Upon the morning after the burial of Mrs. Wroat, and the utter
discomfiture of the fortune-hunting Mr. and Mrs. Blight, Mr. Harris the
lawyer called upon Lally. His card, with a message written upon it, was
brought up to the young girl in her own room by Toppen, and Lally came
down to the drawing-room, accompanied by Peters. Poor Lally looked
very small and weak and childlike in her deep mourning garb, but when
she lifted her sorrowful black eyes, the lawyer read in them a woman’s
capacity for suffering, a woman’s strong and resolute character, a
woman’s enlightened and awakened soul.
“Good-morning, Miss Wroat,” he said, with paternal kindness, shaking
her hand warmly. “You are looking ill. Ought you not to seek change of
air and scene?”
“I would rather remain here, sir,” said Lally wearily; “that is, if I
may.”
“You can go and come at your own will, my dear young lady,” said Mr.
Harris. “Mrs. Wroat has left you entire liberty to do as you please.
This house is yours, and a small country property as well. I came
this morning to discuss business with you. I have been the lawyer and
business agent of our lamented friend Mrs. Wroat for a third of a
century or more, and it was her will that I should continue to have the
management of the Wroat property until your marriage, or the attainment
of your majority. You are absolute mistress of this house. Is it your
desire to keep up the establishment just as it is, or would you prefer
a life of greater freedom and of less care?”
“I will stay here,” declared Lally. “This house seems home to me. Aunt
Wroat loved it, and I will keep it just as she left it. Everything that
she has loved or treasured will be sacred to me.”
Mr. Harris looked approval of the sentiment. Peters’ sour,
sharp-featured countenance actually beamed with an unwonted warmth
and pleasure. She had feared in her inmost soul that the massive,
old-fashioned furniture with its odd carvings and quaint designs was to
be sent to an auction room, and to be replaced by modern upholstery.
“Shall you retain the present housekeeper and servants?” inquired the
lawyer.
“Yes,” said Lally, “the household is to remain exactly as it is. Mrs.
Peters will also remain with me as a friend and attendant. She is the
only friend I have now.”
“Not the only one, Miss Wroat,” said the lawyer warmly. “I am your
friend, if you will permit me to call myself so. I have now to explain
to you the amount of your income. When the late Mr. Wroat died, many
years ago, he bequeathed to his wife who has just died the sum of
fifty thousand pounds in securities and real estate. Mrs. Wroat had
few expenses outside her own household, and did not expend her entire
income, the balance of which has been allowed to accumulate, being
annually added to the principal. Thus Mrs. Wroat died possessed of over
sixty thousand pounds, ten thousand of which is in real estate. This
house is not included in the estimate I have made, having been settled
upon Mrs. Wroat at her marriage, as her own property to do with as she
pleased. In addition to the real estate, therefore, you have fifty
thousand pounds, which is invested in the three per cents, in foreign
railway shares, in United States bonds, and in other perfectly safe and
reliable securities. The interest upon these investments varies from
three to seven per cent., but averages five per cent., and I have to
announce to you that you have therefore an annual income of twenty-five
hundred pounds, of which, by your aunt’s will, you come into immediate
possession. Out of this twenty-five hundred pounds per annum, one
hundred pounds is to be paid each year to Mrs. Peters, so long as
she lives. The rest is absolutely your own! Have I made the matter
perfectly plain to you?”
“Perfectly,” said Lally. “It is a large fortune, is it not?”
“It is a very fine income for a young lady,” assented Mr. Harris,
“very fine indeed. Your expenditures need not be limited, you see. All
reasonable desires can find perfect gratification upon your income,
Miss Wroat. Should you desire it, you can take a house at Brighton for
the season, or you might find an agreeable change in visiting your
country place, although this is scarcely the season.”
“I like the country,” said Lally, “and I think it very pleasant in
October.”
“Yes, so it is in Kent and Surrey, and the south of England,” said Mr.
Harris, “but this is not a fancy seat, Miss Wroat, and it’s away off at
the north--in Scotland, in fact, and on the sea coast. It’s fearfully
wild in winter, I’m told, up there. The snow falls early, and the winds
rage, and the thermometer falls below zero.”
“I was never in Scotland,” said Lally, a little flush of interest
brightening her wan small face. “And I own a place up there--a farm
perhaps?”
“Two or three farms, but the soil is sterile, and there is an old house
in fine order.”
“Where is this place? Near Edinburgh?”
“Far north of Edinburgh, Miss Wroat. It’s near Inverness--away out of
the world at this season, you see. I was up there last year with a
shooting party, Mrs. Wroat kindly placing the house at my disposal.
There’s capital shooting over the estate, and we had a good time, the
house being furnished, and a steward residing in a cottage on the
estate.”
“I should like to go up there,” said Lally. “Perhaps I will a little
later--but not yet. I don’t mind the lateness of the season, Mr.
Harris, and I am not afraid of cold and wind and snow, if I can have
shelter and fires. In fact, I think I would like to hide myself in
some far off hidden nook until I shall have learned to bear my trials
with fortitude. Life is so very bitter to me, Mr. Harris.”
“Life bitter at seventeen!” said the lawyer, with an indulgent smile.
“You have money, youth, beauty, and will have hosts of friends. You
will learn, as we all do, sooner or later, Miss Wroat, to take the
bitter with the sweet, and to thank God for all his goodness, instead
of repining because one or two blessings are withheld out of so many
given. But I will not bore you with a sermon. I have little more to say
this morning except that, should you need me, I entreat that you will
call upon me at any time. I will come to you at a moment’s notice. Is
there anything I can now do for you?”
There was nothing, but Lally expressed her gratitude for the offer.
Mrs. Peters had a few questions to ask, and when these had been duly
answered, Mr. Harris paid into Lally’s hands the sum of six hundred
pounds being one quarter’s income. He then departed.
The young girl spent the remainder of the day in her own room, not
even coming forth to her meals. The next day she came down to the
dining-room, but immediately after dinner retired to her apartment.
She read no books nor newspapers, but sat before her fire hour after
hour, silently brooding, and Peters with an unspeakable anxiety beheld
the round gipsy face grow thin and pallid, dark circles form under the
black eyes, and the light figure grow lighter and more slender, until
she feared that the young mistress would soon follow the old one.
In her distress, Peters had an interview with the housekeeper, and
expressed her fears and anxieties.
“A good wind would just blow Miss Lally away,” she said. “She’s
pining, and the first we know she’ll be dead. What can I do?”
“Who’d have thought she’d have loved the Missus so much?” said the
housekeeper.
“It isn’t that alone,” declared Peters, “although she loved Mrs. Wroat
as a daughter might have loved her, but she’s had other troubles that
I’m not at liberty to speak of, but which are pressing on her, along
with her great-aunt’s death, until, I think, the double burden will
crush her into the grave. She don’t eat more than a bird. I ordered her
mourning for her, and when the shopman brought great parcels of silks
and bombazines and crapes, she never even looked at them, but said,
‘Peters, please select for me. You know what I want.’ The dressmaker
was in despair yesterday, because my young lady would not take an
interest in her clothes, and did not give a single direction beyond
having them made very plainly. I’ll go and see Mr. Harris about her, or
else the doctor.”
“What does a man know in a case like this?” exclaimed the housekeeper.
“The young lady is pining herself to death, Mrs. Peters, and that’s the
long and the short of it. This great house is dull and lonely to her,
and the gloom of the funeral isn’t out of it yet. The young mistress
wants change--that’s what she wants. Take her to some watering-place,
or to the Continent, or somewhere else, and give her new interests and
a change of scene, and she’ll come back as pert and chipper as any
bird.”
The idea struck Mrs. Peters favorably. She hastened up stairs to the
amber room, and softly entered. Lally sat in a great chair before the
hearth, her little shrunken figure quite lost among the cushions, her
small wan face startlingly pale, and her great black eyes fixed upon
the fire. She looked up at her attendant, who approached her with a
swelling heart, but with outward calmness.
“If you please, Miss Lally,” said Peters, broaching her wishes without
delay, “I’ve been thinking that the house is so gloomy without the dear
old mistress, and that you keep so close to your room that you will
be ill directly unless some change is made. And I am sure I’d like a
change too, for a week or month. And so I make bold to ask you to go
for a month to Brighton.”
The girl shook her head with a look of pain.
“Not there,” she murmured. “I cannot bear the crowds, the gayety, the
careless faces and curious eyes.”
“Then let us go up to the Heather Hills, your Scottish place,” urged
Peters. “I have been there once, and we could take Toppen with us,
Miss Lally. The steward who lives on the estate can provide us with
servants. Let me telegraph him to-day, and let us start to-morrow.”
“Very well,” said the young mistress listlessly. “If you wish it,
Peters, we will go.”
The sour face of the faithful maid brightened, and she expressed her
thanks warmly for the concession.
“I’ll telegraph at once, Miss Lally,” she said. “But then the steward
is not likely to receive the telegram unless he happens to be at
Inverness, which is not likely. I will send Toppen by the first train
to prepare for our coming, if you are willing, Miss Lally.”
Lally was willing, and Mrs. Peters withdrew to acquaint the tall
footman with her mistress’ design, and to dispatch him on his journey
to the northward. When he had gone she returned to Lally.
“Toppen is on his way to the station, Miss,” she announced. “He will
have everything in order for us against our arrival. It is cold at
Heather Hills, Miss Lally, with the wind blowing off the sea, and you
will need flannel and thick boots, and warm clothing.”
“Order them for me then, Peters,” said Lally, with listless voice and
manner.
“But you will want an astrachan jacket to wear with your black dresses,
and you must try it on, to be sure that it fits,” said Peters. “And
you will want books at Heather Hills, and these you can choose best
for yourself. And the newspapers must be ordered to be sent to our new
address, but that I can do this evening by letter. And you will want
work materials, Miss Lally, such as canvas, Berlin wools and patterns;
drawing materials, new music, and other things, perhaps. Let me order
the carriage, and let us go out and make our purchases.”
Lally looked out of the window. The sun was shining, and the air was
clear. She had not been out of the house for days, and she assented to
Mrs. Peters’ proposition. The maid ordered the carriage, and proceeded
to array her young mistress for her drive.
The carriage, which was called Mrs. Wroat’s carriage, was a job
vehicle, hired by the month at a neighboring mews, with horses, and
with coachman and footman in livery. It looked like a private brougham,
and with its mulberry-colored linings, and plain but elegantly
gotten-up harness, was very stylish, and even imposing.
When the carriage came around, Lally and her attendant were quite
ready. They descended to the vehicle, and drove away upon their
shopping excursion. A fur dealer’s was first visited, then a
stationer’s and bookseller’s, then a shop for ladies’ work and their
materials. Lally’s purchases were deposited in the carriage. And lastly
the young girl stopped at a picture dealer’s in Regent street, a small
cabinet painting in the window having caught her eye.
It was simply a quaint Dutch interior, with a broad hearth, a boiling
pot over the flames, a great tiled chimney-piece, a Dutch house-wife
with ample figure and round, good-natured face, and three or four
children pausing at the threshold of the open door to put off their
shoes before stepping upon the immaculate floor; a simple picture,
executed with fidelity and spirit; but its charm, in Lally’s eyes, lay
in the fact that in the early days of her marriage, during the brief
period she had passed with Rufus Black in New Brompton, in their dingy
lodgings, he had painted a cabinet picture of a Dutch interior, nearly
like this in design, but as different in execution as may be imagined.
His had been but a daub, and he had been glad to get fifteen shillings
for it. The price of this picture which had now caught Lally’s eye was
ten guineas.
The young lady had the picture withdrawn from the window and examined
it closely.
“I will take it,” she said. “I will select a suitable frame, and you
may send it home to-day. Here is my card.”
The picture dealer brought an armful of frames for her selection, and
while she examined the designs and gilding, a man walked into the shop
with a sauntering gait, and paused near her, in contemplation of an
old cracked painting to which was attached a card declaring it to be a
genuine Murillo.
“This is no more a Murillo than I’m one!” announced the new-comer
loudly, half turning his face toward the shopman. “A Murillo? It’s a
modern daub, gotten up to sell.”
At the sound of the stranger’s voice Lally started, dropping the frame
she held in her hand. She turned around quickly, looking at him with
dilating eyes and whitening face, and gasping breath.
The strange connoisseur, who had so boldly given his opinion of the
pretended Murillo, was Rufus Black!
He had tired of the loneliness of Hawkhurst, and had run up to town
for a day’s recreation and amusement. The picture shop in Regent
street, into which Lally had strayed that morning, had long been one of
his favorite haunts, and the picture Lally had just bought had really
given him the idea of the picture he had painted so long before in the
dingy room at New Brompton.
His face was half averted, but Lally knew him, and a deathly faintness
seized upon her. He was well dressed and possessed an air of elegance
that well became him. His hair was worn long under an artist’s
broad-brimmed hat, and his features from a side view were sharp and
thin. His mouth and chin seemed to have gained firmness and character
during the past few months, but in the latter feature was still
prominent the dimple Lally had loved, and which, pretty in a woman, is
nearly always a sign of weakness and irresolution in a man.
Rufus turned slowly toward the girlish figure in black, his gaze
seeking the shopman. A low, strange cry broke from Lally’s lips. Rufus
heard it and looked at her. Her heavy crape vail was thrown back over
her bonnet, and her small face framed in the heavy black folds was so
white, so eager, so piteous, that Rufus thought it a vision--an optical
illusion--a freak of his imagination. He recoiled in a species of
terror.
“Rufus! Oh, Rufus!” cried the deserted young wife in a wild,
involuntary appeal.
Mrs. Peters heard the name, and comprehended the identity of the young
man. She came and stood by Lally’s side, warning off Rufus by her harsh
face and angry eyes.
“Come, my dear,” she said, “let us go.”
“Rufus! Oh, Rufus!” moaned the poor young wife again, seeing nothing
but the anguished, horrified face of her husband, hearing nothing but
his quick breathing.
Rufus slowly passed his hand over his forehead.
“My God!” he murmured. “Lally’s face! Lally’s voice!”
Mrs. Peters took the hand of her young mistress, attempting to lead
her from the shop, which but for them and the amazed shopman was
happily deserted. But Lally stared at her young husband in a species of
fascination, and he returned her gaze with one of horror and amazement,
and the old woman’s efforts were fruitless.
“My dear, my dear!” whispered Peters anxiously. “Come with me. Come, my
darling! He abandoned you. Pluck up a spirit, Miss Lally, and leave him
alone!”
Lally slowly arose and moved toward the door, but coming quite near to
her stupefied young husband.
“It is I--Lally,” she said, with the simplicity of a child, her great
black eyes staring at him piteously. “I am not dead, Rufus. It was
not I who was drowned in the Thames. I know that you are going to
be married again to a great heiress, and I hope you will be happy
with her; but she will never love you as I loved you. Good-bye,
dear--good-bye forever!”
With a great sob Lally flitted past him, and hurried out to the waiting
carriage. Rufus dashed after her, wild-eyed and wild-visaged; but Mrs.
Peters grasped him vigorously by the arm, detaining him.
“None of that!” she ejaculated harshly. “I won’t have my young lady
tampered with. You shan’t follow her. You’ve broken her heart already.”
“She’s mine--my wife!” cried Rufus, still amazed, but in an ecstasy of
joy and rapture. “I tell you she’s mine. I thought she was dead. I am
not engaged to an heiress. I won’t marry one. I want my wife--”
“You’re too late, sir,” said Mrs. Peters grimly. “You should have made
up your mind to that effect at the time you abandoned her.”
“But I was compelled to abandon her! God alone knows the remorse and
anguish I have known since I supposed her dead. I love her better than
all the world. How is it that she lives? Why does she wear mourning?
Woman let me go to her!” And he tried to break from the detaining grasp
of Peters.
“No, sir,” said the woman still more grimly. “If you have a spark of
manliness, you will let the young lady alone. She hates you now. I
assure you she does. She’s only a governess, and you’ll lose her her
place if you hang around her. I tell you again she hates you.”
Rufus uttered a low moan, and sat down abruptly upon a shop bench. Mrs.
Peters glided out and entered the carriage, giving the order to return
home.
“I told him a lie, God forgive me!” she muttered, as she looked at
Lally, who lay back upon the cushions, faint and white. “I told him
that you were a governess, Miss Lally. Let him once get wind of your
good fortune, and he’ll abandon his heiress and come back to you. Let
us start for the north to-night, dear Miss Lally, and you will not see
him if he comes to Mount street. We can take the night express, and
sleep comfortably with our lap robes, and to-morrow night we will sleep
at Edinburgh.”
“We will do as you say, Peters,” said Lally wearily. “Only don’t speak
to me now.”
She buried her face in the cushions, and was silent with a stillness
like death.
Meanwhile Rufus Black sat for some minutes in a sort of stupor, but at
last raised his haggard eyes and said to the shopkeeper:
“The--the lady who passed out, Benson, was my wife. I had heard she was
dead. Can you give me her address?”
The shopman was all sympathy and kindness. He knew Rufus Black had
come of a good family, and he suspected, from the scene he had just
witnessed, that he had experienced trouble through his marriage. He
picked up the mourning card Lally had laid down and read the address
aloud.
“‘Miss Wroat, Mount street, Grosvenor Square,’” repeated Rufus. “My
wife is governess in that family. Thanks, Benson. I will go to Mount
street.”
He went out with staggering steps, hailed a hansom cab, gave the order,
and was driven to the Wroat mansion in Mount street. The boy called
Buttons waited upon the door in Toppen’s absence. He was a shrewd lad,
and had received private instructions from Peters, who had just come in
with her young mistress.
“I want to see Miss Bird,” said Rufus abruptly, making a movement to
enter the hall.
The boy blocked his path.
“No such lady here, sir,” he replied.
“Mrs. Black perhaps?” suggested Rufus.
“No such lady,” persisted the boy.
Rufus offered him a bright coin, and said desperately:
“I want to see the governess--”
“No governess here, sir,” said Buttons, pocketing the coin. “No
children to teach, sir. There’s no lady in the house but the mistress,
Miss Wroat, and she don’t see no one, sir.”
Rufus stood amazed and bewildered.
“Can I not see Miss Wroat?” he asked. “I wish to inquire after a young
lady whom I supposed to be here--”
“Miss Wroat can’t be disturbed, sir, on no account,” said Buttons.
“She’s not well, and don’t receive to-day.”
“I will call to-morrow then,” said Rufus, with increasing desperation.
“I must see her.”
He descended the steps, and the door closed behind him.
“Benson must have picked up the wrong card,” thought Rufus. “Or Lally
might have given a wrong card. Why should she give her employer’s card,
unless indeed she was buying a picture for her employer? I’ll go back
and see Benson.”
He went back, but the picture dealer affirmed that Lally had given him
the card with Miss Wroat’s name upon it, and Rufus said to himself:
“I have it. Miss Wroat is the sour-looking, servant-like woman in
black, some _parvenue_ grown suddenly rich, and Lally is her companion.
This Miss Wroat knows Lally’s story and despises me. I’ll go back to
Mount street this evening, and see Miss Wroat. When I tell her the
whole truth she will pity me, and allow me to see Lally, I am sure. I
won’t care for poverty or toil if I can have back my poor little wife.
I will fly with her to some foreign country before my father comes
back. But what did Lally mean by my ‘marriage with an heiress?’ My
father must have told her of Neva. Why, I’d rather have my poor little
Lally than a thousand haughty Nevas, with a thousand Hawkhursts at
their backs.”
Early in the evening Rufus returned to Mount street, and Buttons again
answered his double knock.
“Family gone away, sir,” said the lad, recognizing the visitor.
“Where have they gone?” inquired Rufus in sudden despair.
Buttons declined to answer, and was about to close the door, when Rufus
placed his knee against it and cried out:
“Boy, I must see Miss Wroat, or her young companion. If they have gone
away, I must follow them. My business with them is imperative. Tell me
truthfully where they have gone, and I will give you this.”
He held up as he spoke a glittering half sovereign.
Buttons hesitated. Clearly he had had his instructions to betray to no
one the course his young mistress had taken, and just as clearly his
virtue wavered before the glittering bribe offered to him. He reasoned
within himself that no one need ever know that he had told, and here
was an opportunity to make ten shillings without work. He yielded to
the temptation.
“Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters,” he began, with his eyes fixed on the
coin--“they--”
“Mrs. Peters? That is what the young companion calls herself? Go on.”
“Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters,” repeated the boy, “they have gone to
Heather Hills to stay a month--that’s where they’ve gone. Now give me
my money.”
“In one moment. As soon as you tell me where is Heather Hills.”
“Scotland,” said the lad. “Inverness. I don’t know nothing more, only I
know the boxes and trunks were labelled Inverness, for I looked at ’em.
The money!”
Rufus paid it, and hurried away, proceeding to the Great Northern
Railway station. When he reached it, the night express had gone!