"He smarteth most who hides his smart
And sues for no compassion."
RALEIGH.
"Would you mind taking me with you to church this morning? Miss Berwick
tells me that her uncle won't be shocked."
When Mrs. Rebell made her request, Daniel O'Flaherty was walking up and
down the small hall, waiting for the carriage in which he was to drive
that Sunday morning to the nearest Roman Catholic chapel. He had shared
with the two ladies a comparatively early breakfast, for the service he
was to attend took place at ten.
"Yes, of course," he said, rather awkwardly, "I shall be very glad of
your company, but I'm afraid you won't be comfortable, for Mass is said,
it seems, in a little mission room." O'Flaherty had a vividly unpleasant
recollection of the last time he had taken "a smart lady" to church. She
had apparently expected to find a Notre Dame or Sistine Chapel in the
wilds of Herefordshire, and she had been very much annoyed with the
inartistic furnishings of the iron chapel. So it was that Mrs. Rebell's
request fell disagreeably on his ear.
* * * * *
Barbara's whole soul was possessed with the desire of putting off the
meeting with Berwick. How could she greet him before his sister? how
could she behave as if last night--as if his soul-stirring, ardent
letter, had not been? Berwick had written, among a hundred other
contradictory things, "Everything shall go on as before. I will school
myself to be content with the least you can give me." But even she knew
that that was impossible, and she blessed the chance which had now come
to her of escaping for a few hours the necessity of playing a part
before Lord Bosworth and Arabella.
So absorbed was Barbara in her thoughts that she scarcely noticed Mr.
Daman, when she crossed him on the broad staircase on her way to her
room to get ready for her expedition. The old man, however, had seen the
light from a large window beat straight on her absorbed face. For the
first time Barbara reminded him of her father, of Richard Rebell, and
the reminiscence was not pleasing. Pretty women, he said to himself
rather crossly, should study their looks; they owed it to those about
them. They ought not to get up too early in the morning and go racing
upstairs! Why, it was now only half-past nine, and Mrs. Rebell had
evidently already breakfasted. He himself was up at this unwonted hour
because it was Sunday, and on Sunday everything should be done to spare
the servants in a country house. Septimus Daman lived up to his own
moral code much more completely than many of those who regarded him as a
selfish old worldling could pretend to do. Still, he did not like to be
baulked of innocent pleasures, and not least among them was that of
having his tea poured out for him on Sunday morning by a pretty woman.
"Then you've breakfasted too?" Failing Barbara, Mr. Daman would have
liked the company of Daniel O'Flaherty. "Oh, I forgot! of course you're
going to your church"--a note of commiseration crept into the thin
voice; the old Queen's Messenger belonged to a generation when an
Irishman's religion was still the greatest of his disabilities.
"Yes, and I'm taking Mrs. Rebell with me." Septimus Daman's vested
interest in Barbara amused the barrister.
"Are you indeed?" Old Septimus always went to church on Sunday, but he
liked to have the duty sweetened by the presence of youth and beauty in
the pew. "You never saw her mother, did you?"
"No. The Rebell Case took place some years before I came to London." It
was not the first time Mr. Daman had asked the question, but O'Flaherty
answered very patiently, and even added--also not for the first
time--"She must have been an exceptionally beautiful and charming
woman."
"Perfection, absolute perfection! Her daughter isn't a patch on her as
to looks. I remember now the first time I saw Mrs. Richard Rebell I
thought her the loveliest creature I'd ever set eyes upon. Her name was
Adela Oglander, and people expected her to do uncommonly well for
herself. Awful to think what she did do, eh? But Richard Rebell was a
very taking fellow in those days. When I was a young man women were
content to look--well, as Mrs. Richard Rebell looked! One doesn't see
such pretty women now," Mr. Daman sighed, "I suppose our Mrs. Barbara
lost her complexion in the West Indies. Those climates, so I've always
understood, are damnation to the skin. Not that hers has roughened--eh,
what? And she can still blush--a great thing that, almost a lost art!"
he chuckled. "From what Bosworth tells me she had an awful time with the
brute she married."
"Was he in the Army?"
O'Flaherty was vaguely interested. He and Mrs. Rebell had had a
good deal of desultory talk, but she never alluded to her married
life. Those years--he roughly guessed them to be from twenty to
seven-and-twenty--seemed dropped out of her memory.
"Not that I ever heard of. He's always been a sugar planter, a
descendant of a Rebell younger son who went out to the West Indies to
make his fortune a hundred years ago. Poor Barbara Sampiero told me
about it at the time of the marriage."
"And how long has Mrs. Rebell been a widow?"
"She's not a widow. Whatever gave you such an idea?" The old man shot a
sudden shrewd look at the barrister; O'Flaherty's face expressed
surprise, yes, and profound annoyance. Dear, dear, this was distinctly
interesting!
Mr. Daman lowered his voice to a whisper, "Her husband's very much
alive, but he's signed, so Bosworth tells me, some kind of document
promising to leave her alone. Of course he keeps her fortune, such as it
is, for she was married before this act which makes women, I understand,
so very independent of their lords and masters. But that's rather a good
thing, for it takes away his only reason for molesting her. Still,
there'll be trouble with him, if, as I'm told, Madame Sampiero intends
to leave her well off. Good Lord, what a business we all had with
Napoleone Sampiero! He was a regular leech. Strange, isn't it, that both
these poor dear women--each, observe, a Barbara Rebell--should make such
a mess of their lives? However, in this case there's no _Bosworth_ to
complicate matters!"
O'Flaherty wheeled round, and looked hard at the old man, but Septimus
Daman had spoken with no after-thought in his mind. He had come to the
stage of life when old people are curiously unobservant, or perhaps it
should be said, no longer capable of realising the proximity of passion.
* * * * *
Condemnation of James Berwick, who, it seemed to O'Flaherty, should
remember the fact that he was under his sister's roof, and a certain
pity for, and shrinking from Mrs. Rebell, the woman now sitting so
silently by his side in the victoria, filled the barrister's mind. He
was also aware of experiencing that species of bewilderment which brings
with it the mortifying conviction that one has been excessively,
inexcusably blind. O'Flaherty cast his mind back over the last week.
That which he in his simplicity had taken for love,--love capable of
inducing such a man as Berwick to make a great sacrifice,--was doubtless
but the preliminary to one of those brief intrigues of which he heard so
much in the world in which he now lived.
And Mrs. Rebell? He had really liked her--unconsciously thought the
better of Arabella for having such a woman, one so gentle, kindly,
unassuming, for her friend. He knew the tragic story of Richard Rebell,
of his banishment from the pleasant world in which he had held so
prominent a place; and Barbara had been the more interesting, the more
worthy of respect in his eyes because she was in no sense ashamed of her
parentage. Was it possible that she was one of those women--he had
sometimes heard of them--who are said to possess every feminine virtue
save that on which, as he, the Irish farmer's son, absolutely believed,
all the others really depend?
O'Flaherty had seen a great deal of Mrs. Rebell; they had had more than
one long talk together. Never had he met a woman who seemed to him more
pure-minded in the very essence of her. And yet--well, the Irishman had
seen--as indeed who could help seeing, save that self-centred and _naif_
egoist, Septimus Daman?--that Barbara loved Berwick. The sight of these
two, so absorbed in one another, had deeply moved the one who looked on,
and quickened his own feeling for Arabella into life.
The barrister had envied Berwick the devotion of such a woman, thinking
a fabulous fortune well forfeited in the winning of Barbara Rebell as
companion on that mysterious, dangerous journey which men call life.
Realising the kind of intimate sympathy which seemed to bind these two,
O'Flaherty had recalled the phrase, "a marriage of true minds," and he
had thought of all it would mean to Berwick, even as regarded his public
career, to have so conciliatory, so charming a creature by his side.
Arabella Berwick, in spite of her many fine qualities and intellectual
gifts, possessed neither the tact nor the self-effacement so essential
to the fulfilment of the _rôle_ of statesman's wife or sister.
And now O'Flaherty learned that all the time he had been thinking these
things, Mrs. Rebell was well aware that there could be nothing permanent
or avowable in her tie with Berwick; while Berwick, on his side, was
playing the most delightful and absorbing of the great human games with
dice so loaded that, come what might, he was bound to win. The barrister
told himself that he had indeed been simple-minded to suppose that such
a man as Arabella's brother would sacrifice to love the wealth which
gave him an absolute and preeminent position among those he wished to
lead. "A marriage of true minds?"--an ugly look came over the plain,
strong face of the man sitting by Mrs. Rebell, and she, catching that
look, wondered what hateful thought, or sudden physical discomfort, had
brought it there.
But, when once he found himself kneeling in the humble little iron
chapel, long habit acted on Daniel O'Flaherty's mind, cleared it of
sordid images, made him think more charitable thoughts of the woman who
crouched rather than knelt by his side, in what seemed a position of
almost painful abasement. Poor Barbara Rebell! Mingling with the prayers
he knew by heart, and which were, after all, one long supplication for
mercy and forgiveness, came the slow conviction that she might not be
deserving of so much condemnation as he had at first assumed. Perhaps
she had come here, with him, to-day, to be out of the way of temptation,
and not, as he had unkindly suspected, to satisfy an idle and not very
healthy curiosity.
Busy as he had been last night in the music gallery with thoughts of his
own self and Arabella, O'Flaherty had yet been aware that an eager
colloquy was going on by the organ. He had heard Berwick's voice become
urgent and imperious, and he had put down the other man's rather
dramatic disappearance, and Mrs. Rebell's extreme quietude during the
rest of the evening, to some lovers' quarrel between these two, who up
to that time had required no such artificial stimulus to their passion.
Perhaps what had taken place between them had been more tragic, for Mrs.
Rebell looked to-day very unlike her gentle, composed self.
Barbara had risen from her knees, and sat apparently listening to the
little sermon. The expression of her face suddenly recalled to Daniel
O'Flaherty an evening in his life--that which had followed his parting
from Arabella Berwick. He had been taken by friends to the play, and on
leaving the theatre had found that his mind had retained absolutely
nothing of what had gone on before him on the stage. Not to save his
life could he have recalled a single scene, or even the most telling of
the speeches to which he had been listening the last three hours.
Doubtless he had then looked as Barbara looked now; and a feeling of
great concern and infinite pity took the place of that which had filled
his mind during the drive from Fletchings. But this new-born charity did
not extend to Berwick; for him, O'Flaherty still felt nothing but
condemnation.
They waited till the small congregation had streamed out, and then
walked slowly down the little aisle. "You don't look fit to walk back. I
expect I can easily get a carriage if you will wait a little while."
But Barbara answered with nervous decision, "I would much rather walk,
in fact, I was about to ask you if you would mind going round by
Chancton; it is scarcely out of our way, and I want to see Madame
Sampiero."
* * * * *
"I beg you to send for me--to-day--home again. I am tired of being away
from you! Oh! do not refuse, Marraine, to do as I ask----"
Barbara was kneeling by Madame Sampiero's couch, holding the stiff,
trembling hands, gazing imploringly into the set face and the wide open
eyes, now fixed on her with rather sad speculation and questioning.
"Why should I refuse? Have I not missed you? Ask McKirdy if we have not
all missed you, child?"
The muffled tones were even less clear than usual, but Barbara gave a
sigh, almost a sob, of relief. "You must insist on my coming back, at
once,--at once, Marraine--or they will want to keep me! Some people are
coming over to lunch to-morrow, and Miss Berwick will wish me to be
there."
"Why go back at all?"
"I must go back. Someone is waiting for me outside." Madame Sampiero's
eyelids flickered--"Oh, no, no! Marraine, not Mr. Berwick, but a Mr.
O'Flaherty. Besides, they would all be so surprised if I were not to
come back now. Send for me this afternoon."
She bent over and kissed her god-mother's hands. "How nice it is to be
home again!" and her voice trembled, "What, darling Marraine? Was Lord
Bosworth kind? Yes, indeed--more than good and kind! I have been very
happy--very, very happy!" and then she turned away to hide the tears
rushing to her eyes.
* * * * *
While waiting for Mrs. Rebell, Daniel O'Flaherty looked with great
interest at the splendid old house before which he was pacing up and
down. This, then, was Chancton Priory, the place belonging to the woman
who some said had made, and others said had marred, Lord Bosworth's
life.
The story had been widely known and discussed. Madame Sampiero had made
a desperate and an unsuccessful effort to break her marriage to the
Corsican adventurer whom she had married in a moment of headstrong,
girlish folly; and the world, hers and Lord Bosworth's, had been loud in
its sympathy. But for the fact that the ceremony had been solemnised
according to French law, she would easily have obtained release.
For a while, all had gone fairly well. Each lived his and her own life;
Madame Sampiero had acted as hostess to Lord Bosworth's friends, both at
Chancton, and in her London house, for she was a wealthy woman, and all,
save the very strait-laced, had condoned a situation which permitted the
exercise of tolerant charity.
Then had come the sudden appearance on the scene of a child, of the
little Julia concerning whose parentage scarcely any mystery was made,
and the consequent withdrawal of that feminine countenance and support
without which social life and influence are impossible in such a country
as England.
O'Flaherty looked up at the mullioned windows sunk back in the grey
stone; behind which of them lay the paralysed woman, now bereft of
lover, of child, of the company of friends, of everything which made
life worth living to such as she? Septimus Daman had talked of Madame
Sampiero again and again during the last few days, and had apparently
rejoiced in the thought that Mrs. Rebell was so devoted to the mistress
of Chancton Priory. What a strange life the two women must lead here!
The barrister looked round him consideringly. November is the sad month
of our country year. Even the great cedars added to the stately
melancholy of the deserted lawns, and leafless beeches.
Now, at last Mrs. Rebell was coming towards him from the porch; he saw
that she looked, if not happier, more at peace than she had done before
going into the Priory, yet her eyelids were swollen, and if victorious
she seemed one whose victory has cost her dear.
As she led the way down the broad grass drive, she began to talk of
indifferent matters, making what O'Flaherty felt was rather a pitiful,
and yet a gallant attempt to speak of things which might interest him.
Suddenly they touched on politics, "My father," Barbara's face softened,
became less mask-like, "cared so much about English politics. As a young
man he actually stood for Parliament, for in those days Halnakeham had a
member, but he was defeated. I have sometimes thought, since I have
heard Mr. Berwick and Mr. Boringdon talk--I don't know if you have met
Mr. Boringdon--how different everything might have been if my poor
father had been elected. He only lost the seat by thirty votes."
When she mentioned Berwick, the colour had flooded her face, and
O'Flaherty had looked away. "Oh yes, I've met Oliver Boringdon," he said
quickly, and to give her time to recover herself he went on, "I remember
him in the House. But I had the luck to get in again, and he was thrown
out, at the last General Election. The two friends are an interesting
contrast. I regard James Berwick as the typical Parliament man; not so
Mr. Boringdon, who is much more the permanent official, the plodding
civil servant--that was what he was originally, you know--and Berwick
did him a bad turn in taking him away from that career and putting him
into Parliament."
"But you do think well of Mr. Berwick? I mean, do you consider, as does
his sister, that he has a great future before him?"
She looked at her companion in undisguised anxiety, and O'Flaherty felt
rather touched by the confidence Barbara evidently reposed in his
judgment.
"I think," he said--and he offered up a mental prayer that he might so
speak as to help, not hinder, the woman by his side--"that James
Berwick's future will depend on the way he shapes his life. Do not think
me priggish--but the one thing that seems to me sure is that character
still tells more than ability in English public life. Character and
ability together are apt to prove irresistible."
"But what," asked Barbara in a low voice, "do you exactly mean by
character?"
"I mean something which Oliver Boringdon possesses to a supreme
degree--a number of qualities which together make it positively more
difficult for a man to go wrong than to go right, especially in any
matter affecting his honour or probity."
"Then--surely you regard Mr. Berwick as a man of character?"
O'Flaherty hesitated. The conversation was taking a strange turn, but he
made up his mind to tell her the truth as far as he saw it. "I think,"
he said deliberately, "that it is very difficult for a man of great
ability to be also a man of flawless character. He is probably tempted
in a thousand ways which pass the less gifted nature by; on the other
hand, his fate is much more in his own control. Berwick has come very
well out of ordeals partly brought about by his own desire to succeed.
Take his rather singular marriage."--the speaker looked straight before
him--"Of course I well remember that episode in his life. Men marry
every day for money, but Berwick conducted himself with propriety and
dignity under extremely trying circumstances."
"Did you ever see her?"--there was a painful catch in Barbara's
voice--"she was a friend, was she not, of Miss Berwick?"
"Hardly a friend--rather a worshipping acquaintance. No, I never saw
Mrs. James Berwick. She was rather an invalid both before and after the
marriage. I think she did a very wrong thing by her husband--one that
may even yet have evil consequences. You are doubtless aware that in the
event of Berwick's making a second marriage he loses the immense fortune
his wife left to him."
"That, then, was what Miss Berwick meant when she said he could never
marry." Barbara seemed to be speaking to herself, but the words fell on
O'Flaherty's ear with an unpleasing significance. His mind made a sudden
leap. Could Arabella be planning--oh! what a horrible suspicion
concerning the woman he had once loved! But it came back again and again
during the hour which followed. Had he not himself thought Miss Berwick
was doing all in her power to throw her brother and Mrs. Rebell
together?
He went on speaking, as if impelled to say what he really thought.
"Well, such a thing as that is enough to test a man's character. From
being a poor man, practically dependent on his uncle, Berwick became the
owner of almost unlimited money, to the possession of which, however,
was attached a clause which meant that in his case none of the normal
conditions of a man's life could be fulfilled--no wife, no child,
friendship with women perpetually open, as I know Berwick's more than
once has been, to misconstruction."
"And yet other men--?" Barbara looked at him deprecatingly, "You
yourself, Mr. O'Flaherty"--then she cried, "Forgive me! I have no right
to say that to you!"
"Nay," he said, "I give you for the moment every right to say, to ask,
what you like! I have no wife, no child, no home, Mrs. Rebell, because
the woman I loved rejected me; and also because, though I have tried to
like other women, I have failed. You see, it was not that I had made a
mistake, such as men make every day, for she loved me too--that makes
all the difference. She was in a different position to my own; I was
very poor, and there was the further bar of my religion, even of my
nationality"--he spoke with a certain difficulty. "At the time she acted
as she thought best for both our sakes. But, whatever my personal
experiences or motives for remaining unmarried may be, I have no
doubt,--no doubt at all,--as to the general question. To my mind, James
Berwick's friends must regret that he has never, apparently, been
tempted to make the great sacrifice; and for my part, I hope the day
will come when he will meet with a woman for whom he will think his
fortune well lost, whom he will long to make his wife in a sense that
the poor creature he married never was, and in whom he will see the
future mother of his children." He paused, then added in a low voice,
"In no other tie can such a man as he find permanent solace and
satisfaction. If report speaks truly, he has more than once tried an
alternative experiment."
He dared not look at her. They walked on in absolute silence.
At last she spoke, "Please say nothing of our walk round by Chancton
Priory." And when, some hours later, there came a letter from Doctor
McKirdy declaring that Madame Sampiero was not well, and longed for Mrs.
Rebell's presence, Daniel O'Flaherty thought he understood. A pang of
miserable self-reproach struck his heart and conscience. What right had
he to have put this woman to the torture--to take on himself the part of
Providence?
After they had all seen Barbara off, after he had noted her very quiet
but determined rejection of Berwick's company on the way to Chancton
Priory, Daniel O'Flaherty was in no mood to go for the walk to which
Miss Berwick had been looking forward all that afternoon.