotted landscape, and of two +arms, warm and soft, cast up round his neck, and a trembling, passionate +voice, ever crying in his ears-- + +"While you live I will never marry another man." + +That was what the bridegroom was thinking about. + +As to the bride, she was debating to herself whether she should have the +body of her wedding-dress cut V or square when she left it with her +dressmaker to be altered into a dinner-dress. + +Meanwhile the clergyman, who mumbled his words slightly, and whose +glasses kept on tumbling off his nose, waded through the several duties +of husbands towards their wives, and of wives towards their husbands, as +expounded by Scripture, in a monotonous undertone, until, to the great +relief of the weary guests, the ceremony at last came to an end. + +Then the best man, Sir John, who stood behind his brother, looking, if +possible, more like a mute at a funeral even than the bridegroom himself, +stepped forward out of the shadow. The new-married couple went into the +vestry, followed by Sir John, his mother, and a select few, upon which +the door was closed. All the rest of the company then began to chatter +in audible whispers together; they fidgeted backwards and forwards, +from one pew to the other. There were jokes, and smiles, and nods, and +hand-shakings between the different members of the wedding party. All in +a low and decorous undertone, of course, but still there was a distinct +impression upon every one that all the religious part of the business +being well got over, they were free to be jolly about it now, and to +enjoy themselves as much as circumstances would admit of. + +All at once there was a sudden hush, everybody scuffled back into their +places. The best man put his nose out of the vestry door, and the +"Wedding March" struck up. Then came a procession of chorister boys down +the church, each bearing a small bouquet of fern and white flowers. They +ranged themselves on either side of the porch, and the bride and +bridegroom came down the aisle alone. + +Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to see +them pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side. + +She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in her +eyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who has +to impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself. Nobody in all that +gaily-dressed chattering crowd noticed her, for were not all eyes fixed +upon the bride, the queen of the day? Nobody save the man who stood by +her side. Only he saw that fixed white look of despair, only he heard the +long shuddering sigh that burst from her pale lips as the bridegroom +went by. Monsieur D'Arblet said, to himself: + +"This woman loves Monsieur le Capitaine! _Bon!_ Two are better than one; +we will avenge ourselves together, my beautiful incognita." + +And then he looked sharply at her companion, and found that her face was +familiar to him. Surely he had dined at that woman's house once. Oh, yes! +to be sure, it was that insufferable little chatterbox, Mrs. Hazeldine. +He remembered all about her now. + +There was a good deal of pushing and cramming at the doorway. By the time +Vera could get out of the stifling heat of the crowded church most of the +wedding party had driven off, and the rest were clamouring wildly for +their carriages; she herself had got separated from her companion, and +when she could rejoin her in the little gravelled yard outside, she found +her shaking hands with effusion with the foreign-looking gentleman who +had sat next her in the church, but whom, truth to say, she had hardly +noticed. + +"Let me present to you my friend," said Cissy. "Miss Nevill, Monsieur +D'Arblet--you will walk with us as far as the park, won't you?" + +"I shall be enchanted, Mrs. Hazeldine." + +"And wasn't it a pretty wedding," continued Mrs. Hazeldine, rapturously, +as they all three walked away together down the shady side of the street; +"so remarkably pretty considering that there were no bridesmaids; but +Mrs. Romer is so graceful, and dresses so well. I don't visit her myself, +you know; but of course I know her by sight. One knows everybody by sight +in London; it's rather embarrassing sometimes, because one is tempted to +bow to people one doesn't visit, or else one fancies one ought not to bow +to somebody one does. I've made some dreadfully stupid mistakes myself +sometimes. Did you notice the rose point on that old lady's brown satin, +Vera?" + +"That was Lady Kynaston." + +"Oh, was it? By the way, of course, you must know some of the Kynastons, +as they come from your part of the world. I wonder they didn't ask you to +the wedding." + +Vera murmured something unintelligible. Monsieur D'Arblet looked at her +sharply. He saw that she had in no way recovered her agitation yet, and +that she could hardly bear her companion's brainless chatter over this +wedding. + +"That has been no ordinary love affair," said this astute Frenchman to +himself. "I must decidedly cultivate this young lady's acquaintance, for +I mean to pay you out well yet, ma belle Helene." + +"How fortunate it was we happened to be passing just as it was going on. +I wouldn't have missed seeing that lovely lavender satin the bride wore +for worlds; did you notice the cut of the jacket front, Vera; it was +something new; she looked as happy as possible too. I daresay her first +marriage was a _coup manque_; they generally are when women marry again." + +"Suppose we take these three chairs in the shade," suggested Monsieur +D'Arblet, cutting short, unceremoniously the string of her remarks, which +apparently were no more soothing to himself than to Miss Nevill. + +They sat down, and for the space of half an hour Monsieur D'Arblet +proceeded to make himself politely agreeable to Miss Nevill, and he +succeeded so well in amusing her by his conversation, that by the time +they all got up to go the natural bloom had returned to her cheeks, and +she was talking to him quite easily and pleasantly, as though no +catastrophe in her life had happened but an hour ago. + +"You will come back with us to lunch, Monsieur D'Arblet?" + +"I shall be delighted, madame." + +"If you will excuse me, Cissy, I am not going to lunch with you to-day," +said Vera. + +"My dear! where are you going, then?" + +"I have a visit to pay--an engagement, I mean--in--in Cadogan Place. I +will be home very soon, in time for your drive, if you don't mind my +leaving you." + +"Oh, of course, do as you like, dear." + +Lucien D'Arblet was annoyed at her defection, but, of course, having +accepted Mrs. Hazeldine's invitation, there was nothing for it but to go +on with her; so he swallowed his discomfiture as best he could, and +proceeded to make himself agreeable to his hostess. + +As to Vera, she turned away and retraced her steps slowly towards St. +Paul's Church. It was a foolish romantic fancy, she could not tell what +impelled her to it, but she felt as though she must go back there once +more. + +The church was not closed. She pushed open the swing-door and went in. It +was all hushed and silent and empty. Where so lately the gay throng of +well-dressed men and women had passed in and out, chattering, smiling, +nodding--displaying their radiant toilettes one against the other, there +were only now the dark, empty rows of pews, and the bent figure of one +shabbily-dressed old woman gathering together the prayer-books and +hymn-books that had been tumbled out of their places in the scuffle, and +picking up morsels of torn finery that had dropped about along the nave. + +Vera passed by her and went up into the chancel. She stood where Maurice +had stood by the altar rails. A soft, subdued light came streaming in +through the coloured glass window; a bird was chirping high up somewhere +among the oak rafters of the roof, the roar of the street without was +muffled and deadened; the old woman slammed-to the door of a pew, the +echo rang with a hollow sound through the empty building, and her +departing footsteps shuffled away down the aisle into silence. + +Vera lifted her eyes; great tears welled down slowly, one by one, over +her cheeks--burning, blistering tears, such as, thank God, one sheds but +once or twice in a lifetime--that seem to rend our very hearts as they +rise. + +Presently she sank down upon her knees and prayed--prayed for him, that +he might be happy and forget her, but most of all for herself, that she +might school her rebellious heart to patience, and her wild passion of +misery into peace and submission. + +And by degrees the tempest within her was hushed. Then, ere she rose from +her knees, something lying on the ground, within a yard of where she +knelt, caught her eye. It was a little Russia-leather letter-case. She +recognized it instantly; she had often seen Maurice take it out of his +pocket. + +She caught at it hungrily and eagerly, as a miser clutches a +treasure-trove, pressing it wildly to her bosom, and covering it with +passionate kisses. Dear little shabby case, that had been so near his +heart; that his hand, perchance, only on hour ago had touched. Could +anything on earth be more priceless to her than this worn and faded +object! + +It seemed to be quite empty. It had fallen evidently from his pocket +during the service. If he ever missed it, there was nothing in it to +lose; and now it was hers, hers by every right; she would never part with +it, never. It was all she had of him; the one single thing he had touched +which she possessed. + +She rose hurriedly. She was in haste now to be gone with her treasure, +lest any one should wrest it from her. She carried it down the church +with a guilty delight, kissing it more than once as she went. And then, +as she opened the church door, some one ran up the steps outside, and she +stood face to face with Sir John Kynaston. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE. + + "Never again," so speaketh one forsaken, + In the blank desolate passion of despair: + Never again shall the bright dream I cherished + Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there: + The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain; + Never again, my heart--never again! + + A. Procter. + + +"Vera!" + +Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white. + +"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand. + +They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idle +cabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gaping +nursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel on +suddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or a +heart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings and +misunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed. +It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; it +is safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?" + +That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir John +took her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. By +the time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind. + +"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said, +rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this +morning?" + +"Yes; I was in the church." + +"Were you? How glad I am I did not know it," almost involuntarily. + +There was a little pause; then Vera asked him if he was going to Walpole +Lodge. + +"Eventually; but I have come back here to look for something. My brother +has lost a little Russia-leather case; he thinks he may have dropped it +in the church; there were two ten-pound notes in it. I am going in to +look for it. Why, what is that in your hand? I believe that is the very +thing." + +"I--I--just picked it up," stammered Vera. She began searching in the +pockets of the case. "I did not think there was anything in it. Yes, here +are the notes, quite safe." + +She took them out and gave them to him. He held out his hand mechanically +for the case also. + +"Thank you; you have saved me the trouble of looking for it. I will take +it back to him at once." + +But she could not part with her treasure; it was all she had got of him. + +"The letter-case is very shabby," she said, crimsoning with a painful +confusion. "I do not think he can want it at all; it is quite worn out." + +Sir John looked at her with a slight surprise. + +"It can be very little use to him. One likes sometimes to have a little +remembrance of those--of people--one has known; he would not mind my +keeping it, I think. Tell him--tell him I asked for it." The tears were +very near her voice; she could scarcely keep them back out of her eyes. + +John Kynaston dropped his hand, and Vera slipped the little case quickly +into her pocket. + +"Would you mind walking a little way with me, Vera?" he said, gently and +very gravely. + +She drew down her veil, and went with him in silence. They had walked +half-way down Wilton Crescent before he spoke to her again; then he +turned towards her, and looked at her earnestly and sadly. + +"Why did you go back again into the church, Vera?" + +"I wanted to think quietly a little," she murmured. There was another +pause. + +"So _that_ is what parted us!" he exclaimed, with a sudden bitterness, at +length. + +She looked up, startled and pale. + +"What do you mean?" she stammered. + +"Oh, child! I see it all now. How blind I have been. Ah, why did you not +trust me, love? Why did you fear to tell me your secret? Do you not think +that I, who would have laid down my life for you to make you happy, do +you not suppose I would have striven to make your path smooth for you?" + +She could not answer him; the kind words, the tender voice, were too much +for her. Her tears fell fast and silently. + +"Tell me," he said, turning to her almost roughly, "tell me the truth. +Has he ill-treated you, this brother of mine, who stole you from me, and +then has left you desolate?" + +"No, no; do not say that; it was never his fault at all, only mine; and +he was always bound to her. He has been everything that is good and loyal +and true to you and to her; it has been only a miserable mistake, and now +it is over. Yes, thank God, it is over; never speak of it again. He was +never false to you; only I was false. But it is ended." + +They were walking round Belgrave Square by this time, not near the +houses, but round the square garden in the middle. All recollection of +his brother's marriage, of the wedding breakfast at Walpole Lodge, of the +speech the best man would be expected to make, had gone clean out of his +head; he thought of nothing but Vera and of the revelation concerning her +that had just come to him. It was the quiet hour of the day; there were +very few people about; everybody was indoors eating heavy luncheons, +with sunblinds drawn down to keep out the heat. They were almost as much +alone as in a country lane in Meadowshire. + +"What are you going to do with yourself?" he said to her, presently. +"What use are you going to make of your life?" + +"I don't know," she answered, drearily; "I suppose I shall go back to +Sutton. Perhaps I shall marry." + +"But not me?" + +She looked up at him piteously. + +"Listen, child," he said, eagerly. "If I were to go away for a year, and +then come back to you, how would it be? Oh, my darling! I love you so +deeply that I could even be content to do with but half your heart, so +that I could win your sweet self. I would exact nothing from you, love, +no more than what you could give me freely. But I would love you so well, +and make your life so sweet and pleasant to you, that in time, perhaps, +you would forget the old sorrow, and learn to be happy, with a quiet kind +of happiness, with me; I would ask for no more. Look, child, I have +grieved sorely for you; I have sat down and wept, and mourned for you as +though I had no strength or life left in me. But now I am ashamed of my +weakness, for it is unworthy of _you_. I am going away abroad, across the +world, I care not where, so long as I can be up and doing, and forget the +pain at my heart. Vera, tell me that I may come back to you in a year. +Think with what fresh life and courage I should go if I had but that hope +before my eyes. In a year's time your pain will be less; you will have +forgotten many things; you will be content, perhaps, to come to me, +knowing that I will never reproach you with the past, nor expect more +than you can give me in the future. Vera, let me come back and claim you +in a year!" + +How strange it was that the chance of marrying this man was perpetually +being presented to her. Never, perhaps, had the temptation been stronger +to her than it was now. He had divined her secret; there would be no +concealment between them; he would ask her for no love it was not in her +power to give; he would be content with her as she was, and he would love +her, and worship her, and surround her with everything that could make +her life pleasant and easy for her. Could a man offer more? Oh! why could +she not take him at his word, and give him the hope he craved for? + +Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good and +evil--that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life's +race, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself so +strong--so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and wound +weaker woman--this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature, +wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer; +her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strong +character, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness. + +To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all the +good things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love his +brother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill. + +"I cannot do it; do not ask me," she said, distractedly. "Your goodness +to me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be." + +"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered." + +"I shall not alter." + +"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me." + +"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happy +enough; that is not why I cannot marry you." + +"Why not, then?" + +"_I dare not_," she said, in a low voice. + +He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so bad +with you as that?" + +She bent her head in silent assent. + +"That is hard," he said, almost to himself, looking gloomily before him. +Presently he spoke again. "Thank you, Vera," he said, rather brokenly. +"You are a brave woman and a true one. Many would have taken my all, +and given me back only deception and falseness. But you are incapable of +that, and--and you fear your own strength; is that it?" + +"Whilst he lives," she said, with a sudden burst of passion, "I can know +no safety. Never to see his face again can be my only safeguard, and with +you I could never be safe. Why, even to bear your name would be to scorch +my heart every time I was addressed by it. Forgive me, John," turning to +him with a sudden penitence, "I should not have pained you by saying +these things; you who have been so infinitely good to me. Go your way +across the world, and forget me. Ah! have I not been a curse to every one +who bears the name of Kynaston?" + +He was silent from very pity. Vera was no longer to him the goddess of +his imagination; the one pure and peerless woman, above all other women, +such as he had once fancied her to be. But surely she was dearer to him +now, in all her weakness and her suffering, than she had ever been on +that lofty pedestal of perfection upon which he had once lifted her. + +He pitied her so much, and yet he could not help her; her malady was past +remedy. And, as she had told him, it was no one's fault--it was only a +miserable mistake. He had never had her heart--he saw it plainly now. +Many little things in the past, which he had scarcely remembered at the +time, came back to his memory--little details of that week at Shadonake, +when Maurice had lived in the same house with her, whilst he had only +gone over daily to see her. Always, in those days, Maurice had been by +her side, and Vera had been dreamily happy, with that fixed look of +content with which the presence of the man she loves best beautifies and +poetises a woman's face. Sir John was not a very observant man; but now, +after it was all over, these things came back to him. The night of the +ball, Mrs. Romer's mysterious hints, and his own vague disquietude at her +words; later on Maurice's reasonless refusal to be present at his +wedding, and Vera's startled face of dismay when he had asked her to go +and plead with him to stay for it. + +They had struggled against their hearts, it was clear, these poor lovers, +whose lives were both tied up and bound before ever they had met each +other. But nature had been too strong for them; and the woman, at least, +had torn herself free from the chains that had become insupportable to +her. + +They walked on silently, side by side, round the square. Some girls were +playing at lawn-tennis within the garden. There was an occasional shout +or a ringing laugh from their fresh young voices. A footman was walking +along the pavement opposite, with two fat pugs and a white Spitz in the +last stage of obesity in tow, which it was his melancholy duty to parade +daily up and down for their mid-day airing. An occasional hansom dashing +quickly by broke the stillness of the "empty" hour. Years and years +afterwards every detail of the scene came back to his memory with the +distinctness of a photograph when he passed once more through the square. + +"You have been no curse to me, Vera," he said, presently, breaking the +silence. "Do not reproach yourself; it is I who was a madman to deem that +I could win your love. Child, we are both sufferers; but time heals most +things, and we must learn to wait and be patient. Will you ever marry, +Vera?" + +"I don't know. Perhaps I may be obliged to. It might be better for me. I +cannot say. Don't speak of it. Why, is there nothing else for a woman to +do but to marry? John, it must be late. Ought you not to go back--to--to +your mother's?" + +Insensibly, she resumed a lighter manner. On that other subject there was +nothing left to be said. She had had her last chance of becoming John +Kynaston's wife. After what she had said to him, she knew he would never +ask her again. That chapter in her life was closed for ever. + +They parted, unromantically enough, in front of St. George's Hospital. He +called a hansom for her, and stood holding her hand, one moment longer, +possibly, than was strictly necessary, looking intently into her face as +he did so. + +"Will you think of me sometimes?" + +"Yes, surely." + +"Good-bye, Vera." + +"Good-bye, John. God bless you wherever you may go." + +She got into her hansom, and he told the cabman where to drive her; then +he lifted his hat to her with grave politeness, and walked away in the +opposite direction. It was a common-place enough parting, and yet these +two never saw each other's faces again in this world. + +So it is with our lives. Some one or other who has been a part of our +very existence for a space goes his way one day, and we see him no more. +For a little while our hearts ache, and we shed tears in secret for him +who is gone, but by-and-by we get to understand that he is part of our +past, never, to be recalled, and after a while we get used to his +absence; we think of him less and less, and the death of him, who was +once bound up in our very lives, strikes us only with a mild surprise, +hardly even tinged with a passing melancholy. + +"Poor old so-and-so, he is dead," we say. "What a time it is since we +met," and then we go our way and think of him no more. + +But Vera knew that, in all human probability, she would never see him +again, this man, who had once so nearly been her husband. It was another +link of her past life severed. It saddened her, but she knew it was +inevitable. + +The little letter-case, at all events, was safely hers; and for many a +night Vera slept with it under her pillow. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +DINNER AT RANELAGH. + + Here is the whole set, a character dead at every word. + + Sheridan. + + +It was the fag end of the London season; people were talking about +Goodwood and the Ryde week, about grouse and about salmon-fishing. +Members of Parliament went about, like martyrs at the stake, groaning +over the interminable nature of every debate, and shaking their heads +over the prospect of getting away. Women in society knew all their own +and their neighbours' dresses by heart, and were dead sick of them all; +and even the very gossip and scandal that is always afloat to keep up the +spirits of the idlers and the chatterers had lost all the zest, all the +charm of novelty that gave flavour and piquancy to every _canard_ that +was started two months ago. + +It was all stale, flat, and unprofitable. + +What was the use of constantly asserting, on the very best authority, +that Lady So-and-so was on the eve of running away with that handsome +young actor, whose eyes had taken the female population by storm, when +Lady So-and-so persisted in walking about arm-in-arm with her husband day +after day, with a child on either side of them, in the most provoking +way, as though to prove the utter fallacy of the report, and her own +incontestable domestic felicity? Or, what merit had a man any longer who +had stated in May that the heiress _par excellence_ of the season was +about to sell herself and her gold to that debauched and drunken marquis, +who had evidently not six months of life left in him in which to enjoy +his bargain, when the heiress herself gave the lie to the _on dit_ in +July by talking calmly about going to Norway with her papa for a month's +retirement and rest after the fatigues of the season? + +What a number of lies are there not propounded during the months of May +and June by the inventive Londoner, and how many of them are there not +proved to be so during the latter end of July! + +Heaven only knows how and where the voice of scandal is first raised. Is +it at the five o'clock tea-tables? Or, is it in the smoking-rooms of the +clubs that things are first spoken of, and the noxious breath of slander +started upon its career? Or, are there evil-minded persons, both men and +women, prowling about, like unclean animals, at the skirts of that +society into whose inner recesses they would fain gain admittance, +picking up greedily, here and there, in their eaves-dropping career, +some scrap or morsel of truth out of which they weave a well-varnished +tale wherewith to delight the ears of the vulgar and the coarse-minded? +There are such men and such women; God forgive them for their wickedness! + +Do any of these scandal-mongers ever call to mind, I wonder, an ancient +and, seemingly, a well-nigh forgotten injunction? + +"Thou shalt not bear false witness," said the same Voice who has also +said, "Thou shalt do no murder." + +And which is the worst--to kill a man's body, or to slay a man's honour, +or a woman's reputation? + +In truth, there seems to me to be but little difference between the two; +and the man or the woman who will do the one might very possibly be +guilty of the other--but for the hanging! + +We should all do a great many more wicked things than we do if there were +no consequences. + +It is a very trite observation, which is, nevertheless, never spoken with +more justice or more truth than at or about Hyde Park Corner between May +and July, that the world we live in is a very wicked one. + +Well, the season, as I have said, was well-nigh over, and all the scandal +had run dry, and the gossip, for the most part, been proved to be +incorrect, and there was nobody in all London who excited so much +irritation among the talkers as the new beauty, Vera Nevill. + +For Vera was Miss Nevill still, and there was every prospect of her +remaining so. What on earth possessed the girl that she would not marry? +Had not men dangled at her elbow all the season? Could she not have had +such and such elder sons, or such and such wealthy commoner? What was she +waiting for? A girl without a penny, who came nobody knew from where, +ushered in under Mrs. Hazeldine's wings, with not a decent connection +in the world to her name! What did she want--this girl who had only her +beauty to depend upon? and everybody knows how fleeting _that_ is! + +And then, presently, the women who were envious of her began to whisper +amongst themselves. There was something against her; she was not what she +seemed to be. The men flirted, of course--men will always flirt! but +they were careful not to commit themselves! And even that mysterious word +"adventuress," which has an ugly sound, but of which no one exactly knows +the precise meaning, began to be bruited about. + +"There was an unpleasant story about her, somebody told me once," said +one prettily-dressed nonentity to another, as they wandered slowly up and +down the velvet lawns at Ranelagh. "She was mixed up in some way with the +Kynaston family. Sir John was to have married her, and then something +dreadful came out, and he threw her over." + +"Oh, I thought she jilted him." + +"I daresay it was one or the other; at all events, there was some fracas +or other. I believe her mother was--hum, hum--you understand--she +couldn't be swallowed by the Kynastons at any price; they must have been +thankful to get out of it." + +"It looks very bad, her not marrying any one, with all the fuss there has +been made over her." + +"Yes; even Cissy Hazeldine told me, in confidence, yesterday, she could +not try her again next season. It wouldn't do, you know; it would look +too much as if she had some object of her own in getting her married. +Cissy must find something else for another year. Of course, with a +husband, she could sail her own course and make her own way; but a girl +can't go on attracting attention with impunity--she gets herself talked +about--it is only we married women can do as we like." + +"Exactly. Do you suppose _that_ will come to anything?" casting a glance +towards the further end of the lawn, where Vera Nevill sat in a low +basket-chair, under the shadow of a spreading tulip-tree, whilst a slight +boyish figure, stretched at her feet, alternately chewed blades of grass +and looked up worshippingly into her face. + +"_That!_" following the direction of her companion's eyes. "Oh dear, no! +Denis Wilde is too wideawake to be caught, though he is such a boy! They +say she is crazy to get him; everybody else has slipped through her +fingers, you see, and he would be better than nothing. Now we are in the +last week in July, I daresay she is getting desperate; but young Wilde +knows pretty well what he is about, I expect!" + +"He seems to admire her." + +"Oh, yes, I daresay; those large kind of women do get admired; men look +upon them as fine animals. _I_ should not care to be admired in that way, +would you?" + +"No, indeed! it is disgusting," replied the other, who was fain to +conceal the bony corners of her angular figure with a multiplicity of +lace ruchings and puffings. + +"As to Miss Nevill, she is nothing else. A most material type; why, her +waist must be twenty-two inches round!" + +"Quite that, dear," with sweetness, from the owner of a nineteen-inch +article, which two maids struggled with daily in order to reduce it to +the required measurement. + +"Well, I never could--between you and me--see much to admire in her." + +"Neither could I, although, of course, it has been the fashion to rave +over her." + +And, with that, these two amiable young women fell at it tooth and nail, +and proceeded to cry down their victim's personal appearance in the most +unmeasured and sweeping terms. + +After the taking away of a fellow-woman's character, comes as a natural +sequence the condemnation of her face and figure, and it is doubtful +which indictment is the most grave in eyes feminine. Meanwhile the +object of all this animadversion sat tranquilly unconscious under her +tulip-tree, whilst Denis Wilde, that astute young gentleman, whom they +had declared to be too well aware of what he was about to be entrapped +into matrimony, was engaged in proposing to her for the fourth time. + +"I thought we had settled this subject long ago, Mr. Wilde," says Vera, +tranquilly unfolding her large, black, feather fan--for it is hot--and +slowly folding it up again. + +"It will never be settled for me, Vera; never, so long as you are +unmarried." + +"What a dreadful mistake life is!" sighs Vera, wearily, more to herself +than to the boy at her feet. Was anybody ever happy in this world? she +began to wonder. + +"I know very well," resumed Denis Wilde, "that I am not good enough for +you; but, then, who is? My prospects, such as they are, are very distant, +and your friends, I daresay, expect you to marry well." + +"How often must I tell you that that has nothing to do with it," cries +Vera, impatiently. "If I loved a beggar, I should marry him." + +Young Wilde plucked at the grass again, and chewed a daisy up almost +viciously. There was a supreme selfishness in the way she had of +perpetually harping upon her lack of love for him. + +"There is always some fellow or other hanging about you," grumbles the +young man, irritably; "you are an inveterate flirt!" + +"No woman is worthy of the name who is not!" retorts Vera, laughing. + +"I _hate_ a flirt," angrily. + +"This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. +Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!" + +"Pooh!--mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are very +different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very +soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his +face and send him to the devil." + +"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to this +shocking conduct." + +"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing the +same game with that you have already done with me; he follows you like +a shadow." + +"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious. +"But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about that +man--I can't think why he follows me about so." + +"_Can't_ you!" very grimly. + +"I assure you the man is in no more love with me than--than----" + +"_I_ am! I suppose you will say next." + +"Oh dear, no, you are utterly incorrigible and quite in earnest; but +Monsieur D'Arblet is _pretending_ to be in love with me." + +"He makes a very good pretence of it, at all events. Here he comes, +confound him! If I had known Mrs. Hazeldine had asked _him_, I would +never have come." + +At which Vera, who had heard these outbursts of indignant jealousy +before, and knew how little poor Denis meant the terrible threats he +uttered, only laughed with the pitiless amusement of a woman who knows +her own power. + +Lucien D'Arblet came towards her smiling, and sank down into a vacant +basket-chair by her side with the air of a man who knows himself to be +welcome. + +He had been paying a great deal of attention latterly to the beautiful +Miss Nevill; he had followed her about everywhere, and had made it patent +in every public place where he had met her that she alone was the sole +aim and object of his thoughts. And yet, with it all, Monsieur Le Vicomte +was only playing a part, and not only that, but he was pretty certain +that she knew it to be so. He gazed rapturously into her beautiful face, +he lowered his voice tenderly in speaking to her, he pressed her hand +when she gave it to him, and even on occasions he raised it furtively to +his lips; but, with all this, he knew perfectly well that she was not one +whit deceived by him. She no more believed him to be in love with her +than he believed it of himself. She was clever and beautiful, and he +admired and even liked her, but in the beginning of their acquaintance +Monsieur D'Arblet had had no thought of making her the object of any +sentimental attentions. He had been driven to it by a discovery that he +had made concerning her character. + +Miss Nevill had a good heart. She was no enraged, injured woman, +thirsting for revenge upon the woman who had stolen her lover from +her--such as he had desired to find in her; she was only a true-hearted +and unhappy girl, who was not in any case likely to develop into the +instrument of vengeance which he sought for. + +It was a disappointment to him, but he was not completely disheartened. +It was through her that he desired to punish Helen for daring to brave +him, and he swore to himself that he would do it still; only he must now +set about it in a different way, so he began to make love to Miss Nevill. + +And Vera was shrewd enough to perceive that he was only playing a part. +Nevertheless, there were times when she felt so completely puzzled by his +persistent adoration, that she could hardly tell what to make of it. Was +he trying to make some other woman jealous? It even came into her head, +once or twice, to suspect that Cissy Hazeldine was the real object of his +devotion, so utterly incomprehensible did his conduct appear to her. + +If she had been told that Lucien D'Arblet's real quest was not love, but +revenge, she would have laughed. An Englishman does not spend his time +nor his energies in plotting a desperate retaliation on a lady who has +disregarded his threats and evaded his persecution; it is not in the +nature of any Briton, however irascible, to do so; but a Frenchman is +differently constituted. There is something delightfully refreshing to +him in an atmosphere of plotting and intrigue. There is the same instinct +of the chase in both nationalities, but it is more amusing to the +Frenchman to hunt down his fellow-creatures than to pursue unhappy little +beasts of the field; and he understands himself in the pursuit of the +larger game infinitely better. + +Nevertheless, Monsieur D'Arblet had no intention of getting himself into +trouble, nor of risking the just fury of an indignant British husband, +who stood six feet in his stockings, nor did he desire, by any anonymous +libel, to bring himself in any way under the arm of the law. All he meant +to do was to dig his trench and to lay his mine, to place the fuse in +Vera Nevill's hands--leave her to set fire to it--and then retire +himself, covered with satisfaction at his cleverness, to his own side +of the Channel. + +Who could possibly grudge him so harmless an entertainment? + +Monsieur D'Arblet, as he sat down by her side under the tulip-tree, began +by paying Miss Nevill a prettily turned compliment upon her fresh white +toilette; as he did so Vera smiled and bent her head; she had seen him +before to-day. + +"Fine evening, Mr. Wilde," said the Frenchman, turning civilly, but with +no evident _empressement_, towards the gentleman he addressed. + +Denis only answered by a sulky grunt. + +Then began that process between the two men which is known in polite +society as the endeavour to sit each other out. + +Monsieur D'Arblet discoursed upon the weather and the beauty of the +gardens, with long and expressive pauses between each insignificant +remark, and the air of a man who wishes to say, "I could talk about much +more interesting things if that other fellow was out of the way." + +Denis Wilde simply reversed himself, that is to say, he lay on his +back instead of his face, stared up at the sky, and chewed grass +perseveringly. He had evidently no intention of being driven off the +field. + +"I had something of great importance to say to you this evening," +murmured Monsieur D'Arblet, at length, looking fixedly at his enemy's +upturned face. + +"All right, go ahead, don't mind me," says the young gentleman, amiably. +"I'm never in the way, am I, Miss Nevill?" + +"Never, Mr. Wilde," answers Vera, sweetly. Like a true woman, she quite +appreciates the fun of the situation, and thoroughly enjoys it; "pray +tell me what you have to say, monsieur." + +"Ah! Ces choses-la ne se disent qu'a deux!" murmurs he Frenchman, with a +sentimental sigh. + +"It is no use your saying it in French," says Denis, with a chuckle, +twisting himself round again upon his chest, "because I have the good +fortune, D'Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, +absolutely like a native." + +"You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, +and three is none," retorts D'Arblet, with a smile. + +"I'm awfully sorry, old fellow; but I am so exceedingly comfortable, I +really can't get up; if I could oblige you in any other way, I certainly +would." + +"Come to dinner!" cries out Mrs. Hazeldine, coming towards them from the +garden side of the lawn; "we are all here now." + +The two men sprang simultaneously to their feet. This is, of course, the +moment that they have both been waiting for. Each offers an arm to Miss +Nevill; Monsieur D'Arblet bends blandly and smilingly forward; Denis +Wilde has a thunder-cloud upon his face, and holds out his arm as though +he were ready to knock somebody down with it. + +"What am I to do?" cries Vera, laughing, and looking with feigned +indecision from one to the other. + +"Make haste and decide, my dear," says Mrs. Hazeldine; "for whichever of +you two gentlemen does _not_ take in Miss Nevill must go and take that +eldest Miss Frampton for me." + +The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large and +bony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the military +men she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, +like a man. She goes familiarly amongst her acquaintance by the name of +the Dragoon. + +A cold shiver passes visibly down Mr. Wilde's back; unfortunately Miss +Nevill perceives it, and makes up her mind instantly. + +"I would not deprive you of so charming a companion," she says, smiling +sweetly at him, and passes her arm through that of the French vicomte. + +At dinner, poor Denis Wilde curses Monsieur D'Arblet; Miss Frampton, and +his own fate, indiscriminately and ineffectually. He is sitting exactly +opposite to his divinity, but he cannot even enjoy the felicity of +staring at her, for Miss Frampton will not let him alone. She chatters +unceasingly and gushingly. At an early period of the repast the string of +her amber-bead necklace suddenly gives way with a snap. The beads trickle +slowly down, one by one; half a dozen of them drop with a cracking noise, +like little marbles, upon the polished floor, where there is a general +scramble of waiters and gentlemen under the table together after them; +two fall into her own soup, three more on to Denis Wilde's table-napkin; +as fast as the truants are picked up others are shed down in their wake +from the four apparently inexhaustible rows that garnish her neck. + +Miss Frampton bears it all with serene and smiling good temper. + +"Dear me, I am really very sorry to give so much trouble. It doesn't +signify in the least, Mr. Wilde--thanks, that is one more. Oh, there goes +another into the sweet-breads; but I really don't mind if they are lost. +Jameson, of the 17th, gave them to me. Do you know Jameson? cousin of +Jameson, in the 9th; he brought them from Italy, or Turkey, or somewhere. +I am sure I don't remember where amber comes from; do you, Mr. Wilde?" + +Mr. Wilde, if he is vague as to where it comes from, is quite decided +as to where he would desire it to go. At this moment he had crunched a +tender tooth down upon one of these infernal beads, having helped himself +to it unconsciously out of the sweetbread dish. + +Is he doomed to swallow amber beads for the remainder of the repast? he +asks himself. + +"Did you ever meet Archdale, the man who was in the 16th?" continues Miss +Frampton, glibly, unconscious of his agonies; "he exchanged afterwards +into the 4th--he is such a nice fellow. I lunched every day at Ascot this +year on the 16th's drag. The first day I met Lester--that's the major, +you know--and Lester is _such_ a pet! He told me to come every day to +lunch, and bring any of my friends with me; so, of course, I did, and +there wasn't a better lunch on the course; and, on the cup-day, Archdale +came up and talked to me--he abused the champagne-cup, though; he said +there was more soda-water than champagne in it--the more he drank of it +the more dreadfully sober he got. However, I am invited to lunch with the +4th at Goodwood. They are going to have a spread under the trees, so I +shall be able to compare notes about the champagne-cup. I know two other +men in the 4th; Hopkins and Lambert; do you know them?" and so on, until +pretty well half the army list and all the luncheon-giving regiments in +the service had been passed under review. + +And there, straight opposite to him, was Vera, laughing at his +discomfiture, he was sure, but also listening to the flattering rubbish +which that odious little Frenchman was pouring into her ears. + +Did ever young man sit through such a detestable and abominable repast? + +If Denis Wilde had been rash enough to nourish insane hopes with regard +to moonlight wanderings in the pleasant garden after dinner, these hopes +were destined to be blighted. + +They were a party of twelve; the waiting was bad, and the courses +numerous; the dinner was a lengthy affair altogether. By the time it was +over, and coffee had been discussed on the terrace outside the house, the +carriages came round to the door, and the ladies of the party voted that +it was time to go home. + +Soon everybody stood clothed in summer ulsters or white dust-cloaks, +waiting in the hall. The coach started from the door with much noise +and confusion, with a good deal of plunging from the leaders, and some +jibbing from the wheelers, accompanied by a very feeble performance on +that much-abused instrument, the horn, by an amateur who occupied a back +seat; and after it had departed, a humble train of neat broughams and +victorias came trooping up in its wake. + +"You will see," said nonentity number one, in her friend's ear; "you will +see that Nevill girl will go back in some man's brougham--that is what +she has been waiting for; otherwise, she would have perched herself up on +the box-seat of the coach, in the most conspicuous place she could find." + +"What a disgraceful creature she must be!" is the indignantly virtuous +reply. + +The "Nevill girl," however, disappointed the expectations of both these +charitable ladies by quietly taking her place in Mrs. Hazeldine's +brougham, by her friend's side, amid a shower of "Good-nights" from the +remainder of the party. + +"Ah!" said the nonentity, with a vicious gasp, "you may be sure she has +some disreputable supper of men, and cigars, and brandies and sodas +waiting for her up in town, or she would never go off so meekly as that +in Mrs. Hazeldine's brougham. Still waters run deep, my dear!" + +"She is a horrid, disreputable girl, I am quite sure of that," is the +answer. "I am very thankful, indeed, that I haven't the misfortune of +knowing her." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +MRS. HAZELDINE'S "LONG ELIZA." + + Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the + dove; that is, more knave than fool. + + Christopher Marlowe. + + + For every inch that is not fool is rogue. + + Dryden. + + +The scene is Mrs. Hazeldine's drawing-room, in Park Lane, the hour is +four o'clock in the afternoon, and the _dramatis personae_ are Miss +Nevill, very red in the face, standing in a corner, behind an oblong +velvet table covered with china ornaments, and Monsieur Le Vicomte +D'Arblet, also red in the face, gesticulating violently on the further +side of it. + +Miss Nevill, having retired behind the oblong table, purely from +prudential motives of personal safety, is devoured with anxiety +concerning the too imminent fate of her hostess' china. There is a little +Lowestoft tea-service that was picked up only last week at Christie and +Manson's, a turquoise blue crackle jar that is supposed to be priceless, +and a pair of "Long Eliza" vases, which her hostess loves as much as she +does her toy terrier, and far better than she loves her husband. + +What will become of her, Vera Nevill, if Mrs. Hazeldine comes in +presently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon the +floor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only too +probable a catastrophe. + +Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bull +in the crockery shop--terror mingled with an overpowering sense of +responsibility. All personal considerations are well-nigh merged in +the realization of the danger which menaces her hostess' property. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself," she says, +desperately. + +"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak of +shattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing about +frantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three square +yards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he is +surrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructible +objects. + +"_Pray_ be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then in +the handle of that Chelsea basket," cries Vera, in anguish. + +"And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, +when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?" + +"Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase," +murmurs Vera, piteously. + +"No, I will never leave this room, never, mademoiselle, until you give +me hope; never will I cease to importune you until your heart relents +towards the _miserable_ who adores you!" + +Here Monsieur D'Arblet made an attempt to get at his charmer by coming +round the end of the velvet table. + +Vera felt distracted. To allow him to execute his maneuver was to run +the chance of being clasped in his arms; to struggle to get free was the +almost certainty of upsetting the table. + +She cast a despairing glance across the room at the bell-handle, which +was utterly beyond her reach. There was no hope in that direction. +Apparently, moral persuasion was her only chance. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet, I _forbid_ you to advance a step nearer to me!" + +He fell back with a profound sigh. + +"Mademoiselle, I love you to distraction. I am unable to disobey your +commands." + +"Very well, then, listen to me. I cannot understand this violent outburst +of emotion. You have done me the honour to propose to marry me, and I +have, with many thanks for your most flattering distinction, declined +your offer. Surely, between a lady and a gentleman, there can be nothing +further to say; it is not incumbent upon you to persecute me in this +fashion." + +"Miss Nevill, you have treated me with a terrible cruelty. You have +encouraged my ardent passion for you until you did lift me up to Heaven." +Here Monsieur D'Arblet stretched up both his arms with a suddenness which +endangered the branches of the tall Dresden candelabra on the high +mantelpiece behind him. "After which you do reject me and cast me down +to hell!" and down came both hands heavily upon the velvet table between +them. The blue crackle jar, the two "Long Eliza" vases, and all the +Lowestoft cups and saucers, literally jumped upon their foundations. + +"For Heaven's sake!" cried Vera. + +"Ah!" in a tone of deep reproach, "do not plead with me, mademoiselle; +you have broken my heart." + +"And you have nearly broken the china," murmured Vera. + +"What is this miserable china that you talk about in comparison with my +happiness?" and the vicomte made as though he would tear his hair out +with both hands. + +The comedy of the situation began to be too much for Vera's self-control; +another ten minutes of it, and she felt that she should become +hysterical; all the more so because she knew very well that the whole +thing was nothing but a piece of acting; with what object, however, she +was at a loss to imagine. + +"For goodness sake, do be reasonable, Monsieur D'Arblet; you know +perfectly well that I never encouraged you, as you call it, for the very +good reason that there has never been anything to encourage. We have been +very good friends, but never anything more." + +"Mademoiselle, you do me injustice." + +"On the contrary, I give you credit for a great deal more common sense, +as a rule, than you seem disposed to evince to-day. I am quite certain +that you have never entertained any warmer feeling towards me than +friendship." + +This was an injudicious statement. Monsieur D'Arblet felt that his +reputation as a _galant homme_ and an adorer of the fair sex was +impugned; he instantly flew into the most violent passion, and jumped +about amongst the gipsy tables and the _etageres_, and the dainty little +spindle-legged cabinets more vehemently than ever. + +"_I_, not love you! Lucien D'Arblet profess a sentiment which he does not +experience! _Ah! par exemple, Mademoiselle, c'est trop fort!_ Next you +will say that I am a _menteur_, a _fripon_, a _lache_! You will tell me +that I have no honour, and no sense of the generosity due to a woman; +that I am a brute and an imbecile," and at every epithet he dashed his +hands violently out in front of him, or thrust them wildly through his +disordered locks. The whole room shook, every ornament on every table +shivered with the strength of his agitation. + +"Oh, I will say any single thing you like," cried Vera, "if only you will +keep still----" + +"Do not insult me by denying my affection!" + +"I will deny nothing," said poor Vera, at her wits' ends. "If what I have +said has pained you, I am sincerely sorry for it; but for Heaven's sake +control yourself, and--and--_do_ go away!" + +Then Monsieur D'Arblet stood still and looked at her fixedly and +mournfully; his hands had dropped feebly by his side, there was an air +of profound melancholy in his aspect; he regarded her with a searching +intensity. He was asking himself whether his agitation and his despair +had produced the very slightest effect upon her; and he came to the +conclusion they had not. + +"_Peste soit de cette femme!_" he said to himself. "She is the first I +ever came across who refused to believe in vows of eternal love. As a +rule, women never fail to give them credit, if they are spoken often +enough and shouted out loud enough the more one despairs and declares +that one is about to expire, the more the dear creatures are impressed, +and the more firmly they are convinced of the power of their own charms. +But this woman does not believe in me one little bit. Love, despair, +rage--it is all the same to her--I might as well talk to the winds! She +only wants to get rid of me before her friend comes in, and before I +break her accursed china. Ah it is these miserable little pots and jugs +that she is thinking about! Very well, then, it is by them that I will do +what I want. A great genius can bend to small things as well as soar to +large ones--Voyons done, ma belle, which of us will be the victor!" + +All this time he was gazing at her fixedly and dejectedly. + +"Miss Nevill," he said, gloomily, "I will accept your rejection; +to-morrow I will say good-bye to this country for ever!" + +"We are all going away this week," said Vera, cheerfully: "this is the +end of July. You will come back again next year, and enjoy your season as +much as ever." + +"Never--never. Lucien D'Arblet will visit this country no more. The words +that I am about to speak to you now--the request that I am about to make +of you are like the words of a dying man; like the parting desire of one +who expires. Mademoiselle, I have a request to make of you." + +"I am sure," began Vera, politely, "if there is anything I can do +for you----" She breathed more freely now he talked about going away +and dying; it would be much better that he should so go away, and so +die, than remain interminably on the rampage in Mrs. Hazeldine's +drawing-room. Vera had stood siege for close upon an hour. The moment of +her deliverance was apparently drawing near; in the hour of victory she +felt that she could afford to be generous; any little thing that he liked +to ask of her she would be glad enough to do with a view to expediting +his departure. Perhaps he wanted her photograph, or a lock of her hair; +to either he would be perfectly welcome. + +"There is something I am forced to go away from England without having +done; a solemn duty I have to leave unperformed. Miss Nevill, will you +undertake to do it for me?" + +"Really, Monsieur D'Arblet, you are very mysterious; it depends, of +course, upon what this duty is--if it is very difficult, or very +unpleasant." + +"It is neither difficult nor unpleasant. It is only to give a small +parcel to a gentleman who is not now in England; to give it him yourself, +with your own hands." + +"That does not sound difficult, certainly," said Vera, smiling; after +all, she was glad he had not asked for a photograph, or a lock of hair; +"but how am I to find this friend of yours?" + +"Miss Nevill, do you know a man called Kynaston? Captain Maurice +Kynaston?" He was watching her keenly now. + +Vera turned suddenly very white: then controlling herself with an effort, +she answered quietly. + +"Yes, I know him. Why?" + +"Because that is the man I want you to give my parcel to." He drew +something out of his breast coat-pocket, and handed it to her across the +oblong table that was still between them. She took it in her hands, and +turned it over doubtfully and uneasily. It was a small square parcel, +done up in brown paper, fastened round with string, and sealed at both +ends. + +It might have been a small book; it probably was. She had no reason to +give why she should not do his commission for him, and yet she felt a +strange and unaccountable reluctance to undertake it. + +"I had very much rather that you asked somebody else to do this for you, +Monsieur D'Arblet," she said, handing the packet back to him. He did not +attempt to take it from her. + +"It concerns the most sacred emotions of my heart, mademoiselle," he +said, sensationally. "I could not entrust it to an indifferent person. +You, who have plunged me into such an abyss of despair by your cruel +rejection of my affection, cannot surely refuse to do so small a thing +for me." + +Miss Nevill was again looking at the small parcel in her hands. + +"Will it hurt or injure Captain Kynaston in any way?" she asked. + +"Far from it; it will probably be of great service to him. Come, Miss +Nevill, promise me that you will give it to him; any time will do before +the end of the year, any time that you happen to see him, or to be near +enough to visit him; I only want to be sure that it reaches him. All you +have to do is to give it him into his hands when no one else is near. +After all, it is a very small favour I ask you." + +"And it is precisely because it is so small, Monsieur D'Arblet," said +Vera, decidedly, "that I cannot imagine why you should make such a point +of a trifle like this; and as I don't like being mixed up in things I +don't understand, I must, I think, decline to have anything to do with +it." + +"_Allons donc!_" said the vicomte to himself. "I am reduced to the +china." + +He took an excited turn up and down the room, then came back again to +where she stood. + +"Miss Nevill!" he cried, with rising anger, "you seem determined to wound +my feelings and to insult my self-respect. You reject my offers, you +sneer at my professions of affection; and now you appear to me to throw +sinister doubts upon the meaning of the small thing I have asked you to +do for me." At each of these accusations he waved his arm up and down to +emphasize his remarks; and now, as if unconsciously, his hand suddenly +fell upon the neck of one of the "Long Eliza" vases on the table before +him. He lifted it up in the air. + +"For Heaven's sake, Monsieur D'Arblet, take care--please put down that +vase," cried Vera; suddenly returning to her former terrors. + +He looked at the object in his hand as though it were utterly beneath +consideration. + +"Vase! what is a vase, I ask? Do you not suppose, before relinquishing +what I ask of you, I would dash a hundred vases such as this into ten +thousand fragments to the earth?" He raised his arm above his head as +though on the point of carrying his threat into execution. + +Vera uttered a scream. + +"Good gracious! What on earth are you doing? It is Mrs. Hazeldine's +favourite piece of china; she values it more than anything she has got. +If you were to break it, she would go half out of her mind." + +"Never mind this wretched vase. Answer me, Mademoiselle Nevill, will you +give that parcel to Captain Kynaston?" + +"I am not at all likely to meet him; I assure you nothing is so +improbable. I know him very little. Ah! what are you doing?" + +The infuriated Frenchman was whirling the blue-and-white treasure madly +round in the air. + +"You are, then, determined to humiliate and to insult me; and to prove to +you how great is my just indignation, I will dash----" + +"No, no, no!" cried Vera, frantically; "for Heaven's sake, do not be so +mad. Mrs. Hazeldine will never forgive me. Put it down, I entreat you. +Yes, yes, I will promise anything you like. I am sure I have no wish to +insult you." + +"Ah, then, you will give that to him?" He paused with the vase still +uplifted, looking at her. + +Vera felt convinced by this time that she had to do with a raving +lunatic. After all, was it not better to do this small thing for him, and +to get rid of him. She knew that, sooner or later, down at Sutton, or up +in London, she and Maurice were likely to meet. It would not be much +trouble to her to place the small parcel in his hands. Surely, to deliver +herself from this man--to save Cissy's beloved china, and, perchance, +her own throat--for what might he not take a fancy to next!--from the +clutches of this madman, it would be easier to do what he wanted. + +"Yes, I will give it to him. I promise you, if you will only put that +vase down and go away." + +"You will promise me faithfully?" + +"Faithfully." + +"On your word of honour, and as you hope for salvation?" + +"Yes, yes. There is no need for oaths; if I have promised, I will do it." + +"Very well." He placed the vase back upon the table and walked to the +door. "Mademoiselle," he said, making her a low bow, "I am infinitely +obliged to you;" and then, without another word, he opened the door and +was gone. + +Three minutes later Mrs. Hazeldine came in. She was just back from +her drive. She found Vera lying back exhausted and breathless in an +arm-chair. + +"My dear, what have you done to Monsieur D'Arblet? I met him running out +of the house like a madman, and laughing to himself like a little fiend. +He nearly knocked me down. What has happened! Have you accepted him?" + +"No, I have refused him," gasped Vera; "but, thank God, I have saved your +'Long Eliza,' Cissy!" + +Early the following morning one of Mrs. Hazeldine's servants was +despatched in a hansom with a small brown paper parcel and a note to the +Charing Cross Hotel. + +During the night watches Miss Nevill had been seized with misgivings +concerning the mysterious mission wherewith she had been charged. + +But the servant, the parcel, and the note all returned together just as +they had been sent. + +"Monsieur D'Arblet has left town, Miss; he went by the tidal train last +night on his way to the Continent, and has left no address." + +So Vera tore up her own note, and locked up the offending parcel in her +dressing-case. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +A WEDDING TOUR. + + Thus Grief still treads upon the heels of Pleasure; + Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. + + Congreve. + + +We all know that weddings are as old as the world, but who is it +that invented wedding tours? Owing to what delusion were they first +instituted? + +For a wedding feast there is a reasonable cause, just as there is for +a funeral luncheon, or a christening dinner. There has been in each +instance a trying ordeal to be gone through in a public church. It is +quite right that there should be eating and drinking, and a certain +amount of jollification afterwards amongst the unoffending guests who +have been dragged in as spectators on the occasion. But why on earth, +when the day is over, cannot the unhappy couple be left alone to eat +a Darby-and-Joan dinner together in the house in which they propose to +live, and return peacefully on the morrow to the avocation of their +daily lives? Why must they be sent off amid a shower of rice and +shabby satin shoes into an enforced banishment from the society of their +fellow-creatures, and so thrown upon each other that, in nine cases out +of ten, for want of something better to do, they have learnt the way to +quarrel, tooth and nail, before the week is out? + +I believe that a great many marriages that are as likely as not to turn +out in the end very happily are utterly prevented from doing so by that +pernicious and utterly childish custom of keeping up the season known as +the honeymoon. "Honey," by the way, is very sweet, doubtless; but there +is nothing on earth which sensible people get sooner tired of. Three days +of an exclusively saccharine diet is about as much as any grown man or +woman can be reasonably expected to stand; after that period there comes +upon the jaded appetite unlawful longings after strong meats and +anchovies, after turtle-soup and devilled bones, such as no sugar-fed +couple has the poetic right to indulge in. Nevertheless, like a snake in +the grass, the insidious desire will creep into the soul of one or other +of the two. There will be, doubtless, a noble struggle to stifle the +treacherous thought; a vigorous effort to bring back the wandering mind +into the path of duty; a conscientious effort to go on enjoying honeycomb +as though no flavour of richer viands had been wafted to the nostrils of +the imagination. The sweet and poetical food will be lifted once more +resolutely to the lips, but only to create a sickening satiety from which +the nauseated victim finally revolts in desperation. Then come yearnings +and weariness, loss of appetite, and consequent loss of temper; tears on +the one side, an oath or two on the other, and the "happy couple" come +home eventually very much wiser, as a rule, than they started, and +certainly in a position to understand several unpleasant truths +concerning each other of which they had not a suspicion before they went +away. + +Now, if this is too often the melancholy finale to a wedding trip, even +with regard to persons who start forth on it full of hopes of happiness, +of faith in each other, and of fervent affection on both sides, how much +worse is not the case when there are small hopes of happiness, no faith +whatever on one side, and of affection none at all on the other? + +This was how it was with Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston on their six +weeks' wedding trip abroad. They went to a great many places they had +neither of them seen before. They stayed a week in Paris, where Helen +bought more dresses and declared herself supremely happy; they visited +the falls of the Rhine, which Maurice said deafened him; and ran +through Switzerland, which they both voted detestably uncomfortable and +dirty--the hotels, _bien entendu_, not the mountains. They stopped a +night on the St. Gothard, which was too cold for them, and a week or two +at the Italian lakes, which were too hot. They sauntered through the +picture-galleries of Milan and Turin, at which places Maurice's yawns +became prolonged and audible; and they floated through the canals of +Venice in gondolas, which Helen asserted to be more ragged and full of +fleas than any London four-wheeler. And then they turned homewards, and +by the time they neared the shores of the Channel once more they had had +so many quarrels that they had forgotten to count them, and they had both +privately discovered that matrimony is an egregious and, alas! an +irreparable mistake. Such a discovery was possibly inevitable; perhaps +they would have come in time to the same conclusion had they remained at +home, but they certainly found it out all the quicker for having gone +abroad. + +Helen, perhaps, was the most to be pitied of the two. For Maurice there +had been no illusions to dispel, no dreams to be dissipated, no castles +built upon the sand to fall shattered into atoms; he had known very well +what he had to expect; he did not love the wife he was marrying, and he +did love somebody else. It had not, therefore, been a brilliant prospect +of bliss. Nevertheless, he had certainly hoped, with that vague kind of +hope in which Englishmen are prone to indulge, that things would "come +right" in some fashion, and that he and Helen would manage "to get on" +together. That they did not do so was an annoyance, but hardly a surprise +to him. + +But to Helen there was a good deal of unexpected grief and mortification +of soul. She, at all events, had loved him; it was her own strength of +will, the fervour of her own lawless passion for him that had carried the +day, and had, in the end, made her his wife. And she had said to herself +that, once married to him, she would make him love her. + +Alas, in love there is no such thing as compulsion! The heart that loves, +loves freely, spontaneously, unreasonably; and, where love is dead, there +neither entreaties nor prayers, nor yet a whole ocean of tears can serve +to re-awaken the frail blossom into life. + +But Helen had made sure that, once absolutely her own, once irrevocably +separated from the girl whom instinct had taught her to regard as her +rival, Maurice would return to the old allegiance, and learn to love her +once more, as in days now long gone by. + +A very short experience served to convince her of the contrary. Maurice +yawned too openly, was too evidently wearied and bored with her society, +too utterly indifferent to her sayings and her doings, for her to delude +herself long with the hope of regaining his affection. It was all the +same to him whatever she did. If she showered caresses upon him, he +submitted meekly, it is true, but with so evident a distaste to the +operation that she learnt to discontinue the kisses he cared for so +little; if she tried to amuse him with her conversation, he appeared to +be thinking of other things; if she gave her opinion, he hardly seemed to +listen to it. Only when they quarrelled did the slightest animation enter +into their conjugal relations; and it was almost better to quarrel than +to be at peace on such terms as these. + +And then Helen got angry with him; angry and sore, wounded in her heart, +and hurt in her vanity. She said to herself that she had been ready to +become the best and most devoted of wives; to study his wishes, to defer +to his opinion, to surround him with loving attentions; but since he +would not have it so, then so much the worse for him. She would be no +model wife; no meek slave, subservient to his caprices. She would go her +own way, and follow her own will, and make him do what she liked, whether +it pleased him or not. + +Had Maurice cared to struggle with her for the mastery, things might have +ended differently, but it did not seem worth his while to struggle; as +long as she let him alone, and did not fret him with her incessant +jealousies and suspicions, he was content to let her do as she liked. + +Even in that matter of living at Kynaston he learnt, in the end, to +give way to her. Sir John, who had already started for Australia, had +particularly requested him to occupy the house. Lady Kynaston did nothing +but urge it in every letter. Helen herself was bent upon it. There was +no good reason that he could bring forward against so reasonable and +sensible a plan. The house was all ready, newly decorated, and newly +furnished; they had nothing to do but to walk into it. It would save +all trouble in looking out for a country home elsewhere, and would, +doubtless, be an infinitely pleasanter abode for them than any other +house could be. It was the natural and rational thing for them to do. +Maurice knew of only one argument against it, and that one was in his own +heart, and he could speak of it to no one. + +And yet, after all, what did it matter, what difference would it make? A +little nearer, a little further, how could it alter things for either of +them? How lessen the impassable gulf between her and him? It was in the +natural course of things that he must meet her at times; there would be +the stereotyped greeting, the averted glance, the cold shake of hands +that could never hope to meet without a pang; these things were almost +inevitable for them. A little oftener or a little seldomer, would it +matter very much then? + +Maurice did not think it would; bound as he was to the woman whom he had +made his wife--tied to her by every law of God and of man, of honour, and +of manly feeling--that there should be any actual danger to be run by the +near proximity of the woman he had loved, did not even enter into his +head. If he had known how to do his duty towards Helen before he had +married her, would he not tenfold know how to do so now? Possibly he +over-rated his own strength; for, however high are our principles, +however exalted is our sense of honour--after all, we are but mortals, +and unspeakably weak at the very best. + +It did not in any case occur to him to look at the question from Vera's +point of view. It is never easy for a man to put himself into a woman's +place, or to enter into the extra sensitiveness of soul with which she is +endowed. + +So it was that he agreed to go straight back to Kynaston, and to make the +old house his permanent home according to his wife's wishes. + +It was whilst the newly-married couple were passing through Switzerland +on their homeward journey that they suddenly came across Mr. Herbert +Pryme, who had been performing a melancholy and solitary pilgrimage in +the land of tourists. + +It was at the table d'hote at Vevay, upon coming down to that lengthy +and untempting repast, chiefly composed of aged goats and stringy hens, +which the inventive Swiss waiter exalts, with the effort of a soaring +imagination, into "Chamois," and "Salmi de Poulet," that Captain and Mrs. +Kynaston, who had scarcely recovered from a passage of arms in the +seclusion of their bed-chamber, suddenly descried a familiar face amongst +the long array of uncongenial people ranged down either side of the +table. + +What the print of a hob-nailed boot must be to the lonely traveller +across the desert, what the sight of a man from one's own club going down +Pall Mall is in mid-September, or as a draught of Giesler's '68 to an +epicure who has been about to perish on ginger-beer--so did Herbert +Pryme's face shine upon Maurice Kynaston out of the arid waste of that +Vevay _salle-a-manger_. + +In England he had been only an acquaintance--at Vevay he became his most +intimate friend. The delight of having a man to speak to, and a man who +knew others of his friends, was almost intoxicating. To think of getting +one evening--nay, one hour of liberty from that ever-present chain of +matrimonial intercourse which was galling him so sorely, was a bliss for +which he could hardly find words to express his gratitude. + +Herbert, who could not quite understand the reason of it, was almost +overpowered by the warmth of Captain Kynaston's greeting. To have his +place removed next to his own, and to grasp him heartily by both hands, +wringing them with affectionate fervour, was the work of a few seconds. +And then, who so lively, so full of anecdote and laughter, so interested +in all that could be said to him, as Maurice Kynaston during that dinner? + +It made Helen angry to hear him. He could be agreeable enough, she +thought, bitterly, to a chance acquaintance, picked up nobody knew where; +he could find plenty of conversation for this almost unknown young man; +it was only when they were alone together that he sat by glumly and +silently, without a smile and without a word! + +She did not take it into account how surfeited the man was with his +honeycomb. Herbert Pryme, individually, was nothing much to him; but he +came as the sight of a distant sail is to a shipwrecked mariner. It is +doubtful, indeed, whether, under the circumstances, Maurice would not +have been equally delighted to have met his tailor or his bootmaker. +After dinner was over the two men went out and smoked their cigars +together. This was a fresh offence to Mrs. Kynaston; usually she enjoyed +an evening stroll with her husband after dinner, but when he asked her to +come out with him on this occasion, she refused, shortly and +ungraciously. + +"No, thank you; if you and Mr. Pryme are going to smoke, I could not +possibly come; you know that I hate smoke." + +Poor Herbert was about to protest that nothing would induce him to smoke; +but Maurice passed his arm hurriedly through his. + +"Come along, then, and have a cigar in the garden," he said, with +scarcely concealed eagerness; he felt like a schoolboy let out of school. + +Helen went up to her bedroom, and sat sulkily by her open window, looking +over the lake on to the mountains. Long after it was dark she could see +the two red specks of their cigars wandering about like fire-flies in the +garden, and could hear the crush of the rough gravel under their +footsteps, and the low murmur of their voices as they talked. + +"You are coming into Meadowshire, are you not?" asked Maurice, ere they +parted. + +Herbert shook his head. + +"Not to the Millers?" + +"No, I am afraid I shall never be asked to Shadonake again," answered the +younger man, gloomily. + +"Why, I thought you and Beatrice--forgive me--but is it not the case?" + +"Her parents have stopped all that, Kynaston." + +"But I am sure Beatrice herself will never let it stop; I know her too +well," said Maurice, cheerily. + +"There are laws in connection with minors," began Mr. Pryme, solemnly. + +"Fiddlesticks!" was Maurice's rejoinder. "There are no laws to prevent +young women falling in love, or the world would not be in such a +confounded muddle as it frequently is. Don't be downhearted, Pryme; you +stick to her, and it will all come right; and look here, if they won't +ask you to Shadonake, I ask you to Kynaston; drop me a line, and come +whenever you like--as soon as you get home." + +"You are exceedingly kind; I shall be only too delighted." + +"When will you be home?" + +"I can be home at any time--there is nothing to keep me." + +"Well, then, come as soon as you like, the sooner the better. And now +I must say good-night and good-bye too, I fear, for we are off early +to-morrow. I shall be glad enough to be home; I'm dead sick of the +travelling. Good-night, old fellow; it has been a real pleasure to meet +you." + +And, positively, this was the only evening out of his whole wedding-trip +that Maurice had thoroughly enjoyed. + +"What on earth kept you out so late with that solemn young prig?" says +his wife to him as he opens her door. + +"I find him a very pleasant companion, and I have asked him to come to +Kynaston," answers Maurice, shortly. + +"Umph!" grunts Helen, and inwardly determines that his visit shall be a +short one. + +Four days later they were in England again. + +It was only when the train had actually stopped at Sutton, and he was +handing his wife into her own carriage under the arch of greenery across +the road, and amid the ringing cheers of the rustics, who had gathered +to see them arrive, that Maurice began to realise how powerfully that +home-coming was to be tinged in his own mind with thoughts of her who was +once so nearly going as a bride to the same house where now he was taking +Helen. + +All along the lane, as they drove under the arches of flags and flowers +that had been put up from the station to the park gates, and as they +responded to the hearty welcome from the village-folk who lined the road, +Maurice was asking himself, with a painful anxiety, whether _she_ was at +Sutton now; whether her eyes had rested upon these rustic decorations, +whether her steps had passed along under these mottoes of welcome and of +happiness. And then, as they neared the church, the clang of the bells +burst forth loudly and jarringly. + +Was _she_, perchance, there in the house, kneeling alone, white and +stricken by her bedside, whilst those joy-bells rang out their deafening +clamour from the church hard by? + +For the life of him, Maurice could not help casting a glance at the +vicarage as they drove swiftly by it. + +The windows were wide open, but no one looked out of them, the muslin +blinds fluttered in the wind, the Gloire de Dijon roses nodded upon the +wall, the Virginia creeper hung in crimson festoons over the porch; but +there was not a living creature to be seen. + +He had caught no glimpse of the woman that was ever in his heart; and it +was a great pity that he had looked for her, because his wife, whose +sharp eyes nothing ever escaped, had seen him look. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +"IF I COULD DIE!" + + Why cannot I forgo, forget + That ever I loved thee, that ever we met? + There is not a single link or sign + To bind thy life in this world with mine. + + M. W. Praed. + + +But it was not until Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston had been at home +for more than a fortnight that Vera came back to her brother-in-law's +house. + +She had kept away, poor girl, as long as she could. She had put off the +evil hour of her return as long as possible. The Hazeldines had gone to +Scotland, and Vera had, in desperation, accepted an invitation to stay +with some acquaintances whom she neither knew very well nor liked +overmuch. It had kept her from Sutton a little longer. But the visit had +come to an end at last, and what was she to do? She had no other visits +to prolong her absence, and her sister wrote to her perpetually, urging +her to return. Her home was at Sutton; she had no other place to go to. +She had told Sir John that in absence from his brother lay her only hope +of safety. But where was she to seek that safety? Where find security, +when he; reckless, or, perchance, heedless of her danger, had come to +plant himself at her very doors? They should have been far as the poles +asunder, and a malevolent fate had willed that the same parish should +contain them. + +For whatever Maurice did, Vera in no way underrated the danger. Too well +she knew her own heart; too surely she estimated the strength of a +passion which, repressed and thwarted, and half-smothered, as it had been +within her, yet burnt but the fiercer and the wilder. For that is the way +with love: if it may not flourish and thrive openly and bravely before +the eyes of the world, it will eat into the very heart and life, till all +that is fair and sweet in the garden of the soul is choked and blighted +and overgrown, till the main-spring of life becomes poisoned, and all +things that are happy, withered and dried up. + +In Vera's love for Maurice there had been nothing of joy, and all of +pain. There had never been for her that sweet illusion of dawning +affection--that intangible sense of delight in the consciousness of an +unspoken sympathy that is the very essence of a happy love. She had no +memories that were serene and untroubled--no days of calm and delicious +happiness to recall. His first conscious look had been a terror to her; +his words of hopeless love had given her a shock that had been almost +physical; and his few passionate kisses had burnt into her very soul till +they had seemed to have been printed upon her lips in fire. Vera's love +had brought her no good thing that she could count. But it had done one +thing for her: if it had cursed her life, it had purified her soul. + +The Vera who had come back to Sutton Vicarage in August was no longer the +same woman who had stood months ago on the terrace at Kynaston among the +falling autumn leaves, and who had told herself that it was money +alone that was worth living for. + +She came back to everything that was full of pain, and to much in which +there was absolute fear. + +Five minutes after she had entered the vicarage drawing-room her tortures +began. + +"You have not asked after the bride and bridegroom," says old Mrs. +Daintree, as she sits in her corner, darning everlastingly at those brown +worsted socks of her son's. Vera thinks she must have been sitting there +darning incessantly, day and night, ever since she had been away. "We are +all full of it down here. Such a pretty welcome home they had--arches +across the road, and processions with flags, and a band inside the +lodge-gates. You should have been here to have seen it. Everybody is +making much of Mrs. Kynaston; she is a very pretty woman, I must say, +and called here three days ago in the most beautiful Paris gown." + +"She seemed very sorry not to see you," says Marion, "and quite disposed +to be friendly. I do hope you and she will get on, Vera, in spite of the +awkwardness of her being in your place, as it were." + +"What do you mean?" rather sharply. + +"Only, of course, dear, that it will be rather painful to you just at +first to see anybody else the mistress at Kynaston, where you yourself +might have been----" + +"If you had not been a fool," interpolated the old lady, bluntly. + +"I don't think I shall mind that much," says Vera, quietly. "Where is +Eustace?" + +"Oh, he will be in presently; he has gone up to the Hall about the +chancel. The men have made all kinds of mistakes about the tesselated +pavement; the wrong pattern was sent down from town, and we have had so +much trouble about it, and there has been nobody to appeal to to set +things right. Captain Kynaston is all very well, and now he is back, I +hope we may get things into a little order; but I am sorry to say he +takes very little interest in the church or the parish; he is not half +so good a squire as poor dear Sir John." And there was a whole volume of +unspoken reproach in the sigh with which Marion wound up her remarks. + +"Decidedly," said Vera, to herself, as she went slowly upstairs to her +own little room; "decidedly I must get away from all this. I shall have +to marry." She leant out of her open window in a frame-work of roses +and jessamine, and looked out over the lime-trees towards the Hall. +Now that the trees were in full leaf, she could catch no glimpse of its +red-stacked chimneys and its terraced gardens; but, by-and-by, when the +leaves were down and the trees were bare, she knew she should see it. +Every morning when she got up the sun would be shining full upon it; +every night when she went to bed she would see the twinkling lights of +the many windows gleaming through the darkness; she would be in her +room alone, and _he_ would be out there, happy with his wife. + +"I shall not be able to bear it," said Vera, slowly, speaking aloud to +herself. "I had better marry, and go away; there is nothing else to be +done. Poor Denis! He is worthy of a better woman; but I think he will be +good to me." + +For it had come to this now, that when Vera thought about marrying, it +was upon Denis Wilde that she also pondered. + +To be at Sutton, and not to come face to face with Maurice, was of course +an impossibility. Carefully as Vera confined herself to the house and +garden for the next three days, she could not avoid going to church when +Sunday came. And at church were Captain and Mrs. Kynaston. During the +service she only saw his back, erect and broad-shouldered, in the seat in +front of her, for the pews had been cleared away, and open sittings had +been substituted all through the church. Maurice looked neither to the +right nor to the left; he stood, or sat, or knelt, and scarcely turned +his head an inch, but Helen's butterfly bonnet was twisted in every +direction throughout the service. It is certain that she very soon knew +who it was who had come into the vicarage seat behind her. + +When Vera came out of church, having purposely lingered as long as she +could inside, until the rest of the congregation had all gone out, she +found the bride and bridegroom waiting for her in the churchyard. + +Helen stood with her hand twined with easy familiarity round her +husband's arm; possibly she had studied the attitude with a view to +impressing Vera with the perfection of her conjugal happiness. She turned +quite delightedly to greet her. + +"Oh, here you are at last, Miss Nevill. We have been waiting for you, +have we not, Maurice dear? We both felt how pleased we should be to see +you. I am very glad you have come back; it will make it much more +pleasant for me at Kynaston; you will come up to see me, won't you? +I should like you to see my boudoir, it is lovely!" + +"You forget that Miss Nevill has seen it all long ago," said Maurice, +gravely; their hands had just met, but he had not looked at her. + +"Oh, yes, to be sure; how stupid I am! Of course, I remember now, it was +all done up for _you_ by poor dear old John. Doesn't it seem funny that +I should be going to live in the house? Ah, how d'ye do, Mr. Daintree?" +as Eustace came out of the vestry door; "here we are, chattering to your +sister. What a delightful sermon, dear Mr. Daintree, and what a treat to +be in a Christian church--I mean a Protestant church--again after those +dreadful Sundays on the Continent." + +Vera had turned to Maurice. + +"Have you any news of Sir John yet?" + +"No; we cannot expect to hear of his arrival till next month. I dare say +you will like to hear about him. I will let you know as soon as he +writes." + +"Thank you; I should like to know about him very much." + +Helen, in the middle of Eustace's polite acknowledgment of her compliment +to his sermon, was casting furtive glances at her husband; even the two +or three grave words he had exchanged with Vera were sufficient to make +her uneasy. She desired to torture Vera with envy and with jealousy; she +had forgotten to take into account how very easily her own suspicious +jealousy could be aroused. She interrupted the vicar in the very middle +of his speech. + +"Now, really, we must run away. Come, Maurice, darling, we shall be late +for lunch; you and Miss Nevill must finish your confidences another day. +You will come up soon, won't you? Any day at five I am in--good-bye." +She shook hands with them, and hurried her husband away. + +"What an odd thing it is that you and that girl never can meet without +having all sorts of private things to say to each other," she said, +angrily, as soon as they were out of earshot. + +"Private things! what can you possibly mean, Helen? Miss Nevill was +asking me if I had heard of John's arrival." + +"I wonder she has the face to mention John's name!" + +"Why, pray?" + +"After her disgraceful conduct to him." + +"I think you know very little about Miss Nevill's conduct, Helen." + +"No, I dare say not. And _you_ have always known a great deal more about +it than anybody else. That I have always understood, Maurice." + +Maurice looked very black, but he was silent. + +"I am very glad I told her about the boudoir," continued Helen, +spitefully. "How mortified she must feel to think that it has all slipped +through her fingers and into mine. I do hope she will come up to the +house. I shall show her all over it; she will wish she had not been +such a fool!" + +Maurice was looking at his wife with a singular expression. + +"I begin to think you have a very bad heart, Helen," he said, with +a contempt in his voice that was very near akin to disgust. + +She looked up, a little startled, and put her hand back, caressingly, +under his arm. + +"Oh, don't look at me like that, Maurice; I don't want to vex you. You +know very well how much I love you--and--and"--looking up with a little +smile into his face that was meant as a peace offering--"I suppose I am +jealous!" + +"Suppose you wait to be jealous until I give you cause to be so," +answered her husband, gravely and coldly, but not altogether unkindly, +for he meant to do his duty to her, God helping him, as far as he knew +how. + +But all the way home he walked silently by her side, and wondered whether +the sacrifice he had made of his love to his duty had been, indeed, worth +it. + +It had been hard for him, this first meeting with Vera. He had felt it +more than he had believed possible. Instinctively he had realized what +she must have suffered; and that her sufferings were utterly beyond his +power to console. It began to come into his mind that, meaning to deal +rightly by Helen, he had dealt cruelly and badly by Vera. He had +sacrificed the woman he loved to the woman he did not love. + +Had it, indeed, been such a right and praiseworthy action on his part? +Maurice lost himself in speculation as to what would have happened had he +broken his faith to Helen, and allowed himself to follow the dictates of +his heart rather than those of his conscience. + +That was what Vera had done for his sake; but what he had been unable to +do for hers. + +There was a certain hardness about the man, a rigid sense of honour that +was almost a fault; for, if it be a virtue to cleave to truth and good +faith above everything, to swear to one's neighbour and disappoint him +not--even though it be to one's own hindrance--it is certainly not a fine +or noble thing to mistake tenderness for a weakness only fit to be +crushed out of the soul with firm hands and an iron determination. + +Guilty once of one irreparable action of weakness, Maurice had set +himself determinedly ever after to undo the evil that he had done. + +To be true to his brother, to keep his faith with Helen, these had been +the only objects he had steadily kept in view: he had succeeded in his +efforts, but had scarcely realized that, in doing so, he had not only +wrecked his own life, but also that of the woman whom he had so +infinitely wronged. + +But when he saw her once again--when he held for an instant the cold hand +within his own--when he marked, with a pang, the dark circles round the +averted eyes that spoke so mutely and touchingly of sleepless vigils and +of many tears--when he noted how the lovely sensitive lips trembled a +little as she spoke her few common-place words to him--then Maurice began +to understand what he had done to her; and, for the first time, something +that was almost remorse, with regard to his own conduct towards her, came +into his soul. + +Such meditations were not, however, safe or profitable to indulge in for +long. Maurice recalled his wandering thoughts with an effort, and with +something of repentance for having given them place, turned his attention +resolutely to his wife's chatter during the remainder of the walk home. + +Meanwhile Vera and the vicar are walking back, side by side, to the +vicarage. + +"Something," says Eustace, with solemn displeasure, "something must +really be done, and that soon, about Ishmael Spriggs; that man will drive +me into my grave before my time! Anything more fearfully and awfully out +of tune than the Te Deum I never heard in the whole course of my life. I +can hear his voice shouting and bellowing above the whole of the rest of +the choir; he leads all the others wrong. It is not a bit of use to tell +me that he is the best behaved man in the parish; it is not a matter of +conduct, as I told Mr. Dale; it is a matter of voice, and if the man +can't be taught to sing in tune, out of the choir he shall go; it's a +positive scandal to the Service. Marion says we shall turn him into an +enemy if we don't let him sing, and that he will go to the dissenting +chapel, and never come to church any more. Well, I can't help that; I +must give him up to the dissenters. As to keeping him in the choir, it is +out of the question after that Te Deum. I shall never forget it. It will +give me a nightmare to-night, I am convinced. Wasn't it dreadful, Vera?" + +"Yes, very likely, Eustace," answered Vera, at random. She has not heard +one single word he has said. + +Eustace Daintree looks round at her sharply. He sees that she is very +white, and that there are tears upon her cheeks. + +"Why, Vera!" he cries, standing still, you have not listened to a word +I have been saying. "What is the matter, child? Why are you crying?" + +They are in the vicarage garden now; among the beds of scarlet geraniums, +and the tall hollyhocks, and the glaring red gladioli; a whole bank of +greenery, rhododendrons and lauristinas, conceals them from the windows +of the house; a garden bench sheltered beneath a nook of the laurel +bushes is close by. + +With a sudden gesture of utter misery Vera sinks down upon it, and bursts +into a passion of tears. + +"My dear child; my poor Vera! What is it? What has happened? What can be +the reason of this?" + +Mr. Daintree is infinitely distressed and puzzled; he bends over her, +taking her hand between his own. There is something in this wild outburst +of grief, from one habitually so calm and self-contained as Vera, that is +an absolute shock to him. He had learnt to love her very dearly; he had +thought he had understood all the workings of her candid maiden soul; he +had fancied that the story of her broken engagement was no secret to him, +that it was but the struggle of a conscientious nature after what was +true and honest. It had seemed to him that there had been no mystery in +her conduct, for he could appreciate all her motives. And surely, as she +had done right, she must be now at peace. He had told himself that the +pure instincts of a naturally stainless soul had triumphed in Vera over +the carelessness and worldliness of her early training; and lo, here was +the passionate weeping of a tempest-tossed woman, whose agony he could +not fathom, and whose sorrows he knew not how to divine. + +"Vera, will you not tell me?" he asked her, in his distress. "Will you +not make a friend of me? My dear, forget that I am a clergyman; remember +only that I am your brother, and that I shall know how to feel for +you--for you, my dear sister." + +But she could not tell him. There are some troubles that must be kept for +ever buried within our own souls; to speak of some things is only to make +them worse. Only she choked back her sobs, and lifted her face, white +and tear-stained; there was a look of hunted despair in her eyes, that +bewildered, and even half-terrified him. + +"Tell me," she said, with a sort of anger, "tell me, you that are a +clergyman--Do you think God has made us only to torment us? You have got +a daughter, Eustace; pray God, night and morning, that she may have a +hard heart, and that she may never have one gleam of womanly tenderness +within her; for only so are women happy!" + +He did not answer her wild words. Instinctively he felt that common-place +speeches of rebuke or of consolation would be trivial and out of place +before the great anguish of her heart. The man's soul was above the +narrow limits of his training; he felt, dimly, that here was something +with which it were best not to intermeddle, some trouble for which he +could offer no consolation. + +She rose and stood before him, holding his hands and gazing earnestly at +his anxious face. + +"It has come to this with me," she said, below her voice, "that there are +times when there is but one good thing in all the world that I know any +longer how to desire. God has so ordered my life that there is no road +open for me that does not lead to sin or to misery. Surely, if He were +merciful, He would take back the valueless gift." + +"Vera! what do you mean?" + +"I mean," she exclaimed, wearily, "that if I could die, I should be at +peace." + +She had walked slowly on; her voice, that had trembled at first with a +passionate wildness, had sunk into the spiritless apathy of despair; her +head was bent, her hands clasped before her; her dress trailed with a +soft rustle across the grass, sweeping over a whole wilderness of white +daisies, that bent their heads beneath its folds as she walked. A gleam +of sunshine fell upon her hair, and a bird sang loud and shrill in the +lime trees overhead. + +Often and often, in the after days, Eustace Daintree thought of her thus, +and remembered with a pang the sole sad gift that she had craved at +Heaven's hands. Often and often the scene came back to him; the sunny +garden, the scarlet geraniums flaring in the borders, the smooth green +lawn, speckled with shadows from the trees, the wide open windows of his +pleasant vicarage beyond, and the beautiful figure of the girl at his +side, with her bent head, and her low broken voice--the girl who, at +twenty-three, sighed to be rid of the life that had become too hard for +her; that precious gift of life which, too often, at three-score years +and ten, is but hardly resigned! + +"If I could die, I should be at peace," she had said. And she was only +twenty-three! + +Eustace Daintree never forgot it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +AN EVENTFUL DRIVE. + + Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. + + Shakespeare, "Henry IV." + + +I imagine that the most fretting and wearing of all the pains and +penalties which it is the lot of humanity to undergo in this troublesome +and naughty world are those which, by our own folly, our own +shortsightedness, and our own imprudence, we have brought upon ourselves. + +There is a degree of irritation in such troubles which adds a whole +armoury of small knife-cuts to intensify the agony of the evil from which +we suffer. It is more dreadful to be moaning over our own mistakes than +over the inscrutable perversity of an unpropitious fate. + +Somebody once has said that most men grieve over the smallest mistake +more bitterly than over the greatest sin. This is decidedly a perversion +of the moral nature; nevertheless, there is a good deal of truth in it. + +"If only I had not been such a fool! If I could only have foreseen such +and such results?" + +These are more generally the burden of our bitterest self-reproaches. + +And this was what Miss Miller was perpetually repeating to herself during +the months of August and September. Beatrice, in these days, was a +thoroughly miserable young woman. She was more utterly separated than +ever from her lover, and that entirely by her own fault. That foolish +escapade of hers to the Temple had been fatal to her; her father, who +had been inclined to become her lover's friend, had now peremptorily +forbidden her ever to mention his name again, and her own lips were +sealed as to the unlucky incident in which she had played so prominent +a part. + +Beatrice knew that, in going alone and on the sly to her lover's +chambers, she had undoubtedly compromised her own good name. To confess +to her own folly and imprudence was almost beyond her power, and to clear +her lover's name at the expense of her own was what she felt he himself +would scarcely thank her for. + +Mr. Miller had, of course, said something of what he had discovered at +Mr. Pryme's chambers to the wife of his bosom. + +"The young man is not fit for her," he had said; "his private life will +not bear investigation. You must tell Beatrice to put him out of her +head." + +Mrs. Miller had, of course, been virtuously indignant over Mr. Pryme's +offences, but she had also been triumphantly elated over her own +sagacity. + +"Did I not tell you he was not a proper husband for her? Another time, +Andrew, you will, I hope, allow that I am the best judge in these +matters." + +"My dear, you are always right," was the meekly conjugal reply, and then +Mrs. Miller went her way and talked to Beatrice for half-an-hour over the +sinful lives which are frequently led by young men of no family residing +in the Temple, and the shame and disgrace which must necessarily accrue +to any well-brought-up young woman who, in an ill-advised moment, shall +allow her affections to rove towards such unsanctified Pariahs of +society. + +And Beatrice, listening to her blushingly, knew what she meant, and yet +had no words wherewith to clear her lover's character from the defamatory +evidence furnished against him by her own sunshade and gloves. + +"Your father has seen with his own eyes, my dear, that which makes it +impossible for us ever to consent to your marrying that young man." + +How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I--your daughter--who was +there, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom." She could not speak the words. + +The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded its +velvet lawns. Below, the Bath slumbered darkly in the shadow of its +ancient steps and its encircling belt of fir-trees; and beyond the +flower-gardens, half-an-acre of pineries, and vineries, and +orchard-houses glittered in a dazzling parterre of glass-roofs and white +paint. Something new--it was an orchard-house--was being built. There was +always something new, and Mr. Miller was superintending the building of +it. He stood over the workmen who were laying the foundation, watching +every brick that was laid down with delighted and absorbed interest. He +held a trowel himself, and had tucked up his shirt cuffs in order to lend +a helping hand in the operations. There was nothing that Andrew Miller +loved so well. Fate and his Caroline had made him a member of Parliament, +and had placed him in the position of a gentleman, but nature had +undoubtedly intended him for a bricklayer. + +Beatrice came out of the drawing-room windows across the lawn to him. She +was in her habit, and stood tapping her little boot with her riding whip +for some minutes by her father's side. + +"I am going to see uncle Tom, papa," she said; "have you any message?" + +"Going to Lutterton? Ah, that's right; the ride will do you good, my +dear. No; I have no message." + +Beatrice went back into the house; her little bay mare stood at the door. +She met her mother in the hall. + +"I am going to see uncle Tom," she said, to her also. + +Mrs. Miller always encouraged her children in their attentions to her +brother. He was rich, and he was a bachelor; he must have saved a good +deal one way or another. Who could tell how it would be left? And then +Beatrice was undoubtedly his favourite. She nodded pleasantly to her +daughter. + +"Tell uncle Tom to come over to lunch on Sunday, and, of course, he must +come here early for Guy's birthday next week," for there were to be great +doings on Guy's birthday. "Ride slowly, Beatrice, or you will get so +hot." + +Lutterton Castle was a good six miles off. The house stood well, and even +imposingly, on a high wooded knoll that overlooked the undulating park, +and the open valley at its feet. It was a great rambling building with a +central tower and four smaller ones at each corner. When Mr. Esterworth +was at home, which was almost always, it was his vanity to keep a red +flag flying from the centre tower as though he had been royalty. All the +reception-rooms and more than half the bedrooms were permanently +shuttered up, and there was a portly and very dignified housekeeper, +who rattled her keys at her chatelaine, and went through all the unused +apartments daily, followed by a meek phalanx of housemaids, to see that +all the rooms were well-aired and well kept in order, so that at any +minute they might be fit for occupation. Five or six times during the +hunting season the large rooms were all thrown open, and there was a hunt +breakfast held in the principal dining-hall; but, with that exception, +Mr. Esterworth rarely entertained at all. + +He occupied three rooms opening out of each other in the small western +tower. They consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, and a small and +rather inconvenient study, where the huntsman, whips, and other official +personages connected with the hunt were received at all hours of the day +and night. The room was consequently pervaded by a faint odour of stables +and tobacco; there were usually three or four dogs upon the hearthrug, +and it was a rare thing to find Mr. Esterworth in it unaccompanied by +some personage in breeches and gaiters, wearing a blue spotted neckcloth +and a horseshoe pin. + +Such an individual was receiving an audience at the moment of Miss +Miller's arrival, and shuffled awkwardly and hurriedly out of the room by +one door as she entered it by another. + +"All right, William," calls the M.F.H. after his departing satellite. +"Look in again to-night. I shall have her fired, I think, and throw her +up till December. Hallo! Pussy, how are you?" + +All the four dogs rose from the hearthrug and wagged their tails solemnly +in respectful greeting to her. Beatrice had a pat and a word for each, +and a kiss for her uncle, before she sat down on the chair he pulled +forward for her. + +"What brings you, Pussy? What are you riding?" + +"Kitty; they have taken her round to the stable. I thought I'd have lunch +with you, uncle Tom." + +"Very well; you won't get anything but a mutton-chop." + +"I don't ask for anything better." + +Beatrice felt that her heart was beating. She had taken a desperate +resolution during her six miles' solitary ride; she had determined to +take her uncle into her confidence. He had always been indulgent and kind +to her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as her +mother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her. + +"Uncle Tom, I'm in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it," +she began, trembling. + +"I'm very sorry, Pussy; what is it?" + +"I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London. I went to a young +man's rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom." + +"The deuce you did!" says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes. + +"Yes," continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame and +confusion; "and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in the +sitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it was +mine, and--and--he thinks--he thinks----" + +"That's the best joke I ever heard in my life!" cries Mr. Esterworth, +laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud. + +"Uncle Tom!" Beatrice could hardly believe her ears. + +"Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!" cries her uncle, between the +outbursts of his mirth. "Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one; +there isn't much Miller blood in your veins. You are an Esterworth all +over." + +"But, uncle, indeed, it's no laughing matter." + +"Well, I don't see much to cry at if your father did not find you out; +the young man is never likely to talk." + +"Oh, but uncle Tom; papa and mamma think so badly of him, and I can't +tell them that I was there; and they will never let me marry him." + +"Oh! so you are in love, Pussy?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +Tom Esterworth smote his hand against his corduroy thigh. + +"What a mistake!" he exclaimed; "a girl who can go across country as you +do--what on earth do you want to be married for? Is it Mr. Pryme, Pussy?" + +Beatrice nodded. + +"And he can't go a yard," said her uncle, sorrowfully and reproachfully. + +"Oh, I think he goes very well, uncle; his seat is capital; it is only +his hands that are a bit heavy; but then he has had very little +practice." + +"Tut--tut, don't talk to me, child; he is no horseman. He may be a good +young man in his way, but what can have made you take a fancy to a fellow +who can't ride is a mystery to me! Now tell me the whole story, Pussy." + +And then Beatrice made a clean breast of it. + +"I will see if I can help you," said her uncle, seriously, when she had +finished her story; "but I can't think how you can have set your heart +upon a fellow who can't ride!" + +This was evidently a far more fatal error in Tom Esterworth's eyes than +the other matter of her being shut up in Mr. Pryme's rooms. Beatrice +began to think she had not done anything so very terrible after all. + +"I must turn it over in my mind. Now come and eat your mutton-chop, +Pussy, and when we have finished our lunch, you shall come out with me +in the dog-cart. I am going to put Clochette into harness for the first +time." + +"Will she go quietly?" + +"Like a lamb, I should say. You won't be nervous?" + +"Dear, no! I am never nervous; I shall enjoy the fun." + +The mutton-chop over, Clochette and the dog-cart came round to the door. +She was a raking, bright chestnut mare, with a coat like satin. Even as +she stood at the door she chafed somewhat at her new position between +the shafts. This, however, was no more than might have been expected. Mr. +Esterworth declining the company of the groom, helped his niece up and +took the reins. + +"We will go round by Tripton and back by the common," he said, "and talk +this matter well over, Pussy; we shall enjoy ourselves much better with +nobody in the back seat. A man sits there with his arms crossed and his +face like a blank sheet of paper, but one never knows how much they hear, +and their ears are always cocked, like a terrier's on the scent of a +rat." + +Clochette went off from the door with a bound, but soon settled down into +a good swinging trot. She kept turning her head nervously from side to +side, and there was evidently a little uncertainty in her mind as to +whether she should keep to the drive, or deviate on to the grass by the +side of it; but, upon the whole, she behaved fairly well, and turned out +of the lodge gates into the high road with perfect docility and good +breeding. + +There was a whole avalanche of dogs in attendance. A collie, rushing on +tumultuously in front; a "plum-pudding" dog between the wheels; a couple +of fox-terriers snapping joyfully at each other in the rear; and there +was also an ill-conditioned animal--half lurcher, half terrier--who +killed cats, and murdered fowls, and worried sheep, and flew at the +heels of unwary strangers; and was given, in short, to every sort of +canine iniquity, and who possessed but one redeeming feature in his +character--that of blind adoration to his master. + +This animal, who followed uncle Tom whithersoever he went, came skurrying +out of the stables as the dog-cart drove off, and joined in the general +scamper. + +Perhaps the dogs may have been too much for Clochette's nerves, or +perhaps the effort of behaving well as far as the park gates with those +horrible wheels rattling behind her was as much as any hunter born and +bred could be expected to do, or perhaps uncle Tom was too free with that +whip with which he caressed her shining flanks; but be that as it may, no +sooner was Clochette's head well turned along the straight high-road with +its high-tangled hedge-rows on either side than she began to show symptoms +of behaving very badly indeed. She bucked and pranced, and stood on her +hind legs; she whipped suddenly round, pirouetted upon her own axis with +the dexterity of a circus performer, and demonstrated very plainly that, +if she only dared, she would like to take to her heels in the reverse +direction to that which her driver desired her to go. + +All this was, however, equally delightful and exciting both to Tom +Esterworth and his niece. There was no apprehension in Beatrice's mind, +for her uncle drove as well as he rode, and she felt perfectly secure in +the strong, supple hands that guided Clochette's erratic movements. + +"There is not a kick in her," uncle Tom had said, as they started, and he +repeated the observation now; and kicking being out of the category of +Clochette's iniquities, there was nothing else to fear. + +No sooner, however, had the words left his lips than a turn of the road +brought them within sight of a great volume of black smoke rushing slowly +but surely towards them; whilst a horrible roaring and howling, as of an +antediluvian monster in its wrath, filled the silence of the summer +afternoon with a hideous and unholy confusion. + +Talk about there being no wild animals in our peaceful land! What +could have been the Megatherium and the Ichthyosaurus, and all the +fire-spitting dragons of antiquity compared to the traction engines of +the nineteenth century? + +"It's a steam plough!" ejaculated Beatrice, below her breath. + +"D----n!" cried her uncle, not at all below _his_ breath. + +As to Clochette, she stood for an instant stock still, with her ears +pricked and her head well up, facing the horrors of her situation; next +she gave an angry snort as though to say, "No! _this_ is too much!" Then +she turned short round and began a series of peculiar bounds and plunges, +accompanied by an ominous uplifting of her hind quarters, which had +plainly but one object in view--the correct conjugation of the verb +active "to kick." + +There was a crunching of woodwork, a cracking as of iron hoofs against +the splash-board. Beatrice instinctively put up her hands before her +face, but she did not utter a sound. + +"Do you think you could get down, Pussy, and go to her head?" + +"Shall I hold the reins, uncle?" + +"No, you couldn't hold her; she'll be over the hedge if I let go of her. +Get down if you can." + +It was not easy. Beatrice was in her habit, and to jump from the +vacillating height of a dog-cart to the earth is no easy matter even to +a man unencumbered with petticoats. + +"Try and get over the back," said her uncle, who was in momentary terror +lest the mare's heels should be dashed into her face. And Beatrice, with +that finest trait of a woman's courage in danger, which consists in doing +exactly what she is told, began to scramble over the back of her seat. + +The situation was critical in the extreme; the traction engine came on +apace, the man with the red flag having paused at a public-house round +the corner, was only now running back into his place. Uncle Tom shouted +vainly to him; his voice was drowned in the deafening roar of the +advancing monster. + +But already help was at hand, unheard and unperceived by either uncle or +niece; a horseman had come rapidly trotting up the road behind them. To +spring from his horse, who was apparently accustomed to traction engines, +and stood quietly by, to rush to the plunging, struggling mare, and to +seize her by the head was the work of a moment. + +"All right, Mr. Esterworth," shouted the new comer. "I can hold her if +you can get down; we can lead her into the field; there is a gate ten +yards back." + +Uncle Tom threw the reins to his niece and slipped to the ground; between +them the two men contrived to quiet the terrified Clochette, and to lead +her towards the gate. + +In another three minutes they were all safely within the shelter of the +hedge. The traction engine passed, snorting forth fire and smoke, on its +devastating way; and Clochette stood by, panting, trembling, and covered +with foam. Beatrice, safely on the ground, was examining ruefully the +amount of damage done to the dog-cart, and Mr. Esterworth was shaking +hands with his deliverer. + +It was Herbert Pryme. + +"That's the last time I ever take a lady out, driving without a +man-servant behind me," quoth the M.F.H. "What we should have done +without your timely assistance, sir, I really cannot say; in another +minute she would have kicked the trap into a thousand bits. You have +saved my niece's life, Mr. Pryme." + +"Indeed, I did very little," said Herbert, modestly, glancing at Beatrice +who was trembling and rather pale; but, perhaps, that was only from her +recent fright. She had not spoken to him, only she had given him one +bewildered glance, and then had looked hastily away. + +"You have saved her life," repeated Mr. Esterworth, with decision. "I +hope you do not mean to contradict my words, sir? You have saved +Beatrice's life, sir, and it's the most providential thing in this world +for you, as Clochette very nearly kicked her to pieces under your nose. +I shall tell Mr. and Mrs. Miller that they are indebted to you for their +daughter's life. Young people, I am going to lead this brute of a mare +home, and, if you like to walk on together to Lutterton in front of me, +why you may." + +That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the good +graces of his lady love's father and mother. + +Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account of +the danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic and +highly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity in +rushing to her rescue, that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had no other course left +than to shake hands gratefully with the man to whom, as uncle Tom said, +they literally owed her life. + +"I could not have saved her without him," said uncle Tom, drawing +slightly upon his imagination; "in another minute she must have been +kicked to pieces, or dashed violently to the earth among the broken +fragments of the cart, and"--with a happy after-thought--"the steam +plough would have crushed its way over her mangled body." + +Mrs. Miller shuddered. + +"Oh, Tom, I never can trust her to you again!" + +"No, my dear; but I think you must trust her to Mr. Pryme; that young man +deserves to be rewarded." + +"But, my dear Tom, there are things against his character. I assure you, +Andrew himself saw----" + +"Pooh! pooh!" interrupted Mr. Esterworth. "Young men who sow their wild +oats early are all the better husbands for it afterwards. I will give him +a talking to if you like, but you and your husband must let Pussy have +her own way; it is the least you can do after his conduct; and don't +worry about his being poor, Caroline; I have nothing better to do with my +money, and I shall take care that Pussy is none the worse off for my +death. She is worth all the rest of your children put together--an +Esterworth, every inch of her!" + +That, it is to be imagined, was the clenching argument in Mrs. Miller's +mind. Uncle Tom's money was not to be despised, and, by reason of his +money, uncle Tom's wishes were bound to carry some weight with them. + +Mr. Pryme, who had been staying for a few days at Kynaston, where, +however, the cordial welcome given to him by its master was, in a great +measure, neutralised by the coldness and incivility of its mistress, +removed himself and his portmanteau, by uncle Tom's invitation, to +Lutterton, and his engagement to Miss Miller became a recognised fact. + +"All the same, it is a very bad match for her," said Mrs. Miller, in +confidence, to her husband. + +"And I should very much like to know who that sunshade belonged to," +added the M.P. for Meadowshire, severely. + +"I think, my dear, we shall have to overlook that part of the business, +for, as Tom will leave them his money, why----" + +"Yes, yes, I quite understand; we must hope the young man has had a good +lesson. Let bygones be bygones, certainly," and Mr. Miller took a pinch +of snuff reflectively, and wondered what Tom Esterworth would "cut up +for." + +"But I am _determined_," said Mrs. Miller, ere she closed the discussion, +"I am determined that I will do better for Geraldine." + +After all, the mother had a second string to her bow, so the edict went +forth that Beatrice was to be allowed to be happy in her own way, and the +shadow of that fatal sunshade was no longer to be suffered to blacken the +moral horizon of her father's soul. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +BY THE VICARAGE GATE. + + Before our lives divide for ever, + While time is with us and hands are free, + (Time swift to fasten, and swift to sever + Hand from hand....) + I will say no word that a man might say + Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; + For this could never have been. And never + (Though the gods and the years relent) shall be. + + Swinburne. + + +The peacocks had it all to themselves on the terrace walk at Kynaston. +They strutted up and down, craning and bridling their bright-hued necks +with a proud consciousness of absolute proprietorship in the place, and +their long tails trailed across the gravel behind them with the soft +rustle of a woman's garments. Now and then their sad, shrill cries echoed +weirdly through the deserted gardens. + +There was no one to see them--the gardeners had all gone home--and no one +was moving from the house. Only one small boy, with a rough head and a +red face, stood below the stone balustrade, half-hidden among the +hollyhocks and the roses, looking wistfully up at the windows of the +house. + +"What am I to do with it?" said Tommy Daintree, half-aloud to himself, +and looked sorely perplexed and bewildered. + +Tommy had a commission to fulfil, a commission from Vera. He carried a +little note in his hands, and he had promised Vera faithfully that he +would wait near the house till he saw Captain Kynaston come in from his +day's shooting, and give him the note into his own hands. + +"You quite understand, Tommy; no one else." + +"Yes, auntie, I quite understand." + +And Tommy had been waiting there an hour, but still there was no sign of +Captain Kynaston's return; he was getting very tired and very hungry by +this time, for he had had no tea. He had heard the dressing-bell ring +long ago in the house--it must be close upon their dinner hour. Tommy +could not guess that, by an unaccustomed chance, the master of the house +had gone in by the back-door to-day, and that he had been in some time. + +Presently some one pushed aside the long muslin curtains, and came +stepping out of the long French window on to the terrace. It was Helen. + +She was dressed for dinner; she wore a pale blue dress, cut open at the +neck, a string of pearls and a jewelled locket hung at her throat; she +turned round, half laughing, to some one who was following her. + +"You will see all the county magnates at Shadonake to-morrow. You will +have quite enough of them, I promise you; they are neither lively nor +entertaining." + +A young man, also in evening dress, had followed her out on to the +terrace; it was Denis Wilde; he had arrived from town by the afternoon +train. Why he should have thrown over several very good invitations to +country houses in Norfolk and Suffolk, where there were large and +cheerful parties gathered together, and partridge shooting to make a man +dream of, in order to come down to the poor sport of Kynaston and the +insipid society of a newly married couple, with whom he was not on very +intimate terms, is a problem which Mr. Wilde alone could have +satisfactorily solved. Being here, he was naturally disposed to make +himself extremely agreeable to his hostess. + +"You can't think how anxious I am to inspect the _elite_ of Meadowshire!" +he said, laughing. "My life is an incomplete thing without a sight of +it." + +"You will witness the last token of mental aberration in a +decently-brought up young woman in the person of Beatrice Miller. You +know her. Well, she has actually engaged herself to a barrister whom +nobody knows anything about, and who--_bien entendu_--has no briefs--they +never have any. He was staying here for a couple of days; a slow, heavy +young man, who quoted Blackstone. Maurice took a fancy to him abroad; +however, he was clever enough to save Beatrice's life by stopping a +run-away horse. Some people say the accident was the invention of the +lovers' own imaginations; however, the parents believed in it, and it +turned the scales in his favour; but he has taken himself off, I am +thankful to say, and is staying at Lutterton with her uncle. Beatrice +might have married well, but girls are such fools. Hallo, Topsy, what are +you barking at?" + +Mrs. Kynaston's pug had come tearing out of the house with a whole chorus +of noisy yappings. The peacocks, deeply wounded in their tenderest +feelings, instantly took wing, and went sailing away majestically over +the crimson and gold parterre of flowers below. + +"What can possess her to bark at the peacocks?" said Helen. "Be quiet, +Topsy." + +But Topsy refused to be tranquillized. + +"She is barking at something below the terrace; perhaps there is a cat +there," said Denis. + +"If so, it would be Dutch courage, indeed," answered Helen, laughing. +They went to the edge of the stone parapet and looked over; there stood +Tommy Daintree below them, among the hollyhocks. + +"Why, little boy, who are you, and what do you want? Why, are you not Mr. +Daintree's little boy?" + +"Yes." + +"Then what are you waiting for?" + +"I want to give a note to Captain Kynaston," said Tommy, crimson with +confusion. "Is he ever coming in?" + +"He is in now; give me the note." + +"I was to give it to himself, to nobody else." + +"Who told you?" + +"Aunt Vera." + +"Oh!" There was a whole volume of meaning in the simple exclamation. +Mrs. Kynaston held out her hand. "You can give it to me, I am Captain +Kynaston's wife, you know. Give it to me, Tommy. Your name is Tommy, +isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Mr. Wilde, will you be so kind as to fetch +Tommy a peach off the dinner-table? Give the note to me, my dear, and you +can tell your aunt that it shall be given to Captain Kynaston directly." + +When Denis returned from his mission to the dining-room he only found +Tommy waiting for his peach upon the terrace steps. Mrs. Kynaston had +gone back into the house. + +Tommy went off devouring his prey with, it must be confessed, rather a +guilty conscience over it. Somehow or other, he felt that he had failed +in the trust his aunt had placed in him; but then, Mrs. Kynaston had been +very kind and very peremptory; she had almost taken the letter out of his +hand, and she had smiled and looked quite like a fairy princess out of +one of Minnie's story-books in her pretty blue silk dress and shining +locket--and then, peaches were so very nice! + +What happened to Denis Wilde after the small boy's departure was this. He +sauntered back to the drawing-room windows and looked in; no one was +there. He then wandered further down the terrace till he came opposite +the window of the boudoir--Mrs. Kynaston's own boudoir--which Sir John's +loving hands had once lined with blue and silver for his Vera. Here he +caught sight of Mrs. Kynaston's fair head and slender figure. Her back +was turned to him; he was on the point of calling out to her, when +suddenly the words upon his lips were arrested by something which he saw +her doing. Instead of speaking, he simply stood still and stared at her. + +Mrs. Kynaston, unconscious of observation, held the note which Tommy had +just given her over the steam of a small jug of hot water, which she had +hastily ordered her maid to bring to her. In less than a minute the +envelope unfastened of itself. Helen then deliberately took out the note +and read it. + +What she read was this:-- + + "Dear Captain Kynaston,--I have something that I have promised to give + to you when you are alone. Would you mind coming round to the vicarage + after dinner to-night, at nine o'clock? You will find me at the + gate.--Sincerely yours, + + "Vera Nevill." + +Then Helen lit a candle, and fastened the letter up again with +sealing-wax. + +And Denis Wilde crept away from the window on tip-toe with a sense of +shocked horror upon him such as he never remembered having experienced in +his life before. + +All at once his pretty, pleasant hostess, with whom he had been glad +enough to banter, and with whom even he had been ready to enter upon a +mild and innocent flirtation, became horrible and hateful to him; and +there came into his mind, like an inspiration, the knowledge of her +enmity to Vera; for it was Vera's note that she had opened and read. Then +his instincts were straightway all awake with the acuteness of a danger, +to something--he knew not what--that threatened the woman he loved. + +"Thank God, I am here," he said to himself. "That woman is her foe, and +she will be dangerous to her. I would not have come to her house had I +known it; but now I am here, I will stay, for it is certain that she will +need a friend." + +At dinner-time the note lay by Maurice's side on the table. Whilst the +soup was being helped he took it up and opened it. He little knew how +narrowly both his wife and his guest watched him as he read it. + +But his face was inscrutable. Only he talked a little more, and seemed, +perhaps, in better spirits than usual; but that is what a stranger could +not have noticed, although it is possible that Helen may have done so. + +"By the vicarage gate," she had said, and it was there that he found her. +Behind her lay the dark and silent garden, beyond it the house, with its +wide-open drawing-room windows, and the stream of yellow light from the +lamp within, lying in a golden streak across the lawn. She leant over the +gate; an archway of greenery, dark in the night's dim light, was above +her head, and clusters of pale, creamy roses hung down about her on every +side. + +It was that sort of owl's light that has no distinctness in it, and yet +is far removed from darkness. Vera's perfect figure, clad in some white, +clinging garment that fell about her in thick, heavy folds, stood out +with a statue-like clearness against the dark shrubs behind her. She +seemed like some shadowy queen of the night. Out of the dimness, the +clear oval of her perfect face shone pale as the waning moon far away +behind the church tower, whilst the dusky veil of her dark hair lost +itself vaguely in the shadows, and melted away into the background. +A poet might have hymned her thus, but no painter could have painted her. + +And it was thus that he found her. For the first time for many weary +weeks and months he was alone with her; for the first time he could speak +to her freely and from his heart. He knew not what it was that had made +her send for him, or why it was that he had come. He did not remember her +note, or that she had said that she had something for him. All he knew +was, that she had sent for him, and that he was with her. + +There was the gate between them, but her white soft hands were clasped +loosely together over the top of it. He took them feverishly between his +own. + +"I am late--you have waited for me, dear? Oh, Vera, how glad I am to be +with you!" + +There was a dangerous tenderness in his voice that frightened her. She +tried to draw away her hands. + +"I had something for you, or I should not have sent--please, Captain +Kynaston--Maurice--please let my hands go." + +He was alone under the star-flecked heavens with the woman he loved, +there was all the witchery of the pale moonlight about her, all the +sweet perfumes of the summer night to intensify the fascination of her +presence. There was a nameless glamour in the luminous dimness--a subtle +seduction to the senses in the silence and the solitude; a bird chirruped +once among the tangled roses overhead, and a soft, sighing breeze +fluttered for one instant amid its long, trailing branches. And then, +God knows how it came to pass, or what madness possessed the man; +but suddenly there was no longer any faith, or honour, or truth for +him--nothing on the face of the whole earth but Vera. + +He caught her passionately in his arms, and showered upon her lips the +maddest, wildest kisses that man ever gave to woman. + +For one instant she lay still upon his heart; all the fury of her misery +was at rest--all the storm of her sorrow was at peace--for one instant of +time she tasted of life's sublimest joy ere the waters of blackness and +despair closed in once more over her soul. For one instant only--then she +remembered, and withdrew herself shudderingly from his grasp. + +"For God's sake, have pity upon me, Maurice!" she wailed. It was the cry +of a broken heart that appealed to his manhood and his honour more surely +and more directly than a torrent of reproach or a storm of indignation. + +"Forgive me," he murmured, humbly; "I am a brute to you. I had forgotten +myself. I ought to have spared you, sweet. See, I have let you go; I will +not touch you again; but it was hard to see you alone, to be near you, +and yet to remember how we are parted. Vera, I have ruined your life; it +is wonderful that you do not hate me." + +"A true woman never hates the man who has been hard on her," she +answered, smiling sadly. + +"If it is any comfort to you to know it, I too am wretched; now it is too +late: I know that my life is spoilt also." + +"No; why should that comfort me?" she said, wearily. She leant half back +against the gate--if he could have seen her well in the uncertain light, +he would have been shocked at the worn and haggard face of his beautiful +Vera. + +Presently she spoke again. + +"I am sorry that I asked you to come--it was not wise, was it, Maurice? +How long must you stop at Kynaston? Can you not go away? We are neither +of us strong enough to bear this--I, I cannot go--but you, _must_ you be +always here?" + +"Before God," he answered, earnestly, "I swear to you that I will go away +if it is in my power to go." + +"Thank you." Then, with an effort, she roused herself to speak to him: +"But that is not what I wanted to say; let me tell you why I sent for +you. I made a promise, a wretched, stupid thing, to a tiresome little man +I met in London--a Monsieur D'Arblet, a Frenchman; do you know him?" + +"D'Arblet! I never heard the name in my life that I know of." + +"Really, that seems odd, for I have a little parcel from him to you, and, +strangely enough, he made me promise on my word of honour to give it to +you when no one was near. I did not know how to keep my promise, for, +though we may sometimes meet in public, we are not often likely to meet +alone. I have it here; let me give it to you and have done with the +thing; it has been on my mind." + +She drew a small packet from her pocket, and was about to give it to him, +when suddenly his ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; he +looked nervously round, then he put forth his hand quickly and stopped +her. + +"Hush, give me nothing now!" he said, in a low, hurried voice. "To-morrow +we shall meet at Shadonake; if you will go near the Bath some time +during the day after lunch is over, I will join you there, and you can +give it to me; it can be of no possible importance; go in now quickly; +good-night. It is my wife." + +She turned and fled swiftly back to the house through the darkness, and +Maurice was left face to face with Helen. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +DENIS WILDE'S LOVE. + + A mighty pain to love it is, + And 'tis a pain that love to miss; + But, of all pains, the greatest pain + Is to love, but love in vain. + + Cowley. + + +He had not been mistaken. It was Helen who had crept out after him in the +darkness, and whose slight figure, in her pale blue dress, stood close by +him in an angle of the road. + +How long she had stood there and what she had heard he did not know. He +expected a torrent of abuse and a storm of reproaches from her, but she +refrained from either. She passed her arm within his, and walked beside +him for several minutes in silence. Maurice, who felt rather guilty, was +weak enough to say, hesitatingly, + +"The night was so fine, I strolled out to smoke----" + +"_Qui s'excuse s'accuse_," quoted Helen; "only you are not smoking, +Maurice!" + +"My cigar has gone out; I--I met Miss Nevill at the gate of the +vicarage." + +"So I saw," rather significantly. + +"I stopped to have a little talk to her. There is no harm, I suppose, in +that!" he added, irritably. + +Helen laughed shortly and harshly. + +"Harm! oh dear, no; whoever said there was? By the way, is not this freak +of yours of going out into the roads to smoke, as you say, alone, rather +a slight on your guest? Here is Mr. Wilde; how very amusing! we all seem +to be drawn out towards the vicarage to-night." + +Denis Wilde, in fact, had followed in the wake of his hostess, and they +met him now by the lodge gates. + +"How very strange!" called out Helen to him, in her scornful, bantering +voice; "how strange that we should all have gone out for solitary +rambles, and all meet in the same place; and there was Miss Nevill out +in the vicarage garden, also on a solitary ramble." + +"Is Miss Nevill there? I think I will go on and call upon her," said +Denis. + +"You too, Mr. Wilde!" cried Helen. "Have you fallen a victim to the +beauty? We heard enough of her in town; she turned all the men's heads; +even married men are not safe from her snares, and yet it is singular +that none of her admirers care to marry her; there are some women whom +all men make love to, but whom none care to make wives of!" + +And Maurice was a coward, and spoke no word in her defence; he did not +dare; but young Denis Wilde drew himself up proudly. + +"Mrs. Kynaston," he said, sternly, "I must ask you not to speak +slightingly of Miss Nevill." + +"Good gracious, why not? I suppose we are all free to use our tongues and +our eyes in this world! Why should you become the woman's champion?" + +"Because," answered Denis, gravely, "I hope to make her my wife." + +Maurice was man enough to hold out his hand to him in the darkness. + +"I am glad of it," he said, rather hoarsely; "make her happy, Denis, if +you can." + +"Thanks. I shall go on to see her now." + +Helen murmured an unintelligible apology, and Denis Wilde passed onwards +towards the vicarage. + +He had taken her good name into his keeping, he had shielded her from +that other woman's slandering tongue; but he had done so in his despair. +He had spoken no lie in saying that he hoped to make her his wife; but it +was no doubt a fact that Helen and her husband would now believe him to +be engaged to her. Would Vera be induced to verify his words, and to +place herself and her life beneath the shelter of his love, or would she +only be angry with him for venturing to presume upon his hopes? Denis +could not tell. + +Ten minutes later he stood alone with her in the vicarage dining-room; +he had sent in his card with a pencilled line upon it to ask for a few +minutes' conversation with her. + +Vera had desired that her visitor might be shown into the dining-room. +Old Mrs. Daintree had been amazed and scandalized, and even Marion had +opened her eyes at so unusual a proceeding; but the vicar was out by a +sick bedside in the village, and no one else ever controlled Vera's +actions. + +Nevertheless, she herself looked somewhat surprised at so late a visit +from him. And then, somehow or other, Denis made it plain to her how it +was he had come, and what he had said of her. Her name, he told her, had +been lightly spoken of; to have defended it without authority would have +been to do her more harm than good; to take it under his lawful +protection had been instinctively suggested to him by his longing to +shield her. Would she forgive him? + +"It was Mrs. Kynaston who spoke evil things of me," said Vera, wearily. +She was very tired, she hardly understood, she scarcely cared about what +he was saying to her; it mattered very little what was said to her. There +was that other scene under the shadow of the roses of the gateway so +vividly before her; the memory of Maurice's passionate kisses upon her +lips, the sound of his beloved voice in her ears. What did anything else +signify? + +And meanwhile Denis Wilde was pouring out his whole soul to her. + +"My darling, give me the right to defend you now and always," he pleaded; +"do not refuse me the happiness of protecting your dear name from such +women. I know you don't love me, dear, not as I love you, but I will not +mind that; I will ask you for nothing that you will not give me freely; +only try me--I think I could make you happy, love. At any rate, you shall +have anything that tenderness and devotion can give you to bring peace +into your life. Vera, darling, answer me." + +"Oh, I am very tired," was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passing +her hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child. + +It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! What +were all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was driving +her into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave her +in peace? + +And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his love +struck upon her soul and arrested her attention. There is something so +touching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing in +return, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; that +amongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men, +it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not of +answering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such rare +devotion. + +It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading, +and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis's earnest eyes, and +the traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was, +perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laid +at her feet. + +There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as to +his grief. Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered? + +"Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife. I do not ask you for your +heart; only give me your dear self. Only let me be always with you to +brighten your life and to take care of you." + +How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness? + +"Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!" burst from her lips. "How can I take +you at your word? Do you not know that my heart is gone from me? I have +no love to give you." + +"Yes, yes, darling," he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips. "Do +not pain yourself by speaking of it. I have guessed it. I have always +seemed to know it. But it is hopeless, is it not? And I--I would so +gladly take you away and comfort you if I could." + +And so, in the end, she half yielded to him. What else was she to do? She +gave him a sort of promise. + +"If I can, it shall be as you wish," she said; "but give me till +to-morrow night. I will think of it all day, and if you will come here +again to-morrow evening, I will answer you. Give me one more day--only +one," she repeated, with a dull reiteration, out of her utter weariness. + +"One day will soon be gone," he said, joyfully, as he bade her good +night. + +Alas, how little he knew what that day was to bring forth! + +That night the heavens were overcast with heavy clouds, and torrents of +rain poured down upon the face of the earth, and peal after peal of +thunder boomed through the heavy heated air. Helen could not sleep; she +rose, feverish and unrested from her husband's side, and paced wildly and +miserably about the room. Then she went to the window and drew back the +curtain, and looked out upon the storm-driven world. The clouds racked +wildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind; +the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer still +was the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston's heart. Hatred, jealousy, +and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still--a +terror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night her +husband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning or +preparation-- + +"Helen, do you know a Frenchman called D'Arblet?" + +Helen had been at her dressing-table--her back was turned to him--he did +not see the livid pallor which blanched her cheeks at his question. + +A little pause, during which she busied herself among the trifles upon +the table. + +"No, I never heard the name in my life," she said, at length. + +"That is odd--because neither have I--and yet the man has sent me a +parcel." It was of so little importance to him, that it did not occur +to him that there could possibly be any occasion for secresy concerning +Vera's commission. What could an utter stranger have to send to him that +could possibly concern him in any way? + +It did not strike him how strained and forced was the voice in which his +wife presently asked him a question. + +"And the parcel! You have opened it?" + +"No, not yet," began Maurice, stifling a yawn; and he would have gone +on to explain to her that it was not yet actually in his possession, +although, probably, he would not have told her that it was Vera who was +to give it to him; only at that minute the maid came into the room, and +he changed the subject. + +But Helen had guessed that it was Vera who was the bearer of that parcel. +How it had come to pass she could not tell, but too surely she divined +that Vera had in her possession those fatal letters that she had once +written to the French vicomte; the letters that would blast her for ever +in her husband's estimation, and turn his luke-warmness and his coldness +into actual hatred and repulsion. + +And was it likely that Vera, with such a weapon in her hands, would spare +her? What woman, with so signal a revenge in her power, would forego the +delight of wreaking it upon the woman who had taken from her the man she +loved? Helen knew that in Vera's place she would show no mercy to her +rival. + +It was all clear as daylight to her now; the appointment at the vicarage +gate, the something which she had said in her note she had for him; the +whole mystery of the secret meeting between them--it was Vera's revenge. +Vera, whom Maurice loved, and whom she, Helen, hated with such a deadly +hatred! + +And then, in the silence of the night, whilst her husband slept, and +whilst the thunder and the wind howled about her home, Helen crept forth +from her room, and sought for that fatal packet of letters which her +husband had told her he had "not yet" opened. + +Oh, if she could only find them and destroy them before he ever saw them +again! Long and patiently she looked for them, but her search was in +vain. She ransacked his study and his dressing-room; she opened every +drawer, and fumbled in every pocket, but she found nothing. + +She was frightened, too, to be about the house like a thief in the night. +Every gust of wind that creaked among the open doors made her start, +every flash of lightning that lighted up the faces of the old family +portraits, looking down upon her with their fixed eyes, made her turn +pale and shiver, lest she should see them move, or hear them speak. + +Only her jealousy and her hatred burnt fiercely above her terror; she +would not give in, she told herself, until she found it. + +Denis Wilde, who was restless too, had heard her soft footsteps along the +passage outside his door; and, with a vague uneasiness as to who could be +about at such an hour, he came creeping out of his room, and peeped in at +the library door. + +He saw her sitting upon the floor, a lighted candle by her side, an open +drawer, out of her husband's writing-table, upon her lap, turning over +papers, and bills, and note-books with eager, trembling hands. And he saw +in her white, set face, and wild, scared eyes, that which made him draw +back swiftly and shudderingly from the sight of her. + +"Good God!" he murmured to himself, as he sought his room again, "the +woman has murder in her face!" + +And at last she had to give it up; the letters were not to be found. The +storm without settled itself to rest, the thunder died away in the far +distance over the hills, and Helen, worn out with fatigue and emotion, +sought a troubled slumber upon the sofa in her dressing-room. + +"She cannot have given it to him," was the conclusion she came to at +last. "Well, she will do so to-morrow, and I--I will not let her out of +my sight, not for one instant, all the day!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +A GARDEN PARTY. + + I have done for ever with all these things: + The songs are ended, the deeds are done; + There shall none of them gladden me now, not one. + There is nothing good for me under the sun + But to perish--as these things perished. + + A. L. Gordon. + + +Mr. Guy Miller is a young gentleman who has not played an important part +in these pages; nevertheless, but for him, sundry events which took place +at Shadonake at this time would not have had to be recorded. + +It so happened that Guy Miller's twenty-first birthday was in the third +week of September, and that it was determined by his parents to celebrate +the day in an appropriate and fitting manner. Guy was a youth of no +particular looks, and no particular manners; he had been at Oxford, +but his father had lately taken him away from it, with a view to his +travelling, and seeing something of the world before he settled down +as a country gentleman. He had had no opportunity, therefore, of +distinguishing himself at college; but as he was not overburdened with +brains, and had, moreover, never been known to study with interest any +profounder literature than "Handley Cross" and "Mr. Sponge's Sporting +Tour," it is possible that, even had he been left undisturbed to pursue +his studies at the university, he would never have developed into a +bright or shining ornament at that seat of learning. + +As it was, Guy came home to the paternal mansion an ignorant but amiable +and inoffensive young man, with a small, fluffy moustache, and no +particular bent in life beyond smoking short pipes, and loafing about the +premises with his hands in his trousers pockets. + +He was a tolerable shot, and a plucky, though not a graceful horseman. He +hated dancing because he trod on his partner's toes, and shunned ladies' +society because he had to make himself agreeable to them. Nevertheless, +having been fairly "licked into shape" by a course successively of Eton +and of Oxford, he was able to behave like a gentleman in his mother's +house when it was necessary for him to do so, and he quite appreciated +the fact of his being an important personage in the Miller family. + +It was to celebrate the coming of age of this interesting young gentleman +that Mr. and Mrs. Miller had settled to give a monster entertainment to +several hundreds of their fellow-creatures. + +The proceedings were to include a variety of instructive and amusing +pastimes, and were to last pretty nearly all day. There was to be a +country flower-show in a big tent on the lawn; that was pure business, +and concerned the farmers as much as the gentry. There were also to be +athletic sports in a field for the active young men, lawn-tennis for the +active young women, an amateur polo match got up by the energy and pluck +of Miss Beatrice and her uncle Tom; a "cold collation" in a second tent +to be going on all the afternoon; the whole to be finished up with a +dance in the large drawing room, for a select few, after sunset. + +The programme, in all conscience, was varied enough; and the day broke +hopefully, after the wild storm of the previous night, bright and cool +and sunny, with every prospect of being perfectly fine. + +Beatrice, happy in the possession of her lover, was full of life and +energy; she threw herself into all the preparations of the _fete_ with +her whole heart. Herbert, who came over from Lutterton at an early hour, +followed her about like a dog, obeying her orders implicitly, but +impeding her proceedings considerably by a constant under-current of +love-making, by which he strove to vary and enliven the operation of +sticking standard flags into the garden borders, and nailing up wreaths +of paper roses inside the tent. + +Mrs. Miller, having consented to the engagement, like a sensible woman, +was resolved to make the best of it, and was, if not cordial, at least +pleasantly civil to her future son-in-law. She had given over Beatrice +as a bad job; she had resolved to find suitable matches for Guy and for +Geraldine. + +By one o'clock the company was actually beginning to arrive, the small +fry of the neighbourhood being, of course, the first to appear. By-and-by +came the rank and fashion of Meadowshire, and by three o'clock the +gardens were crowded. + +It was a brilliant scene; there was the gaily-dressed crowd going in and +out of the tents, groups of elderly people sitting talking under the +trees, lawn-tennis players at one end of the garden, the militia band +playing Strauss's waltzes at the other, the scarlet and white flags +floating bravely over everybody in the breeze, and a hum of many voices +and a sound of merry laughter in every direction. + +Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and Guy, the hero of the day, moved about amongst +the guests from group to group. Guy, it must be owned, looking +considerably bored. Beatrice, with her lover in attendance, looking +flushed and rosy with the many congratulations which the news of her +engagement called forth on every side; and the younger boys, home from +school for the occasion, getting in everybody's way, and directing their +main attention to the ices in the refreshment-tent. Such an afternoon +party, it was agreed, had not been held in Meadowshire within the memory +of man; but then, dear Mrs. Miller had such energy and such a real talent +for organization; and if the company _was_ a little mixed, why, of +course, she must recollect Mr. Miller's position, and how important it +was for him, with the prospect of a general election coming on, to make +himself thoroughly popular with all classes. + +No one in all the gay crowd was more admired or more noticed than "the +bride," as she was still called, young Mrs. Kynaston. Helen had surpassed +herself in the elaboration of her toilette. The country dames and +damsels, in their somewhat dowdy home-made gowns, could scarcely remember +their manners, so eager were they to stare at the marvels of that +wondrous garment of sheeny satin, and soft, creamy gauze, sprinkled over +with absolute works of art in the shape of wreaths of many-hued +embroidered birds and flowers, with which the whole dress was cunningly +and dexterously adorned. It was a masterpiece of the great Worth; rich +without being gaudy, intricate without losing its general effect of +colour, and, above all, utterly and absolutely inimitable by the hands +of any meaner artist. + +Mrs. Kynaston looked well; no one had ever seen her look better; there +was an unusual colour in her cheeks, an unusual glitter in her blue eyes, +that always seemed to be roving restlessly about her as though in search +of something even all the time she was saying her polite commonplaces in +answer to the pleasant and pretty speeches that she received on all sides +from men and women alike. + +But through it all she never let Vera Nevill out of her sight; where Vera +moved, she moved also. When she walked across the lawn, Mrs. Kynaston +made some excuse to go in the same direction; when she entered either of +the tents, Helen also found it necessary to go into them. But the crowd +was too great for any one to remark this; no one saw it save Denis Wilde, +whose eyes were sharpened by his love. + +Once Helen saw that Maurice and Vera were speaking to each other. She +could not get near enough to hear what they said, but she saw him bend +down and speak to her earnestly, and there was a sad, wistful look in +Vera's upturned eyes as she answered him. Helen's heart beat with a wild, +mad jealousy as she watched them; and yet it was but a few words that had +passed between them. + +"Vera, young Wilde says you are going to marry him; is it true?" + +"He wants me to do so, but I don't think I can." + +"Why not? It would be happier for you, child; forget the past and begin +afresh. He is a good boy, and by-and-by he will be well off." + +"You, too--you advise me to do this?" she answered with unwonted +bitterness. "Oh, how wise and calculating one ought to be to live happily +in this miserable world!" + +He looked pained. + +"I cannot do you any good," he said, rather brokenly. "God knows I would +if I could. I can only be a curse to you. Give me at least the credit of +unselfishly wishing you to be less unhappy than you are." + +And then the crowd, moving onwards, parted them from each other. + +"Do not forget to meet me at the Bath," she called out to him as he went. + +"Oh, to be sure! I had forgotten. I will be there just before the dancing +begins." + +And then Denis Wilde took his place by her side. + +If Mrs. Kynaston surpassed herself in looks and animation that day, Vera, +on the contrary, had never looked less well. + +Her eyes were heavy with sleepless nights and many tears; her movements +were slower and more languid than of wont, and her face was pale and +thin. + +Meadowshire generally, that had ceased to trouble itself much about her +when she had thrown over the richest baronet in the county, considered +itself, nevertheless, to be somewhat aggrieved by the falling off in her +appearance, and passed its appropriate and ill-natured comments upon the +fact. + +"How ill she looks," said one woman to another. + +"Positively old. I suppose she thought she could whistle poor Sir John +back again whenever she chose; now he is out of the country she would +give her eyes for him!" + +"I daresay; and looks as if she had cried them out; but he must be glad +to have escaped her! Well, it serves her right for behaving so badly. I'm +sure I don't pity her." + +"Nor I, indeed." + +And the two amiable women passed onwards to discuss some other ill-fated +victim. + +But to the two men who loved her Vera that day was as beautiful as ever; +for love sees no flaw in the face that reigns supreme in the soul. And +Vera sat still in her corner of the tent where she had taken refuge, and +leant her tired, aching head against a gaudy pink-and-white striped +pillar. It was the tent where the flower-show was going on. From her +sheltered nook there was not much that was lovely to be seen, not a +vestige of a rose or a carnation to refresh her tired eyes, only a +counter covered with samples of potatoes and monster cauliflowers; +and there was a slab of white wood with pats of yellow butter, done up in +moss and ferns, which had been sent from the principal dairy-farms of the +county, and before which there was a constant succession of elderly and +interested housewives tasting and comparing notes. There seemed some +difficulty in deciding to whom the butter prize was to be awarded, and at +last a committee of ladies was formed; they all tasted, solemnly, of each +sample all round, and then they each gave their verdict differently, so +that it had all to be done over again amidst a good deal of laughter and +merriment. + +Vera was vaguely amused by this scene that went on just in front of her. +When the knotty point was settled, the committee moved on to decide upon +something else, and she was left again to the uninterrupted contemplation +of the Flukes and the York Regents. + +Denis Wilde had sat by her for some time, but at last she had begged him +to leave her. Her head ached, she said; if he would not mind going, and +he went. + +Presently, Beatrice, beaming with happiness, found her out in her corner. + +"Oh, Vera!" she said, coming up to her, all radiant with smiles, "you are +the only one of my friends who has not yet wished me joy." + +"That is not because I have not thought of you, Beatrice, dear," she +answered, heartily grasping her friend's outstretched hands. "I was so +very glad to hear that everything has come right for you at last. How did +it all happen?" + +"I will come over to the vicarage to-morrow, and tell you the whole +story. Oh! do you remember meeting Herbert and me, that foggy morning, +outside Tripton station?" + +Would Vera ever forget it? + +"I little thought then how happily everything was to end for us. I used +to think we should have to elope! Poor Herbert, he was always frightened +out of his life when I said that. But we have had a very narrow escape +of being blighted beings to the end of our lives. If it hadn't been for +uncle Tom and that dear darling mare, Clochette, whom I should like +to keep in a gold and jewelled stall to the end of her ever-blessed +days!----Ah, well! I've no time to tell you now--I will come over to +Sutton to-morrow, and I may bring him, may I not?" + +"Him," of course, meaning Mr. Herbert Pryme. Vera requested that he might +be brought by all means. + +"Well, I must run away now--there are at least a hundred of these stupid +people to whom I must go and make myself agreeable. By the way, Vera, how +dull you look, up in this corner by yourself. Why do you sit here all +alone?" + +"My head aches; I am glad to be quiet." + +"But you mean to dance by-and-by, I hope?" + +"Oh, yes, I daresay. Go back to your guests, Beatrice; I am getting on +very well." + +Beatrice went off smiling and waving her hand. Vera could watch her +outside in the sunshine, moving about from group to group, shaking hands +with first one and then another, laughing at some playful sally, or +smiling demurely over some graver words of kindness. She was always +popular, was Beatrice, with her bright talk and her plain clever face, +and there was not a man or woman in all that crowd who did not wish her +happiness. + +And so the day wore away, and the polo match--very badly played--was +over, and the votaries of lawn-tennis were worn out with running up and +down, and the flowers and the fruits in the show-tent began to look +limp and dusty. The farmers and those people of small importance who had +only been invited "from two to five," began now to take their departure, +and their carriage wheels were to be heard driving away in rapid +succession from the front door. Then the hundred or so of the "best +county people," who were remaining later for the dancing, began to think +of leaving the lawns before the dew fell. There was a general move +towards the house, and even the band "limbered up," and began to transfer +itself from the garden into the hall, where its labours were to begin +afresh. + +Then it was that Vera crept forth out of her sheltered corner, and, +unseen and unnoticed save by one watchful pair of eyes, wended her way +through the shrubbery walks in the direction of the Bath. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +SHADONAKE BATH. + + A jolly place--in times of old, + But something ails it now: + The spot is cursed! + + Wordsworth. + + +Calm and still, like the magic mirror of the legend, Shadonake Bath lay +amongst its everlasting shadows. + +The great belt of fir-trees beyond it, the sheltering evergreens on +the nearer side, the tiers of grey, moss-grown steps that encompassed +it about, all found their image again upon its smooth and untroubled +surface. There was a golden light from the setting sun to the west, +and the pale mist of a shadowy crescent moon had risen in the east. + +It was all quiet here--faint echoes of distant voices and far-away +laughter came up in little gusts from the house; but there was no trace +of the festivities down by the desolate water, nothing but the dark +fir-trees above it, and the great white heads of the water-lilies that +lay like jewels upon its silent bosom. + +Vera sat down upon the steps, and rested her chin in her hands, and +waited. The house and the gardens behind her were shut out by the thick +screen of laurels and rhododendrons. Before her, on the other side, were +the fir-trees, with their red, bronzed trunks, and the soft, dark brown +carpet that lay at their feet; there was not even a squirrel stirring +among their branches, nor a bird that fluttered beneath their shadows. + +Vera waited. She was not impatient nor anxious. She had nothing to say +to Maurice when he came--she did not mean to keep him, not even for five +minutes, by her side; she did not want to run any further risks with +him--it was better not--better that she should never again be alone with +him. She only meant just to give him that wretched little brown paper +parcel that weighed upon her conscience with the sense of an unfulfilled +vow, and then to go back with him to the house at once. They could have +nothing more to say to each other. + +Strangely enough, as she sat there musing all her life came back in +review before her. The old days at Rome, with the favourite sister who +was dead and gone; her own gay, careless life, with its worldly aims and +desires; her first arrival at Sutton, her determination to make herself +Sir John Kynaston's wife, and then her fatal love for his brother; it all +came back to her again. All kinds of little details that she had long +forgotten came flooding in upon her memory. She remembered how she had +first seen Maurice standing at the foot of the staircase, with the light +of the lamp upon his handsome head; and then, again, how one morning she +and he had stood together in this very place by the Bath, and how she had +told him, shuddering, that it would be dreadful to be drowned there, and +she had cried out in a nameless terror that she wished she had not seen +it for the first time with him by her side; and then Helen had come down +from the house and joined them, and they had all three gone away +together. She smiled a little to herself over that foolish, reasonless +terror. The quiet pool of water did not look dreadful to her now--only +cool, and still, and infinitely restful. + +By-and-by other thoughts came into her mind. She recalled her interview +with old Lady Kynaston at Walpole Lodge, when she had so nearly promised +her to give back her hand to her eldest son, when she would have done so +had it not been for that sight of Maurice's face in the adjoining room. +She wondered what Lady Kynaston had thought of her sudden change of mind; +what she had been able to make of it; whether she had ever guessed at +what had been the truth. It seemed only yesterday that the old lady had +told her to be wise and brave, and to begin her life over again, and to +make the best of the good things of this world that were still left to +her. + +"There is a pain that goes right through the heart," Maurice's mother had +said to her; "I who speak to you have felt it. I thought I should die of +it, but you see I did not." + +Alas! did not Vera know that pain all too well; that heartache that +banishes peace by day and sleep by night, and that will not wear itself +out? + +And yet other women had borne it, and had lived and been even happy in +other ways; but she could not be happy. Was it because her heart was +deeper, or because her sense of pain was greater than that of others? + +Vera could not tell. She only wished, and longed, and even prayed that +she might have the strength to become Denis Wilde's wife; that she might +taste once more of peace, if not of joy; and yet all her longings and all +her prayers only made her realize the more how utterly the thing was +beyond her power. + +To Maurice, and Maurice alone, belonged her life and her soul, and Vera +felt that it would be easier for her to be true to the sad, dim memory +of his love than to give her heart and her allegiance to any other upon +earth. + +So she sat and mused, and pondered, and the amber light in the east faded +away into palest saffron, and the solemn shadows deepened and lengthened +upon the still bosom of the water. + +Suddenly there came a sharp footstep and the rustle of a woman's silken +skirts across the stone flags behind her. She looked up quickly; Helen +stood beside her. Helen, in all the sheen of her gay Paris garments, +with the evening light upon her uncovered head, and the glow of a +passion, fiercer than madness, in her glittering eyes. Some prescience +of evil--she knew not of what--made Vera spring to her feet. + +Helen spoke to her shortly and defiantly. + +"Miss Nevill, you are waiting here for my husband, are you not?" + +A faint flush rose in Vera's face. + +"Yes," she answered, very quietly. "I am waiting to speak a few words to +him." + +"You have something to give him, have you not? Some letters that are +mine, and which you have probably read." + +Helen said the words quickly and feverishly; her voice shook and +trembled. Vera looked surprised and even indignant. + +"I don't understand you, Mrs. Kynaston," she began, coldly. + +"Oh, yes, you understand me perfectly. Give me my letters, Miss Nevill; +you have no doubt read them all," and she laughed harshly and sneeringly. + +"Mrs. Kynaston, you are labouring under some delusion," said Vera, +quietly; "I have no letters of yours, and if I had," with a ring of utter +contempt, "I should not be likely to have opened them." + +For it did not occur to her that Helen was speaking of Monsieur +D'Arblet's parcel; that did not in the least convey the idea of letters +to her mind; nor had it ever entered into her head to speculate about +what that unhappy little packet could possibly contain; she had never +even thought about it. + +"I have no letters of yours," she repeated. + +"You are saying what is false," cried Helen, angrily. "How can you dare +to deny it? You know you have got them, you are here to give them to +Maurice, knowing that they will ruin me. You _shall_ not give them to +him. I have come to take them from you--I _will_ have them." + +"I do not even know what you are speaking about," answered Vera. "Why +should I want to ruin you, if, indeed, such a thing is to be done?" + +"Because you hate me as much as I hate you." + +"Hate is an ugly word," said Vera, rather scornfully. "I have no reason +to hate you, and I do not know why you should hate me." + +"Don't imagine you can put me off with empty words," cried Helen, wildly. +She made a step forward; her white hands clenched themselves together +with a reasonless fury; she was as white as the crescent moon that rose +beyond the trees. + +"Give me my letters--the letters you are waiting here to give to my +husband!" she cried. + +"Mrs. Kynaston, do not be so angry," said Vera, becoming almost +bewildered by her violence; "you are really mistaken--pray calm yourself. +I have no letters: what I was going to give your husband was only a +little parcel from a man who is abroad--he is a foreigner. I do not think +it is of the slightest importance to anybody. I have not opened it, I +have no idea what it contains, and your husband himself said it was +nothing--only I have promised to give it him alone; it was a whim of the +little Frenchman who entrusted me with it, and whom, I must honestly tell +you, I believe to have been half-mad. Only, unfortunately, I have +promised to deliver it in this manner." + +Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died +away. + +"Yes," she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you." + +"That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered me +until I foolishly undertook his commission. I am sorry now that I did so, +as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters in +the parcel, and I certainly have not opened it." + +Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently. + +"I don't believe you," she said; "they are my letters, sure enough, and +you have read them. What woman would not do so in your place? and you +know that they will ruin me with my husband." + +"It is you yourself that tell me so!" cried Vera, impatiently, beginning +to lose her temper. "I do not even know what you are talking about!" + +"Miss Nevill!" cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; "give that parcel +to me, I entreat you." + +"I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so." + +"Oh yes, you can--you will," said Helen, imploringly. "What can it matter +to you now? It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of a +mere empty revenge. Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart? +I know well enough that he loves you, but----" + +"Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words to +me!" cried Vera, deeply distressed. + +"Why should I not say them! You and I know well enough that it is true. +I hate you, I am jealous of you, for I know that my husband loves you; +and yet, if you will only give me that parcel, I will forgive you--I +will try to live at peace with you--I will even pray and strive for your +happiness! Let me have a chance of making him love me!" + +"For God's sake, Mrs. Kynaston, do not say these things to me!" cried +Vera. She was crimson with pain and shame, and shocked beyond measure +that his wife should be so lost to all decency and self-respect as to +speak so openly of her husband's love for herself. + +"I will not and cannot listen to you!" + +"But you will not be so cruel as to ruin me?" pleaded Helen; "only give +me that parcel, and I shall be safe! You say you have not opened it; +well, I can hardly believe it, because in your place I should have read +every word; yet, if you will give them to me, I will forgive you." + +"You do not understand what you are saying!" cried Vera, impatiently. +"How can I give you what is not mine to give? I have no right to dispose +of this parcel"--she held it in her hand--"and I have given my word that +I will give it to your husband alone. How could I be so false as to do +anything else with it? You are asking impossibilities, Mrs. Kynaston." + +"You will not give it to me?" There was a sudden change in Helen's +voice--she pleaded no longer. + +"No, certainly not." + +"And that is your last word?" + +"Yes." + +There was a silence. Helen looked away over the water towards the +fir-trees. She was pale, but very quiet; all her angry agitation seemed +to have died away. Vera stood a little beneath her on the lowest step, +close down to the water; she held the little parcel that was the object +of the dispute in her hands, and was looking at it with an expression of +deep annoyance; she was wishing heartily that she had never seen either +it or the wretched little Frenchman who had insisted upon confiding it to +her care. + +Neither of them spoke; for an instant neither of them even moved. There +was a striking contrast between them: Helen, slight and fragile in her +bird-of-paradise garments, with jewels about her neck, and golden chains +at her wrist; her pretty piquant face, almost childish in the contour of +the small, delicate features. Vera, in her plain, tight-fitting dress, +whose only beauty lay in the perfect simplicity with which it followed +the lines of her glorious figure; her pure, lovely face, laden with its +burden of deep sadness, a little turned away from the other woman who had +taken everything from her, and left her life so desolate. And there was +the silent pool at their feet, and the darkening belt of fir-trees +beyond, and the pale moon ever brightening in the shadowy heavens. It was +a picture such as a painter might have dreamt of. + +Not a sound--only once the faint cry of some wild animal in the far-off +woods, and the flutter of a night-moth on the wing. Helen's face was +turned eastwards towards the fast-fading evening glow. + +What is it that sends the curse of Cain into the human heart? + +Did some foul and evil thing, wandering homeless around that fatal spot, +enter then and there, unbidden, into her sin-stained soul? Or had the +hellish spirit been always there within her, only biding its time to +burst forth in all its naked and hideous horror? + +God only knows. + +"Vera, gather me a water-lily! See how lovely they are. I am going back +to dance; I want a water-lily." + +Vera looked up startled. The sudden change of manner and the familiar +mention of her name struck her as strange. Helen was leaning towards her, +all flushed and eager, pointing with her glistening, jewelled fingers +over the water. + +"Don't you see how white they are, and how they gleam in the moonlight +like silver? Would not one of them look lovely in my hair?" + +"I do not think I can reach them," said Vera, slowly. She was puzzled and +half-frightened by the quick, feverish words and manner. + +"Yes, yes, your arms are long--much longer than mine; you can reach them +very well. See, I will hold the sleeve of your dress like this; it is +very strong. I can hold you quite safely. Kneel down and reach out for +it, Vera. Do, please, I want it so much. There is one so close there, +just beyond your hand. Stoop over a little further; don't be afraid; +I have got you tightly." + +And Vera knelt and stretched out over the dark face of the waters. + +Then, all at once, there was a cry--a wild struggle--a splash of the +dark, seething waves--and Helen stood up again in her bright raiment +alone on the margin of the pool; whilst ever-widening circles stretched +hurriedly away and away, as though terror-stricken, from the baleful +spot where Vera Nevill had sunk below the ill-fated waters. + + * * * * * + +Someone came madly rushing out of the bushes behind her. Helen screamed +aloud. + +"It was an accident! She slipped forward--her footing gave way!" gasped +the unhappy woman in her terror. "Oh, Maurice, for pity's sake, believe +me; it was an accident!" She sunk upon her knees, with wildly +outstretched arms, and trembling, and uplifted hands. + +"Stand aside," he said, hoarsely, pushing her roughly from him, so that +she almost fell to the earth, and he plunged deep into the still +quivering waters. + +It was the water-lilies that brought her to her death. The long clinging +stems amongst which she sank held her fair body in their cold, clammy +embraces, so that she never rose again. It was long before they found +her. + +And, oh! who shall ever describe that dreadful scene by the margin of +Shadonake Bath, whilst the terrified crowd that had gathered there +quickly waited for her whom all knew to be hopelessly gone from them for +ever! + +The sobbing, frightened women; the white, stricken faces of the men; the +agony of those who had loved her; the distress and dismay of those who +had only admired her; and there was one trembling, shuddering wretch, in +her satin and her jewels, standing white and haggard apart, with knees +that shook together, and teeth that clattered, and tearless sobs that +shook her from head to foot, staring with a half-maddened stare upon the +fatal waters. + +Then, when all was at an end and the worst was known, when the poor +dripping body had been reverently covered over and borne away by loving +arms amid a torrent of sobs and wailing tears towards the house, then +some one came near her and spoke to her--some one off whom the water came +pouring in streams, and whose face was white and wild as her own. + +"Get you away out of my sight," said the man whom she had loved so +fruitlessly to her. + +"Have pity! have pity!" was the cry of despair that burst from her +quivering lips. "Was it not all an accident?" + +"Yes, let it be so to the world, because you bear my name, and I will not +have it dragged through the mire--to all others it is an accident--but +never to me, for _I saw you let her go_! There is the stain of murder +upon your hands. I will never call you wife, nor look upon your face +again; get yourself away out of my sight!" + +With a low sobbing cry she turned and fled away from him, and away from +the place, out among the shadows of the fir-trees. Once again some one +stopped her in her terror-stricken flight. + +It was Denis Wilde, who came striding towards her under the trees, and +caught her roughly by the wrist. + +"It is _you_ who have killed her!" he said, savagely. + +"What do you mean?" she murmured, faintly. + +"I saw it in your face last night when you were wandering about the house +during the thunderstorm; you meant her death then. I saw it in your eyes. +My God! why did I not watch over her better, and save her from such a +devil as you?" + +"No, no, it is not true; it was an accident. Oh, spare me, spare me!" +with a piteousness of terror, was all she could say. + +"Yes; I will spare you, poor wretch, for your husband's sake--because she +loved him--and his burden, God help him! is heavy enough as it is. Go!" +flinging her arm rudely from him. "Go, whilst you have got time, lest the +thirst for your blood be too strong for me." + +And this time no one saw her go. Like a hunted animal, she fled away +among the trees, her gleaming many-hued dress trailing all wet and +drabbled on the sodden earth behind her, and the darkness of the +gathering night closed in around her, and covered her in mercy with +its pitiful mantle. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +AT PEACE. + + Open, dark grave, and take her: + Though we have loved her so, + Yet we must now forsake her: + Love will no more awake her: + Oh bitter woe! + Open thine arms and take her + To rest below! + + A. Procter. + + +So Vera was at peace at last. The troubled life was over; the vexed +question of her fate was settled for her. There was to be no more +struggling of right against wrong, of expediency against truth, for her +for evermore. She had all--nay, more than all she wanted now. + +"It was what she desired herself," said the vicar, brokenly, as he knelt +by the side of her who had been so dear and precious to him. "Only a +Sunday or two ago she said to me 'If I could die, I should be at peace.'" + +And Maurice, with hidden face at the foot of the bed, could not answer +him for tears. + +It was there, by that white still presence, that lay so calm and so +lovely amongst the showers of heavy-scented waxen flowers, wherewith +loving hands had decked her for her last long sleep; it was there that +Eustace learnt at last the secret of her life, and the fatal love that +had so wrecked her happiness. It was all clear to him now. Her struggles, +her temptations, her pitiful moments of weakness and misery, her +courageous strife against the hopelessness of her fate--all was made +plain now: he understood her at last. + +In Maurice Kynaston's passion of despairing grief he read the story of +her sad life's trouble. + +Truly, Maurice had enough to bear; for he alone, and one other, who spoke +no word of it to him, knew the terrible secret of her death; to all else +it was "an accident;" to him and to Denis Wilde alone it was "murder." To +him, too, the motive of the foul, cowardly deed had been revealed; for, +tightly clasped in that poor dead hand, true to the last to the trust +that had been given her, was the fatal packet of letters that had been +the cause of her death. They were all blotted and blurred, and sodden +with the water, but there were whole sentences in the inner folds that +were sufficient for him to recognize his wife's handwriting, and to see +what was the drift and the meaning of them. + +Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew nor +cared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written by +her, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep and +sickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered the +blackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost a +human life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would not +have died. + +The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath the +coloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at her +desire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, and +people shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonake +was shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world went +its way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew her +no more. + + * * * * * + +After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small and +not at all gay. Indeed, Geraldine Miller considered her sister next door +to a lunatic, and she told herself it would be hardly worth while to be +married at all if there was to be no more fuss made over her marriage +than over Beatrice's. For there were no bridesmaids and no wedding +guests, only all the Millers, from the eldest down to the youngest, uncle +Tom, and an ancient Miss Esterworth, unearthed from the other end of +England for the occasion; and there were also a Mr. and Mrs. Pryme, +a grave and aged couple--uncle and aunt to the bridegroom. + +There was, however, one remarkable feature at this particular wedding: +when the family party came down into the dining-room to take their places +for the conventional breakfast upon the plate of the bride's father were +to be seen some very curious things. + +These were a faded white lace parasol with pink bows; a pair of soiled +grey _peau de suede_ gloves, and a little black wisp of a spotted net +veil. + +"Bless my soul!" said the member for Meadowshire, putting up his +eye-glasses; "what on earth is all this?" + +"I think you have seen them before, papa," says the bride, demurely, +whilst uncle Tom bursts into a loud and hearty guffaw of laughter. + +"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and looking +bewilderedly from his daughter to his wife: "I don't really understand. +Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these--these--most +extraordinary objects?" + +Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finery +critically. "Why, Beatrice!" she exclaims, in astonishment, "it is your +last summer's sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves: how on earth did +they come here on your papa's plate?" + +"I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again," cries +Beatrice, laughing; "he met them in Herbert's rooms in the Temple one day +last summer." + +"_Beatrice!_" falters her father, staring in amazement at her. + +"Yes, papa, dear, don't be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, your +very naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in the +Temple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you come +in, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table! I don't think, +now I am Herbert's wife, that it matters very much how much I confess of +my improprieties, does it?" + +"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round and +shakes hands with his son-in-law. "And I might have retained you for that +libel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it for +me!" was all he said. And then the sunshade and the gloves were swept +away, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank to +the bride and bridegroom's health none the less heartily for that curious +little explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast. + + * * * * * + +Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says, +they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although no +one thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of his +adoption and return to England. + +Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting very +aged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadness +at her heart. + +Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera, +and the whole truth about her death. The old lady knows that Vera and her +fatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons. There will be no +tender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merry +grandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years. They will live +away from her, and she will die alone. She knows it--and she is very, +very sad. + +In South Kensington there lives a gay, world-loving woman who keeps open +house, and entertains perpetually. She has horses and carriages, and a +box at the opera, and is always to be seen faultlessly dressed and the +gayest of the gay at every race meeting, and at every scene of pleasure. + +People admire her and flatter her, and speak lightly of her too, +sometimes, for it is generally known that Mrs. Kynaston is "separated" +from her husband; and though a separation is a perfectly respectable +thing, and has no possible connection with a divorce, yet there are ugly +whispers in this case as to what is the cause of the dissension between +the husband in Australia and the wife in London; whispers that often +do not fall very far short of the truth. And, gay as she is, and +light-hearted as she seems to be, there are times when pretty Mrs. +Kynaston is more to be pitied than any wretched beggar who toils along +the streets, for always there is the terror of detection at her heart, +and the fear that her dreadful secret, known as it is to at least two +persons on earth, may ooze out--be guessed by others. + +There are things Mrs. Kynaston can never do: to read of some dreadful +murder such as occasionally fills all the papers for days with its +sickening details makes her shut herself in her own room till the +horrible tragedy is over and forgotten; to hear of such things spoken +of in society causes her to faint away with terror. To walk by a pond, +or even to speak of being rowed upon a lake or river, fills her with +such horror of soul that none of her friends ever care to suggest a +water-party of any kind to her. + +"She saw that poor Miss Nevill drowned," say her compassionate +acquaintances; "it has upset her nerves, poor dear; she cannot bear the +sight of water." And there are a few who think, and who are not ashamed +to whisper their thoughts with bated breath, that she saw Miss Nevill's +sad death too near and too well to be utterly spotless in the matter. + +That she allowed her to perish without attempting to save her, because +she was jealous of her, is the generally received impression; but there +is no one who has quite realized that she was actually guilty of her +death. + +Did they think so, they could not eat her dinners with decency. And they +do eat her dinners, which are uncommonly good ones; and they flock to her +house, and they sit in her carriage and her opera-box, and they take all +they can get from her, although at their hearts they do not care to be +intimate with her. But then money covers a multitude of sins. And a great +many crimes may be glossed over if we are only rich enough and popular +enough, and sufficiently the fashion. + +As to Denis Wilde, he was young, and in time he got over it and married +an amiable young lady who bore him three children and loved him +devotedly, so that after a while he forgot his first love. + +Shadonake Bath has been drained. Mr. Miller has at last been allowed to +have his own way about it. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, +and there could be found no voice to plead for its preservation after +that terrible tragedy of which it was the scene. + +So the old steps have all been cleared away, and brick walls line the +straight deep sides, whereon grow the finest peaches and nectarines in +the county, whilst a parterre of British Queens and Hautboys cover the +spot where Vera died with their rich red fruit and their luxuriant +foliage. + +And at Sutton things go on much the same as of old. Old Mrs. Daintree is +dead, and no one sorrowed much for her loss, whilst the domestic harmony +is decidedly enhanced by her absence. Tommy and Minnie are growing big +and lanky, and the subject of schools and education is beginning to +occupy the minds of Marion and her husband. + +But the vicar has grown grey and old; his back is more bent and his face +more careworn than it used to be. He has never been quite the same since +Vera's death. + +There is a white marble monument in the middle of the chancel, raised by +the loving hands of two brothers far away in Australia. It is by the best +sculptor of the day, and on it lies a pale white figure, with a pure +delicate profile, and hands always meekly crossed upon the bosom. + +Every Sunday, as Eustace Daintree passes from his place at the +reading-desk up to the altar to read the Communion Service, there falls +upon it a streak of sunshine from the painted window above, which he +himself and his wife had put up to her memory, lighting up the pale +marble image with a chequered glory of gold and crimson. And the vicar's +eye as he passes alights for a moment with a never-dying sadness upon the +simple words carved at the foot of her tomb-- + + Vera Nevill, aged 23. + + AT PEACE. + + * * * * * + +MRS. CAMERON'S NOVELS. + +Jack's Secret. + +A Sister's Sin. + +A Lost Wife. + +The Cost of a Lie. + +This Wicked World. + +A Devout Lover. + +A Life's Mistake. + +Worth Winning. + +Vera Neville. + +Pure Gold. + +In a Grass Country. + + + "Mrs. Cameron's numerous efforts in the line of fiction have + won for her a wide circle of admirers. Her experience in novel + writing, as well as her skill in inventing and delineating characters, + enables her to put before the reading public stories that + are full of interest and pure in tone."--_Harrisburg Telegraph_. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vera Nevill, by Mrs. H. 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