"THE SINS OF THE FATHERS."
Philip thus left unmolested save by his own reflections, and quite
innocent of his own shortcomings, was only aroused from a long brown
study by hearing Freddy Slade appeal in his most drawling tones to his
host, as he lifted his glass of Burgundy, and eyed it lovingly.
"I say, Newbold, what an extraordinary woman you have managed to annex
as a governess--capital wine this, what's its vintage?--I met her
to-day, walkin' all alone in that beastly sycamore plantation of yours,
and thinkin' she might be lonely offered myself as a companion. By
George! you should have seen the look on her face as she declined; you
wouldn't have thought me good enough to be her lap-dog--give you my
word, never saw such scorn on any woman's face before. Who is she? A
princess in disguise, an exiled Russian of high degree, or a
disappointed tragedy actress?"
"Oh, you must ask Esther," replied lazy George Newbold. "She's her
latest importation."
This was Mr. Newbold's usual way of getting rid of all troublesome or
inconvenient questions. "It saved him trouble," he used to say, "and
gave the wife the gratification of doing all the talking."
"Esther will tell you, without being asked, _beau sire_," broke in that
little matron; "I am very much in love with her, you must know; she is
delightful, and she is mysterious, what more can you ask? She is the
daughter of a Russian noble and a French girl of the bourgeoisie. You
can imagine the story, it's for ever repeating itself. The marriage was
a secret one, the young man's family refused to recognise it; he was
recalled to Petersburg, and the girl offered money in lieu of her young
husband, which she passionately rejected. Then followed the old story of
hopeless waiting; her baby was born, and for a time she struggled
bravely on, fighting shame and poverty hand to hand. But at last she
succumbed, and death freed her from her share in life's battle.
"The misfortunes of the mother seemed to follow and dog the daughter,
whose great personal beauty served only as her worst enemy. She was
brought up respectably enough, and but for what Lord Byron calls the
'fatal dower,' would doubtless have lived and died in the monotony of a
commonplace existence. Little as you may think it, however, Adèle Lamien
was possessed of such unusual beauty of face and form, it was impossible
for her to pass unnoticed in the rank and file of humanity.
"In ignorance of her mother's fate, the poor girl, with a blindness born
of innocence, was soon treading step by step that dolorous path which
had ended for her young mother in despair and death. There's an irony in
such repetitions that might well repay the study of one interested in
the factors of the 'great chance' called life.
"Well, Adèle was wooed and won by a very lofty personage, who, if not of
the parent imperial rose-tree, could claim close connection with it.
Like her mother again, the marriage was a secret one, though in
accordance with the ritual of the Catholic Church, to which faith the
girl belonged. I believe the months that followed were the happiest the
girl had ever known in her not too happy life. It made the awakening all
the more terrible; for of course there was an awakening. Men have a
habit of tiring of their most beautiful human toys, especially if these
playthings develop intellect and passion.
"Let me draw a veil over this part of Mdlle. Lamien's history. It is
enough to say that a terrible crime was committed--a crime so violent
and so fatal that all Petersburg were roused to action, and the imperial
blood-hounds let loose to track the perpetrator. It was at this time
that Adèle fled from Russia, and reached England almost by miracle. From
there she hastened to America, haven of all persecuted unfortunates; and
in New York she came under my notice. I listened to her story, and,
after she had finished its narration, and knowing all against her, and
nothing in her favour, I took her as governess for my little daughter.
Quixotic! Yes, I know it was, and a dangerous experiment; but I couldn't
help it--there were reasons--her eyes haunted me. And truth compels me
to state that so far she has proved herself fully worthy of my trust.
Marianne is devoted to her--she is little short of angelic in the
child's eyes; and I openly confess to a tender regard for her. She is
unexplainable, enigmatic, fascinating. But, hush, here comes the child;
and _her_ ears are something abnormal."
Esther finished with a dramatic little gesture that set them all
laughing, and in the general merriment Philip's gravity passed
unchallenged.
The story, as told by Mrs. Newbold, with all her little artistic touches
of gesture and inflection, haunted him strangely. He found himself
constantly reverting to it, and always with an incongruous and almost
jarring thought of Patty, running side by side with his unwilling
sympathy for Mdlle. Lamien.
Miss James found him a very inattentive listener as, later in the
evening, they sat together on the wide verandah, and looked across the
broad stretch of lawn to where the faintest streak of shining grey
marked the waters of the bay. The moonlight was flooding all things with
reckless prodigality, until even the barest and tiniest twig grew
luminous, and the budding roses became ethereal in the generosity of its
rays.
Miss James would have dearly loved to sentimentalise a little; she was
not at all adverse to a mild flirtation with this handsome grave man,
whose very presence made her feel her own littleness of mental stature.
Unconsciously she dropped her usual heroics, and was prepared to be as
meek and coy as any new-fledged _débutante_. Unfortunately however,
Philip's mind was not in tune, or she struck the wrong chords, for he
failed miserably to be responsive. At length, after a rather awkward
little silence, she requested him, a trifle sharply, to fetch her a
shawl; she felt the evening growing chilly.
Almost too eagerly Philip sprang up and hastened to obey her, leaving
her with tears of mortification in her eyes, and hot anger in her heart.
Meantime, Mr. Tremain, quite oblivious to his shortcomings, made his way
to the inner hall, where he had an indistinct remembrance of having seen
something white and fluffy, and which bore about it a faint odour of
white rose, Miss James's most affected scent. Surely, unless he was too
awfully masculine, that soft white odorous mass was of the nature of a
wrap.
As he crossed the entrance-hall on his quest, he caught sight of Mdlle.
Lamien's tall figure in the little drawing-room which was especially
consecrated to Marianne. She was standing by the window, her face
pressed against the frame, her whole form shaken with suppressed
emotion. Tremain, like most men, was acutely susceptible to tears. He
stopped involuntarily, hesitated, and in another moment was at her side.
"Mdlle. Lamien," he said, gently, "are you in trouble? Can I help you?"
She made him no answer, save by a quick, impatient movement of her head.
But Mr. Tremain was not to be baffled, though he rather wished himself
out of the scene, and felt unwarrantably angry at Miss James for being
the innocent cause of his present position.
"Have you had bad news?" he persisted. "Are you suffering? Let me beg of
you to tell me what troubles you?"
As suddenly as she had drawn from him before she turned towards him
now, and lifted her face, pale and haggard in the moonlight, full upon
him. Her eyes shone hotly.
"I have been looking my dead past--my old love--in the face," she cried,
passionately, "and I am miserable!"
She turned, and before Philip could put out a detaining hand, was gone.
He stood as she left him, almost as pale as the wild, white face she had
flashed upon him.
"Good God!" he muttered. "What a look of Patty there was in her eyes!"
Miss James waited long, and impatiently, and in vain for Mr. Tremain and
her wrap. He did not come back; indeed, as a matter of fact, he forgot
all about her commission until later in the evening, when she swept by
him on Jack Howard's arm. At sight of her, Philip was struck by his sins
of omission, and with rather less self-possession than usual, made a
poor apology for his rudeness.
"Were you rude, Mr. Tremain?" Miss James replied, icily. "Pray don't
apologise; I had not accused you." And with a mocking smile, she passed
on, laughing ostentatiously at Jack's latest witticism.
Mr. Tremain looked after them with a faint surprise in his glance; then
he, too, laughed, but quietly, as he said, half-aloud:
"Oh, woman, woman! thy name is caprice!"