“I found him in the mood; so I thought it best to strike while the iron
was hot,” Constance said. She had settled down languidly in a favourite
corner, as if she had never been away. She had looked for the footstool
where she knew it was to be found, and arranged the cushion as she liked
it. Frances had never made herself so much at home as Constance did at
once. She looked on with calm amusement while her aunt poured out her
delight, her wonder, her satisfaction, in Waring’s ears. She did not
budge herself from her comfortable place; but she said to Frances in an
undertone: “Don’t let her go on too long. She will bore him, you know;
and then he will repent. And I don’t want him to repent.”
As for Frances, she saw the ground cut away entirely from under her
feet, and stood sick and giddy after the first pleasure of seeing her
father was over, feeling her hopes all tumble about her. Mrs Clarendon,
who had been so near yielding, so much disposed to give her the help she
wanted, had forgotten her petition and her altogether in the unexpected
delight of seeing her brother. And here was Constance, the sight of whom
perhaps might call the sick man out of his fever, who might restore life
and everything, even happiness to him, if she would. But would she?
Frances asked herself. Most likely, she would do nothing, and there
would be no longer any room left for Frances, who was ready to do all.
She would have been more than mortal if she had not looked with a
certain bitterness at this new and wonderful aspect of affairs.
“I saw mamma’s brougham at the door,” Constance said; “you must take me
home. Of course, this was the place for papa to come; but I must go
home. It would never do to let mamma think me devoid of feeling. How is
she, and Markham--and everybody? I have scarcely had any news for three
months. We met Algy Muncastle on the boat, and he told us some
things--a great deal about Nelly Winterbourn--the widow, as they call
her--and about you.”
“There could be nothing to say of me.”
“Oh, but there was, though. What a sly little thing you are, never to
say a word! Sir Thomas.--Ah, you see I know. And I congratulate you with
all my heart, Fan. He is rolling in money, and such a good kind old man.
Why, he was a lover of mamma’s _dans les temps_. It is delightful to
think of you consoling him. And you will be as rich as a little
princess, with mamma to see that all the settlements are right.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Frances said abruptly. She was so
preoccupied and so impatient, that she would not even allow herself to
inquire. She went to where her father sat talking to his sister, and
stood behind his chair, putting her hand upon his arm. He did not
perhaps care for her very much. He had aunt Caroline to think of, from
whom he had been separated so long; and Constance, no doubt, had made
him her own too, as she had made everybody else her own; but still he
was all that Frances had, the nearest, the one that belonged to her
most. To touch him like this gave her a little consolation. And he
turned round and smiled at her, and put his hand upon hers. That was a
little comfort too; but it did not last long. It was time she should
return to her mother; and Constance was anxious to go, notwithstanding
her fear that her father might be bored. “I must go and see my mother,
you know, papa. It would be very disrespectful not to go. And you won’t
want me, now you have got aunt Caroline. Frances is going to drive me
home.” She said this as if it was her sister’s desire to go; but as a
matter of fact, she had taken the command at once. Frances, reluctant
beyond measure to return to the house, in which she felt she would no
longer be wanted--which was a perverse imagination, born of her
unhappiness--wretched to lose the prospect of help, which she had been
beginning to let herself believe in, was yet too shy and too miserable
to make any resistance. She remembered her mother’s note for Mr
Clarendon before she went away, and she made one last appeal to her
aunt. “You will not forget what we were talking about, aunt Caroline?”
“Dear me,” said Mrs Clarendon, putting up her hand to her head. “What
was it, Frances? I have such a poor memory; and your father’s coming,
and all this unexpected happiness, have driven everything else away.”
Frances went down-stairs with a heart so heavy that it seemed to lie
dead in her breast. Was there no help for her, then? no help for him,
the victim of Constance and of Markham? no way of softening calamity to
the old people? Her temper rose as her hopes fell. All so rich, so
abounding, but no one who would spare anything out of his superfluity,
to help the ruined and heartbroken. Oh yes, she said to herself in not
unnatural bitterness, the hospitals, yes; and Trotter’s Buildings in
Whitechapel. But for the people to whom they were bound so much more
closely, the man who had sat at their tables, whom they had received and
made miserable, nothing! oh, nothing! not a finger held out to save him.
The little countenance that had been like a summer day, so innocent and
fresh and candid, was clouded over. Pride prevented--pride, more
effectual than any other defence--the outburst which in other
circumstances would have relieved her heart. She sat in her corner,
withdrawn as far as possible from Constance, listening dully, making
little response. After several questions, her sister turned upon her
with a surprise which was natural too.
“What is the matter?” she said. “You don’t talk as you used to do. Is it
town that has spoiled you? Do you think I will interfere with you? Oh,
you need not be at all afraid. I have enough of my own without meddling
with you.”
“I don’t know what I have that you could interfere with,” said Frances.
“Nothing here.”
“Do you want to quarrel with me?” Constance said.
“It is of no use to quarrel; there is nothing to quarrel about. I might
have thought you would interfere when you came first to Bordighera. I
had people then who seemed to belong to me. But here--you have the first
place. Why should I quarrel? You are only coming back to your own.”
“Fan, for goodness’ sake, don’t speak in that dreadful tone. What have I
done? If you think papa likes me best, you are mistaken. And as for the
mother, don’t you know her yet? Don’t you know that she is nice to
everybody, and cares neither for you nor me?”
“No,” cried Frances, raising herself bolt upright; “I don’t know that!
How dare you say it, you who are her child? Perhaps you think no one
cares--not one, though you have made an end of my home. Did you hear
about George Gaunt, what you have done to him? He is lying in a
brain-fever, raving, raving, talking for ever, day and night; and if he
dies, Markham and you will have killed him--you and Markham; but you
have been the worst. It will be murder, and you should be killed for
it!” the girl cried. Her eyes blazed upon her sister in the close
inclosure of the little brougham. “You thought he did not care, either,
perhaps.”
“Fan! Good heavens! I think you must be going out of your senses,”
Constance cried.
Frances was not able to say any more. She was stifled by the commotion
of her feelings, her heart beating so wildly in her breast, her emotion
reaching the intolerable. The brougham stopped, and she sprang out and
ran into the house, hurrying up-stairs to her own room. Constance, more
surprised and disconcerted than she could have believed possible,
nevertheless came in with an air of great composure, saying a word in
passing to the astonished servant at the door. She was quite amiable
always to the people about her. She walked up-stairs, remarking, as she
passed, a pair of new vases with palms in them, which decorated the
staircase, and which she approved. She opened the drawing-room door in
her pretty, languid-stately, always leisurely way.
“How are you, mamma? Frances has run up-stairs; but here am I, just come
back,” she said.
Lady Markham rose from her seat with a little scream of astonishment.
“CONSTANCE! It is not possible. Who would have dreamed of seeing you!”
she cried.
“Oh yes, it is quite possible,” said Constance, when they had kissed,
with a prolonged encounter of lips and cheeks. “Surely, you did not
think I could keep very long away?”
“My darling, did you get home-sick, or mammy-sick as Markham says, after
all your philosophy?”
“I am so glad to see you, mamma, and looking so well. No, not home-sick,
precisely, dear mother, but penetrated with the folly of staying
_there_, where nothing was ever doing, when I might have been in the
centre of everything: which is saying much the same thing, though in
different words.”
“In very different words,” said Lady Markham, resuming her seat with a
smile. “I see you have not changed at all, Con. Will you have any tea?
And did you leave--your home there--with as little ceremony as you left
me!”
“May I help myself, mamma? don’t you trouble. It is very nice to see
your pretty china, instead of Frances’ old bizarre cups, which were much
too good for me. Oh, I did not leave my--home. I--brought it back with
me.”
“You brought----?”
“My father with me, mamma.”
“Oh!” Lady Markham said. She was too much astonished to say more.
“Perhaps it was because he got very tired of me, and thought there was
no other way of getting rid of me; perhaps because he was tired of it
himself. He came at last like a lamb. I did not really believe it till
we were on the boat, and Algy Muncastle turned up, and I introduced him
to my father. You should have seen how he stared.”
“Oh!” said Lady Markham again; and then she added faintly: “Is--is he
here?”
“You mean papa? I left him at aunt Caroline’s. In the circumstances,
that seemed the best thing to do.”
Lady Markham leaned back in her chair; she had become very pale. One
shock after another had reduced her strength. She closed her eyes while
Constance very comfortably sipped her tea. It was not possible that she
could have dreamed it or imagined it, when, on opening her eyes again,
she saw Constance sitting by the tea-table with a plate of bread and
butter before her. “I have really,” she explained seriously, “eaten
nothing to-day.”
Frances came down some time after, having bathed her eyes and smoothed
her hair. It was always smooth like satin, shining in the light. She
came in, in her unobtrusive way, ashamed of herself for her outburst of
temper, and determined to be “good,” whatever might happen. She was
surprised that there was no conversation going on. Constance sat in a
chair which Frances at once recognised as having been hers from the
beginning of time, wondering at her own audacity in having sat in it,
when she did not know. Lady Markham was still leaning back in her chair.
“Oh, it’s nothing--only a little giddiness. So many strange things are
happening. Did you give your uncle Clarendon my note? I suppose Frances
told you, Con, how we have been upset to-day?”
“Upset?” said Constance over her bread and butter. “I should have
thought you would have been immensely pleased. It is about Sir Thomas, I
suppose?”
“About Sir Thomas! Is there any news about Sir Thomas?” said Lady
Markham, with an elaborately innocent look. “If so, it has not yet been
confided to me.” And then she proceeded to tell to her daughter the
story of Nelly Winterbourn.
“I should have thought that would all have been set right in the
settlements,” Constance said.
“So it ought. But she had no one to see to the settlements--no one with
a real interest in her; and it was such a magnificent match.”
“No better than Sir Thomas, mamma.”
“Ah, Sir Thomas. Is there really a story about Sir Thomas? I can only
say, if it is so, that he has never confided it to me.”
“I hope no mistake will be made about the settlements in that case. And
what do you suppose Markham will do?”
“What can he do? He will do nothing, Con. You know, after all, that is
the _rôle_ that suits him best. Even if all had been well, unless Nelly
had asked him herself----”
“Do you think she would have minded, after all this time? But I suppose
there’s an end of Nelly now,” Constance said, regretfully.
“I am afraid so,” Lady Markham replied. And then recovering, she began
to tell her daughter the news--all the news of this one and the other,
which Frances had never been able to understand, which Constance
entered into as one to the manner born. They left the subject of Nelly
Winterbourn, and not a word was said of young Gaunt and his fever; but
apart from these subjects, everything that had happened since Constance
left England was discussed between them. They talked and smiled and
rippled over into laughter, and passed in review the thousand friends
whose little follies and freaks both knew, and skimmed across the
surface of tragedies with a consciousness, that gave piquancy to the
amusement, of the terrible depths beneath. Frances, keeping behind, not
willing to show her troubled countenance, from which the traces of tears
were not easily effaced, listened to this light talk with a wonder which
almost reached the height of awe. Her mother at least must have many
grave matters in her mind; and even on Constance, the consciousness of
having stirred up all the quiescent evils in the family history, of her
father in England, of the meeting which must take place between the
husband and wife so long parted, all by her influence, must have a
certain weight. But there they sat and talked and laughed, and shot
their little shafts of wit. Frances, at last feeling her heart ache too
much for further repression, and that the pleasant interchange between
her mother and sister exasperated instead of lightened her burdened
soul, left them, and sought refuge in her room, where presently she
heard their voices again as they came up-stairs to dress. Constance’s
boxes had in the meantime arrived from the railway, and the conversation
was very animated upon fashions and new adaptations and what to wear.
Then the door of Constance’s room was closed, and Lady Markham came
tapping at that of Frances. She took the girl into her arms. “Now,” she
said, “my dream is going to be realised, and I shall have my two girls,
one on each side of me. My little Frances, are you not glad?”
“Mother----” the girl said, faltering, and stopped, not able to say any
more.
Lady Markham kissed her tenderly, and smiled, as if she were content.
Was she content? Was the happiness, now she had it, as great as she
said? Was she able to be light-hearted with all these complications
round her? But to these questions who could give any answer? Presently
she went to dress, shutting the door; and, between her two girls,
retired so many hundred, so many thousand miles away--who could
tell?--into herself.
In the evening there was considerable stir and commotion in the house.
Markham, warned by one of his mother’s notes, came to dinner full of
affectionate pleasure in Con’s return, and cheerful inquiries for her.
“As yet, you have lost nothing, Con. As yet, nobody has got well into
the swim. As to how the mammy will feel with two daughters to take
about, that is a mystery. If we had known, we’d have shut up little Fan
in the nursery for a year more.”
“It is I that should be sent to the nursery,” said Constance. “Three
months is a long time. Algy Muncastle thought I was dead and buried. He
looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.”
“A girl might just as well be dead and buried as let half the season
slip over and never appear.”
“Unless she were a widow,” said Con.
“Ah! unless she were a widow, as you say. That changes the face of
affairs.” Markham made a slight involuntary retreat when he received
that blow, but no one mentioned the name of Nelly Winterbourn. It was
much too serious to be taken any notice of now. In the brightness of
Lady Markham’s drawing-room, with all its softened lights, grave
subjects were only discussed _tête-à-tête_. When the company was more
than two, everything took a sportive turn. Of the two visitors, however,
who came in later, one was not at all disposed to follow this rule. Sir
Thomas said but little to Constance, though her arrival was part of the
news which had brought him here; but he held Lady Markham’s hand with an
anxious look into her eyes, and as soon as he could, drew Frances aside
to the distant corner in which she was fond of placing herself. “Do you
know he has come?” he cried.
“I have seen papa, Sir Thomas, if that is what you mean.”
“What else could I mean?” said Sir Thomas. “You know how I have tried
for this. What did he say? I want to know what disposition he is in. And
what disposition is _she_ in? Frances, you and I have a great deal to
do. We have the ball at our feet. There is nobody acting in both their
interests but you and I.”
There was something in Frances’ eyes and in her look of mute endurance
which startled him, even in the midst of his enthusiasm. “What is the
matter?” he said. “I have not forgotten our bargain. I will do much for
you, if you will work for me. And you want something. Come, tell me what
it is?”
She gave him a look of reproach. Had he, too, forgotten the sick and
miserable, the sufferer, of whom no one thought? “Sir Thomas,” she said,
“Constance has money; she has stopped at Paris to buy dresses. Oh, give
me what is my share.”
“I remember now,” he said.
“Then you know the only thing that any one can do for me. Oh, Sir
Thomas, if you could but give it me now.”
“Shall I speak to your father?” he asked.
These words Markham heard by chance, as he passed them to fetch
something his mother wanted. He returned to where she sat with a curious
look in his little twinkling eyes. “What is Sir Thomas after? Do you
know the silly story that is about? They say that old fellow is after
Lady Markham’s daughter. It had better be put a stop to, mother. I won’t
have anything go amiss with little Fan.”
“Go amiss! with Sir Thomas. There is nobody he might not marry,
Markham--not that anything has ever been said.”
“Let him have anybody he pleases except little Fan. I won’t have
anything happen to Fan. She is not one that would stand it, like the
rest of us. We are old stagers; we are trained for the stake; we know
how to grin and bear it. But that little thing, she has never been
brought up to it, and it would kill her. I won’t have anything go wrong
with little Fan.”
“There is nothing going wrong with Frances. You are not talking with
your usual sense, Markham. If that was coming, Frances would be a lucky
girl.”
Markham looked at her with his eyes all pursed up, nearly disappearing
in the puckers round them. “Mother,” he said, “we know a girl who was a
very lucky girl, you and I. Remember Nelly Winterbourn.”
It gave Lady Markham a shock to hear Nelly’s name. “O Markham, the less
we say of her the better,” she cried.
There was another arrival while they talked--Claude Ramsay, with the
flower in his coat a little rubbed by the greatcoat which he had taken
off in the hall, though it was now June. “I heard you had come back,” he
said, dropping languidly into a chair by Constance. “I thought I would
come and see if it was true.”
“You see it is quite true.”
“Yes; and you are looking as well as possible. Everything seems to agree
with you. Do you know I was very nearly going out to that little place
in the Riviera? I got all the _renseignements_; but then I heard that it
got hot and the people went away.”
“You ought to have come. Don’t you know it is at the back of the east
wind, and there are no draughts there?”
“What an ideal place!” said Claude. “I shall certainly go next winter,
if you are going to be there.”