Bettina was writing in the library one morning when her attention was
arrested by the sound of an approaching footstep. The next moment a
servant announced,
"Lord Hurdly."
At this name she started violently. So long accustomed to associate
it with one person, she forgot for the instant that another bore it
now. As she rose, startled and expectant, through the portière held
back by the servant there entered a man whose sharp dissimilarity to
the image in her mind made her catch her breath.
The next second she knew that it was Horace, and realized that she
was trembling from head to foot. The breadth of the room was between
them, for he had paused just within the door, nodding to the servant
to withdraw.
He stood there an instant in silence.
Perhaps she was no more startled by the surprise which the sight of
him occasioned than was he at the sight of her; but the quality of
the surprise was different. It was her beauty, her so far more than
recollected beauty, which had arrested him and held him spellbound.
He had left her sick with grief about her mother, the color faded
from her cheeks, her eyes dulled with weeping. There had been,
moreover, in her expression an apathy which his ardent words had
failed to do away with. Besides these inherent things, the extrinsic
points were glaringly a contrast to the present ones. Then her
somewhat too slight figure had been dressed in gowns of village make
and fit, and her lovely hair had been carelessly wound up, without
regard to fashion or effect.
Now he saw confronting him a woman whom nature had endowed with a
rare beauty, and for whom art had also done its best in the matter of
outward adornment. True, she was clad in plain unrelieved black from
head to foot, but no other costume could have so exquisitely
displayed her glowing loveliness of coloring or the pure correctness
of her outlines.
During the few seconds in which they stood looking at each other she
had perceived also a great change in him. It was of a very different
character, but it made all the more a strong appeal to her, for he
was mysteriously aged. Not only had the Eastern sun turned to bronze
the once ruddy hues of his skin, but he had also lost flesh, and his
hair was getting streaks of gray in it. His figure, too, was sparer,
but it looked more powerful than ever; and still more apparent was
the added look of strength in the familiar and yet subtly altered
face.
There was no pause long enough to be embarrassing before he spoke.
"I hope you will excuse me," he said (and, oh, the voice was altered
too, unless she had forgotten that rich, vibrating tone in it!), "for
coming upon you so suddenly. I know I should have given warning, but
I had what I think a sufficient reason for not doing so. I am hoping
earnestly that you will agree with me when you have heard it."
"Pray sit down," said Bettina, speaking mechanically, and from the
mere instinct of observance of ordinary forms. She had no sooner
spoken than she remembered that it was his own house, of which she
was doing the honors to him. If he remembered it also, he gave no
sign, for he took the chair she indicated, with the conventional
"Thank you" of an ordinary visitor.
Bettina also had sunk into her chair, and sat quite still, with her
white hands clasped together on the dense black of her dress. She
could not speak, yet she dreaded lest, in the silence, he might hear
the beating of her heart. Its soft thuds were plainly audible to her,
and all the blood from her cheeks seemed to have gone there.
"In any event, I should have been obliged to come to England soon,"
said her companion, "but I should have put it off longer had I not
felt it important to come on your account."
Bettina's eyes expressed a questioning surprise.
"On my account?" she said, vaguely.
"Certainly," was the prompt, decided answer. "The only responsibility
which comes near to me in my new and strange position is that of
protecting the honor and credit of the name I have assumed. These,
you will excuse me for saying, have been seriously, I may even say
shamefully, disregarded by the terms of the late Lord Hurdly's will."
Bettina's eyes had still that vague and puzzled look. She had not the
least comprehension of what he meant. Could he be resenting the fact
that, so far as it was practicable for him to do so, his cousin had
disinherited him? But no, that was impossible. As she remained silent
and expectant, he went on:
"Since he chose to disregard the duty and dignity of his position, it
is for me, who must now bear his name, to repair that wrong so far as
it is in my power to do so. It is for that explicit purpose that I am
now come to speak to you."
Still Bettina looked perplexed.
"I don't understand exactly in what way the will has displeased you,"
she said. "There was a great deal of it that I hardly took in. But in
any case there is nothing for me to do. As you know, my services have
not been asked, and certainly there is no place for them. I have
nothing whatever to do with the executing of Lord Hurdly's will.
Indeed, my plans are all made to return to America immediately."
"I cannot be surprised at your decision," he said, with a certain
resentment in his voice which she did not understand. "Certainly it
would be natural for you to wish to shake off the dust of this land
from your feet. But wherever you may choose to live for the future,
it is my duty to see that you live as becomes the widow of Lord
Hurdly, and it is for this purpose that I have hastened to get here
before you should be gone."
All was now clear, and with the illumination which had come to her
from these words of his the color flooded her pale cheeks. Her first
sensation was of keenly wounded pride.
"You might have spared yourself such haste," she said. "If you had
taken the slight trouble to write to me, I could have saved you the
long and hurried journey. So far from wishing to have more money than
what I am legally entitled to, it is my purpose and decision to take
nothing. I have of my own enough to live upon in the simple way in
which I shall live for the future. Did you think so ill of me as to
suppose that I would wish to grasp at more than my husband saw fit to
leave me--or to take money at your hands?"
It was her instinct of pride which had caused her to use the words
"my husband," which another instinct at the same moment urged her to
repudiate. But pride was now the uppermost feeling of her heart, and
it supplied her with a sudden and sufficient strength for this hour's
need.
"This is in no sense a question between you and your late husband,"
said Horace. (Was there not in him also a certain hesitation at that
word, and did not the same feeling as in her compel him to its use?)
"Nor is it a question between you and me. The obviously simple issue
is what propriety demands as to the manner in which the widow of
Lord Hurdly is provided for. It belongs to my own sense of the
dignity of my position that the late Lord Hurdly's widow should be
situated as becomes her name and title, and I am determined to see
that this is done."
"Determined," she said, a certain defiance in her quiet tone, "is not
the word for this case. You may determine as you choose, but what
will it avail if I determine not to touch a penny belonging to either
the late or the present Lord Hurdly? You are very careful of the
dignity of your position. I must also look to mine, which you seem
strangely to have forgotten."
His expression showed her plainly that these words of hers had cut
deep into his consciousness. A swift compunction seized her heart,
but her pride was still in the supremacy, and enabled her to stifle
the feeling.
"I have not forgotten it," he said. "It is because I have been
mindful of the dignity of your position that I have urged this thing
upon you. The conditions of the will need not be generally known if
you will accept the right and proper income, which I wish, above all
things, to see you have. Can you not believe me sincere in my desire
to remove the indignity put upon you by a member of my family, and
the bearer before me of a name and position of which it has now
become my duty to maintain the credit? And can you not believe me
just enough and kind enough to wish to see this done for your sake as
well as for my own?"
Bettina's face continued proudly hard. If the gentleness of her
companion's expression, the kindness of his manner, the delicate
respect of his tones, made any appeal to her woman's heart, the
all-potency of her pride enabled her to conceal it. But the struggle
between the two feelings at war within her made a desperate demand
upon her strength. She felt that she would do well to put an end to
this interview as soon as practicable. With this purpose she said,
abruptly:
"I am willing to do full justice to your motives, but they cannot
affect my action. My mind is quite made up. I shall return to America
at once, and there the credit of Lord Hurdly's name will not suffer
any hurt, since I shall be practically out of the world. Certainly I
shall be forever removed from the world in which his life will be
spent. Do not think that I shall regret it. I shall not. My
experience of your world has shown me that the mere possession of
money, rank, position, influence, is powerless to bring happiness. I
thought once that if I should come to have these I could get pleasure
and satisfaction from them, but I was wrong. My nature inherently
loved importance and display, but I mistook the unessential for the
essential. If I had had all these external things, together with the
satisfaction of the inward needs, they might have made me happy. In
themselves I have proved them to be worthless."
She was compelled to say these words. The intimate knowledge of the
character of her husband which had come to her after marriage made
her long that Horace should know that had she really comprehended the
man as he perhaps had known him all the while, she never could have
become his wife. It was impossible for her to tell him this, but she
caught eagerly at her present opportunity of letting him know that
she had had no duty toward her late husband beyond the mere formal
obligation of her wifehood. She could not bear Horace to think that
she had loved him. Even now, under the softening influence that death
imparts, that thought was intolerable to her. This was quite aside
from his treatment of her in his will, which, indeed, was strangely
little to her. It was the memory of the crafty and common nature
under that polished exterior that made her recoil from the thought
of him now.
If this feeling was strengthened by the contrast of the personality
now present to her gaze, how could she be blamed? Surely the man who
stood before her might have seemed to answer any woman's heart's
desire as lover, companion, friend. How her conscience smote her for
the doubts she had once had of him! When she remembered whose
treachery it was that had created these doubts, there was hate in her
heart.
She did not wish him to see the expression of this feeling in her
face, so she rose abruptly and turned from him. As if he understood
her, he rose also, and crossed the room to the desk at which she had
been seated on his entrance.
Here were heaped papers and memoranda connected with the Kingdon Hall
estates. Evidently he recognized their character, for he said:
"At least you have not refused to give me the help that I asked. I've
been talking to Kirke, and he tells me you have been taking an
interest in the affairs of the tenants. Thank you for this."
In an instant the bitterness in Bettina's heart was changed into a
new and softer emotion. She saw the opportunity of effecting now what
she had been so powerless to effect in the past. Forgetting
everything else, she came quickly to his side and took up one of the
papers. This was in her own handwriting, and was a memorandum of some
length. She held it away from him a moment, her face flushing, and a
look of hesitation showing on it.
"I never intended that you should see this," she said. "I began it
long ago, and had to put it by; but recently I have taken it up
again, without really knowing why, except that all my whole heart was
in it."
"What is it?" he asked. "I beg you to let me see it."
"No," she said. "It is not my affair, and I must remember that. It
concerns some most deplorable facts which I have discovered
concerning the management of the Kingdon Hall estates, but--"
"Then it is my affair," he interrupted her; "and since you know what
these abuses are, and have looked into them, you surely will not
deprive me of the help that you could give. I ask it as a favor."
Still Bettina hesitated, but he could see that she was longing to
comply. He could imagine, also, what it was that held her back.
"Not as a favor to me," he hastened to add; "I appeal to you in the
name of these poor tenants, who have been so long neglected and
abused. This is no new thing to me. I have seen it going on from the
time I was a boy here, and I can truly say that almost the only
pleasure that I have looked forward to in succeeding to the estates
has been the righting of these wrongs. Surely you will not refuse to
help me to do this."
For answer, Bettina turned upon him a pair of ardent eyes that swam
with tears.
"Oh, are you really going to do this blessed, glorious thing?" she
said. She had forgotten herself for the moment, and was thinking only
of them--the wretched beings whose wrongs had so long oppressed her,
and who, it seemed, were to have justice and care and kindness at
last. "You don't know how hideous the condition of these poor
creatures is, and how impossible it has been for me to do anything in
the past. To think there is some one who will let me tell about it at
last and give the help that is so needed! But you can do nothing with
such a steward as Kirke. His heart is as cold as ice."
"Kirke shall go at once. I have long believed that he was unworthy of
the position he holds. If you will give me the benefit of your
investigation and insight into the situation you will save me much
trouble, and you can also feel that these poor people will be that
much nearer to having their distress relieved."
At these prompt, determined words her heart swelled, and again tears
brimmed her eyes.
"Oh, thank God that you will help them!" she said. "Now that I am
sure of that, I can go away contented. It would have broken my heart
to leave them so--yet I had not dared to hope that I could do
anything. You have no idea of the extent of it. It will take a great
deal of money to give them new houses, proper sanitary conditions,
and all the things they need."
"Never mind that--only tell me what to do."
"But _can_ you do it? I know how comparatively limited you are as to
money."
"Comparatively only," he said, reassuringly. "I have much less than
my predecessor had, but fortunately I have little pride and simple
tastes. I can let the place in Leicestershire, where the hunting is
good, and I can also lease the town house if necessary. Pray consider
that the question of money is disposed of. I assure you that does not
enter into it."
Thus invited, Bettina sat down before the desk, while he took a seat
near by, and with the papers before her she went fully into the
questions at issue, showing a grasp of the situation which soon
testified to her companion that she had studied it to some purpose.
All the changes which she recommended were approved, but more than
once his attention was diverted from the purpose of the future to an
indignant contempt for the delinquencies of the past. It was hard for
him to constrain himself to silence as to this, but Bettina thanked
him in her heart for the successful effort which he made. She was too
abject in her sense of compunction for her own past to feel inclined
to severe judgment of another, and in her joy that these cherished
plans of hers were to be immediately realized she was able to put by
for the moment more personal trouble. She spoke with a fervor that
made her beautiful face wellnigh adorable in its kind compassion, and
when she would describe the wrongs and hardships of these poor simple
folk her eyes at times would fill with tears of pity and her voice
would tremble.
She knew it not, but in this hour she was making a new revelation of
herself to Horace, which answered to the need of his maturer nature
as marvellously as the Bettina of old had satisfied the needs of the
ardent young fellow that he was then. If he remembered that Bettina
only as being beautiful and beloved, he saw in this one a far nobler
and more perfect beauty, as he recognized in her qualities more
worthy to command love.
Here they were alone together, in a mood of extraordinary openness
and sincerity, for they were thinking the same thoughts of
helpfulness to others, and there was not an atom of the embarrassment
of their personal relationship to come between them now. It was not
singular, therefore, that he, for his part, should have longed to
speak to her, heart to heart, of that mysterious thing which had
divided them, and to tell her that, in spite of all--in spite of
facts that had been flaunted before his eyes in society, in the
public prints, and everywhere--he had never quite succeeded in
stilling a small voice in his soul which had continued to declare
that the young girl to whom he had so passionately given his love was
less fickle and unfaithful than these facts had shown her to be. Now,
more than ever, this insistent voice repeated itself. How he longed
to ask her the simple question! But then came common-sense, and
demanded, What question? Was there any question which he could ask
her to which the fact and conditions of her marriage to Lord Hurdly
were not a final answer?
As for Bettina, she had also her longings to take advantage of
that interview, when they were speaking together in such friendly
converse, by telling him of the letter of confession which she had
received, but pride here took the place of common-sense, and bade
her to be silent.
They had gone over all the papers together now. There was no longer
any excuse for lingering. He had given and repeated his assurances
that all these abuses which she so lamented should be remedied, and
she had thanked him again and again. Both felt that the time to part
had come. And yet both felt an impulse to postpone it. It was her
consciousness of this feeling which now made Bettina act. There was
an influence from his very presence which alarmed her.
"I must go now," she said, her voice a shade unsteady.
"No, it is I who am going," was the answer. "I return at once to
London, as I have neither the right nor the desire to intrude upon
your privacy. I wish to say, however, that I do not accept your
decision as to your future income. I beg you to give my wish, my
earnest request, your consideration. I shall write to you. Perhaps
I can put the case more clearly so. At all events, I shall try."
Bettina shook her head.
"You will simply waste your time," she said. "Nothing can change me
from my purpose of going at once to America, with no income but my
own little inheritance, and taking up my old life there."
The word inheritance had suggested to both of them the thought of her
mother. They saw the consciousness in each other's eyes.
"How can you take up your old life there," he said, "when the
presence which made its interest, its very atmosphere, is gone? It is
enough to kill you--and you will not have money to live elsewhere."
The keen solicitude in voice and eyes could not be mistaken. It
was evident that he cared for what she might suffer--what might
ultimately become of her. The thought was rapture to her starved
and lonely heart.
"I must bear it," she said, trying to control her voice as well as
her face. "Life will be no harder to me there than elsewhere."
"You are wrong. In no other spot on earth will the loss of your
mother so oppress you. I know what that has been to you, by my
consciousness of what that possession was. And remember one thing,
which gives me some right to speak to you as I am doing now--I loved
your mother and she also loved me."
At these words and the tones that accompanied them Bettina's strength
gave way. She dropped back in the seat from which she had risen, and,
hiding her face in her hands, burst into tears.
She could not see the effect of her weeping on the man, who still
stood motionless and erect before her. She did not know that the
tears sprang into his eyes also, and that the whispered utterance of
her name was on his lips.
He heard it, however, though she did not, and the knowledge that he
had lost control of himself made him turn away and walk to the other
end of the room.
When he had stood there a few seconds, with his back turned, he heard
her voice, somewhat shaken, though with the accent of recovered
self-possession, saying, in a tone of summons,
"Lord Hurdly--"
An inward revolt sprung up at being so addressed by her. The name had
only sinister associations for him in any case, but to hear it from
Bettina's lips filled him with a sort of rage.
"Lord Hurdly," she said again, and this time her voice had gained in
steadiness, until it sounded mechanical and hard.
"I wish to express to you," she said, when he had drawn a little
nearer, "my thanks for your kind intentions concerning me. I can only
repeat, however, that my decision is quite fixed, and that I shall
carry out the plans I have made known to you. Do not urge me further.
Do not write to me. It will be useless. Let me go back to the life
from which you never should have taken me. You were mistaken in
me from the first, and I have been nothing but a trouble and a
hinderance to you. I am sorry. I ask you to forget it all if you can.
But, above all things, I ask, if you would really help me and serve
me in the one way in which I can be helped by you, that you will
consider that the present moment closes our intercourse in every way,
and will show me the respect, little as I deserve it, of proving to
me that in this one instance, at least, you believe me capable of
acting with rectitude and dignity, and of meaning what I say."
He did not answer her. He only stood profoundly still and looked at
her. That gaze, the searching, scrutinizing power of it, made her
afraid. Trembling with terror of what she might reveal in answer to
it, she turned suddenly and vanished through a door behind her,
leaving him standing there, and with a consciousness that his keen
eyes were on her yet, reading what she so ardently desired to
conceal.
Once in her own room, she locked the door, and then ran swiftly to
the window, which gave her a view of the terrace below.
There she saw waiting a hired trap, with its driver drowsing in the
sunlight. As she looked, she saw the man from whom she had just
parted come rather slowly down the steps and get into the shabby
conveyance. His hat-brim hid the upper part of his face, but she saw
the stern set of his jaw, the bronzed pallor of his cheeks.
She watched the little trap until it had disappeared behind some
great oaks, which were one of the glories of Kingdon Hall. In a
strange way she had come to love this stately old place, and it gave
her a pang to feel that she was about to look her last on it. This
feeling, however, was subordinated to another, which literally tore
her heart; this was that, by the use of every means of thought and
action within her power, she had quite determined never to run the
risk of seeing this man again.
She knew that her only safety lay in flight, and she set to work at
once to make her preparations to fly.