LADY PELHAM.
Many pictures lived in Kenelm Eyrle’s mind, one of the fairest was that
of the balcony, with its twisted pillars and odorous flowers, where he
sat that morning to hear Lady Pelham’s story.
A large laburnum, with drooping, golden tresses, was near them, in
full flower; a lilac, with full, tufted plumes, filled the air with
fragrance; the white acacias were all in bloom; the mavis sang in
the trees; there was a vision of drooping limes and spreading oaks,
a balcony that might have served the “Queen of the Fairies” as a
drawing-room.
“Come with me,” she had said, “and I will tell you my story. Shall you
hate me when you know that I am Lady Pelham?”
If the sky had fallen at his feet he could not have been more
surprised than when she said those words. This beautiful, winsome
creature, whose every frank mood was a fresh charm. Lady Pelham, the
most noted name a short time since in all England. They had entered the
house together, and she had gone at once to Miss Hanson.
“I want you,” she said, laying her hand on the little spinster’s arm.
“I want you to come and sit with me, while I tell Mr. Eyrle my story.”
The kindly eyes filled at once with tears.
“Oh, my dear, are you going to tell him? I am so glad, so pleased.”
“I must tell him in self-defense, for I find Sir Alfred’s spies are
here.”
Miss Hanson clasped her hands with a little gesture of dismay.
“He might have left you in peace. He can have nothing to complain of.
No life could be more quiet.”
“No,” she replied, with a little smile, “that is true. But do you
not understand? He has not ruined me in the eyes of the whole world.
There are many who believe in my innocence, as there are thousands who
believe in my guilt. If anything else could be proved against me, his
case would be clear. I had forgotten that, and have allowed Mr. Eyrle
to come here. My penance must be telling him the history I fain would
have kept from him. Come with me, so if prying eyes watch our last
interview there may be nothing to relate.”
“It shall not be our last interview,” said Kenelm, hotly.
“It must,” she replied, with a smile. “Mr. Eyrle, if you were a wise
man, you would fly from me, a woman whose name has been so lightly on
every foul lip in the land.”
“I believe in you,” he cried, passionately.
“I thank you,” she said, with dignity. “I thank God also that one
loyal English gentleman has been found to stand by me in the hour of
need,” and then she led the way to the balcony, Kenelm and Miss Hanson
following her. She sat down on the pretty, quaint seat, Kenelm by her
side. Miss Hanson stood leaning against the iron rail of the balcony.
There was a faint sound as of summer leaves and summer music in the
air, but when she, in her clear, sweet voice, with its soft, piquant
accent, began her story, they heard nothing else. They saw nothing else
but the beautiful Spanish face, the indignation that flashed from the
dark eyes, the sorrow that quivered round the red lips. She turned her
face to Kenelm; it was to him she spoke.
“I must tell you something of my early home,” she said, “of my
beautiful Spain, where chivalry lives and where men have not forgotten
how to love and reverence woman; Spain, where the light lies low on
the hills; the home of romance, the very name of which stirs my heart,
as the sound of the trumpet moves the warrior’s soul. I was born near
Granada. As I say the word, there comes to me a vision of pomegranates
and myrtle, of vine-crowned steeples, of splendor such as you cold
Northerners never dreamed of--great flashes of color, royal sunsets,
glorious music--all echoes of Spain the magnificent.
“My mother was a Spanish lady of high descent; her name, Inez de Borga,
but while she was young her father, one of the proudest grandees in
Spain, lost the whole of his fortune and died of despair. My mother
was left alone in the world, and she married an Englishman, Captain
Lancelot Payton, who held some English appointment in Granada. They
were very happy; my mother was most lovely, most lovable, and my father
the very soul of honor; but a cruel fever came and took him from us. I
was very young, only a child, but I remember him well. He died and left
my mother a small annuity, which was to cease with her life. So we
lived alone in a pretty little Moorish villa, near Granada. Never were
mother and daughter so happy--she was like my elder sister. She taught
me our own grand, musical tongue; she taught me my father’s language,
pure Saxon-English; she taught me French and Italian. She was never so
happy as when sharing the stores of her rich fancy and genius with me.
She made me an excellent musician and a good linguist; but that was not
all. She taught me--now, mind, I swear to you, this is true--she taught
me to fear God, to love Him, to value my own soul. She taught me that
purity was the highest and noblest attribute of woman; that honor far
outshone nobility; she taught me that I was only to live for heaven;
that the things of this world faded so quickly away, but that those who
lived for God lived for the highest end of all.”
Her face flushed, a beautiful, tender light came into her eyes.
“I swear she taught me this: that she used to hold me in her arms,
and clasp my hands while she made me say my little prayer to ‘Jesus
meek and mild,’ while she told me the grand old Bible stories, and
stories that to me were even sweeter of the God who became a man.
She taught me to begin and end each day with a prayer. She did her
best in her sweet, wise, gentle way to make me good. Dare any one say
that a child so trained was spoiled, as was said of me? Dare any one
accuse my mother of corrupting me? my mother, who was an angel, and
who smiles now among the angels of God? Then my enemies triumphed over
me; they said Spain was the land of gallantry; they smiled false,
devilish smiles and shrugged their shoulders as though they would say
my mother was a Spaniard, therefore corrupt; that I was born of a
Spanish mother, therefore I was corrupt, too. I dare say to you what it
would be useless for me to say to others. I have never, in one single
instance, gone against my mother’s teaching. See, I could fold my
hands now and pray to ‘Jesus, meek and mild,’ as I did years ago at my
mother’s knee. Could I do that if I were what they say? Would not God,
for such hypocrisy, strike me dead? If my mother had lived, all would
have been well with me; but she was never strong, and the wind that
blows over Granada is not always healthy. I do not know why she died.
I saw her fading day by day. She grew more beautiful, more lovable;
it was the angel nature drawing nearer. People used to look at me and
say: ‘Poor child, she is very young and very tender to have so great
a trouble,’ and then I knew my mother was dying. Perhaps you never
watched how gently those fair English daisies close their golden eyes,
nor how softly a flower dies while the sun kisses it. Even so my mother
died; no one knew when. She was looking at me with a strange, solemn
brightness in her eyes, and she said: ‘You will come to me, _Julietta,
mia_; you will come to heaven, to me?’”
“I cried out ‘Yes!’ and fell weeping on her neck; when I raised my
eyes hers were closed, and her face was whiter than a lily leaf. Do
you think if I were what they say, light of love, light of fame, that
I dare remember and love, and long to meet again my dead, dear, young
mother? Rather should I shrink from her and find heaven where she was
not.”