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Title: Loved and lost
A deadly secret
Author: Bertha M. Clay
Release date: November 3, 2024 [eBook #74670]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Street & Smith
Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVED AND LOST ***
NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY ~ No. 226 ~
LOVED
AND
LOST
[Illustration]
BY
Bertha
M.
Clay
A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS
New Bertha Clay Library
LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION
PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS
_The Author Needs No Introduction_
Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They
are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best
work, and is the only authorized edition.
These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are
clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type
that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction
that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.
There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this
list is sure to give satisfaction.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
1--In Love’s Crucible By Bertha M. Clay
2--A Sinful Secret By Bertha M. Clay
3--Between Two Loves By Bertha M. Clay
4--A Golden Heart By Bertha M. Clay
5--Redeemed by Love By Bertha M. Clay
6--Between Two Hearts By Bertha M. Clay
7--Lover and Husband By Bertha M. Clay
8--The Broken Trust By Bertha M. Clay
9--For a Woman’s Honor By Bertha M. Clay
10--A Thorn in Her Heart By Bertha M. Clay
11--A Nameless Sin By Bertha M. Clay
12--Gladys Greye By Bertha M. Clay
13--Her Second Love By Bertha M. Clay
14--The Earl’s Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
15--The Gipsy’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
16--Another Woman’s Husband By Bertha M. Clay
17--Two Fair Women By Bertha M. Clay
18--Madolin’s Lover By Bertha M. Clay
19--A Bitter Reckoning By Bertha M. Clay
20--Fair but Faithless By Bertha M. Clay
21--One Woman’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
22--A Mad Love By Bertha M. Clay
23--Wedded and Parted By Bertha M. Clay
24--A Woman’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
25--’Twixt Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
26--Guelda By Bertha M. Clay
27--The Duke’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
28--The Mystery of Colde Fell By Bertha M. Clay
29--One False Step By Bertha M. Clay
30--A Hidden Terror By Bertha M. Clay
31--Repented at Leisure By Bertha M. Clay
32--Marjorie Deane By Bertha M. Clay
33--In Shallow Waters By Bertha M. Clay
34--Diana’s Discipline By Bertha M. Clay
35--A Heart’s Bitterness By Bertha M. Clay
36--Her Mother’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
37--Thrown on the World By Bertha M. Clay
38--Lady Damer’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
39--A Fiery Ordeal By Bertha M. Clay
40--A Woman’s Vengeance By Bertha M. Clay
41--Thorns and Orange Blossoms By Bertha M. Clay
42--Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies By Bertha M. Clay
43--A Coquette’s Conquest By Bertha M. Clay
44--A Wife’s Judgment By Bertha M. Clay
45--His Perfect Trust By Bertha M. Clay
46--Her Martyrdom By Bertha M. Clay
47--Golden Gates By Bertha M. Clay
48--Evelyn’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
49--Lord Lisle’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
50--A Woman’s Trust By Bertha M. Clay
51--A Wife’s Peril By Bertha M. Clay
52--Love in a Mask By Bertha M. Clay
53--For a Dream’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
54--A Dream of Love By Bertha M. Clay
55--The Hand Without a Wedding Ring By Bertha M. Clay
56--The Paths of Love By Bertha M. Clay
57--Irene’s Bow By Bertha M. Clay
58--The Rival Heiresses By Bertha M. Clay
59--The Squire’s Darling By Bertha M. Clay
60--Her First Love By Bertha M. Clay
61--Another Man’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
62--A Bitter Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
63--Wedded Hands By Bertha M. Clay
64--The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh By Bertha M. Clay
65--Violet Lisle By Bertha M. Clay
66--A Heart’s Idol By Bertha M. Clay
67--The Actor’s Ward By Bertha M. Clay
68--The Belle of Lynn By Bertha M. Clay
69--A Bitter Bondage By Bertha M. Clay
70--Dora Thorne By Bertha M. Clay
71--Claribel’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
72--A Woman’s War By Bertha M. Clay
73--A Fatal Dower By Bertha M. Clay
74--A Dark Marriage Morn By Bertha M. Clay
75--Hilda’s Love By Bertha M. Clay
76--One Against Many By Bertha M. Clay
77--For Another’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
78--At War With Herself By Bertha M. Clay
79--A Haunted Life By Bertha M. Clay
80--Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce By Bertha M. Clay
81--Wife in Name Only By Bertha M. Clay
82--The Sin of a Lifetime By Bertha M. Clay
83--The World Between Them By Bertha M. Clay
84--Prince Charlie’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
85--A Struggle for a Ring By Bertha M. Clay
86--The Shadow of a Sin By Bertha M. Clay
87--A Rose in Thorns By Bertha M. Clay
88--The Romance of the Black Veil By Bertha M. Clay
89--Lord Lynne’s Choice By Bertha M. Clay
90--The Tragedy of Lime Hall By Bertha M. Clay
91--James Gordon’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
92--Set in Diamonds By Bertha M. Clay
93--For Life and Love By Bertha M. Clay
94--How Will It End? By Bertha M. Clay
95--Love’s Warfare By Bertha M. Clay
96--The Burden of a Secret By Bertha M. Clay
97--Griselda By Bertha M. Clay
98--A Woman’s Witchery By Bertha M. Clay
99--An Ideal Love By Bertha M. Clay
100--Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood By Bertha M. Clay
101--The Romance of a Young Girl By Bertha M. Clay
102--The Price of a Bride By Bertha M. Clay
103--If Love Be Love By Bertha M. Clay
104--Queen of the County By Bertha M. Clay
105--Lady Ethel’s Whim By Bertha M. Clay
106--Weaker Than a Woman By Bertha M. Clay
107--A Woman’s Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
108--On Her Wedding Morn By Bertha M. Clay
109--A Struggle for the Right By Bertha M. Clay
110--Margery Daw By Bertha M. Clay
111--The Sins of the Father By Bertha M. Clay
112--A Dead Heart By Bertha M. Clay
113--Under a Shadow By Bertha M. Clay
114--Dream Faces By Bertha M. Clay
115--Lord Elesmere’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
116--Blossom and Fruit By Bertha M. Clay
117--Lady Muriel’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
118--A Loving Maid By Bertha M. Clay
119--Hilary’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
120--Beauty’s Marriage By Bertha M. Clay
121--Lady Gwendoline’s Dream By Bertha M. Clay
122--A Story of an Error By Bertha M. Clay
123--The Hidden Sin By Bertha M. Clay
124--Society’s Verdict By Bertha M. Clay
125--The Bride From the Sea and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
126--A Heart of Gold By Bertha M. Clay
127--Addie’s Husband and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
128--Lady Latimer’s Escape By Bertha M. Clay
129--A Woman’s Error By Bertha M. Clay
130--A Loveless Engagement By Bertha M. Clay
131--A Queen Triumphant By Bertha M. Clay
132--The Girl of His Heart By Bertha M. Clay
133--The Chains of Jealousy By Bertha M. Clay
134--A Heart’s Worship By Bertha M. Clay
135--The Price of Love By Bertha M. Clay
136--A Misguided Love By Bertha M. Clay
137--A Wife’s Devotion By Bertha M. Clay
138--When Love and Hate Conflict By Bertha M. Clay
139--A Captive Heart By Bertha M. Clay
140--A Pilgrim of Love By Bertha M. Clay
141--A Purchased Love By Bertha M. Clay
142--Lost for Love By Bertha M. Clay
143--The Queen of His Soul By Bertha M. Clay
144--Gladys’ Wedding Day By Bertha M. Clay
145--An Untold Passion By Bertha M. Clay
146--His Great Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
147--A Fateful Passion By Bertha M. Clay
148--The Sunshine of His Life By Bertha M. Clay
149--On With the New Love By Bertha M. Clay
150--An Evil Heart By Bertha M. Clay
151--Love’s Redemption By Bertha M. Clay
152--The Love of Lady Aurelia By Bertha M. Clay
153--The Lost Lady of Haddon By Bertha M. Clay
154--Every Inch a Queen By Bertha M. Clay
155--A Maid’s Misery By Bertha M. Clay
156--A Stolen Heart By Bertha M. Clay
157--His Wedded Wife By Bertha M. Clay
158--Lady Ona’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
159--A Tragedy of Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
160--The White Witch By Bertha M. Clay
161--Between Love and Ambition By Bertha M. Clay
162--True Love’s Reward By Bertha M. Clay
163--The Gambler’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
164--An Ocean of Love By Bertha M. Clay
165--A Poisoned Heart By Bertha M. Clay
166--For Love of Her By Bertha M. Clay
167--Paying the Penalty By Bertha M. Clay
168--Her Honored Name By Bertha M. Clay
169--A Deceptive Lover By Bertha M. Clay
170--The Old Love or New? By Bertha M. Clay
171--A Coquette’s Victim By Bertha M. Clay
172--The Wooing of a Maid By Bertha M. Clay
173--A Bitter Courtship By Bertha M. Clay
174--Love’s Debt By Bertha M. Clay
175--Her Beautiful Foe By Bertha M. Clay
176--A Happy Conquest By Bertha M. Clay
177--A Soul Ensnared By Bertha M. Clay
178--Beyond All Dreams By Bertha M. Clay
179--At Her Heart’s Command By Bertha M. Clay
180--A Modest Passion By Bertha M. Clay
181--The Flower of Love By Bertha M. Clay
182--Love’s Twilight By Bertha M. Clay
183--Enchained by Passion By Bertha M. Clay
184--When Woman Wills By Bertha M. Clay
185--Where Love Leads By Bertha M. Clay
186--A Blighted Blossom By Bertha M. Clay
187--Two Men and a Maid By Bertha M. Clay
188--When Love Is Kind By Bertha M. Clay
189--Withered Flowers By Bertha M. Clay
190--The Unbroken Vow By Bertha M. Clay
191--The Love He Spurned By Bertha M. Clay
192--Her Heart’s Hero By Bertha M. Clay
193--For Old Love’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
194--Fair as a Lily By Bertha M. Clay
195--Tender and True By Bertha M. Clay
196--What It Cost Her By Bertha M. Clay
197--Love Forevermore By Bertha M. Clay
198--Can This Be Love? By Bertha M. Clay
199--In Spite of Fate By Bertha M. Clay
200--Love’s Coronet By Bertha M. Clay
201--Dearer Than Life By Bertha M. Clay
202--Baffled By Fate By Bertha M. Clay
203--The Love That Won By Bertha M. Clay
204--In Defiance of Fate By Bertha M. Clay
205--A Vixen’s Love By Bertha M. Clay
206--Her Bitter Sorrow By Bertha M. Clay
207--By Love’s Order By Bertha M. Clay
208--The Secret of Estcourt By Bertha M. Clay
209--Her Heart’s Surrender By Bertha M. Clay
210--Lady Viola’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
211--Strong In Her Love By Bertha M. Clay
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.
To Be Published in July, 1923.
212--Tempted To Forget By Bertha M. Clay
213--With Love’s Strong Bonds By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in August, 1923.
214--Love, the Avenger By Bertha M. Clay
215--Under Cupid’s Seal By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in September, 1923.
216--The Love That Blinds By Bertha M. Clay
217--Love’s Crown Jewel By Bertha M. Clay
218--Wedded At Dawn By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in October, 1923.
219--For Her Heart’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
220--Fettered For Life By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in November, 1923.
221--Beyond the Shadow By Bertha M. Clay
222--A Heart Forlorn By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in December, 1923.
223--The Bride of the Manor By Bertha M. Clay
224--For Lack of Gold By Bertha M. Clay
LOVE STORIES
All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high
in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love
story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.
These stories are true to life--that’s why they make such a strong
appeal. Read one of them and judge.
LOVED AND LOST
OR,
A Deadly Secret
BY
BERTHA M. CLAY
Whose complete works will be published in this, the NEW
BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
(Printed in the United States of America)
LOVED AND LOST.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.
CHAPTER II. ADIEU.
CHAPTER III. A RUSE DE GUERRE.
CHAPTER IV. TUROY GRANGE.
CHAPTER V. WOMAN’S WAYS.
CHAPTER VI. THE LAST WALTZ.
CHAPTER VII. A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER VIII. PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER IX. ALL FOR LOVE.
CHAPTER X. A FACE AT THE WINDOW.
CHAPTER XI. “WHAT’S IN A NAME?”
CHAPTER XII. A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.
CHAPTER XIII. DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.
CHAPTER XIV. MY LOVE--MY LIFE.
CHAPTER XV. A JOYFUL AWAKENING.
CHAPTER XVI. GWEN AND PAULINE.
CHAPTER XVII. WHAT HOPE CAN DO.
CHAPTER XVIII. A HAPPY BRIDE.
CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST CLOUD.
CHAPTER XX. LOVED AND LOST.
CHAPTER XXI. FEAR.
CHAPTER XXII. CONVICTION.
CHAPTER XXIII. A PAINFUL SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXIV. A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
CHAPTER XXV. SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.
CHAPTER XXVI. A LONG EXPLANATION.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.
“How on earth did you get up there?” And the speaker put his glass in
his eye, and coolly surveyed the dainty figure perched on one of the
branches of the huge elm, under which he was standing. “That is the
last place I expected to find you.”
“I suppose so,” she answered composedly; for Lady Gwendolyn was never
flustered or ill at ease under the most trying circumstances. “The fact
is, I have had an unpleasant adventure.”
“Indeed; I am very sorry. But hadn’t you better let me help you down
before we talk it over; unless you like your quarters so well that you
are inclined to stay there, and, in that case, I will join you.”
“Nonsense, Colonel Dacre!” but she laughed, too. “What would Mrs.
Grundy say to such an extraordinary tête-à-tête?”
“She would say that it had the merit of novelty; and, considering how
tired one is of everything that has happened, and how bored at the
thought of prospective repetitions, I consider that any one who strikes
out a new line for himself, and refuses to lag along in the old groove,
deserves to be canonized.”
“Well, it is very nice when people will be a little original,
certainly; but I am not sure that a woman dare get out of the old
groove. Moreover, you men like pretty nonentities.”
“The deuce we do!” exclaimed Colonel Dacre. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. One does not need telling things when one has eyes and ears.
I have seen you dance as often as four times in one evening with Mrs.
O’Hara.”
“Well?”
“Well,” echoed Lady Gwendolyn, with a superb sort of insolence, “is she
clever?”
“No.”
“Refined?”
“No,” answered Colonel Dacre again.
“Or particularly good?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Then what is it that makes her the most popular woman in London?”
“Upon my word, I can’t tell you. I like her because I knew poor O’Hara.”
“And is it so pleasant to talk to her of your dead friend?” insinuated
Lady Gwendolyn slyly.
“I never heard her mention her husband’s name in my life.”
“No? Really, you quite astonish me! Then you can’t like her for his
sake--you must like her for her own. And I will tell you why, shall I?”
“I am all attention.”
“Well, she flatters you so skilfully that you don’t even know she is
doing it, at the same time that you feel infinitely satisfied with
yourself. I don’t mean you, individually, Colonel Dacre; but her
acquaintances generally.”
“At any rate, no one can accuse you of a like fault, Lady Gwendolyn,”
he said, with a faint smile, that showed pain as well as amusement.
“No; I am perfectly downright--too much so, Lady Teignmouth says; but
then there is one thing I would scorn to do.”
“What is that?” And there was a certain eagerness in his gray eyes.
“I would scorn to trouble the peace of a happy ménage for the sake of
gratifying my poor vanity.”
“And who does this thing?”
“You have a very poor memory, Colonel Dacre. Don’t you remember how
well poor foolish Percy Gray got on with his wife, until----”
“Go on,” he urged.
“Well, until Mrs. O’Hara paid them a long visit in town, and then Percy
began gradually to discover that Lady Maria was unsympathetic and
dull, and could not satisfy a man of intellectual tastes. Perhaps Mrs.
O’Hara meant no worse than to make herself agreeable to a convenient
acquaintance; but the result was to separate the two.”
“I don’t think you are just, Lady Gwendolyn. What reason have you for
laying their domestic differences at Mrs. O’Hara’s door?”
“Lady Maria made no mystery of it.”
“She was jealous of Mrs. O’Hara.”
“Possibly. I fancy I should have been in her place,” and Lady
Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed fire. “If I had a husband, I should not
exactly care for him to be always dancing attendance on a handsome
widow, and making her presents of valuable jewels, especially when he
bought these last with my money.”
“Did Lady Maria tell you that, too?”
“Indeed she did, and ‘albeit though not given to the melting mood,’ I
cried with her, poor thing! ‘For,’ as she pathetically said, ‘we were
so happy together, Percy and I, until Mrs. O’Hara came to stay with us
in town, and then she gave him such an exalted idea of himself that I
could not please or satisfy him afterward.’”
There was a minute’s silence. Lady Gwendolyn was almost ashamed at the
warmth she had shown, lest her motives should be misconstrued; and
Colonel Dacre was meditating deeply. At last he looked up and said:
“Why do you tell me all this, Lady Gwendolyn? You are not a spiteful
woman naturally, and I know you to be incapable of jealousy. For these
reasons I am specially anxious to understand your meaning.”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No; unless you fancy I am in danger from Mrs. O’Hara’s attractions,
and need warning.”
“I have been afraid so,” she said; and the wild-rose bloom of her soft
cheeks deepened to a rich crimson. “And we have been friends so long,
neighbors always, I could not bear to see you throw yourself away on a
woman who was so infinitely unworthy of an honest man’s love.”
If Lady Gwendolyn had been near Colonel Dacre she would not have
dared to speak so frankly. But her position, if ridiculous, had its
advantages, for she was out of the range of his keen glances, and the
tremulous leaves had the benefit of her frequent blushes. For over a
month now she had been longing to tell him this, but the courage had
only come to-day. She was quite obliged to Farmer Bates’ bull for
having frightened her up into the tree, and she did not mean to descend
just yet.
Colonel Dacre took a long time to digest her warning, but he spoke at
last coolly enough.
“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn; but though I don’t quite agree with you
about Mrs. O’Hara, I would sooner shoot myself than marry her. My
friend was a noble fellow, and kept his counsel bravely to the end;
but there was one thing that would always prevent me from falling in
love with his widow.”
“What is that?”
“Because I should not like to stand in a dead man’s shoes, especially
his. So, you see, I am safe, although Mrs. O’Hara has the double
advantages of being a nonentity and a flatterer. Now will you let me
help you down from your perch?”
“Wait just one minute. I want to ask you a very impertinent question
first, if I may.”
“I grant you absolution beforehand,” he said, smiling, “on condition
that you do not keep me in suspense.”
“I want to know,” she began hesitatingly, “whether if--supposing Mrs.
O’Hara had not been your friend’s widow----”
“I should have cared for her?” put in the colonel, to help out her
halting speech. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes; I am so absurdly curious, and I have always wondered if--if----”
Here she came to a full stop in dire confusion, for she had been going
to add, “if that is the sort of woman you would care for;” and suddenly
perceived that this would not do at all.
“I’ll answer your question when you are on terra firma,” replied
Colonel Dacre, dodging to catch a glimpse of the piquant face among the
leaves; “this is what I call a conversation under difficulties. By the
by, you forgot to tell me why you got up there at all.”
“Bates’ bull put its head over the railing, and looked at my red cloak
so viciously I dared not pass him. I had often climbed this tree with
Reggie when I was a little girl, and had managed to give Fraulein von
Linder the slip; and so I thought I would try it again to-day; but a
gown with a train is embarrassing.”
“I expect it is,” he answered, with a droll look in his handsome eyes.
“I should be sorry to go about the world crippled by my clothes as you
women do.”
“Oh, we don’t mind it, as a rule. One would rather suffer anything, you
know, than be quite out of the fashion.”
“Would one, indeed?” he returned, in a tone of grave commiseration. “It
seems to me that fashion is the greatest despot the world ever knew;
but I am thankful to say it is only women who yield so servilely to its
exactions.”
“Of course. One never hears, for instance, of men putting their necks
into a vise, and having to turn their heads painfully for fear of
accidents to the machinery. Still, if we did hear of such things, we
should know it was only done for comfort, and respect them vastly for
consulting their own ease before appearances.”
“I can’t argue with a lady so high above me,” retorted Colonel Dacre;
and then he added, more seriously: “Indeed, Lady Gwendolyn, you ought
to come down. I can see the Handley drag in the distance, and you know
Sir Charles would tease your life out of you if he caught you in such a
predicament as this.”
“I suppose he would, and therefore I must return to conventional life
again. But you have no idea how pleasant it is up here; the air is so
pure, and the leaves smell so sweet. I’ll get Teignmouth to arrange me
a little place in one of his big trees, à la Robinson, so that I may
retire there for contemplation and self-examination occasionally.”
“Or, rather, say to read your _billets doux_, and keep a close
calculation as to the number of hearts you have broken,” said Colonel
Dacre, with a sternness in his voice that showed this trifling,
butterfly nature--as he believed it to be--angered as well as charmed
him. “I fancy that would be nearer the truth.”
Without answering him, Lady Gwendolyn began to work her way slowly
along the bough on which she had been seated. She found it a very
different performance in cold blood from what it had been under the
excitement of fear, and felt herself tremble nervously.
She was terribly incommoded by her dress into the bargain. If Colonel
Dacre had not been there she would have gathered her train over her
arm, and let her ankles take their chance; but under the circumstances
this would not have done, and she had to proceed circumspectly, as
became the daughter of a hundred earls.
Knowing nothing of her difficulties, and seeing the Handley drag draw
nearer and nearer, Colonel Dacre kept urging her on eagerly. Sir
Charles was a great gossip, and it was quite as well he should not have
an opportunity of making mischief out of Lady Gwendolyn’s escapade.
“You really must be quick,” he urged; “the horses are turning Borton
corner.”
“But don’t you think I should pass unobserved if you were to get away
from the tree?” observed Lady Gwendolyn timidly.
“Impossible. Your red cloak must have been a feature in the landscape
for some time past. You had better leave it where it is, to account for
what they have seen, and if you are very quick, we shall be able to
hide ourselves before they get on high ground again.”
“That’s all very well, but----”
“Shall I give you a little help?”
“Not for worlds! I would rather stay here all night.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you are laughing at me in your sleeve. You did not see
the bull’s great glaring eyes.”
“If you had made him a present of your cloak he would have been so
taken up with his toy that you would have been able to make your escape
in a legitimate way.”
“That’s all very well, but I really can’t afford to throw my clothes
away in that fashion. I have come down to Teignmouth on purpose to
economize, because I exceeded my allowance last year, and my brother
had to help me through. Now he is married he has to pay his wife’s
debts, and, of course, I am left out in the cold; so I am obliged to
be horribly careful, you see. Teignmouth says I ought to make three
hundred pounds a year do; but then you men never understand what heaps
of things a woman wants.”
“Exactly,” groaned her listener. “A man must have ten thousand
pounds nowadays before he can afford the luxury of a wife, and then
he’s ruined half the time. But pray look where you are going, Lady
Gwendolyn. I am sure that branch on which you are stepping is rotten
and unsafe.”
“It bore me before.”
“And, therefore, is less likely to do so again. I can hear it crack
now--for mercy’s sake step back!” he shouted, in a frightened tone.
She seemed to enjoy his alarm, and laughed defiantly. She desired
nothing better than to make him suffer a little; and she saw, by his
anxious face, that he was suffering now--from a nervous dread of
witnessing some catastrophe, no doubt. She put her other foot onto the
rotten branch. He was watching her with his heart in his eyes; but he
saw that his warning had been a mistake, and was silent now, hoping she
would try to redeem her error if she were left to herself.
And so she did; but it was too late. The bough gave a loud creak, then
broke off suddenly, and Lady Gwendolyn fell in a brilliant heap at
Colonel Dacre’s feet.
The red cloak, her pretty summer hat, and her long black hair, were all
in such a tangle together that he could not find her face at first,
and even when he did he was afraid to look, lest the fatal beauty,
which had been the curse of so many, was all spoiled and disfigured. An
unholy thought sped through him, that, if it were so, there would be
none to dispute with him the treasure he coveted. But he chased this
away with contumely.
With a quick but reluctant hand he swept away the shining masses of her
hair, and looked at her anxiously. She was as white as a lily; but if
there was no more harm done than what he saw, she would break many more
hearts yet--his own maybe among the rest.
He bent his lips almost to her ear; inhaling, with passionate delight,
the faint perfume that pervaded her dress.
So far it had been a wonderful privilege to hold her hand for a few
seconds in his; and now he might have touched her creamy cheek with his
lips had he been so minded, and no one would have been the wiser, for
the Handley wagonette had gone by, and there was not a living soul in
sight.
It was a great temptation, for he had loved this girl secretly, madly,
entirely, for two long years, and had suffered tortures of jealousy and
hopelessness meanwhile.
If she would only come to herself! He did not think she could be
much injured, as she had not fallen from any great height, but still
she did not open her eyes, and he was so totally inexperienced in
fainting-fits, that her perfect immovability frightened him.
He almost wished now that he had hailed the Handley people as they
went by, although he was so jealously glad to have her all to himself.
He wondered what he ought to do. He had heard of eau de Cologne being
an excellent thing under the circumstance, but then he did not carry
it about with him. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically as the
idea occurred to him, and came upon his silver hunting-flask. His
face brightened at once. He was sure he had also heard of brandy as a
remedy, and what a merciful thing he had some by him. He supposed it
was to be applied externally, like the eau de Cologne. Going down on
his knees beside the insensible figure, he moistened his handkerchief
with the spirit, and then bathed Lady Gwendolyn’s forehead and
nostrils; and whether it was that brandy so applied really was a good
thing, or that the fainting-fits was ending naturally, the girl’s white
eyelids began to twinkle, and suddenly she looked up at him with a
languidly mysterious smile.
He stooped over her tenderly.
“Are you better, Lady Gwendolyn?”
“Have I been ill, then?” she asked.
“Oh, dear, no!” he answered cheerfully, having always understood that
you must keep your patient’s spirits up. “Just a little faintness, that
was all. Nothing of the smallest consequence.”
“How do you know that?” she returned. “I believe I have broken my leg.”
“Oh! pray, don’t say that. You only fell from a very short distance,
after all, and your feet were not doubled under you, or anything of
that sort. You don’t feel any pain, do you?”
Lady Gwendolyn shook her dark, disheveled head in a despondent way.
“That is what I do feel, and I am sure I could not walk home.”
“I never dreamed of your doing such a thing. If you don’t mind waiting
here----”
She interrupted him with a cry of dismay.
“So close to Bates’ bull?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said penitently, and then stood pulling at his
mustache--a way he had when puzzled or annoyed.
At last he added hesitatingly:
“My house is close here, and if you would not mind my carrying you
there, Mrs. Whittaker, the housekeeper, would be able to attend to
you until the doctor came. I cannot think of any better plan at this
moment; and, of course, I shall not enter the Hall until I have fetched
Lady Teignmouth. It is ridiculous to trouble about conventionalities
at such a time, Lady Gwendolyn, when the least neglect or delay might
cause you to be a cripple for life. Are you not of my opinion?”
“Quite,” she replied, with a strange gleam as of suppressed triumph
in her beautiful eyes. “Only that I am afraid you will find that the
burden laid upon you is heavier than you can bear.”
“We shall see,” he said, lifting her in his stalwart arms as easily
as if she had been a child. “Would you mind putting your arm round my
shoulder, just to steady yourself?”
Lady Gwendolyn obeyed him with the simplicity that is always such
perfect breeding; and when Colonel Dacre looked down at the creamy
cheek resting on his shoulder, and felt the warm coil of her arm round
his neck, he could hardly resist the mad temptation to press her
against his heart, and tell her again and again how he loved her--so
passionately that he would have deemed the world well lost for her
sweet sake.
CHAPTER II.
ADIEU.
“Are you not a long time getting to the Hall?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn
innocently. “It looked so very near when I was at the top of the tree.
I am afraid I must be dreadfully heavy, after all. Do let me try to
walk.”
“Not for the world; you might injure yourself for life,” he replied.
“I could have hurried a little more, only that I was afraid of shaking
you.”
Of course he could. Lady Gwendolyn knew that as well as he did, and
smiled to herself. Surely he deserved that she should play with him a
little, when for two long years he had kept her in suspense as to the
state of his feelings, and had only betrayed them by accident now.
“You carry me beautifully,” she said, with her most gracious air. “You
must be wonderfully strong.”
“I used to be; but I have seen my best days, you know.”
“I don’t know. What age are you?” she asked, in her usual downright way.
“Nearly thirty-four.”
“Say thirty-three; there is no need to anticipate. I shall be twenty
next week; but I mean to call myself nineteen until twelve o’clock on
Monday night. When I reach twenty-five I shall pause there for four or
five years, and then go on as slowly as possible, counting every other
year, until I am awfully old, and then I sha’n’t mind.”
“Would you really mind now if you were--thirty, say?”
“Yes--I should,” she replied, with great decision.
“Then how dreadfully you must feel for me, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“I don’t think it signifies about a man’s age, unless he is beginning
to get infirm. But you have plenty of good years before you yet,
Colonel Dacre.”
“I hope you are a true prophet, Lady Gwendolyn. I can assure you that,
so far, I have only seen the dark side of life.”
“And yet to outsiders you always seem such a very fortunate person.”
“Do I? Why?”
“You have plenty of money, a fine old property, health to enjoy your
advantages; and, therefore, as the world argues, you are an exceedingly
fortunate person.”
“Of course, I forgot,” he said bitterly; “money is everything in this
world; and yet how little it can buy--of what one values most, I mean.”
“Why, it buys diamonds!” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn naïvely.
“And you value them more than anything?”
“Well, they are property,” said her ladyship, with a provoking laugh.
“I get tired of an ornament so soon; it is nice to know I can dispose
of it to advantage, and buy something that pleases me better with the
money.”
“Lady Gwendolyn, I give you notice that I don’t believe a word you are
saying.”
“No?”
“No, I do not believe you to be so bad as you make yourself out,” he
pursued, with indignant emphasis, for he was trying to convince himself
as well as to shame her. “But I cannot understand the pleasure of
shocking people.”
“Because you are not sensational.”
“Heaven forbid!” he ejaculated fervently.
“Why ‘Heaven forbid?’ There is nothing so delightful. I should die of
ennui down here, if it weren’t for an occasional tragedy or surprise.”
“It is to be hoped you won’t have one too many,” he answered gravely.
She lifted her mutinous face from his shoulder to look into his eyes,
and then subsided back into her warm shelter, smiling an odd, keen,
satisfied little smile, which seemed to say: “You belong to me so
thoroughly now that, whatever I may say or do, you cannot break your
bonds.”
And, alas! it was only too true. He knew this himself by his
undiminished longing to crush her into his arms--to carry her away
to some quiet corner of the earth, where she might belong to him
undisputed, and satisfy his whole being with the sweetness of her
presence. For this he would have resigned gladly all the advantages she
had just been enumerating; for this he would have sacrificed everything
but his honor, and hope of heaven.
“Well,” she said, after a long pause, “why don’t you talk?”
“I have nothing to say, Lady Gwendolyn, that would be sufficiently
tragical, or surprising, either, to amuse you,” he answered, with
indulgent irony.
“I am not so sure of that. Do you know what somebody told me once?”
“Somebody must have told you so many things at different times.”
“But I mean about you?”
“I am no Œdipus, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered; and, though he
constrained himself to speak coolly, his lips went white.
“That you have a secret in your life--a skeleton in your cupboard,”
she said, in a quick breath, that showed that she was speaking with a
purpose, and not out of mere audacity and carelessness. “Is it true?”
He seemed to swallow down a great lump in his throat before he could
answer her; and then his voice was strangely hoarse, and unlike his
natural tones.
“Do you ask this out of curiosity only, Lady Gwendolyn?”
It was her turn to steady her voice before she responded:
“No--at least, not exactly.”
“Then tell me your motive?”
And, unconsciously, in his eagerness he stooped over her, until his
lips touched her hair.
“I--I want to know,” she stammered out.
“That is not a reason.”
“It is the best I can give you.”
“The best you can give me would be the true one.”
“A woman does not like to confess that she is curious,” she said
evasively.
“Then it is curiosity?”
“I did not say so.”
“You implied it, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“Don’t you know that speech was given to us to enable us to conceal our
thoughts, Colonel Dacre?”
“You are fencing the question. I wish you would be frank with me for
once.”
“It is a great mistake to be frank. You only put weapons into your
enemies’ hands for them to wound you with.”
“But you are not obliged to be frank with enemies, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“If once people get into the habit, it is very difficult to break it
off. Besides, who is to discriminate between friend and foe?”
“I thought a woman’s wonderful instinct always helped her there.”
“Not always. For instance”--saucily--“I have never been able to
discover yet whether you like me or not.”
“Then you must be extraordinarily obtuse,” he answered, in the same
tone.
“I acknowledged as much just now.”
But at this moment they reached the Hall, in spite of Colonel Dacre’s
lingering, and he carried her carefully over the threshold, and placed
her on the sofa in a small room, which had once been his mother’s
boudoir, and where the pretty things a refined woman likes to collect
around her lay about in elegant profusion.
“Now I will go and speak to my housekeeper, and place you in her charge
during my absence,” he said; and was moving toward the door, when she
put out her hand and detained him.
“Colonel Dacre, will you do me a great favor?”
“A dozen if I had the chance,” he answered, with more vehemence than he
was conscious of.
“I don’t want any one to know I am here until you return.”
“Oh, but, Lady Gwendolyn, it is impossible that I should leave you
without assistance.”
“Not if I prefer it?” she asked, with her most persuasive accent.
“When people want things that are bad for them we generally serve them,
in spite of themselves, by a denial.”
“Yes; but this is not really bad for me. My foot has entirely ceased
to pain me, and what I want now is simply rest and quiet. I know Mrs.
Whittaker, and she is a terrible gossip. I could not stand her in my
best moments; now she would irritate me beyond endurance.”
Seeing him still hesitate, she added, in a decided tone:
“Very well, then, if she comes, or any fuss is made in the house, I
will hop home, somehow, Colonel Dacre. There will be an astonishing
story abroad to-morrow if Mrs. Whittaker is taken into our
confidence----”
“But how is this to be avoided?” he interrupted.
“Very easily indeed. Lady Teignmouth will come to fetch me presently,
and how should your servants know that we did not arrive together?”
“You forget that we shall have to account for Doctor Thurlow’s sudden
visit.”
“I don’t see any need for that. You are not surely bound to keep your
servants _au courant_ as to all your movements.”
“That is about the last thing I should think of as a rule. I trouble
myself very little about what they think; but I am naturally sensitive
for you, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“If that is the case, you must see that my proposition is a good one.
The servants are less likely to talk if they have nothing to talk
about.”
“You don’t do justice to their inventive faculties, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“I don’t profess to understand them much,” she answered, with the
hauteur of a true patrician. “I always hear that they are very
unsatisfactory people; but I am sufficiently fortunate, I suppose, for
I don’t often change my maids.”
“And I never change mine,” he said, laughing. “I always find the same
faces here when I return from my travels. But are you quite determined
to banish Mrs. Whittaker, Lady Gwendolyn?”
“Entirely. I infinitely prefer to be alone; and as I am free from pain,
and perfectly composed, I really don’t see what I could do with her if
she were here, except listen to your praises.”
“And that would be too trying.”
“I never said so; but, as you advocate frankness, I will admit that I
would rather the pleasure were postponed.”
“Sine die, I suppose?”
“Colonel Dacre, you are too spiteful! I won’t listen to you any longer.”
And she turned her face to the wall, with a resolute air.
He went down on one knee, and said in a tragical tone:
“I cannot depart without your forgiveness. There is a deep pit on the
Teignmouth Road, and, blinded by despair, I should be sure to fall into
it! There is also a swift river beyond. You will not, surely, send me
forth to certain destruction?”
She gave him her hand, and his lips fastened on it eagerly,
passionately. She kept her face averted still, but she did not chide
him, and a faint tremor went through her whole frame. Then slowly she
turned her head, and, looking him straight in the eyes, said softly:
“You have not told me your secret yet.”
He sprang to his feet abruptly, as if he had been stung.
“Who told you I had a secret?” he asked, in a stifled voice.
“Some one.”
“Is it impossible that ‘some one’ should lie?”
“Tell me it is so, and I will believe you.”
Dead silence.
“Do you hear me, Colonel Dacre?”
“Yes, I hear you, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“Then answer something,” she added, in an impatient tone.
Again he was mute.
She snatched her hand away from him, and turned her face to the wall
once more.
“I understand you, Colonel Dacre. You have a secret, and one you would
be ashamed to tell me.”
“Is that a necessary inference?” he inquired, in a low, constrained
voice.
“I think so.”
“Perhaps you are too prejudiced to be just.”
“I don’t know why I should be. You and I were always good friends, in
the social sense of the term. For instance, you always asked me for
two or three dances when we met at a ball, and sometimes you even took
me down to supper. I have even known you to shelter me from the sun by
holding my parasol at a garden-party; and once you so far sacrificed
yourself as to play croquet at my desire. After that I never allowed
myself to doubt your devotion, I assure you; and I am surprised you
should think I could be prejudiced against you.”
“Can you never be serious?” he said painfully.
“I am serious now.”
“I should be sorry to think so.”
“Why? I have not said anything bad, have I?”
“No; but if your seriousness is so much like jest, how is one ever to
know which you mean it to be?”
“You must wait for circumstances to enlighten you.”
“How long?”
“That depends upon--circumstances.”
“You are very enigmatical, Lady Gwendolyn, and, as I said before, I am
no Œdipus.”
“Then you give me up?” she said, laughing.
“As a riddle, yes. There never was a man yet who could fathom a woman,
from Adam downward.”
“It was never intended that you should, evidently, or Eve would not
have been allowed to set such a precedent. Weakness is often obliged to
seem like duplicity in self-defense.”
“Do you call yourself weak? Physical strength is not the greatest,
after all, or Una would never have tamed the lion.”
“If you lapse into allegory, I am undone,” she said gaily. “I am no
‘scholar,’ as the poor people say. What little my governesses managed
to teach me I have forgotten long ago.”
“And yet, I heard you translate a Latin epigram very creditably the
other day.”
“Nonsense! Colonel Dacre. Your ears deceived you. I should have been so
exhausted mentally by the effort that I should not have been able to
frame an intelligible sentence for at least a year afterward, and you
see I am quite rational to-day.”
He rose with an impatient, weary air. It seemed as if she were such an
incorrigible trifler, and had so thoroughly accustomed herself to look
on the ridiculous side of everything, that now she could not be serious
even if she wished.
And yet she was so lovely; and what better excuse did a man ever need
for such folly?
“‘If to her share a thousand errors fall,
Look in her face and you forget them all,’”
the colonel muttered to himself, rather grimly, as he furtively
examined the delicate profile which was just sufficiently out of the
straight Greek line to give it more piquancy without losing the grace
of the model.
Though she was somewhat above the middle height, she might have worn
Cinderella’s glass slipper with ease, and her hand was so small, and
soft, and plump, it seemed to melt in your grasp.
Altogether, she was the only woman yet who had ever entirely satisfied
him. Others had charmed him for a time, but he had never learned to
love them because somehow they had always managed to disenchant him
before he reached that point. But he had only to see Lady Gwendolyn to
tumble headlong, foolishly in love; and though he had been struggling
to get out of bondage ever since, each month seemed to strengthen his
chains.
Now he had surrendered at discretion, and felt himself at the mercy of
this black-browed witch of a woman, who seemed to think it a pleasant
pastime to break the hearts of those who loved her.
Having almost reached the door, he came back to say wistfully:
“Do you forgive me for disobeying you, Lady Gwendolyn?”
“No,” she answered shortly and sternly; for she was given to these
Protean changes of mood. “You have not told me your secret.”
“Why will you harp upon that miserable subject? I do not question you
upon your past.”
“You have no right,” she said haughtily.
A sudden glow crept into his face; his eyes shone with triumph.
“You think that you have a right to know mine, then, Lady Gwendolyn?”
She saw then what inference she had favored, and grew crimson to the
very roots of her hair under his searching, impassioned gaze. Amazed at
her own embarrassment, she answered petulantly:
“I wish you would let me rest, Colonel Dacre. I might as well have had
Mrs. Whittaker if you were going to gossip like this.”
“I beg your pardon,” he answered, with a formal bow; “I forget that I
might be boring you. What message shall I give Lady Teignmouth from
you?”
“None whatever, thank you. Say what you think fit. She is sure to be
shocked, anyhow, for she is the most unmitigated prude I ever knew;
but she will recover herself in time, I dare say. Will you kindly hand
me a book before you go?”
He chose one that he thought would interest her, placed it on a little
table beside her sofa, with very evident pleasure in the service, and
then, remembering Lot’s wife, he left the room without once looking
back.
Lord Teignmouth’s park adjoined his, and he had not far to go; but, on
reaching the house, he heard, to his dismay, that his lordship and wife
had driven out together to make some calls, and were not expected home
until six o’clock.
Of course he could not confide his errand to the butler, and,
therefore, he simply said that he would call again later, and took his
way toward the village. But, as luck would have it, Doctor Thurlow was
also absent, having been sent for a few minutes before he arrived; and,
as his patient lived nearly eight miles off, there was not much chance
of his being back for an hour and a half, at least.
Colonel Dacre began to think that everything was conspiring to drive
him crazy. He might reasonably have counted upon taking back one of the
three people he had gone to fetch, and so setting Lady Gwendolyn right
with the world, supposing her adventure got wind; and not knowing what
to do now, he decided to walk back to the Hall as quickly as possible,
and hear what his guest wished done.
He began to see now that it was a mistake to have taken her there
at all. If he had only carried her into Bates’ house, nothing could
possibly have been said--only that people always think of these
brilliant expedients when it is too late to carry them into effect, and
as it had not suggested itself to Lady Gwendolyn she could hardly blame
him for his forgetfulness.
He had left the door ajar, and stole into the house unperceived.
Perhaps in his heart of hearts he was not sorry that he should have
another tête-à-tête with Lady Gwendolyn, though he would not have
confessed as much even to himself, so anxious was he to be honorable
even in thought.
The door of the little boudoir where he had left her was shut fast,
and he knocked softly thrice without receiving any answer. At last,
fancying that the girl must have fallen asleep, he opened it with a
certain hesitation and peered in, naturally glancing first toward the
sofa, where he had seen her last, reclining helplessly back among the
cushions.
She was not there.
Somewhat alarmed now, he walked boldly in, and searched even behind
the curtains, thinking, perhaps, her ladyship was coquetting with his
fears, and enjoying his discomfiture from her hiding-place. But she
was not there, or anywhere, so far as he could perceive, and he paused
in great perplexity. Had the Teignmouths chanced to call while he was
away, and carried her off?
This seemed the most feasible solution of the mystery, considering the
state she was in, and he was about to adopt it, when he suddenly caught
sight of a little three-cornered note lying on the table which he had
placed beside Lady Gwendolyn’s couch.
It was addressed to “Colonel Dacre,” and, tearing it open eagerly, he
read the following words, whose expressiveness was only equaled by
their laconicism:
“I have found out your secret at last. Adieu.”
CHAPTER III.
A RUSE DE GUERRE.
Colonel Dacre stood quite still for several minutes, holding Lady
Gwendolyn’s letter in his hand, and so completely stunned by the
misfortune that had come upon him, he could scarcely realize its
magnitude as yet. Had Lady Gwendolyn’s accident been a mere pretense
and blind? And, if so, had she any excuse for her deception?
These were the two questions he put to himself the moment he could
reason. There was only one thing that could have justified such a
course of action on Lady Gwendolyn’s part; and if she had had this
motive, he was ready to forgive her. He would not judge her, then,
until they had met and he had interrogated her, when, even if her
tongue labored to deceive him still, he should know the truth by her
eyes.
But he could not present himself at the Castle a second time that day,
and he might have betrayed Lady Gwendolyn by so doing; as there was
just the chance that she had been able to get home without Lord and
Lady Teignmouth knowing anything about her little adventure.
He must wait, therefore, until the morrow for a solution of the double
mystery, trying as the suspense was.
Before the household was astir he got up, plunged into a cold bath to
freshen himself a little, and then went out into the lanes, which he
paced up and down until breakfast-time.
The meal was a farce--he was much too excited to eat; but he thought it
necessary to sit down to table, and help himself from one of the savory
little dishes which the butler forced upon his notice. He did not care
to set them gossiping in the servants’ hall; and Graham had already
remarked, with the freedom of an old retainer, that “he feared his
master must have had a bad night, since he had risen so much earlier
than usual.”
To wait until the afternoon was beyond Colonel Dacre’s courage; and as
he and Lord Teignmouth had been at Eton together as boys, he thought he
might venture to make a morning call for once in a way. So he ordered
his horse at a quarter to twelve, and got through the interval as best
he could.
Lord Teignmouth was at home, and received him cordially in the library.
He was a hearty, pleasant-mannered man, who managed to enjoy life
vastly, although the countess was not reckoned, in the neighborhood, to
be a very satisfactory wife. But, if frivolous and vain, her ladyship
was sweet-tempered, and accorded as much liberty to her husband as she
took herself; so that they kept on excellent terms--all the better,
perhaps, that they were so seldom together.
It was purely an accident that they were both at the Castle now, as her
ladyship had an engagement elsewhere; but a slight feverish attack had
brought her down to Teignmouth for rest and fresh air, and she was as
much charmed as surprised when she found her husband and sister-in-law
ruralizing, also.
“It is so seldom one can manage to be quite en famille,” she said
affably; “the world is such a tyrant, it is always claiming one. I am
horribly tired of gaiety, but one must do as others do, you know.”
And when the earl laughed, as he always did at his wife’s logic, she
opened her large blue eyes, and added innocently:
“Well, but mustn’t one, dear?”
Colonel Dacre asked after the countess’ health with great apparent
solicitude, as he shook hands with his host, and was, of course,
delighted to hear that she had entirely recovered from her recent
indisposition. Then he added, with assumed nonchalance:
“I trust Lady Gwendolyn is equally well.”
“Oh! that’s where the land lies, is it?” thought the earl. But aloud he
said, with a certain twinkle of the eye:
“I trust she is, too; but I haven’t seen her since last night.”
“No?” put in the colonel, waiting eagerly for further information.
“The fact is,” Lord Teignmouth went on, in a confidential tone, “girls
are never of the same mind two days together. Yesterday morning Gwen
was enchanted with Teignmouth, and declared she would give up all her
engagements and stay here for the autumn; in the evening, at dinner,
she suddenly announced that she was bored to death, and should leave by
the first train in the morning.”
“And this morning she changed her mind for the third time, I presume?”
“Not a bit of it! I thought she would, of course, and quite expected to
see her at breakfast; but when, on her not presenting herself, I made
inquiries, I found that she had left Teignmouth by the first train.”
Colonel Dacre felt himself turn pale, but managed to say, with
tolerable composure:
“I am sorry for that, as she was kind enough to lend me a book the
other day, and I have not had the opportunity of returning it. But
perhaps you will kindly give me her address, and then I can send it by
post.”
“Her address. Let me see,” said the earl, with provoking deliberation.
“I know it is somewhere in the North.”
“I am afraid that is rather vague.”
“I am afraid it is,” he answered, with his frank laugh. “But I have
such a confoundedly bad memory. Pauline would remember, I dare say. She
is generally my prompter. Supposing you go and ask her yourself?”
“Are you sure I should not be intruding on Lady Teignmouth?” inquired
Colonel Dacre, whose eyes had suddenly brightened at the proposition.
“On the contrary, I am certain her ladyship will be delighted to see
you.”
Lady Teignmouth was reclining on a lounge by the open window as Colonel
Dacre entered, and her very attitude showed how thoroughly bored she
was; but at the sound of his name she turned, with evident relief, and
held out her hand.
“How very kind of you to take compassion on a poor recluse!” she said
gaily. “I am literally dying of ennui! I do hope you have brought me
some news.”
“On the contrary, I have come here for news,” he answered, seating
himself in the chair her ladyship pointed out.
“Then you have been taken in, I am afraid. Nothing new ever happens at
Teignmouth.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, his voice trembling a little; “Lady
Gwendolyn’s sudden departure is something new.”
“I am so accustomed to these strange caprices of hers, they never seem
new to me,” replied Lady Teignmouth, hardening a little. “It is a great
misfortune when a mere girl has such a horror of anything like control.
I am going away to-morrow myself, and she might as well have waited
and traveled with me as far as town, but she would not listen to my
proposition. She preferred to be quite free, she said; and so she is
gone off, goodness knows where, in spite of everything I could say.”
“Lord Teignmouth told me she had left you her address,” hazarded the
colonel timidly.
The countess gave him a sudden, keen look right in the eyes, and then
shook her head.
“You know poor dear Reginald always does make blunders, Colonel Dacre.
Gwen said something about letting us know shortly where she was to be
found, but I think it was only a parting civility to which it would not
do to attach much importance.”
“But what motive could she have for concealing her whereabouts?”
“I never profess to understand Gwen’s motives for anything, Colonel
Dacre; nor do I, as a rule, interfere in her plans. The best thing that
could happen to her would be to get a husband who would keep her in
order, for what little authority Teignmouth might have as her guardian
he never exercises, so that she is getting more and more lawless every
day.”
“Lady Gwendolyn may consider that she is justified in pleasing herself
so long as Lord Teignmouth does not remonstrate; he is the only person
who has a right to take this tone with her as yet.”
“Oh! I never interfere, if that is what you mean,” responded her
ladyship, smiling that sweet, stereotyped smile of hers which imposed
upon so many. “I have no right, as you say.”
Colonel Dacre had not said exactly this, but he let it pass, and
observed, after a pause:
“Then you cannot give me any idea where Lady Gwendolyn is to be found?”
“Not the faintest. But she may write in a day or two, and then I will
let you know, if you like.”
“Thank you very much,” he said; and then he added, with assumed
carelessness: “She was quite well, I hope, when she went away?”
“Perfectly,” answered Lady Teignmouth, opening her eyes very wide, as
if she were surprised at the question.
“She did not complain of her foot at all?”
“Why should she?”
“Oh! I thought she might possibly have sprained her ankle,” he said
evasively. “She walked so much more here than she is accustomed to do.”
“She pleased herself; there was a carriage always at her disposal. You
ought to know, Colonel Dacre, that my husband is absurdly weak, so far
as Gwen is concerned, and would try to get her a slice of the moon if
she wanted one.”
“It is a very amiable weakness,” said the colonel, smiling.
“But not always a convenient one for his wife.”
Colonel Dacre began to understand the countess better now. She was
jealous of her beautiful sister-in-law. She never made the faintest
effort to retain her husband’s affection; still she did not want him to
care for anybody else, and was never so near losing her temper as when
anything reminded her of the good understanding that existed between
the brother and sister.
Then, again, although a pretty woman, the countess was quite eclipsed
by Lady Gwendolyn, which was another reason why she should not regard
her with much favor. However, she did not care for an outsider to know
exactly the terms they were on, for she added, in an indulgent tone:
“I dare say it is very natural, after all. There are only two of them
left now, and their mother left Gwen in Reginald’s charge, so that he
looks upon her as a sacred legacy. Only, of course, she is but young,
and it would be better if he looked after her a little more, would it
not?”
“Perhaps it would,” he admitted. “But it is just possible Lady
Gwendolyn would not submit to be dictated to.”
“In that case she ought to marry, and take the responsibility off our
shoulders, Colonel Dacre,” replied the countess, with more decision
than she usually infused into her company manner. “I am sure you would
hardly believe how worried I was by her numerous flirtations last
season.”
“I should have fancied there was safety in numbers,” remarked her
listener dryly.
“For her, perhaps; but I am afraid it only made it more dangerous for
them. If this were a dueling age, Gwen would have a good many on her
conscience, I fancy.”
“But, you see, men do not always care to risk their lives for a woman
whom they know is trifling with them,” said Colonel Dacre slowly.
“Well, you speak very philosophically of love, as if it were a light
feeling that helped you through a few idle hours, but was not likely to
take any deeper hold.”
“You quite misunderstand me, I assure you. I think love a terrible
thing, and pity those who fall into it, with all my heart.”
“While taking warning by their example,” insinuated Lady Teignmouth,
smiling.
A quick flush passed over the colonel’s face. The significance of
her manner made him tremble for his secret, which he feared was in
very unsafe keeping. He hastened to deny the “soft impeachment” in
self-defense.
“Exactly. As a mere looker-on I can judge the question dispassionately,
which would not be the case, supposing my feelings were implicated.”
This time her ladyship laughed outright. She evidently thought his
logic rather defective. Then, becoming suddenly grave, she said:
“If love is a terrible thing under ordinary circumstances, what must it
be under extraordinary circumstances?”
“What do you mean by extraordinary circumstances?”
“Well, if you cared for a coquette--we will say?”
“I hope I never should, Lady Teignmouth.”
“I hope not, too, for your own sake. And, unfortunately, I have seen
so many poor moths consumed in a certain flame that I tremble now for
every one that approaches. The only chance, so far as my experience
goes, is to keep out of the way.”
“On the principle that ‘prevention is better than cure,’” he answered
lightly. “I agree with your ladyship there, up to a certain point;
still, if one were always on the lookout for painful possibilities,
life would not be worth living, would it?”
The countess yawned demonstratively.
“Is it now, do you think?”
“Yes,” he answered, with decision. “I find it so.”
“You really surprise me;” and she leaned back on her couch with an air
of extreme languor. “Do you know, Colonel Dacre, I often wonder what
some people are made of--nothing seems to trouble them.”
“Possibly those are just the people who feel things the most. Real
suffering is generally quiet.”
She turned on him abruptly.
“Is that why you are so quiet now?”
“I cannot think why your ladyship will persist in attributing to me a
secret sorrow or passion,” he retorted. “Do I look very Byronic?”
“No,” she answered readily; “but you see I have got quite into the way
of looking upon every man I have seen with Gwen as one of her victims,
and you have been very often with her of late.”
“So have half a dozen others. I suppose they were my companions in
misfortune?”
“Don’t jest upon such a serious subject,” she said, with her malicious
smile.
“Anyhow,” he observed, rising, “however hard hit I may be, I shall know
it is not of any use appealing to your ladyship for sympathy--Lady
Gwendolyn’s ‘victims’ seem to make excellent sport for you?”
“When they don’t bore me. You know it is too much to expect one woman
to sit and listen to another’s praises for two or three hours together.
That is occasionally my fate; and I must frankly confess that I
dislike it extremely. If I were to show the least sign of weariness, I
should be looked upon as a monster, for every one ought to enjoy the
capitulation of Gwen’s marvelous perfections. Do you know I sometimes
quite wish I were her mother; I suppose I should like all this vastly
then, especially if they had the tact to refer now and then to my past
triumphs, and insinuate that my daughter was just what I must have been
at her age. But--you are surely going to stay to luncheon, Colonel
Dacre? My husband won’t forgive me if I don’t keep you, and I am sure
you would not like to be the cause of our first conjugal difference,
would you?”
“Nothing would distress me more; but Lord Teignmouth is too just to lay
my fault at your door.”
“But, really, Colonel Dacre, you must stay. A man without home-ties has
no excuse for refusing an invitation of any sort. I look upon bachelors
as public property myself. Come,” she added persuasively, “I will make
a bargain with you. Stop and lunch with us, and I will tell where I
think it probable you may find Lady Gwendolyn--supposing you really
wish to see her?”
“Would your ladyship mind telling me why you so particularly want me to
stay?” said the colonel; led by the countess’ manner to suspect some
trick.
“Certainly; we are quite alone to-day, and I have private reasons of my
own for avoiding a tête-à-tête with my husband. Are you satisfied with
my explanation?”
Colonel Dacre bowed silently. He was not satisfied, by any means, but
it was rather difficult to say so.
“Then you will stay?” added Lady Teignmouth, after a minute’s silence.
“With pleasure.”
A smile, so full of malicious triumph, shone in the countess’ eyes,
that if Colonel Dacre had only seen it before, it would have served
as a warning to him. But having accepted, he could not retract now,
although he was more than ever persuaded that the countess was playing
him a trick.
This idea was confirmed when, just as he was pocketing the card on
which his companion had written the address he wanted, the Handley drag
drove up to the door, and emptied its living freight into the hall,
which swept on up the wide staircase, laughing and talking. But Lady
Teignmouth was equal to the occasion. She looked straight at her guest,
without so much as a blush on her cool, pink cheek.
“It is the Handley party come to luncheon--how very kind of them. No
fear of a matrimonial tête-à-tête now.”
“Then I am not wanted any longer, Lady Teignmouth?”
“On the contrary, you are wanted more than ever. You know how difficult
Clara Handley is to amuse.”
“I am afraid I can’t be facetious to order, Lady Teignmouth.”
“You can pay compliments, and that is all Clara cares about,” responded
the countess, who had by no means a high opinion of her own sex. Then
she went forward to greet the young lady herself with great affection,
kissing her on both cheeks, and congratulating her upon the effect of
her new hat, leaving the colonel quite bewildered and pained in his
heart, for he had always had a chivalrous respect for women, and it
grieved him to know that even one could be so false.
He had to take Clara Handley into luncheon, and exerted himself to be
agreeable, but his thoughts were elsewhere, and he was glad when the
meal was over. When the whole party adjourned to the grounds to play
lawn-tennis, he shook hands with Lord Teignmouth, and slipped quietly
away.
He was just congratulating himself upon having paid Lady Teignmouth a
little trick as anticipative vengeance for the one he suspected her of
having planned for him, when he suddenly found himself face to face
with the countess herself.
“I just ran away for a minute from the others to wish you good-by,
and bon voyage,” she said, her whole face in a glitter of malicious
delight. “I am sure you will enjoy yourself up there, the country is so
picturesque. Give my love to Gwen, and tell her that directly she is
tired of solitude, I shall be happy to chaperon her anywhere.”
Shaking himself to get rid of the disagreeable impression her ladyship
had left behind, Colonel Dacre rode rapidly toward home, and scarcely
felt safe from Lady Teignmouth’s shafts until he found himself once
more in the library of Borton Hall.
CHAPTER IV.
TUROY GRANGE.
The address Lady Teignmouth had given Colonel Dacre was Turoy Grange,
near Westhampton, Yorkshire; and after looking out for Westhampton on
the map, and settling the route he ought to take, he rang the bell, and
told the butler to pack his traveling-bag and order the carriage for
the four-o’clock train.
“I sha’n’t be gone more than three or four days,” added the colonel,
seeing the other looked surprised. “You may confidently expect me by
Saturday at the latest.”
It was to be hoped Graham did not take his master quite at his word,
for a great many Saturdays would come and go before Colonel Dacre would
cross his own threshold again.
Indeed, he little suspected what this journey was to bring forth, or
he would have counter-ordered his dog-cart assuredly, tossed Lady
Teignmouth’s card into the waste-basket, and made up his mind to await
calmly the issue of events, and abide by the result.
However, four o’clock saw the “gallant colonel”--as the local newspaper
always designated him--stepping into a first-class carriage at Borton
Station, bound for “fair London town,” en route for Turoy Grange, near
Westhampton, Yorkshire.
He remembered as he went along that he had often heard Lady Gwendolyn
speak, half jestingly, of her “mansion” at Turoy, and declare it to be
such a “ghostly place that only a person with a very clear conscience
could venture to stay there even for a night.”
She and Lord Teignmouth had often spent their holidays there when
children; but then their mother was alive, and the place had been made
bright for their occupation.
The last four years it had been seldom inhabited, although it was one
of Lady Gwendolyn’s caprices to have it kept in perfect order and
repair, that it might be available, supposing she cared to run down
there at any time.
An old nurse of hers, with her husband, lived in the house--that
Colonel Dacre also remembered to have heard; and had been pleased at
Lady Gwendolyn’s thoughtful provision for one who had been good to her
when she was a child. But from the description given him of Turoy it
was the last place for a spoiled beauty to take refuge in, unless she
had some reason at the moment to feel disgusted with the world and her
friends, and needed a spell of solitude to get her into a better mood.
“If I could believe that she had run away to Turoy on my account I
should be the happiest man alive,” Colonel Dacre said to himself, with
a wild thrill, for it seemed to him that this would be sure proof that
he was not indifferent to her. “Otherwise, what could there be in my
secret to pain and annoy her?”
And then he set himself to work out the problem how she could have
found anything in his mother’s boudoir to enlighten her on this point.
He had not solved it to his satisfaction when the train whistled its
way into London, and he was obliged to attend to the more practical
details of his journey. He found, on consulting the time-table, that
there was no train which stopped at Westhampton until the morning
express, and, therefore, he decided to go to a hotel, and get a few
hours’ rest.
He was not naturally vain, but it did strike him that he should gain
in the end by this delay, as a battered-looking, travel-stained,
wobegone man would not make his appearance on the Turoy scene with much
effect. And he could not afford to dispense with a single advantage in
the contest before him, for he knew the adversary he had to deal with,
and that if once he gave Lady Gwendolyn the chance of making a jest at
his expense he was undone.
She was one of those women who would forgive a lover for having
committed a crime, but would never pardon him if he made himself
ridiculous. So that Colonel Dacre gave himself seven good hours’ sleep,
and started the next morning in excellent health and spirits.
The journey was a long one, but with hope for a companion time passes
so quickly, and whenever he was beginning to grow weary he refreshed
himself by picturing Lady Gwendolyn’s blush and smile, her well-feigned
surprise, her delicious embarrassment, her mutinous grace, as she
welcomed him to her “mansion.”
The train only stopped at a few of the largest stations; but at Preston
there was a halt of ten minutes, and he went to get himself a biscuit
and a glass of sherry. As he returned to the platform to regain his
carriage, he ran up against a lady whose figure struck him as familiar.
Nothing could be simpler than this lady’s dress, and yet it was worn
with an elegance that suggested strange possibilities to his mind, and
made him follow the owner curiously. She seemed startled and annoyed by
his scrutiny, although the thick Shetland veil she was wearing not only
concealed, but distorted her features so much that it was impossible
to recognize her, supposing even she had been the person he had come
northward to seek.
But his suspicions had never taken that direction for a moment. This
lady was taller than Lady Gwendolyn by at least a couple of inches,
and there was a sort of insolence in her bearing which Colonel Dacre
seemed to know only too well.
In spite of himself, he thought of Lady Teignmouth, and, wondering
what mischief was hidden under this disguise, kept close to her heels.
She quickened her pace, and presently, to his surprise, jumped into a
third-class carriage.
A common man in the corner moved forward to make room for her, and
evidently recognized her superiority, for he said, almost respectfully:
“Won’t you come here, miss? you’ll find it more comfortable.”
“Thank you, zir, I am sure,” answered the other, with an abominable
accent. “Although, for the matter of that, bad’s the best.”
Colonel Dacre waited to hear no more. He was quite satisfied now
that the young person in the Shetland veil was some lady’s-maid, who
had learned to copy her mistress successfully enough to deceive an
outsider, until she opened her mouth. Then there could be no doubt
about her social status whatever; and it quite amused him to picture
Lady Teignmouth’s horror, supposing she had been told that he had taken
a third-class passenger, with a northern burr, for her aristocratic
self.
The rest of the journey passed without further incident.
On getting down at Westhampton, Colonel Dacre found himself looking out
rather curiously for the heroine of his little adventure at Preston;
but she was not there, nor in the third-class carriage where he had
seen her last, so that either she had changed her seat, or had got down
at one of the intermediate stations.
“Anyhow, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said to himself. “I have had
abundant proof that it is not Lady Teignmouth, and that was all I
wanted to know.”
There was one rickety fly waiting outside the station, and Colonel
Dacre engaged it at once, and told the man to drive direct to Turoy
Grange. It was only four miles off, but the roads were so bad, the
country so hilly, and the poor horse so groggy, that it was an hour
and a half before they came in sight of Turoy, a little cluster of
cottages, with a small, gray church tower rising out of their midst.
Another steep ascent brought them into the village; they stopped in
front of a low, old-fashioned house.
“This is the Grange, zurr,” said the coachman; and Colonel Dacre jumped
out gladly.
Then he rang the bell, and as he heard it echo through the silent
house, a sudden nervous fear seized him lest he should have done ill in
coming.
Lady Gwendolyn was so peculiar that the thing which would have helped
him with another woman might ruin him with her. Nobody answered his
first summons, nor his second; but when he rang a third time he
heard a step along the hall, and the door opened at last--slowly and
reluctantly.
A respectable-looking middle-aged woman presented herself, and
evidently regarded Colonel Dacre with great disfavor.
“What may you be pleased to want?” she asked, with cold civility.
“I want to see Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”
“She isn’t at home,” replied the woman, and she was about to shut the
door again in his face.
But he was prepared for this movement, and had inserted his knee in the
aperture, that he might have time for parley.
“I suppose she is staying at Turoy? Lady Teignmouth gave me this
address.”
But even the countess’ name and authority could not soften the woman,
who seemed to take her post as door-keeper much too strictly, unless
she had received stringent orders.
“Whether she is or she isn’t staying at Turoy, she isn’t in this house
now,” was the reply, spoken with great determination.
“Perhaps she has gone out for a walk?” the colonel observed, trying an
indirect question.
“Perhaps she has.”
“In that case, I think I had better call again later, don’t you?”
“Just as you like; it’s no affair of mine.”
Colonel Dacre’s temper was naturally good, but it began to fail him a
little now.
“I should have fancied you were left in the house on purpose to give
information,” he said. “Anyhow, you might as well give a civil answer
to a civil question. I am sure Lady Gwendolyn would not consider that
you served her interests by being rude to her visitors.”
“Her ladyship knows too well about me for anything people might say to
trouble her,” answered the woman quietly. “I do my duty, so far as I
know how; and I can’t help the rest. If her ladyship came down here it
is because she wants rest and quiet; but, of course, if she told me to
let in a whole regiment I should obey her.”
“Then she has told you not to admit any one?”
“I never said so, sir.”
“At any rate, I shall return in a couple of hours,” responded Colonel
Dacre, irritated almost beyond endurance, and he turned on his heel and
marched briskly away.
He looked back when he reached the gate, and caught just one glimpse of
a graceful dark head at one of the windows; but it was withdrawn before
he had time to identify it. And he went on his way, wondering if Lady
Gwendolyn was as false as her sister-in-law, or if she was one of those
women who love to torture those in their power.
He adjourned to the village inn, and ordered a bottle of wine, simply
for the sake of getting into conversation with the landlord, who seemed
much gratified when he was told to bring a second glass and help
himself. The sherry was potent, and loosened mine host’s tongue.
What sort of a neighborhood was it? Why, as poor as poor could be. He
never got any genteel custom from week’s end to week’s end, and that
was very trying to a man who had lived in good families before he took
up with the public line, and liked to keep in his own set.
“I suppose you don’t supply the Grange, then?” said Colonel Dacre,
looking as innocent as a dove.
“Bless you, sir, there’s no supplying as far as the Grange goes. The
lady it belongs to doesn’t come to Turoy more than once a year, and
then she is a teetotaller.”
“That is very unfortunate,” returned Colonel Dacre sympathetically. “I
suppose she isn’t here now?”
“That I can’t tell you, sir. Her coming or going doesn’t make much
difference to me, although some people are delighted enough.”
“Perhaps she is good to the poor?”
“Well, I believe she is that,” he admitted. “But I am afraid you don’t
like the wine, sir. You see, having so little trade in that way, I
can’t afford to keep much of a stock.”
“Oh, no; you are quite right,” answered the colonel. “Have you a decent
bed for me, supposing I decide to remain at Turoy to-night?”
“The best in the world, sir; I’ll answer for that,” responded mine
host. “And I shall be proud of your patronage and recommendation.”
Colonel Dacre strolled out into the village to pass away the time,
and it was growing dusk when he presented himself once more at
Lady Gwendolyn’s door. This time it was answered by a stalwart,
weather-beaten man of about fifty, who, in reply to his question, said,
civilly, that her ladyship was not at home.
“Could I see her if I called in the morning?” pursued the colonel.
“I doubt if she’ll be at home then; but, of course, you must do as you
like about the calling.”
“The fact is, I want to see Lady Gwendolyn upon particular business,”
added Colonel Dacre impressively. “I am sure she would not refuse to
receive me if she knew this, and I should be really obliged if you
would mention it to her. Or would it be better if I wrote a line, and
explained matters myself?”
“I should almost think it would, sir.”
“Yes, but is she sure to get my letter?”
“I don’t fancy anybody would steal it, sir,” replied the man shortly.
“I didn’t mean that, of course; but if she is not here it could be
forwarded, I suppose?”
“There would be no difficulty about that.”
Colonel Dacre tried to slip a sovereign into his hand, but the man was
evidently obtuse, for he let it drop, and seemed quite surprised when
he heard it ring on the stone floor.
“You are losing your money, sir,” he said; and, having picked it up,
he handed it back with such a virtuously reproachful air that Colonel
Dacre dared not so much as hint that it was for him, and restored it to
his pocket in rather a crestfallen way.
He went back to the inn to secure his bed, and then he returned to the
charge. Seating himself on a bank just outside the gate of the Grange,
he watched the house and garden both.
Half an hour passed without incident. The evening began to darken
perceptibly, and he saw a light in one of the lower windows, and the
outline of the female dragon’s head, but she was evidently a discreet
woman, for she quickly drew down the blind, and raised it no more.
But though it must have been quite dark indoors by this time, there was
no other sign of the house being inhabited.
He was beginning to think that he had come on a wild-goose chase, and
that Lady Gwendolyn might be at the other end of England, after all,
when suddenly his heart began to tremble and his pulses to quicken. He
had caught sight of a white figure standing in the porch, and fancied
he knew that this was Lady Gwendolyn.
She stepped daintily out from under a trellis-work of roses and
clematis, and looked from side to side, as if she were in search of
some one.
“Does she regret her cruelty just now?” he asked himself, his breath
coming short and fast from an intense eagerness of expectancy, while
the wild longing within him almost frightened him, as a sign of the
terrible empire this passion was gaining.
It might be so, for she glided forward to the gate like a spirit; and,
standing there, looked down the road with something wistful in her
attitude, as it seemed to him. He had almost decided to step forward
and accost her, when she drew back suddenly, as if something had
frightened her, and turned down a little path with shrubs on either
side.
He had not seen her face distinctly, for she had a white shawl over her
head, and was holding it close under her chin to protect her from the
night air; but he could have no doubt that this was Lady Gwendolyn.
He got up and followed.
He saw her walking slowly, and looking about her with the expectant
air he had noticed at first; then suddenly she paused, a dark figure
stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and Colonel Dacre, with a
jealous thrill, saw Lady Gwendolyn’s creamy fingers pressed fervently
against the newcomer’s black mustache.
How he restrained himself from rushing forward and confronting the pair
he never knew. At this moment he felt like a murderer, and thirsted for
the blood of this rival, whom Lady Gwendolyn preferred to himself.
She had carried her coquetry cruelly far, for she had won his whole
heart, and had left him only just sense enough to suffer and regret.
So false and yet so fair. Oh! why had he not been warned in time? He
could have given her up easily in the first days. Now, although he
knew all her perfidy, and believed her to have neither conscience nor
feeling, he could not drag his love up by the roots, although it must
needs be his sorrow and shame. When she passed her arm through the
man’s, with a few soft words he could not catch, and they moved away
together, Colonel Dacre did not follow.
He was too honorable to seek to surprise their confidence, and,
moreover, he was afraid of himself. If he met this man face to face he
should kill him like a dog, for the old Cain was rampant in him at the
moment, and he felt that his only chance was flight.
With a few bounds he reached the open space in front of the house,
dashed through the gate, and hurried back to the Sun. He ordered
something to be cooked for his supper, in order that he might not be
disturbed just yet and then he shut himself in his own room--out of
temptation’s way--thank Heaven for that! for it made him tremble to
think how near he had been that night to committing a terrible crime.
When the fowl was ready, it was necessary to go down, and make a
pretense of eating--of course. The landlord waited on him himself, and
as he removed the cover, with a flourish, he said:
“You were asking if her ladyship was at the Grange, sir, this
afternoon----”
“Well?” exclaimed Colonel Dacre, turning sharply round in his eagerness.
“I have ascertained that she arrived to-day.”
Colonel Dacre could not answer for a minute, he felt as if he were
choking. He began to carve the fowl to gain time; and, having divided
every joint, and distributed the pieces over the dish for mine host to
hand round to some imaginary guest, he managed to say at last, with
well-feigned indifference:
“Indeed; I suppose she came alone?”
“I suppose so, sir--she always does.”
There was a moment’s pause; and then he added cheerfully:
“This has been a stirring day, sir; it isn’t often we have two bedrooms
occupied, and two suppers to cook. I wish it would occur oftener, I am
sure. Sherry, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the colonel feverishly; and he pushed forward his
tumbler instead of his wine-glass; emptying it at a draft, as if it
contained water, as soon as it was filled.
He was a very abstemious man generally, but he did not know what he was
drinking to-night. His one thought was to slake his consuming thirst
with whatever came easiest to hand.
“I am afraid you have a poor appetite, sir,” observed mine host, after
watching him toy with a merrythought, like a delicate girl, and he
filled up the tumbler again.
Colonel Dacre lifted it to his lips once more, and set it down half
empty this time. He had fasted all day, and felt strangely excited by
what he had taken, although it would have had no effect under different
circumstances. Ordering the table to be cleared, he lighted a cigar,
and began to smoke it slowly, his somber glance fixed on the open
window, while he listened for every sound.
Presently the church clock struck twelve solemnly out in the darkness,
making him start in his chair, and recalling him to the fact that
his cigar had gone out. He tossed it through the window, and lighted
another. He was in that nervous, overwrought state when his whole body
seemed full of pulses, and his temples kept up a measured, oppressive
beat.
Colonel Dacre fancied he knew who mine host’s other guest would be;
but he had sworn to himself only to listen for his step. Though he was
calm now, and could trust himself, it would be a terrible risk to see
the face of Lady Gwendolyn’s lover, lest they should meet again one day
when he was not master of himself.
Presently a step came along the road--a firm, brisk step, which had a
cheerful sound--the step of a happy lover, who had brought away tender
memories with him, and still feels the sweetness of a timid parting
kiss lingering on his lips.
Colonel Dacre sat back firmly in his chair, and covered his eyes. But
when the door opened he glanced up mechanically, and there stood the
man he had sworn not to look upon for his soul’s sake.
The other drew back at once, with a hurried apology for his mistake,
and a courteous bow; but Colonel Dacre knew that wherever they might
meet he should recognize him again, and that the cool, proud face, with
its insolent beauty, would be from henceforth imprinted on his brain.
CHAPTER V.
WOMAN’S WAYS.
Of course it is very comfortable to be a philosopher. When people have
once succeeded in persuading themselves that it is as easy to reason as
to feel, it is wonderful how smoothly life ends.
As Colonel Dacre sat in the little inn parlor that night, he tried hard
to attain that enviable state of mind, and to be able to say, with a
shrug of the shoulder:
“If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be.”
But it would not do. He did care, and so much, that he could have
dashed his head against the wall for very rage and misery.
But there was one thing he could not understand, and that was why Lady
Teignmouth took so much interest in seeing him disenchanted. She must
have sent him to Turoy, knowing quite well whom he would meet there,
and enjoying the thought of his pain. It was strange to find a young
and handsome woman so cruel--and he had never harmed her--that she
should take pleasure in dealing him such a blow. But for some reason
she was his enemy; and as he began to divine how utterly unscrupulous
she was, the idea was not an agreeable one, by any means.
He passed the livelong night pondering, trying to come to some
resolution; but unable to form any plan, so entirely stunned was he to
find that the woman he had loved so chivalrously was unworthy of his
long devotion.
Of course it would have been more dignified to leave Turoy early in
the morning, and this had been his first intention; but as the night
wore on a softer feeling intervened, and he decided that he must see
Gwendolyn once more.
For two years now she had been the star of his life--his one only
thought. To win her at last he had been ready to possess his soul in
patience, and the longing was still strong on him to look on her again,
ere he went sorrowfully into exile for her sake.
As dawn began to break, he went softly up-stairs, and lay down for
awhile without undressing. When he heard people about below he was glad
to rise again, and go out for a walk. Nothing was harder than to be
inactive when his thoughts stung him like very swords.
On returning to the inn, two hours later, he heard, to his relief, that
mine host’s other guest had already breakfasted, and was gone, taking
his carpetbag with him.
“And quite the gentleman I am sure he was,” observed the landlord,
smiling benignantly; “for he paid his bill without even looking at the
items.”
“A hint for me,” thought the colonel, as he sat down to breakfast, with
his face toward the Grange, a glimpse of which could be seen through
the open window.
But it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that he saw the gate open,
and Lady Gwendolyn came forth, her perfect figure showing to advantage
in a closely fitting dark serge dress, while a jaunty little hat,
garnished by a red feather, shaded, without concealing, her beautiful
face. He fancied her manner was listless, and preoccupied, and she
kept her eyes on the ground as she advanced. Nothing, however, showed
her conscious of his scrutiny, and she did not so much as even glance
toward his window as she went by.
Now, if the colonel had been a philosopher, here was a chance of airing
his theories. But we have already said that he was nothing of the
sort, and so he caught up his hat, and hurried after Lady Gwendolyn as
fast as he could.
He came up with her just as she was crossing a stile leading into
some meadows. She turned abruptly, and, startled by such a sudden
apparition, would have fallen to the ground had he not put out his arm
to save her.
For one brief, delicious, maddening moment she was leaning against his
breast--so close that a stray lock of her dark hair blew across his
lips, while the bewildering perfume he knew so well was fast stealing
his senses, and weakening all his fine resolutions.
But directly she recovered her footing she disengaged herself, and
changed rapidly from white to red, and then from red to white again,
while she thanked him, in a constrained manner, for his assistance.
“I am not accustomed to these high stiles,” she said. And then she
added coldly: “What brought you here, Colonel Dacre?”
“Isn’t the country worth seeing, Lady Gwendolyn?”
“Quite; only people never do come here to see the country.”
“There is ‘metal more attractive,’ perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” And she looked into his eyes unflinchingly, while her color
wavered again. “Although I have retired from the world I have taken no
vows, and am, therefore, still at liberty to welcome my friends.”
“Then I am forced to conclude that you do not look upon me as a friend,
since you refused to see me last night?”
“I was not able to do so,” she answered coldly.
“I know; you were better employed.”
“Was I? You seem to be wonderfully well informed as to my movements,
Colonel Dacre.”
“Too well, Lady Gwendolyn. But allow me to congratulate you upon having
so quickly recovered from your sprain. You seemed to be suffering so
much that afternoon I left you on the couch in my mother’s boudoir I
almost feared you would not be able to walk for some time.”
The mere shadow of a smile hovered on Lady Gwendolyn’s red mouth; but
she suppressed it directly, and said:
“A woman can generally manage to do anything she wants to do.”
“And you walked back to the Castle?”
“Really, Colonel Dacre, you are exceedingly curious!”
“I must confess that I am. Nobody likes to be deceived.”
“It isn’t pleasant, certainly,” she answered, with a bitter smile. “But
women are quite accustomed to that sort of thing, you know.”
“Accustomed to deceive, you mean, of course.”
Lady Gwendolyn turned from him disdainfully.
“You, at any rate, ought to be indulgent to a failing of this kind,
Colonel Dacre, since you have lived a lie, so to speak, for a great
many years.”
He uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise at such an extraordinary
accusation.
“What do you mean?” he inquired at last. “You are surely dreaming, Lady
Gwendolyn.”
“I wish I were!” and there was a ring of passionate regret in her
voice. “If all the world had disappointed me, I would still have sworn
that you were true, until--until the day before yesterday.”
“And then?”
“And then I knew the truth.”
“What truth? Upon my word and honor, I have not the least idea what you
mean?”
“Come, Colonel Dacre, is it worth while to deny anything to me? I do
not accuse you, remember; I have no right; I simply state a fact. It is
a pity you sought the meeting I would have avoided, for it must needs
humiliate you as it pains me.”
“There is nothing in my past that humiliates me in the smallest degree.
I have had great sorrows, but they were not brought about by any fault
of my own. I came here to seek you because I considered that you owed
me an explanation, and I did not choose you should be able to say that
I could not defend myself against your implied accusation. But what I
saw last night has altered my feeling in the matter, and if I sought
you this morning it was only because I am a miserable, weak stupid,
and wanted to see your face once more before we parted, never to meet
again, I trust, on this side of the grave.”
Lady Gwendolyn had turned very pale, but her pride sustained her still,
for the stately head never lowered itself one inch, and her full under
lip curled in a disdainful smile.
“You must have seen some strange things last night to change your
intentions and feelings so suddenly, Colonel Dacre.”
He was silent. Her calm effrontery was so startling that it seemed
almost as easy at the moment to doubt his own eyes as to doubt her. But
then she was only a fine actress, of course. She was so greedy of power
that she could not bear to lose a single worshiper, and would have kept
him at any cost if he showed that he was weak enough to give her his
heart to toy with and break.
“The things that I saw last night were not strange,” he said hoarsely.
“I dare say they would have seemed natural enough to any other
looker-on, but, as I told you before, I am a miserable stupid; I
believed in all women, and you above the rest; and now----”
“And now?” she echoed softly as he paused.
“And now I believe in none; and in you, least of all.”
“You are more candid than complimentary, Colonel Dacre.”
“Perhaps--I cannot flatter.”
“It would be almost better if you tried to acquire the accomplishment,”
she returned haughtily. “People who pride themselves upon being frank
are exceedingly bad company.”
“At any rate, I sha’n’t be in your way long, Lady Gwendolyn. I leave
Turoy in a couple of hours.”
“For Borton Hall?”
And if he had been a coxcomb he would have detected the ring of
suppressed eagerness in her voice.
“For a couple of days only. I am going abroad, and shall not probably
return for three or four years--if then; so that I have a few
arrangements to make with my steward. I shall let the Hall, if I can
get a good tenant.”
“You cannot do better,” she said, with sudden, almost stern decision.
“You have no right to live there, as it were, under false pretenses.”
“I really don’t understand you, Lady Gwendolyn, and must beg you will
explain.”
“I did not understand you just now, Colonel Dacre; but I did not demand
an explanation.”
“You had a perfect right to do so.”
“Possibly; but it is not my habit. If people take a pleasure in
misjudging me----”
“A pleasure?” he interrupted vehemently. “Oh! if you only knew what it
cost me last night to believe what I saw.”
“Then why did you believe it?”
“I could not help myself.”
“I make it a point of never believing anything I don’t wish to
believe,” she said slowly and determinedly. “After all, it is so easy
to make mistakes----”
“Under some circumstances. But if you actually see a person----”
“Then, of course, you cannot make a mistake. But people sometimes fancy
they see things, you know. To be absolutely certain myself I should
require to look into another’s face--so close that I could not be
wrong, otherwise I would not allow myself to condemn even my greatest
enemy. I have a great many faults, I know, but I always strive to be
just.”
“And yet, you condemned me unheard, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“When?” she asked.
For sole answer he took from his pocketbook the little note she had
left on the table of his mother’s room the day of her pretended
accident, and held it up before her eyes.
“Well?” she said half defiantly.
“Was that either just or true?”
“It was true, anyhow.”
“You cannot prove it, Lady Gwendolyn. I should be an idiot, indeed, if,
having a secret to guard----”
“Which you admitted,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.
“Or, rather say, which I did not deny. But I repeat that I should have
been an idiot indeed if, under these circumstances, I had introduced
you into the very room where you would find something to betray me.”
“There was nothing in that room to betray you.”
“Where, then?”
“I am not bound to say.”
“I think you are, for your own sake. I am sure you would not like me to
think that you had taken any mean advantage of the small courtesy it
was such a great pleasure to me to show you.”
“How can it signify to me what you think?” she flashed round upon him
to say.
His silence was a rebuke, and shamed her as no words could have done.
She colored hotly up to the very roots of her hair.
“I mean,” she added, “that you would be sure to misunderstand me.”
“On the contrary, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“Anyhow, I will tell you nothing. I have a right to my secrets as well
as you.”
“Just as you like,” he said, bowing coldly. “It is better so, perhaps.
But I am keeping you from your walk, Lady Gwendolyn. Let me thank you
before I go for the many pleasant hours you have allowed me to pass in
your company. The memory of them will always be both a pleasure and a
pang.”
He could almost have vowed that he saw two large tears in her dark
eyes; nevertheless, she said, carelessly enough to outward appearance:
“It is not very probable that I shall ever cause you another pang, so
that you can afford to pardon me. I have quite made up my mind not to
return to Teignmouth.”
“I suppose one may expect to hear of your marriage shortly?” he
observed, conscious of another pang at this moment--a pang so strong
that it whitened his very lips, and made his heart tremble within him.
“My marriage? No, thank you. You are much more likely to hear of my
taking the veil.”
“You are the last person I know to do such a thing as that, Lady
Gwendolyn. You are too fond of the world to desert it.”
“You think so?” she answered, with a gravity that surprised him. “I
suppose the kind of intercourse you and I have had makes it impossible
that you should understand me.”
“And you think that I was flirting with you, Lady Gwendolyn?” he said,
in a stifled voice.
“Assuredly; and why not?”
“I should not have dreamed of insulting you thus. The whole aim and
ambition of my life was to win you for my wife--that I swear.”
“And yet you say you would not have dreamed of insulting me.”
“By professing what I did not feel, I meant!”
“Or promising what you could not perform?”
“I never did such a thing in my life, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“According to your own account you were on the brink of it a little
while ago. What right have you to ask any woman to be your wife? And,
supposing she accepted you, what, then?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with
angry vehemence.
“Why, then, we should marry, I presume.”
“How could you?”
“I see no just cause or impediment, Lady Gwendolyn!”
“Then I am sorry for you, that is all. I can understand people’s doing
wrong from the evil impulse of the moment; but it must be a very bad
man indeed who would commit a deliberate fraud, and ruin the woman who
trusted in him.”
“I don’t understand why my marriage would have such terrible
consequences, Lady Gwendolyn. One would think that I was a monster in
human form.”
And then, in spite of himself, he smiled to think how completely Lady
Gwendolyn had turned the tables upon him. He had joined her, intending
simply to bid her adieu, in order that he might look once more on the
fatal beauty that had stolen his heart away, and if any conversation
did take place he certainly pictured himself as the accuser, whereas he
had done little else but defend himself, and had only been able to get
in his own complaints edgewise.
Decidedly Lady Gwendolyn understood the art, and also the advantage,
of carrying the war into the enemy’s country. And yet, though he had
seen her in the arms of another man, and knew her to be an unprincipled
coquette, how he yearned after her, his mad infatuation increasing as
he gazed, until he felt as if he could not give her up were she twenty
times worse than she was.
He drew near to her with a look in his eyes no woman can misunderstand
even when she sees it for the first time. His lips were trembling with
the eager, passionate words that flowed up from his heart; his face was
as white as death.
“Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely, “you must despise me as much as I
despise myself, but I cannot let you go.”
The hour of her supreme triumph had come--the hour she had panted for,
and longed for even in her dreams. This man, who had resisted her so
long, was at her feet now, in spite of himself, and for one moment her
victory seemed very sweet.
Then a revulsion of feeling came over her, and she hated him as
intensely as she had loved him before. If he despised himself for
falling into her power, if he was only in love with her beauty and
would still win her for that when he deemed her unworthy of any finer
sentiment, her victory was no better really than a defeat.
She drew away from him quickly, and burst into a passion of tears.
“You are right,” she sobbed out; “I do despise you; but I despise
myself still more. How horribly I must have lowered myself to inspire
such a feeling as you have dared confess. At least, you might have
spared me the knowledge, Colonel Dacre, if only because I am of the
same sex as your mother.”
“Gwendolyn, you don’t understand me. I am asking you to be my wife.”
“Which is the greatest insult of all,” she responded. “Oh! go
away--pray, pray go away. I would rather be alone.”
“Give me my answer first, Lady Gwendolyn?”
“You have had your answer.”
He opened his mouth to reply, when suddenly Lady Gwendolyn’s face
assumed an expression of stolid composure, and she added, in a loud,
formal voice:
“I am afraid you will find this a very dull place, Colonel Dacre.
Beyond a little fishing, there is really nothing for a gentleman to
do. Oh! is that really you, Captain Wyndham?” holding out her hand
cordially, to a tall, pale man, who had approached them without
attracting her companion’s attention. “Allow me to introduce you to
Colonel Dacre--a near neighbor of my brother’s, at Teignmouth.”
The two men bowed to each other coldly. It is odd how quickly lovers
scent a rival, and no very friendly look passed between them; although,
outwardly, each assumed to be gratified at making the other’s
acquaintance. But Colonel Dacre was too agitated to be able to keep
up this farce long, and, pleading business, left the two together.
But instead of going on to the station, according to his original
intention, he returned to the inn, and took possession once more of the
little parlor he had occupied the day before.
He cursed his own folly bitterly; but even if this woman destroyed him,
he could not tear himself away from her now. The very air she breathed
was sweet to him, and yet, poor deluded mortal, he had fancied it
possible to escape from her toils.
That day passed like a dream. In comparison with the agitated ones that
followed it seemed so vague and colorless to Colonel Dacre, that it
slipped from his memory later as if it had never been.
He saw no sign of Lady Gwendolyn again, and the Grange windows did
not betray her presence. At dusk he ventured out for a stroll, and
mechanically--guided by fate, no doubt--he crossed the stile that led
into Turoy Wood--a pretty shaded walk in the sunny part of the day, but
almost dark now.
He walked on steadily for about half an hour, finding it a relief from
the worry of his thoughts to be moving, and minding little where he
went.
But presently he came back to himself with a start. He distinctly
heard, a few paces in front of him, the voice of the man who had roused
all the Cain in him, and made him afraid of himself. And he knew,
by the sudden wild riot in his pulses, and the mad jealousy in his
heart, that he was no better to be trusted than before, and so, to his
infinite regret later, he hurried from the spot, and made his way back
to the inn as fast as he could.
He did not even feel safe until he had bolted the parlor door, although
Mr. Wiginton distinctly said he did not expect another customer that
night, and shut up the house at eleven o’clock, as usual.
Colonel Dacre went to his room then, even undressed, and lay down,
although he knew sleeping was out of the question. He heard all the
hours strike up to three o’clock, and then he fell into what seemed
like a doze, although all his senses were unnaturally acute. So acute,
indeed, that when he heard a groan presently, he knew what direction it
had proceeded from, and did not wait for a repetition to spring out of
bed, and hurry into his clothes.
In another minute he was down the stairs, and, unbolting the door
softly, so as not to disturb mine host, he found himself in the garden.
Another groan, fainter though than the first, guided him to a little
copse by the roadside, where lay, apparently in the agonies of death,
Lady Gwendolyn’s “braw wooer,” the man whose splendid privileges he had
envied the night before.
For one cruel moment Colonel Dacre rejoiced to see his enemy laid so
low; but better feelings intervened, and he remembered nothing but that
the other was in a sore strait, and needed his aid.
He knelt down beside him, and said quite gently:
“I am afraid you are hurt. Have you had an accident?”
The dim eyes unclosed, and the blue lips muttered a word faintly. But
although Colonel Dacre bent close down he could not catch it, and he
shook his head expressively.
The dying man made a great effort, and repeated, in a loud whisper:
“Poisoned.”
“By whom?” inquired Colonel Dacre, resolutely but reluctantly.
But the poor creature’s mind had wandered off, and he babbled of
“Mother” incoherently, as if he fancied he were a child again.
Colonel Dacre would have fetched some brandy from the inn, but as he
saw that no human means could avail aught, he considered it better to
remain where he was.
Almost involuntarily he began to repeat the beautiful prayer with which
most of us begin and end our day, and when he came to “Forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,” the dying man
raised himself on his elbow, and said, loudly and distinctly:
“Tell her I forgive her, and----”
But the sentence was never finished in this world. He fell back heavily
on the turf, and when Colonel Dacre looked into his face he saw that he
was gone.
CHAPTER VI.
THE LAST WALTZ.
For fully five minutes Colonel Dacre knelt beside the lifeless body,
then he rose up stern and resolute to do his duty. First of all he
roused Wiginton, and had the dead man carried into the inn, and laid
on the bed he had occupied twenty-four hours ago. Wiginton evidently
thought that it was a case of sudden death, for he said, with real
feeling:
“Poor gentleman! And he looked so healthy, too. Hadn’t I better go for
a doctor, sir?”
“Perhaps you had; although it will be of no use,” was Colonel Dacre’s
reply.
“I dare say not; but it might have an ugly look if we tried to hush the
thing up, sir.”
Colonel Dacre saw the reasonableness of this argument, although it had
not occurred to him in the agitated preoccupation of the moment. He
promised to watch beside the dead man while Mr. Wiginton went to the
village to fetch the doctor. But it so happened that Doctor Dale had
been up all night with a patient, and was just passing the house on his
way home as Wiginton issued forth.
His visit was a mere matter of form, naturally. As there were no
signs of violence on the body Doctor Dale drew the same conclusion
as Wiginton, that the man died by the visitation of God. He put a
few questions to Colonel Dacre, as to whether he knew the deceased
gentleman, or had any reason to suppose that he had been the victim
of foul play. And on the other replying in the negative he seemed
perfectly satisfied, and said he would go home and get a little rest,
and send round to the coroner later in the morning.
“He has probably died from heart-disease,” he concluded, moving toward
the door. “But that we shall ascertain, I have no doubt.”
“You will have a post-mortem examination, I suppose.”
“Certainly; at least, I have no doubt of it whatever.”
“You are not prepared, then, to give a certificate as to the cause of
death?”
“Well, not exactly. I like to be very careful in these matters, as
one’s reputation is often at stake. This gentleman’s family will
investigate the case thoroughly we may be sure, and I think it is
better to be beforehand with them. You say you have no idea who the
poor fellow is?”
“Not the faintest. But he may have letters in his pocket that would
enlighten us.”
“Possibly,” replied Doctor Dale, coming back from the door. “It would
be as well to look.”
But save an ordinary-looking cigar-case there was nothing whatever
in the dead man’s pockets. It almost seemed, indeed, as if this
were a precaution, and not an accident, for the mark on his pocket
handkerchief had been cut out, and the initials on the cigar-case
defaced.
Doctor Dale was not a suspicious man, evidently, for this did not
appear to strike him as strange. He simply remarked as he moved away
again:
“The police will, no doubt, be able to trace him. It would be as well
if you were to communicate with them at once, Wiginton, I think. I must
get home to bed or I shall be good for nothing all day,” he added half
apologetically, “and I am nearly worn out. I owe it to my patients as
well as to myself to take rest when I can, for no doctor can trust to
his head when it is confused for want of sleep.”
“I have no doubt you are quite right,” answered Colonel Dacre, with
a secret thrill of satisfaction, for he wanted, above all things, to
gain time. “It is often necessary to consider oneself for the sake of
others.”
“I shall see you later, of course?” said Doctor Dale, as he departed
for his well-earned repose, and Colonel Dacre nodded.
He had no wish to shirk any inquiry, so far as he was personally
concerned, but he meant to shelter the guilty, wretched woman whom he
loved still, in spite of himself, and then forget her--if he could!
If he could! Ah! that was a painful proviso; for, somehow, he could
only think of her even now--standing over her victim--as he had known
her in the early days of her innocent girlhood, when he had believed
her to be as true as steel, and as worthy of his worship as any saint.
And this was her work. How thankful he was to escape from its
contemplation, and lock the door on the white face, which was fast
settling into the solemn calm of death, no words can tell.
He followed Wiginton down-stairs, and when mine host, who looked
thoroughly overcome, suggested that a glass of brandy would not
come amiss, Colonel Dacre welcomed the suggestion, and felt much
fortified for the task before him, when he had taken a good dose of
the stimulant. Then he went to the Grange. He determined that he would
see Lady Gwendolyn at once--even if he had to steal into her house
like a thief--for her only chance was to escape before the post-mortem
examination made the cause of death evident, and set the police on the
track of the murderer.
The dead man’s presence at Turoy once traced to her influence, and
their secret meetings known, there would be no hope of her getting
away; and though she deserved her fate, as he was fain to confess, he
meant to save her, even if he perished in her place. But as he was
leaving the inn, Wiginton said rather dubiously:
“It’s no use my going to the village after the police, for Lady Lenox
sent for the inspector over to her place last night, I heard them say.
At her last ball some thieves got into the house, and stole a good deal
of plate, so that she determined to have somebody to watch the house
this time. I suppose I had better go there, sir, hadn’t I?”
“If you are sure to find him.”
“There’s no doubt about that. I saw him outside the fly that took her
ladyship to the ball. It came from the George, and I suppose the driver
gave him a lift so far on his way.”
“Do you mean that Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur went to the ball, Mr.
Wiginton?”
“I believe so, sir. The two families were always intimate, and it isn’t
likely they would leave her out.”
“But she would surely have returned by this time.”
“I think not. Lady Lenox is noted for keeping up her balls until six
or seven o’clock in the morning, and those who can stand such hours
have breakfast before they go home. She is a very excitable person, and
always turns night into day.”
Colonel Dacre looked at his watch.
“It is not ten minutes past four,” he said. “How long would it take us
to go to Lady Lenox’s house?”
“About half an hour, sir. But I needn’t take you--surely?”
“I should prefer to accompany you, as I want to see somebody whom I am
likely to find there. But we had better be quick.”
“I am ready, sir,” answered Wiginton; and they started at a brisk pace
for Bridgton Hall.
About half-way there they met the inspector with his two men on their
way home, looking none the worse for their night’s watch, thanks to
their numerous visits to the butler’s pantry. Colonel Dacre heard from
them that the ball was virtually over, but that a few favorite guests
still remained, although they could not exactly say who these last were.
“However, Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur is one,” added the inspector,
volunteering the information Colonel Dacre dared not ask; “for the
driver from the George was asleep in the harness-room when I left; and
I don’t expect he would have stayed there unless he had been obliged.”
It did not seem probable, certainly, and so Colonel Dacre left Wiginton
to return with the inspector, and went on alone.
Of course Lady Gwendolyn had gone to the ball, and, of course, she
would be the gayest of them all, outwardly, for had she not a secret to
hide? He could not help pitying her somehow. She had put her hand to a
terrible thing, but maybe she had had a scoundrel to deal with, and had
been sorely tempted, poor, unhappy child!
His heart was beginning to soften strangely when he came within
sight and sound of Bridgton Hall, but it hardened again as he paused
to listen to a waltz he knew only too well. Surely that must be
Lady Gwendolyn’s touch--her spirited playing. For the band had been
dismissed, evidently, and they were keeping up the ball to the music of
the piano, which came surging through the open windows and out into the
dewy shrubberies as if it would have the young man listen and remember.
And he did remember, to his torture.
The waltz finished as he drew near to the door, and two women came
forward to the window, and stood there inhaling the freshness of the
morning. Both were dressed in white: one looked flushed and excited
under her wreath of water-lilies; the other, languid but lovely, turned
her calm deep eyes his way, and, recognizing him, grew suddenly scarlet
to the roots of her hair.
He stepped forward at once and lifted his hat, saying, in a cold,
constrained voice:
“Might I speak with you a moment, Lady Gwendolyn?”
The color faded out of her face, but she looked up at him steadily and
unflinchingly.
“I am afraid I have no time now, Colonel Dacre. I have ordered my fly,
and expect it round every minute.”
“I will not detain your ladyship long,” he said; and his voice was like
ice. “It is absolutely necessary that you should hear what I have to
say, otherwise I would not disturb you at such a time and in such a
place.”
She lifted her head with a haughty gesture.
“It is impossible you should have anything of so much importance to
communicate to me, Colonel Dacre.”
“I think you will find that you are mistaken, Lady Gwendolyn.”
His stern, decided manner evidently startled her, for she turned to
Lady Teignmouth, who was standing at her side, and said quietly:
“Has anything happened, Pauline? Reggie was quite well yesterday----”
Lady Teignmouth laughed a nervous, tuneless laugh.
“Don’t be absurd, Gwen! We should have been sure to hear if anything
had been the matter.”
“Of course. I am very foolish to frighten myself so easily; but I am
tired and nervous, I suppose. I wish Lady Lenox wouldn’t make me stay
so long. I have tried to slip away half a dozen times at least, and she
has caught me and carried me back. It is a great mistake, to my mind,
to bring town habits and town hours into the country, where we are
nothing if we are not rural.”
She yawned demonstratively as she spoke, and appeared to have forgotten
Colonel Dacre’s very existence, until he reminded her of it by saying
formally:
“Perhaps your ladyship will allow me to accompany you as far as Turoy?
I am sorry to annoy you by persisting, but I must speak with you
privately--for your own sake.”
“Oh, you horrible man!” exclaimed Lady Teignmouth, with playful
impertinence. “You are always full of mysteries! When I last saw you at
Teignmouth you had something very important and very secret to say to
Gwen, you know.”
He colored resentfully, remembering how she had sent him to Turoy to
meet the greatest sorrow of his life. Of course she could not know how
tragically and painfully he was to be cured of his infatuation; but she
certainly guessed that he would meet a successful rival at the Grange,
and had taken a malicious pleasure in his discomfiture. He answered
coldly:
“I don’t know why your ladyship should infer that what I had to say
to Lady Gwendolyn the other day was at all secret or mysterious. I
certainly gave you no grounds for such a belief.”
“You forget that women do not always need to be told things, Colonel
Dacre.”
“They have no right to make sure of anything they have not been told,”
he said shortly.
“What a miserable, matter-of-fact place the world would be if it were
forbidden to exercise one’s imagination a little!”
“It would be safer, anyhow,” he replied; and as Lady Gwendolyn’s fly
drove up at this moment, he opened the door and handed her in, a
little surprised that she made no further objection to his plan.
Lady Teignmouth parted from them with a jest, followed by a laugh that
sounded forced and unnatural at the moment, but struck him as strangely
incongruous when, on looking back, he saw her standing still where they
had left her, with such a haggard, troubled face, and intense eyes,
that he shuddered, and wondered if a woman with that countenance could
have an ordinary destiny.
“Well,” she observed at last, “I thought you wished to speak to me.”
He came back to himself with a start.
“So I did. It is necessary for your personal safety that you should
know the truth at once. The gentleman whom you met in the wood last
evening died two hours ago. He told me, with almost his last breath,
that he had been poisoned, and sent you a message of forgiveness.
All this will never transpire, of course, however wrong it may be of
me to conceal the truth; but, unfortunately, there is likely to be a
post-mortem examination, and in that case everything may come out. Are
you prepared to face it?”
“What do you mean? Are you mad?” she exclaimed, with a look of
apprehension that was really splendid acting. “You cannot wonder that
I doubt your sanity, since a few hours ago you were pretending to love
me, and now you actually dare to accuse me of a horrible crime.”
“Look here, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely; “my love was no
pretense, and you know it; my accusation is no falsehood, and you know
that, too. I witnessed your first meeting with the wretched man who
is dead. I know that you were together again last night, for I was in
the wood at about nine o’clock, and I heard him address you in terms
of reproach. Of course I witnessed nothing that passed after this,
for I hurried away as fast as I could; but at three o’clock the poor
creature, who had evidently tried to crawl to the inn for aid, died at
the roadside, with his head on my arm; his last words being: ‘Tell her
I forgive her, and----’ Perhaps you can fill up the hiatus. I pretend
to understand nothing that I did not see and hear.”
She listened to him in stupefied silence, and when he had finished, she
said, in a low, shrinking voice:
“Describe the man to me.”
Colonel Dacre had not forgotten his appearance, and drew his portrait
accurately enough.
Lady Gwendolyn’s head sank lower and lower on her breast.
“And he told you he had been poisoned?” she asked.
“Yes; and a man does not lie at such a time.”
“He might have been mistaken,” she said, under her breath.
“Impossible!”
“You would rather believe the worst, I see.”
“On the contrary, I would give my right arm to be able to trust you,
Lady Gwendolyn,” he cried vehemently. “If I live to be a hundred years
old I shall never have such a sorrow as this--to be forced to judge the
woman I loved better than my life.”
He expected a disdainful smile, but none came. She only passed her hand
over her brow, as if she were confused. Then, suddenly, her lips took a
resolute fold, and she lifted her head boldly.
“He did not mention my name?” she said.
“No.”
“Then you know nothing?”
“People do not commit such dark deeds before witnesses; but I fancy
such evidence as I could give, if I chose, would hang any one.”
She shuddered convulsively--it was the first sign of actual fear she
had shown.
“You surely can have no motive for interfering in the matter,” she
said, after a long pause; and watching his face anxiously as she spoke.
“When I have warned you my part in the tragedy is played out, Lady
Gwendolyn, so far as you are concerned. I shall have to appear at the
inquest, of course; but I shall simply state there that I heard the
poor man groan, and found him lying on the bank in a dying state.”
“And if they ask you if he spoke?”
“Then I shall tell a lie for the first time in my life,” he answered
sternly. “I would not do it to save myself, but you----”
“Thank you,” she said, in a quiet, firm tone; “that was all I
wanted to know. Perhaps one of these days you will understand
things better than you do now, Colonel Dacre; meanwhile, I do not
think you will reproach yourself much for what you have done this
day--for--for”--hesitatingly--“things are not always as they seem. I
don’t ask you to shake hands with me, although this is probably the
last time we shall ever meet--and we were once friends--but I shall
always remember you with gratitude.”
“And you will leave England at once?” he said, as the carriage stopped.
“Never mind about me; I can take care of myself,” she answered, and,
jumping lightly down, she disappeared into the house.
Half an hour later a slight figure in black came stealthily out of the
Grange; but instead of passing through the great gate, slipped round
by the shrubberies and out into the road by a gap in the hedge. But
Colonel Dacre, who was watching from his window, saw it plainly in
spite of these precautions, and murmured fervently within himself:
“Thank Heaven, she has thought better of it, and is gone!”
CHAPTER VII.
A NOBLE SACRIFICE.
Through the lanes, swiftly, but ever so wearily, sped Lady Gwendolyn.
Her eyes were dim with unshed tears--she had no time for womanly
weakness--her lips were compressed, until they looked like a mere
thread; her head drooped on to her bosom. She had never known what
shame meant before, and she felt as if she should never be able to look
her fellow creatures in the face again.
It took her half an hour only to reach Bridgton Hall--this morning.
The stable clock was striking seven as she entered the grounds, and
made her way hurriedly to the front door. Everything was very quiet, or
seemed so to her, recalling the gay music and laughter that had filled
the house a few hours back.
The butler was yawning in the hall, but did not appear at all surprised
to see her. He was getting too much accustomed to the caprices and
vagaries of fine ladies to be surprised at anything now.
“Lady Lenox was at breakfast,” he said, “and Miss Wyndham and three
gentlemen were there; but he fancied Lady Teignmouth had gone to her
room. However, he would inquire directly, if Lady Gwendolyn would step
into the drawing-room for a moment.”
“Thank you, I need not trouble you,” her ladyship replied. “I know Lady
Teignmouth’s room, and will go and see for myself.”
“Shall I tell Lady Lenox you are here, my lady?”
“It is not worth while, as I shall only stay a few minutes.”
And, hearing the breakfast-room door open, Lady Gwendolyn fled
precipitately. The thing she could have least borne at this moment was
an encounter with Lady Lenox, or any of her fast friends.
Knocking at her sister-in-law’s door, she was told to enter. Lady
Teignmouth was reclining on a couch, her face as white as her
embroidered peignoir, and she looked startled and surprised at this
sudden apparition.
“Why, I thought you had gone back to the Grange!” she said.
“I did go back,” returned the other coldly; “but I simply changed my
dress, and returned on foot, as I wished to speak to you.”
Lady Teignmouth knitted her brows, and did not seem overpleased.
“I can’t imagine what you can have to say to me of so much consequence
as that, Gwen. But you do take very ridiculous notions into your
head at times. However, now you are here you may as well have a cup
of coffee. I sent Clémentine to get me something, and”--with evident
relief--“here she comes. Now make us comfortable, Clémentine; I am
dreadfully hungry. I hope you have brought enough for two.”
“There is half a chicken, and some ham, my lady.”
“And I shall take nothing but a cup of coffee,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.
“Nonsense, Gwen; it’s the greatest mistake in the world not to eat.
When people lose their appetites they invariably lose their looks.”
“I’ll take my chance of that,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “Do you
want Clémentine?” she added, in a lower voice. “It is really necessary
that I should speak to you at once.”
“What, have you got mysteries as well as Colonel Dacre?” she exclaimed,
with a levity that would have displeased Lady Gwendolyn at any time,
and absolutely disgusted her now. “I am very unfortunate in my friends.”
“I think you are,” replied Lady Gwendolyn, with involuntary sternness.
Lady Teignmouth looked straight at her sister-in-law, flushed slightly,
and then assumed a sulky air.
“At any rate, Reggie doesn’t complain,” she said at last. “And if he is
satisfied no one else has a right to interfere.”
Lady Gwendolyn sipped her coffee, and was silent, waiting for
Clémentine to go. But her sister-in-law evidently made work to detain
her; not, perhaps, relishing the prospect of a tête-à-tête.
However, at last she could not find any further excuse for her
presence, and dismissed her. Nothing loath, Lady Gwendolyn opened her
mouth to speak, then, but Pauline stopped her nervously.
“I know you are going to say something disagreeable, that will spoil
my appetite; and after being up all night, I really require support.
Please, therefore, let me finish my breakfast before you begin.”
“I am afraid I can’t; every moment is precious.”
“I warn you fairly, I don’t believe you. However, I suppose you must
have your own way,” returned Lady Teignmouth. And reaching out her hand
for a silver flask that lay on the dressing-table, she poured half its
contents into her coffee-cup, and drank it off like one well accustomed
to potent drafts.
Lady Gwendolyn watched her with rising horror and dismay. The other
laughed defiantly, pretending to be vastly amused at the effect she saw
she had created.
“I thought I should shock you,” she said; “but, really, I have such
miserable nerves, I could not get on without stimulants. Now, you may
talk as much as you like; only you will try and be a little more
interesting, won’t you? You have no idea how prosy you have grown of
late.”
“I am afraid you will think me worse than prosy before I have done,
Pauline; but I cannot compromise with my conscience. You must know the
exact truth----”
“I hate truths,” interrupted Lady Teignmouth petulantly.
“I dare say; nevertheless, you must listen to me. You are my brother’s
wife, and for his sake I will spare you if I can. But you must leave
Bridgton directly; do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” replied Pauline obstinately; “but I have no intention of
obeying.”
“Not if your safety depends upon it?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I am quite safe here.”
“Yon know better, Pauline.”
“Indeed I do not. I was never good at guessing riddles.”
“Listen to me! You must and shall go at once. I am no hypocrite,
and, therefore, I do not pretend to care much what becomes of you
personally; but I love my brother with all my heart, and would not have
a shadow of dishonor to fall on his name.”
“He knew perfectly well that I was coming to Bridgton,” answered Lady
Teignmouth, in a sulky, aggrieved tone.
“Possibly; but he did not know whom you had come to meet.”
“One can’t help people following. I don’t suppose you invited Colonel
Dacre to Turoy; but he is there.”
“That is quite a different thing. I am not a married woman, neither
have I given Colonel Dacre secret meetings in the wood. I did not
come here to accuse, but to warn you, Pauline. You must leave the
neighborhood at once, for Mr. Belmont is dead.”
Lady Teignmouth uttered a faint cry, and put out her hand for the
flask mechanically; but Lady Gwendolyn took possession of it, adding
resolutely:
“You shall not stupefy yourself, for you will want all your wits. An
inquest will be held on the body at about two o’clock, and you know
best what may come out. I shall be silent, for my poor brother’s
sake; but others who have not the same motive for shielding you
that I have, may have seen something, and be quite willing to give
all the information they can. You are safe, so far as Colonel Dacre
is concerned; for, though he knows all, you have managed things so
cleverly that he thinks I am the wrong-doer.”
Something very like a smile moved Lady Teignmouth’s pale lips. Even at
this supreme moment she could enjoy the triumph of having hoodwinked
and deceived a man of the world like Colonel Dacre.
If she had injured her sister-in-law at the same time, and destroyed
all her hopes in life, what did it matter so long as she herself
escaped? It was a principle with Pauline never to trouble herself
about other people’s affairs, and to shift her own burden off her own
shoulders to somebody else’s whenever she could.
“If that is the case, I see no reason why I should disturb myself in
any way. The affair is sure to blow over comfortably if we keep quiet;
and, of course, you won’t say anything, for Reggie’s sake.”
The tranquil egotism of this speech roused Lady Gwendolyn at last, and
she turned upon her angrily.
“You are right--it is Reggie, and Reggie only, I consider in this
matter. You have spoiled his life, poor fellow! but you shall not drag
his honor through the mire if I can help it.”
“You rave like a tragedy queen,” observed Lady Teignmouth insolently.
“Dragging your husband’s honor through the mire is only done now on the
stage.”
“I find, to my sorrow, that it is still possible in real life,” replied
Lady Gwendolyn, with a strong effort at self-control.
“Because you are romantic, my dear. When once you get married you will
look at things in a more matter-of-fact light. Reggie and I are tied
to each other, but neither of us has a mind to make our chains too
heavy. He goes his way, and I go mine. I do not call him to account
for anything he may have done during our separation, and claim a like
indulgence from him. I should not in the least object to his having a
little flirtation, if it amused him; and I don’t really believe that he
wishes to deprive me of a similar distraction.”
“And you call that a flirtation?” exclaimed Lady Gwendolyn indignantly.
“Certainly. The moment I found Mr. Belmont was taking me too much _au
sérieux_, I told him I would have nothing more to say to him. Even if
he had not died so suddenly, I should never have spoken to him again.”
“I see; he was becoming a nuisance, and you decided to get rid of him
by fair means or foul.”
“What on earth do you mean? Of course, if I declined his further
acquaintance, he had no alternative but to accept his dismissal.”
“It is no use talking to me in this way. I know all,” answered Lady
Gwendolyn gloomily. “Mr. Belmont confessed the truth with almost his
last breath.”
“What truth? I wish you would not be so enigmatical, Gwen. When I can’t
understand people directly they always bore me.”
“Very well, since you will have it, he said he had been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” echoed Lady Teignmouth, in a tone of incredulity that was
unmistakably genuine. “I don’t believe it! He was with me for nearly an
hour, and though he threatened all sorts of foolish things--as men do
under those circumstances--I am sure he never dreamed of carrying them
out.”
“Pauline!” cried her sister-in-law, “will you swear that you had no
hand in Mr. Belmont’s death?”
“I? Why, really, Gwen, you must be mad!” And Lady Teignmouth looked at
her anxiously. “How could I possibly have had anything to do with it?”
“He was in your way,” said Lady Gwendolyn, so much impressed by the
other’s manner, that she actually began to believe in her innocence.
“Not at all. I never allow any one to be in my way. If he and I had
both lived to be a hundred years old, I should not have spoken to him
again.”
“But he might have spoken to you.”
“I don’t think he would, for, with all his faults, he was a gentleman.
You may depend upon it,” she added argumentatively, “that he died of
heart-disease. Those strong-looking men often have some secret malady
that carries them off suddenly.”
“But I told you that he said he had been poisoned--and a dying man does
not lie.”
“Really, I hardly know how to believe it.” And Lady Teignmouth looked
her companion steadily in the eyes.
There was a minute’s silence, and then she added quietly:
“Do you think that Colonel Dacre killed him?”
“What motive could he have for even wishing him dead?” inquired Lady
Gwendolyn, flushing.
“According to your own showing he took him for a rival.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, he fancied it was you who had met him in the wood; and that
would naturally anger him, since he loves you himself.”
“Has he told you so, pray?”
“Not in so many words; but I have been aware of the fact for over a
year now.”
“And, therefore, you gave him my address at Turoy?”
Lady Teignmouth colored.
“Why not?” she asked evasively. “Colonel Dacre would be an excellent
match. He is heir presumptive to a baronetcy; and has now a fine place
and ten thousand a year. You might go farther and fare worse.”
“Still, there might have been drawbacks of which you knew nothing. Even
if I had been engaged to Mr. Belmont, Colonel Dacre would have had no
right to resent it.”
“You had refused him, then?” inquired the other curiously.
“Certainly not; he had never asked me.”
“Then it was your own fault.”
Lady Gwendolyn was silent. Lady Teignmouth was the last person in the
world of whom she would have made a confidante.
Pauline peered into her face for a minute as if she would read her
thoughts. But finding no enlightenment in the impassible face before
her, she added:
“Anyhow, you will never persuade me that you might not have
married Colonel Dacre had you chosen. Upon one point I claim to be
infallible--I always know when a man is in love.”
“Do you, indeed? You must have studied the subject very carefully,”
replied her sister-in-law.
“I don’t see how one is to help it, if one is tolerably good-looking.
Men are so troublesome, you know.”
“Do you think so? I never knew one yet who would not take a ‘No.’”
“Really!” And the countess smiled deceitfully. “I suppose I wasn’t
sufficiently firm; for no man ever took my ‘No.’ I refused Reggie four
times.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gwendolyn indignantly. “My brother was not the
kind of man to repeat an offer, if it had been once refused. However,”
she added, cooling down suddenly, “I did not come to discuss such
questions with you. Mr. Belmont has not died a natural death, I am
afraid; and at the inquest everything must come out. Forewarned is
forearmed, and you can do as you think proper now.”
“And I think proper to stay quietly where I am,” returned Pauline
coolly. “No one can do me any harm, excepting you; and though I am
quite aware that you would not spare me for my own sake, I hardly
think you will try to break your brother’s heart. With all my faults,
he is foolish enough to care for me a little still; but he cares for
his honor still more; and if the least shadow were cast upon that, the
consequences would be terrible.”
“And do you suppose nobody witnessed your meetings with Mr. Belmont?”
“I naturally took care about that.”
“In fact, you made use of the Grange, and of my servants, in order to
cover your faults, counting upon the very mistake that Colonel Dacre
made.”
“Exactly. Why not? Nothing of this sort could harm you, as you were not
a married woman; and, so far as your servants were concerned, I merely
told them that you would arrive home so tired you would not care to see
any one; and they immediately inferred from this that your visitor was
in some way objectionable. I told Hannah to say ‘Not at home,’ which
would have simplified the matter, and saved a good deal of breath; but
she assured me neither she nor her husband would tell a lie, and they
should know what to say quite well if I left them alone.”
“But I was not in the house, surely, when Colonel Dacre called?”
“The first time----”
“Then he came twice?” interrupted her sister-in-law.
“Or even three times; he was so very determined to see you, and so
fully persuaded that you were deceiving him.”
Lady Gwendolyn lowered her head thoughtfully. All these complications
harassed her. She began to wonder if Colonel Dacre had carried his
determined spirit so far as to rid himself of a supposed rival. And yet
his horror and indignation when he accused her had seemed so natural
she hardly knew how to distrust him. Anyhow, better it should be him
than Pauline--since Pauline’s destinies were bound up in those of her
brother--and she loved Reggie so dearly.
She looked up presently and said:
“I am sorry I did not see him, it might have been better for us all.
But it is no use talking of ‘might have beens!’--my chief concern
is the present. I wish you would leave Bridgton, Pauline. You know
perfectly well that if you are identified as the lady Mr. Belmont met
in the wood, Reggie will never forgive you.”
“I wish you would give me credit for a little common sense, Gwendolyn.
I don’t mean to be identified as any lady in particular. Not a soul
knew that I was at Turoy excepting Hannah and her husband, and I have
bought their silence. Moreover, they are fully convinced that I left
Turoy exactly two hours before I really did. You see, you may always
trust me to guard poor Teignmouth’s honor. I was obliged to see Mr.
Belmont; but I took care to manage the affair in a way that would
compromise me as little as possible.”
“I think you might have told me what use you were going to make of my
house, Pauline.”
“That would have been very wise, wouldn’t it? since you would have
taken good care that our meeting did not come off.”
“All the better.”
“Allow me to tell you, Gwen, that with all your cleverness, there are
some things you do not at all understand.”
“You are perfectly right, and I have reason to be thankful that it is
so,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn, as she finished her coffee and rose to
her feet. “Anyhow, you know the truth now, Pauline; and let me tell you
this much before I go: I will hide your faults and follies this once,
at any sacrifice, for my brother’s sake; but the next time such a thing
happens you must take your chance. It is enough that I have lost the
respect of a man whose good opinion is worth having, for you. I will
not aid you further. If you have not profited by the terrible lesson
you have received, the sooner you and Reggie separate the better for
him; and I shall do nothing to hinder it.”
“You cross, disagreeable child!” exclaimed her ladyship cheerfully.
“You don’t suppose I shall get into another scrape in a hurry, do you?”
“I don’t know. You have such terrible vanity, Pauline----”
“Did you ever know a woman yet who had not? I really like Reggie
immensely, but he has entirely got out of the way of paying
compliments, and making himself agreeable; and, really, it is quite
necessary to go into the world to hear that one is pretty. Before I
have been shut up three days with my husband at Teignmouth I feel like
an unmitigated fright.”
“Would you have him always flattering you?”
“Well, no, not exactly, because I should want a little sleep. Still, it
is the sort of thing one cannot easily have too much of.”
Lady Gwendolyn looked at her with ill-concealed contempt; and, feeling
that she might lose her temper and say more than she ought to say if
she remained any longer, she wished her a curt good morning, and left
the room.
She went down-stairs as softly as she could, being anxious, above all
things, to escape the attention of Lady Lenox and her guests; but, as
luck would have it, just as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the
door of the breakfast-room suddenly opened, and she found herself face
to face with the gay Irish widow, Mrs. O’Hara.
CHAPTER VIII.
PAULINE’S TRIUMPH.
Mrs. O’Hara was about the last person Lady Gwendolyn would have cared
to meet; moreover, she knew her to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking
woman, whose influence would be very bad for Lady Teignmouth.
Hitherto Pauline had professed to dislike the Irish widow, but finding
themselves together in a country house, they were sure to do one of two
things, either quarrel desperately, or strike up a violent friendship.
And Gwendolyn, who had her brother’s honor and happiness so much at
heart, knew that this latter would be fatal, indeed.
She stepped back and bowed coldly, but Mrs. O’Hara was not to be
repressed. She held out her hand with great cordiality.
“I am so delighted to meet you again, dear Lady Gwendolyn. I hear you
were quite the belle of last night’s ball. I meant to be here myself,
but I provokingly missed the train at Carlisle, and had to wait there
six hours, so that I am just a day after the fair. I find that Lady
Teignmouth is staying here,” she added, without giving herself time to
take breath, “and I am so delighted! George Belmont always praises her
so much, I am quite anxious to improve our acquaintance.”
Lady Gwendolyn shivered convulsively.
“Mr. Belmont is a friend of yours, then?” she asked faintly.
“He is only my brother, but we are excellent friends, which is rather
rare among near relatives. He has just come into a nice little property
in Ireland, and I hope he will take a wife and settle down. I don’t
mind telling you, he has knocked about the world a good deal in his
time, and the money was very acceptable; and, what do you think?”
she went on impulsively; “directly he heard of his uncle’s death, he
promised to settle a little matter that he knew was bothering me a good
deal.”
Lady Gwendolyn had not much sympathy, as a rule, with people who
confided in the first comer; still, she could not help feeling for Mrs.
O’Hara at this moment, and sympathizing with the tears of grateful
feeling in her big black eyes.
Mr. Belmont might not be a very estimable man, but he had been kind to
his sister, evidently; and she must needs grieve for him indeed when
she learned the manner of his death, which would be worse to bear than
the death itself.
She had half a mind to give her a hint that would prepare her for what
was coming, and was trying to pick out words that would be a warning
and not a revelation, when Mrs. O’Hara caught sight of a masculine
figure at the end of the hall, and darted off precipitately. Her bold
laugh followed Lady Gwendolyn into the garden and sharpened her mood.
Somehow, she thought now that Mrs. O’Hara would get over her trouble
very easily, and only hoped it would take her away from Bridgton Hall
before she had had time to do any mischief.
She felt so weary and sick at heart she could have sat down in the
hedge and let all the winds of heaven beat upon her, if she could only
feel sure that they would beat this miserable life out of her, and give
her rest.
“For the world is such a cruel, unsatisfactory place,” she said to
herself, in the impatience of a first grief. “To live is to suffer,
and, therefore, it were better to die.”
No doubt if she had felt the chill hand grasping her, she would have
urged a very different prayer; but Gwendolyn had never known sorrow
before, and the pressure of the wound irritated her. She would have
given up all the promise of the future to be rid of her present pain.
Meanwhile, Lady Teignmouth rang for her maid.
“Do you know where the post-office at Bridgton is?” she asked.
Clémentine could not say that she did.
“Anyhow, it will be easy enough to find out,” continued her mistress.
“Put on your bonnet as quickly as possible, Clémentine, and take this
telegram there. You can write English well now, but must be careful
that your letters are clear and distinct.”
“And am I to wait for an answer,” inquired the French woman naïvely.
“Certainly not. But read the message over to me, that I may be sure you
understand it.”
Clémentine began in a singsong voice:
“You are wanted here on urgent business. Come directly you receive my
telegram.”
“That will do. Mind your spelling,” was her ladyship’s comment. “Now
you can go.”
Lord Teignmouth was breakfasting at his club in luxurious bachelor ease
when his wife’s message reached him, and he uttered an exclamation of
annoyance and surprise.
“How confoundedly unfortunate! And I dare say it is only some fad of
Pauline’s, after all. She likes to have men running after her. I think
I’ll telegraph back that I am particularly engaged, and can’t leave
town.”
Then he suddenly recollected that with all Lady Teignmouth’s caprices,
she had never sent for him in this way before, and he at once decided
to go. He telegraphed back to this effect, then finished his breakfast
as quickly as he could, and in less than an hour was on his way to
Bridgton.
Pauline had calculated about the time he would reach the station, and
had gone there to meet him, like a dutiful and affectionate wife.
“Dear Reggie, how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, her face in a
glitter of smiles. “I never expected you at all.”
“Then you did not come to meet me, Pauline?”
“Of course I did, you foolish fellow! The mere chance that you would
come was enough to rouse my wifely zeal. Do you know why I wanted you?”
she added, as she took his arm, and led him out of the station into the
quiet lanes.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“No? Then I will tell you. I want you to take me away from Bridgton
immediately.”
“But, my dear Pauline, you came here without me, and could, therefore,
leave here without me, surely.”
“You don’t evidently know Lady Lenox. She has made up her party, and
won’t hear of any one deserting, as she calls it. I talked till I was
tired, and then it suddenly struck me to telegraph for you, and make
believe you had come on purpose to fetch me.”
“But how is it you are tired of Bridgton already?”
“I don’t like to tell you, Reggie. You know how I hate to give anybody
pain.”
“Pshaw!” he said, coloring a little. “Make a clean breast of it while
you are about it. Have you and Lady Lenox quarreled?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you have had disagreeables with one of the visitors.”
“No; everybody had been charming, and shown me so much kindness and
sympathy in my trouble.”
“What trouble? I do wish you would not try to mystify me, Pauline. You
know I was never good at riddles. I suppose your pug is dead, or you
have found your first gray hair----”
“Oh, Reggie! don’t talk like that; you make me feel dreadfully,” she
interrupted. “I may have seemed frivolous when all things went well;
but I assure you I can suffer with you, and for you now.”
He dropped her arm, and turned, and stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you rather I told you the truth, Reggie?”
“That is what I have been begging you to do for the last half-hour,”
he answered impatiently. “But you seem to enjoy piling up the agony. I
suppose the long and short of it is that Gwen is dangerously ill.”
“She was perfectly well three or four hours ago. No; it is not that
sort of trouble. Reggie. Gwen has disgraced us cruelly.”
Lord Teignmouth started violently, and his face grew white to the lips.
“I will not believe it,” he said. “You never liked her, Pauline, and
are exaggerating a small imprudence into a crime. I am sure she would
be able to clear herself at once, if she knew of what she was accused.”
“Then give her the chance,” answered his wife coldly.
And she told him the miserable story of Mr. Belmont’s death,
unfalteringly asseverating that the unfortunate man had come to Turoy
on Lady Gwendolyn’s account.
“They had a meeting in the wood the very night of his death, as some
of the people hereabout can testify; and, of course, his sudden and
mysterious fate has caused a great sensation. No one could suspect
Gwendolyn of anything but an imprudence, as you say; but it’s the
sort of imprudence that ruins a woman’s reputation, I am afraid. My
own opinion is that Colonel Dacre followed Mr. Belmont to Turoy, and,
finding him to be a successful rival, determined to get him out of the
way. But this is pure conjecture, and nothing of the sort came out at
the inquest.”
“Then there has been an inquest?” inquired Lord Teignmouth, who felt as
if the ground were giving way beneath his feet.
“Oh, yes! and Gwendolyn gave her evidence with great dignity and
propriety--she was sure to do that, you know. The inquest took place
at four o’clock, having been delayed by the post-mortem examination,
and it was proved that the unfortunate man died of poison, but by whom
administered there was no evidence to show, and they gave an open
verdict.”
Lord Teignmouth put his hand confusedly to his head. He was a man of
sensitive honor, and the thought that his high-bred, beautiful sister
had been mixed up in a painful story, that would soon be telegraphed
from one end of England to the other, made him furious. Moreover, Mr.
Belmont had always been looked upon as an adventurer, and careful
people hardly cared to have him at their parties. Mrs. O’Hara herself
had never acknowledged the relationship between them until her brother
had come into a fortune, when he would have been useful, no doubt.
He turned to his wife, and spoke with angry decision:
“You did quite right to send for me. I would not have you remain in
this neighborhood another day on any account. I shall go and see
Gwendolyn, and tell her that my house is shut to her for the future,
and she must make a home elsewhere. The only thing would be for her to
marry, if she could find any idiot to take her. Anyhow, I am not going
to have her name mixed up with yours. Thank Heaven she is my sister,
and not my wife!”
“Thank Heaven, indeed!” she murmured, resting her dimpled chin on his
shoulder, with a movement full of the most seductive grace. “But you
know that, with all my faults, Reggie, I am not capable of that?”
“I begin to suspect all women,” he said gloomily. “Gwen and I were
everything to each other in the days gone by, and I thought her so
innocent and upright. If any one had dared to tell me she was carrying
on a secret intrigue I would have knocked him down if he had been a
man, so sure should I have felt that he lied miserably. But I suppose
there is no doubting the fact now.”
Lady Teignmouth shook her head.
“Lady Gwendolyn denied it, of course; she was almost justified in
trying to save her reputation by a falsehood, it seems to me.”
“There should have been no need for the falsehood,” responded Lord
Teignmouth sternly.
“Yes, but if we all did exactly what was right, dear, what a delightful
world this would be,” said the countess, with the sweetest indulgence.
“I always feel myself that having so many failings of my own I ought to
make allowances for others. Gwen is but young yet, and was led away. I
have heard of Mr. Belmont as a man of extraordinary fascination.”
“What, then? Gwendolyn was not a raw schoolgirl, to be subjugated by
the first handsome mustache she saw.”
“Oh, no; but, no doubt, poor darling, she became attached to Mr.
Belmont. Indeed, I have felt sure for the last year that she had
something on her mind, and I have tried to persuade her to confide
in me, but she always repelled me. I wish she had, now, for, as a
sensible girl, she would have given up Mr. Belmont at once if she had
known how thoroughly worthless he was.”
“I don’t see any sign of her sense in this miserable business,” replied
Lord Teignmouth, who looked harassed and dejected. “But we had better
get on, Pauline; there are your things to pack, and I know of old what
a long process that is.”
“Everything is packed,” replied his wife. “I felt sure you would take
me away, and so I made my preparations accordingly. And, do you know,
if we miss the eight-o’clock train it will be impossible for us to get
away to-night?”
“Then we will stay at an inn, Pauline. I am determined you shall not be
exposed to any unpleasant remarks at Lady Lenox’s. Moreover, I want to
get to the other side of the Channel as quickly as possible, and hide
my diminished head.”
“Look here, Reggie, dear,” she said, as if the idea had only just
occurred to her; “supposing you write to Gwendolyn.”
“I would rather tell her my mind.”
“Nonsense!” she answered coaxingly; “it would be so much better to do
as I say. You are both quick-tempered, and will make a scene between
you, and, surely, there will be nothing gained by that. Come, Reggie,
do listen to reason. It would distress you, I am sure, to accuse
Gwendolyn to her face, and yet, of course, she must know the truth.
Write her a decided letter, and as you will be leaving England at once,
she will not be able to answer it, and then you will be spared all
annoyance.”
“I would rather see her,” persisted Lord Teignmouth.
“What could you say to her if you did? She is perfectly independent,
and has a right to meet twenty men in Turoy wood, if she likes.”
“And kill them afterward, I suppose?”
“Oh! do hush, Reggie; it is dreadfully imprudent to talk in this way
out of doors, where you might be overheard.”
“What does that matter? Do you suppose we shall be able to hide our
troubles from the world?”
“Impossible, of course; but it is no use precipitating matters. We
shall have a few hours’ start of scandal if we keep quiet, and I do
want to be the other side of the Channel when the morning papers begin
to circulate.”
“It will be of no use, Pauline,” he answered, more gently than he had
yet spoken to her. “Wherever we go they will follow and dodge us, and
we shall be sure to meet heaps of people who will think it kind to
condole with us. I am afraid I shall behave like a bear if they do.”
“Then let us return to Teignmouth, dear.”
“It would be still worse there. We should have to receive our neighbors
as usual if they called, and they all know Gwendolyn so well.”
“Only that friends would naturally be more considerate than mere
acquaintances.”
“Surely, you would rather go abroad, Pauline,” he said, looking at her
with some surprise.
“Infinitely, Reggie; but I wished to do what would comfort you most.
Only that I want you, as a special favor, to promise that you will make
no effort to see Gwendolyn.”
“Why?”
“Because you are both proud and passionate, and may speak words in
the heat of argument that will make it impossible you should ever be
friends again; and I do not see why you should not forgive Gwendolyn
later, supposing she made a decent marriage, and showed by her conduct
that she really regretted the past.”
“You forget, Pauline, that some people will always believe that she
killed Belmont to hide her indiscretion.”
“Oh! no, dear, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I am sure nobody
will ever believe that; it is so obviously the deed of a rival!”
“And Lawrence Dacre is here, you say?”
“Yes; he arrived the same night that Gwendolyn did, and put up at the
village inn.”
“My sister, and my friend--two out of the three people I loved best in
the world,” he murmured. “And my wife may be as false as they, for all
I know! It is enough to make me wish I had never been born!”
Pauline caught the muttered words, and pressed closer against his arm,
her face uplifted to his.
“You must not suspect me, Reggie; I will not have it! I have been
a careless wife, I am afraid, because--because,” very softly, “I
thought you cared for Gwendolyn more than you cared for me, and that
discouraged me; but she cannot come between us now, and I mean to make
you so happy! Will you try and forget all these miseries, for my sake?”
All men are weak when they get into the hands of a clever, unscrupulous
woman; and Reginald St. Maur was so loyal, that his wife must needs
have a very tender hold upon his affections, if only because she was
his wife, and he had wooed and won her in his youth. It is true that
a coldness had grown up between them of late years; but he had always
been ready to welcome her back into his heart, and now that Gwendolyn
had failed him so cruelly, Pauline was his one last hope.
He drew her to him, and kissed her thrice on the lips.
“Try and make me forget,” he said, “and I will bless you all my life.”
“Will you leave everything to me?” she asked, as she rested her still
beautiful face on his shoulder and smiled up into his eyes.
“Gladly--thankfully, my love.”
“Very well, then, come into my room and write to Gwendolyn, while I
bid Lady Lenox adieu, and make the last arrangements for our journey.
I only want to save you pain, my dearest; and, indeed--indeed, it is
best.”
He followed her passively into the house, and up-stairs. Gently
coercing him into a chair, she brought writing materials, placed a pen
between his fingers, and then, stooping forward, whispered between two
kisses:
“Do your duty, but do it gently; for whatever her blame may be, you are
the children of one mother, and were all in all to each other once.”
“Thank you for the reminder,” he answered gravely; and then she rustled
away, and left him to his painful task.
When she returned, half an hour later, the letter lay on the desk ready
to go, and, as if she feared he might draw back even yet, she caught it
up and rang at once for Clémentine.
“Put that carefully in the letter-bag,” she said, when the woman
answered the summons; “and then come and put on my cloak.”
“Must I see Lady Lenox?” her husband asked, when they were alone once
more.
“You need not; she quite understands and sympathizes with you. They
are just going to sit down to dinner, and we shall go away quietly and
comfortably, and catch the eight-o’clock train. You see, dearest, I am
not altogether incapable if I am left to myself.”
“I never thought you were, my love,” he answered; and paid her such a
pretty conjugal compliment that Pauline began to think husbands were
not such disagreeable creatures, after all, if properly managed.
Lady Gwendolyn had passed a miserable night, only to close her eyes
to dream of the inquest, and suffer over again the humiliation of
feeling herself suspected, not of actual murder, perhaps, but of having
contributed in some way to the wretched man’s doom. Through Colonel
Dacre’s stern gravity she had read the same cruel misconstruction, and
yet he was so reticent, so careful not to compromise her in any way,
she almost felt, too, as if he were a friend.
Anyhow, the reminiscent torture made her start up in her bed, again
and again calling out that she could not bear it; and she was glad
when old Hannah came in to prepare her bath. She was so perfectly
unsuspecting that when she found a letter on her breakfast-table later,
and recognized Lord Teignmouth’s handwriting, she opened it eagerly,
feeling as if it were a bright spot in her gloom.
But as she read, the color faded out of her face, and a startled,
anguished look came into her eyes.
“Even he forsakes me,” she murmured, in a stifled voice; and, sinking
down beside the couch, she buried her face in her hands and wept
violently, passionately, until the very strength of her emotion
exhausted her, and she lay still, wondering in her infinite desolation
what she had ever done that fate should be so hard upon her.
The answer came at last:
“You set up an idol and worshiped it; and in fleeing from temptation
a worse chance has overtaken you. Pray, unhappy woman; it is your
only hope. The whole world has forsaken you, even your own kin; and,
above all, the woman whom you served yesterday by your silence, and
whose blame you bore for your brother’s sake. You have no kindred, or
friends; you stand alone; and, therefore, need to stand firm, with your
head well raised; but how will you bear this terrible solitude for all
your pride?”
There was no answer to this question, unless she heard it in the
storm--voices that went moaning round the house. A sudden peal of
thunder shook the roof; the rain came plashing down; and Gwendolyn,
poor coward! hid her face again, and stopped her ears.
She did not, therefore, either see or hear any one approach, until a
warm, strong hand touched hers diffidently; and she lifted her head to
let these tender words thrill through and through her:
“My darling! love has become my master; and I cannot live without you,
as I told you before, so I have come to claim you for my very own!”
CHAPTER IX.
ALL FOR LOVE.
Lady Gwendolyn was too much overcome at this sudden apparition.
She could not speak for a moment; and, taking her silence for
encouragement, Lawrence Dacre knelt down beside her, and lifted the
hand he still held to his lips.
“I have done with resistance,” he said; his eyes full of gloomy
passion. “Whether you take me, or leave me, Gwendolyn, I belong to
you--and you only now. These last few days I have done nothing but
fight and struggle, until all the flesh has worn off my bones,” he
added, with a grim laugh; “and I’ll make an end of it somehow. Do you
hear me, child?”
“Yes, yes; go on,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she said.
“What more can I tell you? I should scare you, perhaps, if I let you
see all the wild, burning passion in my heart, for your love compared
to mine is
‘As moonlight unto sunlight,
And as water unto wine.’
But I will teach you better when you belong to me. I could not be
satisfied with the lukewarm affections that most women are ready to
bestow on any man who has proper notions with regard to settlements.
I must find some expanse in my wife’s heart to the jealous, exclusive
passion in my own, otherwise there would be no use in living, that I
can see. I never cared much about the world, and am ready to relinquish
all its so-called pleasures if you bid me; but, then, I must have the
return my soul craves--something more precious to me than a crown and
kingdom--your undivided love.”
His mellow voice made such pleasant music at her ear, that Lady
Gwendolyn had made no effort to rouse herself so far; but when he
ceased to speak, she lifted her haggard, tear-stained face, and said,
with somber resignation:
“What is the use of picturing impossibilities? You know I could not
marry you if I would.”
“Why not?”
“You forget that I know your secret.”
“Now, you must explain what you mean by my secret, Gwendolyn,” he said,
with decision, as he lifted her on to the couch, and sat down beside
her. “Twice you have thrown it in my teeth, and though I have tried
hard to find out what you meant, I have been unable to do so. On my
honor as a gentleman, I know nothing that need prevent our marriage.”
His arm was stealing round her waist, but she pushed it away, and faced
him with a regal air.
“Listen to me, Colonel Dacre!” she said impressively. “It is true that
I was only twenty the other day, but I have seen a good deal of the
world, and am not easily deceived. From the first moment that you and I
met, I knew that you had something on your mind.”
“Few men reach my age without finding that they have a good deal to
remember and forget. In my hot youth I committed plenty of follies,
I dare say; but I can safely swear that I never really loved a woman
until I saw you.”
“And never deceived one, Colonel Dacre?”
“Never--as I hope for heaven!”
“Oh, hush!--hush!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “You are deceiving
me now.”
“Upon my word, Gwendolyn, I have not even prevaricated. Let me know
of what I am accused, that I may defend myself; it is not fair to
insinuate things of such moment to me without making it possible for me
to explain.”
“Very well,” she said; “you shall hear my story from the beginning. You
remember the day that I was frightened by Bates’ bull?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, I did not sprain my ankle.”
“I guessed as much,” he answered coolly.
“But I was anxious to find or make some excuse for getting into Borton
Hall.”
“May I ask why?”
“We were coming to that. The evening before we were speaking, if you
remember, of most people having a skeleton or two in their cupboard,
and you suddenly turned very grave. When I laughed, and said that you
looked as if you had a dozen, at least, in yours, you answered, with
deep meaning, that one might be as much as any one could bear. You were
very silent for the rest of the evening, and I was puzzled, stimulated,
pained, all together.”
“What, then?” he urged, as she came to an abrupt pause.
“I took care to sprain my ankle in flying from Bates’ bull.”
“Then you were not frightened by the animal?”
“I did not particularly like the look of him, but I should have passed
him valiantly enough if I had not seen you coming.”
“Well?”
“You carried me into your house, and laid me on a couch, while you went
for assistance. I had almost a mind to laugh in your face when you bent
over me so anxiously at parting, and made me promise to ring for your
housekeeper, supposing the pain should increase.”
“You played your part splendidly, I must own.”
“Of course! for I had a good deal at stake. It was necessary for my
peace of mind to discover the skeleton in your cupboard.”
“And you succeeded?” he inquired, with suppressed eagerness; his lips
whitening as the words passed through them.
“Yes, I did. With all my faults, I would never have searched your
place, of that you may be sure; but there was no need, the revelation I
sought was thrust upon me.”
“Ah!”
And though there was the gloom of an abiding sorrow in his eyes, there
was no shame nor shrinking--excepting so far as we all shrink when a
deep wound is probed.
“I suppose it was the intervention of Providence,” Lady Gwendolyn went
on. “If you had asked me to marry you an hour before I should have
accepted you without hesitation, whereas, it was not even right for us
to be friends.”
“You forget that you have explained nothing yet,” he said hoarsely.
“And yet, this suspense is very cruel.”
“I do not mean to be cruel,” she said. “I can assure you I have
suffered too much myself to take pleasure in another person’s pain;
but I am reluctant to recall that most miserable half-hour I passed
at Borton Hall. I entered it so full of hope; I left it feeling as if
I had nothing to look forward to in the world, since you, whom I had
trusted and loved, were false.”
“Or, rather, you fancied so.”
“It was no fancy, unfortunately. I saw and spoke to your wife.”
“Saw and spoke to my wife?” he repeated. “My dear Gwendolyn, you are
certainly dreaming. I have no wife.”
“She told me that her husband refused to acknowledge her, and that,
having no one to befriend her, she could not assert her rights,”
pursued Lady Gwendolyn, without heeding his denial. “And, poor thing!
she quite wrung my heart, she looked so dejected and hopeless.”
“But not through any fault of mine.”
“Why do you try to deceive me, Colonel Dacre? When a man has committed
such a wrong as you have done, the only atonement he can make is a full
confession. Treat me frankly now, and I will forgive you everything.”
“Forgive everything! What do you mean, Gwendolyn? I want your love, not
your forgiveness. I do not deserve the former, I am aware; but I have
certainly done nothing to make it necessary for me to claim the latter.”
“Perhaps you look upon bigamy as a very small offense.”
“But I have never committed bigamy, Gwendolyn. Indeed, until I saw you
I never wanted even to commit matrimony.”
“Then who was it I saw in your house?”
“I have a crazy protégée in the village, whom I allow to wander about
the park, as she is perfectly harmless. She has very strange delusions,
and may have taken it into her head that she is married to me, and
I am trying to keep her out of her rights. Who shall answer for the
hallucinations of a disordered brain?”
“The person I saw was a lady,” said Lady Gwendolyn. “That is a point
upon which it was impossible for me to be deceived, of course. She was
unusually delicate and refined looking, and her accent was perfect.
Your protégée in the village could never have managed to play the lady
so well.”
“I don’t know about that. Mad people are very cunning and imitative.”
“Still, they cannot perform impossibilities. Let her imitation have
been ever so good, she must have betrayed herself in some way.”
“If you had suspected her, you would have perceived certain
deficiencies that passed unnoticed under the circumstances.”
“Impossible. I knew nothing whatever about her, and was ready to
believe anything. The impression she made on me was, as I said before,
of an extremely refined, lady-like person, and I have no doubt in my
own mind that she was a gentlewoman, and your wife.”
“She may have been a gentlewoman, but she was certainly not my wife,”
replied the colonel.
“Will you swear that?”
“I will swear by my mother’s memory--which I love and revere--that I
never had a wife.”
“Will you swear also that you do not know the lady I have been
describing?”
“No; for I did not see her.”
“But you know whom I mean?” persisted Lady Gwendolyn.
“I know nothing,” was the evasive reply. “I was not present at your
interview, and had no reason to suppose there was any one in the house
who would dare to make such a charge against me. As I said before, I
do not pretend to be a saint, but I have never wronged or deceived a
living woman.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of
herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend
and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.”
“What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously.
“Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not
care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded
wife, lest I should contaminate her.”
Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not
allowed her sneer to be perceptible--for she owed all her misery and
humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt
herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did
not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess,
assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite,
Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not
notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently.
Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel
Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured:
“If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now,
and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?”
She shook her head drearily.
“I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some
mystery between us--and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you
do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What
kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we
should do?”
“I should never mistrust my wife.”
“Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could
reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined
to throw it in my teeth?”
“You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.”
“I think you are a man,” she said.
“And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?”
“No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar,
but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all
that?”
“I do not see why you should be suspected.”
“It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm,
the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur
out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after
that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr.
Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men
would make excuses for me, perhaps--men do judge more mercifully than
my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill
chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live
and die alone.”
“On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a
defender.”
“Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly.
“And that was why you were silent yesterday?”
“No; I had a far different reason.”
“Will you not confide in me a little?” he pleaded.
“Why should I? In the first place, you do not treat me with confidence;
in the second, all I could say would never persuade you that it was not
I who had meetings in Turoy Wood with Mr. Belmont.”
“I do not see who else it could have been.”
“And the lady I met at Borton Hall--who else could she have been but
your wife?”
“She might have been any one.”
“So might Mr. Belmont’s friend.”
“I don’t know about that. You are the only lady in Turoy.”
“Now!” she said, with a significance that made Colonel Dacre ponder,
and wonder if he had been confused like the rest of the world.
After all, he could not prove that Lady Gwendolyn had been the only
person in the Grange that evening; and though the lady he had seen in
the wood with Mr. Belmont resembled the other in figure and style, he
remembered now that he had not seen her face, and had, therefore, no
right to judge her.
How could he have been so cruel as not even to have given her the
benefit of the doubt? And, after all, she might be innocent, poor
darling!
He pressed her to his bosom with a passion of tenderness, as he
murmured:
“Oh, my darling! You can never forgive me for having misjudged you so,
and yet I loved you like a madman all the while.”
There was such a blessed rest in the love he proffered; and she yearned
beyond words to gather it up to her heart. But believing him to be the
husband of another woman, it was her duty to put this comfort away from
her, and she dared not hesitate for conscience sake.
She withdrew one of his arms resolutely.
“You must try and get over your love,” she said, with evident effort;
and the utter desolation of her face would have touched a heart of
stone. “I will not take another woman’s just place.”
“Heaven forbid that I should be base enough to ask such a thing of you!”
“You are asking it now.”
“You would trust a madwoman rather than me?” he said reproachfully.
“I am afraid I must. The madwoman had nothing to gain by deceiving me,
and you have.”
“You forget that what I had gained by fraud I should not be able to
keep. If I were a married man there are people in the world who must
know about it. It is rare that a woman is entirely without family and
protectors, and can be kept out of sight without somebody requiring to
know what has become of her.”
“True,” Lady Gwendolyn replied; “but one has heard of such things.”
“In novels.”
“In real life, too. One rarely takes up a newspaper without hearing of
some mysterious disappearance.”
“That argument is rather in my favor than otherwise, Gwendolyn. If my
wife had disappeared suddenly you would have seen something about it
in the newspapers, according to your own showing, and there would have
been every effort made to discover her whereabouts, or the manner of
her death, if she were dead. Besides, it is only natural to suppose
that in the early days I should have taken my wife to Borton, and
introduced her to my neighbors. You do not marry a woman on purpose to
shut her up; that would be an afterthought.”
“You could have gone abroad, and from there announced her death.”
“Possibly; but you may depend it is better to have a skeleton in your
cupboard, rather than a living creature. One tells no tales, and the
other might get one into some very unpleasant scrapes. Come, Gwen,
do not be so unbelieving. I swear by all that is most sacred I have
no wife. Even if I had wished to conceal this fact from the world in
general I should certainly have confided in your brother, and you may
be sure he would not have allowed me to visit at his house under false
pretenses.”
“But, of course, you would not have confided in him if you had wished
to keep your marriage a secret.”
“Gwendolyn,” he said passionately, “you will wear me out. If you would
only trust me as I trust you. I love you so dearly, my sweetest.”
The strong arms enfolded her lovingly, the tawny mustache swept her
cheek. For one brief moment she yielded to his caress, her lips
thrilling under his, then she wrenched herself away from him, and fled.
CHAPTER X.
A FACE AT THE WINDOW.
Colonel Dacre waited for half an hour, hoping Lady Gwendolyn would
return; but when the time passed, and there was still no sign of her,
he concluded that she did not want to see him again that morning,
and went back to his hotel. All day long he expected that she would
send him a little note, telling him when he might call again; but his
patience was not rewarded. The hours dragged wearily, but they passed,
bringing the cool, sweet eventide, when the tired flowers went to sleep
under their sheltering leaves, and even the busy bees were abed.
“She will send or come now,” he said to himself, believing that
the lady of his love had too much independence of spirit to regard
conventionalities; he sat at the open window, waiting still, and still
in vain.
When the clock struck eight he decided that she intended him to seek
her, and went over to the Grange. Old Hannah answered his impatient
knock, and, in reply to his question, said, quietly, that Lady
Gwendolyn was gone.
“Gone!” echoed Colonel Dacre. “I am sure she could not have left
without my seeing her.”
“I don’t know whether you saw her or not, sir,” continued the woman,
with perfect civility. “But she really is gone.”
“She did not leave any letter for me, then?”
“Not as I know, sir; but perhaps you would like to step into the
drawing-room and see?”
Colonel Dacre accepted this offer eagerly.
Old Hannah stood at the door, and watched him as he turned over the
books, and even looked into the vases on the mantelpiece, coming back
to her, at last, with a very disappointed air.
“Perhaps Lady Gwendolyn has written by the post,” he said. “I hardly
think she would have left Turoy without giving me notice.”
“Why?” said the woman calmly.
This was a straightforward question, undoubtedly, and only required
a straightforward answer; but the Sphinx’s riddle could hardly have
puzzled Colonel Dacre more.
He had to ponder a long time before he answered.
“Well,” he said, at last, “I have had the honor of knowing her ladyship
for some time.”
“Oh!”
“And I am one of her brother’s best friends.”
“Humph!”
“And--and----”
Here he stopped short. Old Hannah’s responses were so short and
unsympathetic that they checked his fluency.
“Is there anything more you want, sir?” inquired old Hannah, with
exasperating tranquillity; “because, if not, me and my husband would be
glad to go to bed. We aren’t accustomed to late hours, like fashionable
folks.”
Colonel Dacre slipped a couple of half-crown pieces into her hand.
“Put those under your pillow, to make you sleep,” he said.
Old Hannah turned them over two or three times, and then handed them
back, resolutely and reluctantly.
“I don’t care for money I haven’t earned,” she said. “When people seek
to bribe you, you’re an idiot if you don’t guess what they mean. You
want to know where my mistress is gone, and you fancy I can tell you;
but I can’t, and, if I could, I wouldn’t. I don’t need instructing just
when to hold my tongue.”
Colonel Dacre looked baffled and annoyed, although he felt that the
woman was right.
“It’s a pity you make so much mystery about Lady Gwendolyn’s
movements,” he said. “Secrecy always excites suspicion.”
“I have never knew the person yet who ever dared to suspect my
mistress,” she answered proudly. “Anyhow, nobody can tell what they
don’t know. Her ladyship left about five o’clock this evening, and it
warn’t my place to ask where she was going. If it had been necessary
for me to know, she would have told me, of course.”
“What orders did she give about forwarding her letters, then?”
“None, sir. My husband did venture to ask her that question, but she
told him she did not expect any.”
Colonel Dacre began to understand, at last, that Lady Gwendolyn was
fleeing from a temptation she could not resist, and an expression of
triumph darkened his handsome eyes. When he found her he would command
rather than plead, for she belonged to him by right of their mutual
love.
He was so absorbed in this thought that he quite forgot where he was,
until old Hannah inquired, tartly, if he was going to stay all night,
when he apologized with a pleasant laugh and said, as he proffered the
two half-crowns again:
“You may accept them with a clear conscience now, for you have fairly
earned them. I would give twenty pounds myself gladly for an hour of
good, honest, tranquil sleep, such as I have deprived you of.”
“La! sir,” said old Hannah; “then why don’t you go home and go to bed
at once?”
“Because it would be of no use. I should only turn and toss about until
morning.”
“How funny! I never turn until I turn out of bed. Perhaps you’ve got
something on your mind, sir. There was Joshua Billing, in our village,
who murdered his wife; he was that miserable he couldn’t lay of nights,
and got up and hanged hisself at last, leaving a letter to say that his
wife haunted him, so he couldn’t abide his life.”
“Anyhow, I haven’t murdered my wife,” said Colonel Dacre, in spite of
himself. “The fact is, I haven’t a wife to murder.”
“Ah! poor gentleman, that accounts for your looking so bad!” returned
Hannah, who had the fullest faith in matrimony. “My husband would be a
dreadful poor creature without me.”
“I see, I must get married at once,” observed Colonel Dacre, as he
stepped out into the twilight, feeling, as old Hannah expressed it, a
very poor creature, indeed, without this woman who had grown to be the
light and savor of his life.
He asked discreet questions at the railway station, but the one
solitary porter declared that no lady had come there that day.
“In fact, sir,” he said, pocketing Colonel Dacre’s half-crown, as if
such munificence staggered him, “we have no ladies, as a rule. Our
station was made principally for market fellows and farmers. When we
haven’t no passengers we signal, and the train doesn’t stop.”
“How often have they stopped here to-day?”
“Twice, sir.”
“And were there many passengers on these two occasions?”
“There was one lady for the twelve-o’clock express, and that was all.”
“What was this lady like?”
“Rather stout, sir. Judging by the flour on her face, I should say she
was a miller’s daughter; judging by her dress, I should say she was a
duchess.”
“How did she come?”
“In Lady Lenox’s wagonette.”
“Oh!” said Colonel Dacre, and took a ticket for the next station.
“It’s the late parliamentary, sir,” observed the porter; “but perhaps
you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I am not going far.”
“You’ll find Bearstead a very out-of-the-way place, sir,” pursued the
porter warningly. “There’s only one hotel, and that’s not at all the
style of thing for a gentleman like you.”
“You need not be anxious about me, I sha’n’t remain all night. Is that
the train now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Just as it drew up along the platform, a lady in black, deeply veiled,
stepped hurriedly into the station, and said something to the porter in
a low voice, no doubt slipping a small coin into his hand at the same
time, for he began to bestir himself at once.
Colonel Dacre was standing close to him when he labeled the lady’s
boxes, and found that she was going to Preston, like himself.
As he was not in the mood for conversation, and knew no woman could
possibly keep quiet for three mortal hours, he decided to get into a
smoking-carriage.
He thought he had taken his precautions, and was congratulating himself
upon his forethought, when the porter threw open the door of the very
carriage in which he had ensconced himself, saying, civilly:
“Now, ma’am, if you please.”
“But this is a smoking-carriage, porter,” interrupted Colonel Dacre.
“All right, sir; that’s what the lady wants,” he answered, somewhat
disenchanted, but still deferential, as he handed her in, and put her
bag and dressing-case in the seat beside her.
“I hope I don’t inconvenience you,” the lady began, then stopped short,
and held out her hand. “Why, Lawrence, it is actually you! What an
unmitigated piece of good luck!”
And she threw up her veil, and showed the handsome but bold features of
Mrs. O’Hara.
Colonel Dacre had always felt kindly toward Mrs. O’Hara, in spite of
her many faults and indiscretions, and, indeed, during her married life
she had been exceedingly popular in the regiment, on account of her
unaffected good nature. Colonel Dacre remembered what she had been, and
forgot what she was, so that he always found a cordial greeting for her
when they came together. Their hands met in a warm grasp.
“You can’t think how glad I am to have some one to talk to,” she said,
her eyes suddenly clouding with tears. “You have heard of my poor
brother’s sad death?”
“To tell you the truth, Norah, I never knew you had a brother.”
“No; well, it was no use telling everybody,” she answered, with some
embarrassment. “He did not go on quite as one could have wished, and of
course it would have annoyed Jack to have George talked about as his
brother-in-law.”
“But after your husband’s death?”
“Then it would have looked odd, surely, to have suddenly announced that
I had a brother, as nobody had ever heard of him before.”
“You know, Norah, I always think honesty the best policy.”
“I started with the same notion, but I found out it did not do,”
returned Mrs. O’Hara sadly. “All the women are against me now, because
they say I am so gushing that I talk about the first thing that comes
into my head, and so lead men away from their wives.”
“Yes; I have heard you accused of that, certainly,” interrupted Colonel
Dacre, remembering the accusation Lady Gwendolyn had made. “There was
Percy Gray, for instance.”
Mrs. O’Hara blushed vividly.
“As you say that honesty is the best policy, I will admit I did behave
rather unwisely there. The fact was, Lady Maria brought what happened
entirely on herself. Percy Gray hadn’t the faintest idea of falling in
love with me, until she put it into his head; but--would you believe
it?--when he was going to Norway fishing, she accused him of intending
to elope with me. The consequence was that he couldn’t bear Lady Maria
to tell a falsehood, and he came off at once and asked me to put her in
the right.”
“And what did you do?”
“Ask Percy,” she returned dryly. “You know they used to say in the
regiment that Norah O’Hara liked a piece of fun as well as anybody; but
she’d make you remember it if you went an inch too far. And, to do them
justice, our boys were all gentlemen.”
“Nevertheless, you weren’t always wise, Norah. I used to wonder often
that Jack stood it.”
“We understood each other so well,” she answered, her eyes clouding
again. “I can honestly declare that I never had even a thought that
wasn’t true to him from the first to the last day of our married life.”
There was a minute’s silence, and then she added tearfully:
“I wish you would tell me how it really happened, Lawrence. Lady Lenox
was so very ambiguous and mysterious, and though she means to save
me pain, I dare say, I always prefer to know the truth. She hinted
something about Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur, and another gentleman being
jealous of poor George; but I could not make anything of her story, and
she would not explain.”
“Look here, Norah,” he answered, with grave impressiveness. “Your
brother is dead, and nothing can call him back now. Take my advice,
and do not seek to know anything more, since it would only add to your
distress.”
“Not if I could avenge him?”
“That would be a terrible task for a woman.”
“Not at all. I should like it. Indeed, if I could find out that my
brother had met with foul play, I would hunt his murderer down, even if
he were the best friend I had ever had.”
“The game is not worth the candle, Norah.”
“I think so, at any rate, and am going to Preston on purpose to consult
a very clever lawyer there, whom Lady Lenox recommended to me. Poor
George left me all he had, so that I shall be able to pursue the
matter, if Mr. Barnard advises me to do so.”
“And supposing you were to help destroy an innocent person?”
“No fear of that. I am not quite a stupid, Lawrence. And to show you I
am not, I may just say that I don’t believe Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur had
anything whatever to do with my poor brother’s death.”
Colonel Dacre could hardly restrain himself from seizing her hand,
and covering it with kisses, by way of showing his gratitude for this
speech.
“I don’t fancy he even knew her,” pursued Mrs. O’Hara decidedly. “But
listen to me, Lawrence, beware always of a cold-blooded coquette.
You have been lecturing me for my bad behavior, but I can assure you
that I am as harmless as a dove in comparison with a woman like that.
A cold-blooded coquette only cares for herself, and after having
encouraged a man for her amusement, dismisses him with a sneer the
moment his passion becomes dangerous, inconvenient, or stands in the
way of a new conquest. Whereas, I am such a poor, foolish thing, that I
always grow quite fond of a man who has been spooning me a week or two,
and cry when I bid him good-by.”
“I honestly believe you are not half as bad as you seem,” returned
Colonel Dacre, with a faint smile. “But tell me, Norah--you know it
will not go any further--have you the least reason for suspecting any
one of having caused your brother’s death?”
“If so, I have no right to speak of my suspicion,” she replied, with
a reticence that surprised him; it was so entirely foreign to her
character. “Come and see me at the ‘Langham’ a week hence, and I may be
able to tell you something. But here we are at Preston.”
He helped her down, and they were standing rather close together, her
hand in his as he bade her good-by, and expressed his hope that she
would apply to him if she required any assistance, when a veiled face
bent eagerly out of the window in the full light of a lamp. A gust of
wind lifted the gauze just as the train began to move, and the woman
drew back hastily; but not before Colonel Dacre had recognized Lady
Gwendolyn.
CHAPTER XI.
“WHAT’S IN A NAME?”
Colonel Dacre dropped Mrs. O’Hara’s hand as if it had stung him, and
darted forward mechanically, as if to catch up to the train; but his
companion’s frightened exclamation restored him to himself.
“For mercy’s sake be careful!” she called out, grasping his arm. “If
you have left anything in the train you can telegraph.”
He stared at her blankly, and answered in a confused sort of way:
“I am afraid it is no use telegraphing, for I have no idea where to
find her.”
“Where to find whom?”
“Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur.”
“She wasn’t in our train, surely?”
“I didn’t know she was, certainly; but I caught a glimpse of her face
as it moved off.”
“But wasn’t it odd she did not speak to you, Lawrence? I fancied you
were near neighbors at Borton, and very intimate.”
“Exactly,” he replied, in a vague way. “I saw Lady Gwendolyn this
morning; but she did not tell me she was leaving Turoy.”
“Perhaps it was a sudden caprice,” replied Mrs. O’Hara carelessly. “But
do you intend to stay in Preston to-night, Lawrence?”
“No; I am going on, I think; but, really, I have decided nothing yet. I
had better see about your cab, had I not? You are going to a hotel, I
presume?”
“Yes; to the ‘George.’ I shall see you a week hence in town, shall I
not?”
“If I am alive,” he answered emphatically. “I am quite as anxious as
you are to solve this terrible mystery.”
They had reached the end of the platform, and were quite alone for the
minute. Mrs. O’Hara turned and faced him.
“Will you answer me one question, Lawrence?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he replied, flushing slightly.
“Are you in love with Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur? You know you may trust
me, for I am one of those people who seem very frank, and yet never
let out a secret. As I am not supposed to have any I am never even
questioned, so that I am really as safe a confidante as it is possible
for any one to have.”
“But I don’t need a confidante, Norah.”
“Nonsense,” she said decidedly. “There’s no comfort like talking over
one’s troubles to a friend. I declare, when I got into the train this
evening, I felt as if my heart were breaking, and now everything seems
more bearable. I must tell you that I had a hint a little while ago
that you were fond of Lady Gwendolyn, and what I have seen to-night
confirms it, so you may as well tell me the truth.”
“Well,” he said, at last, diffidently but proudly, “I do love Gwendolyn
St. Maur with all my heart.”
“Then I hope you may win her, if she is worthy of you,” said Mrs.
O’Hara, with a cordial smile. “I know she does not like me, and thinks
me a very dangerous woman; but then I am the _bête noir_ of all Lady
Maur’s friends.”
“Then do try and be more prudent for the future, Norah. You know people
always argue that there is no smoke without fire.”
“People aren’t always to be trusted, Colonel Dacre,” she said, with
affected formality. “One has heard of reports that were entirely false.”
“In that case, you almost invariably find that it had its origin in
some imprudence.”
“Oh!” she answered loftily, “you may put me down for hundreds of those.
I never could, would, or should be prudent; it is not in my nature.”
“Then can’t you change your nature, Norah?”
“No; I hate being perfect, and I can’t bear being bored; and if you
lecture me any more, Lawrence, I’ll say something spiteful about Lady
Gwendolyn: that she paints her cheeks--you know she has a lovely
bloom--or dyes her hair--nobody believes in hair nowadays--or anything
disagreeable I can think of at the moment; for I want comforting, not
scolding, to-night--I do, indeed; and what is the use of a friend if he
fails you in your need?”
“My dear Norah, I can assure you I meant to be sympathetic.”
“You ought to be,” she answered, with a dry sob. “I should feel for you
if you had lost the only person in the world who really cared for you.”
“You are not quite so unfortunate as that, Norah. You know I have a
sincere affection for you, for poor Jack’s sake, and your own as well.
The best proof of that is my candor; for if I did not look upon you as
a friend, I should not dare to give you good advice.”
“Never mind,” she said, holding out to him the hand with which she had
just dashed away her tears. “I couldn’t be angry with you, if I would,
for the sake of old times. I hope you will be happy, Lawrence, with all
my heart, though your marriage with Lady Gwendolyn will rob me of a
friend.”
She stepped into the cab, and, as he waved a last greeting, he little
thought how and when they should meet again.
The next six days were passed he hardly knew how. He wandered from
station to station on the Great Northern line trying to obtain some
trace of Lady Gwendolyn; but without the least success. On the whole,
he might as well have looked for a needle in a haystack; but the
constant movement did him good, and kept him from absolute despair.
It seemed to him that the very force of his longing must bring them
together at last. And so, perhaps, it did; but not as he had pictured
and hoped.
It was the seventh day after his parting from Lady Gwendolyn, and,
mindful of his appointment with Mrs. O’Hara, Colonel Dacre slept in
town overnight, and proceeded to the “Langham” at eleven o’clock the
next morning. After making due inquiries, he found that the widow was
not there, neither had the manager any letter from her.
As that was the case, he left the hotel, saying he would call again
later; and in the evening he presented himself again. This time he
obtained more satisfaction. A young lady had just arrived, who had
given this name, one of the waiters told him, and had a sitting-room
and bedroom adjoining, on the first floor, Nos. 5 and 6.
With the aid of an obliging and comely chambermaid, Colonel Dacre found
himself at No. 5 presently, and tapping lightly with his knuckles on
the door, received a soft summons to enter. It was nearly dusk now, and
he could not see very plainly, still it struck him that the outline
of Mrs. O’Hara’s figure had grown very slender in the past week to
anything he could remember it these last ten years. Nevertheless, he
said, with assurance:
“I was quite afraid I should miss you, after all, Norah. This is the
second time I have been to the ‘Langham’ to-day.”
“I am sorry you should be disappointed a second time also,” answered a
voice as cold as ice.
“Mrs. O’Hara?” said Colonel Dacre, half inquiringly, half
apologetically. “I am afraid I must have made some mistake.”
And he peered forward to obtain a glimpse of the face that was
purposely concealed from him. At this moment a hand touched his
shoulder from behind.
“Here I am, Lawrence. Have you been waiting long?”
“But surely there must be some mistake. They told me this was the room
Mrs. O’Hara had ordered.”
She turned to the waiter, who had followed her and was about to light
the gas.
“Didn’t you tell me this was the sitting-room Mrs. O’Hara had ordered?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But it is already occupied.”
He stared stupidly at the shrinking figure near the fireplace, and then
a bright idea seemed to strike him.
“Perhaps there’s two Mrs. O’Hara’s, ma’am.”
“I never thought of that; but it isn’t a common name,” replied the
widow, with suppressed impatience. “Go and inquire about it, will you?”
“Shall I light the gas first, ma’am?”
“Certainly,” interposed Colonel Dacre, for, although he had not
recognized the voice, it had left a strange feeling of expectancy
behind, and he longed to see the face to which it belonged. Mrs. O’Hara
was simply curious, while her namesake, seeing, no doubt, that escape
was impossible, faced her tormentors boldly, like a hunted animal
brought to bay.
Somehow, Colonel Dacre was not nearly so surprised as might have
been expected, when the sudden light displayed the stately head and
beautiful features of Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur. But he was surprised
when Mrs. O’Hara, waiting for the door to close upon the waiter,
advanced to the table, and said, in a tone of passionate repulsion:
“So it is you, my lady? I wonder you care to be here, although I do not
wonder at your sheltering yourself behind an honest name. You have said
many spiteful things of me in my time; but it has never been possible
to say of me, with truth, that I destroyed a poor soul who loved me
only too well.”
“I don’t understand you,” returned Lady Gwendolyn, with all the hauteur
of her race.
“No? Then I will endeavor to make myself intelligible. I have just
returned from Turoy.”
Lady Gwendolyn was all attention, but not by a movement of the eyelids
even did she show interest or apprehension.
“I went there in the company of my solicitor and of a clever detective,
whom he always employs when he has any difficult business on hand.
The result was to leave us without the least moral doubt that my
unfortunate brother came to his death through you.”
A sudden flash brightened Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes, but she answered
quietly:
“Pray go on. I suppose you are prepared to prove what you have just
stated?”
“Not yet,” Mrs. O’Hara admitted; “but we are fast collecting evidence.”
“Isn’t it a pity to warn me?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with quiet
scorn. “By the time you have collected your evidence I may have made my
escape, you know, since ‘forewarned is forearmed.’”
Mrs. O’Hara looked startled. She had never thought of that. Lady
Gwendolyn smiled to herself as she walked up to the mantelpiece and
rang the bell.
The waiter came hurrying back, and began, directly he entered the room:
“There are two Mrs. O’Hara’s, ma’am. I thought there must be. The other
lady’s rooms are twenty-seven and twenty-eight.”
“Then pray show her there,” interrupted Lady Gwendolyn, turning her
back coolly upon the above-mentioned lady.
As to Colonel Dacre, she had never once vouchsafed him so much as a
glance. It was sufficient for her that he had come to the “Langham”
to meet Mrs. O’Hara, and sanctioned the other’s accusations by his
silence. When the room was, as she believed, clear, she flung herself
into the nearest chair, with the passionate, indignant air of a woman
who feels that she has been insulted as well as injured.
She had no idea Colonel Dacre had remained in the room until he touched
her arm, half-deprecatingly, and said:
“Gwendolyn, I want to speak to you.”
She turned upon him almost fiercely then.
“You can have nothing to say that I should care to listen to, Colonel
Dacre. You came here to meet Mrs. O’Hara, and therefore I should be
extremely sorry to keep you from her.”
“As you know, Mrs. O’Hara and myself are old friends,” he answered
quietly. “And when she asked me to meet her here upon business, I had
no excuse for declining, especially as I was much interested in Mr.
Belmont’s fate on her account. All this past week I have been searching
for you most anxiously, and have had no satisfaction excepting a
passing glimpse of your face at Preston station.”
“When you were escorting Mrs. O’Hara somewhere, and flirting with her
publicly,” put in Lady Gwendolyn.
“I was simply bidding her good-by when you saw me, and that is a
ceremony which may very well take place in public.”
“Under ordinary circumstances.”
“The circumstances were by no means extraordinary in our case,
Gwendolyn. I met her by chance; we traveled together for a couple of
hours; what more natural and commonplace? I have known Mrs. O’Hara for
the last ten years, her husband was the best friend I ever had in the
world. Would you have had me treat her like a stranger?”
“I have no right to dictate to you,” she answered coldly.
“Indeed, you have every right, Gwendolyn, since I have asked you to be
my wife.”
“You forget that I declined the honor.”
“I did not understand you so. You coquetted with my impatience as women
are fond of doing, and finally left me in suspense; but you never
absolutely refused me.”
“Then I will repair my omission. I beg to thank you for the honor
you have done me in asking me to be your wife,” she said, with great
formality; “but I have no wish to marry, and have not the confidence in
or affection for you that would induce me to change my resolution.”
Although there was a certain insolence in her manner most men would
have resented bitterly under the circumstances, he felt too sorry for
her, and for himself, to resent what she said. She was casting away
not only her happiness, but her safety, and he knew why. In his heart
he felt sure that Lady Gwendolyn would have accepted him but for his
unfortunate rendezvous with Mrs. O’Hara. He forgot that “trifles light
as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy
writ”; and she had seen him at Preston station making, as would seem, a
very public display of his regard for the handsome widow.
And Lady Gwendolyn was one of those women who would forgive a blow
better than she would forgive the least shadow of unfaithfulness. It
was useless to make excuses, Colonel Dacre knew, for she would believe
her own eyes better than his words; but he could not help saying,
deprecatingly:
“I have done nothing to forfeit your confidence, Lady Gwendolyn; but if
you do not like me, you are right to deny me. I had hoped different,
for--for”--his voice breaking--“I have loved you very dearly. How much,
you may, perhaps, know one of these days. I seem to have nothing to
hope for in the world now, and yet I do not wish to leave it; because,
dreary as my life must needs be, it may still be brightened over in a
way by a glimpse of your face.”
“I should be sorry to think you would have no brightness beyond that,”
she answered coldly. “But I am sure Mrs. O’Hara will take good care of
you in every way.”
“Has it not occurred to you that Mrs. O’Hara and myself may never meet
again after to-day?”
“Of course it has not,” she said. “There is nothing to prevent your
spending the rest of your lives together.”
“Pardon me, there is one insurmountable impediment.”
She turned and looked at him with a sort of suppressed eagerness in her
eyes; but she was too proud to question him outright. However, he saw
that she wished him to tell her, and went on:
“The thing that stands in the way of such a consummation, and makes
it impossible, is the disinclination on each side. Norah O’Hara, as
I told you once before, could never be anything to me but my friend’s
widow, and I could never be anything to her but her husband’s friend.
I would go a long way to serve her, for the sake of old times; but as
to marrying her----However, I ought not to speak in this way,” he added
quickly. “Assuredly Mrs. O’Hara would not marry me if I wished it ever
so much.”
“How do you know that?”
In spite of the confidence with which he had spoken this question
staggered him. It had never occurred to him as possible that Mrs.
O’Hara could care for him otherwise than he had said, and yet the
suggestion made him uneasy. No man was ever less of a coxcomb, but he
was not a fool, either, and this hint had opened his eyes. He began to
recall things Mrs. O’Hara had said and done, her evident animus against
Lady Gwendolyn, and a sudden, painful instinct of the truth began to
dawn upon him.
A scarlet flush mounted to his brows, and he lowered his head under
Lady Gwendolyn’s searching glance. He was so chivalrous naturally that
it pained him to think Mrs. O’Hara had betrayed her secret, since this
must needs be such a deep humiliation to a proud spirit like hers.
Finding he did not answer, Lady Gwendolyn repeated: “How do you know
that?” as if she were determined to have an answer.
“One can’t always give a reason for the faith that is in one,” he
returned evasively. “Anyhow, supposing what you say were true, I could
not help Mrs. O’Hara’s feelings.”
“Unless you had encouraged them.”
“I have never considered it possible for any encouragement of this
sort to come from a man. It is your privilege solely, and it would be
horribly conceited of us to usurp it.”
“I do not see why a man should not be allowed to show that he
appreciates the favor shown him if he really does so.”
“That is a different thing to giving encouragement, as you call it. I
like Mrs. O’Hara for old association’s sake; we have always been upon
very cordial terms since her marriage to my friend; but as to anything
else, I declare on my honor it has never so much as entered my head.”
“If it had, it is no affair of mine, Colonel Dacre,” she answered
frigidly. “Mrs. O’Hara is lucky in having a friend, for she certainly
needs somebody to give her good advice. It is not either usual or safe
to make accusations you cannot prove. If she does me the honor of being
jealous of me, and wishes to drive me out of England, she has gone the
wrong way to work, for I mean to take a house in London, and live as
much en evidence as possible. If Mrs. O’Hara or any one else can prove
that I ever spoke to Mr. Belmont in my life, let them do so; but I
think they must commence by this. One does not become terribly in love,
frightfully jealous, and murderously angry with a perfect stranger, you
know.”
“If Mrs. O’Hara finds that you and her brother were perfect strangers,
she will withdraw her accusation, of course. And, meanwhile, being
false, it need not trouble you.”
“It does not trouble me in the least,” she answered defiantly. “Only
give your friend Mrs. O’Hara this word of warning from me: every
scandalous word I can trace to her I will make her prove, or she shall
take the consequences.”
“I shall not probably see her again, Gwendolyn. From the moment she is
your enemy she has ceased to be my friend.”
A rosy flash, such as you see in the clouds at sunset, passed over the
girl’s beautiful face. She half extended her hand, then drew it back,
saying, with forced composure:
“I have no right to separate you two. Indeed, it would be cruel if I
did, since you and I can never be anything more to each other than we
are now.”
“Gwendolyn, you will drive me mad! I follow you about like a dog, and
get nothing but harsh usage in return. Can’t you teach yourself to be
merciful?”
“I must try first to be just.”
“A fig for justice! Who cares to even hear the name?” he cried
vehemently. “A woman is never just unless she is supremely indifferent
to the person she has to judge, and anything is better than that. I
want you for myself, child, don’t you hear?”
He drew closer, and would have taken her hand; but remembering how
foolishly weak she had been at their last interview, she took refuge on
the other side of the table before she would even parley with him. Then
she spoke out loudly and clearly:
“I don’t wish to appear harsh, Colonel Dacre. I have a certain duty to
perform, and I stand so entirely alone nowadays that I am obliged to
take a very independent tone; but I would not give you unnecessary pain
for the world. Indeed, I am very grateful to you for believing in me a
little; but you know I have another reason, besides the one I gave just
now, for refusing to be your wife. If you could explain satisfactorily
about the lady I saw at Borton, and this cruel slander had been
silenced, then----”
“Finish your sentence, Gwendolyn.”
“Then I might, perhaps, marry you; but you see, at present, it is out
of the question.”
“That I deny. I see no just cause or impediment why we should not be
married to-morrow, supposing both of us were willing.”
“But as we are not both of us willing, there is no use in discussing
the question any longer. I am so tired. It seems to me I would give
everything I am likely to possess in this world for a few hours of
oblivion and rest.”
And her face looked strangely haggard and troubled in the strong, white
light of the chandelier.
“Only that you are such a will-o’-the-wisp,” he said complainingly. “If
I let you go now, I shall never see you again.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, with a faint smile. “I begin to
have a feeling as if I could not escape you if I would.”
“Then why try?” he asked softly.
“Because I can’t help myself,” she answered, with a blush; and then
she added desperately: “You must leave me now; I cannot stand any
more--indeed I cannot.”
“Will you promise to see me to-morrow, Gwendolyn?”
“I cannot promise anything, for I am too broken down to realize the
sense of what I am saying. I will see you if I can, although these
interviews only harass us both, and do us no good. Still, since you
wish it, I will try to satisfy you, although I feel to-night as if I
must be going to have a serious illness.”
Her glittering eyes, white cheeks, and feverish lips showed that there
really was something wrong with her; and Colonel Dacre looked at her
anxiously.
“You have done too much,” he said. “If I leave you, will you promise to
go straight to bed?”
“Yes, that I will, thankfully. Good night.”
The table was not between them now, somehow, and, before she had time
to resist, he caught her in his arms, and kissed her lips and eyes in
a mad passion of love. Then, without waiting for her reproaches, he
hurried from the room.
That night he stayed at the “Langham,” unknown to either Lady Gwendolyn
or Mrs. O’Hara. His mind disturbed by the events of the day, he found
it impossible to sleep, and yet he knew he should be useless all day
unless he could get some rest for his aching brain. Finally it occurred
to him that his traveling-flask was full of fine old cognac, and that,
as physical exhaustion, as well as mental worry, had something to do
with his wakefulness, some stimulant might help him through.
He therefore mixed himself a pretty strong dose--about twice the
quantity he would have taken ordinarily--and then lay down again, his
nerves wonderfully soothed, and a pleasant languor stilling the riot of
his irritable pulse.
His last conscious act was to glance at the clock, and say to himself:
“I must not sleep for more than three hours, at the longest.”
And he fancied--but that must have been the beginning of a grotesque
dream--that the clock winked at him, as much as to express, derisively:
“We shall see.”
CHAPTER XII.
A WILL-O’-THE-WISP.
Colonel Dacre thought it very wrong to swear, and always denied himself
this relief upon principle; but this morning, when he opened his eyes
full upon the clock, which had a jeering, jaunty way of pointing at
nine, he certainly did feel as if an occasional indulgence this time
must be a pardonable offense.
He sprang out of bed, and rang at once for the waiter. He was about to
put some questions to him, when the man handed him a couple of letters,
saying:
“I was told to give you them directly you woke, sir. Is there anything
you want, sir?”
“Only have my breakfast ready in half an hour,” answered Colonel Dacre,
with assumed indifference; and the moment the man had closed the door,
he tore open the letter that lay uppermost in his hand.
It was from Lady Gwendolyn, and ran thus:
“DEAR COLONEL DACRE: _La nuit porte conseil_, you say, and the result
is that I think it far better we should not meet. Pardon me if I have
given you pain by this decision. One of these days you will thank me
for having had the courage to deny you. I must mean to do what is
right, for I cannot help telling you that this is the greatest sorrow
of my life.
“GWENDOLYN ST. MAUR.”
The second was from Mrs. O’Hara, and was quite as expressive in its way.
“DEAR LAWRENCE: I see that you take Lady Gwendolyn’s part: her false,
fatal beauty has glamoured you, poor soul! I must needs forgive
you, for the sake of old times; but I should only worry you with my
friendship, now that you have learned what it is to love, so that I
may as well get out of your way quietly. If you ever want to see me
again, I dare say you will be able to find me; but, in any case, I
have too deep and affectionate a recollection of ‘auld lang syne’ to
subscribe myself anything but
Your sincere friend,
“NORAH O’HARA.”
“I have lost my friend and sweetheart both, by lying too late,” said
Colonel Dacre to himself, with a dreary sigh; for he was not dolt
enough even to inquire if the two ladies were still at the “Langham.”
Colonel Dacre smashed the clock before he went down to breakfast, and
only smiled grimly when he saw that five pounds was charged for the
damage in his bill.
On second thoughts, he stayed where he was that day because it was no
use going anywhere else. He was utterly discouraged now. The strength
of Lady Gwendolyn’s will frightened him.
He had fancied that all women were weak and yielding, and here was one
who made a resolution, and kept it, as he believed, for duty’s sake,
although her heart was pulling her the opposite way.
It was quite a revelation, and somehow made him respect all women more
for her sake. He wished now he had held her fast when she was in his
power, and made her marry him right off.
Lord Teignmouth had forfeited all claim to be consulted, and, though
Gwendolyn hesitated and argued now, he had a notion she would not have
been sorry to have had the decision taken out of her hands.
“Gwendolyn is just the kind of woman to admire a man who conquers
her,” Colonel Dacre said to himself. “But the least hesitation or
weakness of purpose would spoil all. She must see in me only the master
who commands--not the lover who pleads--or she will writhe out of my
grasp, somehow, even at the altar rails. Oh! if I had only been wiser,
and more understanding, how happy I might be now!”
He determined to show Lady Gwendolyn that he had some fertility of
resource, and as strong a will as her own, the next time they met; and
with this view he went off to Doctors’ Commons, and bought a special
license. Then, all things being fair in love and war, and the position
being very hopeless under its present aspect, he descended to a ruse,
which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been unpardonable.
He put an advertisement in several of the daily papers, so worded that
only Gwendolyn could understand it, and stating himself to be in such a
condition, both mentally and physically, that if, knowing all, she did
not come to him at once, his death would be on her conscience.
And then he waited.
“You will find me at the hotel where we parted yesterday,” he had said;
and, therefore, we may be sure he did not quit his rooms for a second.
He sent for newspapers and books; but he was far too restless to read.
With his face glued to the window-pane, he watched eagerly every
carriage that drew up to the entrance.
He had suffered breakfast and luncheon to go away untasted; but when
dinner was placed on the table, he felt so strange that it occurred to
him he must be suffering from inanition, and he poured himself out a
glass of sherry, and emptied it at a draft. It felt like liquid fire,
and stung his throat; but the effect was magical.
His sluggish pulses quickened, the blood in his veins seemed to dance
vivaciously to the air of the delicious waltz he had last danced with
Lady Gwendolyn.
The air was so full of her sweet presence he persuaded himself she must
be coming, and began to eat eagerly. He would need all his strength
to-night, and could not afford to waste a single chance. But his
appetite was not as large as his aspirations. He got half-way through
his soup valiantly enough, then a sudden feeling of nausea came over
him, and he pushed away his plate, and rose from the table, resuming
his former place at the window.
It was growing dark now, but he could still distinguish the passers-by;
and when a lady alighted presently from a cab at the door, his heart
gave a great bound and thrill.
For her figure was slender and graceful, like Lady Gwendolyn’s; and she
gathered her skirts over her arm in a way he remembered well. But the
light of the lamp over the door fell full on her face as she turned to
pay the driver his fare, and then he gave a lamenting sigh.
The lady was not half as handsome as Gwendolyn; but she was nearly
twice her age, to make up. After awhile it became so dark that he had
to retire from his post of observation, and then he passed the time
watching the door. Of course, he expected her every minute, and, of
course, she did not come.
Colonel Dacre became in a perfect fever of expectancy and apprehension
as the night advanced; and as he still found it impossible to sleep, he
naturally felt exhausted and faint.
Only that Gwendolyn might come while he was away, and then, of course,
she would find out his ruse, and then there would be an end to his
wooing.
The only chance for him was to be on the spot at the supreme moment,
and take her by storm. So he stayed at home, and when his sensations
became unbearable, he tried his remedy of the night before, and then
stumbled into bed.
CHAPTER XIII.
DOCTOR MAY’S PATIENT.
Colonel Dacre would never forget that night of torture. The fever
seemed to increase every hour, until the very pillows felt as if they
were burning hot, and he stepped out of his tumbled bed, at last, and
threw himself on the floor. The only comfort he had was in repeating to
himself again and again: “She will come to-day--she will come to-day!”
But the day passed, somehow, and there was no sign of Lady Gwendolyn.
When the evening came round again he felt badly enough to alarm him a
little, and he made the waiter fetch him a doctor. The pompous medico
looked very grave when he had felt Colonel Dacre’s pulse.
“Why, really, my dear sir, you must have been excessively imprudent!”
he said. “Where did you get your cold?”
Lawrence answered him by another question.
“Have I a cold, then?”
“Aye, and with a vengeance. I doubt if you will be able to leave your
bed for another fortnight.”
Colonel Dacre uttered a cry of dismay.
“Nonsense, doctor, it can’t be as bad as that. Do oblige me by sitting
down, and in ten minutes I shall be able to prove to you that I am
already on the high way to recovery.”
The doctor smiled. If his patient did talk a little nonsense, it was
natural enough. With such a pulse nothing better could be expected of
him.
“Or rather say you will be shortly, if you keep quiet,” he said, with
the diplomatic air of a man who is accustomed to humor sick people’s
fancies.
“Well, but what is the matter with me? I would rather know the truth,
if you please.”
“You have inflammation of the lungs, and as you have evidently no
constitutional weakness of the chest, you must have been terribly
reckless to get yourself in such a state as this.”
“I am not conscious of having misconducted myself as you suggest,” he
answered dryly. “People are unaccountably ill sometimes, surely.”
“There must be a cause.”
“That’s begging the question,” said Colonel Dacre, ashamed to find
himself so irritable. “You must really excuse me, doctor, but my nerves
feel so jarred, it would be quite a pleasure to me to make myself
disagreeable.”
“Do, by all means, if it would be any relief to you,” returned the
other cheerfully. “But I ought to tell you that I fear you are on the
brink of a very serious illness, and that it would be better for you to
get into a quieter place while you can be moved.”
“But I am very comfortable here, doctor.”
“For the moment; but you will need more quiet than you can get at an
hotel, however well-conducted it may be. You will be obliged to have a
nurse----”
“Never!” he cried emphatically. “Sairey Gamp has always been my
bugbear!”
“So she has mine,” was the reply. “And, therefore, all the nurses
I recommend are comparatively young, and are always bright and
pleasant-looking.”
“And do they have a bottle of gin on the mantelpiece to put their lips
to when so disposed?”
“My nurses are teetotalers; all they expect in the way of stimulant is
plenty of strong tea, and I don’t imagine you would grudge them that.”
“Not if they drink it elsewhere; but I don’t want coddling, doctor. I
shall be all right again in a day or two, no doubt.”
The other shook his head.
“I don’t want to be a Job’s comforter, but I can’t say I see much
chance of that. Anyhow, if you will stay at this hotel you had better
move into quieter rooms on an upper landing. You cannot surely object
to that?”
Colonel Dacre made this concession readily enough, and as Doctor May
found he was likely to be rather an intractable patient, he gave the
necessary orders at once.
In another hour Colonel Dacre found himself in new quarters high up at
the back of the house, where it was cooler and quieter both.
He was given over to a chambermaid now, and welcomed the amendment,
for her step was lighter, her service more gentle. She even showed
a certain interest in his state, and wanted to know if he hadn’t
a mother, or a wife, or any one to take care of him, sighing
sympathetically when he declared himself to be alone in the world.
Colonel Dacre thought the matter over very exhaustively that evening.
Doctor May, who paid him a visit at about nine, had given him an opiate
which soothed his nerves, and kept him quiet, although it did not make
him sleep, and therefore he had plenty of time for reflection.
Strange to say, his head was singularly clear all that night, but
toward morning he found his mind wandering off, and was very angry with
himself, persisting in thinking it must be his own fault.
When Doctor May called in the morning, Colonel Dacre evidently looked
upon his visit as an intrusion, but was careful to be distantly polite.
“I have a vague recollection of having seen you before,” he said; “but
my memory is so bad I cannot recall your name.”
“I am Doctor May; you sent for me yesterday, you know,” answered the
other quietly. “I am afraid you are not feeling so well.”
“Nothing much the matter--all right to-morrow,” he muttered hoarsely.
And then he added, in a confidential tone: “Will you do something for
me?”
“Willingly, if I can.”
“Let them show her up directly she comes. She is peculiarly sensitive,
I must tell you, and the least delay--you understand?”
“I understand,” repeated Doctor May, smiling reassuringly into his
haggard eyes. “You wish her to be brought up-stairs directly she
arrives?”
Colonel Dacre, usually one of the most reserved men in England, seized
his hand, and pressed it warmly. Then, straightening himself as he lay,
he said with the graceful courtesy of a man of the world:
“I shall hope to see you at my wedding, doctor----”
“May,” put in the other.
“Doctor May. It will take place by special license to-morrow at twelve.
I can’t remember where at this moment, but that is immaterial. However,
I have a word for your private ear.” Doctor May bent his head close to
the other’s lips. “She is the sweetest woman in England; but she has
one little defect--come closer if you please--she--she----”
Doctor May looked at him compassionately as he sank back on his pillow,
muttering incoherently, for he greatly feared that in spite of his iron
frame, he would not be able to pull his patient through, and it seemed
hard he should die in his prime, and die solitary and alone.
CHAPTER XIV.
MY LOVE--MY LIFE.
When Doctor May left Colonel Dacre’s room, after having given certain
orders to the comely chambermaid, he sought and obtained an interview
with the manager of the hotel. To him he represented Colonel Dacre’s
state, asking him if he could conscientiously guarantee his having the
attention and quiet upon which his life would probably depend?
Monsieur Bause answered readily that the season being over, and the
hotel comparatively empty, Colonel Dacre could have as much attention
as if he were in his own home.
“Only the maid servants now sleep on the landing to which he has been
moved,” pursued Monsieur Bause. “When we are full we use some of those
rooms for bachelors; but there is no fear of our being put to such a
necessity in August.”
“Are you quite sure? Pardon me for persisting, Monsieur Bause; but, you
see, I feel Colonel Dacre to be doubly dependent upon me, as he appears
to have no friends to share my responsibility. It would be a risk to
move him now, perhaps; but later on it would be certain death.”
“I assure you, doctor, you need not be anxious on your patient’s
account. I will watch over him myself, and see that all your orders are
strictly carried out.”
And he looked so trustworthy, and capable of so much, as if he could
have managed a dozen sick-rooms and his hotel at the same time. Doctor
May could not help saying:
“If you promise me that, I am sure it will be all right.”
“You will have a nurse for the gentleman, doctor, I presume?”
“Most certainly. I am going off at once to see about one, and will
endeavor to get her here in a few hours. Meanwhile, the young woman
who has been waiting upon Colonel Dacre will be able to do what is
necessary, and I shall be in and out several times.”
“The gentleman is very ill, I suppose, sir?”
“Very ill, indeed. I doubt if I can pull him through; and shall call in
Doctor Forbes to consult with me, unless there is a marked improvement
to-morrow morning.”
While this conversation was going on below, a stealthy figure stole
up-stairs to the room Doctor May had just quitted, and paused at
the door, listening. As all was quiet within, the woman entered
noiselessly, and went up to the sick man’s bed. He lay apparently
asleep; and who shall describe the haggard, passionate face of the
woman as she knelt beside him, and bent down until her golden hair
mingled with his tawny mustache.
“My darling!” she murmured at his ear, “I know all this is my fault;
but only get better--only get better--and we will give the world the
go-by, and be happy our own way. If only I were your wife, that I
might stay by you now! I am sure you would be well at once! and oh! my
dearest, I want you so badly, and I have only you.”
It seemed as if these tender words penetrated to the very heart of his
sleep, for he stirred slightly, and muttered a name in a yearning voice.
A light came over the woman’s face, and she smiled faintly, but
sweetly, as she bent lower still, until her lips brushed Colonel
Dacre’s feverish cheek. Then, as if scared by her own boldness, she
rose quickly to her feet, and with one backward look toward the bed,
darted to the door and disappeared, running straight into the arms of
Mary, the chambermaid.
“What were you doing in that room?” inquired Mary, in a tone of just
severity. “It’s no use me having my orders, and being responsible for
carrying them out, if you are to interfere.”
A vivid blush mounted into the other’s beautiful face, but she
answered, quite humbly:
“I wanted to see him so much. You won’t tell of me, will you?”
“Well,” answered Mary uncompromisingly, “if the doctor asks me I can’t
lie, you know.”
“He will be sure not; why should he? And I have done no harm. Have you
nobody you care for very much?”
It was Mary’s turn to blush now.
“That’s neither here nor there,” she said. “Your duty is your duty, and
the doctor told me to keep the poor gentleman perfectly quiet.”
“I assure you I haven’t disturbed him in the least. Look in, and you
will find he is still fast asleep.”
She pushed a sovereign into Mary’s hand as she spoke, and the glitter
of gold seemed to alter the girl’s views and feelings. Her eyes and
voice became charmingly sympathetic.
“Ah! I see,” she said; “you are going to be married to the poor
gentleman. I’ll let you in as often as I can manage it, but I am afraid
the nurse will be a tougher customer. However, I’ll do my best, miss.”
“Thank you,” answered the lady softly. “I should be very grateful, and
you will not repent your kindness.”
This time Mary dropped a curtsey. She began to see that the other was a
perfect lady.
“If you would tell me your room, miss, I would bring you down news of
the poor gentleman every three hours or so. As I am to wait upon the
nurse I shall know exactly how he is going on.”
“Thank you; I should be very glad. I am just below, the first room on
the right as you go down.”
“And what name, if you please?”
There was a slight hesitation, and then the answer came loud and clear.
“Miss Mordaunt. And Mary----” hesitatingly.
“Yes, miss.”
“If he should be hopelessly bad, you will call me, will you not? Even
if it should be the middle of the night, come to me all the same. I
should die of a broken heart if I were not to see him at the last.”
“I promise I will call you, miss; but let’s hope for better things,”
she added encouragingly. “He looks like a strong gentleman, and I don’t
suppose there’s any call to spare expense.”
This she said to find out Colonel Dacre’s means, and Miss Mordaunt’s
reply was very satisfactory.
“Not the least in the world! He is a rich man, and there is no reason
why he should not have everything in the world he wants.”
“I am glad of that, poor gentleman! I’m sure I would do anything for
him whether he had money or not, he is so kind and pleasant-spoken;
but, then, in an hotel, they have to be particular, and Monsieur Bause
is only manager, and is responsible to the company, you see.”
“Nobody could blame him for being particular,” answered Miss Mordaunt;
“but, in this case, he has nothing to fear.”
“Oh! no, miss, I am sure he hasn’t,” replied Mary, with confidence.
“And the poor gentleman will be done justice by, for Monsieur Bause has
already locked up all his money and rings, for fear of accidents. Not
that he is afraid of our taking them,” she added quickly; “but, you
see, in a large house like this there are so many people in and out.”
“Exactly! and it is better to be too careful than not careful enough,”
said Miss Mordaunt, casting a very wistful glance toward the door of
the sick-room, as she prepared to depart. “You will come down and tell
me what the doctor thinks about Colonel Dacre this afternoon, Mary.”
“Certainly, miss; you may quite trust me. I shall be in and out
continually, even after the nurse comes.”
Miss Mordaunt went away then, very slowly and softly, like a person who
has a great trouble at heart, and, looking after her, until only the
tip of her aristocratic nose was visible, Mary said to herself:
“I shouldn’t wonder if she is a duchess in disguise. Anyhow, she is a
real, born lady, and knows how to behave, so I can’t do better than
serve her; and if the poor gentleman ever gets well, and he’s as fond
of her as she is of him, why, I dare say there will be something coming
in from both sides.”
Mary did not mean to be mercenary, and had good feeling in the main;
but she was going to be married as soon as her young man could save up
money enough to buy furniture, and so every sixpence she could earn
became a precious acquisition.
The nurse arrived about four o’clock, and Miss Mordaunt, who had been
sitting with her door ajar all the afternoon, examined her anxiously
as she went past. She had a firm face, but a bright and sympathetic
expression; and there was something in her upright carriage that
inspired confidence irresistibly.
Miss Mordaunt shut the door when the other had passed, and sank into a
chair, letting her nerveless hands drop to her side.
“Thank Heaven!” she murmured, “at least he will have every chance.”
The next few days were days of indescribable misery and suspense to the
anxious watcher in No. 56.
Colonel Dacre lay between life and death, and the doctor came out of
the sick-room always with a terribly grave face. But for a little
compromise she had made with Mary, Miss Mordaunt would have fallen ill
herself with worry.
The nurse had four hours’ rest during the day, and directly she was
safely shut into her room, the girl ran down to fetch Miss Mordaunt,
and allowed her to take her place at Colonel Dacre’s bedside. It was
such a comfort to be doing something. Only those who have had to stand
by helpless, when those they loved were sick and suffering, will
understand the poor girl’s thankfulness for Mary’s concession.
The chambermaid would have got into sad disgrace if she had been found
out; but she was willing to run the risk, as Miss Mordaunt’s gratitude
took a substantial form, and, moreover, she was really interested in
the lovers.
On one of these occasions Miss Mordaunt had a serious fright. She had
scarcely settled herself in the sick-room, and was just measuring out
the medicine that Mary had been charged to give the sick man at this
time, when she heard Doctor May’s step and voice on the landing below.
He was evidently talking to Monsieur Bause, and must have forgotten
something, as he had paid his usual midday visit before the nurse had
gone to lie down.
The color mounted in a flood to the girl’s delicate face, and her
heart beat like a sledge-hammer against her side. A discovery of
this sort would necessitate all kinds of painful explanations and
humiliating confessions, and she did not know how far Doctor May was
to be trusted. But while she stood hesitating, panting, confused, Mary
suddenly appeared on the scene, whisked the glass out of her hand,
pushed her toward the closet, and, closing the door upon her, locked it
softly. There was not even room to stand upright, but Miss Mordaunt was
too thankful for her deliverance to take heed of such a trifle.
She crouched down in the easiest position she could find, and listened
with all her ears.
“Where is nurse?” inquired Doctor May, as he entered.
“It is nurse’s time for lying down, sir,” answered Mary, in a voice
that trembled slightly as from hurry or surprise. “But if you have any
orders, sir----”
“I had forgotten to tell her that I did not wish Colonel Dacre to have
any more of the medicine I sent yesterday; I will let her have a new
bottle in half an hour, and she is to give him a dose of that directly
it arrives.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Be sure you don’t make any mistake; or, stop, I’ll take the other
bottle away with me, and then it is sure to be all right.”
He made for the cupboard, recollecting that the medicine, etc., was
kept on a shelf there, but Mary nervously interposed.
“I know which it is, sir, quite well, and will empty it directly, so
that you needn’t trouble to take it away.”
Doctor May was a man of quick penetration, and Mary’s manner seemed to
him so suspicious that, although he would have been quite satisfied
with her arrangement under ordinary circumstances, he resolved now to
investigate the matter for himself.
Moving her aside, he placed his hand on the key of the door to turn it,
when Mary, thinking she had done all that had been expected of her,
vanished from the scene, leaving Miss Mordaunt to bear the brunt of her
own imprudence, and explain things as best she could.
Miss Mordaunt knew that detection was inevitable, and would have
been equal to the position even now if she had only been on her
feet; but what was to become of her dignity while she crawled out
of the cupboard? She felt that it was impossible to overcome such a
disadvantage, so that when Doctor May threw open the door, and, looking
full into her eyes, said softly, but imperiously: “Come out,” she gave
all attention to her ankles, and left her dignity to take care of
itself.
When she had lifted herself up, and was facing him, Doctor May looked
at her with unconcealed astonishment. Although her hair and dress were
disordered, and her face crimson, it was impossible to take her for
anything but a gentlewoman, and if he had expected to find anybody it
was a slim young waiter whom he had caught once in earnest conversation
with Mary on the stairs.
A minute’s silence, and then Miss Mordaunt said quietly:
“I suppose I ought to explain, unless--unless you have already guessed.”
“I think I have,” answered Doctor May, with a smile. “But I am sorry
you did not confide in me at once, as I would have made it possible for
you to see him without hiding in the cupboard. Are you staying in this
hotel?”
“Yes,” she replied, with some reluctance.
“What is the number of your room?”
“Fifty-six.”
“And your name?”
“Is it necessary to catechize so closely, Doctor May?”
“Well, the last question was superfluous, certainly, for I knew you
directly I saw you.”
“Knew me?” she repeated, the color mounting once more into her face,
and her lips trembling. “Oh! surely not!”
“Why should you mind? As a professional man, I am nothing if I am not
discreet. What is more, I respect and admire a lady of position who
casts aside conventionalities, and dares, for once, to listen to her
heart.”
“But the world would be very cruel if it knew all.”
“Perhaps. I really don’t know anything about your world. But need it
know all? You can surely remain, Miss Mordaunt, for the present.”
“If you have recognized me, another might.”
“Then take care ‘another’ doesn’t see you. With ordinary precaution,
you need not excite attention. I presume that you have been in the
habit of taking Mary’s place from the beginning?”
“Ever since Colonel Dacre was insensible.”
“Exactly. Then the girl, being in your confidence, will help you, of
course.”
“And the nurse?”
“Oh! I can easily manage her; she is not the kind of woman to be
astonished at anything. I shall simply tell her that the lady to whom
Colonel Dacre is going to be married is staying in the hotel, and would
like to see him sometimes; and you will find you have only to present
yourself at the door to obtain ready admittance.”
“Thank you very much, Doctor May; only that if it would excite Colonel
Dacre to see me----”
“All the while he remains in his present state nothing can excite
him,” replied Doctor May. “Directly I see a change for better or worse
I will let you know.”
“You are very kind. I am glad now that you know all about it.”
And she held out her hand with pretty impulsiveness. He lifted it
respectfully to his lips, and then he let it fall with a sigh, and
found himself envying Colonel Dacre. It was worth while even to be
“sick unto death” for such a woman’s love.
CHAPTER XV.
A JOYFUL AWAKENING.
As we said before, only those who have watched by the sick-bed of one
they love better than themselves can picture the next few days.
Doctor May had made the nurse understand that “Miss Mordaunt” had
a right to be with Colonel Dacre, and the two watched every night
together, expecting every hour to be the last. Miss Mordaunt was worn
to a shadow with these anxious nights, for she did not even rest in the
daytime, like her companion. How could she sleep through these precious
minutes, which might be the only comfort in the future--a memory that
would be more to her than any living love?
For she had sworn to be Colonel Dacre’s widow if she was never to be
his wife. Colonel Dacre had been ten days unconscious, and hovering so
close on the edge of the “valley of the shadow,” that sometimes they
thought he had gone for good, and could never creep back into the light
again. But he had a strong constitution, and fought every inch of the
ground resolutely.
At last Doctor May said:
“There will be a crisis to-night. I see a great change coming on, but
whether for good or evil, I cannot tell as yet, since the rally before
death often deceives us for the moment.”
“Couldn’t you remain with us?” inquired Miss Mordaunt wistfully. “I
don’t mean sit up, for I know you oughtn’t to do that; but if you
were sleeping in one of these rooms close to us, it would be a great
comfort; and we need not call you unless it is absolutely necessary.”
There is not much men will not do for a beautiful woman who knows how
to manage them, and Doctor May had long since lost the power of denying
Colonel Dacre’s fiancée. He had promised himself elsewhere, but that
did not weigh with him for a moment. He had been dreaming wild dreams
of late. Hearts were caught in the rebound, and if anything happened to
his patient, why should not he take his place?
Of course there was a great disparity between them, socially speaking;
but he knew cases in which this had been ignored, and Miss Mordaunt did
not appear the kind of person to stop at anything when she loved. He
was ashamed of himself, but he could not help the thought. It is the
fate of women who are so wondrously fair to make all the men who come
in contact with them either dolts or knaves.
He turned to her with a faint smile.
“I will certainly remain if it is any comfort to you. I will go at once
and see a few of my most pressing cases, and then return.”
“I can never thank you enough,” she murmured. “It will be such a great
relief to feel that you are near.”
By ten o’clock Doctor May had come back, and they had settled in the
sick-room for the night. Doctor May had refused to lie down, and
insisted upon keeping them company, the truth being that he was too
much interested in the denouement to feel as if he could sleep.
There was a slight restlessness in Colonel Dacre’s manner, but he still
remained unconscious; and Miss Mordaunt sat beside his pillow, with her
anxious, beautiful eyes fixed persistently on his white face. On the
opposite side Doctor May watched, too--not the patient, but her--while
nurse, relieved from all responsibility, dozed comfortably.
At last the sick man’s eyelids began to tremble, and Miss Mordaunt held
her very breath for eagerness. Finally he opened his eyes full upon
her, and said, languidly but without surprise:
“Are you here, Gwen?”
“Hush!” she answered, with a thankfulness far too deep for outward
expression. “You must not talk; must he, Doctor May?”
Doctor May was as pale as the sick man, as he lifted his head to answer:
“Certainly not. The best thing for Colonel Dacre now is sleep. Give him
a few spoonfuls of beef tea, and then keep him as quiet as you can. As
I am not wanted any more, I’ll go and lie down.”
The girl looked radiant, and there were tears of gratitude in her dark
eyes.
“I can’t talk about things to-night,” she followed him to the door
to say; “but if ever there should be any way in which I could serve
you----”
“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered, with peculiar gravity; “you
have paid me the greatest compliment in your power by trusting me with
your secret.”
“Oh! I wasn’t the least afraid.”
“Thank you for saying so. I shall never, of course, breathe a word of
all that has happened lately.”
“I know that. But how did you guess my name, Doctor May?”
“You forget that your portrait is in almost every print-shop in London,
Lady Gwendolyn.”
“True; it is very impertinent of people, but my brother said it could
not be helped.”
“I shall hear of your marriage soon, I suppose?” he ventured to say,
emboldened by her gracious manner; “and, believe me, Lady Gwendolyn,
no one will pray for your happiness more earnestly than I.”
“I am sure of that,” she replied, holding her hand to him with a rosy
blush. “But I do not know yet anything about my marriage. You see, my
brother is away, and--there are certain little difficulties. But I am
so happy to-night, I can only look on the bright side; and I feel as
if things must come right. See, Doctor May, Colonel Dacre is already
asleep. Oh!”--with a sudden, frightened glance at her companion--“is it
sleep? He looks so terribly like death! Do come and see!”
She drew him forward with nervous haste, and watched him, with her
heart in her eyes, as he bent over the sick man and felt his pulse.
“It is all right--but he will look like this for awhile--he is so
terribly pulled down. However, he will get on now, I believe. Try and
get a little sleep yourself, Lady Gwendolyn, for you need it sadly,
too.”
“I am too happy to be tired,” she said confidently. Nevertheless, when
Doctor May was gone, and there was silence in the sick-room, she began
to feel drowsy, and presently she was locked in slumber as soft as it
was light.
When once Colonel Dacre had taken a turn for the better he mended
very fast. But then he was so patient and good, and took his medicine
without so much as a wry face. He wanted to get well quickly, for his
special license was ready, and he had a notion that Lady Gwendolyn
could hardly deny him now. But not a word did he say on the subject,
for fear of scaring her away; and she just drifted along with the tide,
hardly caring where it landed her, so that it was close to Lawrence
Dacre.
One afternoon she had gone out to do some commission, and as she was
stepping out of the shop, she found herself suddenly face to face with
her sister-in-law, Lady Teignmouth. Pauline held out her hand with an
embarrassed smile.
“I declare, it is you, Gwen! What are you doing in town at such a
dreadful time of the year?”
“You forget that I might contaminate you,” answered Lady Gwendolyn,
refusing the proffered hand, and standing up very straight. “It is a
great pity you spoke to me, Pauline, because I know how careful you are
never to conceal the slightest thing from my brother, and he will be
very angry.”
Pauline laughed--the hollow, artificial laugh that always grated upon
Lady Gwendolyn’s nerves.
“Don’t be so very absurd! No woman, with a grain of sense, makes a
confidant of her husband. Besides, Reggie is quite coming round, Gwen;
he is, indeed!”
“Very kind of him, I am sure,” replied her sister-in-law, with a bitter
smile. “Do you know, I feel quite grateful.”
Lady Teignmouth walked along at her side, and lowered her voice to say:
“I dare say you do feel annoyed about it all; but it really was best he
should take it as he did, and I have been a perfect model of discretion
ever since. Reggie and I get on charmingly nowadays; and just think
what a scandal it would have created, supposing we had separated!”
CHAPTER XVI.
GWEN AND PAULINE.
“I see you are not changed, Pauline,” said Lady Gwendolyn; “it was
always self with you, and always will be. My sufferings are nothing so
long as you run no risk!”
“Oh! but you are not suffering, I am sure,” answered Lady Teignmouth.
“You are looking exceedingly well, and handsome, and the whole affair
has blown over so comfortably, there’s no reason why you should not
resume your proper position in society. I am afraid Reggie won’t let me
chaperon you--at least, just yet; but there is Mrs. O’Hara. She is not
particular.”
“Possibly; but I am,” returned Lady Gwendolyn, with angry hauteur; “so
particular, indeed, that, if Reggie were willing I should go out with
you, I should decline the doubtful honor!”
“You are very severe, my dear,” said Lady Teignmouth uneasily; “and
yet, I ought not to be annoyed with you, since, in the eyes of the
world, I have certainly the best of it!”
“You would be sure to take care of that! But, really, Pauline, you are
forgetting that you are a ‘model of discretion,’ nowadays.”
“How?”
“Why, is it prudent to be seen walking with me? If we were to meet any
one we knew----”
“But I told you the whole affair had blown over. We should not have
returned to England if it had not been for that.”
Lady Gwendolyn turned upon her almost fiercely:
“Then cross the Channel, both of you, as quickly as you can, for you
have urged me so far between you that now I don’t care what I do, and I
mean to be happy my own way for a few months, even if the whole world
follows your and Reggie’s example, and hunts me down afterward. Do you
understand? Reggie has cast me off at your bidding, therefore I feel
independent of you all.”
“But you won’t do anything dreadful, Gwen?” pleaded Lady Teignmouth.
“I am sure Reggie will come round in time, and we shall be comfortable
together again.”
“Comfortable together again!” repeated the girl, with an accent of
withering scorn. “Fancy my being comfortable with you, or staying under
your roof! I really don’t think I am ever likely to fall quite so low
as that.”
Lady Teignmouth colored up, and her eyes flashed; but she dared not
show resentment. She was in her sister-in-law’s power to a certain
extent, for if Lady Gwendolyn chose to insist upon an explanation with
Reginald, and laid the facts of the case clearly before him, it was
doubtful whether she might not convince the earl of her own innocence
and of his wife’s guilt. And then all her pretty scheming would have
been worse than useless, since it would only aggravate the original
offense in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes.
Consequently Pauline had need to be humble and conciliatory. Her voice
was honey-sweet as she said:
“Of course, that must be as you feel, Gwen; but I know it would add
greatly to my happiness to have the affair pleasantly settled. I was
only saying to Reggie yesterday that Teignmouth would be unendurable
without you.”
“You are going to Teignmouth, then?”
“For a little while. Reggie has invited a houseful of people. It will
be a dreadful bore having to entertain them all by myself, and you
were always so nice and popular, dear; but it can’t be helped, of
course--it is the penalty I must pay for my own imprudence.”
“And deceit,” interposed Lady Gwendolyn sternly.
“One was the natural consequence of the other; if I had not been
imprudent I should not have had anything to conceal. I am quite aware
of my own faults, and really sorry for them; but it would be a dreadful
thing to break up Reggie’s house. And then the scandal and misery to
him, poor fellow!”
“I am glad you can feel for him--at last,” retorted Lady Gwendolyn.
“I presume that my troubles are of no consequence, although they were
brought about entirely by your sin.”
“I can’t do more than express my penitence and regret,” answered Lady
Teignmouth rather sulkily.
“Well, I suppose it is too late for anything else now,” admitted Lady
Gwendolyn contemptuously. “Fortunately, however, I am learning to do
without you both. If any harm comes to me, it is a comfort to know that
the sin will be at your door.”
“Oh! but no harm will come to you, Gwen, of course. You will marry
happily----”
“And then I shall be off your mind, sha’n’t I? But, really, I am
wasting my time awfully,” she added abruptly. And, hailing a passing
cab, she jumped into it, and, with a careless nod to Pauline, she drew
her veil over her face, and leaned back out of sight.
After all, perhaps, although Lady Teignmouth had the best of it in some
ways, she might not have been sorry to change with Lady Gwendolyn.
When her cab stopped at the Langham, Lady Gwendolyn got out, and walked
up and down for awhile, afraid to enter.
For she had promised to go to Colonel Dacre’s room directly she
returned, and she knew that the keen eyes of love would immediately
find out her trouble. She could not have borne the most tender
questioning just then, and so she lingered until her face was composed,
and she could trust her voice and eyes.
Then she went slowly up-stairs, and knocked at Colonel Dacre’s door.
He had left his sick-chamber for the first time, and was reclining
on a couch in a pleasant little sitting-room, which Lady Gwendolyn
had filled with fresh roses in the morning, that he might receive a
fragrant greeting on entering. He looked up languidly as she opened the
door; but his hollow eyes brightened at once when he saw who it was,
and he held out his thin hand with a smile.
“How long you have been gone, Gwen?”
And he patted the chair near him by way of inviting her to occupy it.
“Are you tired, dear?” he added suddenly, discovering that she was very
pale.
“No--that is to say, a little. How do you feel, Lawrence?”
“Delightfully frisky! as if I could jump over the moon. Do you know, I
shall be able to travel next week.”
Lady Gwendolyn shook her head.
“Nothing of the kind; don’t talk nonsense, Colonel Dacre. Doctor May
says you must not stir for a fortnight.”
“Of course; because he wants to keep me under his thumb as long as he
can. Doctor May is a capital fellow; but he must take care of himself.”
“And of you.”
“Pshaw! I polished off nearly a whole grouse for my dinner just now,
and I have walked several times across the room. I don’t mind being an
invalid for three or four days longer, but after that I mean to take
the law into my own hands.”
“Why are you in such a dreadful hurry to leave us?” she asked, with
some faint signs of pique.
“I am not going to leave you, Gwen. I am going to take you with me
wherever I go for the rest of my life.”
She colored up, and looked at him in a timid, frightened sort of way.
He put his hand gently over hers.
“I should be sorry to think you did not wish this, Gwen. But, whether
or no, it must be now.”
“Why?”
He kissed her hand almost reverentially before he answered:
“This is a cruelly scandalous world. Do you think I should have allowed
you to nurse and tend me with such noble devotion unless I had looked
upon you as my future wife?”
“I did no harm, surely.”
“On the contrary, you did an immense deal of good--to me. Only finish
your work by giving me the dear right to protect and defend you against
the whole world.”
“Shall I need a defender?” she asked, lowering her eyes.
“I hope not; but I flatter myself you will need me, anyhow. Haven’t you
discovered how well we suit each other, Gwen?”
“Perhaps. But, oh! Lawrence, tell me truth, I beseech you--and I will
trust you altogether now--is there anything that should or ought to
prevent our marriage?”
“Before Heaven, no!” he answered emphatically.
“I must believe you, in spite of my eyes and my reason, in spite of my
conscience, for I have only one hope in the world, one thought.”
Then she slipped off her seat, hid her head on his breast, and added,
in a shrinking whisper:
“If what you told me just now is an untruth, I forbid you to undeceive
me ever! You hear? My life is locked up in yours from henceforth; and
if the day should come,” she added, more faintly still, “that we ought
to part, why, then Heaven will be merciful, perhaps, and let us both
die instead.”
And then she writhed, white and shivering, out of his arms.
“Oh! Lawrence, I am afraid!”
“Afraid of what, my love?” he asked tenderly, enfolding her once more,
and kissing her lips with all a lover’s fire.
“I am afraid we shall not be allowed to be happy together long;
something will part us.”
“Only death, now, my dearest,” he answered back firmly. “Only death!”
CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT HOPE CAN DO.
“Don’t talk to me of tonics!” said Colonel Dacre, a week after his
engagement to Lady Gwendolyn. “I don’t believe in them at all. There
is a sovereign remedy for ‘all the ills that flesh is heir to’; but
it does not come within the doctors’ province, although they take the
credit of its cures.”
“What is that?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, smiling.
“Hope! When I roused from my long stupor that night, and looked
straight into your dear eyes, the love and pity there gave me courage
to live. Without that I should have fast drifted back into the shadow
again, and not tried to struggle against my terrible weakness. But you
forget, Gwen, that you have never told me how you heard of my illness.”
“One of the chambermaids was my first informant. She said there was a
gentleman ill in the hotel; and when I questioned her, she described
you so accurately that I knew at once whom it must be.”
“But where were you then?”
“Here,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, laughing.
“What! in the hotel? But I thought you wrote me that you had left.”
“I did leave for a few hours--just long enough to get my hair dyed
golden, and to put myself in deep mourning, when I returned as ‘Miss
Mordaunt.’”
“I wonder you weren’t recognized by the servants.”
“None of them had seen me at all plainly. I was very anxious they
should not, after my encounter with Mrs. O’Hara, as I did not know
what she might say, and so I took my precautions. Besides, the golden
hair does alter one a good deal.”
“I knew you at once, Gwen.”
“You looked into my eyes first.”
“Wherever my first glance had fallen it would have been the same thing,
Gwen. Indeed, if I had put out my hand in the darkness and touched you,
some subtle sense would have told me who it was.”
“‘By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.’”
quoted Lady Gwendolyn gaily. “I suppose that is the kind of warning you
would have found at your fingers’ ends, Lawrence.”
“I have done with warnings,” he answered more gravely. “They may be a
help to you when you don’t want to do a thing; but when you do want
they only make you wish for it more. The best way is to follow your
inclinations, so long as they are sufficiently moral, and let the rest
take care of itself.”
“I don’t know about being the best way; but it is the most pleasant.
What is the use of living, if one has to do nothing but struggle,” said
Lady Gwendolyn, who found drifting with the tide a happier state of
things than struggling against circumstances.
There was a minute’s silence, and then Colonel Dacre looked up from the
carpet, which he had been studying with great apparent interest, and
observed:
“To-day is Wednesday, is it not?”
“I believe so.”
“How long does it take to buy a dress, Gwen?”
“That depends upon the buyer. If you are fond of shopping it takes
several hours; if you dislike shopping as much as I do it only takes a
few minutes.”
“A few minutes! Come, that is delightful!” he said cheerily. “But,
then, it has to be made, I suppose?”
“Well, as a rule.”
“You are quizzing me, Gwen, I perceive. We always expose ourselves to
ridicule when we ask for information.”
“Of course, because you display your ignorance so conspicuously. But
tell me what makes you take an interest in these feminine matters,
Lawrence?”
“I was calculating that we might easily be married on Tuesday, my love.”
“Really, Lawrence!” she exclaimed, blushing furiously. “I thought you
had more common sense.”
“Well, but what need prevent it?”
“A hundred things.”
“Mention one or two.”
“I am not ready, for one thing.”
“You mean as far as clothes go? That is of no consequence, as you can
buy whatever you want afterward. You will naturally wish to consult my
taste, and, therefore, it will be very convenient to have me on the
spot to appeal to at every moment.”
“I should like to see your face of disgust under the infliction,” she
said, laughing nervously.
“You are quite welcome to the spectacle. But go on with your reasons,
Gwen; we have only had one so far, and you have still ninety-nine in
reserve.”
“It would look so odd.”
“My dear child, when you consider how many people do get married, such
an ordinary case as ours would not look odd, I assure you. Besides,
I thought we had both decided not to mind what people said. Not that
people will say anything that need afflict you. Lady Teignmouth is
known to be an impracticable person, and very jealous of your beauty;
so that when it is reported that neither she nor your brother was
present at your wedding, it will be laid to her. Lord Teignmouth and I
were always excellent friends; and though I am not a very grand person,
still, I do not think he would be supposed to object to the marriage.”
“Of course not. How could he?” said Lady Gwendolyn quickly. “I never
dreamed they would find any objection of that sort.”
“What, then?”
“I suppose they must accuse me of having behaved badly in some way to
account for Reggie’s desertion.”
“Not at all; they will think it is one of my lady’s caprices. She is
cordially disliked by her own sex, because she has a way of making
herself so extremely agreeable to their husbands.”
“Like your friend, Mrs. O’Hara,” put in Lady Gwendolyn maliciously.
“I don’t think the two women can be compared in any way. Norah is a
thoughtless flirt--Lady Teignmouth is a cold-blooded coquette.”
“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference, Lawrence?”
“I should be sorry to think so, Gwen, since a certain young lady, who
is beyond measure dear to my heart, was certainly a thoughtless flirt
in days not very long gone by.”
“I didn’t mean any harm,” said Gwendolyn, coloring.
“Exactly; nor did Nora. But Lady Teignmouth means a good deal of harm.
She has the most insatiable vanity of any woman I ever knew, and would
quite have enjoyed that affair at Turoy as a tribute to her charms, if
only it could have been proved that Mr. Belmont committed suicide in
despair.”
“Oh! then, you are convinced at last that Mr. Belmont was Lady
Teignmouth’s lover, and not mine.”
“Perfectly; for ‘putting that an’ that thegither,’ as the Scotch say,
I see the whole case clear before me. Lady Teignmouth meant to make a
fool of me--not because I was particularly desirable, but because she
looked upon all men as her legitimate prey. When she found that you
had saved her the trouble she felt very spiteful, and longed to make a
breach between us. I am convinced now that the person I saw at Preston
Station was Lady Teignmouth, although she did get into a third-class
carriage, and assumed a regular Northern burr on purpose to divert
my suspicions. She kept me to luncheon after she had given me your
address, because she did not want me to reach Turoy until she was ready
to receive me.”
“But I should have fancied you would have been in her way there.”
“No; because she wanted to kill two birds with one stone--get rid of
a lover whose ardor was growing troublesome and compromising, and
disenchant me. I must say that she is a consummate actress, and managed
things very cleverly.”
“Too cleverly, I think,” answered Lady Gwendolyn.
“But you will admit, dearest, that if you go in for that sort of thing
you may as well do it nicely.”
“In fact, if you are a rogue at all, you may as well be----”
“A good rogue,” put in Colonel Dacre, laughing.
“I don’t like your morality at all, Lawrence; it is much better to fail
in a bad trade.”
“Certainly; but, then, I did not know we were speaking morally. I was
discussing the question from a worldly point of view. But go on with
your reasons against our speedy marriage--there are still ninety eight
to account for.”
“I--I--think I am afraid of you, Lawrence,” answered Lady Gwendolyn,
looking down.
“Go on; that’s a reason with a reason, and, therefore, needs
explaining.”
“I can’t explain it. I know I oughtn’t to be; and that you are one of
those men who may be trusted; that I shall still keep your affection
even when my beauty is waning. Still, when I picture the long future
that may be before us, I get frightened.”
“Then you do not love me, Gwen. When I remember that we may have a long
future I thrill with joy--because we shall be together always--unless
death should part us. This is just what I have prayed and longed for,
and I found myself getting terribly depressed the other day because I
was twelve years older than you, and might have to leave you a little
while alone in the world.”
His accent and expression showed such deep sincerity, such a passion of
yearning love, that, although Lady Gwendolyn was rather chary of her
caresses as a rule, thinking she had already made too many concessions,
she bent down now, and laid her fresh, cool cheek against his hand.
“Don’t, darling,” he said diffidently. “You pain me.”
“Why not let me be a little humble, Lawrence? Balzac says that you can
never be sure you have really won a woman’s love until she is on her
knees before you.”
“I think I could bear to see you there if it had such a meaning.”
She slipped down, blushing, and looked up at him with such a divine
smile, such true love-light in her eyes, that he would have been less
than human if he had not strained her to his heart, while he murmured
again and again that he loved her better than life, next to honor, and
after God.
Still, when he released her, he said, with comical persistence:
“Now for the ninety-seventh, Gwen?”
“I am tired of giving you reasons, you dispose of them so summarily.”
“Because they are so flimsy, and unsubstantial. And, seriously,
darling, it is right we should be married at once. You stand quite
alone--you are beautiful enough to make other women your enemies by
simply unveiling your face. And you will surely be very lonely in
lodgings.”
“Am I to go into lodgings, then?”
“I am sorry to say you ought. There can be no excuse for your remaining
here, now that I am so much stronger.”
Lady Gwendolyn looked exceedingly grave.
“It seems very difficult to be single comfortably,” she said.
“Yes, there the world is good enough to help us poor lovers. Some of
you would hesitate half your life away if you did not occasionally feel
the need of masculine aid and intervention.”
“I wish I were strong-minded, then.”
“Thank goodness, you are not! Only in that case I should not be
pleading to you now, as there is nothing earthly of which I have a
greater horror than a woman who raves about her rights, and lectures
publicly on things she does not half understand.”
“When I lecture I’ll get you to coach me beforehand,” said Lady
Gwendolyn saucily. “Of course I should not like to be deprived of my
rights any more than the rest.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“I suppose I do. Let me see, I have a right to your entire affection.”
“Granted. What next?”
She hesitated a long time, and then laughed out gaily.
“I really don’t know. I expect if I had your entire affection there
would not be any need to make any minor claims, unless it were for
increased pin-money; and you have such ridiculous notions upon that
subject I am only afraid of being too rich.”
“Then we have settled that question. How about the other?”
“What other?” she asked innocently.
“Don’t be foolish, child. You seem to take a pleasure in tormenting me.”
Lady Gwendolyn hung down her head, and became as red as a rose. She
understood now.
“But I really don’t think there is any such great hurry, Lawrence,” she
said, still disposed to capitulate.
“And I really think I have sufficiently proved that there is something
to hurry about,” was the cool reply.
Her arguments failing to convince, Lady Gwendolyn took refuge in a
pout. This is a woman’s last refuge when she finds her position is
weak, and is a sure index of faltering resolution.
“You are very unreasonable, Lawrence, and abominably arbitrary. Because
you want a thing it must needs be done.”
“If the thing be right.”
“But your wishing it seems to make it right, in your own eyes,” she
answered petulantly.
“You are entirely mistaken there, Gwen. I love you so tenderly that
if I wished anything that would harm you in your reputation, your
self-respect, in any way, in fact, I would bite my tongue in twain
before I would advocate it by a single word. But you ought to marry
before people find out that you have been here with me. Don’t you
understand?”
“I thought nothing could be said, as this is a hotel----”
“I am not sure that does not aggravate the case, by rendering it more
conspicuous.”
“You turn and twist every argument I bring forward so as to make it
serve your cause,” she said resentfully. “It is no use my trying to
have an opinion of my own.”
“That is just what I am trying to persuade you, Gwen,” he said, drawing
her to him in spite of her struggles. “You shall have your own way as
much as is good for you after we are married; but now I want mine.
Don’t be so impracticable, darling,” he added, in his coaxing voice.
“You know what I demand is ‘just, expedient, and right.’”
“I know it is very tiresome to be hurried,” she said, by way of showing
that she had still a few objections in reserve.
“But you sha’n’t be hurried, dearest. Listen to my program. This
evening you will go to Mrs. Venable, in Park Lane.”
“How do you know she will receive me?”
“I have already asked her the question, and received a satisfactory
reply,” said Colonel Dacre quietly. “I never let the grass grow under
my feet when I have work to do that should be done quickly.”
“But what made you think of Mrs. Venable?”
“For two or three reasons. As your former governess I thought she would
be a suitable person. And then I knew you liked her, and would prefer
to be married from her house.”
“Then I should have to stay there a fortnight,” said Lady Gwendolyn,
with a little air of triumph, for she thought she was going to demolish
the gallant colonel’s program.
“Not at all. There is nothing to prevent our being married to-morrow,
if you like.”
“I thought you were obliged to remain a certain time in a place.”
“I have a special license, Gwen, and, moreover, we have both been more
than the required length of time in this parish.”
“Oh!” she said rather dubiously. “You have arranged everything, then?”
“Of course. Would you mind trying on your wedding-ring, to make sure it
fits?”
Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed, and her color rose. But when he stooped down
and kissed her, she suddenly laid her hand on his breast and burst into
tears.
“I begin to think you don’t love me a bit, Gwen,” he said, caressing
her tenderly; “or that you look upon me as a kind of ogre, who is not
to be trusted with a woman’s happiness.”
“You know it isn’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Marriage is a great change, and a great risk,” she stammered out at
last.
“Of course it is a change, dear love; but it cannot be any risk when
you have a man of honor to deal with, and know yourself to be truly
valued and beloved.”
“Yes,” she said desperately; “but I am afraid I shall often trouble
about that lady I saw at Borton Hall.”
Colonel Dacre changed color visibly.
“I thought you had promised me never to think about or mention her
again, Gwen? I do solemnly swear over again that no woman living,
excepting yourself, can ever say that I have asked her to be my wife. I
had a good many foolish fancies as a lad, but none of them went as far
as that.”
“Was she one of your foolish fancies?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn
hesitatingly.
“I don’t know whom you mean by she, but I can answer for it that my
‘foolish fancies’ are all married, and the mothers of families by this
time.”
“Then you haven’t had any lately?” she asked, with timid but anxious
earnestness.
“Not for the last ten years, on my word.”
“And the lady at Borton----” she persisted.
“Was a myth, or an impostor, and need not trouble you for a moment.”
“I thought you said she was probably a madwoman who had delusions?”
observed Lady Gwendolyn, who appeared to have stored up carefully the
lightest word her lover had spoken on the subject.
“Did I say that?” he returned, slightly embarrassed. “Well, it may
be so; and all the better if it were, as she would not be likely to
trouble you again.”
“Will she now, do you suppose?”
“No, my love; I’ll take care about that, when once you are in my
charge. Besides, you may be sure that if she is not right in her mind,
she has been put under confinement by this time.”
“It is to be hoped so, because--don’t be angry with me, Lawrence--but
if she were to claim you after we were married, I should not feel that
I ought to stay with you a minute longer.”
“Then the ravings of a maniac would drive you out of your home, even
after we had been all in all to each other; and you ought to have
learned to trust me.”
“I am afraid it would. To take another woman’s place would be such a
terrible wrong. Indeed, I don’t think I ought to marry you at all,
only--only I am so wicked, so horrible. I would rather be your wife a
little while than never at all. And you swear that you are free?”
“I swear it!” he answered solemnly and firmly.
“Then I won’t trouble about all these horrors any more. After all, any
man might be married secretly--who is to know? And you always must
trust to his word, mustn’t you? If I had never seen that woman at
Borton Hall, it would not have occurred to me to ask the question. I
should have made so sure it was all right.”
“And it is all right now, you foolish child. Do I look like a
malefactor and a scoundrel?”
“No; you look very nice,” Lady Gwendolyn admitted, with a blush.
“But not nice enough to be trusted, it seems. However, I’ll teach
you that later, my love; _en attendant_, you may as well fix our
wedding-day.”
“This day three months,” said Lady Gwendolyn demurely; “unless you
think that too soon.”
“You little witch! If you don’t take care I will insist upon its taking
place in three days!” retorted Colonel Dacre.
“But I am not obliged to obey.”
“Oh! I shall use coercive measures. But seriously, very seriously,
Gwen, you are paining me by all these objections. If you don’t love
me, leave me. Heaven knows I do not want an unwilling wife; but if you
pretend to care for me, act up to your profession. I have put you to
the test, and if you fail me, I shall get away out of the country as
fast as I can, and try and forget the woman who has spoiled my whole
life. I have made all my arrangements to leave England on Wednesday.
Will you come with me or not? I warn you fairly that I am not poor
spirited enough ever to give you another chance of fooling me. If once
I leave you behind, we shall never meet again on this side of the
grave.”
His decided tone startled Gwendolyn. She saw she had found a lover at
last who would not be played fast and loose with, and she began to
respect Colonel Dacre as much as she had loved him.
To have parted with him forever would have broken her heart outright,
and as she could only keep him one way, she must make the sacrifice he
demanded.
To do Lady Gwendolyn justice, she was not wont to give grudgingly when
she did give. So that having decided to accord what he asked, she made
the gift sweeter by the grace with which she gave. All his long life
Colonel Dacre would remember the smile that lighted up her blushing
face as she put her hand into his, and murmured:
“I will marry you when you like, Lawrence, and trust you whatever
betide.”
If Lady Gwendolyn had kept the second promise as she kept the first,
how much sorrow it would have saved them both.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A HAPPY BRIDE.
Mrs. Venable was a very kind, motherly woman, but there was one
inconvenience--in sojourning with a person who knew her antecedents so
well--her visitor found.
Colonel Dacre had just hinted at some misunderstanding between Lord
Teignmouth and Lady Gwendolyn, and allowed Mrs. Venable to lay it all
to the countess; but, of course, knowing how much attached the brother
and sister had once been, Mrs. Venable did feel a little curious as
to the cause of their breach, and tried hard to find it out without
actually putting the question.
Lady Gwendolyn got out of the traps laid for her gallantly, but she
began to think Mrs. Venable was playing into her lover’s hand. She
would not have put off her wedding-day now on any account.
Colonel Dacre was fully occupied in the intervening days. He had to
run down to Borton Hall to attend to some last arrangements there, and
this day seemed so terribly long to Lady Gwendolyn that it was quite
a revelation to her. It was wonderful happiness to remember that soon
they never need be parted, and she would belong altogether to him.
The wedding was to be a very quiet one. Under the circumstances this
was very desirable, and, fortunately, it chimed in with the tastes and
feelings of both the fiancés.
Lady Gwendolyn was to have two bridesmaids--for form’s sake--one, the
Honorable Beatrice Ponsonby, a tried and true friend, of whom Colonel
Dacre approved cordially; and the other, Mrs. Venable’s daughter, a
pretty child of six years old. The ceremony was to take place at ten
o’clock. After that they were to breakfast quietly in Park Lane, then
catch the one-o’clock train for Dover, and cross over to Calais at
night.
Colonel Dacre had made arrangements to remain abroad until the spring,
and then they would return home, and, after spending about a month in
town, take up their residence at Borton Hall. This was the program they
had drawn up between them, and, unless anything unforeseen should occur
to disturb it, it promised exceedingly well.
There was no reason why they should keep away from Borton. Lady
Gwendolyn was not ashamed to face her brother or his wife, and Colonel
Dacre looked forward to vindicating his darling, and claiming for her
the respect and homage that were her due.
If Lady Teignmouth had dared to traduce her--let her beware. He was
not bound to spare Reginald, although they had once been friends. His
wife’s honor would always be far dearer to him than aught else besides.
On Tuesday evening Colonel Dacre dined in Park Lane, and was gratified
to find that Mrs. Venable had the tact to leave the drawing-room for
them after dessert.
“My husband likes to have me while he is smoking his cigar, as he is
away all day,” was the apology she made, as she took her departure, and
the lovers could not help laughing happily in each other’s faces, it
seemed so very unnecessary.
Colonel Dacre possessed himself of half Lady Gwendolyn’s couch, and did
not seem to notice that it was a tight fit for two.
“Well, my darling,” he said, as he drew her head down on to his
breast; “you don’t ask me if everything is ready.”
“With a person of your promptitude and energy such a question is
superfluous,” she returned, smiling up at him from the safe shelter
which would be hers by divine right on the morrow.
“I suppose you are dreadfully miserable?” he said softly.
“Dreadfully,” she answered, longing to torment him a little, and yet
feeling as if she could not. “How do I look?”
“More beautiful than ever,” he answered rapturously.
“Surely my eyes are red with crying.”
He bent down so anxiously to examine them, that she laughed outright.
“Don’t be a goose!” she added sweetly. “I wouldn’t marry you if they
were.”
“You are such a will-o’-the-wisp, Gwen. I sha’n’t feel safe until
eleven o’clock to-morrow, and so I tell you fairly.”
“But you are not obliged to be safe then,” she retorted saucily. “Wives
do run away from their husbands occasionally.”
“If you ever should, as you value your life, go alone,” he answered,
with sudden fierceness; and then he cooled down as quickly, and said he
had not forgotten her old tricks, “there was nothing she loved better
than to tease.”
“Yes; but what did you mean about my going alone?” she asked, so
simply that he felt ashamed to have doubted this innocent child, even
for a moment, and hastened to change the subject by speaking of his
arrangements for her comfort on the morrow.
“Now, Lawrence,” she said at last, “I am not going to be carried
about like a piece of rare china, in cotton wool. I am not the least
delicate, and I should enjoy roughing it beyond measure, on your arm.
Do let us travel sensibly, and mix with people as we go along. I want
variety--even adventure--and I mean to dine at the tables d’hôte,
instead of in solitary state in our own salon.”
“Under those circumstances you are likely to have the kind of adventure
you will hardly care for,” he answered gravely.
“Not under your protection? With that big mustache of yours you look
quite terrible, I assure you; and I often think I should be dreadfully
afraid of you if I cared for you less.”
“And yet ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ Gwen.”
“Exactly; I am not afraid of you now, excepting so far as is proper and
expedient under the circumstances.”
He looked a little hurt.
“It can’t be proper and expedient in the slightest degree under any
circumstances.”
“Well, I mean I should be afraid to flirt.”
“Surely you would find a better reason than that for refraining.”
“Oh, dear, you are so severely literal, Lawrence!”
“‘I must speak by the card or equivocation will undo me,’ as
Shakespeare says somewhere.”
And then she pulled down his head, and whispered in his ear so softly:
“You dear old goose! Haven’t you found out yet that I love you?”
Colonel Dacre’s answer is not worth recording; but it was very
expressive and impressive, for Lady Gwendolyn looked very red after it,
and was not sorry to hide her confusion on his breast, though, perhaps,
she was hardly woman enough yet to understand the mighty absorbing
passion she had inspired.
At ten o’clock precisely Colonel Dacre loosened his hold on her and
said gently:
“Now, my darling, you must go to bed. To-morrow will be a fatiguing day
for you, and I shall want to see a few roses at starting. Oh! Gwen,
when I think what to-morrow is to be, it seems to me that I must be
dreaming. All my own--my very own, ‘to love and to cherish till death
us do part.’ It is too much happiness! Give me one kiss--the first I
have ever had from you, sweetest--to make it all seem real.”
“No,” she answered shyly, and trembling; “I have always vowed that my
husband should have my first kiss.”
“Then I am to wait till to-morrow?”
“Yes, Lawrence.”
“Heaven bless you, my dear life!” he murmured; then kissed both the
hands she extended to him, and hurried off.
It seemed a dreadful parting to him, and yet it was only for twelve
hours.
Lady Gwendolyn could hardly realize that she was going to be married
when she woke in the morning. But when her new maid appeared, her head
just visible under an avalanche of white drapery, she began to think it
was probable, and that she had better get up at once, and adorn herself
to please her master’s eye.
Her master!
Proud as she was, naturally, the term did not humiliate her in
connection with Lawrence. Let a woman be ever so haughty, she is ready
to be the slave of the man she loves.
Miss Ponsonby arrived in time to arrange the wreath and veil, and was
so charmed with the effect that she said, with honest admiration:
“It is a shame of you to have such a quiet wedding, Gwendolyn. I
should like all London to see and approve.”
“And I am so altered,” answered the bride, with a tender blush
and smile, “that I don’t care for any one’s admiration now except
Lawrence’s.”
“You are civil, my dear, certainly,” laughed the Honorable Beatrice.
“Oh! I didn’t mean you, of course, dear. I am glad of your approval;
but, then, I always make sure of that.”
“And of somebody else’s, too, I fancy.”
Lady Gwendolyn put her arms round her friend’s neck with the
impulsiveness that is always so attractive.
“Beatrice,” she said, with tears of happiness trembling on her black
lashes, “I love Lawrence with all my heart, and I would rather be his
wife than queen of twenty kingdoms!”
Then she glanced at the clock, and, seeing it wanted only a quarter to
ten, began to mold on her gloves.
The carriage drove up just as she had finished, and, taking her bouquet
from the maid, she went down-stairs with the sun shining full on her as
she went, and yet unable to find a flaw in her beauty or a shadow in
her happy eyes.
Colonel Dacre and his best man were standing at the altar as Lady
Gwendolyn entered the church on the arm of Lord Denby, Miss Ponsonby’s
father, and a very old friend of the St. Maur family. A lovely light
and color went over her face as she saw him, and met the glance of
loving admiration that welcomed her to his side.
Then she forgot to realize herself as she stood by the steady figure,
and listened to the words of the marriage service. She began to
understand what a terrible chain matrimony must be when people joined
hands without joining hearts; and a thrill of thankfulness ran through
her, remembering what perfect union subsisted between herself and her
husband.
For he was her husband now. The priest had joined their hands, and had
lifted his voice to say: “Those whom God has joined let no man put
asunder.”
The warm, firm pressure of Lawrence’s fingers seemed to testify that
he was well able to keep what he had won, and the consciousness of his
strength soothed and comforted Lady Gwendolyn as nothing else could
have done.
She liked his gravity, too, for it showed how thoroughly he felt with
her, and realized the deeper and holier meaning of their marriage.
There was quite a gathering in the church by the time the ceremony
was over; but neither bride nor bridegroom knew much about it. Lady
Gwendolyn signed her maiden name for the last time, and then they
stepped out into the sunshine together.
Happy, beautiful, and young, the world seemed a lovely place to these
two; and they felt as if they had one smile, as well as one heart,
between them, as each looked into the other’s eyes, and saw reflected
there the happiness of his and her heart.
There was not much time to spare when they got back to Park Lane; but
Lord Denby made a pretty little speech during the breakfast, which
sounded as if it had been inspired by Veuve Clicquot’s best champagne,
as it was so frothily graceful; then Colonel Dacre looked at the clock
and touched his wife’s arm.
“I am afraid we shall miss our train, Gwen, if we don’t start soon.”
She rose directly, and in a very short time returned in a
traveling-dress, which was of brown cashmere, trimmed with silk of a
darker shade.
Lady Gwendolyn was not one of those brides who like to advertise
themselves. To steal quietly through the crowd, unrecognized and
unobserved, was all she asked; and she knew her husband’s refined
tastes would be offended, as well as her own, by any display. But that
he approved of the brown cashmere, and the quiet, but elegant, little
hat of the same color, was evident from his eyes as he took a survey of
her dainty figure ere he handed her into the carriage.
On their way to the station Colonel Dacre held his wife’s hand; but he
did not attempt any further demonstration, and she was thankful for the
self-denial, which gave her time to recover a little from the confusion
of her position.
But once in the coupé he had engaged, and on their way to Dover, all
his pent-up passion seemed to break forth, and he crushed her against
his breast as he murmured:
“Now for my kiss--the one you have kept back for your happy husband,
love.”
And as she shyly approached her lips to his it seemed to both as if
their very souls mingled in that long, glad, passionate embrace.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FIRST CLOUD.
“I declare, we have been six months abroad, and not yet come across a
single person we know,” said Lady Gwendolyn to her husband one morning.
“I wonder how it is?”
“Well, we haven’t tried to come across people we know, for one thing.”
“But it might easily have happened accidentally.”
“Don’t let us boast,” Colonel Dacre returned, as he passed his hand
through her arm. “A thing always happens directly you begin to
congratulate yourself upon having escaped it.”
“Then I won’t say another word.”
“Come for a walk instead,” he said. “You have spoiled me so, Gwen, that
I can’t enjoy my cigar unless you are hanging about me.”
“Oh! Lawrence, I am sure I never hang about you.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I walk by your side.”
“Like a discreet British maiden. Do you know you have got your part
very perfect, considering the short time you have had to learn it?”
“I don’t call six months a short time.”
“It has seemed so to me--perhaps, because I have been so happy. I
am afraid you have been dreadfully bored, Gwen, as it has passed so
slowly.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lawrence!”
“But, my dear love, you forced me reluctantly to draw that inference.”
Lady Gwendolyn pouted, and Colonel Dacre, being still his wife’s lover,
as men of his constant nature continue to be all their lives, stooped
his tall head and kissed the sweet, red mouth.
“Now, put on your hat,” he said, “and we will go for a little stroll. I
am quite beginning to like this free-and-easy sort of life, Gwen. Are
not you?”
“I don’t seem to mind much where we are so that we are together. I have
given up the world and its vanities----”
“All for love?”
“All for love,” she repeated. “I couldn’t have a better reason, surely.”
“I am quite satisfied with it, if that is what you mean. But be quick
and dress, or the beauty of the day will be over; and, mind you, wrap
up well.”
She came back presently in velvet and furs, with a pretty, frosty bloom
on her round cheeks; and as Colonel Dacre offered her his arm, he said
proudly to himself that there wasn’t a woman in France who could come
up to his darling. And his darling was quite aware that she was looking
her best, and thoroughly enjoyed the respectful admiration she excited,
not for its own sake, but because she liked Lawrence to feel that she
was appreciated.
They walked up the center avenue of the Tuileries, and then made their
way down the Rue Royale to the boulevards, which looked very gay this
bright morning.
Then, walking briskly back again, they paid a visit to the pastry-cook
at the corner of the Rue Castiglione, and lunched off oyster patties
and babas, finishing up with the tiniest glass of curaçoa, as a
suitable defense against the cold.
Lady Gwendolyn was arranging her veil after this moderate but dainty
refection, when a very magnificent dame rustled into the shop, and
said, in abominable French, which, however, she seemed delighted to air:
“_Donnez moi oon patty, mademoiselle, et dépêche parceque je suis en
hâte._”
This pastry-cook being much affected by the English, mademoiselle was
accustomed to this sort of thing, and did not even smile as she handed
madame her pâté out of the hot safe in the center of the shop, and
placed a chair for her beside one of the little marble tables.
Lady Gwendolyn glanced furtively at the face belonging to this voice,
and then made her way toward the door, keeping as far as possible from
the neighborhood of the newcomer, so as not to attract her attention.
But Colonel Dacre, who had noticed nothing, turned round from examining
some bonbons in the window, and, seeing her close to the door, called
out:
“Wait a moment, Gwen, I haven’t paid.”
The lady at the marble table looked up then, and by simply catching
Colonel Dacre’s eye, explained Lady Gwendolyn’s little ruse.
“What, you, Norah?” he said, with evident pleasure, as he extended his
hand. “What brought you to Paris?”
“Well, money; but I forget how much,” she answered, with her old
vivacity, although he thought her much thinner and paler than when
they met last. “I am getting so tired of England, of everybody,
and everything. Is that your wife who has just left the shop so
precipitately?” she concluded, with some abruptness.
“She has just gone out, certainly.”
“To avoid me? You need not deny it, Lawrence, it is very natural she
should. However, I have something she ought, in justice, to see. Will
you tell me where you are staying?”
“At the Hotel d’Albion, close by. If you will tell me where you are,
Norah, I will call upon you to-morrow, and take charge of anything you
may have for her.”
“Thank you, that will be best,” she answered. “Don’t let me keep you
from Lady Gwendolyn. I am at the Grand Hotel, number forty three; but
don’t come before noon. I sleep so wretchedly nowadays, that I am glad
to rest in the morning. If Lady Gwendolyn minds your coming, write me
a line instead, and I shall understand. I think if I had a husband I
cared for I should be awfully jealous.”
“Not if he gave you no cause, I hope.”
“Perhaps. But do go. I wouldn’t for the world add to my offenses in
your wife’s eyes by exposing her to annoyance. She is much too handsome
to be a minute alone in the streets of Paris.”
“True,” he said, and hurried off.
Lady Gwendolyn was standing at a book-shop waiting for him, and put her
arm into his without a word. Neither did he make any remark. He thought
it best not to speak of Mrs. O’Hara, until he had heard what she had
to say on the morrow. Lady Gwendolyn was unusually grave and quiet for
the rest of the day, and if he happened to raise his eyes suddenly he
caught a very wistful look of the dark eyes; but he bided his time, and
still said nothing.
That night when Lady Gwendolyn fancied that her husband was asleep she
cried softly to herself, for the string of old, sad memories in her
heart had been too much for her, and she wondered fearfully if this
woman had come to take her husband from her as she had taken Percy Gray
from poor Lady Maria.
“She is tired, poor child!” he said to himself; and, leaving word
with her maid that she was not to rise a moment earlier than she felt
inclined, on his account, as he was going for a walk, he amused
himself with a morning visit to the Palais Royale.
Returning about ten o’clock, he was met at the door of the salon by
Phœbe, who said that her mistress begged him to excuse her, as she had
a tiresome headache, and would lie down for another hour. This was the
first time Colonel Dacre had been called upon to breakfast without the
fair fresh face of his spouse near him at table, and an expression of
disappointment came into his gray eyes.
Nevertheless, he said with admirable self-abnegation:
“Tell your mistress not to get up on any account, if she feels better
in bed. But I suppose I shall be able to see her before I go out?”
“My lady desired particularly that she might not be disturbed, sir.
She said she thought she should be well enough to take a drive in the
afternoon if she kept quiet for the next few hours.”
“Oh, very well!” answered Colonel Dacre. And he might have been
unreasonable; but somehow he felt snubbed. “What has her ladyship
taken, Phœbe?”
“A strong cup of tea, sir; that was all she would have.”
And the girl, who was already attached to her young mistress, looked
quite distressed. Colonel Dacre was obliged to assume a tranquillity he
did not feel to reassure her.
“Rest is sure to do her more good than anything, Phœbe. Be sure and
tell her ladyship when she rings for you that I was obliged to go out
this morning; but shall hope to see her at luncheon time.”
Phœbe bowed, and left the room. Then Colonel Dacre swallowed a cup of
coffee, ate part of a roll, and then, telling the waiter to get him a
cab, prepared for his visit to Mrs. O’Hara.
He found his old friend reclining on a sofa in an exquisite peignoir of
pale blue cashmere, trimmed with lace, while a coquettish little cap
rested on the top of her brown hair. She held out to him her jeweled
hand languidly.
“I am so glad to see you, Lawrence. How is your wife?”
“She is rather tired this morning.”
“I hope that is all.”
“I hope so, too. She is not delicate, naturally, neither is she very
strong, and we have been walking more than she is accustomed to do
since we came to Paris.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Rather more than a week?”
“You are on your way to England, I suppose?”
“I believe so; but we have scarcely decided yet.”
“I presume you would hurry home if anything happened to your uncle, Sir
Lawrence?”
“Naturally. But we heard from him just before we left Biarritz, and he
then said that he was remarkably well, so that I do not anticipate a
sudden recall.”
Mrs. O’Hara had a letter in her hand; but she put it down on the table,
and lifted those wonderful Irish eyes of hers to his face.
“Lawrence,” she said quietly, “will you answer me one question?”
“Nay, a dozen, if I can, Norah.”
“One will be enough. Has the accusation I made against Lady Gwendolyn
that day at the ‘Langham’ ever troubled you in the slightest degree?”
He reflected before he answered:
“I don’t think it has. I have such full faith in my wife, you see.”
“Still, you know me well enough to understand that I should not make a
statement of this sort unless I believed it to be true.”
“No; but we are all liable to error, Norah.”
“And you may as well add that a person of my impulsive temper is doubly
liable. I certainly did think that Lady Gwendolyn had been the cause of
my poor brother’s death, and had destroyed him by her cruel coquetries;
and, as I am not in the habit of bridling my tongue, or disguising my
feelings, I told her plainly what I thought. But since then I have
discovered my mistake.”
“Go on,” he said eagerly.
She pointed to the letter on the table.
“Read that,” she said, “and it will save my breath. You will see by the
signature that it was written by my poor brother himself, and is dated
the second of August.”
“The day before his death?”
“Exactly. It is in pencil, as you will perceive, but is quite legible,
and has the ‘Dragon, Turoy, Westmoreland,’ printed in colors on the
paper.”
“Yes, I see. The landlord of the ‘Dragon,’ who is quite the gentleman
in his way, must have lent it to him. I remember that he affected all
those little refinements.”
“Very well, now read it through, and tell me what you make of it.”
“Would you mind telling me, first of all, to whom this letter was
written?”
“To a Miss Pindar--a relation of my mother’s, who brought us up when
our parents died. Poor George, with all his faults, was very much
attached to her, and always kept her _au courant_ as to his movements.
She was his favorite of us two, and I know she scraped and saved in
order to send him money for his pleasures. But he did mean to make it
all up to her,” added Mrs. O’Hara. “I saw the letter he wrote to Miss
Pindar directly he came into his property.”
It occurred to Colonel Dacre that promises did not cost much, but he
refrained from any hint to this effect, seeing how much it comforted
Norah to accredit her brother with good intentions.
CHAPTER XX.
LOVED AND LOST.
“Will you read the letter aloud?” added Mrs. O’Hara, as he was turning
it over, and he began at once:
“MY DEAR AUNT----” [He always called her “aunt,” put in Norah,
parenthetically.] “A more miserable man than I does not exist. Lady
Teignmouth has thrown me over, as you warned me that she would when
it suited her purpose; you know how desperately I loved her; you also
know how she has kept me dangling at her skirts all these years,
luring me on to destruction with her sweet, false eyes. Life is
nothing to me without her, and, though she has sworn so often that
she loved me, she laughed me to scorn when I suggested that she and I
might be happy together in another country. You will say all this is
very wrong, aunt. Pauline is another man’s wife; but my only excuse is
that the first time we met I believed her to be free, and she did not
undeceive me, although she must have seen that I was badly smitten,
and ready to make a dolt of myself at her bidding. Now it has gone
so far that I could not draw back if I would, and I would not if I
could. You will scarcely understand such mad infatuation, but I am
not the only man who has preferred to put an end to his existence
rather than live without the woman he loved. I am to meet Pauline
to-night, and with a few words from her lips my fate will be decided.
When this reaches you I may be beyond the reach of everything but your
prayers, but I know that even if the whole world condemn me, you will
always--always have a kind word, and a kind thought, for the boy you
reared, although he died a guilty, despairing man.
GEORGE BELMONT.
“Turoy, 2d August, 19--.”
“You see that the poor, unhappy fellow took his own life in his
despair,” said Norah, wiping her eyes furtively. “He always spoke to me
very admiringly of Lady Teignmouth, but I had no idea that he cared for
her like that, or I would have saved him, somehow.”
“Do you intend to make any use of this letter?” inquired Colonel Dacre
quietly.
“No; I have had enough of revenge for the present. If Lady Teignmouth
were to come in my way, I should probably tax her with her deceit and
perfidy, because, you know, I never can keep things in; but we are
not likely to meet, and meanwhile you may have the letter if you will
promise to take care of it that I may have it for reference later, if
required.”
This Colonel Dacre readily guaranteed, and then he turned to Mrs.
O’Hara, and said:
“And now about yourself, Norah? What are you doing here?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“I heard you were going to be married to a Russian prince.”
She colored furiously.
“Who told you that?”
“Some fellow we met at Nice, but I can’t for the life of me remember
his name. I wouldn’t believe it, but Gwen said it was just the sort of
thing you would do.”
“Why?” she inquired sharply, keeping her face averted as she spoke.
“Well, she thought you would not care for a quiet, humdrum life in
England.”
A gleam of fierce scorn came into Norah’s violet eyes, and then flashed
out again, leaving them dim as with unshed tears.
“Whatever I might have cared for I am not likely to get.”
Her tone was sad, her face so wistful, Colonel Dacre forgot her bad
accent, and said with earnest sympathy:
“Anyhow, don’t make a mull of your life, Norah, in a fit of the blues.
There is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy.”
“None whatever,” she replied, with a forced laugh.
“Then it is true about the Russian prince?”
“Come, Lawrence, you have quite enough to do to attend to your domestic
duties!” she retorted gaily. “Go home and show that letter to your
wife--and--don’t meddle in my affairs. No man can serve two masters,
you know.”
“Still, I think he might serve his friend without being in the least
degree disloyal to his wife.”
“Perhaps, I really don’t know--but I fancy the interest of the
two would clash occasionally. However, I am not going to try the
experiment. But your wife will be wondering what has become of you.
Good-by, Lawrence;” and she held out her hand to him with a softened
air. “I should like you to tell Lady Gwendolyn from me, if you thought
she would care for the confession, that I am very sorry to have
misjudged her.”
“I know she will be pleased to hear that you have found out your
mistake.”
“Then tell her by all means, and good-by once more.”
He kissed her hand affectionately, and was moving toward the door, when
she called him back to say, with a flash of her old humor:
“A fellow I met at Nice told me that ere long there might be an heir to
Borton Hall. Is it true?”
“Tell me about the Russian prince first. Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said, hanging her head a little.
“So is the other, then.”
She nodded to him benevolently, but there were tears still in her eyes,
and he seemed to see only them as he turned for one last look at his
old friend’s widow ere she disappeared out of his life forever.
Lady Gwendolyn was reading in the salon as her husband entered, but,
instead of greeting him with a smile, according to her wont, she went
on with her paper, and did not even glance his way. He glided behind
her, placed his hands round her slender throat, and drew her head back
on his breast.
“Well, Gwen,” he said, trying to look into her eyes. “What is it, my
love?”
“Nothing,” she answered, with an air of assumed indifference. “I had a
bad headache this morning.”
“No wonder, as you cried yourself to sleep.”
She started violently.
“How do you know?”
“Through my eyes and my ears, Gwen.”
She lowered her long lashes, and her lips quivered.
“Well,” he added presently, “I am waiting to know what all this means.”
“It is nothing of the least consequence.”
“Pardon me, Gwen, anything that causes you tears must be of the
greatest possible consequence to me.”
“Oh! women cry for nothing, you know.”
“Some may, but you do not, Gwen. I have not seen a tear in your eye,
until last night, ever since our marriage.”
“I was so happy,” she sighed.
“And you mean to infer that you are no longer so?”
She was silent.
He sat down beside her on the couch, and put his arm about her waist.
“Gwen,” he said, very gravely, “we are husband and wife now, and a
difference between us would be a terrible thing. Lovers’ quarrels are
light things, and do to laugh over afterward; but if you are angry with
me, Gwen, it can be no laughable matter. I have too much faith in your
love to believe that you would blame me for nothing, and condemn me
unheard, especially as you promised on our wedding-day that you would
never keep anything from me.”
“Have you kept all your promises?” she asked, half sadly, half
resentfully.
“I hope so, Gwen. If not, you have only to remind me how and when I
have failed to find me eager to atone.”
“You promised,” she sobbed out, “to uphold me always.”
“And have I not done so?”
“No.”
“Do speak out, Gwen; you are torturing me,” he complained. “To be
accused of a want of loyalty to my wife and not to be able to defend
myself at once is terrible. What do you mean?”
“You spoke to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday, although you know her to be my
enemy, and I am sure you have been to see her this morning,” she
blurted out, at last, half ashamed, half afraid, and yet resolute
withal.
“That is perfectly true as far as it goes,” replied Colonel Dacre
gravely. “I did speak to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday; it would have been
very difficult to pass a woman I had known so many years without some
sign of recognition; I also went to call upon her this morning, at her
special request.”
Then he briefly gave her a summary of his interview with Norah, and
laid the letter George Belmont had written to Miss Pindar in Lady
Gwendolyn’s lap.
“Read that,” he said, rather coldly. “You seem so ready to suspect me,
Gwen, I am glad to be able to give you proofs that I am not deceiving
you.”
“Oh, Lawrence!” she said reproachfully; and she had an impulse to put
back the letter, saying she required no confirmation of his words, but
curiosity checked the generous movement, and she opened and read it
instead.
Her face lightened as she perused these lines, which seemed almost like
a message from the grave, and when she had finished she said eagerly:
“Why didn’t Miss Pindar produce this letter before?”
“Because she knew nothing of the post-mortem examination, and the
suspicious circumstances of his death. She lives in a quiet country
place, and seldom sees a newspaper; and when Mrs. O’Hara wrote to
say that her brother was dead, Miss Pindar was thankful to let
well alone--even tried to persuade herself that he had died by the
visitation of God, after all, and not by his own hand.”
“But Mrs. O’Hara knew that I had been unjustly suspected, and should
have taken care to exonerate me as quickly as possible.”
“She has only had the letter in her possession for a month, she told
me, and did not know of its existence before. She said she meant to
send it to Borton Hall directly she heard of our return there; but our
chance meeting yesterday has saved her the trouble.”
“And where is she going now?”
“Well, she is going to be married--if that is an answer to your
question.”
“To whom?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes sparkling. “Any one I
know?”
“That I can’t tell you; but it is a Russian prince.”
“Nonsense, Lawrence!” exclaimed his wife, melting altogether now,
although the news seemed too good to be true. “It isn’t, really, the
least probable.”
“It is the improbable things that always come to pass, I find.”
“I suppose she will live abroad?” said Lady Gwendolyn, with a great
affectation of carelessness.
“I dare say.”
“Don’t you mind?” she asked, drawing quite close to him and speaking
coaxingly.
“Why should I mind?”
“You are such old friends.”
“Exactly. But, you see, I shall have to cut all my old friends now,
since my wife takes it into her head to be jealous of them.”
“Oh, Lawrence!”
“It is true, Gwen!”
“Not quite,” she answered, with sudden candor. “I have never been
jealous of any one but Mrs. O’Hara.”
“And why of her, Gwen? We were both free eight months back, and if we
had cared for each other, what need have hindered our marriage?”
Lady Gwendolyn hung her head.
“I never thought about that.”
“No; my wife took a foolish fancy into her head, and, instead of doing
her best to banish it, allowed it to take quiet possession of all her
thoughts. The consequence was that I could not shake hands civilly with
an old friend without being supposed to care more for her than the
woman I had sworn to love and cherish before Heaven! Confess that you
have been very absurd, Gwen.”
“I am afraid I have, Lawrence,” she answered penitently, as she nestled
close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “But you may be sure
I shall trust you for the future, for my own sake. I have suffered
dreadfully since yesterday afternoon.”
“I know that, and you deserve a severe snubbing; only I am so weak
where you are concerned, that, if I began to scold, I should end
ignominiously by caressing you, I fancy.”
“And what a nice ending, dear.”
Lawrence was only a man, and his wife was very fair; so that we may
be sure he readily responded to this naive invitation. But he had a
mind to improve the occasion before he let the subject drop; so he gave
her a little lecture on the terrible result of any want of confidence
between husband and wife; and she was so glad to be forgiven, that she
not only promised all he required, but even forgot to remind him that
he did not always practise what he preached.
But the Borton mystery had almost faded from her mind by this time,
and, moreover, she thought it better to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
That was a happy evening, and one Lady Gwendolyn often looked back upon
with longing afterward. They had tickets for the Opera Comique, but
decided at the last moment that they should be much happier at home;
and, dismissing the carriage, drew their chairs up to the log fire, and
chatted merrily until bedtime.
Lady Gwendolyn did not cry herself to sleep that night, nor was she
troubled by any evil presentiment of coming trouble. As she seemed
tired, Colonel Dacre was careful not to rouse her when he went to his
dressing-room. But half an hour later he came hurriedly back, with an
open letter in his hand.
“Gwen, darling,” he said, “I am so very sorry, but I must go to England
directly upon urgent business. The hurried journey would be too much
for you, even if I were able to wait until you got ready; but I shall
not be away more than three or four days, and I am sure you will not
mind being such a short time alone.”
He looked so troubled and anxious that she said at once:
“I am afraid there is something serious the matter that you will not
tell me.”
“My uncle, Sir Lawrence, is dead!”
“Is that all?” an inward voice prompted her to say.
He colored faintly, and a little spasm of pain contracted his firm lips
as he answered:
“Isn’t that enough, Gwen? However, I must not stand talking here. I
have only just time to catch the boat-train.”
He took leave of her hurriedly, but very tenderly, promising to write
to her from Dover, and then caught up the traveling-bag he had been
filling as he talked, and hurried away; turning back at the door to
give her a last loving glance and smile.
No sooner had she heard his fiacre drive off than she jumped out of bed
with almost a guilty air, and, picking up a telegram she had seen drop
out of his pocket, read the following words:
“Come the moment you receive this. There will be an exposé if not,
as she is very violent and restless. She says she wants to find her
husband, and we have only been able to keep her quiet by promising
that she should see you to-night.”
Was her husband indeed lost to her?
CHAPTER XXI.
FEAR.
Lady Gwendolyn was so stunned by what she had seen, that for full ten
minutes she stood in the center of the room, with the paper in her
hand, not as yet realizing the misfortune that had befallen her, and
yet with a dead weight at her heart, and such a sense of bitter loss
and desecration, that she felt as if it would be a blessed thing to die.
Her husband had left her with a kiss, and yet all these months he had
been living a lie. And living it boldly, although he must have known
that chance might betray him at any moment. And the Nemesis which had
been dogging his steps all that while had at last tracked him home to
his shame and her sorrow. How she pitied herself as she thought of her
great loss, and pictured the long, lonely future that she must needs
pass without him.
The prospect appalled her so much that she had almost a mind at the
minute to brave the whole world and defy her own conscience rather than
be parted from him, whom she loved better than life.
And the child that was coming to her. Oh! that was hardest, after all.
To be born to an inheritance of shame; to come into a world which had
no welcome for it; to see tears always instead of smiles in the eyes
which would have been so fond and proud, but for all this shame. No
wonder Lady Gwendolyn threw herself down despairingly on the very
floor, feeling in her abasement as if this were the only fitting place
for such as she.
Fortunately Phœbe had stolen in an hour ago, while her mistress slept,
and lighted the fire, otherwise Lady Gwendolyn would have been chilled
to the bone, for the streets were crisp with frost, and there was a
cold, clear brightness in the air. As it was, she felt so benumbed,
that presently she had to get back into bed to warm herself, and lay
there, calm now, but utterly forlorn, trying to think.
Phœbe came in after awhile on tiptoe, and was almost startled at the
wild brilliancy of the wide-open eyes.
“I fancied you were still asleep, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “May I
get you some tea now?”
“If you please,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, listening curiously for the
sound of her own voice, and surprised to find that it had much the same
tone as usual. “And be quick, Phœbe, we are going to follow Colonel
Dacre as soon as we can get away.”
Phœbe forgot her manners, and actually stared. Not an hour ago Colonel
Dacre had told her that Lady Gwendolyn would remain in Paris until
he came back to fetch her, and had bade Phœbe be specially watchful
and attentive. Phœbe had promised readily, being much attached to her
mistress, and on the strength of this recommendation she ventured to
say:
“Surely you won’t travel alone, my lady, in your state of health?
Colonel Dacre said he should be returning in a few days.”
“He will not be able,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “And I dislike
being in a hotel without him. How soon can you get ready?”
“Not before evening, my lady, I am afraid.”
“Very well, then, we must travel in the night.”
“Oh! but my lady, it would kill you.”
“Nonsense! I am much stronger than you think, and with a carriage to
ourselves I shall be able to sleep the whole way. Anyhow, I mean to go,
so pray get on as fast as you can. If you are not ready, I shall be
forced to leave you behind.”
This threat had the desired effect. Phœbe began to bustle about her
valiantly, and soon made visible progress.
But in the middle of her packing, she suddenly appeared in the salon.
“You forgot to tell me, my lady, what I was to do with Colonel Dacre’s
things.”
“The same as you do with mine, put them into the boxes.”
“Very well, my lady,” answered Phœbe, and went back to her work.
By four o’clock that afternoon the boxes were all packed and corded,
the carriage ordered, and everything ready for their departure by the
seven-o’clock train from the Northern Railway.
Lady Gwendolyn managed to swallow a cutlet, and drink a couple of
glasses of light wine, as a preparation for the journey; and then
she dressed herself, while Phœbe was down-stairs, fortifying herself
against contingencies.
But before leaving the hotel, Lady Gwendolyn put the telegram which
had given her such sorrowful information into an envelope, directed
it to Colonel Dacre, “Hotel d’Albion,” stamped it, and then put it
into her pocketbook, ready to post in Calais. She thought it explained
everything, without its being necessary for her to add a single word;
and she was too utterly miserable to write.
Neither did she care to blame him, for she remembered, as the only
thing in his extenuation, that she had given way too weakly at
first, and ought never to have married him until she had thoroughly
investigated the Borton mystery, and made him prove that he was really
free.
But she had been too eager to secure herself a little happiness, and
she had loved him so foolishly. That was her excuse; and, though it may
seem a poor one to some, there are others who will understand it, and
pity the poor desolate woman, who had found the thing she had coveted
turn to ashes in her mouth, like the apples of the Dead Sea.
“If there are any letters for you, or monsieur, where shall we forward
them, miladi?” asked the obsequious manager, as he bowed her to the
carriage.
“You had better take care of them for the present,” she replied.
“Colonel Dacre will probably be passing through Paris in a few days,
and will call for them. If he changes his plans, I will send you my
address.”
We may be sure her heart was very full as she passed through the
brilliant streets, where but two days ago she had walked proudly on her
husband’s arm, happy in his love, and unconscious of a single care. But
Phœbe was opposite her, and she was obliged to assume an indifferent
air. She even pointed out a few objects of interest to the girl, and
bore her martyrdom so finely that the other never once suspected the
real state of the case.
Phœbe tried hard to persuade her mistress to rest a little while at
Dover, for her worn, wan look made the faithful creature anxious; but
Lady Gwendolyn shook her head.
“She would have plenty of time for rest later,” she said, with a
wistful, far-away look, as if the rest she longed for was not of this
world.
On reaching town in the cold, gray, early morning, Lady Gwendolyn
drove to a quiet little hotel, and then, in spite of herself, she was
obliged to let Phœbe put her to bed, for she was so utterly weary she
could scarcely speak. But mindful of her master’s orders, Phœbe took
the law into her own hands, and made Lady Gwendolyn take a bowl of hot
soup and a glass of wine. She was passive now from sheer lassitude, and
after awhile fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Phœbe sat by her for about an hour, during which time she never once
stirred. And then she began to feel so drowsy herself, she was glad to
remember that Lady Gwendolyn had told her to go and lie down. Phœbe was
not naturally a heavy sleeper, but then she had been up all night, and
was so dead beat by this time, that no sooner did her head touch the
pillow than she lost count of everything.
The clock striking roused her, and she sprang off the bed and rubbed
her eyes, glancing anxiously at the hour.
In her dismay she found it was exactly four! Phœbe smoothed her hair
and dress, and darted off to her mistress’ room. Too much shocked
at her own neglect to think of an excuse, she knocked softly at the
door, and, receiving no answer, concluded that Lady Gwendolyn was
still asleep, and ventured to enter. But the room was empty, and the
strangest part of it all was, that Lady Gwendolyn’s bonnet, and the
dark cloak in which she had traveled, were gone from the place in which
Phœbe had put them. And so also were the muff and gloves, and minor
accessories of her outdoor toilet.
It was difficult to suppose that, after such a fatiguing journey, and
other things taken into account as well, a delicate person like Lady
Gwendolyn would have gone out into the cold. But as she was not to
be found, this seemed the only feasible solution of the mystery; and
Phœbe went down-stairs to see if she could get any information on the
subject.
In the passage she came upon a very polite waiter, who was quite
willing to tell her all he knew, and even a little more. He knew the
lady at No. 10 had gone out, for he had fetched her a carriage himself.
But after he had sufficiently admired Phœbe’s black eyes, which had
done great havoc among couriers and valets since she had been abroad,
he did hint that the head chambermaid would know more about it than he
did, as she had been summoned to the lady’s room, and had brought down
the order for the carriage.
“Perhaps you will kindly tell me where to find her, then?”
“I’ll go and fetch her, miss,” answered the obliging waiter, and
vanished, returning presently with rather a sour-faced woman of forty,
whom he introduced as Miss Smith.
And Miss Smith, who was more amiable than she looked, was able to
give Phœbe all the information she required, and a message from Lady
Gwendolyn to boot, that she had gone away upon business, and should
not, probably, be back until the evening of the next day.
“And, meantime, miss, she said you was to be sure and make yourself
comfortable, and order whatever you required,” concluded Miss Smith
affably; “and at any time that you want a little company and change,
there’s a pleasant room down-stairs, where there’s always somebody in
and out, and ready for a chat.”
Phœbe thanked her, and said she would look in later, and then went back
to her room, wondering.
Lady Gwendolyn’s strange conduct suggested a mystery; but with all the
theories Phœbe started, the idea of any difference between her master
and mistress never once occurred to her. She would have quoted them
confidently anywhere as the most united couple in England.
She passed the evening down-stairs, and allowed the obliging waiter to
languish as much as he liked, being fortified against his seductions by
her honest love for a cousin in the country. But when Miss Smith said
slyly:
“Does her ladyship often go off so sudden-like?”
Phœbe drew up her head, and tightened her lips to answer:
“Ladies like my mistress have calls upon them people like us can’t
understand. The colonel’s uncle has just died, and left him the title
and heaps of money into the bargain; so, of course, there’s a good deal
to do.”
“Of course!” repeated Miss Smith, with an air of conviction; “only it’s
so odd her ladyship didn’t take you.”
“Not at all--I wasn’t wanted. I dare say the colonel sent for her in a
hurry, and she got too flurried to know what she was about.”
“But--well, it’s no affair of mine,” observed Miss Smith; “but I should
be sorry to see a fellow creature took in. Living in a hotel one sees a
good deal of life, and there’s often people coming here who pretend to
be very fine, and aren’t any better than I am, after all.”
It was the obliging waiter’s desertion that prompted this insinuation;
but Phœbe never guessed that her own bright eyes were at the bottom of
the scandal, and drew herself up with great dignity.
“I am not one of those who take people on trust,” she said, with her
nose well _en l’air_. “If her ladyship had not been what she pretended,
she wouldn’t have been troubled with my services. I have never had
anything but good places yet, and have no fancy for coming down in the
world.”
So saying, Phœbe withdrew to her own apartment, feeling that she had
had the best of it, on the whole; and, after visiting Lady Gwendolyn’s
room to see if by any chance she had returned as mysteriously as she
had departed, she went to bed, and slept undisturbed until the morning.
CHAPTER XXII.
CONVICTION.
Lady Gwendolyn had come to England with a purpose, and she proceeded
to carry it out as soon as her physical strength would allow her. She
awoke about three o’clock, much comforted and strengthened by her long
sleep, and was glad to find herself alone. Of course, it was easy
enough to dispose of Phœbe, but she rather preferred not to have any
trouble in the matter.
She breathed freer when she got outside the hotel, but she took good
care to keep her veil down. On reaching the station, she found she had
half an hour to wait for her train, and so she forced herself to take
some refreshment. She knew that she had need to garner up her strength
if she was to perform the task she had set herself.
It was quite dark when she reached Borton, but, of course, there were
lights in the station; and as all the officials knew her well, she had
to double her precautions. She ordered a fly, and drove straight to the
best inn in the little town, as she happened to know the proprietor of
“The Chequers” was a newcomer, and had no knowledge of her personally.
However, he saw in a moment that she was a lady; and though her small
traveling-bag did not look promising, he received her with great
dignity, and showed her at once to the best rooms in the hotel.
A tidy little maid was sent to wait upon her, and while she helped to
remove her things, Lady Gwendolyn said carelessly:
“Have you any nice houses in the neighborhood, Mary?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Mary. “There is Colonel Dacre’s, ma’am--Borton
Hall, it is called.”
“Indeed! is it a fine place?”
“Yes, ma’am; but not so fine as Lord Teignmouth’s, which is four miles
out of the town.”
“Really! I suppose neither of them is here now?”
And my lady toyed with her ring, and looked languidly indifferent,
although a keen observer might have noticed that she stopped her very
breath to listen for Mary’s answer.
“My lord is away, ma’am; but I heard this morning that Colonel Dacre
was at the Hall.”
“And his wife, too, I presume?”
“No; she isn’t there.”
“Surely. They haven’t been very long married, you know.”
“Long enough to get tired of each other, ma’am, perhaps.”
“It is to be hoped not. But are you sure Colonel Dacre is here, Mary?”
“Quite sure, ma’am, for I saw him with my own eyes last night.”
“But I thought he had come into a title lately, Mary?”
“So he has, ma’am, begging his pardon. It’s Sir Lawrence he is called
now, for I heard master tell the waiter so. However, whatever he is
called, I saw him last night.”
“You know him, then?”
“I ought to, for I lived at Borton Hall when I was younger.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Lady Gwendolyn, beginning to feel rather
uncomfortable. “Then I dare say you know Lord Teignmouth by sight?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t. I never saw any of the family,” was the reply; and
Lady Gwendolyn breathed freer.
She was wiser now than she had been, and took care to nurse her
strength. Although she hoped and prayed to die, it must not be just
yet--until she was quite sure she had nothing to live for. She had come
to Borton to learn the truth, and she must be careful that physical
weakness did not stand in the way of her enlightenment.
So she ordered a chop, and, what is more, ate it, and then went to bed.
The next day she kept very quiet till about four o’clock, when the day
was beginning to draw in, and then she had a fly brought, paid her
bill, and drove to the entrance of Borton village, where she alighted
from the vehicle, and dismissed the driver, telling him the house she
was going to was close by, and she should prefer to walk the remaining
distance. He suggested she should have a boy to carry her bag; but this
she declined, saying it was quite light, and she could manage very well.
It was not quite dark enough for her purpose yet, and so she lingered
about the lanes for half an hour; and when the skeleton trees were
faint shadows only, and a few lights began to twinkle in the cottage
windows, she took her way slowly to Borton Hall.
She glided through the garden, listening to every sound, hiding herself
quickly if a bare branch creaked in the wind, or a bird flew across her
path. Keeping on the dark side of the house, she came presently to a
side door, which she tried softly.
Finding it did not yield, she brought a key out of her pocket, and,
inserting it cautiously in the lock, she soon found herself inside the
house.
She knew every corner of it by heart, for her husband had always been
pleased to answer her questions, only too glad to see that she took so
much interest in their home; so she made her way with little difficulty
to the north wing, passing the library on her way, and inhaling the
fragrance of her husband’s cigar.
How little he guessed that she was so near. Perhaps even his thoughts
were with her, as he lay back in his favorite armchair, with his feet
on the fender, and pictured how pleasant the room would be later, when
Gwendolyn was scorching her face on a low stool at his side.
She had become so much a part of his life, so entirely necessary to his
happiness, that his cigar had not the right flavor unless she was there
to see him smoke it.
Somehow her image was more than ever obtrusive to-night, and he had
to rise and shake himself to get rid of the painful impression that
something was wrong with her.
“Humbug!” he said to himself angrily. “I should have heard, of course,
if there had been anything wrong. I told Phœbe she was to telegraph
directly if Gwen were ill. That’s the only disadvantage of being
married--a man doubles his anxieties. But, then, he trebles his
pleasures,” continued Colonel Dacre quickly, afraid lest he should be
disloyal, even unconsciously, to the woman he loved so much better than
himself; “and I wouldn’t be unmarried again even if they offered me in
return perfect immunity from care or pain for the rest of my life!”
With this, he lighted another cigar, and then sat down and wrote a
long letter to his wife, telling her that his uncle’s funeral would
take place the next day, at two o’clock, at Milworth Abbey--where Sir
Lawrence had died--and that he should leave for Paris that night, to
bring her home.
It was a very tender epistle, and the love that was in his heart
breathed out of every line. He told her how much he had missed her,
and how tame his life seemed without her, concluding with the playful
declaration that, whatever happened, they would never be parted again,
for those whom Heaven had joined business should not put asunder even
for a day.
Meanwhile, Lady Gwendolyn had made her way to a suite of rooms in the
next wing. From her husband’s embarrassed manner when she questioned
him about these she fancied she should find the key to the mystery of
his life there, and her heart trembled within her. A faint line of
light under one of the doors showed that the rooms were occupied; and,
stooping down, she tried to reconnoiter through the keyhole.
At first she could see nothing, but as her eyes became accustomed
to the narrow tube through which all investigations had to be made,
she perceived a female figure seated by the fire. The hands were
pendent over the arms of the chair--the whole attitude betokened
dejection--although from the hair and figure of this woman she was
evidently young.
Her face was turned from the door, and Lady Gwendolyn longed to obtain
a glimpse of it, for she felt almost sure that it belonged to the
person whom she had seen at Borton Hall shortly before her marriage,
and who had declared herself to be Lawrence Dacre’s wife.
She must have knelt there half an hour, and still the woman did not
turn her head. She was growing so sick and giddy at last that she was
obliged to withdraw from her post of observation and rest.
When she looked again the large, pale, lack-luster eyes were turned
toward the door, and Lady Gwendolyn recognized her at once.
She had almost decided to go in, confront her, and insist upon a full
explanation, when she heard a step she knew only too well mounting the
stairs, and from a sudden instinct stepped back, and concealed herself
behind the heavy curtains of a window behind. She had scarcely drawn
the folds about her, before her husband appeared, holding a lamp in
his hand, which he set down on a little table, so close to the curtain
behind which she was hidden that she trembled in her shoes.
He took a large key out of his pocket, and turned it twice in the
lock. But it was evident that even with this he did not feel that his
prisoner was safe, for he had to undraw two bolts before he could gain
admittance.
Then he took the lamp and walked in, closing the door after him. Lady
Gwendolyn’s knees shook under her, and she had a feeling at the moment
as if she would rather not know the truth.
But she conquered this weakness, and knelt down at the keyhole again,
just in time to see Sir Lawrence bend over the woman and kiss her
tenderly.
Then he drew a chair to her side, and Lady Gwendolyn heard him say, in
a coaxing voice:
“You will be glad to get away from here, Mary, dear, will you not? I
have taken a pretty cottage for you in the country, where you will be
able to have a garden, and grow plenty of flowers and fruit. You will
like that, I am sure?”
“I want to be with my husband,” she answered, in a voice of stern
resentment. “What right have you to send me out of the way?”
“But, Mary, I have thoroughly explained why what you want is
impossible. And, indeed, it would not be for your happiness, my poor
child.”
“I am not a child, and you treat me shamefully,” she snapped. “I won’t
have a cottage in the country!”
“Then what will you have?” he asked, with admirable patience, although
Lady Gwendolyn knew, by the inflection of his voice, how harassed and
weary he was.
“I will have my proper position. A married woman ought to live with her
husband.”
“If she can, Mary.”
“And I can, and will,” she said, after the manner of a fractious child
crying for the moon. “You want to hide me up, because you are jealous
of my beauty, and know that I never move without a train of admirers;
but I’ve often played you tricks before, and I will play you tricks
again. Wherever you put me, I will run away.”
“Oh, Mary!” was his reproachful exclamation.
“Don’t call me Mary; I hate the name,” she said, her pale eyes dilating
fiercely. “But you always do everything I don’t want you to do.”
“I am sure I shall try to please you,” he answered, with gentle
gravity. “I wish you would try to understand that, my dear.”
He laid his hand on hers impressively; but she shook it off as if it
had been a viper. Then suddenly her mood changed, and she began to
whimper.
Nobody cared for her. What did it signify whether she was living or
dead? She would make an end of it all one of those days, that she
would! She hated a cottage in the country--she hated everything! She
would stamp down the flowers as soon as they put their heads above
ground. It was no use talking to her! And so on, until Lady Gwendolyn
could scarcely wonder that Sir Lawrence had tried to escape from such
an impracticable, violent person, and began to pity him a little in her
heart.
He waited until the torrent of words had subsided, and then he said,
with as much firmness as gentleness:
“You know it is very wrong to excite yourself in this way, Mary. I
never deny you anything it is right you should have, and you must try
and be a little more reasonable.”
“Pray, are you reasonable?” she said, with a harsh, mocking laugh. “You
cried for the moon when you were a child.”
“Possibly; but, you see, I don’t cry for it now. As people get older
they understand that what they want is not always attainable or good
for them.”
“What a bore you are!” she said rudely; and turned her back upon him
forthwith.
Certainly, with all his faults, Sir Lawrence had his temper splendidly
under control; for he did not even look annoyed. Perhaps he felt that
he had no right to resent anything she might say, since she could never
insult him half as much as he was injuring her. However this may be, he
was very patient, and tried industriously to soothe and satisfy her.
But Lady Gwendolyn had heard enough by this time.
She rose from her knees, cold and benumbed, and stole out of the house
where she had thought to reign queen, in stealth, like a thief. How she
got to Borton Station she could never remember, but she did get there,
and, eventually, to the hotel, where she found Phœbe waiting for her,
and evidently anxious.
“Get me to bed as quickly as you can,” said her mistress hoarsely; and
not another word did she speak.
Phœbe, who did not like her looks, sat beside her for an hour; and
then, as she seemed to be sleeping quietly, she went to bed. In the
morning Lady Gwendolyn was very pale, but perfectly composed. Motioning
Phœbe to her bedside, she said, with a little tremor in her voice:
“Phœbe, circumstances over which I have no control force me to leave
Sir Lawrence for good. You have behaved exceedingly well ever since you
have been in my service, and I should like to keep you with me; at the
same time, I should not like to injure your prospects in any way. I
shall live very quietly; I shall not even call myself by my real name.
People will look suspiciously on me, perhaps; and you will hear their
remarks, and feel annoyed and humiliated at being supposed to live with
a lady whose character will not bear investigation. This is as certain
as sorrow and pain. Are you sufficiently attached to me to brave it
all?”
“Yes, my lady,” replied Phœbe, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Then you elect to follow my fortunes?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You understand, I hope, that I shall not allow you to presume upon my
position, Phœbe?”
“I don’t think you will find that I shall ever try to do so, my lady,”
answered the girl, with simple dignity. “If I am no worse treated than
I have been thus far, I shall have nothing to complain of; and at any
time that anything in my manner or conduct displeases your ladyship,
you have only to speak, and I will endeavor to alter it.”
Lady Gwendolyn held out her hand to the faithful creature. She was
desolate enough to feel thankful even for a humble friend like this;
and the best service is that which is dictated by affection as well as
by duty.
That afternoon Lady Gwendolyn had a confidential interview with her
solicitor, Mr. Large; gave him a power-of-attorney to receive her
dividends, and then, accompanied by Phœbe, she left town.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A PAINFUL SURPRISE.
Several of Sir Lawrence’s--as we must call him now--new neighbors had
attended the funeral, and his pleasant but subdued manner impressed
them so favorably that they were ready to give him and his wife a
cordial greeting when they came to live among them.
“We always felt for your uncle,” said old Lord Milworth, as he shook
the young baronet heartily by the hand; “but, you see, he lived such a
secluded life that we did not know him well enough to miss him. But you
and your beautiful wife will be great acquisitions, Sir Lawrence, and I
hope we shall shortly have the pleasure of welcoming you to Loamshire.”
Sir Lawrence thanked him in suitable terms, and said he counted upon
bringing Lady Gwendolyn to the Abbey in the course of a week or so,
and this information pleased the old lord mightily, for he was a great
admirer of the fair sex generally, and of Lady Gwendolyn in particular.
But in spite of all the kind feeling that was shown him, Sir Lawrence
was thankful when he found himself in the carriage that was to take him
to the station. The Abbey seemed to him full of the gloom of death, and
cast a chill over his warm, eager pulses.
However, once on his way to Paris, he began to recover himself. When he
reached town, he had only just time to drive from one station to the
other, but by promising the cabman double fare, he managed to catch
his train, and was soon speeding toward Dover, picking up his spirits
gradually as he went along.
He reached Paris at about six o’clock in the morning, and drove
straight to his hotel. Much as he longed to see his wife, and clasp her
once more in his arms, he was too unselfish to disturb her at such an
early hour, and, ordering another room, he lay down and tried to sleep
for awhile.
But he found this to be out of the question, and soon rose and dressed
himself.
Precisely as the clock struck nine--not a minute before--he knocked
softly at the door of his wife’s bedroom, and, receiving no answer, he
went in on tiptoe, enjoying the anticipation of waking her with a kiss.
But a sudden prophetic chill crept over him when he perceived that
the bed was empty. There where he had last seen his wife’s fresh,
flowerlike face was a large pink _edredon_, such as Othello might have
used to smother Desdemona.
He tossed it over, thinking that, maybe, she had hidden herself beneath
it in order to give him a little surprise in her turn; but as there was
no sign of her or her belongings anywhere, he went back into the salon,
and rang the bell, as if he would ring it down.
The garçon came up running. Sir Lawrence asked if miladi had changed
her room, at which Francois stared in amazement.
“Changed her room?” he repeated. “Why, she is gone!”
“Where?”
“Miladi did not say, monsieur; and it was not our affair to inquire. We
thought she had left to join monsieur.”
“Are there any letters for me?” demanded Sir Lawrence, putting his hand
to his heart, as if he had received a sudden blow.
“Yes, monsieur, there is one for you, and also several for miladi. We
gave them in charge of the manager directly they arrived.”
“Fetch them quickly,” answered Sir Lawrence, who thought he should
find something to explain his wife’s sudden caprice; and he scarcely
breathed until the man came back, bringing with him all the letters
Sir Lawrence had written to his wife, and one in Lady Gwendolyn’s
handwriting addressed to him.
He waited until the garçon had retired, and then he tore open this last
with an eager, tremulous hand.
A letter full of reproaches and accusations would not have moved him
so much as this cruel silence, this cold abandonment. It is true that
the telegram was a full explanation, and quite accounted for his wife’s
sudden departure, but he had not expected such dignified self-control
in an impulsive girl like Lady Gwendolyn. He forgot that she had
received one of those terrible blows that alter a woman’s entire
nature, and, therefore, it was useless to seek any precedent for her
present course of conduct.
At first he could hardly realize the full significance of all that had
happened. It seemed so impossible that his wife had really left him,
and yet, the cruel contrast between his hopes and the chill reality
destroyed the last remnant of his self-control. He buried his face in
his hands, and the tears rained from his burning eyes. His whole life
was wrapped up in this woman who had deserted him; and the child that
was coming to her was his.
Recovering himself a little, he sat down to ponder as to the best
course to be pursued. He knew it was no use advertising, because Lady
Gwendolyn had often told him that this would be an unnecessary exposure
so far as she was concerned, as she never read a newspaper. How, then,
could he get at her? Suddenly, as if by inspiration, it occurred to him
that his wife must have taken her solicitor into her confidence, as he
received her rents, and would have to keep her supplied with money. He
did not know Mr. Large’s address, but he felt sure that his own man of
business would, as he had had to communicate with the other at the time
of Lady Gwendolyn’s marriage.
Therefore, Sir Lawrence made up his mind to return at once to London;
and, as he lost no time, he found himself back again that night--too
late, however, to call upon Mr. Browne.
He passed a miserable night, and was only too thankful when it was time
to start for Mr. Browne’s office with a reasonable hope of finding
him there. Mr. Browne looked very much surprised when he heard Sir
Lawrence’s errand.
“Surely her ladyship has not forgotten,” he said. “She must often have
occasion to communicate with him.”
“Yes, but it is I who want to communicate with Mr. Large,” responded
his client; “and Lady Gwendolyn is not with me.”
“Oh, I see!” replied Mr. Browne, quite satisfied. “I do not remember
Mr. Large’s address at this moment, but I will look through my
books, and tell you directly. I hope her ladyship is quite well?” he
concluded, as he began to turn over the leaves of a small manuscript
book, stopping when he came to the letter “L,” which headed one of the
pages.
“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Sir Lawrence hesitatingly; but Mr.
Browne did not hear.
“Here it is!” he said at last; “Throgmorton Street, Danesbury Square,
number ten.”
Sir Lawrence rose at once, thanked him politely, and hurried off. He
had to wait half an hour at the office before Mr. Large arrived, and
was beginning to get very impatient, when that gentleman suddenly
appeared before him.
“I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, with a courteous
bow; “but I had to see a client at his own house this morning, and have
not even had time to breakfast yet. Can I be of any use to you, Sir
Lawrence?”
“You certainly can, Mr. Large. I suppose we shall be private here?”
“Quite so. My clerks would not disturb me themselves, or allow any one
else to disturb me when I am busy.”
“And they cannot overhear what we say?”
“Most assuredly not.”
In spite of this assurance, Sir Lawrence looked cautiously about him
before he began, in a low voice:
“You know, of course, Mr. Large, that my wife has left me?”
Mr. Large bowed. He had no need to deny this.
Sir Lawrence went on:
“I must tell you that she has made a great mistake, Mr. Large. If
I deserved such treatment at her hands I should only be too glad,
naturally, to let matters remain as they are, and regain my liberty;
but she has judged too hastily and superficially. I could explain
things to her perfect satisfaction if she would grant me an interview,
and I came here on purpose to ask you to tell her this, as she has left
me no way of communicating this to her myself.”
“I would willingly do what you ask, Sir Lawrence,” Mr. Large replied,
“but Lady Gwendolyn has not at present given me any address. She
took with her a check for three hundred and twenty pounds, being her
half-year’s rent and dividends, and said, as she had not yet decided
where to go, she would write to me later.”
“What did she give as her reason for such an extraordinary step?”
“She gave no reason.”
“You astonish me!” exclaimed Sir Lawrence vehemently. “I fancied she
would have accused me, in order to excuse herself.”
“Then you will pardon me for saying that you do not understand Lady
Gwendolyn. If impulsive, she is very generous, and rather sought to
take the blame of your separation upon herself. I remember her very
words: ‘You know I am a spoiled child, Mr. Large, and very difficult
to please. I expected so much that I was sure to be disappointed, and,
therefore, have no right to complain. Pray let us keep the affair as
quiet as we can.’ I reminded her that her friends would demand some
explanation of her conduct; but she assured me that she was perfectly
independent in every way, and had no intention of consulting anybody.
Of course, I knew nothing of her ladyship’s motives, and had no right
to interfere. I am only surprised that she allowed me to say as much as
I did.”
“Did she look ill, Mr. Large?”
“Extremely ill--so ill that I took the liberty of advising her to keep
within reach of good medical advice.”
“And what did she say?” inquired Sir Lawrence eagerly.
“She said she had had a long journey, and a trying time mentally; but
that she should, no doubt, be all right when she got into the country.”
“Got into the country?” repeated Sir Lawrence, welcoming the hint
eagerly. “She did not mention Turoy, I suppose?”
“Yes, she did. She told me that her old nurse, Hannah, would not be
able to take care of it any longer as her husband had obtained a good
situation at Westhampstead, and, therefore, she should like the house
let if I could get her a respectable tenant.”
“Should you consider me a respectable tenant?” inquired Sir Lawrence,
with a faint, trembling smile.
Mr. Large seemed amused.
“Would you care to have the Grange?”
“Certainly I should. I could not bear a stranger there where my wife
passed so many happy months when she was a child; moreover, I think
that Lady Gwendolyn ought not to be living on six or seven hundred a
year when I have thirty thousand, and I suppose she will not allow me
to help her in any other way.”
“But, you see, Sir Lawrence, her ladyship knows that the Grange is only
worth about eighty or ninety pounds a year; and if I were to offer her
a fancy rent, she would immediately suspect something wrong.”
“It can’t be wrong for a man to support his wife. I wish, with all my
heart, that Lady Gwendolyn had not a farthing, and then it would have
been difficult for her to leave me, unless she had the law on her side.”
“I infer, from what she says, Sir Lawrence, that she considers herself
to have the law on her side, but does not care to appeal to it.”
“I wish she would, with all my heart. The only thing I ask is an
opportunity of explaining matters, and clearing myself. I should never
have condemned her without proof.”
“When I begged her ladyship to reflect before she took a step that she
might regret so much later, and mentioned how deceitful appearances
often were, she told me that she had the fullest proof, and must needs
believe her own eyes and ears.”
“Her own eyes!” repeated Sir Lawrence. “But she came straight from
Paris here, I presume?”
“I do not know if am doing right, Sir Lawrence, but I cannot help
telling you that when her ladyship came to me she had just returned
from Borton, and not from Paris.”
Sir Lawrence became frightfully pale. He understood it all now.
“Then I am undone,” he said. “What my wife saw there she would
certainly misconstrue, and she has left me no chance of explaining
matters.”
For a minute his courage gave way utterly, and he buried his face in
his hands, and trembled from head to foot with the effort he made to
command himself.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A COTTAGE BY THE SEA.
All Mr. Large’s sympathies had been with Lady Gwendolyn at starting;
but now he began to think there might possibly be another side to the
question. He knew Lady Gwendolyn was naturally impulsive--and legal
men generally look upon impulsiveness as a fault, or, at best, an
inconvenient quality which stands in the way of anything like calm,
dispassionate judgment. Of course she had seen and heard something,
since she said so; but then “trifles light as air are, to the jealous,
confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ,” and a person who jumps to
conclusions is not to be trusted in any way.
He felt for this girl more than a lawyer’s interest in his client, for
he had known her since she was a child. He could not bear that she
should throw away her happiness, and, therefore, when Sir Lawrence said:
“If I write a letter to my wife, explaining matters fully, will you
forward it to her as soon as you know her address, Mr. Large?”
He answered readily:
“With great pleasure, Sir Lawrence. She did not forbid me to do that.”
“Then I won’t detain you any longer just now,” said Sir Lawrence. “I am
exceedingly obliged to you for befriending me, Mr. Large,” he added,
with a sad smile; “and I do assure you, on my honor as a gentleman,
that I am perfectly guiltless of any offense toward my wife. Where I
have sinned is against Heaven, in setting myself up an earthly idol,
and for this I am being punished deservedly now.”
His tone was one of deep emotion and unmistakable sincerity. Mr. Large
could not help saying:
“I will do the best I can for you, Sir Lawrence; but I am afraid you
will need all your patience. Her ladyship gave me to understand that
she should not write to me until she wanted money, and as she is
supposed to have her half-year’s allowance with her, that will not be
yet.”
“My only hope is that not being accustomed to economize, she will find
her income insufficient. She has been accustomed to spend more than she
has now upon her dress and charities, and will, I am sure, find it very
difficult to make both ends meet now. Excuse me for dwelling on this
possibility; but it is my one hope.”
“Then it is not to be wondered you should dwell on it, under the
circumstances,” replied Mr. Large. “But may I venture to ask, Sir
Lawrence, what your present plans are?”
“Certainly. I shall remain in London, in order that I may be on the
spot whenever you have any news for me. But I do not mean any of my
friends to know of my whereabouts, and I shall not show myself either
at Borton or Milworth until Lady Gwendolyn returns to me. In this way I
hope to shield her from remark, and make it easier for her to take up
her married life again without awkwardness or pain. We have been abroad
for six months--let the world suppose we are still there.”
“I think you are quite right,” Mr. Large said; “and I feel sure that
your consideration will touch Lady Gwendolyn when she comes to her
senses. You will bring me your letter soon, Sir Lawrence?”
“To-morrow you may count upon it,” he answered; and then, with a polite
apology for having taken up so much of the other’s time, Sir Lawrence
departed.
The next day he took the letter to Mr. Large’s office, and put it
into the worthy lawyer’s own hand. Then he went back to his solitary
lodgings, to wait for the moment when his wife should repent of her
hasty desertion, and come back to him timidly, humbly, to find such a
generous pardon ready for her, that she would never dream of leaving
him again.
* * * * *
“I am sorry I came to the seaside now,” said Lady Gwendolyn languidly,
to her faithful abigail, one morning; “the wind kept me awake all
night.”
“Yes, my lady, it does sound dolesome,” answered Phœbe. “They say
there haven’t been such gales for years. A ship was wrecked close to
the pier last night, and three poor souls drowned within sight of the
coastguard.”
“And could nothing be done to help them?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, with
a shudder.
“No, my lady. The sea was running so high the life-boat couldn’t get
out. It makes me feel quite sad to live where such things are always
happening.”
“Nonsense! Phœbe, you exaggerate,” exclaimed her mistress, almost
sharply. “This is the first shipwreck we have had since we came here.”
“But if we are to have one every three months, it will be cheerful, my
lady,” answered Phœbe, who did not wish to make the best of the present
state of affairs, and thought it very foolish of Lady Gwendolyn to live
in a little cottage by the sea, with a couple of women servants to
wait upon her, when she might have the run of two mansions, and twenty
dependents at least.
And it was terribly dull at Wintertown. Phœbe had been accustomed to a
good deal of change, and not a soul came near Cliff Cottage, except the
clergyman of the parish, and he never brought his wife.
Lady Gwendolyn received him because his visits comforted her, and,
moreover, she knew that he was too much of a gentleman to pry into her
affairs, but she never allowed him to suppose that she was other than
what she called herself--Mrs. St. Maur.
Her beauty and aristocratic air made her an object of great curiosity
in Wintertown, and, of course, the women were all against her, and felt
sure that her seclusion was the cover for some disgraceful secret; but
what did all this matter to her?
She believed that she was doing right at the sacrifice of all her
earthly happiness, and when her heart yearned with a great yearning
toward her husband, she knelt down and prayed wildly not to be
delivered into temptation, but to have strength to endure even to the
end.
One night, just as the earth was beginning to grow green again, and
primrose and violets were sweetening the hedgerows, Lady Gwendolyn,
only half-conscious still, came stupefied out of her hour of anguish to
find a little face nestling against her bosom, and to hear with deep
thankfulness that a man child was born into the world, and born to her.
Coming back to life herself from the very edge of the grave, the joy of
maternity swallowed up the recollection of past peril, and she thrilled
through her whole being as she pressed her white lips to the soft,
wrinkled cheek.
“I never saw a bonnier babe, ma’am,” said the nurse cheerfully. “How
proud his poor pa would be of him if he could see him.”
Lady Gwendolyn shivered, and her joy was poisoned in a moment. This
child belonged to her husband as well as to herself, and how could
she ever look at it without being reminded of the saddest page in her
life--of the wrong and treachery that had made her future a blank.
The boy had his father’s deep blue eyes, and when they began to open
fuller, Lady Gwendolyn had a strange fancy that they reproached her,
and would turn uneasily away.
Was it possible that she had been too hasty? She had, of course, done
right to leave Sir Lawrence, but she might have written and explained
her motives, and given him a chance of excusing himself, for her
own sake. In trying to punish him, she had left herself without any
comfort, and the position was irretrievable now, since, if she showed
any signs of relenting, he would imagine that she was ready to condone
the past, and live with him, anyhow, rather than not live with him at
all.
The boy was a month old before Lady Gwendolyn began to recover her
strength, and, meanwhile, her expenses were very large. Doctors and
nurses cost money, and the young mother’s extreme delicacy made economy
out of the question for the present. Then, in her maternal pride, she
was apt to forget that Master Lawrence was not heir to Milworth Abbey
and Borton Hall, and indulged in extravagances her income would not
stand.
Keeping no accounts, she did not realize, indeed, what she was
spending, and was horrified one day, when, in looking in what she
called her reserve purse, she found that it only contained five pounds.
And it wanted a month yet of dividend day. What was to be done? She had
been in the habit of paying ready money for everything, and did not
even know that she could obtain credit in the town, neither would her
pride allow her to ask it.
She had left all her jewels in Mr. Large’s charge, otherwise she would
have sacrificed a diamond ornament, and taken care to be more careful
for the future. But under present circumstances this was out of the
question, and meanwhile she must have sufficient to pay her weekly
bills. She pondered the question anxiously all night, and by morning
she had come to the conclusion that there was no help for it, and she
must write to Mr. Large.
This was a sore humiliation to Lady Gwendolyn, the more so that Mr.
Large had seemed to think she would not be able to manage on her
income, having been accustomed to such lavish expenditure, and she had
assured him that she intended to make it do, and had taken rather a
lofty tone on the occasion. But it was better to eat humble pie than to
run into debt, in a place where her only claim to consideration was the
punctuality of her payments; so she put her pride in her pocket, and
wrote off to Mr. Large, saying that her expenses had been much greater
than she had anticipated of late, that she must ask him to advance her
fifty pounds, and deduct them from her dividends when they became due.
Directly this letter was despatched, Lady Gwendolyn felt easier in her
mind, although the effort it had cost her to write it had made her
quite ill.
“And if I am embarrassed now,” she said to herself grimly, “what will
it be when baby gets a big boy, and wants educating, and all that sort
of thing? I haven’t even a rich maiden aunt to leave me money, and I
have always heard that boys are expensive things to bring up. If we
were in our right position now----But I will not think of that, since
it is so impossible,” she added quickly. “I must do my best, and trust
all the rest to Providence. I have heard of people who lived upon even
less than six hundred a year, and now that I always dress in black, my
clothes won’t cost me much.”
CHAPTER XXV.
SIR LAWRENCE ACTS.
Sir Lawrence Dacre was just stepping out of Mr. Large’s house, his head
erect, his eyes shining, his whole face transformed, looking as a man
might who has just received some very joyful tidings, when he suddenly
felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, turning, found himself face to
face with Lord Teignmouth.
Sir Lawrence’s face changed again, and he drew a little away from his
former friend. He could not forget Reginald’s cruel desertion of his
young sister, and was not inclined to encourage his advances under the
circumstances.
But when he scrutinized him closer, Lord Teignmouth looked so
thoroughly miserable and ill, that he could not help relenting a little
and allowing him to walk along by his side.
“Where are you going now?” inquired the earl presently. “I want to have
a little confidential talk with you, and should prefer to get out of
the streets.”
“I am going to my lodgings,” replied Sir Lawrence; “but I have not much
time to spare, as I leave for the country this evening.”
“Is Gwen here with you? I have been making inquiries in every
direction, and couldn’t hear anything about either of you; so I
imagined you were still abroad.”
Sir Lawrence colored, and said evasively:
“We were abroad for some time, but my wife is at the seaside at present
with our boy. I hope we shall be settling down now. I begin to long
after home.”
“I never heard anything about your boy’s birth,” said Lord Teignmouth,
in a surprised tone; “and when you consider that he is heir to two
estates, and an earldom into the bargain, it would have been natural to
herald his birth with a flourish of trumpets.”
“How do you mean heir to an earldom?” said Sir Lawrence.
“I’ll tell you when we get inside,” replied Lord Teignmouth grimly; and
he did not speak again until they were alone at Sir Lawrence’s rooms,
and the other had assured him there was no fear of interruption. Then
he said coolly and abruptly:
“Pauline has run away from me.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the young baronet. “Why?”
“Because she liked somebody else better, I suppose,” continued Lord
Teignmouth, with assumed carelessness. “There is no answering for a
woman’s fancies. Her accursed vanity makes her such an easy prey that
you may always be sure she will run away from you sooner or later if
any one takes the trouble to tempt her.”
“She would find it a perilous pastime if she belonged to me,” returned
Sir Lawrence, with gleaming eyes, “unless she ran away alone.”
The earl shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“It is much better to be philosophical. Besides, Pauline has been
deceiving me for years, and I feel as if I am well rid of such a woman
on any terms.”
“How did it happen?”
“In this wise. Pauline went to the Newburg masked ball, and I went to
bed. The next morning about noon I had occasion to speak to my lady
about a large dressmaker’s bill that had just come in, and went to look
for her up-stairs. To my surprise I found that she had not been home
at all that night. Of course I rang for her maid, and asked if she
knew where her mistress was; but Julie was evidently as ignorant of
her whereabouts as I was. She fancied that my lady was ill, as she did
not return, she said; but when we came to look about us we found that
she had taken her jewel-case with her, which gave her absence rather a
suspicious air.”
“And there was no letter?”
“Not until the second post, and then I was honored with a somewhat
voluminous epistle informing me in the politest way possible that I
was an unsympathetic brute, with whom it was impossible for a woman
with any natural sensibility to be happy, and finally that she had
found some one to really care for, and believed that the future would
compensate for the past.”
“Confoundedly cool!” exclaimed Sir Lawrence, apparently more moved than
the earl himself.
“Or, rather, well put. Women of Pauline’s caliber are always insolent,
unless you make them fear you; and that sort of thing was never in my
line.”
“With whom is she gone? Do you know?”
“Oh, yes! I saw it in the _Court Chronicle_. The man whom she
thinks able to sympathize with a sensitive, tender creature is a
Russian--Prince Czarski--and is married to a handsome Irish woman,
whose husband, Jack O’Hara, was in your regiment, I believe.”
“Poor Norah! Her second venture was not a very fortunate one, then.
What could she have been thinking of when she married that man?”
“Of pin-money, I suppose, like all women,” answered Lord Teignmouth
cynically; “and from that point of view she has done very well. I heard
yesterday that she has taken Lady Gorman’s house, in Mayfair, for the
season; so that she must be pretty well provided for. Have you any soda
and brandy in the house?” he concluded abruptly, as he leaned back in
his chair and passed his hand over his damp forehead. “This sort of
thing is very upsetting, even when you are a philosopher.”
Sir Lawrence rang, and ordered what he required; and when Lord
Teignmouth had drunk off a tumbler of the mixture, he went on gravely:
“The worst of it is, my wife has played a part all along. You remember
that Belmont affair?”
“Quite well,” answered Sir Lawrence, who thought he knew what was
coming.
“Well, she was to blame there, and not poor Gwen, after all, it
seems. Belmont had been her lover before even she married me, and she
corresponded with and met him secretly. If he had been as rich as the
Russian prince, she would probably have sympathized with him to the
same extent; but his poverty stood in the way of his preferment,”
added the earl, with, a bitter laugh. “I am sorry she fooled me so
completely; but Gwen is a generous soul, and knows how helpless men are
in the hands of artful, designing women, so that, perhaps, she will
forgive me, if you ask her. Tell her Pauline has done her one good
turn, anyhow--she has made her boy my heir presumptive to the earldom
of Teignmouth.”
“But surely you will get a divorce and marry again?”
“I shall get a divorce, probably; but I shall never marry again. ‘Once
bit, twice shy,’ you know.”
“Do you mind telling me who enlightened you about that affair of
Belmont’s?”
“Not at all; it was the princess--Mrs. O’Hara that was. She naturally
felt indignant when she missed her spouse in the morning, too, and
found out that my wife had wronged her doubly by running off with her
husband. I don’t really think human nature could bear this tamely; and
she came to me at once with her brother’s last letter, and also several
written to him by Lady Teignmouth.”
“Poor Norah! Was she much troubled?”
“She was more angry than hurt, I really believe; and seemed comforted
by the thought that she was well provided for, pecuniarily speaking. I
fancy she had caught a Tartar, and was not sorry, on the whole, to be
rid of him.”
“If that is the case, he will avenge your wrongs.”
“Exactly; it generally happens so. But I think we have given more time
to this subject than it deserves--don’t you? When are you going to join
Gwen?”
“To-night.”
“Then I may as well go with you, and make my peace with her, and be
introduced to my heir--unless you have any objection?”
“I shall be delighted to have you, and so will Gwen, I am sure; for she
is, as you say, a generous soul. But, if you would not mind, I should
much rather you followed me to-morrow.”
“Very well; just as you like,” he answered, lighting a cigar. “Perhaps
it would be better, as you can explain matters before I come. Somehow,
I don’t want to talk of that unhappy business of mine more than I am
quite obliged.”
“Naturally,” said Sir Lawrence, and glanced at the clock. “I must go
now,” he added, “or I shall miss my train. There’s Gwen’s address, and
we shall expect you some time to-morrow.”
“All right,” answered Lord Teignmouth; and the two parted with a
cordial hand-shake. One was too happy, the other too miserable, to bear
malice.
It was dusk when Sir Lawrence arrived at Wintertown. He took a fly,
told the man to drive him to within a few doors of Lady Gwendolyn’s
cottage, then jumped out and made his way to the house under cover of
the darkness. Opening the door cautiously, he stole in to find himself
face to face with Phœbe, who was just going to light the hall lamp.
She was so surprised that the candle she was holding dropped out of her
hand, and for one anxious moment he thought she was going to scream
and spoil all. But Phœbe was quite as glad to see him as he was to be
there, and so, having recovered herself a little, she beckoned him,
with a confidential air, into the dining-room, and said, under her
breath:
“My lady is asleep, sir. Shall I go and tell her you are here?”
“Not for the world,” replied Sir Lawrence, who thought it would be
pleasant to act the prince in the fairy tale, and wake his sleeping
beauty with a kiss. But he stayed for a minute to ask Phœbe a few
questions.
“Is your mistress quite well?”
“As well as any one can be who is always worrying and fretting, sir.”
“We’ll soon alter that, Phœbe. There has been a miserable mistake, and
I had no chance of explaining. But you may begin to pack up--we shall
all be off to-morrow evening.”
“Shall we, indeed, sir?” exclaimed Phœbe joyfully. “I hope everybody
will know who my mistress really is now, sir; for it wasn’t pleasant to
see her looked down upon, who was so much better than all of them, and
she wouldn’t even let me call her ‘my lady’ before the other servants.”
“What name did they know her by, then?”
“Mrs. St. Maur.”
“Has she had no friends in Wintertown?”
“Not one, sir. The clergyman of the parish came occasionally----”
“And his wife?”
“Oh! no, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because people misdoubted my lady’s being married at all, sir. You
see, it did look odd her being here without any one to speak for her,
as it were.”
“It was a miserable pity,” he said passionately. “But it is no use
talking about it now, Phœbe.”
“No, sir,” answered the faithful girl, beginning to whimper; “only it
has been a sad trial for me, who knew that my mistress merited the
attention and respect she did not get. But come what may, she is a deal
too handsome ever to have the women on her side.”
“I’ll take care they are civil to her, anyhow,” replied Sir Lawrence,
with a very determined air, as he nodded kindly to Phœbe, and then went
to his wife.
He had not the heart to wake her just yet, she slept so peacefully; and
yet, when the fire blazed up for a moment, and he could see her face
plainly, he thought it looked pale and worn.
As for the child--he was glad and proud to have a son, but it was very
difficult to think of him when his mother was by. He took just one peep
at the face crushed against Lady Gwendolyn’s bosom, and then he sat
down on the couch at his wife’s side, and gradually insinuated his arm
round her waist.
As she did not rouse he grew bolder, and presently her head was resting
on his shoulder, as naturally as if there had been no break in their
tender union. To listen to her soft breathing was happiness enough for
awhile, but at last he began to weary for the sound of her voice--the
touch of her sweet lips.
“Only that if I wake her, the child will wake, too, and then he’ll
cry, as a matter of course,” thought Sir Lawrence, whose experience of
babies so far had not prejudiced him in their favor. “I suppose I must
wait.”
He was very patient for about five minutes, and then the soft, white
cheek on his shoulder tempted him beyond his strength, and he bent down
and kissed it with more vehemence than he realized.
Lady Gwendolyn stirred, then, and it seemed as if she had been dreaming
of him, for his name rose to her lips, and as he drew her closer, baby
and all, she opened her eyes quite wide, put up her lips to be kissed
like a child, and said, very softly:
“I am glad you have come, papa; baby and I were wanting you badly.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
A LONG EXPLANATION.
“Well, my love,” said Sir Lawrence, when the first rapture of reunion
was over, and his wife was leaning languidly against him, like one
faint with too much joy, “are you going to take me on trust now, after
having shown such poor faith in me hitherto?”
She looked up at him with a shy smile.
“I am sure you will tell me of your own accord what it is right I
should know.”
“Exactly; and I only regret, dear Gwen, that I was so foolishly
sensitive in the beginning as to withhold it. But there are some things
it is so hard to tell.”
“Then keep silent, Lawrence.”
“No, darling; you and I will never have any disguises for the future.
The poor unhappy woman you saw at Borton Hall was my only sister.”
“Your sister? Oh, Lawrence! can you ever forgive me?” she exclaimed
penitently.
“I think I can, if I try very hard,” he answered, with a smile. “And
I must own that appearances were sadly against me. But it is a very
painful story, Gwen. Poor Mary was married at eighteen to a man she
loved with all her heart; and though she began to change from that
very day, she was so loyal I never once suspected her secret. But two
years after her marriage her mind gave way altogether, and then, for
the first time, I discovered that her brutal husband had subjected her
to every kind of ill-usage and degradation. She was even scarred by
his blows, poor soul! and such a wreck! My very blood runs cold when I
think of it. I placed her with a doctor, who was very skilful in the
treatment of mental disorders; and, after awhile, she seemed to mend a
little, although she had extraordinary and painful delusions, and was
so restless that it was impossible to lose sight of her for a moment.
In one of these fits she actually came to Borton on foot, and must have
wandered about the house, since you saw her.”
“She came into the room where I was, and asked me if I had seen her
husband.”
“Exactly. That was one of the most distressing phases of her malady, to
my mind: that she was always wanting her husband, and seemed to think
me so cruel in keeping her away from him. Her mind was so completely
gone that she had no recollection of his ill-usage; and, although this
was well for some reasons, it made a good many difficulties. But she
could never have actually mentioned me by name when she spoke of her
husband?”
“I am afraid I jumped to conclusions a little,” replied Lady Gwendolyn
contritely. “Now I know the truth, I see I might have put a different
construction on her words.”
Then she told him about her journey to Borton, and how she had received
there what she believed to be a full confirmation of her fears. Sir
Lawrence was glad she had not condemned him without what seemed to her
good proof, although he could hardly understand where a delicate young
creature like Lady Gwendolyn had found the courage for such a task.
“And so ill as you were, too, at the time,” he said tenderly.
“Yes; but the hope of seeing or hearing something that would exonerate
you made me valiant, Lawrence. I determined to make ‘assurance doubly
sure’ before I left you for good, because--because I did want to stay
with you so badly.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he asked, just to try her. “Even I should not
have known that you were compromising with your conscience in so doing,
if you had burned the paper you had picked up, and said nothing about
it.”
“That is true; but I could never have kept it to myself; and, what is
more, I should have been utterly miserable, especially after baby’s
birth.”
“Why more especially after baby’s birth?”
“Because, if it had all come out one of these days, he would not have
had a very high opinion of his mother; and, of course, I want baby to
respect me.”
She said this with a little air of matronly dignity that was fine to
see, and amused and touched him equally.
“I’ll take care Master Baby is brought up to think there never was such
a woman as his mother,” he said, smiling. “Boys always imitate their
fathers.”
“Do they? I’m so glad!” she answered naïvely. “But, Lawrence, tell me
who was it sent you that telegram in Paris?”
“The gentleman with whom poor Mary was living.”
“And where is she now?”
“Dead, poor heart!” he replied solemnly and feelingly. “She left Mr.
Jepherson’s house the last time she came to Borton very insufficiently
clad, and traveled one whole night. The consequence was that she caught
a cold, which settled on her lungs, and only lingered three weeks. I
loved her very dearly; but I cannot regret her, Gwen.”
“I suppose it was just an instinct that made her always take refuge at
Borton.”
“She knew that I had been mixed up in some way in separating her from
her scoundrel of a husband, and this gave her the notion that I was
keeping them apart. I could not make her realize any part of the past
that would hinder her from dwelling on this one idea. All her other
delusions changed; but that was a steady, fixed conviction that all
the reasoning in the world would not alter. Her last words were: ‘I am
going to my husband, now, in spite of you all.’ And it was strange,
Gwen; but Captain Lowe died the very day before she did, so that,
perhaps, who can tell? they did meet again in another world.”
Lady Gwendolyn’s face was very sad now as she leaned against her
husband’s shoulder.
“Poor Mary! what a miserable fate; and she looked so young still.”
“Four-and-twenty. I will show you her grave when we go to Borton.”
“Don’t tell me, if you would rather not, Lawrence, but I should like to
know why you kept this such a profound secret?”
“Because people believed her to be dead, and it seemed to me better so.
Captain Lowe would have claimed her directly, if he fancied there was
anything to be gained by it. As it was, he often tried to exact money
from me.”
“Yes; but you might have confided in me,” she said half reproachfully.
“I was so afraid that my love for you would make me disloyal to poor
Mary, and then, if a mere inkling of the truth had come out, Captain
Lowe would have left me no peace of my life.”
“But after we were married you knew I could be trusted, Lawrence.”
“If you had questioned me then, I should have told you all; but as you
did not do so, I was glad to leave well alone.”
“You wouldn’t have liked me to have any secret from you, Lawrence.”
“No, my love, that is true; at the same time, you must remember that
you might have had half a dozen mad relatives, and I should not have
known. The fact is”--and his voice changed--“I was terribly sensitive
about it, Gwen. I was so afraid you would make a trouble of it,
and fancy insanity was hereditary in the Dacre family. My uncle’s
eccentricity would have confirmed the impression, and the very idea of
a possible fate of this kind for your unborn child would almost have
worried you into your grave.”
“I am afraid it would,” she admitted.
“But let us talk of something more cheerful now, Gwen. Who do you think
is coming to see you to-morrow?”
“Not Mrs. O’Hara?” said Lady Gwendolyn, looking alarmed.
“A very bad guess. Try again.”
“Pauline?”
“Heaven forbid! Will you give it up?”
“Is it Beatrice Ponsonby?”
“No again.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Your brother, Reginald.”
Lady Gwendolyn changed color.
“Is it worth while?” she asked coldly. “Pauline is sure to take care
that we do not keep friends long, in case we should compare notes.”
“You may compare notes as long as you like; you cannot hurt Pauline
more than she has hurt herself.”
And Sir Lawrence told his wife the miserable, guilty story, knowing
quite well that the very idea of Reginald’s being in trouble would make
his generous, impulsive little wife forget her own wrongs in a moment.
And so it was.
“Oh! poor Reggie, how very shameful and wicked! How could she?--how
could she?” was all Lady Gwendolyn could say. “She promised me so
faithfully she would be a good wife for the future, if I would not tell
my brother the truth.”
“And perhaps she meant it all the time, Gwen; but she had got into the
habit of these intrigues, and could not live without the excitement. If
she had had children she might have been a better woman; but she did
not care for Lord Teignmouth from the first, and then he did leave her
too much liberty.”
“I told him so once, but he said that a wife who needed watching was
not worth keeping. Then she always pretended to be such a prude.”
“She hadn’t that character in the world, I assure you.”
“But Reginald would be the last to hear of that; and if he had, she
would have persuaded him that the women were jealous of her, and so
tried to injure her with him. An artful woman can so easily manage her
husband.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Lawrence, laughing; “that is a bad lookout for me.”
“I am not artful, sir! How dare you speak in that way to baby’s mama?”
“I see baby’s mama is a very important person. I only hope that baby’s
papa is not going to be put entirely aside on his account. I begin to
fear lest I have a very influential rival near the throne. If the boy
is to divide us, instead of drawing us closer together, I shall wish he
had never been born.”
“You dear, foolish man!” she said, understanding perfectly the jealous
feeling that prompted this speech.
Lord Teignmouth looked very shamefaced when he first presented himself
before his sister, but Lady Gwendolyn soon set him at his ease. She
put her arms round his neck, and said heartily:
“I am so glad to see you again, dear old fellow! Don’t let us talk
about anything disagreeable.”
And as he was very glad to be spared, and knew he should have
opportunities of showing what he was not allowed to say, he gave in at
once, and covered his embarrassment by asking to see “our heir.”
Two days later Sir Lawrence took his wife to Milworth Abbey, where
there were fine rejoicings, we may be sure. The house had been useless
to the neighborhood, socially speaking, for years, and every one was
glad to welcome a brighter reign.
Sir Lawrence was already known and liked, and Lady Gwendolyn soon won
golden opinions from all sorts of people. The poor almost worshiped
her. As she often said, since she had lived and nearly lost, she must
make others the happier for her happiness, or perhaps Heaven would take
her blessings from her, and she had so many now, she had need indeed to
be grateful.
THE END.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
The last two words of page 98 (“last hope”) are a best guess based on
an unclear scan.
A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the
public domain.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
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