A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
=A Novel.=
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF “LOVE’S CONFLICT,” ETC., ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
[Illustration]
=London:=
SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO.,
10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND.
1879.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A LITTLE QUARREL 1
II. MR. CHARTERIS 27
III. THE WOLF 51
IV. THE BARON’S STORY 77
V. THE BLACK CLOUD 115
VI. SALLE DU SABBAT 145
VII. MASTER FRED 171
VIII. ACCEPTED 201
IX. THE DEATH-BLOW 225
X. BROKEN 253
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
A BROKEN BLOSSOM.
CHAPTER I.
A LITTLE QUARREL.
St. Pucelle never looked more beautiful than it did on the day that I
took that walk with Charlie Sandilands. The summer glories, yet unfaded,
had been overtaken by those of autumn, and the rich clusters of purple
grapes that hung upon the walls of my guardian’s house made a brilliant
contrast to the scarlet and white and rose-coloured geraniums that still
bloomed luxuriantly on the window-sills. The purple heather reigned
alone upon the hill-side, but ferns of various sorts were arching their
graceful fronds above it, and the merry brown hares were leaping amongst
the brushwood and filling the place with life. As I led Charlie up the
hill (for I would not let Tessie’s silly remark deter me from showing
him the glorious expanse of scenery to be gained from the summit) I
pointed out the beauties of the country to him with so much interest as
to excite the remark that I appeared entirely to have forgotten poor old
Norwood in my new love for St. Pucelle.
This was exactly the sort of thing I had hoped Charlie would say to me,
for I had had two reasons in inviting him to a confidential interview:
one was to ask his advice about writing to Mr. Warrington; the other to
find out if he intended to be sensible during his stay in our
neighbourhood, and permit me to enjoy his company without being annoyed
by his sentimentality. So I answered briskly:
‘I never cared for Norwood itself, you know, Charlie, and you would
scarcely expect me to get up an enthusiastic admiration for a suburb of
London, composed of bricks and mortar and stunted trees. Its
recollections are sacred to me, because my dear mother lies there, but
that is all.’
‘I was sure that coming abroad would give you a distaste for all the old
things,’ he said, in a desponding manner.
‘Don’t talk rubbish, Charlie! You were sure of no such thing! If you ask
me if I was happy at Norwood, I answer “_yes_” most fervently. If you
ask me if I liked the place as a residence, I answer, as fervently,
“_no_.” I should have been happy with my mother in St. Giles’s; but I
should not have admired the locality.’
‘Ah well! Let us return to St. Pucelle,’ he said, with a sigh.
‘No! I refuse to return to St. Pucelle until I have spoken a few words
to you. Do you mean to enjoy your holiday here, Charlie, and to let me
enjoy it, or not?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at.’
‘I’m driving at you, or rather at that receptacle for nonsense you call
your brain. Now you know I am very fond of you, Charlie, and have been
for years. You are so associated with my darling mother, that you seem
like a link with the past to me; and I should like to treat you like a
younger brother, and to feel that you looked upon me as a sister. But
that can never be whilst you attempt to stuff any of your sentiment down
my throat.’
‘Really, Hilda——’
‘Really, Charlie, please to hear me out first, and have your say
afterwards. If I thought that what you told me at Norwood proceeded from
a feeling such as men conceive in their maturity, and preserve for their
whole lives, I should not dare broach the subject to you again. But I am
sure it did not.’
‘You imagine, in fact, that I am such a _boy_,’ with a withering accent
on the word, ‘that I am incapable of a lasting passion.’
‘Just so! That is just what I do think; at least, I am sure the fancy
you took for me was born entirely of association and compassion.’
‘I confess I do not follow you.’
‘Oh yes, you do! There are several kinds of love, Charlie, but only one
is the right one with which to enter upon a partnership for life. You
had known me for so long: you had become so _used_ to me, in fact, that
when you thought of our separation, and under such melancholy
circumstances, the pain seemed too hard to bear, and your mind flew to
the only means by which you could have kept me with you. I have often
and often thought of it since, and I am sure I am right. It was very
good and sweet and true of you, Charlie, and I love you the better for
it, but you should thank God I was more clear-sighted than yourself, for
we should have been a very miserable couple.’
‘Do you think so, Hilda?’
‘I am _sure_ of it! My dear boy, you are just at that age when men think
they can live happily with any woman who is young and passably
good-tempered and passably good-looking. But the daily companionship of
a married life is a terrible crucible through which to pass the
affections, and only the true ore will bear the test of it.’
‘I suppose you have found the “true ore” in St. Pucelle,’ he grumbled.
‘Don’t be impudent, Charlie! Every word you say convinces me more and
more of the truth of my conviction. Now do be reasonable, my dear
child——’
‘I won’t be called your “dear child.”’
‘My dear boy, then.’
‘Nor your “dear boy.”’
‘What then, my dear Mr. Sandilands? Oh, you baby! If you were fifty-two
instead of twenty-two, you would be skipping with pleasure at being
called a child. However, I will try not to hurt your feelings again. I
won’t call you “dear” at all.’
‘No, Hilda! don’t say that.’
‘Confess, then, that you made a mistake the other day at Norwood, and
that I, with my independent spirit and intolerance of control, would
never have made you happy in the way you wished me to do.’
‘I will confess no such thing!’
‘But your heart is not broken, Charlie. Come!’ I said, looking round
into his face.
He caught my glance and smiled.
‘Eureka!’ I exclaimed; ‘I knew I should get at the truth at last.’
‘Well! of course it’s not _broken_,’ he replied, in a foolish,
half-shamed manner; ‘or I shouldn’t be walking here, but you made me
very miserable, you know, Hilda! I am sure I hardly ate anything for a
month after you left. But you had said it was of no use, and you never
should change your mind, and so I tried to make the best of it. A man
cannot go on crying over spilt milk for ever, can he?’
‘Of course not,’ I said energetically; ‘and it is so brave and nice of
you to tell me the truth, Charlie. It makes me feel we shall be such
real friends henceforward. And I want your friendship so much. I should
have been unhappy to think that you had put it out of my power to
confide in you; for things are not quite so straight here as they ought
to be.’
‘What! with the Lovetts! Aren’t they kind to you?’
‘The girls are sweetness itself. I never had more lovable companions.’
‘The one I saw first seemed very jolly; the pretty one, I mean!’
‘What, Tessie? the one with fair hair?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh! we call little Ange the beauty! Her face is perfectly lovely when
you look into it.’
‘I didn’t see so much of her. She kept right behind her sister. But Miss
Lovett appeared the prettiest girl I had ever seen, to me—except
yourself, Hilda, of course,’ added Charlie, pulling himself up with a
sudden recollection of the proprieties.
I laughed so heartily that I entirely discomposed him.
‘Oh, Charlie! you have not half learned your lesson yet! I know I’m a
very pretty girl, because you’ve so often told me so; but I do not
expect nor wish that you should never meet somebody you think much
better-looking than myself. And Tessie Lovett and I are formed upon two
such entirely opposite models! How could you think my wounded vanity
would require that little postscript of yours as salve?’
‘I’ll tell you what I _do_ think, Hilda,’ said Charlie, with sudden
bluntness, ‘and that is, that you are the most honest and
straightforward woman I’ve ever known; and I’m sure the man who gets you
will be an out-and-out lucky fellow, whoever he may be.’
‘Well, never mind him, Charlie; he has not appeared upon the scene as
yet, so we can go on very well without him. Tessie has, as you say, a
very sweet and pretty face, and the goodness of her heart shines through
her eyes and makes it beautiful. She has a great deal of trouble and
anxiety to bear, and she bears it with the utmost meekness and patience.
I have a great affection for her, and I hope I shall live to see her the
wife of some good man whose love will make up for the sorrows of her
youth. And as this brings me to the very point on which I want to
consult you, Charlie, suppose we sit down on this bank whilst I tell you
my difficulties.’
We had reached the Calvary now, the very place where I had first met the
Mère Fromard, and were as much alone and more secure from listeners than
if we had been shut up within four walls. So I commenced to recount the
perplexity in which I found myself with regard to money—the attempts I
had made to procure it and the failures that had succeeded them—and
ended by asking him to tell me whether it would be advisable to
communicate with Mr. Warrington on the subject, or to wait and see what
time might bring me.
I had called Charlie Sandilands a ‘baby,’ and in some things a young man
in love, or supposing himself to be so, is a very great baby compared to
an energetic and helpful woman with all her wits about her. Yet I knew
when it came to a question of business, _pur et simple_, that his
decision would be worth twenty of mine, being less likely to be actuated
by any other feeling than a desire to see justice done to his friend.
His advice was that I should write without any delay to Mr. Warrington,
and tell him all I knew.
‘Who had the management of your mother’s affairs during her lifetime,
Hilda?’
‘Mr. Lovett entirely, I believe; at least, you see it was on this wise,
Charlie. My mother had a small pension granted to her by Government, on
account of my father’s scientific discoveries being adopted by the
nation, but that dies with her. The only real property my father left
behind him consists of shares in a tea-raising company in the Himalayas,
producing annually one hundred and fifty pounds, and that is the money
for which Mr. Lovett is still trustee for me.’
‘But there should be two trustees, Hilda.’
‘There were two, I think; but the other one died, and mamma never
appointed a successor to him. Mr. Warrington mentioned something about
it to me, I remember, but I forgot it again. Will you be the other
trustee, Charlie?’
‘I should like to be so very much, but I cannot say if I am fitted for
such a post. You had better ask Warrington. Used Mr. Lovett to send you
mamma the interest of these shares regularly?’
‘I don’t think he did, of late years; but it always came eventually, or
we should not have been able to live. It seems very strange, though,
that now he should be unable to lay his hand on a few pounds for me,
does it not?’
‘I don’t like it at all, Hilda, and I wish you would write to Warrington
about it by this night’s post.’
‘Suppose my letter should bring him over here?’
‘All the better if it is necessary! You may be sure he will not come
unless he considers it so.’
‘I shall tell him with twice the confidence now that I have had your
advice, Charlie. I was so very undecided whether to write to him or your
mother. In fact, I had begun a letter to Mrs. Sandilands when you
arrived.’
‘Mother couldn’t have advised you on her own responsibility. It isn’t a
matter for a woman’s decision—nor for a man’s, except he be a lawyer. I
hope Warrington may ask you to sell out your shares and invest them in
something else. I don’t like tea; it’s so very uncertain. A rainy
season—or a dry one—might deprive you of half your income.’
‘That would be awkward! But I confess to an entire and appalling
ignorance concerning shares and selling out and all that kind of thing.
I am afraid I did not even know where the money came from till Mr.
Warrington told me.’
‘That is not like your usual sense, Hilda; and since it is all you have
to depend upon, I should think the sooner you made yourself acquainted
with its source and securities the better.’
‘Yes, I feel I have been foolish. There is another thing, Charlie. Do
you think I could get my money into my own hands? Mr. Warrington
promised me I should be quite independent, and I should feel so much
more so if I paid Mr. Lovett what we agreed upon, instead of having it
kept back from me like a child.’
‘I should say it would be not only feasible but right that you should
manage your own income. I don’t think you have been treated at all
fairly, Hilda, and I have not conceived a very high idea of your
reverend guardian in consequence.’
‘You had better wait till you see him and judge for yourself, Charlie.
You know the old adage, “What is one man’s meat is another man’s
poison.” I may have been viewing the old gentleman through distorted
lenses. But I fear the rosiest glasses would never make him look a saint
to me again.’
‘Who’s that foreign-looking chap staring at you, Hilda?’ interposed
Charlie, abruptly.
I followed his glance and encountered the graceful form of the Baron de
Nesselrode. He was attired in a velveteen shooting-suit of a
golden-brown hue; had a game-bag slung across his shoulder, and carried
a gun in his hand. Following at his heels were several dogs, amongst
which the two gaunt wolf-hounds that we had seen at the château
contributed to form a most picturesque group.
As the Baron met my gaze, he smiled slightly, lifted his _sombrero_, and
with a low bow passed on his way. But not before I had caught the look
of decided dissatisfaction he threw towards my companion, who was
sitting very close to me upon the bank. The look annoyed me, though I
scarcely knew why. I certainly did not wish Monsieur de Nesselrode nor
anybody else in St. Pucelle to think I was indulging in a flirtation
with Charlie Sandilands, but at the same time I liked him too well to
see any slight cast upon him without inwardly resenting it. So a blight
fell on my spirits as the Baron passed out of sight.
‘Who is he? do you know him?’ asked Charlie, as soon as we were alone
again.
‘Of course I know him, or I should not have returned his bow. That is
the Baron de Nesselrode—a great friend of all the Lovetts—and a
particular one of Tessie’s.’
‘A particular friend of Miss Lovett’s!’ repeated my companion. ‘How do
you mean?’
‘I mean what I say; and I hope and think that at some future time he
will be more than a friend to her. They would make a charming couple,
for he is so thoroughly well-bred and courtier-like, and she has been
reared in the atmosphere of a Court, although her father is now too poor
to permit them to mix in society.’
‘Do you mean that he’ll marry her?’ demanded Charlie, who was rather
dull of comprehension.
‘What else do you suppose I could mean? Nothing is settled, remember;
but the Baron wants a wife terribly, and Tessie is so sweet, I think she
would love anybody who was kind to her.’
‘Well, I should have thought she could do a deal better than that for
herself.’
This disparaging remark was a signal-match for my bad temper, and I
fired up immediately.
‘What a commonplace manner you have of expressing your ideas, Charlie.
Besides, you do not know what you’re talking about. Monsieur de
Nesselrode belongs to one of the first and oldest families of France.
His ancestors have been barons by feudal right ever since the days of
Charlemagne; and if it were not that he had been a little wild and
careless of his money, you would not have seen him in a place like St.
Pucelle at all. The Château des Roses, which he occupies here, is the
least important portion of his estates. He possesses land in
Switzerland, and Normandy, and Anjou, and is the owner of extensive
house property in Paris. The De Nesselrodes have been attached to the
King’s service ever since one of their ancestors saved a royal life. I
believe you would not find better blood in all France than runs in the
veins of the gentleman who has just passed us.’
‘Well, you seem to know all about him, at any rate, Hilda,’ replied
Charlie, when want of breath compelled me to stop my running commentary
on the Baron’s pedigree. ‘I dare say it’s all true, but his title and
estates don’t alter my opinion one bit. I should still think Miss Lovett
a great deal too good for him.’
‘But why? He is very handsome and accomplished, and you know nothing
against his character?’
‘He’s a Frenchman! that’s quite enough for me,’ said Charlie, with
beautiful British depreciation of everybody who did not belong to the
same nation as himself. ‘And an English girl must be too good for him,
if he’s a lord or a costermonger.’
‘What absurd prejudice!’ I replied, with a curling lip; ‘and I should
have credited you with more good taste than to speak of a noble of
France in that way.’
‘Noble of fiddlesticks! Does he ever wash himself, that’s the question,
Hilda? I don’t believe any of these foreigners do.’
‘Why don’t you call him a “frog” at once, or a “Johnny Crapeau”?’ I
returned witheringly. ‘It would be about as brilliant and as much in
accordance with modern enlightenment as what you are saying now. I
declare you put me out of all patience. And to think, too, that a man
like Armand de Nesselrode should have been laid open, by his own folly,
to the animadversions of a—a—Somerset House clerk!’
‘Hullo, Hilda! are you really angry with me? Why, what is this fellow to
you, even if he should be going to marry the pretty Miss Lovett?’
‘Tessie is my friend, Charlie, and if she ever becomes the Baronne de
Nesselrode, her husband will be my friend also. You can judge for
yourself, then, if it is very pleasant for me to sit by and hear you
talk in that way of him.’
‘You must have enough to do if you take up the cudgels for all your
friends’ friends after this fashion. However, I am very sorry if I have
offended you, Hilda, and I will try and believe that your fine Baron
_does_ wash himself, if it pleases you I should do so.’
‘Please not to mention the subject again; it disgusts me,’ I said
loftily, as I rose from my seat and commenced to descend the hill.
Poor Charlie walked by my side in silence till we had got nearly
half-way home, when he said:
‘You’re not cross with me still, are you, Hilda?’
‘I have no right to be cross, but you disappoint me. Are these old
prejudices never to be done away with, and the two finest nations in the
world to meet on terms of perfect amity and mutual esteem? The greater
intellects of earth have abandoned them long since, and it is lowering
to one’s conceptions of human generosity to find they still linger in
the breasts of one’s intimate friends. Why, I suppose, in the whole
course of your life, you have never associated with so intellectual and
highly-bred a man as Monsieur de Nesselrode; indeed, I am _sure_ you
have not. Men like himself are not to be met with in the purlieus of
Somerset House, or amongst the “snobbery” of London suburbs. And yet you
think you have a right to laugh at him, simply because he is not an
Englishman. You make me hate British patriotism! Displayed in this
fashion, it is vulgar, offensive, coarse! You would receive more
politeness and appreciation yourself from the commonest labourer you met
on these country roads than you have accorded to-day to Monsieur de
Nesselrode.’
‘Hilda, I’m awfully sorry! I had no idea you thought so much of this
chap as all that.’
This insinuation nettled me still further.
‘I wish to goodness you wouldn’t call him a “chap”—your cockneyisms
grate on my ears like a file,’ I said angrily. ‘Please to remember that
for the last three months I have been unused to hear the elegancies of
the English language.’
This put a summary end to all conversation between us until we reached
the Lovetts’ house, when Charlie timidly offered me his hand, and said
he supposed he had better go back to the hotel.
‘Good-bye,’ I answered curtly, without any comment on his remark, and
the poor young fellow turned away and walked down the street with a very
crestfallen air.
I think I was a little _too_ hard upon him, but the conviction did not
strike me until some hours afterwards. I don’t remember feeling at all
penitent until I went to bed that night, and then, on reviewing the
day’s proceedings, I was not only sorry but surprised to think that I
should have quarrelled with Charlie Sandilands, and for the first time
in the course of our long acquaintanceship.
Why was it? What could have made me so quick and peppery? It could never
have been a foolish disappointment because Armand de Nesselrode had
passed me without speaking. As that thought struck me I buried my
burning face in the pillows for shame, and resolved that I would
apologise to dear old Charlie, and make it up with him again the very
first thing in the morning.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]