"I HAVE A FEAR--A FOOLISH FEAR"
"Geoff, it's the most extraordinary thing in the world."
"What is it, dear?" he asked, throwing down his newspaper on the
breakfast table, and lighting a cigarette. "Tell me about it."
"Listen."
She read the letter, which was open in her hands, and he listened
thoughtfully, leaning back in the high-backed oak chair, and watching
the blue smoke from his cigarette curl upward to the ceiling.
"LONDON, _Thursday_.
"DEAR LADY ST. MAURICE: I have delayed answering your letter
for some time, longer than may seem courteous to you, owing to
the illness of a member of the family with whom I have been
living. I trust, however, that you will not consider it too
late for me to thank you heartily for your generous offer to
me, which, if we can agree upon one point, I shall be most
happy and grateful to accept. You have a little girl, you tell
me, and no governess. If you will allow me to fill the latter
position, which I believe that I am quite capable of doing, I
shall be glad to come. I could not feel myself at ease in
becoming one of your household on any other footing. Hoping to
hear from you soon, I am, yours sincerely,
"MARGHARITA BRISCOE."
"Did you ever hear of such a thing?" Lady St. Maurice exclaimed.
"Margharita's child, my governess. I call it very stupid pride."
Lord St. Maurice shook his head.
"I think you are wrong, dear. After all, you must remember that you are
a complete stranger to her."
"That has been her mother's fault. Margharita never exactly blamed me
for what I did at Palermo, but she always felt bitterly for her brother,
and she could not forget that it was my hand which had sent him to
prison. It was very unreasonable of her, but, after all, one can
understand her feeling. Still, this girl of hers can have no such
feeling toward me."
"Of course not; but, none the less, as I said before, you are a complete
stranger to her," Lord St. Maurice answered. "Her parentage is just the
sort to have given her those independent ideas, and I'm inclined to
think that she is quite right."
Lady St. Maurice sighed.
"I would have been only too happy to have welcomed her as a daughter,"
she said. "I dare say you are right, Geoff. I shall write and tell her
to come."
She walked away to the window, looking across the pine-bound cliffs to
the sea. Time had dealt with her very leniently, as indeed he needs must
with those whose life is like one long summer's day. Her brow was still
smooth, and her hair, rich and soft as ever, had not a single tinge of
gray. Her figure, too, was perfect; the lithe gracefulness of youth had
only ripened into the majesty of dignified womanhood. There was not a
society paper which did not sometimes allude to her as "the beautiful
Lady St. Maurice."
But just at that moment her eyes were sad, and her face was troubled.
Her husband, looking up suddenly, saw it, and throwing down his paper,
walked across the room to her side.
"Adrienne, what is it, little woman?" he asked fondly.
"I was thinking of poor Leonardo," she answered. "Geoffrey, it is very
foolish to let it trouble me, is it not?"
"Very, darling. Why should it?"
"Do you remember how terrible he looked when they arrested him on the
sands, and those fierce threatening words of his? Even now I can hear
them sometimes in my ears."
"Foolish little woman."
"I cannot help it. This girl's letter, with its note of proud
independence, brings it all back to me. Geoffrey, Leonardo di Marioni
comes of a race who pride themselves more than anything upon keeping
their word in love and in hate. You can scarcely understand their fierce
passionate nature. I have always felt that when the day of his release
came he would remember his oath, and strive to work some evil upon us."
Lord St. Maurice passed his arm around his wife's waist, with a
reassuring smile.
"It is five-and-twenty years ago, love. Is not that enough to set your
fears at rest?"
She looked at him without a smile, grave and serious.
"The five-and-twenty years are up, Geoffrey. Leonardo is free!"
"What of it?" he answered carelessly. "If he has not forgotten us
altogether, what harm could he do us?"
She clasped her hands around his neck, and looked into his face.
"Geoffrey, I have a confession to make," she whispered. "Will you
forgive me?"
"It's a rash promise, but I'll chance it," he answered, smoothing her
hair and smiling down into her upturned face.
"Geoffrey, he is in London. I have seen him."
He looked a little surprised, but he did not draw away.
"Seen him! Where? When?"
"Do you remember the day when I was to have called for you at the
'Travelers,' and you waited for me, and I did not come? Yes, I know that
you do. Well, I did come, really, but as I sat in the carriage waiting,
I took up the _Morning Post_ and I read an advertisement there, signed
by the manager of the Continental Hotel. It was inquiring for any friend
or relative of Count Leonardo di Marioni, who was lying there
dangerously ill and alone. Geoffrey, of course I ought to have waited
for you, but I am impulsive sometimes, and I was then. I thought that if
I could see him alone for the first time, that I might win his
forgiveness, and so I drove there at once. They showed me into his room;
he was sitting over the fire, a miserable, shrunken little figure,
wasted to a shadow. Ah, how my heart ached to see him. Geoffrey, I knelt
by his side; I spoke to him as tenderly as I could to one of my own
children; and then he turned a white corpse-like face upon me, and spoke
words which God grant I may some day forget. I do not believe that human
lips have ever framed such hideous curses. How I got down to the
carriage, I do not know. You are not angry with me, Geoffrey?"
"Angry? why no, love," he answered tenderly. "You did it for the best.
What a vindictive little beggar."
"Geoffrey, I can't help thinking that some day, if he recovers, he will
try to do you or me a mischief."
Lord St. Maurice laughed outright.
"We are not in Sicily," he answered lightly.
"What could he do to either of us? Am I not big enough to protect
myself, and take care of you? I tell you what, Adrienne, why shouldn't I
go and see him when I am in London next week?"
"You!" She shuddered and clasped him tightly. "Geoffrey, promise me at
once that you will not go near him," she begged. "Promise me!"
"On one condition."
"What is it?"
"That you will give up troubling about this nonsense."
"I will try," she promised.
"That's right. Now put on your hat, and come for a run on the cliff. I
can't have you looking so pale."
He walked to the door with her and opened it, kissing her forehead as
she passed through. She looked up at him fondly, and the quiet pleasure
which glowed for a moment in her cheeks and shone in her eyes made her
look once more like a girl of twenty. A woman's greatest happiness had
been hers. In middle age her husband was still her lover.
"Forgive me for being silly," she whispered. "I can't help it. Our life
has been so happy that I cannot bear to think of a cloud of any sort
coming over it, even for a very short while."
"The only cloud we have to fear is that big fellow yonder over Gorton
point," he laughed.
"Better bring your mackintosh down. I shall not shoot to-day until I
have seen some color in your cheeks."