GRACE TELLS HER STORY.
Grace’s experiences of drawing-rooms in her own country had been
considerable.
She had been acquainted from her childhood with immense apartments,
commanding sea and land views. She knew the orthodox style of furniture
which upholsterers sent in as a species of groundwork upon which
individual fancy subsequently painted the form of its own especial
idiosyncrasy. She had beheld acres of carpeting, hangings which were
miracles of heaviness and expense, chairs first covered with green, or
amber, or ponceau, or silver grey, to match the curtains, and then
wrapped up in holland, to preserve their beauty intact, ponderous loo
and sofa tables, everything as good as money could buy, and expected to
last accordingly; these were some of the necessaries without which no
drawing-room in a gentleman’s house could be considered orthodox; but
when all such things had been provided, it was admissible to add such
other elegances as personal taste might suggest.
Personal taste or family circumstances produced occasionally some very
curious devices in the way of ornamentation. Relics from Pompeii would
be the attraction of one home; carved temples, cedar-wood boxes, daggers
with richly-ornamented handles, spoke in another of some male relatives
who had crossed the sea, and brought back flotsam and jetsom with him.
Dogs, parrots, flowers, depicted in wool on canvas, testified in many
homes to the indefatigable industry of its female occupants; in rare
cases, rare because the materials were for those days costly, beadwork
in unlimited quantities charmed the beholder; occasionally old china,
which would now fetch fabulous prices in London, adorned the
chiffoniers, whatnots, and cabinets of persons who had none too much
money to spare, whilst in almost all cases where there were young
ladies, or even middle-aged, the open piano, the litter of music, often
a harp or a guitar, spoke of the love of that talent which is bestowed
so much more freely on Irish than English women.
All these rooms, and many others besides, Grace had been free of; rooms
with a certain stately dignity about them, rooms connected with which
she had many a pleasant childish and girlish memory, but a drawing-room
like Mrs. Hartley’s was as far beyond her imagination as that other
style of apartment generally and prudently unoccupied which obtains in
the suburbs of London, and in the houses of all highly respectable and
sober-minded middle class people throughout England generally.
Luxury in those days had not attained to the height to which it has
since sprung. It has been reserved for the reign of her present Majesty
to witness a more rapid transition from comparative simplicity of
living, lodging, dressing, spending, to the wildest extravagance of
expenditure in all ranks, than has ever occurred before at any era, or
in any nation; and for this reason the decorations and furniture which
seemed perfection to Grace Moffat, would no doubt appear extremely poor
and commonplace if catalogued for the benefit of the reader.
In the nature of almost every woman there is, I suspect, a latent,
cat-like love of things soft, bright, cosy, and there was something in
the whole aspect of Mrs. Hartley’s drawing-room which appealed to this
sense in Grace’s nature. She liked walking over the thick carpet; the
white sheepskin hearthrug on which generally reposed a King Charles that
hated Grace with a detestation she cordially reciprocated; the firelight
reflected from mirrors, sparkling against lustres; the lovely
water-colour drawings hanging on the walls; the delightful easy chairs;
the statuettes; the flowers piled up in banks between the long French
windows, and the conservatory filled with rare and beautiful plants; all
these things were pleasant as they were novel to the rich widow’s
visitor.
In Mrs. Hartley’s opinion, however, the very greatest ornament her room
had ever held was Grace Moffat, and the admiration she always
entertained for her guest was heightened as they entered the apartment
together, by the new interest now attaching to her, as the older lady
felt satisfied must be the case. Some misplaced affection, some love
entanglement which she had kept secret until she could endure to keep
silent no longer.
“Now sit down, dear, and tell me all about it; you prefer the low chair,
I know,” began Mrs. Hartley; but Grace answered,—
“I should like to sit on the rug close by you, if I may, and if Jet does
not object to my company.”
“He shall be taken away,” said Jet’s mistress, laying her hands on the
bell.
“No!” interposed Grace. “I will try to be amiable to him, if he will be
tolerant of me,” and she sat down; a pretty picture in the firelight,
her black dress disposing itself in graceful folds over the white rug,
her hands crossed idly in her lap, and her face upturned to Mrs.
Hartley, who, stooping, kissed it almost involuntarily.
“Now who is he?” asked the widow.
“There is no ‘he’ in my story,” Grace answered; “at least no ‘he’ in
your sense. I hope you will not be disappointed when I tell you my
trouble has nothing to do with love, but a very great deal to do with
money.”
“So far, my dear, I think money has been a trouble to you; when you are
as old as I am you will understand the trouble of having money is by no
means comparable to the trouble of being without it.”
“In this case my money has nothing to do with the story.”
“Then, for mercy’s sake, child, tell me what has to do with it.”
“I have,” Grace answered; “a secret has been confided to me that I do
not know how to deal with; a responsibility has been put upon me which
makes me wretched. I fully intended when I first came here to tell you
all about the matter, but—”
“But what?” asked Mrs. Hartley softly; “this is the light, and you are
in the mood for confession, let us get that little ‘but’ out of the way
now—for ever.”
“I will try,” said Grace boldly. “You are not really changed in the
least; you are the same true, dear friend you were in the old Kingslough
days when Nettie made such a mess of her life; but everything about you
is changed. The grandeur—don’t laugh at me—and the formality, and the
stateliness of your surroundings threw me back at first, and then I
fancy you thought I was changed, and so—”
“Yes; you need not try to finish; spite of your occasional little whiffs
of temper, you have changed, or rather developed, into one of the
sweetest and most lovable women I have ever known. And now you are
getting accustomed to what you call my grandeur, and English ways do not
seem so objectionable as they did at first, and we are going this
evening to break the ice once and for always; and you have a story to
tell, and I am in one of my best moods for listening.”
“My story is a very short one, but it will interest you, for it concerns
the Rileys.”
“Which of them?”
“All; father, mother, sisters, brother,” answered Grace. “The night my
father was taken ill I was told something which may affect them all most
seriously. It was my intention to consult him in the matter, but
after—after his death you may imagine I forgot for a time in my own
grief the possible griefs of other people. Before I left Ireland,
however, I received a note containing the words, ‘Have you forgotten
what I told you?’ To-day a second note is forwarded to me repeating the
same inquiry.”
“May I ask the name of the writer?”
“No; there is my difficulty. I am bound to silence as regards my
informant. But for that, I should have sent for General Riley and told
him all I had learned.”
“The Rileys and you have not been very intimate since you were sweet
seventeen?” said Mrs. Hartley interrogatively.
“No,” was the reply. “We of course are friendly if we happen to meet,
but Mrs. Riley’s disappointment at my refusing John was so great that
she ceased visiting Bayview entirely. I felt rather hurt that she never
called upon me after my loss. The General was ill; indeed his health has
been bad for a long time past, but I thought and think she and the girls
might have let bygones be bygones, and come and said, ‘We are sorry for
your trouble.’”
“It certainly would have been more graceful,” remarked Mrs. Hartley;
“but, then, one never associates the ideas of grace and Mrs. Riley
together. But to come to your story.”
“You know there is a mortgage on Woodbrook?”
“I knew there was one, and to know that, is to conclude there is one
still. I never heard of a mortgage being paid off in Ireland; such a
thing might have happened, but I do not think it likely.”
“The Woodbrook mortgage has not been paid at all events,” replied Grace;
“but, so far as I can gather, it has changed hands.”
“In whose hand is it now, then?”
“In Mr. Brady’s.”
“What! the man Nettie ran away with?”
“The same.”
“Where on earth did he get enough money to enable him to advance such a
sum?”
“I have not the faintest idea.”
“What could have induced him to do a thing of the kind?”
“Revenge. He means to turn the Rileys out of Woodbrook; at least so I am
informed.”
“Can you trust your informant?”
“Fully; there is, I think, not the slightest hope of”—Grace hesitated;
she could not say, “his being mistaken,” and she would not say, “her;”
so she altered the form of her sentence, and finished it by adding,
“there cannot be any mistake in the matter.”
Mrs. Hartley lay back in her chair and thought in silence.
She was quick enough to grasp the whole meaning of Grace’s
communication, and she understood sufficient of legal matters to
comprehend how to a certain extent the desire of Mr. Brady’s heart might
be compassed.
“What can be done?” Grace asked at length.
“I do not see that either of us can do anything,” was the reply.
“General Riley ought to be told by some one, and the question naturally
arises by whom? Shall I write to him, if you feel any hesitation about
reopening your acquaintance with the family?”
“I should not have any feeling of that kind to influence me in such a
case as this,” Grace answered; “but if I wrote to the General, it would
be certain in some way to reach Mr. Brady’s ears, and if it did—”
“Supposing it did?”
“By putting two and two together he might, he would, suspect from whom I
received my information.”
“And in that event disastrous results might ensue to your nameless
friend?”
“I believe so.”
“I think you had better tell me the name of your friend.”
“I cannot. I promised to keep it a secret. It fills me with such dread
and apprehension to fancy what might occur if Mr. Brady ever should
learn who betrayed him, that I feel tempted at times to let matters take
their course. Surely, the General is old enough to manage his affairs
without any assistance from me?”
“He may be old enough, but he is far from wise enough. If Mr. Brady has
really laid a trap for him, he will walk into it as innocently as a
child; and then, some fine day, we shall hear they have all to leave
Woodbrook; that the shock has killed the General; and that when John
returns there will not be an acre of land left of his inheritance.”
“I thought of writing an anonymous letter,” said Grace innocently; “but
then no one ever takes any notice of anonymous letters.”
“It is well you did not carry that plan into execution,” remarked Mrs.
Hartley. “I must think the matter over, Grace. It has come upon me
suddenly; in fact, I cannot realize such a complication. You are
positive,” she went on, “that you have not been deceived; that the he,
she, or it who told you the story did so in perfect good faith?”
“Yes, quite positive, the risk incurred alone would satisfy me of that,
even if other circumstances had failed to do so.”
“Do you know it strikes me you have taken the whole affair rather
coolly, young lady!” said Mrs. Hartley. “I think, even although you did
refuse John Riley, _he_ would not have permitted months to pass without
letting _you_ know your fortune was in danger, had the cases been
reversed.”
“I have felt something of what you express,” Grace replied, “and
suffered in consequence. Had John been in this country, I should have
told him at once—I should have felt safe with him—but I am afraid of
telling the General. I suppose I must be a great coward, but I never
dreaded anything so much as having it known the information came from
me. I could have trusted John’s discretion, I cannot trust that of the
General or Mrs. Riley or the girls.”
“Still we must not let them be utterly beggared without lifting a finger
to save them. Besides, your friend must wish them to know their danger,
or such a communication would never have been made; and if harm does
come of Mr. Brady hearing you are acquainted with his secrets, it seems
to me that you are in no way responsible for it.”
“Harm must not come, Mrs. Hartley,” said Grace earnestly. “If you can
think of any way in which we can let the General know without his
connecting either of us with the intelligence—well; but if not, the very
best thing that could be done would be for you to write to John and tell
him that he must come home.”
“And find Mr. Brady ‘in possession’ of the property!” finished Mrs.
Hartley. “I suspect there is no time to be lost about the matter, and
that, clever as we both are, we shall have to get the assistance of some
man in it. Poor John! it would indeed be hard to lose both wife and
lands.”
“I should have thought he might have found the former without much
difficulty ere this,” said Grace.
“Then, my dear, you judged Mr. John Riley, as usual, unfairly,” retorted
Mrs. Hartley.
Her visitor laughed. “I do so like to hear you defend him. You are
thoroughly in earnest on that subject.”
“Earnestness is a good quality,” said the widow. “It is one in which
some of your suitors have been rather deficient.”
“None of them, so far as their desire to get my money was concerned, I
assure you,” Miss Moffat answered, which might be considered as rather a
neat little tit in return for Mrs. Hartley’s tat.
For a long time after they had separated for the night the latter lady
lay awake, thinking over Grace’s story, and wondering who could have
told her. She recalled all the people she had known in Kingslough, she
puzzled her head to imagine who it might be so utterly in Mr. Brady’s
power as to dread the weight of his vengeance. She tried to remember if
Grace had let fall any word likely to give her a clue, but in vain.
“It must be that Hanlon or else Scott—I dare say it was Scott. But,
then, Mr. Brady and he could not be bitterer enemies than they are;
besides, the address on that letter was written by a person of
education. I feel no doubt it was Mr. Hanlon,” and then all at once the
truth flashed upon her, and she sat up in bed, saying almost out aloud,
“It was Nettie, the man’s own wife.” Even in the darkness Kingslough
seemed to rise before her eyes. Kingslough at high noon, with the sun
dancing on the sea and a group of pitying friends gathered round a
feeble old woman bewailing herself for Nettie, golden-haired Nettie, who
had gone out that morning all unsuspecting to meet her fate.
Next morning Mrs. Hartley appeared at breakfast, with signs of
sleeplessness around her eyes, and tokens of anxiety on her face.
“I have decided on the course we must take,” she said, when they were
alone; “but before I speak about it, I want to tell and ask you
something.
“I know now from whom you received your information; do not be
frightened, for the secret is safe with me, and it is well I do know,
for otherwise we might, with the best intentions, have secured a
_fiasco_. What I wish to ask is this, Is he aware she is acquainted with
this affair?”
“Mrs. Hartley,” said Grace quietly, “I must refuse to answer any
question in connection with the individual who brought this intelligence
to me. I wish it never had been brought. I am the last person in the
world on whom such a responsibility should have been thrown.”
“I agree with you to a certain extent. I think there are many persons in
the world who would have been of more use in such a crisis than
yourself. The worst of young heiresses, even if they have philanthropic
impulses and amiable dispositions, is that they are apt to get
slightly—”
“Selfish,” suggested one of the young heiresses referred to.
“No, I do not mean exactly that; in fact, I am not exactly certain that
I could express what I do mean. One thing, however, I must say, making
all allowance for the difficulty in which you have been placed,—I think,
Miss Grace, you ought to have made some move in the matter ere this; you
ought to have told me all about it before you had been twenty-four hours
in the same house with me. There, I have spoken out my mind and feel
better for it. Now are you going to be very angry with me?”
“No indeed,” Grace answered; “I like to be scolded, it seems as though
some one loved me enough to be interested in me,” and she caught Mrs.
Hartley’s hand and held it for a second. There were unshed tears in the
eyes of both. Perhaps the same thought occurred to each at the same
moment. They had wealth, and position, friends, acquaintances; they
possessed those things deemed valuable by most people; and yet they were
lonely creatures, the one in her youth, the other in her age.
“I shall write,” said Mrs. Hartley, after a pause, “to Lord Ardmorne, or
rather, I shall go to see him—he is in London now; he is so courteous a
nobleman, I dare say he would come to see me if I asked him.”
“That would be a far better arrangement,” remarked Grace. “Your servants
here could attach no importance to his visit, but his servants there
might.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley, but she gave way nevertheless, and
wrote a note forthwith in which she stated she desired to have Lord
Ardmorne’s advice and assistance, and stating she would send her
carriage to meet any train by which he might appoint to travel.
By return of post came his lordship’s answer. He should be only too
delighted, he said, if his advice or assistance could be of any service
to Mrs. Hartley, and he would leave London by such a train on such a
day.
“So far well,” said the widow; “now we must have a nice luncheon for the
dear old man, and you must look your very best. I suppose you are not
desirous of adding any other members of the nobility to your list of
suitors; but as penance for your sin of omission, you ought to make
yourself very charming.”
“I will try,” answered Grace, and she succeeded. Lord Ardmorne was
delighted with her.
When, in the pretty drawing-room, Mrs. Hartley repeated all Grace had
told her to him, the visitor looked exceedingly grave.
“This thing must not be,” he said; “we must save the General from ruin,
and keep the estate for the son—a fine, brave, honest fellow. I never
did a kindness to any young man whose subsequent career satisfied me so
completely. I never receive a letter from India in which his name is not
mentioned, and with approval.”
Grace felt her colour rise a little at this laudation of a man she had
never thought clever or remarkable in any way, and she turned her head
away, so that if Mrs. Hartley glanced towards her, she might build no
fancy from her face.
But Mrs. Hartley did no such thing. She was much too astute a woman to
let Grace imagine she was going to plead John Riley’s cause again. She
had made up her mind that Miss Moffat and her first lover should marry,
but she did not intend to let Grace see her game, or tell her for what
stakes she was playing. Mentally, she likened her own position to that
of the man who, driving pigs along the road to Cork, told all the people
he met that he was proceeding in a contrary direction for fear the
animals might immediately turn back.
She had guessed Grace’s little peculiarities with tolerable accuracy,
and she was determined not to risk damaging her favourite’s chance by
running counter to them.
From the tone of his letters, she knew no woman had as yet filled up
Grace’s place in John’s heart.
“I wonder if he would still love her if they met. She is beautiful now,
which she certainly was not then; but she is not quite the Grace he
knew—”
Was she not? Before another twelvemonth had passed, Mrs. Hartley knew of
what stuff Grace was made.
“I shall at once write to Mr. Riley, and tell him his presence is
urgently required in Ireland.”
“But what a pity it seems to do so, when he is getting on so well in
India!”
“If he finds affairs in Ireland are able to go on without him, he can
return to India; I will arrange all that.”
“But it would be dangerous to wait for his return before making any move
in the matter,” suggested Mrs. Hartley.
“I shall not wait for anything or person,” was the reply; “I shall
ascertain if the statement be true—no reflection intended, Miss Moffat,
on your sagacity; this can be done through the General’s lawyers.”
“And then?” suggested Mrs. Hartley.
“Then I shall begin to be perplexed. I do not suppose, if the interest
were regularly settled, there would be any necessity to pay off the
mortgage, but still I think it will have to be paid off, and if so,
where is the money to come from? It is not given to every one to command
capital as Mr. Brady seems able to do. I have been buying an estate
lately in one of the midland counties, and it has made me very
short—very short indeed. But bless me! to think of Brady aspiring to
Woodbrook! No matter at what sacrifice, that must be prevented. A place
I would gladly own myself.”
“All my money is invested,” said Mrs. Hartley. “I am afraid I could not
realize any considerable sum for a long time.”
“I have not the slightest idea where my money is,” added Miss Moffat;
“but if any of it is available, I should like to help.”
“Not to be thought of,” suggested Mrs. Hartley. “I am sure Lord Ardmorne
agrees with me, when I say the idea ought not to be entertained for a
moment.”
“I really am at a loss—” began the nobleman.
“If you are sensitive, Grace, you can leave us,” said Mrs. Hartley; “if
not, you can hear what I say. There was a time, my lord, when this young
lady’s fortune would have infused new blood into the Woodbrook estate,
when a very honourable and honest young gentleman who was very fond of
her asked her to be his wife. But she could not fancy him. It was a
pity, still such things will happen. Without further explanation, you
will see at once that if Miss Moffat stepped forward at this juncture to
offer assistance, her feelings and motives might be misconstrued. Her
views have undergone no change, but it might be imagined they had.”
Grace sat chafing in her place, whilst Mrs. Hartley delivered herself of
this long sentence, but she did not speak. Lord Ardmorne, after studying
the pattern of the carpet for a moment or two, looked up and said with a
twinkle in his kindly eyes,—
“Yes, I agree with you, though it does seem hard a young lady should be
unable to help a friend because his son was once her suitor. These
difficulties are boulders in the path of life, but still we must all
face them. If, however, I am not greatly mistaken in Miss Moffat, she is
one of those who are given—
“To do good by stealth,
And blush to find it fame,”
and, supposing money be urgently needed, I fancy she would lend it to me
and let me take the credit of helping the General and his family at this
crisis. You would trust me, Miss Moffat, to take as much care of your
pride as I should of your fortune?”
Said Grace—“My lord, I would trust you with my life,” and passed out
into the conservatory, thinking that if the Glendares had been made of
such stuff as this, it would have seemed a glorious lot to link her
fortune with that of Robert Somerford—even although the ways and doings
of the nobility are not as the ways and doings of the class from which
she sprung.
“A most charming girl!” exclaimed Lord Ardmorne, “and the case was, as
you implied, serious!”
“Yes; John Riley loved Grace Moffat, as a girl is only liked once in her
lifetime. That was why he went abroad, that is why he stays abroad, that
is probably the reason why he will remain single till he is middle-aged
and rich. You have seen the young lady who is ‘the woman’ of that man’s
life.”
“I fancy your story ought to end, however, Mrs. Hartley, with—they lived
happy ever after.”
But Mrs. Hartley shook her head. Not even to this new ally did she
intend to show her hand.