FAIR WOMEN.
Praise from a woman’s lips is sweet to man. As a matter of course,
when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend that it is
not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle had never
known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever loved, Clarice, had
not returned his affection, and had never, perhaps, in the whole course
of her life uttered one word of praise or homage to him. So that it was
pleasant to him to remember how the beautiful Spanish face had glowed
with warmest admiration, how the dark eyes had grown brighter as she
had called him a hero.
Of course it was all nonsense--nothing but woman’s nonsense--this
exaggerated manner of looking at everything--yet it was undeniably
pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking forward with
something of delight to his next visit to the Dower House. He was not
in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in Clarice’s grave; he was
not in love with her, but he found the companionship of a beautiful and
intellectual woman very sweet.
The windows formed a very agreeable pretext for constant visiting. They
were very handsome--they were his own design--and he liked to watch the
progress made in the work. She said no more about herself. She did not
offer, as she had once suggested, to tell him her story. She seemed to
have forgotten the half-violent moods, the strange impulses that had
led her to say so much to him. She talked no more of the injustice done
to women, of the tyranny of men. A calm, sweet, tranquil content was
coming over her. He looked at her one day as she stood under the rich,
rippling foliage of the lime trees, a golden light falling on her dark,
queenly head and beautiful face. It was a moment when she had seemingly
forgotten all that made her life dreary. She was watching a bird feed
its little ones, and the smile on her face was open and frank as that
of a child.
“She cannot be more than twenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle to himself. “There
is not the faintest trace of a line on her brow, and her lips are
parted just as are the lips of a child. I thought she was older when I
saw her first. She cannot be more than twenty. Is she a widow? Has she
loved and lost? No; that cannot be. She spoke of unkindness, cruelty,
but not of loss. Can she have been betrayed, as the youngest and
fairest are at times? No; there is a ring on her finger, and she speaks
as one who has been a wife.”
It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie--a light, silvery
sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since
he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed through
the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise at her.
She blushed and smiled.
“I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as much
surprised at myself as you can be at me.”
“What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed him the
nest with the live little birds in it.
“All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor
mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty
sight for years.”
He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at
anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her.
“What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been unkind to a
creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?”
That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between these
two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady Hermione, so sweet,
so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness so full of calm and
serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet Payton, with her dark,
glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion, genius, poetry, all made
subservient to the one thing for which she cared most--the charm of
solitude.
For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on the
fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere.
“Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how completely
heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could not understand
anything else having the power to sadden her.
“No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in _The
Saturday_ about the expedition, saying it was very probable if they did
all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for another
year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so greatly
changed.”
“Yes; and the prolonged absence, though painful, will do him good,”
said Kenelm, anxious to chase the shadow from that fairest face. “Is it
that which makes you thoughtful, Lady Alden?”
“No,” she replied, “I have been busy all day searching for what is, I
fear, a lost document.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Remember, all your business troubles are to
rest on my shoulders.”
“It is a lease, or agreement, or promise, I cannot tell which,” she
replied. “You have heard, perhaps, of May Thorne, who used to be
waiting maid to poor Clarice?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I remember her.”
“She married an old servant of Sir Ronald’s, a groom. His name was John
Conyers. Sir Ronald, I think, valued him very much.”
“I remember it,” said Kenelm, wondering why Lady Hermione spoke so
anxiously.
“They have been living at a pretty little farm called ‘The Willows.’
You know the place, near Leeholme. They have been there now nearly
three years. But for ‘The Willows’ there are rival claimants. Peter
Gaspin, the son of old farmer Gaspin, tells me Sir Ronald promised him
‘The Willows’ when his present lease of the ‘Home Farm’ expires. John
Conyers declares there is a written agreement making over to him ‘The
Willows’ for life. I am quite puzzled between the two.”
“Rival claimants?” he said. “Ah, well, Lady Hermione, you may be
puzzled, if you will, but I cannot allow you to be troubled. What do
the rivals themselves say?”
“They talk of going to law, and I know how that would vex Ronald. I
want him to find that all has been smooth sailing when he returns home.
I am sure a lawsuit would grieve him. That was not the only thing that
puzzled me.”
“Let me hear all, then I can advise,” said Kenelm.
“John Conyers annoyed me,” she continued. “He spoke as though Ronald
were under some obligation to him--as though he had some secret
influence, knowledge, or power which gave him some hold over ‘The
Willows.’ Now I cannot believe anything of that kind.”
“Nor can I,” said Kenelm. “I should say myself that Peter Gaspin has
the greatest right to the farm.”
“So I should have thought, but John Conyers and his wife both assure me
most solemnly that somewhere among Sir Ronald’s papers I shall find a
written agreement that they shall have the farm as long as they live.”
“We must look and see. Of course, if there should be any document of
the kind, it will settle the question without further trouble.”
And she assented, little dreaming that in doing so she was taking the
first step toward a fatal discovery.