A BANKRUPT HEART.
A BANKRUPT HEART.
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF
‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’
ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. I.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1894.
_This story being already dramatised, all rights are reserved._
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 26
CHAPTER III. 40
CHAPTER IV. 60
CHAPTER V. 87
CHAPTER VI. 120
CHAPTER VII. 144
CHAPTER VIII. 168
CHAPTER IX. 186
CHAPTER X. 213
A BANKRUPT HEART.
A BANKRUPT HEART.
CHAPTER I.
Miss Llewellyn was standing at the window of her own room, in the
house of Lord Ilfracombe in Grosvenor Square, gazing at the dust-laden
and burnt-up leaves and grass in the gardens before her. It was an
afternoon towards the close of July, and all the fashionable world was
already out of town. Miss Llewellyn had been reared in the country, and
she could not help thinking how that same sun that had burnt up all the
verdure of which London could boast, had glorified the vegetation of
far-off Wales. How it must have enriched the pasture lands, and ripened
the waving corn, and decked the very hedges and ditches with beautiful,
fresh flowers, which were to be had for the gathering. Her thoughts
went back to rural Usk where King Arthur built a bower for Guinevere,
and in fancy she felt the cool air blowing over its fragrant fields and
woods. She heaved a deep sigh as she remembered the place of her birth,
and, as if in reproach for such heresy to her present condition, she
drew a letter from her pocket and opened its pages.
Miss Llewellyn nominally held an inferior position in the house of
the Earl of Ilfracombe. She was his housekeeper. Old-fashioned people
who associate their ideas of a housekeeper with the image of a staid,
middle-aged woman, whose sole business is to guard the morals and
regulate the duties of the maidens of the establishment, would have
stared at the notion of calling Miss Llewellyn by that name. All the
same she was a very fair specimen of the up-to-date housekeeper of a
rich bachelor of the present time, with one exception, perhaps. She was
handsome beyond the majority of women. Her figure was a model. Tall and
graceful without being thin, with a beautiful bust and shoulders, and
a skin like white satin, Miss Llewellyn also possessed a face such
as is seldom met with, even in these isles of boasted female beauty.
Her features would have suited a princess. They were those of a carved
Juno. Her abundant rippling hair was of a bright chestnut colour; her
eyes dark hazel, like the tawny eyes of the leopardess; her lips full
and red; and her complexion naturally as radiant as it usually is with
women of her nationality, though London air had toned it down to a
pale cream tint. She was quietly, but well-dressed, too well dressed
for one in her station of life perhaps, but that would depend on the
wages she earned and the appearance she was expected to make. Her gown
of some light black material, like mousseline-de-laine, or canvas
cloth, was much trimmed with lace, and on her wrists she wore heavy
gold bangles. Her beautiful hair was worn in the prevailing fashion,
and round her white throat was a velvet band, clasped by a diamond
brooch. The room, too, which Miss Llewellyn occupied, and which was
exclusively her own, was far beyond what we should associate with the
idea of a dependant. It was a species of half study, half boudoir, and
on the drawing-room floor, furnished by Liberty, and replete with every
comfort and luxury. Yet Miss Llewellyn did not look out of place in it;
on the contrary, she would have graced a far handsomer apartment by her
presence. To whatever station of life she had been brought up, it was
evident that circumstances, or habit, had made her quite familiar with
her surroundings. As she perused the letter she drew from her pocket
for perhaps the twentieth time she looked rather pale and anxious,
as though she did not quite comprehend its meaning. Yet it seemed a
very ordinary epistle, and one which anybody might have read over her
shoulder with impunity. It was written in rather an irregular and
unformed hand for a man of thirty, and showed symptoms of a wavering
and unsteadfast character.
‘DEAR N.,--I find I may be absent from England longer
than I thought, so don’t stay cooped up in town this
beastly hot weather, but take a run down to Brighton, or
any watering-place you may fancy. Warrender can look
after the house. Malta is a deal hotter than London as
you may imagine, but I have made several friends here and
enjoy the novelty of the place. They won’t let me off, I
expect, under another month or two, so I shall miss the
grouse this season. However, I’m bound to be back in time
for the partridges. Be sure and take a good holiday and
freshen yourself up. Have you seen Sterndale yet? If not,
you will soon. He has something to tell you. Whatever
happens, remember your welfare will always be my first
consideration.--Yours truly,
‘ILFRACOMBE.’
Miss Llewellyn read these words over and over again, without arriving
at any conclusion respecting their meaning.
‘What can he mean?’ she thought; ‘why should I see Mr Sterndale, and
what can he possibly have to tell me, that I do not already know? I
hope Ilfracombe is not going to do anything so stupid as to make a
settlement on me, for I will not accept it. I much prefer to go on in
the dear old way, and owe all I have to him. Has not my welfare always
been his care? Dear Ilfracombe! How I wish I could persuade him to come
home and go to Abergeldie instead! I am sure he runs a great risk out
in that horrid climate, especially after the attack of fever he had
last autumn. If he were to fall sick again, without me to nurse him,
what should I do?’
As she spoke thus to herself, she turned involuntarily towards a
painted photograph which stood in a silver frame on a side-table. It
represented a good-looking young man in a rough shooting suit, with
a gun over his shoulder. It was a handsome and aristocratic face,
but a weak one, as was evidenced by the prominent blue eyes and the
receding chin and mouth, which latter, however, was nearly hidden by
a flaxen moustache. It is not difficult to discover with what sort of
feeling a woman regards a man if you watch her as she is looking at his
likeness. As Miss Llewellyn regarded that of Lord Ilfracombe, her face,
so proud in its natural expression, softened until it might have been
that of a mother gloating over her first-born. So inextricably is the
element of protective love interwoven with the feelings of every true
woman for the man who possesses her heart. The tears even rose to Miss
Llewellyn’s handsome eyes, as she gazed at Lord Ilfracombe’s picture,
but she brushed them away with a nervous laugh.
‘How foolish,’ she said to herself, ‘and when I am the happiest and
most fortunate woman in all the world, and would not change my lot with
the Queen herself. And so undeserving of it all, too.’
Women who honestly love, invariably think themselves unworthy of their
good fortune, when, perhaps, and very often too, the boot (to use a
vulgar expression) is on the other foot. But love always makes us
humble. If it does not, it is love of ourselves, and not of our lovers.
A sudden impulse seemed to seize Miss Llewellyn, and, sitting down to
her pretty writing-table, she drew out pen, ink and paper, and wrote
hurriedly,--
‘MY DEAREST,--Do you think I could enjoy a holiday without
you? No! Whilst you are away, my place is here, watching
over your interests, and when you return I shall be too
happy to leave you. But come back as soon as you can. I
don’t want to spoil your pleasure, but I am so afraid for
your health. You get so careless when you are alone. Don’t
go bathing in cold water when you are hot, nor eating things
which you know from experience disagree with you. You will
laugh at my cautions, but if you only knew how I love you
and miss you, you would sympathise with my anxiety--’
Miss Llewellyn had written thus far, when a tap sounded on the door of
her room, and on her giving permission to enter, a servant appeared and
addressed her with all the deference usually extended to the mistress
of a house.
‘If you please, ma’am, there is a young man and woman from Usk below,
who want to speak to you.’
Miss Llewellyn became crimson, and then paled to the tint of a white
rose.
‘From Usk, Mary?’ she repeated; ‘are you sure? I don’t expect anybody
this evening. What is the name?’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure, ma’am. They said their name was Owen, and they
asked particularly for Miss Llewellyn, the housekeeper.’
‘What is the young woman like?’
‘Rather nice-looking, ma’am, that is, for a person from the country.
I’m sure they’re not Londoners from the way they speak, though I don’t
know where Usk is; but she’s got nice curly hair, much the colour of
yours, ma’am.’
‘Well, well, show them into the housekeeper’s room, Mary, or stay, as
his lordship is away, you may as well put them in the library, and say
I will be with them in a minute.’
As soon as the servant had left her, Miss Llewellyn ran up to her
bedroom, with her hand tightly pressed over her heart, and commenced to
rapidly pull off her ornaments, and to take a plainer dress out of her
wardrobe.
‘If it should be a message from mother,’ she murmured breathlessly, as
she stripped off her finery, ‘they mustn’t go back and say they found
me like this. Dear, dear mother. She would break her heart to find out
the meaning of it all.’
She threw the black lace dress upon the bed, and selecting a
quaker-looking fawn cashmere from her wardrobe, put it on instead, and
having somewhat smoothed down her rippling hair, she tied on a black
silk apron, and took her way down to the library. She opened the door
with a beating heart, for she had begun to fear lest the strangers
might prove to be the bearers of bad news to her, but the moment
she set eyes on the figure of the young woman, she gave vent to an
exclamation of surprise and delight, and rushed into her extended arms.
‘Hetty! Hetty!’ she cried hysterically, ‘my own dear sister! Oh, how is
it you are in London? Why did you not tell me you were coming? You have
not brought bad news, have you? Oh, don’t tell me that mother is ill,
for I couldn’t bear it.’
‘No, Nell, no!’ exclaimed the younger sister, ‘they are all as well
at home as can be. Mother and father are just beautiful, and the
crops first-rate. But we--that is, Will and I--thought we would give
you such a grand surprise. We have such news for you! You’d never
guess it, Nell! Don’t you see who’s this with me? William Owen, our
old play-mate! Well, he’s my husband. We were married the day before
yesterday.’
‘Married!’ repeated Miss Llewellyn, incredulously. ‘Little Hester,
who was always such a baby compared to me, really married. This is a
surprise!’ And to prove how much she thought it so, Miss Llewellyn sat
down on a sofa and burst into tears.
‘Oh, Nelly! you are not vexed because we did not tell you sooner, are
you?’ cried Hetty, kneeling down beside her sister. ‘We thought you
would like the grand surprise, dear, and I made Will promise that
the first thing he did was to bring me up to London town to see my
beautiful sister Nell! And oh, Nell, you do look such a lady. I’m sure
I feel so countrified beside you, I can’t say.’
‘You look too sweet for anything,’ replied Miss Llewellyn kissing her,
‘and I was only crying a little for joy, Hetty, to think you are so
happy. But what a child to be married! Why, how old are you? Not more
than seventeen, surely!’
‘Oh, yes, Nell; you have not been home for such a time, you forget
how it goes on. I was twenty-one last spring, dear; and you are
twenty-four! But how different you are from what you used to be. Is it
London life that makes you so grand? You look like a queen beside me!
You must think I am a bumpkin in my wedding clothes.’
‘Nonsense, dear Hetty. One is obliged to be more particular in town
than in the country. Besides, I am filling an important situation, you
know, and am expected to dress up to it.’
‘Oh yes, I was telling Will all the way down from Usk, what a fine
place you have, and such a rich master. Oh, Nell! is he at home? Lord
Ilfracombe I mean. I should love to go back and tell them that I had
seen a lord.’
‘No, Hetty, he is away in Malta, and not likely to be back for some
time. But I’ve not spoken to my new brother-in-law yet. I suppose you
can scarcely remember me, Will. Five years is a long time to be absent
from the old home.’
‘Oh! I remember you well enough,’ replied the young man shamefacedly,
for he was rather taken aback at encountering such a fine lady, instead
of the maid-servant he had expected to see. ‘I and my brother Hugh used
to have fine games of cricket with you and my little Hetty here, on the
island years and years ago. I suppose you’ve heard that Hugh has been
elected to the ministry since you left Usk, Miss Llewellyn?’
‘No, indeed, I do not think that Hetty has ever mentioned it in her
letters to me. But I remember your brother quite well. He was a very
tall, shy lad, fonder of reading than anything else, even when a little
boy.’
‘Yes, that’s Hugh,’ replied the young man, ‘and he hasn’t forgotten you
either, I can answer for that.’
‘I suppose it makes you all very proud to have a minister in the
family, William?’ said Miss Llewellyn kindly.
‘That it does; and he’s a fine preacher too, as Hetty here can tell
you, and draws the people to hear him for miles round, so that the
parson up at the church is quite jealous of Hugh’s influence with his
parishioners. And that’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed. And what are you, Will?’
‘Oh, he’s a farmer, Nell,’ interposed Hetty, ‘and we are to live with
his parents at Dale Farm as soon as we go back. So poor mother will be
left alone. Oh, Nell, how I wish you could come back to Panty-cuckoo
Farm, and stay with mother, now she’s lost me.’
Miss Llewellyn flushed scarlet at the idea.
‘Hetty, how could I? How could I leave my place where I have been for
so many years now, to go back and be a burden on my parents? Besides,
dear, I’m used to town life, and don’t think I should know how to get
on in the country.’
‘But you care for mother surely?’ said her sister, somewhat
reproachfully; ‘and you can’t think how bad she’s been with sciatica
this spring, quite doubled-up at times, and Dr Cowell says it’s bound
to come back in the autumn. I’m sure I don’t know what she’ll do if
it does! You should have heard how she used to cry out for you in the
spring, Nell. She’s always wanting her beautiful daughter. I’m nothing
to mother, and never have been, compared to you. And I’ve heard her
say, dozens of times, that she wished that London town had been burned
to the ground before the agency office had persuaded you to take
service here. They do seem so hard on servants in this place. Here have
you been five years away from home, and never once a holiday! I think
Lord Ilfracombe must be very mean not to think that a servant girl
would want to see her own people once in a way!’
‘You mustn’t blame Lord Ilfracombe, Hetty!’ said her sister, hastily,
‘for it’s not his fault. He would let me go to Usk if I asked him, I
daresay; but I have the charge of all the other servants you see, and
where would the house be without me? It is not as if there was a lady
at the head of affairs.’
‘Then why doesn’t he marry and get his wife to do all that for him?’
demanded Hetty, with the audacity of ignorance. ‘It does seem strange
that a gentleman with such a heap of money should remain a bachelor.
What does he do with it all, I wonder? And what is the good of such
a big house to a man without a wife? Wouldn’t you rather that he was
married, Nell? It must be so funny taking all your orders from a man.’
‘You don’t understand, Hetty,’ said Miss Llewellyn. ‘Lord Ilfracombe
does not give me any orders. He never interferes in the household
arrangements. It is to save himself all that trouble that he has
engaged me. I hardly ever see him--that is, about dinners, or anything
of that sort. When he is going to have a party, he tells me the number
of people whom he expects, and I prepare for them accordingly. But this
is all beyond your comprehension. It is past five o’clock. You and
William will be glad of some tea.’
Miss Llewellyn rose and rang the bell as she spoke, and having given
her orders to a very magnificent looking footman, at whose servility
Hetty stared, she resumed the conversation.
‘Where are you two staying in town?’
‘We have some rooms in Oxford Street,’ replied her sister. ‘Do you
remember Mrs Potter, Nell, who took Mrs Upjohn’s cottage when her
husband died? Her sister lets lodgings, and when she heard we were
coming to London for our honeymoon, she wrote to her sister to take us
in, and we are very comfortable there, aren’t we, Will? And it’s such a
grand situation, such lots of things to see; and Mrs Potter said, as it
might be our last chance for many a day, we ought to see as much as we
could whilst we are here.’
‘I think she is quite right,’ replied Miss Llewellyn, smiling; ‘and
I should like to add to your pleasure if possible. Will you come out
with me and have some dinner after your tea, and go to a theatre in the
evening?’
‘Oh, Nell, we had our dinner at one o’clock--roast pork and French
beans, and very good it was, I suppose, for London town, though
nothing like our pork at Usk. And aren’t the strawberries and cherries
dear here? Will gave sixpence this morning for a leaf of fruit that
you’d throw over the hedge to a beggar child in Usk. I told the woman
in the shop that she ought to come to Panty-cuckoo Farm if she wanted
to see strawberries; but she said she had never heard of such a place.’
‘I think you’ll be quite ready for the dinner, Hetty, for you will find
our London teas very different from country ones,’ said Miss Llewellyn,
as the footman reappeared with a teapot and cups and saucers, and a
plate of very thin bread and butter on a silver tray; ‘and the theatre
will keep us up rather late. I suppose you have been nowhere yet?’
No, of course they had been nowhere, and Miss Llewellyn selected the
Adelphi as the theatre most likely to give them pleasure.
‘Nell,’ whispered Hetty, in a tone of awe as they found themselves once
more alone, ‘do you always have a silver tray to eat your tea off?’
Nell coloured. She found a little evasion would be necessary in order
to circumvent the sharp eyes of her sister.
‘Not always, Hetty,’ she answered; ‘but as nobody else wants it just
now, I suppose John thought we might as well have the advantage of it.
When the cat’s away, you know, the mice will play. And we can’t wear it
out by using it a little.’
Hetty looked thoughtful.
‘But I think mother would say,’ she answered after a pause, ‘that we
ought not to use it unless Lord Ilfracombe knew of it and gave his
leave. I remember once when Annie Roberts came to tea with me, and
boasted of having brought her mistress’s umbrella because she was away
and it looked like rain, mother sent her straight home again, and
threatened if Annie did not tell Mrs Carey of what she had done, that
she would tell her herself.’
Miss Llewellyn looked just a little vexed. One might have seen that by
the way she bit her lip and tapped the carpet with her neat little shoe.
‘But your sister is not in the same position as Annie Roberts,
Hetty, my dear,’ interposed William Owen, observing their hostess’s
discomfiture.
‘No, that is just it,’ said Miss Llewellyn, recovering herself. ‘I am
allowed--all the servants know that they may bring these things up
to me when I have friends. Life in London is so different from life
in the country--one expects more privileges. But there, Hetty, dear,
don’t let us speak of it any more. You don’t quite understand, but you
may be sure I would not do anything of which Lord Ilfracombe would not
approve.’
‘Oh, no, dear Nell, indeed you need not have told me that. I was only
a little surprised. I am not used to such fine things, you know, and I
just thought if your master was to walk in, how astonished he would be.’
‘Not at all,’ said Miss Llewellyn gaily. ‘You don’t know how good and
kind he is to us all. He would just laugh and tell us to go on enjoying
ourselves. But if we are to go to the theatre, I must run up and put on
my things. William, will you have a glass of wine before we start? I
have a bottle of my own, so Hetty need not think I am going to drink
Lord Ilfracombe’s.’
Young Owen refused the wine, but Hetty was eager to accompany her
sister to her bedroom. This was just what Miss Llewellyn did not wish
her to do. She was in a quandary. But her woman’s wit (some people
would say, her woman’s trick of lying) came to her aid, and she
answered,--
‘Come upstairs with me by all means, Hetty. I should like you to see
the house, but I will take you to one of the spare bedrooms, for mine
is not habitable just at present. Plasterers and painters all over that
floor. Come in here,’ and she turned as she spoke into a magnificently
furnished apartment usually reserved for Lord Ilfracombe’s guests.
Hetty stared with all her eyes at the magnificence surrounding her.
‘Oh, Nell, how I wish mother could see this. It looks fit for a duchess
to me.’
‘Well, it was actually a duke who slept in it last, you little goose,’
cried Miss Llewellyn, as she hastily assumed a bonnet and mantle which
she had desired a servant to fetch from her own chamber. ‘But I don’t
think he was worthy of it. A nasty, bloated little fellow, with a face
covered with pimples, and an eyeglass always stuck in his eye.’
‘Doesn’t Lord Ilfracombe wear an eyeglass, Nell?’
‘Oh, no, thank goodness. I wouldn’t--’ But here Miss Llewellyn checked
herself suddenly, and added,--‘I mean, he would never do anything so
silly. He can see perfectly well, and does not need a glass. But come,
Hetty, dear, we are going to walk down to the theatre, so we had better
start if we wish to get good seats.’
As they entered the porch of the Adelphi, a sudden thought struck
innocent Hetty. She sidled up to her sister and whispered,--
‘You must let William pay for our places, Nell.’
‘Nonsense, child, what are you thinking of? This is _my_ treat. I asked
you to come as my guests.’
‘But it isn’t fair,’ continued the little bumpkin, ‘for you to pay for
us all out of your wages. Won’t it cramp you for the next quarter,
Nell?’
‘No, dear, no; I have plenty for us all,’ returned her sister hastily,
as she paid for three places in the dress circle, and conducted her
relations to their destination. Here, seated well out of observation
of the stalls, as she thought, Miss Llewellyn felt free for the next
two hours at least, to remain quiet and think, an operation for which
she had had no time since her sister had burst in so unexpectedly upon
her. William and Hetty had naturally no eyes except for the play, the
like of which they had never seen before. They followed the sensational
incidents of one of Sim’s and Buchanan’s melodramas with absorbing
interest. The varied scenes; the clap-trap changes; the pretty dresses,
all chained them, eyes and ears, to the stage, whilst an occasional
breathless exclamation from Hetty, of ‘Oh, Nell, isn’t that beautiful?’
was all the demand they made upon her attention. She had seen the piece
before, and if she had not done so, she had no heart to attend to it
now. Her memories of home, and the old life she had led there, had
all been awakened by the sight of her sister and the manner she had
spoken of it; and while Hetty was engrossed by the novel scenes before
her, Miss Llewellyn was in fancy back again at Panty-cuckoo Farm,
where she had been born and bred. She was wandering down the steep
path which led to the farmhouse, bordered on either side by whitened
stones to enable the drivers to keep to it in the dark, and which had
given the dear old place its fanciful name of ‘The Cuckoo’s Dell.’ She
could see the orchard of apple and pear trees, which grew around the
house itself, and under which the pigs were digging with their black
snouts for such succulent roots as their swinish souls loved. She sat
well back in her seat listening to the notes of the cuckoo from the
neighbouring thicket, and the woods that skirted the domains of General
Sir Archibald Bowmant, who was the principal landowner for many miles
around Usk at that period. What a marvellous, magnificent place she
had thought the General’s house once, when she had been admitted to
view the principal rooms, by especial favour of the housekeeper. And
now--why, they were nothing compared to Lord Ilfracombe’s, the man whom
little Hetty had called her ‘master.’ ‘And a very good name for him,
too,’ thought Miss Llewellyn, as she finished her musings, ‘for he is
my master, body and soul.’