It had seemed to Frances, as it appears naturally to all who have little
experience, that a man who was so ill as Captain Gaunt must get better
or get worse without any of the lingering suspense which accompanies a
less violent complaint; but, naturally, Lady Markham was wiser, and
entertained no such delusions. When it had gone on for a week, it
already seemed to Frances as if he had been ill for a year,--as if there
never had been any subject of interest in the world but the lingering
course of the malady, which waxed from less to more, from days of quiet
to hours of active delirium. The business-like nurses, always so cool
and calm, with their professional reports, gave the foolish girl a chill
to her heart, thinking, as she did, of the anxiety that would have
filled, not the house alone in which he lay, but all the little
community, had he been ill at home. Perhaps it was better for him that
he was not ill at home,--that the changes in his state were watched by
clear eyes, not made dim by tears or oversharp by anxiety, but which
took him very calmly, as a case interesting, no doubt, but only in a
scientific sense.
After a few days, Lady Markham herself wrote to his mother a very kind
letter, full of detail, describing everything which she had done, and
how she had taken Captain Gaunt entirely into her own hands. “I thought
it better not to lose any time,” she said; “and you may assure yourself
that everything has been done for him that could have been done, had you
yourself been here. I have acted exactly as I should have done for my
own son in the circumstances;” and she proceeded to explain the
treatment, in a manner which was far too full of knowledge for poor Mrs
Gaunt’s understanding, who could scarcely read the letter for tears. The
best nurses, the best doctor, the most anxious care, Lady Markham’s own
personal supervision, so that nothing should be neglected. The two old
parents held their little counsel over this letter with full hearts. It
had been Mrs Gaunt’s first intention to start at once, to get to her boy
as fast as express trains could carry her; but then they began to look
at each other, to falter forth broken words about expense. Two nurses,
the best doctor in London--and then the mother’s rapid journey, the old
General left alone. How was she to do it, so anxious, so unaccustomed as
she was? They decided, with many doubts and terrors, with great
self-denial, and many a sick flutter of questionings as to which was
best, to remain. Lady Markham had promised them news every day of their
boy, and a telegram at once if there was “any change”--those awful
words, that slay the very soul. Even the poor mother decided that in
these circumstances it would be “self-indulgence” to go; and from
henceforward, the old people lived upon the post-hours,--lived in awful
anticipation of a telegram announcing a “change.” Frances was their
daily correspondent. She had gone to look at him, she always said,
though the nurses would not permit her to stay. He was no worse. But
till another week, there could be no change. Then she would write that
the critical day had passed--that there was still no change, and would
not be again for a week; but that he was no worse. No worse!--this was
the poor fare upon which General Gaunt and his wife lived in their
little Swiss _pension_, where it was so cheap. They gave up even their
additional candle, and economised that poor little bit of expenditure;
they gave up their wine; they made none of the little excursions which
had been their delight. Even with all these economies, how were they to
provide the expenses which were running on--the dear London lodgings,
the nurses, the boundless outgoings, which it was understood they would
not grudge? Grudge! No; not all the money in the world, if it could save
their George. But where--where were they to get this money? Whence was
it to come?
This Frances knew, but no one else. And she, too, knew that the lodgings
and the nurses and the doctors were so far from being all. The poor girl
spent the days much as they did, in agonised questions and
considerations. If she could but get her money, her own money, whatever
it was. Later, for her own use, what would it matter? She could work,
she could take care of children, it did not matter what she did: but to
save him, to save them. She had learned so much, however, about life and
the world in which she lived, as to know that, were her object known, it
would be treated as the supremest folly. Wild ideas of Jews, of finding
somebody who would lend her what she wanted, as young men do in novels,
rose in her mind, and were dismissed, and returned again. But she was
not a young man; she was only a girl, and knew not what to do, nor where
to go. Not even the very alphabet of such knowledge was hers.
While this was going on, she was taken, all abstracted as she was, into
Society--to the solemn heavinesses of dinner-parties; to dances even, in
which her gravity and self-absorption were construed to mean very
different things. Lady Markham had never said a word to any one of the
idea which had sprung into her own mind full grown at sight of Sir
Thomas holding in fatherly kindness her little girl’s hands. She had
never said a word, oh, not a word. How such a wild and extraordinary
rumour had got about, she could not imagine. But the ways of Society and
its modes of information are inscrutable: a glance, a smile, are enough.
And what so natural as this to bring a veil of gravity over even a
_débutante_ in her first season? Lucky little girl, some people said;
poor little thing, some others. No wonder she was so serious; and her
mother, that successful general--her mother, that triumphant
match-maker, radiant, in spite, people said, of the very uncomfortable
state of affairs about Markham, and the fact that, in the absence of the
executor, Nelly Winterbourn knew nothing as yet as to how she was
“left.”
Thus the weeks went past in great suspense for all. Markham had
recovered, it need scarcely be said, from his fit of remorse; and he,
perhaps, was the one to whom these uncertainties were a relief rather
than an oppression. Mrs Winterbourn had retired into the country, to
wait the arrival of the all--important functionary who had possession
of her husband’s will, and to pass decorously the first profundity of
her mourning. Naturally, Society knew everything about Nelly: how, under
the infliction of Sarah Winterbourn’s society, she was quite as well as
could be expected; how she was behaving herself beautifully in her
retirement, seeing nobody, doing just what it was right to do. Nelly had
always managed to retain the approval of Society, whatever she did. In
the best circles, it was now a subject of indignant remark that Sarah
Winterbourn should take it upon herself to keep watch like a dragon over
the widow. For Nelly’s prevision was right, and the widow was what the
men now called her, though women are not addicted to that form of
nomenclature. But Sarah Winterbourn was universally condemned. Now that
the poor girl had completed her time of bondage, and conducted herself
so perfectly, why could not that dragon leave her alone? Markham made no
remark upon the subject; but his mother, who understood him so well,
believed he was glad that Sarah Winterbourn should be there, making all
visits unseemly. Lady Markham thought he was glad of the pause
altogether, of the impossibility of doing anything; and to be allowed to
go on without any disturbance in his usual way. She had herself made one
visit to Nelly, and reported, when she came home, that notwithstanding
the presence of Sarah, Nelly’s natural brightness was beginning to
appear, and that soon she would be as _espiègle_ as ever. That was Lady
Markham’s view of the subject; and there was no doubt that she spoke
with perfect knowledge.
It was very surprising, accordingly, to the ladies, when, some days
after this, Lady Markham’s butler came up-stairs to say that Mrs
Winterbourn was at the door, and had sent to inquire whether his
mistress was at home and alone before coming up-stairs. “Of course I am
at home,” said Lady Markham; “I am always at home to Mrs Winterbourn.
But to no one else, remember, while she is here.” When the man went away
with his message, Lady Markham had a moment of hesitation. “You may
stay,” she said to Frances, “as you were present before and saw her in
her trouble. But I wonder what has brought her to town? She did not
intend to come to town till the end of the season. She must have
something to tell me. O Nelly, how are you, dear?” she cried, going
forward and taking the young widow into her arms. Nelly was in crape
from top to toe. As she had always done what was right, what people
expected from her, she continued to do so till the end. A little rim of
white was under the edge of her close black bonnet with its long veil.
Her cuffs were white and hem-stitched in the old-fashioned _deep_ way.
Nothing, in short, could be more _deep_ than Nelly’s costume altogether.
She was a very pattern for widows; and it was very becoming, as that
dress seldom fails to be. It would have been natural to expect in
Nelly’s countenance some consciousness of this, as well as perhaps a
something at the corners of her mouth which should show that, as Lady
Markham said, she would soon be as _espiègle_ as ever. But there was
nothing of this in her face. She seemed to have stiffened with her
crape. She suffered Lady Markham’s embrace rather than returned it. She
did not take any notice of Frances. She walked across the room,
sweeping with her long dress, with her long veil like an ensign of woe,
and sat down with her back to the light. But for a minute or more she
said nothing, and listened to Lady Markham’s questions without even a
movement in reply.
“What is the matter, my dear? Is it something you have to tell me, or
have you only got tired of the country?” Lady Markham said, with a look
of alarm beginning to appear in her face.
“I am tired of the country,” said Mrs Winterbourn; “but I am also tired
of everything else, so that does not matter much. Lady Markham, I have
come to tell you a great piece of news. My trustee and Mr Winterbourn’s
executor, who has been at the other end of the world, has come home.”
“Yes, Nelly?” Lady Markham’s look of alarm grew more and more marked.
“You make me very anxious,” she cried. “I am sure something has happened
that you did not foresee.”
“Oh, nothing has happened--that I ought not to have foreseen. I always
wondered why Sarah Winterbourn stuck to me so. The will has been opened
and read, and I know how it all is now. I rushed to tell you, as you
have been so kind.”
“Dear Nelly!” Lady Markham said, not knowing, in the growing
perturbation of her mind, what else to say.
“Mr Winterbourn has been very liberal to me. He has left me everything
he can leave away from his heir-at-law. Nothing that is entailed, of
course; but there is not very much under the entail. They tell me I will
be one of the richest women--a wealthy widow.”
“My dear Nelly, I am so very glad; but I am not surprised. Mr
Winterbourn had a great sense of justice. He could not do less for you
than that.”
“But Lady Markham, you have not heard all.” It was not like Nelly
Winterbourn to speak in such measured tones. There was not the faintest
sign of the _espiègle_ in her voice. Frances, roused by the astonished,
alarmed look in her mother’s face, drew a little nearer almost
involuntarily, notwithstanding her abstraction in anxieties of her own.
“Nelly, do you mind Frances being here?”
“Oh, I wish her to be here! It will do her good. If she is going to
do--the same as I did, she ought to know.” She made a pause again--Lady
Markham meanwhile growing pale with fright and panic, though she did not
know what there could be to fear.
“There are some people who had begun to think that I was not so well
‘left’ as was expected,” she said; “but they were mistaken. I am very
well ‘left.’ I am to have the house in Grosvenor Square, and the Knoll,
and all the plate and carriages, and three parts or so of Mr
Winterbourn’s fortune--so long as I remain Mr Winterbourn’s widow. He
was, as you say, a just man.”
There was a pause. But for something in the air which tingled after
Nelly’s voice had ceased, the listeners would scarcely have been
conscious that anything more than ordinary had been said. Lady Markham
said “Nelly?” in a breathless interrogative tone--alarmed by that thrill
in the air, rather than by the words, which were so simple in their
sound.
“Oh yes; he had a great sense of justice. So long as I remain Mrs
Winterbourn, I am to have all that. It was his, and I was his, and the
property is to be kept together. Don’t you see, Lady Markham?--Sarah
knew it, and I might have known, had I thought. He had a great respect
for the name of Winterbourn--not much, perhaps, for anything else.” She
paused a little, then added: “That’s all. I wished you to know.”
“Oh my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “is it possible--is it possible?
You--debarred from marrying, debarred from everything--at your age!”
“Oh, I can do anything I please,” cried Nelly. “I can go to the bad if I
please. He does not say so long as I behave myself--only so long as I
remain the widow Winterbourn. I told you they would all call me so.
Well, they can do it! That’s what I am to be all my life--the widow
Winterbourn.”
“Nelly--O Nelly,” cried Lady Markham, throwing her arms round her
visitor. “Oh, my poor child! And how can I tell--how am I to tell----?”
“You can tell everybody, if you please,” said Mrs Winterbourn, freeing
herself from the clasping arms and rising up in her stiff crape. “He had
a great sense of justice. He doesn’t say I’m to wear weeds all my life.
I think I mean to come back to Grosvenor Square on Monday, and perhaps
give a ball or two, and some dinners, to celebrate--for I have come into
my fortune, don’t you see?” she said, with an unmoved face.
“Hush, dear--hush! You must not talk like that,” Lady Markham said,
holding her arm.
“Why not! Justice is justice, whether for him or me. I was such a fool
as to be wretched when he was dying, because---- But it appears that
there was no love lost--no love and no faith lost. He did not believe in
me, any more than I believed in him. I outwitted him when he was living,
and he outwits me when he is dead. Do you hear, Frances?--that is how
things go. If you do as I did, as I hear you are going to do---- Oh, do
it if you please; I will never interfere. But make up your mind to
this--he will have his revenge on you--or justice; it is all the same
thing. Good-bye, Lady Markham. I hope you will countenance me at my
first ball--for now I have come into my fortune, I mean to enjoy myself.
Don’t you think these things are rather becoming? I mean to wear them
out. They will make a sensation at my parties,” she said, and for the
first time laughed aloud.
“This is just the first wounded feeling,” said Lady Markham. “O Nelly,
you must not fly in the face of Society. You have always been so good.
No, no; let us think it over. Perhaps we can find a way out of it. There
is bound to be a flaw somewhere.”
“Good-bye,” said Nelly. “I have not fixed on the day for my first At
Home; but the invitations will be out directly. Good-bye, Frances. You
must come--and Sir Thomas. It will be a fine lesson for Sir Thomas.” She
walked across the room to the door, and there stood for a moment,
looking back. She looked taller, almost grand in still fury and despair
with her immovable face. But as she stood there, a faint softening came
to the marble. “Tell Geoff--gently,” she said, and went away. They could
hear the soft sweep of her black robes retiring down the stair, and
then the door opening, the clang of the carriage.
Lady Markham had dropped into a chair in her dismay, and sat with her
hands clasped and her eyes wide open, listening to these sounds, as if
they might throw some light on the situation. The consequences which
might follow from Nelly’s freedom had been heavy on her heart; and it
was possible that by-and-by this strange news might bring the usual
comfort; but in the meantime, consternation overwhelmed her. “As long as
she remains his widow!” she said to herself in a tone of horror, as the
tension of her nerves yielded and the carriage drove away. “And how am I
to tell him--gently; how am I to tell him gently?” she cried. It was as
if a great catastrophe had overwhelmed the house.
In an hour or so, however, Lady Markham recovered her energy, and began
to think whether there might be any way out of it. “I’ll tell you,” she
cried suddenly; “there is your uncle Clarendon, Frances. He is a great
lawyer. If any man can find a flaw in the will, he will do it.” She rang
the bell at once, and ordered the carriage. “But, oh dear,” she said,
“I forgot. Lady Meliora is coming about Trotter’s Buildings, the place
in Whitechapel. I cannot go. Whatever may happen, I cannot go to-day.
But, my dear, you have never taken any part as yet; you need not stay
for this meeting: and besides, you are a favourite in Portland Place;
you are the best person to go. You can tell your uncle Clarendon----
Stop; I will write a note,” Lady Markham cried. That was always the most
satisfactory plan in every case. She sent her daughter to get ready to
go out; and she herself dashed off in two minutes four sheets of the
clearest statement, a _précis_ of the whole case. Mr Clarendon, like
most people, liked Lady Markham,--he did not share his wife’s
prejudices; and Frances was a favourite. Surely, moved by these two
influences combined, he would bestir himself and find a flaw in the
will!
In less than half an hour from the time of Mrs Winterbourn’s departure,
Frances found herself alone in the brougham, going towards Portland
Place. Her mind was not absorbed in Nelly Winterbourn. She was not old
enough, or sufficiently used to the ways of Society, to appreciate the
tragedy in this case. Nelly’s horror at the moment of her husband’s
death she had understood; but Nelly’s tragic solemnity now struck her as
with a jarring note. Indeed, Frances had never learned to think of money
as she ought. And yet, how anxious she was about money! How her thoughts
returned, as soon as she felt herself alone and free to pursue them, to
the question which devoured her heart. It was a relief to her to be thus
free, thus alone and silent, that she might think of it. If she could
but have driven on and on for a hundred miles or so, to think of it, to
find a solution for her problem! But even a single mile was something;
for before she had got through the long line of Piccadilly, a sudden
inspiration came to her mind. The one person in the world whom she could
ask for help was the person whom she was on her way to see--her aunt
Clarendon, who was rich, with whom she was a favourite; who was on the
other side, ready to sympathise with all that belonged to the life of
Bordighera, in opposition to Eaton Square. Nelly Winterbourn and her
troubles fled like shadows from Frances’ mind. To be truly
disinterested, to be always mindful of other people’s interests, it is
well to have as few as possible of one’s own.
Mrs Clarendon received her, as always, with a sort of combative
tenderness, as if in competition for her favour with some powerful
adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid that
adversary, to offer more than she did, of which Frances was usually
uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her like a cordial.
“I suppose you are being taken to all sorts of places?” she said. “I
wish I had not given up Society so much; but when the season is over,
and the fine people are all in the country, then you will see that we
have not forgotten you. Has Sir Thomas come with you, Frances? I
supposed, perhaps, you had come to tell me----”
“Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was too much
occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her aunt could mean.
“Oh, aunt Caroline,” she said, “I have come to speak to you of something
I am very, very much interested about.” In all sincerity, she had
forgotten the original scope of her mission, and only remembered her own
anxiety. And then she told her story--how Captain Gaunt, the son of her
old friend, the youngest, the one that was best beloved, had come to
town--how he had made friends who were not--nice--who made him play and
lose money--though he had no money.
“Of course, my dear, I know--Lord Markham and his set.”
At this Frances coloured high. “It was not Markham. Markham has found
out for me. It was some--fellows who had no mercy, he said.”
“Oh yes; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an innocent
girl like you should be in any way mixed up with such people. Whether
Lord Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets some of his friends to
do it----”
“Aunt Caroline, now you take away my last hope; for Markham is my
brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who speaks so of
my brother--he is always so kind, so kind to me.”
“I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to you,” said
Mrs Clarendon.
But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned away her
head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding tears--those
tears which would come in spite of her, notwithstanding all the efforts
she could make. “I had a little hope in you,” Frances said; “but now I
have none, none. My mother sees him every day; if he lives, she will
have saved his life. But I cannot ask her for what I want. I cannot ask
her for more--she has done so much. And now, you make it impossible for
me to ask you!”
If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best, she could not have hit
upon a more effectual way. “My dear child,” cried Mrs Clarendon,
hurrying to her, drawing her into her arms, “what is it, what is it that
moves you so much? Of whom are you speaking? His life? Whose life is in
danger? And what is it you want? If you think I, your father’s only
sister, will do less for you than Lady Markham does----! Tell me, my
dear, tell me what is it you want?”
Then Frances continued her story. How young Gaunt was ill of a
brain-fever, and raved about his losses, and the black and red, and of
his mother in mourning (with an additional ache in her heart, Frances
suppressed all mention of Constance), and how _she_ understood, though
nobody else did, that the Gaunts were not rich, that even the illness
itself would tax all their resources, and that the money, the debts to
pay, would ruin them, and break their hearts. “I don’t say he has not
been wrong, aunt Caroline--oh, I suppose he has been very wrong!--but
there he is lying: and oh, how pitiful it is to hear him! and the old
General, who was so proud of him; and Mrs Gaunt, dear Mrs Gaunt, who
always was so good to me!”
“Frances, my child, I am not a hard-hearted woman, though you seem to
think so,--I can understand all that. I am very, very sorry for the poor
mother; and for the young man even, who has been led astray: but I don’t
see what you can do.”
“What!” cried Frances, her eyes flashing through her tears--“for their
son, who is the same as a brother--for them, whom I have always known,
who have helped to bring me up? Oh, you don’t know how people live where
there are only a few of them,--where there is no society, if you say
that. If he had been ill there, at home, we should all have nursed him,
every one. We should have thought of nothing else. We would have cooked
for him, or gone errands, or done anything. Perhaps those ladies are
better who go to the hospitals. But to tell me that you don’t know what
I could do! Oh,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, throwing up her
hands, “if I had the money, if I had only the money, I know what I would
do!”
Mrs Clarendon was a woman who did not spend money, who had everything
she wanted, who thought little of what wealth could procure; but she was
a Quixote in her heart, as so many women are where great things are in
question, though not in small. “Money?” she said, with a faint quiver of
alarm in her voice. “My dear, if it was anything that was feasible,
anything that was right, and you wanted it very much--the money might be
found,” she said. The position, however, was too strange to be mastered
in a moment, and difficulties rose as she spoke. “A young man. People
might suppose---- And then Sir Thomas--what would Sir Thomas think?”
“That is why I came to you; for he will not give me my own money--if I
have any money. Aunt Caroline, if you will give it me now, I will pay
you back as soon as I am of age. Oh, I don’t want to take it from you--I
want---- If everything could be paid before he is better, before he
knows--if we could hide it, so that the General and his mother should
never find out. That would be worst of all, if they were to find out--it
would break their hearts. Oh, aunt Caroline, she thinks there is no one
like him. She loves him so; more than--more than any one here loves
anybody: and to find out all that would break her heart.”
Mrs Clarendon rose at this moment, and stood up with her face turned
towards the door. “I can’t tell what is the matter with me,” she said;
“I can scarcely hear what you are saying. I wonder if I am going to be
ill, or what it is. I thought just then I heard a voice. Surely there is
some one at the door. I am sure I heard a voice---- Oh, a voice you
ought to know, if it was true. Frances--I will think of all that
after--just now---- He must be dead, or else he is here!”
Frances, who thought of no possibility of death save to one, caught her
aunt’s arm with a cry. The great house was very still--soft carpets
everywhere--the distant sound of a closing door scarcely penetrating
from below. Yet there was something, that faint human stir which is more
subtle than sound. They stood and waited, the elder woman penetrated by
sudden excitement and alarm, she could not tell why; the girl
indifferent, yet ready for any wonder in the susceptibility of her
anxious state. As they stood, not knowing what they expected, the door
opened slowly, and there suddenly stood in the opening, like two people
in a dream--Constance, smiling, drawing after her a taller figure.
Frances, with a start of amazement, threw from her her aunt’s arm, which
she held, and calling “Father!” flung herself into Waring’s arms.