A fortnight afterwards, the married couple found themselves at Nice.
Much as has been said and sung of the _lune de miel_, none ever
surpassed, if it ever reached, this one in happiness. Harriet passed
the time in a silent ecstasy of delight. Her cup of bliss was filled
to overflowing; her satisfaction was too deep for words. To this girl,
for whom the world had been seen as yet only through the barred windows
of a convent--who had never enjoyed the society of an intellectual
companion before; who had viewed no scenery but that of the Island;
seen no records of the past; and visited no foreign capital--the first
weeks of her married life were a panorama of novelties, her days one
long astonishment and delight.
She could not adore Anthony Pennell sufficiently for having afforded
her the opportunity of seeing all this, and more especially of feeling
it. The presents he lavished upon her were as nothing in her eyes,
compared to the lover-like attentions he paid her; the bouquets of
flowers he brought her every morning; the glass of lemonade or milk he
had ready to supply her need when they were taking their excursions;
the warm shawl or mantle he carried on his arm in the evenings, lest
the air should become too chilly for her delicate frame after sunset.
Money Harriet had no need of, but love--love she had thirsted for, as
the hart thirsts for the water-streams, yet had never imagined it could
be poured out at her feet, as her husband poured it now.
And Pennell, on the other hand, though he had been much sought after
and flattered by the fair sex for the sake of the fame he had acquired
and the money he made, had never lost his heart to any woman as he had
done to his little unknown wife. He had never met anyone like Hally
before. She combined the intelligence of the Englishwoman with the
_espièglerie_ of the French--the devotion of the Creole with the fiery
passion of the Spanish or Italian. He could conceive her quite capable
of dying silently and uncomplainingly for him, or anyone she loved;
or on the other hand stabbing her lover without remorse if roused by
jealousy or insult.
He was hourly discovering new traits in her character which delighted
him, because they were so utterly unlike any possessed by the women of
the world, with whom he had hitherto associated. He felt as though he
had captured some beautiful wild creature and was taming it for his own
pleasure.
Harriet would sit for hours at a time in profound silence,
contemplating his features or watching his actions--crouched on the
floor at his feet, until he was fain to lay down his book or writing,
and take to fondling her instead. She was an ever-constant joy to him;
he felt it would be impossible to do anything to displease her so long
as he loved her--that like the patient Griselda she would submit to
any injustice and meekly call it justice if from _his_ hand. And yet
he knew all the while that the savage in her was _not_ tamed--that at
any moment, like the domesticated lion or tiger, her nature might
assert itself and become furious, wild and intractable. It was the
very uncertainty that pleased him; men love the women of whom they are
not quite certain, all the more. From Nice they wandered to Mentone,
but the proximity of the Monte Carlo tables had no charm for Anthony
Pennell. He was not a speculative man: his brain was filled with better
things, and he only visited such places for the sake of reproduction.
Although the autumn was now far advanced, the air of Mentone was too
enervating to suit either of them, and Pennell proposed that they
should move on to Italy.
“I must show you Venice and Rome before we return home, Hally,” he
said, “and when I come to think of it, why should we return to England
at all just yet? Why not winter in Rome? Richards is always advising
me to take a good, long holiday. He says I overwork my brain and it
reacts upon my body--what better opportunity could we find to adopt his
advice? Hitherto I have pooh-poohed the idea! Wandering over a foreign
country in solitary grandeur held no charms for me, but with you, my
darling, to double the pleasure of everything, any place assumes the
appearance of Paradise! What do you say, little wife? Shall we set up
our tent South until the spring?”
“Don’t you feel well, Tony?” asked Harriet, anxiously.
“Never better in my life, dear! I am afraid you will not make an
interesting invalid out of me. I am as fit as a fiddle. But I fancy
my next novel will deal with Italy, and I should like to make a few
notes of the spots I may require to introduce. It is nothing to take me
away from you, darling. We will inspect the old places together, and
your quick eye and clear brain shall help me in my researches. Is it a
settled thing, Hally?”
“O! yes, darling!” she replied, “anywhere with you! The only place I
shall ever object to, will be the one where I cannot go with you.”
“That place does not exist on this earth, Hally,” said Pennell, “but
if you are willing, we may as well start to-morrow, for if we leave it
till too late, we shall find all the best winter quarters pre-engaged.”
He left the room, as she thought rather hurriedly, but as he gained the
hotel corridor he slightly staggered and leaned against the wall. He
had told his wife that he was quite well, but he knew it was not the
truth. He had felt weak and enervated ever since coming to Mentone, but
he ascribed it to the soft mild atmosphere.
“Confound this dizziness!” he said inwardly, as the corridor swam
before his eyes, “I think my liver must be out of order, and yet I
have been taking plenty of exercise. It must be this mild moist air.
Heat never did agree with me. I shall be glad to get on. We shall find
Florence cold by comparison.”
He descended to the bureau and announced his intention of giving up his
rooms on the morrow, and then ordered a carriage and returned to take
Hally out for a drive.
In Florence they procured rooms in a grand old palazzo, furnished
with rococo chairs and tables, placed upon marble floors. Harriet was
charmed and astonished by the ease with which they got everything _en
route_, as though they possessed Aladin’s lamp, she told Pennell, and
had but to wish to obtain.
“Ah! Hally!” said her husband, “we have something better than the
genie’s lamp--we have money! _That_ is the true magician in this
century. I am very thankful that you have a fortune of your own, my
dearest, because I know that whatever happens, my girl will be able to
hold her own with the world!”
Harriet grew pale.
“What _could_ happen?” she stammered.
“My silly little goose, are we immortal?” he replied, “I make a
first-rate income, my dear, but have not laid by enough as yet to leave
you more than comfortably off, but with your own money----”
“Don’t speak of it, pray don’t speak of it!” she exclaimed, with ashen
lips, and noting her distress, Pennell changed the subject.
“You are a lucky little woman,” he continued, “I wonder what some
people would give to possess your income--poor Margaret Pullen for
instance.”
“Why Mrs. Pullen in particular, Tony? Are they poor?”
“Not whilst Colonel Pullen is on active service, but he has nothing
but his pay to depend upon, and whilst he can work, he must. Which
means a residence in India, and perhaps separation from his wife and
children--if he should lose his health, a compulsory retirement; and
if he keeps it, toiling out there till old age, and then coming home
to spin out the remainder of his life on an inadequate pension. A man
who accepts service in India should make up his mind to live and die in
the country, but so many accidents may prevent it. And at the best, it
means banishment from England and all one’s friends and relations. Poor
Margaret feels that severely, I am sure!”
“Has Mrs. Pullen many relations then?”
“She has a mother still living, and several brothers and sisters,
besides her husband’s family. What a sweet, gentle woman she is! She
was kind to you, Hally, was she not, whilst you were abroad?”
By mutual agreement they never spoke of Heyst, or the Red House, or
anything which was associated with what Pennell called his wife’s
infatuation regarding herself.
“Yes! she was very kind--at first,” replied Harriet, “until--until--it
all happened, and they went to England. Oh! do not let us talk of it!”
she broke off suddenly.
“No! we will not! Have you unpacked your mandoline yet, Hally? Fetch
it, dear, and let me hear your lovely voice again! I shall get you to
sing to me when I am in the vein for composing! You would bring me all
sorts of beautiful ideas and phantasies!”
“Should I? should I?” exclaimed the girl joyfully. “Oh! how lovely!
I should do a part of your work then, shouldn’t I, Tony?--I should
inspire you! Why, I would sing day and night for that!”
“No! no! my bird, I would not let you tire yourself! A few notes now
and then--they will help me more than enough. I must draw from you for
my next heroine, Hally! I could not have a fairer model!”
“Oh! Tony!”
She rushed to him in the extremity of her delight and hid her face upon
his breast.
“I am not good enough, not pretty enough! Your heroines should be
perfect!”
“I don’t think so! I prefer them to be of flesh and blood, like you!”
He stooped his head and kissed her passionately.
“Hally! Hally!” he whispered, “you draw my very life away!”
The girl got up suddenly, almost roughly, and walked into the next room
to fetch her mandoline.
“No! no!” she cried to herself with a cold fear, “not that, my God, not
that!”
But when she returned with the instrument, she did not revert to the
subject, but played and sang as usual to her husband’s admiration and
delight.
They “did” Florence very thoroughly during the first week of their stay
there, and were both completely tired.
“I must really stay at home to-morrow,” cried Hally one afternoon on
returning to dinner, “Tony, I am regularly fagged out! I feel as if I
had a corn upon every toe!”
“So do I,” replied her husband, “and I cannot have my darling knocked
up by fatigue! We will be lazy to-morrow, Hally, and lie on two sofas
and read our books all day! I have been thinking for the last few days
that we have been going a little too fast! Let me see, child!--how long
have we been married?”
“Six weeks to-morrow,” she answered glibly.
“Bless my soul! we are quite an old married couple, a species of Darby
and Joan! And have you been happy, Hally?”
The tears of excitement rushed into her dark eyes.
“_Happy!_ That is no word for what I have been, Tony; I have been in
Heaven--in Heaven all the while!”
“And so have I,” rejoined her husband.
“I met some nuns whilst I was out this morning,” continued Hally, “the
sisters of the Annunciation, and they stopped and spoke to me, and
were so pleased to hear that I had been brought up in a convent. ‘And
have you no vocation, my child?’ asked one of them. ‘Yes! Sister,’ I
replied, ‘I have--a big, strong, handsome vocation called my husband.’
They looked quite shocked, poor dears, at first, but I gave them a
subscription for their orphan schools--one hundred francs--and they
were so pleased. They said if I was sick whilst in Florence, I must
send for one of them, and she would come and nurse me! I gave it as a
thanksgiving, Tony--a thanksgiving offering because I am so very happy.
I am not a good woman like Margaret Pullen, I know that, but I love
you--_I love you!_”
“Who said that you were not a good woman?” asked Pennell, as he drew
her fondly to his side, and kissed away the tears that hung on her dark
lashes.
“Oh! I know I am not. Besides, you once said that Margaret Pullen was
the best woman you had ever known.”
“I think she is very sweet and unselfish,” replied Pennell musingly,
“she felt the loss of her infant terribly, Doctor Phillips told me, but
the way in which she struggled to subdue her grief, in order not to
distress others, was wonderful! Poor Margaret! how she mourns little
Ethel to this day.”
“Don’t! _don’t!_” cried Harriet in a stifled voice, “I cannot bear to
think of it!”
“My darling, it had nothing to do with you! I have told you so a
thousand times!”
“Yes! yes! I know you have--but I loved the little darling! It is
dreadful to me to think that she is mouldering in the grave!”
“Come, child, you will be hysterical if you indulge in any more
reminiscences! Suppose we go for a stroll through the Ghetto or some
other antiquated part of Florence. Or shall we take a drive into the
country? I am at your commands, Madam!”
“A drive, darling, then--a drive!” whispered his wife, as she left him
to get ready for the excursion.
It was three hours before they returned to their rooms in the old
palazzo. Harriet was dull and somewhat silent, and Anthony confessed to
a headache.
“I am not quite sure now,” he said, as they were dining, “whether
a trip to Australia or America would not do us both more good than
lingering about these mild, warm places. I think our constitutions
both require bracing rather than coddling. Australia is a grand young
country! I have often contemplated paying her a visit. What would you
say to it, Hally?”
“I should enjoy it as much as yourself, Tony! You so often have a
headache now! I think the drainage of these southern towns must be
defective!”
“Oh! shocking! They are famous for typhoid and malarial fevers. They
are not drained at all!”
“Don’t let us stay here long then! What should I do if you were to fall
ill?”
“You are far more liable to fall sick of the two, my darling,” returned
her husband, “I do not think your beautiful little body has much
strength to sustain it. And then what should _I_ do?”
“Ah! neither of us could do without the other, Tony!”
“Of course we couldn’t, and so we will provide against such a
contingency by moving on before our systems get saturated with miasma
and mistral. Will you sing to me to-night, Hally?”
“Not unless you very much wish it! I am a little tired. I feel as if I
couldn’t throw any expression into my songs to-night!”
“Then come here and sit down on the sofa beside me, and let us talk!”
She did as he desired, but Pennell was too sleepy to talk. In five
minutes he had fallen fast asleep, and it was with difficulty she could
persuade him to abandon the couch and drag his weary limbs up to bed,
where he threw himself down in a profound slumber. Harriet was also
tired. Her husband was breathing heavily as she slipped into her place
beside him. His arm was thrown out over her pillow, as though he feared
she might go to sleep without remembering to wish him good-night! She
bent over him and kissed him passionately on the lips.
“Good-night, my beloved,” she whispered, “sleep well, and wake in
happiness!”
She kissed the big hand too that lay upon her pillow and composed
herself to sleep while it still encircled her.
The dawn is early in Florence, but it had broken for some time before
she roused herself again. The sun was streaming brightly into the
long, narrow, uncurtained windows, and everything it lighted on was
touched with a molten glory. Harriet started up in bed. Her husband’s
arm was still beneath her body.
“Oh! my poor darling!” she exclaimed, as though the fault were her own,
“how cramped he must be! How soundly we must have slept not to have
once moved through the night!”
She raised Tony’s arm and commenced to chafe it. How strangely heavy
and cold it felt. Why! he was cold all over! She drew up the bedclothes
and tucked them in around his chin. Then, for the first time, she
looked at his face. His eyes were open.
“Tony, Tony!” she exclaimed, “are you making fun of me? Have you been
awake all the time?”
She bent over his face laughingly, and pressed a kiss upon his cheek.
How stiff it felt! My God! what was the matter? Could he have fainted?
She leapt from the bed, and running to her husband’s side, pulled down
the bedclothes again and placed her hand upon his heart. The body was
cold--cold and still all over! His eyes were glazed and dull. His
mouth was slightly open. In one awful moment she knew the truth. Tony
was--_dead_!
She stood for some moments--some hours--some months--she could not
have reckoned the time, silent and motionless, trying to realise what
had occurred. Then--as it came upon her, like a resistless flood which
she could not stem, nor escape, Harriet gave one fearful shriek which
brought the servants hurrying upstairs to know what could be the
matter.
“I have killed my husband--I have killed him--it was I myself who did
it!” was all that she would say.
Of course they did not believe her. They accepted the unmeaning words
as part of their mistress’s frenzy at her sudden and unexpected loss.
They saw what had happened, and they ran breathlessly for a doctor, who
confirmed their worst fears--the Signor was dead!
The old palazzo became like a disturbed ant-hill. The servants ran
hither and thither, unknowing how to act, whilst the mistress sat by
the bedside with staring, tearless eyes, holding the hand of her dead
husband. But there were a dozen things to be done--half a hundred
orders to be issued. Death in Florence is quickly followed by burial.
The law does not permit a mourner to lament his Dead for more than
four-and-twenty hours.
But the signora would give no orders for the funeral nor answer any
questions put to her! She had no friends in Florence--for ought they
knew, she had no money--what were they to do? At last one of them
thought of the neighbouring Convent of the Annunciation and ran to
implore one of the good sisters to come to their mistress in her
extremity.
Shortly afterwards, Sister Angelica entered the bedroom where Harriet
sat murmuring at intervals, “It is _I_ who have killed him,” and
attempted to administer comfort to the young mourner. But her words
and prayers had no effect upon Harriet. Her brain could hold but one
idea--she had killed Tony! Doctor Phillips was right--it was she who
had killed Margaret Pullen’s baby and Bobby Bates, and to look further
back, little Caroline, and now--now, her Tony! the light of her life,
the passion of her being, the essence of all her joy--her hope for
this world and the next. She had killed him--_she_, who worshipped
him, whose pride was bound up in him, who was to have helped him and
comforted him and waited on him all his life--she had killed him!
Her dry lips refused to say the words distinctly, but they kept
revolving in her brain until they dazed and wearied her. The little
sister stood by her and held her hand, as the professional assistants
entered the death chamber and arranged and straightened the body for
the grave, finally placing it in a coffin and carrying it away to a
mortuary where it would have to remain until buried on the morrow, but
Harriet made no resistance to the ceremony and no sign. She did not
even say “Good-bye” as Tony was carried from her sight for ever! Sister
Angelica talked to her of the glorious Heaven where they must hope that
her dear husband would be translated, of the peace and happiness he
would enjoy, of the reunion which awaited them when her term of life
was also past.
She pressed her to make the Convent her refuge until the first agony
of her loss was overcome--reminded her of the peace and rest she would
encounter within the cloisters, and how the whole fraternity would
unite in praying for the soul of her beloved that he might speedily
obtain the remission of his sins and an entrance into the Beatific
Presence.
Harriet listened dully and at last in order to get rid of her
well-intentioned but rather wearisome consoler, she promised to do all
that she wished. Let the sister return to the Convent for the present,
and on the morrow if she would come for her at the same time, she
might take her back with her. She wanted rest and peace--she would be
thankful for them, poor Harriet said--only to-night, this one night
more, she wished to be alone. So the good little sister went away
rejoicing that she had succeeded in her errand of mercy, and looking
forward to bearing the poor young widow to the Convent on the morrow,
there to learn the true secret of earthly happiness.
When she had gone and the old palazzo was quiet and empty, the
bewildered girl rose to her feet and tried to steady her shaking limbs
sufficiently, to write what seemed to be a letter but was in reality a
will.
“I leave all that I possess,” so it ran, “to Margaret Pullen, the wife
of Colonel Arthur Pullen, the best woman Tony said that he had ever
met, and I beg her to accept it in return for the kindness she showed
to me when I went to Heyst, a stranger. Signed, HARRIET PENNELL.”
She put the paper into an envelope, and as soon as the morning had
dawned, she asked her servant Lorenzo to show her the way to the
nearest notary in whose presence she signed the document and directed
him to whom it should be sent in case of her own death.
And after another visit to a _pharmacien_, she returned to the palazzo
and took up her watch again in the now deserted bedchamber.
Her servants brought her refreshments and pressed her to eat, without
effect. All she desired, she told them, was to be left alone, until the
sister came for her in the afternoon.
Sister Angelica arrived true to her appointment, and went at once to
the bedchamber. To her surprise she found Harriet lying on the bed,
just where the corpse of Anthony Pennell had lain, and apparently
asleep.
“_Pauvre enfant!_” thought the kind-hearted nun, “grief has exhausted
her! I should not have attended to her request, but have watched with
her through the night! _Eh, donc! ma pauvre_,” she continued, gently
touching the girl on the shoulder, “_levez-vous! Je suis là._”
But there was no awakening on this earth for Harriet Pennell. She had
taken an overdose of chloral and joined her husband.
When Margaret Pullen received the will which Harriet had left behind
her, she found these words with it, scribbled in a very trembling hand
upon a scrap of paper.
“Do not think more unkindly of me than you can help. My parents have
made me unfit to live. Let me go to a world where the curse of heredity
which they laid upon me may be mercifully wiped out.”
THE END.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
November 1897.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
frontmatter: moved one page (beginning of publisher’s list of
Latest Volumes) to the end and joined with the rest
of the list for continuity
page 10: ‘dared not say Bo!’ changed to ‘dared not say Boo!’
page 53: ‘and generally kow-tooing’ changed to ‘and generally
kow-towing’
page 80: joined paragraphs of the same person speaking removing
closing quotation mark at ‘The governess was so angry’
page 124: ‘carrying a flimsey wrap’ changed to ‘carrying a flimsy
wrap’
page 202: ‘return with him to Hoosur’ changed to ‘return with him
to Hosur’
page 227: ‘who care more’ changed to ‘who cares more’
page 285: ‘CHAPTER XVI’ changed to ‘CHAPTER XVII’
page 285: ‘it it had not been for that’ changed to ‘if it had
not been for that’
page 317: ‘she returned to the Palazzo’ changed to ‘she returned
to the palazzo’ for uniformity
along with a few silent corrections to punctuation. Except for
the above, original spelling has been retained.