FANNY AT LOUDWATER HOUSE.
Miss Sudlow and Phil made a point of writing to each other twice a
week. With the ordinary run of their correspondence we have nothing to
do; it concerned themselves only and was sacred to their own eyes. But
there came a day, after Fanny had been about three weeks at Loudwater
House, when she addressed to her lover a long epistle, which, as
having an important bearing on the events of which this narrative is a
record, is here transcribed in so far as it is needful to do so.
"In accordance with a promise which I made you some time ago, I now
proceed to jot down a few impressions and opinions anent the new--and
strange--little world and its inmates into the midst of which I was so
suddenly transplanted three weeks ago.
"First of all, let me gratefully record the fact that everybody is very
kind to me, that my comfort is studied in a score of different ways,
and that I am treated more like one of the family than a dependent. My
pupil is a dear little fellow, quick at learning and of an
affectionate disposition, and I am really becoming quite attached to
him.
"I confess that for the first few days I stood somewhat in awe of Mrs.
Melray the elder. You know what a stately, almost imperious, old dame
she is, with a manner which at first strikes one as being reserved
almost to the point of frigidity; but by degrees one discovers that it
is nothing more than manner, and that under it beats a warm woman's
heart, in which there is no lack of generous sympathies.
"That, at least, is how I construe her character, and I don't think
that I am far out in my diagnosis. But it may be that I have been
exceptionally fortunate, in view of the fact that two or three days
ago Mr. Melray said to me, with one of his dry smiles: 'I find that my
mother has conceived quite a liking for you, Miss Sudlow. It is not
often that she takes to anyone as she has taken to you.' Of course it
was very gratifying to me to be told this, especially as I had in no
way laid myself out to conciliate the old lady.
"Of Mrs. Melray the younger what shall I say? I confess that in many
respects she is an enigma to me. I was scarcely prepared to find her
so attractive as she really is. Beautiful she is not, and it would be
a misnomer to apply the term to her, but her face is one which I
should think that seven out of every ten men would find singularly
fascinating, in addition to which there is a strange but indefinable
charm about her personality, which even I, one of her own sex, find it
impossible wholly to resist. She is still curiously girlish, not
merely in appearance, but in many of her ways, and when I first set
eyes on her in her widow's weeds, it caused me the oddest sensation
imaginable; indeed, I would not like to assert that a moisture, rare
with me, did not dim my eyes as her tiny hand lingered for a moment or
two in mine.
"To connect, even in thought, those guileless blue eyes, that
milk-white brow, and that expression at once so candid and innocent,
with crime of any kind, much more with a crime so mysterious and
terrible as the murder of Mr. Melray, seems to me as if one were to
draw up an indictment in opposition to Nature's own instincts. And yet
there have been occasions when, taking her unawares, I have caught her
scrutinising me with a certain indescribable something in her gaze
which has not merely puzzled me, but rendered me vaguely uneasy. At
such times it has seemed to me that, instead of its being I who was
studying and trying to read her, it was she who was submitting me to a
like process.
"I remember your giving it as your opinion that Mr. Robert Melray
entertained no very friendly feeling towards his brother's widow, and
the longer I stay here the more inclined I am to think you were right.
But then, Mr. Melray is one of those dry, reserved, undemonstrative
men, as to whose likes or dislikes it is somewhat rash to formulate
too positive an opinion. Being the gentleman he is, it goes without
saying that he treats her with uniform courtesy and consideration; but
underlying it all there is a certain hardness and frigidity which, no
doubt, are partly natural to him, but in part only as it seems to me.
"But, if one may be allowed to entertain some doubt as to the quality
of the feeling with which Mr. Melray regards the youthful widow, there
can be no room for doubt as far as his mother is concerned. That Mrs.
Melray the younger is distinctly antipathetic to Mrs. Melray the elder
unfortunately admits of no dispute. Not that they see much of each
other, save at luncheon and dinner, and perhaps for an hour afterwards
in the drawing-room. The dowager always breakfasts in her own
apartments and spends the major part of her time there with her
companion, a middle-aged spinster, Miss Armishaw by name, and an
amiable nonentity. More than once young Mrs. Melray has spoken to me,
in her prettily pathetic, girlish way, of the evident dislike in which
the elder woman holds her: 'I have done all I can in the effort to
conciliate her, but in vain,' she says; 'so now I have given up the
attempt as useless. I have been told that there are some women so
constituted that they always dislike their daughters-in-law unless
they themselves have had a hand in choosing them; and yet that seems a
hard thing to believe.'
"From this you will gather that the widow and I are on very good terms
with each other; and such, indeed, is the case. On first coming here I
arranged with the elder Mrs. Melray that the hour from twelve till one
each day, weather permitting, should be devoted to taking Freddy out
for a run in the fresh air. There is a big old-fashioned garden at the
back of Loudwater House to which we sometimes limit our
constitutional; but more frequently we make our way into the meadows
which skirt one shore of the river and extend for miles, where the air
is the purest imaginable. Well, on the third morning, as I was getting
ready to go out, young Mrs. Melray came to me. 'I should so much like
to go out now and then with you and Freddy, Miss Sudlow, if you will
kindly allow me to accompany you,' she said. 'Since my husband's death
my life has necessarily been a very quiet one. I have hardly anyone to
talk to and I go nowhere. It would be a charity to let me join you.'
"What could I say except that I should be very glad of her company,
and since then she has made a point of joining me in my walk every
other day, or thereabouts. Usually she has not much to say on these
occasions, and, as you know, I do not shine as a conversationalist, so
that it sometimes happens that we pace along for a quarter of an hour,
side by side, without a word passing between us; but she seems quite
content that it should be so. Now and again, however, she expands a
little and begins to talk of her own accord. In this way I have heard
a good deal about her early home life at Solchester, together with
sundry particulars concerning her school-days; but no syllable
bearing, directly or indirectly, on the existence of any possible
lover in the days before her late husband asked her to be his wife.
Her mention of Mr. Melray is of the rarest; but when she does speak of
him, it is more as if she were referring to some near and dear elderly
relative than to a husband whom she has lost. I see no reason for
doubting that she cherishes a very warm regard for his memory. To the
tragic circumstances of his death she never alludes even in the
remotest degree. One can well imagine that for her the subject is too
dreadful a one to bear talking about. It is impossible to help feeling
sorry for her when one calls to mind the nature of the calamity which
has overshadowed her young life.
"Loudwater House has few visitors. Occasionally someone calls upon the
dowager Mrs. Melray, and since my arrival, two of young Mrs. Melray's
former associates at Solchester have been to visit her. The people we
see most of are staid, practical-minded Mr. Cray, who has been
head-clerk to the firm for the last quarter of a century, and Mr.
Richard Dyson, a kinsman of the Messrs. Melray, who has been in the
employ of the firm since he was quite a youth. These two Mr. Melray
frequently brings upstairs with him to dinner. Knowing so little of
the business as he does, and liking it still less, he is almost wholly
dependent on them for its conduct and efficient working. You will
remember Mr. Dyson as a particularly good-looking young man, with a
cool _dégagé_ manner, stylishly dressed, and with the air of one who
knows how to appraise his personal advantages at their full value. He
is a great favourite with the elder Mrs. Melray--a result probably due
in part to his own pleasant qualities, and in part to the fact that he
is the only son of a niece whom in bygone years the dowager regarded
almost in the light of a daughter. As his kinsman's assistant in
business, he has proved to be everything that could be wished--so Mrs.
Melray herself gives me to understand--and there is little doubt that,
had Mr. James Melray lived, he would, in the course of a few years,
have been made a partner in the firm.
"But if Richard Dyson is a favourite with his own relatives, the same
cannot be said of him with regard to his kinsman's widow. That there
is a marked coolness between the two cannot escape the notice of
anyone who has eyes to see. They address each other no oftener than is
absolutely necessary, and on those evenings when Mr. Dyson dines with
us Mrs. Melray retires to her room an hour or more before her usual
time. But whatever this state of things may be the outcome of in no
wise concerns me. In our frequent walks together Mr. Dyson's name is
never mentioned between the widow and myself.
"And now, my dear Phil, I think I have told you all there is to tell
that would be likely in any way to interest you. After having been
used for a long time to Miss Mawby's restless peregrinations, life at
Loudwater House is, in comparison, pleasant and home-like. Dull I have
not yet found it; indeed, on that point I have no fear whatever. It
seems hard to believe that so short a time ago a tragedy so dire was
enacted under the roof of this old mansion, where already the wheels
of life move as noiselessly and methodically as if actuated by
clockwork, and where one might easily imagine, but for the black
dresses of the ladies, that nothing out of the common ever had
happened or ever could happen. Has the drama, then, come to an end? Is
there nothing more to follow? or has the curtain yet to rise on
another act? _Chi vivra verra_. Not a word more; but, instead, a
kiss--nay, a score. (Oh, fie! fie!)
"Fan."