Poor Hilda found life in her London lodging anything but cheerful, and
frequently begged Philip to allow her to settle somewhere in the
country. This, however, he refused to do on two grounds: in the first
place, because few country villages would be so convenient for him to
get at as London; and in the second, because he declared that the great
city was the safest hiding-place in the world.
And so Hilda continued perforce to live her lonesome existence, that
was only cheered by her husband’s short and uncertain visits. Friends
she had none, nor did she dare to make any. The only person whose
conversation she could rely on to relieve the tedium of the long weeks
was her landlady, Mrs. Jacobs, the widow of a cheesemonger, who had
ruined a fine business by his drinking and other vicious propensities,
and out of a good property had only left his wife the leasehold of a
house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which, fortunately for her, had been
settled upon her at her marriage. Like most people who have seen better
days—not but what she was now very comfortably off—she delighted in
talking of her misfortunes, and of the perfidiousness of man; and in
Hilda, who had, poor girl, nothing else to listen to, she found a most
attentive audience. As was only natural where such a charming person
and such a good listener were concerned, honest Mrs. Jacobs soon grew
fond of her interesting lodger, about whose husband’s circumstances and
history she soon wove many an imaginary tale; for, needless to say, her
most pertinent inquiries failed to extract much information from Hilda.
One of her favourite fictions was that her lodger was the victim of her
handsome husband, who had in some way beguiled her from her home beyond
the seas, in order to keep her in solitary confinement and out of the
reach of a hated rival. Another, that he kept her thus that he might
have greater liberty for his own actions.
In course of time these ideas took such possession of her mind that she
grew to believe in them, and, when speaking of Hilda to any of her
other lodgers, would shake her head and talk of her mysteriously as a
“lamb” and a “victim.”
As for that lady herself, whilst far from suspecting her good
landlady’s gloomy surmises, she certainly fell more and more a prey to
depression and anxieties, and occasionally even to suspicion, to all of
which evils she grew increasingly liable as she drew nearer to an event
that was no longer very distant. She could not but notice a change in
Philip’s manner on the rare occasions when he was able to visit her, of
which the most marked developments were fits of silence and
irritability. A certain reticence also, that became more and more
noticeable as time went on, led her to feel that there was an invisible
something growing up between them—a something that the pride she
possessed in such a striking degree forbade her to attempt to pierce,
but which was none the less galling to her on that account. Very
shortly before the events narrated in the last chapter she had taken
the occasion of a visit from Philip to complain somewhat bitterly of
her position, begging him to tell her when there was any prospect of
her being allowed to take her rightful place—a question her husband was
quite unable to answer satisfactorily. Seeing that there was nothing to
be got out of him, with womanly tact she changed the subject, and asked
after Maria Lee (for whom she entertained a genuine affection)—when he
last saw her, how she was looking, if there was any prospect of her
getting married, and other questions of the same sort—the result of
which was to evoke a most violent, and to her inexplicable, fit of
irritability on the part of her husband. Something of a scene ensued,
which was finally terminated about five o’clock in the afternoon by
Philip’s abrupt departure to catch his train.
Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jacobs, coming up to bring some tea, found
Hilda indulging in tears that she had been too proud to shed before her
husband; and, having had an extended personal experience of such
matters, rightly guessed that there had been a conjugal tiff, the blame
of which, needless to say, she fixed upon the departed Philip.
“Lor, Mrs. Roberts” (as Hilda was called), she said, “don’t take on
like that; they’re all brutes, that’s what they are; if only you could
have seen my Samuel, who’s dead and gone these ten years and buried in
a private grave at Kensal Cemetery—though he didn’t leave anything to
pay for it except three dozen and five of brandy—he was a beauty, poor
dear, he was; your husband ain’t nothing to him.”
“My husband, let me tell you, Mrs. Jacobs, is not a brute at all,”
sobbed Hilda, with dignity.
“Ah, Mrs. Roberts, that is just what I used to say of Samuel, but he
was the biggest brute in the three kingdoms, for all that; but if you
ask me, meaning no offence, I call a man a brute as only comes to see
his lawful wife about twice a month, let alone making an angel cry.”
“Mr. Roberts has his reasons, Mrs. Jacobs; you must not talk of him
like that.”
“Ah, so my Samuel used to say when he stopped away from home for three
nights at a time, till I followed him and found out his ‘Reason,’ and a
mighty pretty ‘Reason’ she was too, all paint and feathers, the hussy,
and eyes as big as a teacup. They all have their reasons, but they
never tell ‘em. But come and put on your things and go out a bit,
there’s a dear; it is a beautiful warm evening. You feel tired—oh,
never mind that; it is necessary for people as is in an interested way
to take exercise. I well remembers——”
Here Hilda, however, cut the subject short, and deprived herself of
Mrs. Jacobs’ reminiscences by going to put on her things.
It was a bright warm evening, and she found the air so pleasant that,
after strolling round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, she thought she would
extend her walk a little, and struck past Lincoln’s Inn Hall into New
Square, and then made her way to the archway opposite to where the New
Law Courts now stand. Under this archway a legal bookseller has built
his nest, and behind windows of broad plate-glass were ranged specimens
of his seductive wares, baits on which to catch students avaricious of
legal knowledge as they pass on their way to chambers or Hall. Now, at
this window a young man was standing at the moment that Hilda entered
the archway, his eyes fixed upon a pamphlet on the laws of succession.
That young man was George Caresfoot, who was considering whether it
would be worth his while to buy the pamphlet in order to see if he
would be entitled to anything if his uncle should happen to die
intestate, as he sometimes feared might be the case. He had come up to
town on business connected with his firm, and was now waiting till it
was time to begin an evening of what he understood as pleasure; for
George was a very gay young man.
He was, however, also a very sharp one, so sharp that he even noticed
shadows, especially when, as in this case, the shadow was clearly
defined and flung, life-sized, on the dark background of the books
before him. He watched it for a moment, and as its owner, with an
absent air, slowly passed from the bright sunlight into the shade of
the arch, it struck the astute George that there was something familiar
about this particular and by no means unpleasing shadow. Waiting till
it had vanished and the footsteps gone past him, he turned round and at
a glance recognized Hilda von Holtzhausen, Miss Lee’s beautiful
companion, who was supposed to have departed into the more distant
parts of Germany. George’s eyes twinkled, and a whole host of ideas
rushed into his really able mind.
“Caught at last, for a sovereign,” he muttered.
Meanwhile Hilda walked slowly on into Chancery Lane, then turned to the
left till she came into Holborn, and thence made her way round by
another route back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Needless to say, George
followed at a respectful distance. His first impulse had been to go up
and speak to her, but he resisted the inclination.
On the doorstep of the house where Hilda lodged, stood her landlady
giving a piece of her mind to a butcher-boy both as regarded his
master’s meat and his personal qualities. She paused for breath just as
Hilda passed up the steps, and, turning, said something that made the
latter laugh. The butcher-boy took the opportunity of beating a rapid
retreat, leaving Mrs. Jacobs crowing after him from her own doorstep.
As soon as Hilda had gone into the house, George saw his opportunity.
Advancing politely towards Mrs. Jacobs, he asked her if she was the
landlady of the house, and, when she had answered in the affirmative,
he made inquiries about apartments.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Jacobs, “but I do not let rooms to single
gentlemen.”
“You take too much for granted, ma’am. I am married.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “I suppose, sir, you would have no
objection to giving a reference.”
“A dozen, if you like, ma’am; but shall we look at the rooms?”
Mrs. Jacobs assented, and they made their way upstairs, George keeping
in front. On the first-floor he saw a pair of lady’s shoes on a mat
outside the door, and guessed to whom they belonged.
“Are these the rooms?” he said, laying his hand upon the door-handle.
“No, sir, no, they are Mrs. Roberts’; next floor, please, sir.”
“Mrs. Roberts?—I suppose the very handsome young lady I saw come into
the house. No offence, ma’am; but a man’s bound to be careful where he
brings his wife. I suppose she’s all right.”
“Lord, yes, poor dear!” answered Mrs. Jacobs, in indignation; “why,
they came here straight from St. Jude’s, Battersea, the day they were
married; a runaway match, I fancy.”
“That’s all right; she looked charming. I hope her husband is worthy of
her,” remarked George, as he gazed round Mrs. Jacobs’ rooms.
“Well, as to that, he’s handsome enough, for them as likes those black
men; but I don’t like people as only comes to visit their lawful wives
about twice a month. But,” suddenly checking herself, “it isn’t any
affair of mine.”
“No, indeed, very reprehensible: I am, as a married man, entirely of
your mind. These are charming rooms, ma’am, charming. I shall certainly
take them if my wife approves; I will let you know by to-morrow’s
post—Jacobs, yes, I have it down. Good evening, ma’am,” and he was
gone.
Instead of going out that evening as he had intended, George sat in the
smoking-room of his hotel and thought. He also wrote a letter which he
addressed to Mrs. Bellamy.
Next morning, taking a cab, he drove to St. Jude’s, Battersea, and
inspected the register.
Presently he asked for a certified copy of the following entry: “August
1, 1856. Philip Caresfoot, bachelor, gentleman, to Hilda von
Holtzhausen, spinster (by license). Signed J. Few, curate; as witness,
Fred. Natt, Eliza Chambers.”
That evening Hilda received an anonymous letter, written in a round
clerk’s hand, that had been posted in the City. It was addressed to
Mrs. Roberts, and its contents ran thus:
“A sincere friend warns Mrs. Philip Caresfoot that her husband is
deceiving her, and has become entangled with a young lady of her
acquaintance. _Burn this; wait and watch!_”
The letter fell from her hands as though it had stung her.
“Mrs. Jacobs was right,” she said aloud, with a bitter laugh, “men
always have a ‘reason.’ Oh, let him beware!” And she threw back her
beautiful head and the great blue eyes sparkled like those of a snake
about to strike. The sword of jealousy, that she had hitherto repelled
with the shield of a woman’s trust in the man she loves, had entered
into her soul, and, could Philip have seen her under these new
circumstances, he would have realized that he had indeed good reason to
“beware.” “No wonder,” she went on, “no wonder that he finds her name
irritating upon my lips; no doubt to him it is a desecration. Oh, oh!”
And she flung herself on her face, and wept tears of jealous rage.
“Well,” said George to Mrs. Bellamy, as they drove home together after
the great dinner party (do not be shocked, my reader, Bellamy was _on
the bow_), “well, how shall we strike? Shall I go to the old man
to-morrow, and show him my certified copy? There is no time to lose. He
might die any day.”
“No; we must act through Mrs. Philip.”
“Why?”
“It is more scientific, and it will be more amusing.”
“Poor thing! it will be a blow to her. Don’t you like her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she did not trust me, and because she eclipses me. Therefore I
am glad of an opportunity of destroying her.”
“You are a very ruthless woman.”
“When I have an end in view, I march straight to it; I do not
vacillate—that is all. But never mind me; here we are near home. Go to
town by the first train to-morrow morning and post another letter
announcing what has happened here. Then come back and wait.”
“Ay,” reflected George, “that is a wonderful woman—a woman it is good
to have some hold over.”
We left Hilda stretched on her face sobbing. But the fit did not last
long. She rose, and flung open the window; she seemed stifled for want
of air. Then she sat down to think what she should do. Vanish and leave
no trace? No; not yet. Appear and claim her place? No; not yet. The
time was not ripe for choice between these two extremes. Upbraid Philip
with his faithlessness? No; not without proofs. What did that hateful
letter say? “Wait and watch;” yes, that was what she would do. But she
could not wait here; she felt as though she must go somewhere, get some
change of scene, or she should break down. She had heard Mrs. Jacobs
speak of a village not more than two hours from London that a
convalescent lodger of hers had visited and found charming. She would
go there for a week, and watch the spring cast her mantle over the
earth, and listen to the laughter of the brooks, and try to forget her
burning love and jealousy, and just for that one week be happy as she
was when, as a little girl, she roamed all day through the woods of her
native Germany. Alas! she forgot that it is the heart and not the scene
that makes happiness.
That evening she wrote a note to her husband, saying that she felt that
change of air was necessary for her, and that she was going out of
London for a few days, to some quiet place, from whence she would write
to him. He must not, however, expect many letters, as she wanted
complete rest.
On the following morning she went; and, if the sweet spring air did not
bring peace to her mind, at any rate, it to a very great extent set her
up in strength. She wrote but one letter during her absence, and that
was to say that she should be back in London by midday on the first of
May. This letter reached Philip on the morning of the great
dinner-party, and was either accidentally or on purpose sent without
the writer’s address. On the morning of the first of May—that is, two
days after the dinner-party, which was given on the twenty-ninth of
April—Hilda rose early, and commenced to pack her things with the
assistance of a stout servant girl, who did all the odd jobs and a
great deal of the work in the old-fashioned farmhouse in which she was
staying. Presently the cowboy came whistling up the little garden,
bright with crocuses and tulips, that lay in front of the house, and
knocked at the front door.
“Lawks!” said the stout girl, in accents of deep surprise, as she drew
her head in from the open lattice; “Jim’s got a letter.”
“Perhaps it is for me,” suggested Hilda, a little nervously; she had
grown nervous about the post of late. “Will you go and see?”
The letter was for her, in the handwriting of Mrs. Jacobs. She opened
it; it contained another addressed in the character the sight of which
made her feel sick and faint. She could not trust herself to read it in
the presence of the girl.
“Sally,” she said, “I feel rather faint; I shall lie down a little. I
will ring for you presently.”
Sally retired, and she opened her letter.
Fifteen minutes after the girl received her summons. She found Hilda
very pale, and with a curious look upon her face.
“I hope you’re better, mum,” she said, for she was a kind-hearted girl.
“Better—ah, yes! thank you, Sally; I am cured, quite cured; but please
be quick with the things, for I shall leave by the nine o’clock train.”