“Yes, I wish you had not said anything, Frances: not that it matters
very much. I don’t suppose he was in earnest, or, at all events, he
would have changed his mind before evening. But, my dear, this poor
young fellow is not able to follow the same course as Markham’s friends
do. They are at it all the year round, now in town, now somewhere else.
They bet and play, and throw their money about, and at the end of the
year they are not very much the worse--or at least that is what he
always tells me. One time they lose, but another time they gain. And
then they are men who have time, and money more or less. But when a
young man with a little money comes among them, he may ruin himself
before he knows.”
“I am very sorry,” said Frances. “It is difficult to believe that
Markham could hurt any one.”
Her mother gave her a grateful look. “Dear Markham!” she said. “To think
that he should be so good--and yet---- It gives me great pleasure,
Frances, that you should appreciate your brother. Your father never did
so--and all of them, all the Warings---- But it is understood between
us, is it not, that we are not to touch upon that subject?”
“Perhaps it would be painful, mamma. But how am I to understand unless I
am told?”
“You have never been told, then--your father----? But I might have known
he would say very little; he always hated explanations. My dear,” said
Lady Markham, with evident agitation, “if I were to enter into that
story, it would inevitably take the character of a self-defence, and I
can’t do that to my own child. It is the worst of such unfortunate
circumstances as ours that you must judge your parents, and find one or
other in the wrong. Oh yes; I do not deceive myself on that subject.
And you are a partisan in your nature. Con was more or less of a cynic,
as people become who are bred up in Society, as she was. She could
believe we were both wrong, calmly, without any particular feeling. But
you,--of your nature, Frances, you would be a partisan.”
“I hope not, mamma. I should be the partisan of both sides,” said
Frances, almost under her breath.
Lady Markham rose and gave her a kiss. “Remain so,” she said, “my dear
child. I will say no harm of him to you, as I am sure he has said no
harm of me. Now let us think no more of Markham’s faults, nor of poor
young Gaunt’s danger, nor of----”
“Danger?” said Frances, with an anxious look.
“If it were less than danger, would I have said so much, do you think?”
“But, mamma, pardon me,--if it is real danger, ought you not to say
more?”
“What! for the sake of another woman’s son, betray and forsake my own?
How can I say to him in so many words, ‘Take care of Markham; avoid
Markham and his friends.’ I have said it in hints as much as I dare.
Yes, Frances, I would do a great deal for another woman’s son. It would
be the strongest plea. But in this case how can I do more? Never mind;
fate will work itself out quite independent of you and me. And here are
people coming--Claude, probably, to see if you have changed your mind
about him, or whether I have heard from Constance. Poor boy! he must
have one of you two.”
“I hope not,” said Frances, seriously.
“But I am sure of it,” cried her mother, with a smile. “We shall see
which of us is the better prophet. But this is not Claude. I hear the
sweep of a woman’s train. Hush!” she said, holding up a finger. She rose
as the door opened, and then hastened forward with an astonished
exclamation, “Nelly!” and held out both her hands.
“You did not look for me?” said Mrs Winterbourn, with a defiant air.
“No, indeed; I did not look for you. And so fine, and looking so well.
He must have taken an unexpected turn for the better, and you have come
to tell me.”
“Yes, am I not smart?” said Nelly, looking down upon her beautiful dress
with a curious air, half pleasure, half scorn. “It is almost new; I have
never worn it before.”
“Sit down here beside me, my dear, and tell me all about it. When did
this happy change occur?”
“Happy? For whom?” she asked, with a harsh little laugh. “No, Lady
Markham, there is no change for the better: the other way--they say
there is no hope. It will not be very long, they say, before----”
“And Nelly, Nelly! you here, in your fine new dress.”
“Yes; it seems ridiculous, does it not?” she said, laughing again. “I
away--going out to pay visits in my best gown, and my husband--dying.
Well! I know that if I had stayed any longer in that dreary house
without any air, and with Sarah Winterbourn, I should have died. Oh, you
don’t know what it is. To be shut up there, and never hear a step except
the doctor’s, or Robert’s carrying up the beef-tea. So I burst out of
prison, to save my life. You may blame me if you like, but it was to
save my life, neither less nor more.”
“Nelly, my dear,” said Lady Markham, taking her hand, “there is nothing
wonderful in your coming to see so old a friend as I am. It is quite
natural. To whom should you go in your trouble, if not to your old
friends?”
Upon which Nelly laughed again in an excited hysterical way. “I have
been on quite a round,” she said. “You always did scold me, Lady
Markham; and I know you will do so again. I was determined to show
myself once more before--the waters went over my head. I can come out
now in my pretty gown. But _afterwards_, if I did such a thing everybody
would think me mad. Now you know why I have come, and you can scold me
as much as you please. But I have done it, and it can’t be undone. It is
a kind of farewell visit, you know,” she added, in her excited tone.
“After this I shall disappear into--crape and affliction. A widow! What
a horrible word. Think of me, Nelly St John; me, a widow! Isn’t it
horrible, horrible? That is what they will call me, Markham and the
other men--the widow. I know how they will speak, as well as if I heard
them. Lady Markham, they will call me _that_, and you know what they
will mean.”
“Nelly, Nelly, my poor child!” Lady Markham held her hand and patted it
softly with her own. “Oh Nelly, you are very imprudent, very silly. You
will shock everybody, and make them talk. You ought not to have come out
now. If you had sent for me, I would have gone to you in a moment.”
“It was not _that_ I wanted. I wanted just to be like others for
once--before--- I don’t seem to care what will happen to me--afterwards.
What do they do to a woman, Lady Markham, when her husband dies? They
would not let her bury herself with him, or burn herself, or any of
those sensible things. What do they do, Lady Markham? Brand her
somewhere in her flesh with a red-hot iron--with ‘Widow’ written upon
her flesh?”
“My dear, you must care for poor Mr Winterbourn a great deal more than
you were aware, or you would not feel this so bitterly. Nelly----”
“Hush!” she said, with a sort of solemnity. “Don’t say that, Lady
Markham. Don’t talk about what I feel. It is all so miserable, I don’t
know what I am doing. To think that he should be my husband, and I just
boiling with life, and longing to get free, to get free: I that was born
to be a good woman, if I could, if you would all have let me, if I had
not been made to---- Look here! I am going to speak to that little girl.
You can say the other thing afterwards. I know you will. You can make it
look so right--so right. Frances, if you are persuaded to marry Claude
Ramsay, or any other man that you don’t care for, remember you’ll just
be like me. Look at me, dressed out, paying visits, and my husband
dying. Perhaps he may be dead when I get home.” She paused a moment with
a nervous shivering, and drew her summer cloak closely around her. “He
is going to die, and I am running about the streets. It is horrible,
isn’t it? He doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him; and next week I
shall be all in crape, and branded on my shoulder or somewhere--where,
Lady Markham?--all for a man who--all for a man that----”
“Nelly, Nelly! for heaven’s sake, at least respect the child.”
“It is because I respect her that I say anything. Oh, it is all
horrible! And already the men and everybody are discussing, What will
Nelly do? The widow, what will she do?”
Then the excited creature suddenly, without warning, broke out into
sobbing and tears. “Oh, don’t think it is for grief,” she said, as
Frances instinctively came towards her; “it’s only the excitement, the
horror of it, the feeling that it is coming so near. I never was in the
house with Death, never, that I can remember. And I shall be the chief
mourner, don’t you know? They will want me to do all sorts of things.
What do you do when you are a widow, Lady Markham? Have you to give
orders for the funeral, and say what sort of a--coffin there is to be,
and--all that?”
“Nelly, Nelly! Oh, for God’s sake, don’t say those dreadful things. You
know you will not be troubled about anything, least of all---- And, my
dear, my dear, recollect your husband is still alive. It is dreadful to
talk of details such as those for a living man.”
“Most likely,” she said, looking up with a shiver, “he will be dead when
I get home. Oh, I wish it might all be over, everything, before I go
home. Couldn’t you hide me somewhere, Lady Markham? Save me from seeing
him and all those--details, as you call them. I cannot bear it; and I
have no mother nor any one to come to me--nobody, nobody but Sarah
Winterbourn.”
“I will go home with you, Nelly; I will take you back, my dear. Frances,
take care of her till I get my bonnet. My poor child, compose yourself.
Try and be calm. You must be calm, and bear it,” Lady Markham said.
Frances, with alarm, found herself left alone with this strange
being--not much older than herself, and yet thrown amid such tragic
elements. She stood by her, not knowing how to approach the subject of
her thoughts, or indeed any subject--for to talk to her of common things
was impossible. Mrs Winterbourn, however, did not turn towards Frances.
Her sobbing ended suddenly, as it had begun. She sat with her head upon
her hands, gazing at the light. After a while she said, though without
looking round, “You once offered to sit up with me, thinking, or
pretending, I don’t know which, that I was sitting up with him all
night: would you have done so if you had been in my place?”
“I think--I don’t know,” said Frances, checking herself.
“You would--you are not straightforward enough to say it--I know you
would; and in your heart you think I am a bad creature, a woman without
a heart.”
“I don’t think so,” said Frances. “You must have a heart, or you would
not be so unhappy.”
“Do you know what I am unhappy about? About myself. I am not thinking of
him; he married me to please himself, not me,--and I am thinking of
myself, not him. It is all fair. You would do the same if you married
like me.”
Frances made no reply. She looked with awe and pity at this miserable
excitement and wretchedness, which was so unlike anything her innocent
soul knew.
“You don’t answer,” said Nelly. “You think you never would have married
like me. But how can you tell? If you had an offer as good as Mr
Winterbourn, your mother would make you marry him. I made a great match,
don’t you know? And if you ever have that in your power, Lady Markham
will make short work of your objections. You will just do as other
people have done. Claude Ramsay is not so rich as Mr Winterbourn; but I
suppose he will be your fate, unless Con comes back and takes him,
which, very likely, is what she will do. Oh, are you ready, Lady
Markham? It is a pity you should give yourself so much trouble; for, you
see, I am quite composed now, and ready to go home.”
“Come, then, my dear Nelly. It is better you should lose no time.” Lady
Markham paused to say, “I shall probably be back quite soon; but if I
don’t come, don’t be alarmed,” in Frances’ ear.
The girl went to the window and watched Nelly sweep out to her carriage
as if nothing could ever happen to her. The sight of the servants and of
the few passers-by had restored her in a moment to herself. Frances
stood and pondered for some time at the window. Nelly’s was an
agitating figure to burst into her quiet life. She did not need the
lesson it taught; but yet it filled her with trouble and awe. This
brilliant surface of Society, what tragedies lay underneath! She
scarcely dared to follow the young wife in imagination to her home; but
she felt with her the horror of the approaching death, the dread
interval when the event was coming, the still more dread moment after,
when, all shrinking and trembling in her youth and loneliness, she would
have to live side by side with the dead, whom she had never loved, to
whom no faithful bond had united her---- It was not till another
carriage drew up and some one got out of it that Frances retreated, with
a very different sort of alarm, from the window. It was some one coming
to call, she did not see whom, one of those wonderful people who came to
talk over with her mother other people whom Frances did not know. How
was she to find any subject on which to talk to them? Her anxiety was
partially relieved by seeing that it was Claude who came in. He
explained that Lady Someone had dropped him at the door, having picked
him up at some other place where they had both been calling. “There is a
little east in the wind,” he said, pulling up the collar of his coat:
“Was that Nelly Winterbourn I saw driving away from the door? I thought
it was Nelly. And when he is dying, with not many hours to live----!”
“And why should not she come to mamma?” said Frances. “She has no mother
of her own.”
“Ah,” said Ramsay, looking at her keenly, “I see what you mean. She has
no mother of her own; and therefore she comes to Markham’s, which is
next best.”
“I said, to my mother,” said Frances, indignantly. “I don’t see what
Markham has to do with it.”
“All the same, I shouldn’t like my wife to be about the streets, going
to--any one’s mother, when I was dying.”
“It would be right enough,” cried Frances, hot and indignant, “if you
had married a woman who did not care for you.” She forgot, in the heat
of her partisanship, that she was admitting too much. But Claude did
not remember, any more than she.
“Oh, come,” he said, “Miss Waring, Frances. (May I call you Frances? It
seems unnatural to call you Miss Waring, for, though I only saw you for
the first time a little while ago, I have known you all your life.) Do
you think it’s quite fair to compare me to Winterbourn? He was fifty
when he married Nelly, a fellow quite used up. At all events, I am
young, and never was fast; and I don’t see,” he added, pathetically,
“why a woman shouldn’t be able to care for me.”
“Oh, I did not mean that,” cried Frances, with penitence; “I only
meant----”
“And you shouldn’t,” said Claude, shaking his head, “pay so much
attention to what Nelly says. She makes herself out a martyr now; but
she was quite willing to marry Winterbourn. She was quite pleased. It
was a great match; and now she is going to get the good of it.”
“If being very unhappy is getting the good of it----!”
“Oh, unhappy!” said Claude. It was evident he held Mrs Winterbourn’s
unhappiness lightly enough. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “talking of
unhappiness, I saw another friend of yours the other day who was
unhappy, if you like--that young soldier-fellow, the Indian man. What do
you call him?--Grant? No; that’s a Nile man. Gaunt. Now, if Lady Markham
had taken him in hand----”
“Captain Gaunt!” said Frances, in alarm; “what has happened to him, Mr
Ramsay? Is he ill? Is he----” Her face flushed with anxiety, and then
grew pale.
“I can’t say exactly,” said Claude, “for I am not in his confidence; but
I should say he had lost his money, or something of that sort. I don’t
frequent those sort of places in a general way; but sometimes, if I’ve
been out in the evening, if there’s no east in the wind, and no rain or
fog, I just look in for a moment. I rather think some of those fellows
had been punishing that poor innocent Indian man. When a stranger comes
among them, that’s a way they have. One feels dreadfully sorry for the
man; but what can you do?”
“What can you do? Oh, anything, rather than stand by,” cried Frances,
excited by sudden fears, “and see--and see---- I don’t know what you
mean, Mr Ramsay! Is it _gambling_? Is that what you mean?”
“You should speak to Markham,” he replied. “Markham’s deep in all that
sort of thing. If anybody could interfere, it would be Markham. But I
don’t see how even he could interfere. He is not the fellow’s keeper;
and what could he say? The other fellows are gentlemen; they don’t
cheat, or that sort of thing. Only, when a man has not much money, or
has not the heart to lose it like a man----”
“Mr Ramsay, you don’t know anything about Captain Gaunt,” cried Frances,
with hot indignation and excitement. “I don’t understand what you mean.
He has the heart for--whatever he may have to do. He is not like you
people, who talk about everybody, who know everybody. But he has been in
action; he has distinguished himself; he is not a nobody like----”
“You mean me,” said Claude. “So far as being in action goes, I am a
nobody of course. But I hope, if I went in for play and that sort of
thing, I would bear my losses without looking as ghastly as a skeleton.
That is where a man of the world, however little you may think of us,
has the better of people out of Society. But I have nothing to do with
his losses. I only tell you, so that, if you can do anything to get hold
of him, to keep him from going to the bad----”
“To the--bad!” she cried. Her face grew pale; and something appalling,
an indistinct vision of horrors, dimly appeared before Frances’ eyes.
She seemed to see not only George Gaunt, but his mother weeping, his
father looking on with a startled miserable face. “Oh,” she cried,
trying to throw off the impression, “you don’t know what you are saying.
George Gaunt would never do anything that is bad. You are making some
dreadful mistake, or---- Oh, Mr Ramsay, couldn’t you tell him, if you
know it is so bad, before----?”
“What!” cried Claude, horror-struck. “I tell--a fellow I scarcely know!
He would have a right to--kick me, or something--or at least to tell me
to mind my own business. No; but you might speak to Markham. Markham is
the only man who perhaps might interfere.”
“Oh, Markham! always Markham! Oh, I wish any one would tell me what
Markham has to do with it,” cried Frances, with a moan.
“That’s just one of his occupations,” said Ramsay, calmly. “They say it
doesn’t tell much on him one way or other, but Markham can’t live
without play. Don’t you think, as Lady Markham does not come in, that
you might give me a cup of tea?”