CHAPTER I.

A MOMENT OF MADNESS.

A MOMENT OF MADNESS,

_AND OTHER STORIES_.

BY

FLORENCE MARRYAT,

AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,’

ETC., ETC.

_IN THREE VOLUMES._

VOL. I.

LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO.,

31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1883.

[_All Rights reserved._]

_CHEAP EDITION OF_

FLORENCE MARRYAT’S POPULAR NOVELS.

_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d._

_At all Booksellers in Town and Country, and at all Railway Bookstalls._

=MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘A Broken

Blossom,’ ‘Phyllida,’ ‘How They loved Him,’ etc., etc.

=PHYLLIDA.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘My Sister the Actress,’ ‘A

Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.

=THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Love’s Conflict,’

‘Phyllida,’ ‘A Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.

=A BROKEN BLOSSOM.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Phyllida,’ ‘Facing

the Footlights,’ etc., etc.

F. V. White & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand.

COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

[Illustration]

_PREFACE._

In offering a re-issue of these Stories to the public, I desire

to express my sincere thanks to the Proprietors of ‘Temple Bar,’

‘Belgravia,’ ‘The East Anglian Holiday Annual,’ ‘Judy’s Annual,’

‘Diprose’s Annual,’ ‘The Editor’s Box,’ and ‘The Bolton Evening News,’

for their kindness in giving me permission to reprint them.

FLORENCE MARRYAT LEAN.

20 REGENT’S PARK TERRACE, N.W., _May 1883_.

[Illustration]

_CONTENTS._

PAGE

A MOMENT OF MADNESS—

CHAPTER I.

FORTHILL TERRACE, CAMDEN TOWN, 1

CHAPTER II.

TRESHAM COURT, GLAMORGANSHIRE, 28

CAPTAIN NORTON’S DIARY, 57

(IN THREE CHAPTERS.)

OLD CONTRAIRY, 191

‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’ 223

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

A MOMENT OF MADNESS.

CHAPTER I.

FORTHILL TERRACE, CAMDEN TOWN.

It is the middle of July, but the London season has not, as yet, shown

any symptoms of being on the wane, and the drawing-room of the Honourable

Mrs Carnaby-Hicks is arranged for the reception of visitors. Curtains of

guipure lace, looped with pale-blue ribbons, shroud every window, purple

irises and yellow jonquils as displayed in art needlework, adorn each

chair and sofa; fanciful little tables of silk and velvet, laden with

Sevres and Dresden china are placed in everybody’s way, and a powerful

odour of hot-house flowers pervades the apartment. A double knock

sounds at the door, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks starts from

the dose into which she has fallen, and seizing a novel, sits upright,

and pretends that she is deep in its contents. But she need not have

been so punctilious, for the footman, throwing open the door, announces

her brother, Mr Tresham. Roland enters the room, looking fagged, dusty,

and out of sorts, a complete contrast to the dainty adornments of his

sister’s drawing-room.

‘Well, Roland!’ exclaims Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and what is your news? It

is an age since we have seen you! I was beginning to think you must have

made away with yourself.’

‘No such luck,’ replies her brother, moodily, ‘though I believe it would

be the best thing that I could do.’

He is a handsome man of only thirty years of age, but the look of care

upon his brow makes him appear older. His dress is not exactly shabby,

but it is the dress of a needy gentleman, and did not issue from the

tailor’s hands this season, nor even last.

‘How are you all at home?’ continues the lady.

‘Just the same as usual; a medley of dirt, ill-management, and

unpunctuality! I dread to enter the house.’

‘Ah! Roland, it is too late to advise you now, but that marriage was the

worst day’s work you ever did. Not thirty till September, and with a wife

and six children on your hands. It is a terrible misfortune!’

‘And two hundred a-year on which to support them,’ laughs Mr Tresham,

bitterly. ‘Don’t speak of it, Valeria, unless you wish to drive me mad.

And to add to my troubles I have just received this letter;’ tossing it

over to her.

‘Who is it from?’

‘Lady Tresham! Her generosity seems to be on a par with his! You see how

she writes me word that Sir Ralph is in Switzerland mountain-climbing

with Handley Harcourt, but that if he were at home she fears he would be

unlikely to comply with my request.’

‘Did you ask Ralph for money then?’

‘Not as a gift. I wrote to him for a loan of fifty pounds, to carry

on the war, but of course I should regard it as a debt. The fact is,

Valeria, I don’t know where to look for money; my profession brings me in

nothing, and we cannot live on the miserable pittance my father left me.

It is simply impossible!’

If Roland Tresham has entertained any hope that, on hearing of his

difficulty, his rich sister will offer to lend or give him the money,

which would be a trifle out of her pocket, he has reckoned without his

host. She likes Roland in her way, and is always pleased to see him in

her house, but the woman and the children may starve for aught she will

do to help them. She considers them only in the light of a burthen and

disgrace.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t live on two hundred a-year,’ she answers

shortly. ‘Of course it is very little, but if your wife were worth her

salt she would make you comfortable on it. But that is what comes of

marrying a beauty. They’re seldom good for anything else.’

‘There’s not much beauty left about Juliet now,’ replies Roland Tresham,

‘but I don’t think it is entirely her fault. The children worry her so,

she has no energy left to do anything.’

‘It’s a miserable plight to be in,’ sighs the Honourable Mrs

Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and I can see how it tells upon your health and spirits.

What do you propose to do?’

‘_Do!_ I should like to hang myself. Do you think there is any chance,

Valeria, of your husband getting me a foreign appointment? I don’t care

where it is. I would go out to the Fiji Islands, or Timbuctoo, or to the

devil himself, to get away from it all.’

‘And leave them at home?’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks.

‘Yes! Juliet should have the two hundred, and I would keep myself.

Perhaps if she had only the children to look after, she might get on

better. And the happiest thing for me would be, never to return!’

‘I will ask Mr Carnaby-Hicks about it,’ replies his sister. ‘If it is to

be done at all, it must be before Parliament is prorogued. But I wouldn’t

lose all hope with regard to Ralph on account of Lady Tresham’s letter.

When he returns he can hardly refuse to lend you such a trifling sum as

fifty pounds.’

It does not seem to occur to her that she would miss the money as little

as Sir Ralph himself.

‘I shall not ask him a second time,’ says Roland, ‘nor Lady Tresham

either. They may keep their money to themselves. But how a father can

justify to himself the fact of leaving ten thousand a-year to one son,

and two hundred to the other, beats me altogether!’

‘The money must go with the baronetcy,’ remarks his sister coolly, ‘and

your portion was only intended to supplement your professional income.

You ought to have made a competency by this time, Roland. You would have

done so, had you not hampered yourself in such a reckless manner!’

At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a young

lady, dressed in the height of the reigning fashion.

‘My husband’s niece, Miss Mabel Moore,’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, and then

extending a hand to the girl, she draws her forward. ‘Mabel, dear, this

is my younger brother, of whom you have heard me speak. Ring the bell and

let us have tea. Roland and I have had a long conversation, and I feel

quite fatigued.’

Roland Tresham stares at his new acquaintance with unmitigated surprise.

Miss Moore is a tall, dark girl with a commanding figure, clad in a pale,

cream-coloured dress that fits it like a skin. Her rounded arms, her

well-developed bust and shapely waist are as distinctly displayed as if

the material had been strained across them; and the uninitiated Roland

gazes at her in astonishment.

‘Such a sweet girl,’ whispers Mrs Carnaby-Hicks to him, as Mabel quits

her side; ‘I love her as if she were my daughter. As soon as the season

is over, Mr Carnaby-Hicks and I are going to take her for a tour in

Italy. And, by the way, Roland, could you not manage to accompany us? A

second gentleman would be a great acquisition on the journey, and you

would be invaluable to Mabel and me as a _cicerone_. Do come!’

‘You might as well talk of my going to the moon, Valeria. I should enjoy

it above all things, but it is impossible. Only fancy the delight though

of change of scene and air and freedom from all the horrors of Camden

Town. It would be like a taste of Heaven to me!’

‘I am sure you could manage it if you tried! Come here, Mabel, and

persuade my brother to join us in our trip to Italy.’

‘Oh! Mr Tresham, _do_ come,’ says Mabel, throwing a glance at him from a

pair of dark, languishing eyes. ‘It will double Aunt Valeria’s pleasure

to have your company.’

Roland Tresham has not, as a rule, admired dark eyes in women nor

commanding figures. His wife is very fair, and slight and fragile in

appearance, and when he married her eight years before, he thought her

the loveliest creature God ever made. But as Mabel Moore casts her

black-lashed eyes upon him, he feels a very strong desire to join the

travelling party to Italy.

‘You hold out powerful temptations to me, Miss Moore,’ he answers, ‘but

it is too important a matter to be settled in a day. But if I _can_ go,

you may be sure I will.’

And then he falls to wondering whether Mrs Carnaby-Hicks intends her

offer to be taken as an invitation, and means to defray his expenses. For

she must know he has no money to pay them himself. Meanwhile Miss Moore

pours out his tea, and hands it to him in a porcelain cup with the most

gracious and encouraging of smiles. It is a strange contrast to the man

who knows what he will encounter on reaching home, to be seated among all

the refinement of his sister’s drawing-room, sipping the most fragrant

Pekoe from a costly piece of china, whilst he is waited on by a handsome

woman clad in a cream-coloured skin, every fold of the train of which

shakes out the essence of a subtle perfume. He revels in it whilst it

lasts, though after a while he rises with a sudden sigh of recollection,

and says he must be going home.

‘Don’t forget to ask Hicks about the appointment,’ he whispers to his

sister as he takes his leave. ‘Remember, I will take anything and go

anywhere just to get away from this.’

‘Very good,’ she answers, ‘and don’t _you_ forget that we expect you to

be one of our party to Italy.’

‘Yes! indeed,’ echoes Mabel with a parting glance, ‘I shall not enjoy my

trip at all now, unless Mr Tresham goes with us!’

‘What a good-looking fellow!’ she exclaims as soon as the door has closed

behind him. ‘Aunty! why did you never tell me what he was like?’

‘My dear child, where was the use of talking of him? The unfortunate man

is married, and has no money. Had he been rich and a bachelor, it would

have been a different thing!’

‘I don’t know that,’ says Miss Mabel, ‘for my part I prefer married men

to flirt with; they’re so safe. Besides, it’s such fun making the wives

jealous.’

‘It would take a great deal to make Mrs Tresham jealous,’ says the elder

lady. ‘They’re past all that, my dear. So you can flirt with Roland

to your heart’s content, only don’t go too far. Remember Lord Ernest

Freemantle!’

‘Bother Lord Ernest,’ returns the fashionable young lady in precisely the

same tone as she would have used the stronger word had she been of the

stronger sex.

Meanwhile the gentleman is going home by train to Camden Town: a locality

which he has chosen, not on account of its convenience, but because he

can rent a house there for the modest sum of thirty pounds a-year. His

immediate neighbours are bankers’ clerks, milliners, and petty tradesmen

from the West End, but the brother of Sir Ralph Tresham of Tresham Court,

and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, of 120 Blue Street, Mayfair, has

no alternative but to reside amongst them. He has chosen a profession

in which he has signally failed, and has hampered himself with a wife

and six children, when his private means are not sufficient to support

himself. He fancies he can hear his children shouting even before he

has gained the little terrace in which they reside. They are all so

abominably strong and healthy: their voices will reach to any distance.

And as he comes in sight of the familiar spot, his suspicions turn to

certainties. Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred, three sturdy rascals with faces

surrounded by aureoles of golden hair like angels’ crowns, but plastered

with dirt like the very lowest of human creatures, are hanging on to the

palings which enclose a patch of chickweed and dandelions in front of the

house, and shouting offensive epithets to every passer-by.

‘Can’t you keep inside and behave yourselves? How often have I ordered

you not to hang about the garden in this way?’ exclaims Roland Tresham,

as he cuffs the little urchins right and left. The two youngest rush for

protection to their mother, howling, whilst the eldest sobs out,—

‘Mamma said we might play here.’

‘Then your mother’s as great a fool as you are,’ replies the father,

angrily, as he strides into the house.

Juliet Tresham is waiting to receive him, with a deep frown upon her

brow. Any unprejudiced observer would see at a glance that she is

a lovely woman, but it is the loveliness of beauty unadorned. Her

luxuriant golden hair is all pushed off her face, and strained into a

tight knot at the back of her head. Her large blue eyes are dull and

languid; her lips are colourless, and her ill-fitting, home-made dress

hangs awkwardly upon her figure. In her husband’s eyes, all her beauty

and her grace have faded long ago. He associates her with nothing now,

but weak lungs and spirits, squalling children, badly-cooked dinners, and

an untidy home. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she does not smile

him a welcome home.

‘You might inquire whether the children are in the right or wrong, before

you hit them,’ she says sharply. ‘I told them they might play in the

front garden.’

‘Then they must suffer for your folly, for I won’t have them hanging

about the place like a set of beggars’ brats.’

‘It’s all very fine for you to talk, but what am I to do with them cooped

up in the house, on a day like this? If you had the charge of them, you’d

turn them out anywhere, just to get rid of them.’

‘Why don’t you let the girl look after them?’

‘“_The girl!_” That’s just how you men talk! As if one wretched girl

of fourteen had not enough to do to keep the house clean, and cook the

dinner, without taking charge of half-a-dozen children!’

‘Oh! well, don’t bother me about it. Am I to have any dinner to-day or

not?’

‘I suppose Ann will bring it up when it is ready,’ says his wife

indifferently; ‘you can’t expect to be waited on as if you were the owner

of Tresham Court.’

‘D—n you! I wish you’d hold your tongue!’ he answers angrily.

He calls it his dinner, for the good reason that it is the only dinner he

ever gets, but it is a wretched mockery of the meal.

‘What do you call this?’ he says, as he examines the untempting-looking

viands, and views with disgust the evident traces of black fingers on the

edge of the dish. ‘Take it away, and serve it me on a clean plate. I may

be obliged to swallow any dog’s meat you chose to put before me, but I’ll

be hanged if I’ll eat the smuts off your servant’s hands as well.’

Mrs Tresham, who is occupied at the other end of the table in cutting

slices of bread and salt butter for the tribe of little cormorants by

which she is surrounded, just turns her head and calls through the open

door to the maid-of-all-work in the kitchen.

‘Ann, come and fetch away this dish; your master says it is dirty.’

‘Do it yourself!’ roars her exasperated husband. ‘It is quite bad enough

that you are so lazy, you won’t look after any of my comforts in my

absence, without your refusing to set matters right now.’

His wife takes up the dish in silence, and leaves the apartment,

whereupon two of the children, disappointed of their bread and butter,

begin to cry. Roland Tresham, after threatening to turn them out of

the room if they do not hold their tongues, leaves his seat and leans

out of the open window, disconsolately. What a position it is in which

to find his father’s son! Outside, his neighbours are sitting in their

shirt sleeves, smoking clay pipes in their strips of garden, or hanging

over the railings talking with one another; in the road itinerant

merchants are vending radishes, onions, and shellfish; whilst a strong,

warm smell is wafted right under his nostrils from the pork-pie shop

round the corner. Inside, the children are whimpering for the return

of their mother round a soiled table-cloth which bears a piece of salt

butter, warm and melting, a jar of treacle with a knife stuck in it,

a stale loaf, a metal teapot, and knives and forks which have been

but half-cleaned. A vision comes over Roland of that art-decorated

drawing-room in Blue Street, with the porcelain tea-service, the silken

clad figure, and the subtle perfume that pervaded the scene; and a great

longing for all the delicacies and refinements of life comes over him,

with a proportionate disgust for his surroundings. When his wife returns

with the beefsteak, he pushes it from him. His appetite has vanished with

the delay.

‘I can’t eat it,’ he says impatiently. ‘Take the filth away.’

‘Well, it’s the best I can do for you,’ is her reply. ‘It’s quite enough

for a woman to be nurse and housemaid, without turning cook into the

bargain.’

‘It is a long time since I have expected you to do anything to please

me, Juliet; however, stop the mouths of those brats of yours, and send

them to bed. I want the room to myself. I have work which must be done

this evening.’

She supplies the children’s wants, and hurries them from the room,

whilst her husband sits sulking and dreaming of Blue Street. If his

brother-in-law can only get him a foreign appointment, how gladly he will

fly from this squalid home for ever. He pictures a life by the shores of

the Mediterranean, in the forests of Brazil, on the plains of India, or

the Australian colonies, and each and every one seems a paradise compared

with that which he leads at present.

Mrs Tresham, putting her little ones to rest, feels also that, except for

them, she would lay down her existence. She is utterly sick and wearied

of her life. She is almost cross with Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred,

because they will bolster one another, instead of lying down in their

cots and going to sleep like pattern boys. For Baby Roland is whimpering

for the breast, and two-year-old May is fractious with the pain of

cutting her double teeth. Lily, her mother’s help and companion, is the

only one that waits patiently until her turn arrives to be undressed.

But when the rest are at last subdued, or satisfied, and Juliet Tresham

turns to attend to her eldest daughter, her trembling fingers have busied

themselves but for a few seconds with strings and buttons, before her

arms are cast around the child, and she bursts into a storm of tears.

‘Mamma, why do you cry?’ asks Lily anxiously.

‘Oh, Lily, Lily! It is not my fault—it is not my fault.’

God help her, poor Juliet, it is not! Almost a girl in years, yet laden

with cares such as few wives in her position are ever called upon to

bear, she has sunk beneath the weight of an overwhelming load. Health and

energy have failed her, and her husband’s patience has not proved equal

to the occasion, and so irritability and discontent have crept in on the

one hand, and disgust and indifference on the other. And yet they loved

each other once, oh! so dearly, and believed from their hearts they

would have died sooner than give up their mutual affection.

But Mrs Tresham does not cry long. She persuades herself that the man

downstairs is not worth crying for.

‘Get into bed, Lily, darling, or papa will be coming up to see what we

are about.’

‘I didn’t kiss papa nor wish him good-night,’ says the child.

‘No, no! it doesn’t signify. He doesn’t care for your kisses, nor for

mine.’

She tucks her little girl into her bed and descends to the sitting-room

again, feeling injured and hard of heart. Roland, as she enters, glances

at her with a look of disgust.

‘Your hair is half way down your back.’

She laughs slightly, and, pulling out the fastenings of her hair, lets

the rippling mass fall over her shoulders. Roland used to admire it

so much in the days gone by, and say it was the only gold he cared to

possess. Has she any hope that he will recall his former feelings at the

sight of her loosely falling locks? If so, she is mistaken, for he only

remarks coldly,—

‘I must beg you not to turn my room into a dressing-room. Go and put your

hair up tidily. I hate to find it amongst my papers.’

‘I believe you hate everything except your own comfort,’ she replies.

‘You’re the most selfish man I ever came across.’

‘Perhaps so! But as long as this house belongs to me, you’ll be good

enough to keep your opinions to yourself. If I can’t have comfort when I

come home, I will at least have peace.’

‘And much peace _I_ get, day or night.’

‘It is by your own mismanagement if you do not.’

‘How do you make that out? Has your want of money anything to do with my

mismanagement? Have the children anything to do with it? You ought to be

ashamed of yourself.’

‘Ought I?’ he returns, biting his lip. ‘Then, perhaps, you’ll be glad to

hear that I have applied for a foreign appointment that will take me out

to India, or the Brazils, for the remainder of my life.’

‘Oh, Roland!’ she cries, catching her breath; ‘but not to leave us?’

‘Certainly to leave you. That was the sole object of my application.

Aren’t you delighted to hear it? We lead a cat-and-dog life as things are

at present, and the sooner we are separated the better.’

‘But the children—and _me_!’ she gasps, with a face of chalky whiteness.

‘Oh, don’t be afraid! you will be provided for.’

‘But if you should be ill?’ suggests the woman fearfully.

‘Then I shall die, perhaps, and so much the better. You have not made my

life such a heaven to me that I shall lose much by its resignation.’

Then she falls upon his neck, weeping.

‘Oh, Roland, Roland! do not speak to me like that.’

But he pushes her from him. He has had no dinner, and that is a trial

that never improves the masculine temper.

‘Don’t make a fool of yourself!’ he says roughly.

Juliet raises her head and dries her eyes. She is a proud woman and a

high-spirited one, and never disposed to take a rebuff meekly.

‘I _am_ a fool,’ she answers. ‘Any woman would be a fool who wasted a

regret upon such an icicle as you are. I hope to Heaven you may get your

appointment and go out to the Brazils, and never come back again; for the

less I see and hear of you the better.’

‘Just what I said,’ remarks her husband indifferently. ‘You are as sick

of me as I am of you, and it’s of no use disguising the truth from one

another.’

‘There _was_ a time when you thought nothing too good to say of me,’ she

cries, hysterically.

‘Was there? Well, you can’t expect such things to last for ever, and you

have really made my life such a hell to me of late that you can’t be

surprised if I look forward to any change as a blessing.’

‘Oh! It has come to that, has it—that you want to get rid of me? Why

don’t you put the finishing stroke to your cruelty and say at once that

you hate me?’

‘I am afraid you are making me do something very much like it.’

‘The truth is, you are tired of me, Roland! It is nursing your children

and trying out of our scanty income to provide for your wants that has

brought me down to what I am, and since I have ceased to please your

eyes, I have wearied out your fancy.’

‘Yes! my dear,’ he says, with provoking nonchalance. ‘You are quite

right; I _am_ very tired of you, and particularly at this moment. Suppose

you leave me to my writing, and go to bed.’

Mrs Tresham rushes from the little room and slams the door behind her.

But she does not go to bed. She takes a seat amongst her sleeping

children, and, resting her head upon her hands, weeps for the past

which is slumbering like them, although she thinks it dead. It is just

nine o’clock, and as the hour strikes from a neighbouring church tower,

she sees the postman coming up the street. He enters the _parterre_ of

chickweed and dandelions, and gives a double knock at the front door,

whilst Mrs Tresham, sitting at her bedroom window, wonders vaguely who

the letter can be from. But presently she hears a shout from below—a

mingled shout of surprise and horror and excitement, and startled and

curious she runs downstairs to learn the cause.

Her husband’s handsome face—flushed and animated—turns towards her as she

opens the door.

‘What is the matter?’ she exclaims hurriedly.

‘_What is the matter?_’ he repeats. ‘What is _not_ the matter? My God!

can it possibly be true?’

He has leapt from his seat and passed his fingers through his hair,

which is all on end. His eyes flame like living fire; his whole frame is

trembling; she thinks for the moment that he has gone mad.

‘Roland, you are frightening me terribly! Have you had bad news?’

‘Bad news! No. Glorious news! At least I suppose I ought not to call it

so, because he’s my brother, but he has never been like a brother to me.

Juliet! Only fancy—Ralph is dead, killed by a fall down the mountain

side.’

‘Oh! Poor Sir Ralph! How terrible! But perhaps it is not true.’

‘It _is_ true. This letter is from Lady Tresham’s nephew, Handley

Harcourt, who was with Ralph at the time of his death. And they are

bringing the body to England. And—and—can’t you understand? _I_ am Sir

Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court—with ten thousand a-year to keep it up

on, and—Oh, my God!—my God! I believe the news will drive me mad.’

He casts himself face downwards on the rickety couch in the corner of the

room, and sobs as if, without that relief, his heart would burst with

joy. Meanwhile his wife stands motionless, almost unable to comprehend

the sudden change in their condition, until her husband starts up again,

exclaiming,—

‘What a child I am. But it only proves what I have suffered. To be free,

once and for ever, of all this struggling and starvation—to see my poor

children placed in the position to which they were born—It is too great a

change to be believed in, all at once. My boys shall enter the army and

navy—and my girls have every advantage my wealth can procure them. Oh, it

is too much! It has all happened so suddenly. I feel as if I should die

before I come into it. Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Sir Roland

Tresham, of Tresham Court! Merciful heavens, am I awake or in a dream?’

He has never mentioned his wife whilst enumerating the advantages his

new fortune will bring him. He has never once congratulated himself on

the fact that _she_ will no longer be obliged to slave and work and deny

herself as she has been used to do. All he thinks of are the children and

himself.

‘When will you come into all this, Roland?’ she asks.

‘I am it now! I was the Baronet from the moment of my poor brother’s

death.’

‘And shall we go to Tresham Court soon?’

‘Directly the funeral is over. I shall see the lawyers and Valeria the

first thing in the morning, and know all about it. But I would rather you

went upstairs and left me alone. I must have time to become accustomed

to the idea of this wonderful transformation scene. By to-morrow morning

I shall be all right. Good-night! Good-night! There will be no more

trouble about money now. And Sir Wilfrid shall be at Eton before he knows

what he is about. By Jove! How marvellously things do come round.’

He nods her a careless farewell in an excited sort of manner, and the

new Lady Tresham creeps up to her bed and takes baby Roland in her arms,

and sobs herself to sleep with his chubby face pressed close against her

bosom.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

TRESHAM COURT, GLAMORGANSHIRE.

‘Now you will be able to take that trip to Italy with us,’ says the

Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks a few days later, as Sir Roland and she

sit in the artistic drawing-room in Blue Street together. The funeral

of the late baronet is over—and the new one is installed in his stead.

Lady Tresham and the children are already at the Court, and Sir Roland

has come up to town to see his sister. ‘You can come to Italy with us,’

repeats Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. ‘You are sadly in need of rest and change, and

it will do you all the good in the world. You will find our dear Mabel a

most charming companion, and I am sure you have earned the right to take

a holiday!’

‘I should enjoy it above all things,’ replies Sir Roland, as he glances

at Miss Moore. ‘But do you think it would be advisable. Shall I not be

expected to take up my residence at Tresham Court, at all events for a

while?’

‘Not a bit of it! I hope you are not going to make yourself a slave

to your position. Besides, from what you tell me, I should imagine it

will be all the better for Lady Tresham to get a little accustomed to

housekeeping before you rejoin her. She must need practice.’

Sir Roland lifts his hands deprecatingly.

‘Heaven help my guests if she doesn’t improve! But there seems to be an

excellent staff of servants down there, and the majority will remain with

us. And it would be so delightful to get away from it all. I thirst to

leave the remembrance of the past entirely behind me—when do you start,

Valeria?’

‘The day after to-morrow!’

‘That is sharp work. I shall hardly have time to do my business here and

run down to Tresham Court and back again in a couple of days.’

‘Why go down to the Court? There will only be a scene if you do. Write

and tell Lady Tresham of your intention.’

‘Oh, Sir Roland, I shall _never_ forgive you if you cry off now,’

interposes Mabel. ‘You know it was a bargain that you should go with us

if you could. And aunty means to take Venice on our way. Fancy Venice and

gondolas in this heavenly weather! It will be _too_ delicious.’

Gondolas and Mabel Moore win the day, and Sir Roland agrees to write to

his wife instead of going down to Tresham Court.

‘Now, you are quite, _quite_ sure you are not telling us a story,’ says

Miss Moore, with a winning smile, ‘because I know if you go home that

Lady Tresham will not let you return to us again. You _promise_ only to

write, don’t you?’

‘I _promise_!’ repeats Sir Roland, with an uneasy twinge of conscience

nevertheless. But he keeps his word, and a letter by the next day’s post

informs Juliet that her husband is going to visit Italy with his sister,

and that she must manage matters at Tresham Court as best she can until

his return. This intelligence falls upon the wife like a sudden blow. She

feels very strange and awkward as the mistress of this great rambling

house, with its retinue of servants, but she has been seizing the

opportunity of Sir Roland’s absence to try and become acquainted with the

_ménage_ of the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room, that she may astonish

him with her aptitude on his return. And now he is going to leave her

to fight with all her new responsibilities alone, whilst he is enjoying

a trip upon the Continent. Well, she will not be so mean spirited a

creature as to sit down and weep for his absence. She will show him that

she can enjoy life as well as himself when she has the means to do so.

Yet the tears chase themselves rapidly down her cheeks as she thinks

thus to herself, for Lady Tresham has two nurses now to look after her

children, and can afford to indulge her feelings without spectators.

It is a bright sunny morning in the first week of August; the grounds

of Tresham Court are filled with beautiful flowers and leafy trees and

singing birds, and the pale-faced, weary woman takes her husband’s letter

in her hand, and seats herself beneath the shade of a cedar tree on the

smooth green lawn, and indulges her sorrowful thoughts to their fullest

extent.

Presently she hears a soft voice calling her by name. She looks up in

surprise; beside her stands an elderly lady, dressed in widow’s weeds.

‘Your servants said you were not at home, Lady Tresham, but I caught a

glimpse of your dress through the trees, and hoped you would not deem it

a liberty if I introduced myself to you as the widow of your husband’s

brother.’

‘Lady Tresham!’ cries Juliet, springing to her feet. ‘I am glad to see

you, but I am very untidy; I did not expect any one to call to-day. I did

not even know that you were in the county.’

‘I have a house of my own about five miles from here, but I only returned

to it yesterday. And so you are really Sir Roland’s wife. Why, you are a

mere girl.’

‘Indeed, you are mistaken. It is a long time since I was a girl. I am

twenty-six!’

‘And I am twenty years older than yourself, so you see I have a right to

consider you a girl. But you have been crying. Surely you have no trouble

now. I thought all your troubles lay in the want of means.’

‘We _were_ very, very poor,’ says Juliet, with proud simplicity, ‘and I

am hardly accustomed to the use of money yet. But I was crying—it is very

foolish of me, I know, but I cannot help it—because my husband is going

away.’

‘Going away! and where?’

‘To Italy, with his sister, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. He has been very worried

and upset lately, Lady Tresham, and he wants change, and I know it will

be best for him—but—but—’

‘You feel the responsibility of being left alone; that is very natural.

Yet, perhaps, it will teach you self-dependence. And for my own part, I

am glad Sir Roland is away just now. I want to make friends with you, my

dear; to help you, if it is in my power. I know your husband has thought

hard things of me, and, perhaps, of poor Sir Ralph into the bargain; but

in what we did we believed we were acting for the best. Now, all that is

over; you will neither of you ever want money again, but you may need

advice. And I should like to begin by advising you. Why do you not take

this trip with your husband? You look pale and worn out. It would do you

good as well as him.’

‘He does not want me,’ says Juliet, sadly; ‘he is only going in order to

get away from me.’

‘That is hardly possible. You are a wife of whom any man must be proud.’

‘I used to be told I was pretty,’ replies Lady Tresham, with a faint

blush; ‘but that was a long time ago.’

‘Rubbish, child; you are in your prime. And you have six children; and I

have not even one. What a happy woman you ought to be.’

But Lady Tresham does not answer. The tears are rising thickly to her

eyes, and falling down her cheeks again.

‘I would give them all up—yes, every one!’ she cries, hysterically, ‘to

regain their father’s love. Oh, Lady Tresham, what must you think of me

for speaking like this to an utter stranger?’

‘Cease to look on me as a stranger, then, dear child, and let us be

friends. Cannot I do anything to help you out of this heavy trouble?’

‘Nothing; nothing. It is incurable, and I must bear it as best I can. He

loved me whilst I had the means to make myself look pretty; when I had a

colour in my cheeks, and a gloss upon my hair. But I have lost all that,

Lady Tresham. Days and nights of sickness and privation have robbed me

of my beauty and his love. And then my temper grew irritable, and he

sickened of his home and me; and I shall never know any happiness in this

world again.’

‘If you have somewhat wearied your husband’s love in poverty, you must

regain it in prosperity,’ says Sir Ralph’s widow.

‘Indeed, you do not know him, Lady Tresham.’

‘I do not know Sir Roland, my dear, but I have known many men, and they

are all alike. The philosophy of few of them will survive their personal

discomfort. Sir Roland will find things very different on his return to

England, and the old feelings will have an opportunity of revival. Come,

my dear girl, you must not lose heart.’

‘But I am so ignorant how to order things aright,’ sighs Juliet, ‘I have

had so little experience.’

‘I will be your teacher, if you will permit me. Tresham Court always had

the credit of being well governed under my reign. And first, I would make

an improvement in your dress. Such a beautiful figure was never meant to

be concealed under that clumsy thing.’

‘I was obliged to get my mourning ready made,’ says Juliet, looking down

at her ill-fitting black robe.

‘True; but I must send my dressmaker to you forthwith. And now let me see

the dear little ones. I love children all the more that I have never been

a mother.’ And so the ladies, already friends, drift away into that most

interesting of feminine topics, the nursery, and great plans are laid

for the benefit of Juliet’s little family before they separate again.

On the same day Sir Roland is making his final preparations to join

his sister’s party, though not without a few self-reproaches, which he

stifles by recalling the establishment at Forthill Terrace, Camden Town.

It is only fair, he tells himself, that after so many years of domestic

misery he should use his unexpected liberty by taking a little change.

And for the first few days the change bids fair to fulfil its promise.

The Carnaby-Hicks proceed South leisurely, taking the Rhine on their

way, and Sir Roland can conceive of no more delicious sensation than

floating down the River of Romance on those balmy August evenings by the

side of Mabel Moore. That young lady does not spare him in any way. From

the beginning she claims his attendance for herself, and exercises all

her fascination freely upon the unfortunate man, who cannot help being

attracted by the charms of her person, and the meaning glances she so

liberally bestows upon him.

‘What a pity that Juliet has not a more commanding appearance,’ he thinks

to himself, as he watches Mabel’s fine form distinctly outlined in the

moonlight. ‘Miss Moore has twice her importance; she looks as if she had

been born to a title.’ And Mabel interrupts his reverie by a heavy sigh.

‘Why do you sigh, Miss Moore?’

‘I was thinking how unequally this world is balanced, Sir Roland.

Everything goes wrong, doesn’t it?’

‘I cannot quite agree with that sentiment; not, at least, whilst you and

I are floating down the Rhine together.’

‘But it won’t last.’

‘Not for ever, unfortunately. But let us enjoy it whilst it does.’

‘I cannot thoroughly enjoy myself when I know my pleasure must come to an

end. When I am most happy, I remember that in a few weeks it will all be

over, and we shall be back in Blue Street, and you down at Tresham Court

with your wife and family.’

‘Don’t talk of it please,’ says Sir Roland with a shudder.

‘_Why?_’ asks Miss Moore innocently; ‘don’t you love little children?’

‘Not particularly. Do you?’

‘I don’t care for most people’s children, but I should for yours.’

‘You are very good to say so’, replies Sir Roland: but he knows they are

treading on dangerous ground, and the subject had better be dropped.

As he lies in his berth that night, and thinks over the events of the

day, he remembers how his wife told him before their marriage that she

disliked children, and he had twitted her with the fact on seeing her

devotion to their firstborn. And he recalls how she had looked into his

face with her large blue eyes—so clear and lovely and loving as they were

in those days—and whispered, ‘But this is _yours_, Roland.’ There is

something like a tear in Sir Roland Tresham’s eye as he turns uneasily

in his berth, and thinks how those happy days have faded; but it is of

Juliet, and not of Mabel, he dreams as he falls asleep. The Honourable

Mrs Carnaby-Hicks sees the flirtation going on between her niece and

her brother, but does not concern herself in the matter. Miss Moore

knows what she is about, and is perfectly able to take care of herself;

indeed, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks thinks she can already discern the instinct by

which the young lady is guided. But Sir Roland, who can only interpret

her words and glances by his own lights, believes himself to be on the

verge of a precipice, and yet has not the moral courage to fly from a

temptation that is so flattering to his vanity. Mabel’s chief weapon is

melancholy. She professes melancholy whenever it occurs to her, until Sir

Roland is forced to demand the reason of her serious looks.

‘How can you ask?’ she says one evening—the first of their arrival in

Venice—‘when you know that auntie has asked Lord Ernest Freemantle to

join our party to-morrow?’

‘What difference will that make to us?’

‘Why, will he not expect to be always by my side, and break in upon the

pleasant _têtes-à-tête_ we have had together?’

‘Have they been so _very_ pleasant to you then, Mabel?’

‘Oh, Sir Roland, cannot you judge of my feelings by your own?’

‘If I did that—’ he commences fervently, but there he stops. The vision

of two blue eyes, dimmed with tears, rises before him, and he stamps the

temptation down.

‘Whatever I may feel,’ he says to himself afterwards, ‘I will not allow

my tongue to turn traitor,’ and so Miss Moore is disappointed of her

answer.

Letters came to him frequently from his wife—long letters, in which she

gives him a full account of her friendship with Sir Ralph’s widow, but

not a word of the way in which she is managing the household.

‘I shouldn’t think the presence of the dowager will do much to enliven

the Court,’ remarks Mrs Carnaby-Hicks spitefully.

‘She is not likely to teach my wife extravagance,’ laughs Sir Roland;

‘but Juliet and she seem to get on very well together.’

‘Perhaps she is a style that suits Lady Tresham,’ says his sister. ‘I

have always understood she was a dowdy and a screw.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean to let my wife _screw_,’ replies the baronet uneasily.

‘She has had little enough pin-money hitherto, poor girl, and she shall

have a liberal allowance now, if nothing else.’

‘Why do you call Lady Tresham “poor”?’ whispers Mabel in his ear. ‘I

should have said she was the richest of women.’

‘Not quite that,’ he answers, wilfully misunderstanding her, ‘though

she need have no fear for the future. But she has had barely enough for

comfort until now.’

‘She has always had _you_,’ says Miss Moore, softly.

‘Some ladies might consider that an extra misfortune!’

‘_Some_ might,’ echoes the girl with a heavy sigh, the meaning of which

it is impossible to misconstrue. Lord Ernest Freemantle proves to be

a simple, undersized little gentleman, who is very much enamoured of

Miss Mabel Moore, and becomes proportionately jealous of Sir Roland

Tresham. And the latter, delighted at the feeling he has provoked, takes

pleasure in exciting it to the last degree, by a still closer attendance

on the young lady. One evening, when she has refused to accompany Lord

Ernest and her aunt on a walking expedition through the town, Sir Roland

persuades her to go on the water with him in a gondola. Mabel assents

with alacrity, and they are soon floating together over the placid

surface of the canal, seated under the canopy at one end of the boat,

whilst the gondoliers ply their oars to the music of their own voices at

the other.

‘How I wish we could go floating on like this into eternity,’ remarks Sir

Roland, presently.

‘It would be very easy,’ replies Mabel in a low voice. ‘It is but to cast

ourselves over the side into those dark waters and sink out of sight for

ever. It would be a happier fate—at least for me—than any I have to look

forward to.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that. You are young, and have every prospect of a

happy life before you.’

‘Indeed, I have not.’

‘My dear Mabel, why those tears?’ exclaims Sir Roland, as the girl dashes

her hand across her eyes. ‘What have I said to vex you?’

‘Nothing. But life is so hard, and—and—disappointing.’

He passes his arm around her waist.

‘Tell me what makes it so to you.’

‘Oh, Roland,’ she whispers, ‘_you know_.’

The tone, the words, are too much for him. To hold a pretty woman in his

arms and hear her murmuring her love for himself would be perhaps too

much for any man. Anyway, it disperses all Sir Roland’s prudence.

‘My _darling_,’ he says emphatically, ‘why cannot we end all this misery,

and live for each other from this time forward?’ But as he speaks,

the gondoliers alter their chant, and strike up a little Neapolitan

barcarolle. It is a simple plaintive air, without much merit in itself,

but the last time Sir Roland heard it, it came from Juliet’s lips as

she was hushing a fractious child to rest. In a moment the past scene

rises before him. He can see his wife’s drooping figure, the sad look in

her eyes; can hear the faltering tones of her weary voice. He recalls,

in fact, the mother of his children, the woman who has borne, however

impatiently, the burden and heat of the day with him; and all the best

part of the man’s nature rises up to condemn his present faithless action.

‘God in heaven!’ he exclaims aloud; ‘what am I saying and doing? Mabel,

forgive me! It was the madness of a moment. It shall never be repeated.’

But he has said the words, and they are not to be unsaid. Miss Moore

enjoys the situation. It appeals to her romantic proclivities, and she

clings to him tightly even whilst she murmurs.

‘Oh no; you mustn’t say such things to me. It is very, very wrong. But,

Roland, to know you love me atones for everything. I can die happy now.’

‘Indeed, I had no right to speak to you in such a manner, but your tears

made me lose sight of prudence. Mabel, promise me that you will forget

what I said.’

‘Don’t ask me that, it will be so sweet to remember,’ she says, still

clinging to him. He tries gently to disengage himself.

‘Sit back on your seat, there’s a good girl. These fellows are looking at

us. Mabel, try and be calm. We must never mention this subject again. It

is too painful.’

‘But why should we deny ourselves the poor delights of memory, since it

is all that is left?’

‘We must stamp it out. It can lead to no good for either of us; and for

you, perhaps, to irreparable harm. I am not a Trojan in virtue, Mabel;

you must not try me too hard.’

‘But you will love me always, Roland, will you not?’

What can he say? He knows already that he does not love her at all. But

he is a man, and she is a woman, and he does as many other men would

do—he swears he shall never cease to care for her.

‘If I were free!’ he murmurs; ‘but you see how it is, my darling. I am

bound hand and foot, and we never can be anything more than we are to one

another. I must not quite forget my poor children.’

‘But we shall be friends always, shall we not?’

‘The very best and closest of friends, but we mustn’t trust ourselves

alone again. You are too lovely, Mabel, and I—I am too weak. I am sure

you must see the reason of what I say?’

‘Yes; yes. But let us enjoy this one last evening together. Don’t go home

just yet. Remember it is for the last time.’

He cannot but yield to her entreaty, but when they reach the hotel he

resolves that it must never occur again. Mabel Moore is not the woman to

let him off easily. She will make him remember his avowal of that evening

for ever afterwards, and Sir Roland feels that his only safety lies in

flight. During the self-reproachful night that follows, when the thought

of his wife and children rises up to make him acknowledge that nothing in

the whole world could compensate him for the loss of that which he has

held so loosely, he makes a resolution to return to Tresham Court the

very next morning. Poor Juliet! Now he comes to think of it, he does not

believe he has given her one kiss of congratulation on her newly-acquired

dignity. They were beginning to be very unhappy in the past, he knows,

but it seems hard now that he should have visited the entire blame on

the head of the woman who had so much the heavier portion of the load

to bear. When he rises the following morning his first act is to seek

the apartments of his sister, and inform her of his determination to

return to England. He finds Mrs Carnaby-Hicks radiantly triumphant, and

apparently quite indifferent as to whether he remains with them or not.

‘My dear Roland, you must do just as you think best, and indeed I have

this moment received news that renders it very improbable that we shall

be able to extend our trip to Italy this year. Lord Ernest Freemantle

has proposed to our dear Mabel. Mr Carnaby-Hicks is delighted, and so am

I. I have had hopes of such an occurrence for a long time (for no one

could help seeing how Lord Ernest admired our dear girl), but your taking

her out in the gondola alone last evening brought matters to a crisis.

And indeed, were it not for the issue, I should feel almost disposed

to quarrel with you, Roland, for being so careless of her reputation.

It might have turned matters just the other way. You are too young and

handsome to play such freaks with an unmarried girl.’

‘From what you say, then, I may conclude Miss Moore has accepted Lord

Ernest’s offer.’

‘Why, of course! What else should she do? And as he is anxious the

marriage should take place as soon as possible, I suppose we shall have

to go home again.’

‘Then, will you convey my warmest congratulations to the bride-elect, and

tell her that I trust we shall meet again in England?’

‘Won’t you stop and see her yourself?’

‘I think not—thanks! I see there is a midday train to Paris, which I can

catch if I lose no time. So I will wish you good-bye at once, Valeria!’

‘Good-bye, my dear Roland! We shall, as you say, soon meet again, and I

think you are wise to return, for I am afraid all our fun is over for

this season!’

The midday train takes him to Paris, and the next day he finds himself on

his road to Glamorganshire. The carriage in which he travels is filled

with men, all strangers to him, but who converse freely with one another.

‘Have you seen the new owner of Tresham Court, Conway?’ asks one fellow

of his neighbour.

‘What, Sir Roland? Not yet! He is abroad, so I am told, and won’t be home

till Christmas!’

‘By George! Well, if I were the owner of Lady Tresham the country

wouldn’t see me that didn’t hold her!’

‘Is she so handsome then?’

‘She’s better than handsome! She’s one of the sweetest-looking women I

ever saw. I met her at General Carroll’s last week with the dowager.’

‘Fair or dark?’

‘Fair as a lily, with glorious golden hair, and great blue eyes as clear

as spring water. She’s as graceful as a gazelle, too, and got a voice

like a thrush. She said she was awfully out of practice, but she sung

better than anyone there.’

‘I shall get my mother to take me over to Tresham Court,’ says a

young dandy in the corner; ‘a pretty woman is not to be despised in

Glamorganshire.’

‘You won’t get anything by that, my boy,’ says the first speaker.

‘Handley Harcourt, the dowager’s nephew, has found her out already, and

is there morning, noon, and night.’

Sir Roland is just about to proclaim that the beautiful woman they speak

of is his wife, when the last sentence makes him shrink back in his seat

instead. He feels ashamed to acknowledge her now. What if the scandal

should be true! But no, it is impossible! Juliet has been his wife for

eight long years, and faithful to him in thought, word, and deed. He

would answer for her fidelity as for his own. _His own!_ At that thought

the hot blood courses through Sir Roland’s veins, and mantles in his

handsome face. He has _not_ been faithful to her—he acknowledges it with

shame—but he will atone as there is a heaven above him.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says suddenly, ‘the lady you speak of is my wife, and

had you all been at Tresham Court during my absence, ‘morning, noon, and

night,’ it would not have given me a moment’s uneasiness.’ His confession

is naturally followed by apologies, introductions, hand-shaking, and

general invitations to the Court. Sir Roland even assures the somewhat

shy little dandy in the corner that he has his hearty permission to flirt

with Lady Tresham as much as possible. And then they all light up and

try each other’s cigars, and become the fastest of friends in a very few

minutes. Yet as he leaves them at the station, where the carriage is in

waiting to convey him home, he cannot help wondering at the enthusiasm

his wife’s looks have provoked amongst them. She _used_ to be very pretty

in their first wedded days, before she grew so careless of her personal

appearance—when she took pride in arraying her graceful little form,

and dressing her beautiful hair, but slatternly clothes and unbecoming

_coiffure_ are sufficient to conceal the beauty of any woman. Well! Sir

Roland supposes that such things can be altered, but if he finds that

Juliet’s bad taste is irreparable, he will be content with her as she

is. He has brought enough trouble on her head already—the present shall

never be clouded by his reproaches nor complaints. He is so eager to

make atonement for the past, that the five miles between the station and

Tresham Court appear like ten; but they are accomplished at last, and the

carriage rolls through the iron gates and up the wooded drive. Half-way

they come upon a group of children escorted by their nurses and a groom.

Two beautiful boys in velvet suits, with golden curls falling over their

Vandyke collars, are mounted on one pony, whilst another animal carries

a pair of panniers, from which familiar little faces and blue eyes gaze

up expectantly to meet his own.

‘Can those be my children?’ exclaims Sir Roland to himself; and then he

gives the order to stop, and another minute sees him in the midst of

them. But what a change! He can scarcely believe they are the same brats

who, six weeks ago, used to hang over the garden palings in Camden Town,

and put out their tongues at the passers-by—Lily and May in their white

frocks and black ribbons, and little Roland in his smart pelisse; and the

boys looking such noble fellows in their jackets and knickerbockers, with

sunny hair, and clean faces and hands—it seems like a dream to the father

as he kisses them all round, and admires the ponies and the panniers to

their hearts’ content. He strides on to the house with his bosom swelling

with pride at the appearance of his little ones, and is almost too

pre-occupied to notice that everything is perfectly arranged within the

Court and out.

A footman meets him at the door with the information that her ladyship

awaits him in the morning-room, and thither, still in a dream, Sir

Roland rapidly proceeds. As he enters the apartment he starts back,

thunderstruck with amazement. A lady stands upon the hearthrug—a woman

delicately fair, and very lovely, though still too thin and pale, and

with tears of expectation and suspense within her eyes.

She is robed in black velvet, fitting closely to her graceful figure—at

her throat and wrists are falls of Venetian lace—and her dainty feet are

cased in silk stockings and buckled shoes. Her golden hair cut short upon

her brow, is piled in innumerable little curls upon the top of her head,

which grow longer and longer until they lay in a flossy mass upon her

neck and shoulders. For a moment, Sir Roland gazes at this unlooked-for

apparition in utter silence.

‘Husband!’ says Juliet shyly, ‘don’t you know me?’

‘My dearest!’ he exclaims, rushing forward and clasping her in his arms;

‘how beautiful you have become.’

Then, with the touch of his arms and lips, all her womanhood asserts

itself, and she casts herself, sobbing, on his breast.

‘Oh, Roland! forgive me! forgive me! Take me back and love me as you used

to do!’

‘What have I to forgive you, darling?’

‘All my ill-temper and impatience and want of fortitude. I bore our lot

so badly—I did not deserve to have it bettered—and now that prosperity

has come to us, I feel it will be worthless without your love.’

‘But you have my love, Juliet! you have never lost it. The ills and

discomforts of poverty soured my nature, and made me behave like a brute

to you; but my heart has been yours through it all, dearest wife, and

I have never been more convinced of the fact than during our present

separation.’

She looks up at him and smiles—oh! such a heavenly smile of renewed

happiness and hope.

‘And, Roland, you are quite, _quite_ sure that you love me best of all

the world! That there is no other woman dearer to you than myself?’

He has just _one_ twinge as she puts the question to him; but men are

used to twinges, and he can answer honestly,—

‘Not _one_, my love!—not a single one! nor ever shall be. Take your

husband’s word for it, and let us resolve from this moment to banish the

painful memory of the Past, and live for each other only in the Future.’

* * * * *

And so they have and do, and there is only one thing that Lady Tresham

cannot understand, which is Sir Roland’s rooted aversion to Lady Ernest

Freemantle. He will not let his wife invite her down to Tresham Court,

although she has often hinted she would like to visit them, and all

the excuse he can give for his conduct is that he does not choose to

cultivate the lady’s acquaintance.

So the matter rests, and as long as Sir Roland does not renew it, there

is no need he should confess the little scene that took place in the

gondola on the moonlighted Venice canal.

THE END.

[Illustration]

CAPTAIN NORTON’S DIARY.

CHAPTER I.

MUSHIN-BUNDA.

_June 4th, 18—_.—Thermometer at 100 in the shade, and up to heaven knows

where in the sun; somewhere about boiling heat, I should imagine, if I

may judge by the state of my shirt sleeves. A cheerful climate in which

to ask a man to spend the best days of his life, for the visionary

prospect of surviving twenty years’ service and retiring on half-pay. If

it were not for Janie, I could not stand it. Here we are, cooped up in

an old Dutch fort, with three miles of desert plain between us and the

sea; the very house we live in built on the remains of a cemetery; the

ruined graves of which stare us in the face every time we look out of the

drawing-room windows. The consequence of which is, that Janie would not

stay in the house by herself after dark for any earthly consideration;

and if she cannot procure a female friend to dance attendance on her

fears, I am cut out of my bachelor entertainments. Not that I wish to

complain; far from it; it would be hard if I could not give up some

pleasures in exchange for such a wife as mine—but I have found it awkward

at times. Then we have no society but such as the regiment affords; and

as a married man I am, of course, not so much at the mess as heretofore.

Altogether Mushin-Bunda is not lively; and my wife is the only creature

who makes it bearable to me.

I don’t wonder that the whole cantonment voted me a lucky fellow when I

obtained the promise of her hand. The first time I ever saw her at the

house of her married sister—the wife of Delville, of our 44th, since

ordered to Burmah—I thought her the prettiest, most lovable little woman

I had ever seen; and during the twelve months of our happy married life,

I have had no reason to alter my opinion. Janie is all that a man could

possibly desire in a wife; and so I tell myself twenty times a day. Never

have I seen her face clouded with passion or ill-humour: whatever I

propose to do is invariably the thing she has just been wishing for; she

never dissents from me either in opinion or desire; she never even meets

me without the same quiet smile, which has deservedly gained her the

credit of being such ‘a very sweet young woman.’ She is a cushat-dove,

made to nestle into a man’s affections and to remain there; for who with

a heart could bear to wound the feelings of one so sensitive and pure? I

don’t believe at this moment, that in all the length and breadth of India

there exists a happier or more contented fellow than myself; and if we

only had a little more society, a little company occasionally to turn

our thoughts from dwelling incessantly upon ourselves, our life would

leave nothing to be desired. Not but what my Janie is the world to me;

still, a woman is but a woman after all, and the days are apt to become

monotonous.

Oh, this horrid Mushin-Bunda! could anything reconcile me to a life-long

expatriation in a place like this? The very thought is desolation.

_June 6th._—Two days ago I was complaining of the lack of company to

be found in Mushin-Bunda. This evening I feel inclined to write myself

down an ass, and say that my foolishness has returned upon my own pate,

for we are likely to have more company than we care for. I was in the

verandah this morning smoking and grumbling, and as I turned from the

contemplation of the glaring compound to where Janie sat in her white

dress, bending over some letters she had just received, I decided she was

the only cool thing within my range of sight. The dogs were lying panting

on the gravel with their tongues out. The constant motion of the flapping

punkah did not appear to do more than stir the heat. Even the quiet

easy-going tailor sitting cross-legged at my feet, could not proceed with

his work unless he dipped his black fingers every minute in a bowl of

water. Everything looked hot, horrible, and sticky, except Janie herself.

But there sat my cushat-dove—half buried in the flounces of her muslin

dress—a fair, plump, placid little woman; the effect of heat on whom is

only to make her look more white and cool, with her sunny hair drawn off

her tranquil features, and her calm blue eyes riveted on the open letter

which she held in her hand. None of your passionate, raving, storming

creatures this, who nearly squeeze you to death one moment, and stick

a knife into you the next; but a proper sort of woman for a wife and

mother, or so I choose to call her; and I really couldn’t take my eyes

off her moonlight beauty, until I was roused from my reverie by hearing

her plaintive voice exclaiming,—

‘Oh dear! oh dear! how very unfortunate! Whatever will the poor girl do?’

‘Of whom are you talking, my darling?’ I asked, as I cast away the

remains of my cigar, and advanced towards her.

‘Of my cousin Lionne, Robert dear; Margaret Anstruther, of whom I have

so often spoken to you. I told you some time ago, didn’t I, that in

consequence of her mother’s death she was coming out to the care of our

uncle, Colonel Anstruther, at Madras?’

‘Well, what of it? Has she arrived?’

‘No; but this letter is from Uncle Henry, and he is in such a dilemma.

He expected Margaret to be with him four or five mails ago; but her

guardians have delayed and delayed to send her out; and now, just as he

is ordered off to China to join his regiment, he receives a letter to say

that she will arrive by the next steamer.’

‘And he will have left Madras?’

‘Yes; and for six months at least. He does not know what on earth to do

about it.’

And Janie, in an uncertain manner, kept turning the sheet of paper over

and over in her hands.

‘He must ask one of his lady friends to receive Miss Anstruther,’ I

suggested.

‘So he would, Robert, were it not for so long a time. But a six months’

visit is too much to expect from any stranger. If Emma were only here,

Uncle Henry would have sent Margaret to her.’

‘It is certainly very inconvenient,’ I remarked carelessly.

‘I suppose, Robert dear,’ said Janie, in a dubious and hesitating

manner,—‘I suppose _we_ could not offer to take in Margaret till Uncle

Henry returns from China?’

I started. The idea had not presented itself to me before, and it was

certainly not a pleasant one. I hope I am not of an inhospitable turn

of mind; but the prospect of having a perfect stranger located beneath

our roof for such a length of time was anything but agreeable to me. I

remembered Janie’s want of companionship, and the many times I had had

to resign the society of my brother-officers on her account, and felt

resigned; but the next moment I thought of all my quiet evenings with my

loving little wife being broken in upon; of our cosy walks, and talks,

and drives being done away with, and for six long months—and I daresay

I did look blank. Indeed, I must have done so; for Janie, who is not,

generally speaking, what is termed quick of observation, saw the change

in my countenance and commented upon it.

‘You don’t like the notion, Robert dear?’ she said, in a tone of

disappointment.

‘Well, Janie, I can’t say I do; but if it must be, it must be. What does

your uncle say on the subject?’

‘He says it would be a great convenience, of course, and that he does not

know to whom else to apply, or he would not trouble us. And Margaret and

I were at school together, Robert: we were brought up quite like sisters;

so it would seem strange if she were to go to anyone else. And it is only

for six months; and Uncle Henry says that he does not expect us to be put

to any expense about it, for that he—’

‘Oh, blow the expense!’ I irreverently interrupted. ‘When does Colonel

Anstruther leave Madras, Janie?’

‘Next week; and Margaret is to arrive the week after.’

‘And what arrangements can he make for her joining us at Mushin-Bunda?’

‘Mrs Grant, a friend of his, has offered to receive Margaret on her

arrival, and to keep her until a steamer starts for here, which will

probably not be long first.’

‘Very well. Write to your uncle, and say that we shall be proud to give

Miss Anstruther house-room until such time as he may be able to reclaim

her.’

‘And you’re not vexed about it, Robert dear?’ said Janie timidly.

I stooped and kissed her.

‘Not a bit, darling,’ I answered gaily. ‘Half-a-dozen cousins could make

no difference to our love; and as long as that remains unaltered, I care

for nothing else.’ Upon which my little wife brightened up again, and

prepared to write an answer to her uncle’s letter; and I lit another

cigar, and resumed my old position in the verandah.

I told Janie that the stranger’s coming could make no difference to me;

but I feel that I have not spoken the truth in saying so, and I blame

myself for thinking as strongly as I do upon the subject. Surely I am

swayed by prejudice.

After all, supposing that Miss Anstruther does remain with us during the

whole of her uncle’s sojourn in China, where will be the great misfortune

of entertaining a young lady for a few months? and how could we have

done otherwise than offer to receive a friendless girl, arriving in the

country under such peculiar circumstances? who has also, by marriage,

become a connection of my own, and been reared in such intimate relations

with my wife, as to be looked on by Janie almost in the light of a

sister. It would have been quite impossible to act otherwise; therefore

I feel I had better make a virtue of a necessity. At the same time, try

as I will, I cannot bring myself to look on the anticipated visit as a

pleasure, although I am sure that much of my prejudice arises from my

wife’s innocent praises of her cousin, which prove Miss Anstruther to

be so opposite, in appearance and disposition, to herself, that I feel

I shall never like the girl. Well, I was wishing for more society in

Mushin-Bunda; and now I shall have it. Some one to dance attendance on,

and to mind my p’s and q’s before, for the next six months; and if I

haven’t had enough of society before the end of that time, it’s a pity.

Warren says it’s all nonsense; that he had a friend of his wife’s once

staying in the house for several weeks, and that it was great fun; and

that before Miss Anstruther has been with us half that time, I shall look

on her as a sister, and forget all about my p’s and q’s.

I laugh at the idea, and pretend to agree with him; but it is of no use;

a presentiment of annoyance for me seems to cling to the name of Margaret

Anstruther, until I wish I had never even heard its sound. However, as I

said to my wife, what must be, must be, and the best method of evading a

worry is not to think about it. Easier said than done!

_June 16th._—If anything were necessary to make me take a still farther

dislike to the idea of our expected guest, it would be provided in the

fact that Janie and I have nearly come to words about her, for the first

time in our married life.

‘Come, darling,’ I said to her this evening, when at last the fierce sun

had sunk below the horizon, and it was possible to quit the house; ‘put

on your hat, and let us have a little stroll in the compound together, we

may not have many more opportunities of walking alone.’

Our ‘compound,’ as the ground surrounding an Indian bungalow is usually

called, is a large piece of uncultivated land, sheltered by lanky

cocoa-nut trees, and carpeted with burnt-up turf from end to end, whereof

is cut a sandy track, which we term our carriage-drive.

Janie was ready in a moment, and up and down the track of sand we

wandered, arm-in-arm, inhaling eagerly the faint breath of sea-air wafted

to us from across the plain which separates us from the ocean.

‘Oh, Robert dear!’ said Janie, casting up her pensive blue eyes to meet

my own, ‘I wish I had never written that letter to Uncle Henry. I am more

sure every day that you don’t like the notion of Lionne staying with us.’

I can’t think what put the letter or her cousin into my wife’s head at

that particular moment; for I have not alluded to the subject for several

days past.

‘My dearest child,’ I answered her, ‘whether I like it or not is of

little consequence. There is no alternative; therefore we must bear the

infliction as best we may. Thank heaven, it will not be for ever.’

‘But you are not to look upon it as an infliction, Robert,’ said Janie,

as she squeezed my arm, ‘because, directly you see Margaret, you will

like her.’

I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.

‘But indeed you will,’ continued my little wife with, for her, a most

unusual display of energy. ‘You don’t know how nice-looking she is; tall

and slight, with large dark eyes and—’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘Six feet high, and gaunt

as a cab-horse, with flaming black eyes and hair, and a complexion like

Spanish olives. I know the sort of woman, Janie; you’ve described her to

me often enough. The less said about her beauty the better.’

‘But she’s not a bit like that,’ said dear little Janie, almost ready

to cry at my description of her cousin. ‘Lionne is very graceful and

exceedingly handsome; every one says so. Indeed, Robert dear, you are

quite mistaken.’

‘She won’t be handsome to me,’ I answered, appeasing her with a kiss,

‘since she must be so different from yourself, Janie. Nothing will go

down with me, darling, except it be golden hair and a marble skin; and

then they must be the hair and the skin of but one woman in the world.’

And I looked into the face of my cushat-dove until I made her blush and

laugh nervously with her tremulous happiness. Dear little Janie! God keep

me ever true to her!—‘Why do you call your cousin “Lionne,” instead of

by her proper name?’ I asked, as soon as the billing and cooing episode

had somewhat subsided, and we had leisure to revert to the subject under

discussion. ‘Margaret is pretty enough, and the other has no connection

with it, let alone its signification rendering it very unsuitable for a

lady.’

At this question my wife reddened; but, after a little pressing,

confessed it was a nickname which had been bestowed on Miss Anstruther at

school.

‘She is a dear, generous creature, Robert dear,’ she pleaded; ‘but just

a little hasty, or at least she used to be; but of course she will have

got over all that by this time’ (not so sure, thought I); ‘and we girls

used to call her ‘La Lionne’ just for fun, you know, and somehow the name

stuck to her. Oh, you should have seen her in a rage!’ continued Janie,

warming beneath the recollection; ‘her eyes used to flash such glorious

fire, and she didn’t seem to care what she did. Once, when I offended

her, she flew at me just like a little cat, and bit me on the arm.’ And

Janie laughed softly at the remembrance which made my blood boil.

‘What a she-devil!’ I exclaimed indignantly, as I thought of the fair

flesh, of which I was so tender, lacerated by the teeth of a gaunt

school-girl with vicious black eyes. ‘I should like to have caught her at

it!’

Then Janie seemed to think she had said too much, and tried to retract.

‘Oh, but, Robert dear!’ she exclaimed, ‘she is very different now, you

know; that all happened long ago; and though we still call her Lionne, it

is seldom that she ever gives way to her temper. I have not seen her for

some years; but when we last met we had not a word together during the

whole period of her stay.’

‘And how long may that have been, Janie?’

‘For three weeks; and she was so pleasant and kind, you can’t think.’

Three weeks! I groaned in my spirit; and we are to endure six months

of the company of this lady who is called Lionne, in compliment to

the amiability of her disposition, and bites and scratches like a cat

whenever she is offended. I began to think of clothing myself and my

wife in mail armour during the period of her stay, so that we might be

invulnerable to her attacks; but a remark to that effect to Janie seemed

greatly to discompose her.

‘It is not fair of you, Robert dear,’ she said, with knitted brows,

‘to take my confidence in such a spirit. It is all nonsense to suppose

that Margaret will be like that now; she is a charming girl, who is

universally admired.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ I replied sarcastically. ‘I hope, however,

that she won’t take a liking to me; or that, if she does, she will keep

her charming teeth to herself.’

‘I daresay you won’t be troubled with her long,’ exclaimed Janie, with

a degree of excitement which I foresaw would end in tears. ‘Margaret

attracts lovers wherever she goes, and we shall have her engaged and

married most likely before she has been many weeks in Mushin-Bunda.’

‘Worse and worse,’ I inadvertently replied. ‘If I thought that was to be

the end of it, Janie, I should cut and run at once.’

Visions of my brother officers lounging about the drawing-room all day,

and snarling at each other like rival curs—of a wedding, and all the

paraphernalia and fuss attendant on it—made me give vent to the horror

which I felt in the anticipation.

‘Ah! you didn’t think it all so horrid a year ago!’ said my wife, melting

into the promised tears; ‘but I suppose you have forgotten that by this

time, or wish, perhaps, that it had never been.’

The conclusion struck me as unreasonable; but when women arrive at that

stage they are not in a fit state to be argued with, and are best left

alone.

‘It’s very different when one plays first fiddle in the case, dear

child,’ I answered soothingly; but Janie was no longer in a humour to be

soothed.

‘I don’t believe you think so, Robert,’ she said; ‘and as for poor

Lionne, I’m sure—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! let’s talk of something else than poor Lionne!’ I

answered hastily. ‘I’m sure we’ve had enough of her for one evening; and,

for my part, I’m getting quite sick of her name.’

It was a foolish, unthinking speech to make; and Janie took it so

thoroughly to heart, that she walked away from my side into the house,

and had cried herself sick and ill before I had the manliness to find her

out and ask her pardon for my rudeness, and promise to try and like her

cousin for her sake. I must be more careful of Janie. She is not strong

enough to endure much emotion; and she loves me so tenderly, that the

least suspicion of unkindness on my part upsets her.

Well, this is the first shadow of a disagreement that we have ever had;

may it be the last! That it has occurred on the subject of Margaret

Anstruther, is not likely to increase my predilection in favour of that

young lady.

_June 17th._—I did not go to bed till late last evening, for I was vexed

at what had taken place between myself and Janie, and could not readily

compose myself to sleep. However, I did so at last, vowing to endure all

the cousins in creation fastened upon me for all time, sooner than bring

another needless tear into the tender eyes of my cushat-dove; and was

wakened at gun-fire this morning by the intelligence that the _Ostrich_

(the steamer by which we expected Miss Anstruther to arrive) was

telegraphed from Coeranapoot, and would be off Mushin-Bunda in the course

of a few hours.

Owing to the agreeable peculiarities of the place we live in, I was

obliged at once to rise from my bed, and prepare to ride down to the

fort, the currents here being of such a nature that vessels cannot come

within a couple of miles of land; and if boats are not ready on their

arrival to convey the passengers on shore, they carry them on without

ceremony to the next port. I wakened Janie with a dozen kisses, begged

and prayed of her to think no more of what happened last night, assured

her that I intend to be all that is amiable, and learn to like her cousin

as much as she does, and having thrown myself into my clothes, departed

full of good resolutions, leaving her childish face radiant with smiles,

and beaming in expectation of the coming meeting.

As I turned my horse out of the compound, I met a brother officer,

Forster by name, also mounted, and riding apparently in the same

direction.

‘Where are you off to so early?’ I inquired.

‘I am going on board the _Ostrich_,’ he replied, ‘to try and get a sight

of my friend Dunn, who is to cross to Burmah in her. Will you come with

me?’

‘It is where I am bound for. I am on my way to meet Miss Anstruther, my

wife’s cousin.’

‘Lucky dog!’ said Forster. He is one of those fellows who imagine that

no age, position, or circumstances are powerful enough to prevent a man

admiring a pretty woman. ‘If all I have heard about her from Dunn is

true, you are not likely to have your house much to yourself whilst Miss

Anstruther is in it, Norton.’

‘Well, I shall go out of it, then,’ I answered, not over pleased at the

notion of never being left in peace with Janie.

‘Dunn says she’s beautiful. I didn’t know you expected her in the

_Ostrich_. He’ll never believe now that I went on board with the

intention of seeing himself.’

‘He must have but a small opinion of your friendship for him.’

‘Ah, yes, perhaps; but this is not an ordinary occasion. From all I hear,

Norton, Miss Anstruther must be—you’ll excuse my saying so—a regular

out-and-outer.’

‘Indeed! You know more about her than I do. She has not been above a week

or ten days in Madras.’

‘I know; but Dunn was introduced to her in England, and quite excited to

find she had come out to this country. Will she remain long with you?’

‘Till Colonel Anstruther returns from China,’ I replied, with an inward

sigh.

‘Lucky fellow!’ repeated Forster, with a grin. ‘Don’t you wish he may lay

his venerable bones there?’

I did not feel equal to pursuing this conversation in the strain which

Forster evidently expected of me, and so I tried to turn it.

‘The tide is very high to-day,’ I remarked, as we rode into the fort, and

came in sight of the sea.

‘By Jove! so it is; and yesterday it barely washed the landing-quay. What

a sell it would be, Norton, if some day this sea, with its changeable

tides, was to take it into its head to overflow the fort and flood the

cantonment!’

‘How _could_ it?’ I exclaimed, hastily.

The idea is ridiculous, and as ridiculous my feeling annoyed at it, for

I have never heard it mooted by any one before; and yet it is not a

pleasant one; for the plain is so very level, and we have no protection

whatever from the encroachments of the ocean.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he answered; ‘but I think I’ve read of such things.

It would be a regular washing for these poor devils in the fort, though,

wouldn’t it?’

‘Don’t talk of anything so horrible!’ I answered.

And then we hailed a boat; and dismounting from our horses, gave them

into the charge of their native grooms, and were soon dancing over the

sunny waves. It was dancing with a vengeance; for the cross-currents

are so various, that at one moment we were driven a long way out of our

course, and the next shot back again in the opposite direction with a

rapidity which threatened to upset the frail structure to which we had

trusted ourselves. Meanwhile the _Ostrich_ steamed slowly into sight, and

took up her station at the usual distance from land; whilst we beat about

the harbour for more than an hour, wondering if we should ever board her;

and half afraid, more than once, that she would depart again without our

having accomplished it. But we were successful at last; and the first

object which I saw on reaching the deck was the figure of a girl, sitting

apart by herself in a distant and reserved manner, which I immediately

singled out as that of Miss Anstruther, and the sequel proved that I was

right.

‘Is Miss Anstruther on board?’ was the query which Forster put to his

friend Dunn, as they met at the head of the gangway.

‘Yes, she is,’ was the reply; ‘but I can’t say I’ve seen much of her. She

seems very different from what she was in England last year. But I think

she hates this country, and—’

‘Dunn, this is my friend Captain Norton; allow me to introduce you. Mrs

Norton is Miss Anstruther’s cousin, Dunn; he has come on board expressly

to meet her.’

‘Oh yes, of course; very happy, I’m sure,’ said Mr Dunn; and in

consequence no farther allusion was made to Miss Anstruther’s likes or

dislikes.

Meanwhile I found the captain, and got him to introduce me to the young

lady. It was a proud cold face which she turned towards me as my name was

mentioned to her, and the hand she offered lay very passive in my grasp;

but she said all that was pleasant and polite, and intimated that her

luggage was ready to be put into the boat, and she to follow me at any

time, so that there was no reason for delay; and after I had assured her

how eagerly Janie was on the look-out for her arrival, and she had bidden

adieu to the captain, we prepared to return to shore. We were obliged to

have two boats on account of the luggage; and what was my surprise to

see Forster slip down after us into the second, as though he were one of

the party.

‘You have deserted the company of your friend Dunn very quickly,’ I

remarked to him. ‘The _Ostrich_ does not leave for another hour. I

thought you were going to breakfast on board.’

‘I thought of doing so,’ he answered carelessly (he had been talking of

nothing else on our way there); ‘but perhaps it’s better not—might miss

the boat, you see, which would be awkward. Will you introduce me to Miss

Anstruther?’

I went through the required formula; but after the customary

acknowledgment of it, Miss Anstruther took no further notice of Mr

Forster or myself, and the conversation, after several ineffectual

attempts to draw her into it, was kept up between us alone. Meanwhile, I

could not help stealing an occasional glance to where my wife’s cousin

sat, calm and silent, gazing on the bright glancing waters, and answering

the occasional remarks directed to her with a smile which was almost too

faint to be called so. Only once did I see the expression of her face

change; and that was when the cross-current caught the boat and drove it

all slanting and edgeways, like a bird across the bay, with a velocity

which, for the moment, considerably unsettled each of us. She grew a

little paler then, and I saw her hand (rather a nice hand, by-the-bye)

grasp the seat which she occupied; but still she said nothing.

‘Don’t be frightened, Miss Anstruther,’ I interposed hastily; ‘there is

no real danger. The native boatmen are so skilful that it is very seldom

a boat is upset here.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, in answer to my information, and for a moment

her eyes met mine (she has fine eyes, certainly); and the next time the

boat was driven out of her course I saw, by the unmoved expression of her

face, that she remained at ease.

I suppose it was very courageous, and all that sort of thing; but I

don’t think I liked her any the better for it. A woman, in my idea, is

a creature to be protected, and not to take care of herself. I remember

how Janie shrieked and screamed and clung to me when I brought her on

shore in one of those very boats; and I think I should have liked it

better if Miss Anstruther had exhibited a little more fear. However,

everybody is not like my Janie. When we landed at the fort, Forster, who

is our adjutant, was obliged to leave us, and allow me to take my guest

home in a carriage; but though she talked a little more when we found

ourselves alone, she was anything but sociable; and I was thankful when

we had turned into our own compound, and I could tell her to look out for

Janie on the steps. There was my little bird, of course; all fluttering

with pleasure at the delight of meeting her cousin again; and as soon as

Miss Anstruther had reached the porch she flew into her arms, and her

happiness found vent in a burst of excited tears. I expected to see the

stranger follow suit, knowing that women often cry most when they are

most pleased; but not a drop fell from her eyes. She clasped my wife very

closely to her, it is true, and I saw her lip and nostril twitching; but

she showed no further signs of emotion, though Janie did tell me that,

after they had passed into the bedroom together, her cousin indulged

in what she technically termed ‘a good cry.’ However, of this I knew

nothing. The two girls (Janie is but eighteen, and Miss Anstruther a year

older) remained closeted together for more than an hour; and when they

reappeared at the breakfast-table they looked as fresh as their muslin

dresses, and as far from tears as the day was from rain.

And now, what am I to say of Miss Anstruther’s personal appearance? She

is certainly very different from what I imagined—altogether different. I

will acknowledge so far; and yet I don’t know if I am agreeably surprised

in her or not. She is tall and slight, though not at all thin, with a

lithe figure which reminds me of a leopard or some such animal; and

every time she moves I expect to see her take a waving serpentine leap

which shall land her noiselessly on the opposite side of the room; which

peculiarity brings so forcibly to my mind her nickname of ‘Lionne’ that I

have very nearly called her by it more than once to-day. Her complexion

is pale and sallow (Janie calls it ‘creamy’—so I suppose that is the

right name for it), and her eyes, which are enormous (much too big, in

my opinion; I dislike startling eyes in animals or women), are black,

and very variable in their expression. Her nose is straight, and rather

sharp; and she has an absurdly short upper lip, with a deep channel in

the centre of it—in fact, scarcely any upper lip at all. But she has a

pretty set of teeth (I record this fact to show that I am not permitting

myself to be in the least swayed by prejudice), and apparently a large

quantity of dark hair—at least Janie tells me that when unbound it

reaches to her knees.

Still, although doubtless she can boast of some good features, to call

such a woman beautiful is absurd; and one has only to see her stand side

by side with my rosebud wife to perceive the worse points which she

possesses. It brings out at once, as I made Janie laugh by observing,

all the yellow that is in her. She is not so plain, perhaps, as I

expected; but ‘beautiful’ is the last epithet I should apply to Margaret

Anstruther. No woman who is not fair can possibly be pretty; and how any

man can _prefer_ a dark face is to me inexplicable.

_June 18th._—She certainly is a most extraordinary girl, and even more

disagreeable than I thought her yesterday. We really got on so well

together the first day; she chatted so pleasantly during the forenoon to

Janie and myself, and sung to us in the evening (she has not got a bad

voice by any means), that I began to think I had made a mistake about her

cold, reserved manner, and that if her visit were to last for six weeks

instead of six months, it might not prove such an affliction. And so,

wishing to make myself agreeable, I told Janie this morning at breakfast

that she must be sure and order a very good dinner, as I intended to

ask some of my brother officers to dine with us. I knew that Forster

and others were anxious to make Miss Anstruther’s acquaintance; and a

bright thought struck me this morning, that if I manage well we may get

her engaged and married, and out of the way altogether in the course of

a month. Of course, it will be a great deal of bother; but it will be

much better to get it over in that manner than to have it spun out for

several months, and to wind up perhaps with a wedding after all. So I

have determined to be very hospitable, and keep open house for the next

few weeks; and I sha’n’t let Janie interfere with her cousin in any way;

and we will see what that will do. My wife opened her blue eyes when I

informed her of the impending guests, and said no one had called on Miss

Anstruther yet.

‘Of what consequence is that?’ I said. ‘The whole regiment will call this

morning, and I know they will be dying for an invitation afterwards;’ and

I nodded in a knowing manner at Miss Anstruther, as much as to say that I

knew all about it.

‘I hope you do not invite them on my account,’ she said, curtly,

answering my look.

‘I invite them on their own, Miss Anstruther. You do not seem to know

your value. Young ladies are very scarce in Mushin-Bunda; you could not

have come to a better place, if you want to have it all your own way. I

don’t think you will find a rival here.’

‘A glorious thought to goad one on to victory,’ she said, sarcastically,

and her manner seemed to change from that moment. She became again

reserved and haughty; and when I returned home from my professional

duties, Janie met me almost in tears, with the intelligence that she

was sure dear Lionne was not well, for she had scarcely spoken a word

all day, and had sat so silent during the visits of the officers of the

regiment that Janie had had all the talking to do.

‘Never mind!’ I answered soothingly; ‘she will be different after dinner.

A glass of champagne will thaw her reserve, and draw her out of herself.’

‘But I so much wished that they should admire her,’ said dear little

Janie in a despondent voice.

My predictions, however, with respect to Miss Anstruther were not

verified. She looked very handsome this evening in a sweeping white dress

(‘handsome’ is the correct term of her style of beauty; no one could

call her ‘pretty,’ like Janie for instance, but she certainly looks

handsome, particularly by candle-light), but nothing prevailed to make

her sociable; neither my champagne nor my wife’s coaxing could induce her

to talk or sing as she did last night. She spoke in monosyllables, and

professed herself too tired for any display; and the five men whom I had

asked to dine with us sat alternately talking to my wife, and staring at

her guest, until the time for their departure had arrived. Janie sung

us two or three ballads in her sweet plaintive little voice, but we had

heard them before, of course, and should have been glad of something new.

But all our pressing and entreaty were in vain. Miss Anstruther said she

was too fatigued to sing; and declining even to sit amongst the company,

stood by a window gazing out upon the night. Presently, almost too vexed

at her singular behaviour to remember my politeness, I approached her

side, and said, perhaps rather abruptly,—

‘Why won’t you sing for us?’

‘Because I don’t choose,’ she answered, fearlessly.

‘I thought so,’ I said; and turning away I quitted her again, and took

a seat by Janie’s side. But after a while some fascination, for which I

am unable to account (but which has been felt at times by all people who

on earth do dwell), made me feel that Miss Anstruther was regarding me,

and lifting my eyes, I encountered the glance of hers fixed on my face.

She withdrew them quickly; but not before their gaze had made me feel

uncomfortable—a sensation which I attribute to the fact of their colour,

which I have never liked, and believe I never shall.

The rest of the evening passed dully enough, and I am sure Janie was as

relieved as I was when our friends rose to take their leave, and Miss

Anstruther disappeared in the privacy of her own room.

‘You can’t say that Mademoiselle Lionne has made herself very agreeable

to-night,’ I exclaimed rather triumphantly, as Janie and I found

ourselves alone.

But Janie was hardly a subject to be triumphed over, she was so very

humble and apologetic.

‘I can’t think what is the matter with her, Robert dear; but I assure

you she is not sulky. Only this moment she put her arms round my neck and

kissed me—oh, so nicely! but I don’t think she likes dinner-parties. We

won’t give another.’

‘Not like dinner-parties!’ I exclaimed.

‘No—nor men. She told me she wouldn’t sit in the drawing-room to-morrow

morning.’

‘Not like dinner-parties or men!’ I exclaimed, aghast at the

intelligence. ‘And how the deuce is she to get married, then?’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to get married,’ said Janie demurely.

‘Doesn’t want to get married!’ I growled. ‘Don’t tell me such nonsense!

If she doesn’t want to get married, what is she out here for?’

‘Oh, hush! Robert dear; don’t speak so loud,’ interposed my wife, as she

laid her little hand across my mouth. ‘Do remember, her room is the next

one to this.’

So the conference was stopped, and I cut into my dressing-room to write

my diary. But I never heard such nonsense, and I wouldn’t believe it on

the girl’s own oath. Not like men or dinner-parties, forsooth! It is only

a young lady’s trick to attract attention by appearing to decline it. We

shall never get rid of her at this rate.

_N.B._—Her eyes are not black. I was mistaken. They are grey, and not

such a very dark grey either, except when she is annoyed. It is only in

some lights that they look black. They are fine eyes; but more suited, I

should think, to war than love.

_June 19th._—In some way or other I have offended my lady, for she

will hardly speak to me; and when I proposed to drive her to hear the

regimental band play this evening (Janie not being well), rejected my

offer with a decision which amounted to scorn. Yet she stayed by Janie’s

sofa (so I was told afterwards) during the whole term of my absence,

bathing her head with eau de Cologne, and fanning her, and attending to

all her wants in the most womanly manner; so I suppose she has some good

in her, after all. But so have serpents and tigers, and other beasts

of prey. All I know is, that I’m not going to be insulted by a girl in

my own house, and I shall let Miss Anstruther feel this by keeping up

a distance between us, and treating her with the coldest reserve. Just

when I had been forcing myself to show her politeness, in spite of all

the repulsion I feel to her society, to have my offer rudely rejected is

more than any man can stand. It makes my blood boil to recall the tone

in which she told me she was ‘infinitely obliged,’ but thought, on the

whole, she would rather ‘remain at home.’ She may remain at home for ever

for me now; it will be a long time before I offer to take her out again.

_June 21st._—We have been at it now for two days, bowing to each other

when we meet, and scarcely exchanging a word except in the most formal

manner. Janie sees the change, of course, and is wretched about it. She

keeps turning her wistful glances from one to the other, as if to entreat

us to make it up and be friends; but when she appeals to me in private,

I tell her that it is the fault of her cousin, who is the one to make

the first advances towards reconciliation, as I have not the slightest

idea in what I have offended; and when she talks in her turn to Lionne, I

believe she hears pretty much the same argument. I hope, however, for all

our sakes, that this kind of thing won’t go on much longer; for I know

that it’s deucedly disagreeable, and that I’ve never felt at home since

Miss Anstruther came into the house.

_June 23d._—Colonel Anstruther has sent up a fine Arab from Madras for

the use of his niece, and to-day it arrived under the charge of its

native groom, rather foot-worn and travel-stained, but otherwise in good

condition. It is such a beautiful creature, and my fancy for horses is

so strong, that I really couldn’t help coming a little out of my shell

on its arrival, and expressing my admiration of its various points to

its mistress. She also seemed to forget herself in her pleasure in

the new acquisition; but when I remarked that she would now have some

delightful rides, and would find no lack of cavaliers to accompany her

in Mushin-Bunda, the old expression re-gathered on her face, and she

retreated to the house, and sat for the greater part of the evening in

her own room. What an unpleasant woman! I would rather she bit me than

treated me like this, and suggested to Janie that the alternative would

be pleasant for a change. But Janie wouldn’t laugh; she is too really

unhappy about the state of things.

_June 25th._—Matters remained _in statu quo_ until to-day; but the

thaw has come at last, and, as it should do, from the female side. The

horses were brought round this morning, as usual, to eat their ‘gram’ in

front of the house; and the Arab, having enjoyed two days’ rest and a

thorough grooming, looked in such good condition, that Janie was eager

in her entreaties that her cousin should take her first ride on him this

evening, and form an opinion of her new acquisition. Knowing that my

attendance would be necessary (I have never been able to persuade Janie

to become a horsewoman, she is far too timid), I made an effort to be

more agreeable, and joined my persuasions to those of my wife; but Miss

Anstruther would give no definite answer, and rather put the question to

one side than otherwise; so I thought no more about it. Going towards the

stables, however, in the afternoon, I saw the Arab standing ready saddled

in his stall; and hearing it was by order of the ‘missy,’ concluded that

I had either misunderstood her reticence, or she had changed her mind;

so, telling the horsekeeper to get my animal also ready, returned to the

house to hear what plans had been made in my absence. There I found Miss

Anstruther standing by herself in the verandah, ready attired for her

ride, and looking better in her hat and habit than I remember to have

seen her look before.

‘Janie has a headache, Captain Norton, and is lying down until dinner

time. I believe she is asleep,’ she said, as she observed the roving look

I cast about in search of my wife.

‘Ah, poor little woman, it will be the best thing for her,’ I replied.

‘The horses will be round directly, Miss Anstruther; but I am sorry you

did not make me understand your intention of riding more plainly; it was

quite by chance that I returned home so early.’

At this she turned and regarded me with serious surprise.

‘I had no intention of troubling you,’ she said quickly; ‘I can ride by

myself.’

‘By yourself, and on a strange animal, Miss Anstruther! It is quite out

of the question.’

‘I have ridden all sorts of animals.’

‘Perhaps; but not without an attendant. What would the regiment think to

see you riding alone?’

‘I am sorry, I have mistaken the place,’ she said gravely. ‘I thought

Mushin-Bunda was so very quiet that one might do anything here. I should

not think of troubling you to accompany me.’

And she turned towards the house as though with the intention of giving

up her ride. But I placed myself upon the threshold, and barred her

entrance.

‘You have not been treating me fairly for some days past, Miss

Anstruther. What have I done to offend you?’

‘Nothing,’ she answered in a low voice.

‘Then don’t add insult to your injury by refusing my escort on this

occasion. You need take no more notice of me, you know, than if I

were your groom; and that will not be much alteration from your usual

behaviour.’

She held her head so low that I could hardly see her face; but she

re-entered the verandah as I spoke, and I concluded that my terms were

accepted. In another moment the horses were at the door.

‘Come,’ I said, as gaily as I could, as I held out my hand to aid

her in descending the steps; and as I took hers, I felt that it was

trembling. I put her on her horse. Notwithstanding her height, she is

almost feather-weight; and her elastic figure sprang into the saddle,

from the impetus it received from me, as though she had really been the

animal to which I am so fond of comparing her. So I settled her in her

seat, arranging her skirt and stirrup-leather for her, and handing her

the reins, without once looking in her face; and then I mounted my own

horse, and we rode out of the compound side by side. The silence that we

maintained was ominous. She did not speak a word, and I could think of

nothing to say, although I felt that an explanation was about to take

place between us. I was glad, therefore, when we came to a long strip of

green turf, and I could suggest that she should try of what mettle her

animal was made; a suggestion to which she dumbly assented by breaking

into a canter. As we rode along together, I glanced at her light figure,

poised like a bird upon the saddle, and saw that she rode well, sitting

home to her crupper, and handling her reins as though she were accustomed

to them.

(_N.B._—I have read and heard a good deal about the want of grace in a

woman’s seat on horseback, but, for my own part, I never think a lady

looks so well as in that position, always provided that she understands

her business and has a figure worth looking at. A handsome woman on a

handsome horse is a sight for royalty, and I never know which to admire

most, the mortal or the equine.)

We cantered for a mile or more, and the action of the Arab seemed very

perfect. I made an observation to this effect, when, having left the

running horse-keepers far behind us, we at last drew rein, and found

ourselves alone. But still my remark received no answer, and I was

determined to make her speak.

‘Am I intruding too much upon my privileges, Miss Anstruther, in

venturing an opinion on the subject? Even a groom is sometimes permitted,

you know, to pass his judgment on the new acquisitions to his mistress’s

stables.’

‘Don’t, Captain Norton; oh, pray, don’t.’

The words were uttered so hurriedly that I scarcely understood them;

but when I looked into her face for an explanation, I saw that she was

crying. Now I cannot bear to see a woman cry. They may do anything they

like with me—tease, bully, even insult me—so long as they keep their eyes

dry; but Miss Anstruther’s tears were falling fast upon the bosom of her

riding-habit.

I could not endure to think that she might be annoyed with me and my

bantering; perhaps unhappy at having to live at Mushin-Bunda, for it is a

very dull and uninteresting place; and I said the first thing which came

into my head.

‘My dear girl, what _is_ the matter with you?’

I suppose the question was stupid or ill-timed, or perhaps I don’t

understand the ways of women, for instead of doing Miss Anstruther any

good, it changed her silent tears into such a storm of grief that I was

quite alarmed. I have often seen Janie cry (indeed, my little woman is

rather fond of working her hydraulics on very small occasions), and

I have been the unwilling witness at times to a good many tears from

various members of the fair sex; but never in all my life have I seen

such a tempest of passionate rain as poured from Margaret Anstruther’s

eyes this evening. She sobbed so violently and with so little restraint,

that I began to be alarmed for the effect of her emotion, both on her

horse and herself, and begged and entreated her to be calm, when all of a

sudden, to my astonishment, the storm passed as quickly as it had arisen;

and, except for her heaving bosom and sobbing breath, she was herself

again.

‘What must you think of me?’ she inquired, turning her liquid eyes, still

swimming in tears, upon my countenance. ‘I must have seemed so rude, so

ungrateful to you both.’

‘Think!’ I stammered, remembering all I have thought of her conduct

during the last few days; ‘I don’t think anything, Miss Anstruther; only

I am afraid you cannot be happy with us or here.’

‘Oh, it is not that!’ she exclaimed earnestly. ‘Neither place nor people

can make any difference to me. Dear Janie is everything that is kind;

and you—you have been very patient with me—but nothing can lift off the

humiliation, the degradation, that I feel in being here at all.’

‘Degradation!’ I repeated, rather nettled at the term.

‘Yes, degradation!’ she said emphatically; ‘else why am I in this

country? what is my place in India? I have an uncle here, it is true;

but so have I uncles in England. Why was Colonel Anstruther chosen by my

guardians as the one most fitted to offer me a home? Tell me that.’

‘He is rich, and a bachelor,’ I commenced; ‘and living alone, naturally—’

‘It is not so,’ she interrupted me; ‘and you know it, Captain Norton. It

is because he lives in a country where women are scarce, and men have few

opportunities of choice; where a girl may pick up a husband who might

remain for ever unmarried at home; where we are looked at on arrival

much as though we were articles of sale, and often purchased for motives

unworthy the name of love or honour or esteem. You cannot deny it,

because it is true, and I am wretched;’ and with this Lionne buried her

burning face in her hands.

‘But I can deny it!’ I exclaimed; ‘for if this is the case with some

girls sent out to this country, it is not with all. Look at your cousin

Janie; surely you would never speak of her in that strain.’

‘Janie came out to the care of her sister, her nearest relation,’ was the

low reply.

‘And you have come out to your relations, Miss Anstruther; to friends who

have but one wish, to see you happy and comfortable, and who would never

dream of imputing such motives to an action which—’

‘Did you not dream of it?’ she retorted quickly, as she turned her

glowing glance upon me. ‘What was the question that you put to Janie the

second evening of my arrival. “If she doesn’t want to get married, what

is she here for?” I ought not to have heard it, perhaps, but you spoke

so loudly that it was impossible to avoid doing so. And do you think I

didn’t feel it?’

She spoke so decidedly, and yet so mournfully, her eyes flashed with such

proud indignant fire, whilst her figure seemed bowed beneath the weight

of her humiliation, that I had nothing to say for myself; and having

attempted some stammering reply, which ended very abruptly, found that

she was speaking again, though more to herself than me, and felt myself

constrained to be silent and attend.

‘I saw it from the first day I landed,’ she went on sadly. ‘I perceived

in Mrs Grant’s insinuations, and the remarks of her lady friends, that

I was supposed to have been sent out to India with but one object—to

get a husband; and it sickened me. But when I came here,’ she added in a

lower voice, ‘I hoped it would be different; I hoped that you and Janie,

being so lately married, would look on love and marriage in a holier

light—as something too far removed from earthly calculations to be made

the subject of mere speculation or convenience.’

‘Oh, Miss Anstruther, forgive me!’ I exclaimed.

‘It is I who should have said those words, Captain Norton. You

disappointed me, and I have disappointed you. You raised in me a demon of

a temper, which I should have been ashamed to manifest, which I am now

most heartily ashamed even to recall. And you have been very patient with

me, very good and very gentlemanly. Please forgive me, in your turn.’

And she placed her hand firmly and warmly into mine.

‘You are too kind,’ I stammered, confused beyond measure at this rapid

change of manner in my guest. ‘I spoke thoughtlessly; but I see that

I misjudged you. Only tell me now what you wish to be done, and I will

execute it to the letter.’

‘I don’t deserve that you should do anything, Captain Norton, but hate me

for a rude and sulky wretch; but I am so heartily sorry to have annoyed

you.’

‘Let us forget all that,’ I responded, earnestly; ‘the annoyance was

mutual, and I was the most to blame. Only tell me what to do in future,

Margaret—I may call you Margaret, may I not, since we are cousins?—in

order to make you happy, and then I shall feel that I am quite forgiven.’

‘Treat me as a human being,’ she answered, gaily, ‘and not as an animal

for sale. Don’t ask your brother officers to the house on my account,

nor thrust me forward for their contemplation in any way. Look on me as

what I am: a creature who may stand alone all her life, and be contented

so to stand; to whom marriage is but a chance in the future; so great a

chance indeed, and so undesired a certainty, that she does not even care

to contemplate it nearer; to whom her friends, if they will be her true

and honest friends, are more valuable than a score of admirers.’

‘Whatever I have been, you shall have a true and honest friend in me

henceforward, Margaret.’

‘That’s right; so let us look upon our difference as settled, and make

Janie’s heart glad by the beaming faces we take back with us. And now,

let me hear your true opinion of my uncle’s present to me.’

We discoursed gaily on in different topics till we reached home; when

Janie was indeed made glad (as Margaret had predicted) by the cheerful

conversation we maintained at the dinner-table, and the little bit of

confidence I reposed in her when we found ourselves alone. She was so

delighted to think I should appreciate her dear Lionne at her true value

at last. Not that I told Janie every word that had passed between her

cousin and myself; for, added to its being unnecessary, I am not sure

that my little girl would understand Miss Anstruther’s feelings on the

subject, or properly respect her pride. She would mention it again to her

probably; and in her simplicity, wishing to be kind and interested, try

to sift her reasons to the bottom, and perhaps annoy where she desired to

please. So I only said that our quarrel was altogether done away with,

and would never be renewed; and that, as her cousin seemed to prefer a

quiet life, we would inaugurate no farther dinner-parties on her account;

which would suit us better, I concluded, and be more in accordance with

our usual style of living. To all which my wife heartily agreed; and I

feel more at charity with myself and all mankind than I have done for

some time past. I shall keep my word with Margaret Anstruther; and extend

no farther encouragement to the bachelors who may come lounging about

my house. It is a strange taste on her part; but she must be a girl in

a thousand to dislike admiration, and to look upon careless attentions

as an offence against the solemnity of marriage. It _is_ a solemn thing,

when you come to think, that if you make a mistake upon the subject,

you are in for it, and nothing can pull you out again. I wonder if

Margaret has had an unrequited attachment; I should not be in the least

surprised were I told so; it would be quite in accordance with the grave,

melancholy expression of her eyes, and her dislike to society. I must try

and discover.

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