Mr. Fox-Cordery is not easy in his mind.
In a state of deep dissatisfaction with the world in general, Mr.
Fox-Cordery paced the lawn fronting the country house he had taken on
the banks of the Thames. He was smoking one of his fragrant cigars,
but it had no soothing effect upon him; a common weed of British make
would have afforded him as much gratification. He was perplexed and
annoyed, and was growing savage; and yet he had cause, if not for
gratitude--of which it may be doubted whether he was capable--at least
for self-congratulation.
To commence with the credit side of his ledger, here he was
comfortably installed in the house facing the river of which we have
heard his mother speak, with its piece of meadow-land, and its lawn,
and its garden of fruit and flowers, and its rustic bridge stretching
to a bank on the opposite side. This bridge, being erected over an
inlet, did not interfere with the traffic of the river proper, and was
a decided attraction to the summer residence which Mr. Fox-Cordery
had taken to carry out a long cherished design. The arm of water it
spanned was deep, and upon it was floating a gayly-painted boat,
bearing in gilt letters the name, "Lucy and Clair." He had so
christened it in honor of the guests he was entertaining, Mrs.
Grantham and her little daughter. He had intended to call it simply
"Lucy"; but love is sometimes wanting in boldness, and for this
reason, or because he was not sure of his ground, he had associated
the names of mother and daughter, which he considered the lady he was
scheming to win could not but regard as a delicate mark of attention.
To go on with, his mind was more at ease with respect to the fate of
the friend he had betrayed than it had been on the day of his
interviews with John Dixon and Rathbeal. Six weeks had passed by and
he had not seen or heard from John Dixon: a distinct proof that that
astute person had been gasconading when he spoke of having caught a
glimpse of Robert Grantham's face on a foggy night in March. Mr.
Fox-Cordery had arrived at the conclusion that the tale was a clumsy
invention, introduced for the purpose of winning compliance with John
Dixon's suit for the hand of his sister Charlotte.
"Dixon thought I would strike my flag," he reasoned, "and that I would
implore him to take Charlotte at once, and a handsome dowry with her,
as the price of his silence. A likely thing when he had nothing to
sell but an empty tale!" Of the legacy he had heard nothing more. Mrs.
Grantham had not seen the advertisement in the _Times_, the paper
being one which she did not read, nor had she been approached by the
lawyers with respect to it, as had been threatened by John Dixon.
"Lawyers don't part with money too readily," again reasoned Mr.
Fox-Cordery, "when once it gets into their clutches. I know their
tricks."
Then, Charlotte was behaving admirably. She and Mrs. Grantham and
Clair were constantly together, Mr. Fox-Cordery believed that his
sister was doing something--perhaps in an indirect way, but that was
of no account--to advance his cause. And yet that cause was making no
progress. It was unaccountable, and he was moodily reflecting upon
this as he paced the lawn and smoked his cigar.
On the debit side of the ledger were some ridiculous, though
mysterious, eccentricities on the part of Rathbeal. Rathbeal did not
appear personally, but he kept himself in Mr. Fox-Cordery's mind by a
series of written and pictorial communications. These, carefully
sealed, were addressed to Mr. Fox-Cordery's London residence, and were
forwarded on to his suburban home. He destroyed them, wrathfully,
almost as soon as he received them, but it was an additional annoyance
that he could not forget them after they were destroyed; indeed, the
impression they produced was so strong that they were the cause of
many fantastic and disturbing dreams from which he would awake in
perturbation. The peculiar nature of these communications will be seen
from the following examples:
"When you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote Rathbeal, quoting an
observation made by Mr. Fox-Cordery in the course of their recent
interview, "nothing ever escapes from it.
(Signed) "Rathbeal."
Beneath these words was the picture of a large web, in a corner of
which lurked a spider, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Mr.
Fox-Cordery. A number of unfortunate creatures, with human faces,
struggled in the meshes. The face of one figure, designated Fate, was
hidden, purposely it seemed.
Again, after an interval of a few days:
"There are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote Rathbeal,
quoting his reply to Mr. Fox-Cordery's observation. "Fate is ever at
work.
(Signed) "Rathbeal."
Beneath this was the same web, but this time Mr. Fox-Cordery was in
the meshes, struggling in terror to release himself; while in the
corner lurked the figure of Fate, still with its face hidden.
"The man is crazy," was Mr. Fox-Cordery's comment, "or in his dotage."
Nevertheless he could not banish these sketches from his mind, and he
found himself wondering who the figure with his hidden face was
intended to represent.
At intervals came couplets of verse:
The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.
"For auspicious," wrote Rathbeal, "read malefic. For love, read hate."
At another time:
Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles
Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.
Another post brought:
What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce?
What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?
Had Mr. Fox-Cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence
he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their
frequency, savored of persecution. He was tempted, as his eyes fell
upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it,
unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a
strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself,
and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness.
But these were small matters in comparison with the one desire of
which he had become the slave. In the retreat he had chosen he had
hoped to attain his wish, and to win from Mrs. Grantham a promise that
she would become his wife. Long as he had loved her, he had not had
the courage to speak to her openly. Many times had he approached the
boundary line which stood between friendship and love, and had never
dared to cross it. Something in her manner, which he could not define
or satisfactorily explain to himself, deterred him; and he lacked the
gamester's mettle to risk his all upon the hazard of the die. He
argued with himself that she could scarcely mistake the meaning of the
attentions he was paying her during this visit. Daily offerings of
flowers, a constant ministering to her pleasure, fulfillment of any
wish she expressed, the most careful attention to the adornment of his
small person, a display of amiability to her, to Charlotte and his
mother, and even to the servants who waited on them--all these efforts
seemed to be thrown away upon her. As has been stated, he was growing
savage to find his meaning thus misunderstood, his desire thus
frustrated. Had he seen her while he was restlessly and moodily pacing
the lawn and been able to read what was passing within her, he might
have arrived at a better understanding of the position of affairs; and
had he witnessed a scene which was presently to take place between
Mrs. Grantham and his sister Charlotte, it would not have assisted in
comforting him.
Mrs. Grantham was alone in her room. It was Charlotte's birthday, and
she was looking in her trunk for a gift she designed to give her
friend, a brooch of turquoise and pearls which she herself had worn as
a young girl. The brooch was in a desk which lay at the bottom of the
trunk, and it was seldom she opened it, for it contained mementos of
the past which it pained her to handle; but they were dear to her
despite the pain they caused her, and she would not have parted with
them for untold gold. Lifting the desk from the trunk, she rose with
it in her hands and seated herself at a table.
The deep sorrow of her life had left its traces on her face, had
touched her eyes with an abiding sadness; but a delicate beauty dwelt
there still. Charlotte, who had insisted upon being her handmaiden,
and had begged to be allowed to attend her when she retired to bed,
would comment admiringly upon the graces of her person, comments which
Mrs. Grantham would receive with gentle deprecation. Until late years
Charlotte had known nothing of Mrs. Grantham, and was even now as
ignorant of her history as she was of the close association which had
existed between her and her brother. During the present visit a fond
confidence was established between the women, and each knew that in
the other she possessed a true and faithful friend. But Mrs. Grantham
had not admitted Charlotte into the secrets of her married life. The
anguish and indignation which had tortured her soul when she learned
from Mr. Fox-Cordery that her husband was unfaithful to her had long
since passed away. Death had consecrated her grief, and had robbed it
of its bitter sting.
Mrs. Grantham unlocked her desk. In a small box, at the top of two or
three packets of letters, were the brooch and a few ornaments she used
to wear in happier days. She placed the brooch aside, and taking out
the other articles of jewelry, gazed at them with yearning tenderness.
They were chiefly gifts which her husband had given her during their
courtship and the first few months of their marriage. Since she had
received the news of her husband's death from the lips of Mr.
Fox-Cordery she had not worn an ornament he had given her; and the
only ring upon her fingers was her wedding ring, which had never been
removed. But she had preserved them all, even the smallest article,
and every letter he had written to her was in the desk, carefully
folded and preserved. An impulse stirred her to untie the packets and
read the endearing words he had addressed to her, and for a moment she
was inclined to yield to it, but she went no farther than to place her
fingers on the ribbon which held them together. With a sigh she
replaced the packets in the desk, but not before she had put her lips
to them. Her husband, living, had sorely wronged her, but when she
heard that he was dead she forgave him, and did not thereafter allow
her thoughts to dwell upon any remembrances of him that were not
tender and kind. He had sinned, and had suffered for his sin. She
could not carry resentment beyond the grave. And he was the father of
her child, the sweetest hope the world contained for her.
When her trunk was repacked the turquoise and pearl brooch was not the
only ornament she had retained, There was a ring of gold set with one
black pearl which her husband used to wear. One day she had expressed
admiration of it, and he had had it made smaller for her. She put it
on her finger now, and pressed her lips to it. As she did so her eyes
filled with tears.
"May I come in?"
It was Charlotte's voice, following a tap at the door.
"Yes, come in, dear."
Charlotte entered, a different young woman from the last occasion upon
which we saw her. She was neatly dressed, and her eyes were sparkling
and her face radiant.
"A happy birthday to you, dear," said Mrs. Grantham. "Let me fasten
this on."
Charlotte had never possessed a gold ornament of any kind, and her
eyes fairly danced as she looked at herself in the glass.
"For me, Mrs. Grantham? Really for me?"
"Yes, dear. It was one I used to wear when I was a girl, and I thought
you would like it."
"Like it! I shall love it all my life. Do you know, Mrs. Grantham, it
is the first brooch I have ever had!"
"You don't mean that? And you twenty-nine to-day!"
"Yes, I am not a girl, as you were when you wore it. I am not at all
sorry to be twenty-nine, for I think no one is happier than I am."
The fact is Charlotte had received this morning the tenderest letter
from John Dixon, wishing her happiness and every good on earth, He had
bought a birthday gift for her (said John Dixon), but it had required
a little alteration, and to his annoyance the man who was making the
alteration had disappointed him; but he was after him like a tiger
(said John Dixon), and she should have the token that very morning, or
he would know the reason why. John Dixon always wrote to Charlotte in
good spirits, and in this birthday letter he was at his blithest.
"It takes very little to make you happy," observed Mrs. Grantham,
looking rather thoughtfully at Charlotte, who was exhibiting, not the
pleasure of a woman at her gift, but the delight of a child.
"Do you call this very little?" asked Charlotte, gayly. "I call it a
great deal."
"Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, "did not your mother or your brother
ever give you a brooch, or a bracelet, or any little thing of the
kind?"
Charlotte was on her guard instantly. She had felt during the past few
weeks that much depended upon her mother and brother, and that they
expected her to speak of them at their best. Therefore she was
uncertain what to say in answer to Mrs. Grantham's straight question.
"But tell me, dear," urged Mrs. Grantham, "did you never have such a
gift?"
"Do not ask me," replied Charlotte. "I must not say anything unkind."
"It is an answer, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, with a pitying smile. "I
have noticed that you never wear the smallest ornament."
"Nor do you; only your wedding ring. And now I declare you have
another ring on! Is it a pearl?"
"Yes, Charlotte. It is a ring my husband gave me. I have not worn any
jewels since his death, but I have a number in my desk."
"And you have put it on to-day in remembrance."
"Yes, dear, in remembrance."
She was on the point of saying that she did not wish to continue the
subject, but she was reminded that this would afford Charlotte a valid
excuse for not giving her some information which she was now desirous
to obtain. She had not been quite oblivious of the attentions which
Mr. Fox-Cordery was paying her, and although she had marked out her
course of life, she had lately become not only curious concerning him,
but doubtful. Upon her first introduction to Charlotte she had
observed the menial dress the young woman wore, and the want of
affection displayed toward her in her home. Mr. Fox-Cordery and his
mother had not been careful to disguise their feelings in her
presence, and it was pity and sympathy for Charlotte which had
attracted her. She afterward learned to love Charlotte for her own
sake, and it was chiefly because of Charlotte's pleadings that she had
been induced to accept the invitation which led to her present visit.
And in this closer association she had grown to love the young woman
more.
Never before had Charlotte the opportunity of unbosoming herself to
one of her own sex, to one in whom she felt she could confide. In
their walks together, she and her little Clair and Charlotte, constant
evidences of Charlotte's kindness of heart and humane instincts had
presented themselves to her, and she more than once suspected that
here was a well which never yet had had free play. The information
that this little brooch was the first gift of any value that Charlotte
could call her own caused her to reflect. That a being so tender and
kind should be treated with so much neglect gave her a shock.
"Dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, "how you must have suffered when
you lost your dear husband! I can imagine it. I should wish to die."
"There was my little Clair left to me, dear; and life means, not love
alone, but duty. I am glad I lived to take care of my child. Do you
expect to be married soon, Charlotte?"
"Some time this year, I think."
"When in your position, dear, one thinks one generally knows. I should
not be a false prophet if I said for certain this year."
"I think it will be."
"I have not seen your intended, dear."
"He is noble and good," said Charlotte, enthusiastically.
"And loves you with his whole heart, as you love him."
"Yes, it is truly so."
The women kissed each other.
"You must introduce me to him," said Mrs. Grantham, "when he comes to
London."
"Oh, but he is in London," said Charlotte simply. "He lives here."
Mrs. Grantham looked at her in astonishment.
"But why does he not visit you?"
Charlotte's face grew scarlet; she dared not answer the question.
"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, pitying her confusion; "but
you understand that I wish to know him, for your sake."
"I understand. Mrs. Grantham, I ought not to keep anything from you.
The reason why Mr. Dixon does not come to see me here, is that he and
my brother are not exactly friends. They had a disagreement in
business, and that is how the trouble occurred. Do not say anything to
my brother about it; it might make him angry."
"With me, dear?"
"Oh, no," said Charlotte, without thinking, "he could not be angry
with you."
"With you, then?" said Mrs. Grantham, her mind half on Charlotte and
half on herself.
"I don't know how it is," said Charlotte, in a tone of distress, "but
I seem to be saying things I ought not to speak of. If I were clever
it would not happen."
"You are clever, dear, and you are good; that is why I love you."
"If I only thought that what I have said without intending it, and
what perhaps I have made you think without intending it, wouldn't make
you run away from us----"
"I will not run away, Charlotte. If you wish it, I will stay as long
as I have promised."
"I do wish it; with all my heart I wish it. I never had a friend like
you; I never had a sister----"
But here Charlotte quite broke down; her sobs would not allow her to
proceed.
"There, there, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, soothing her. "Tears on your
birthday! Why, Charlotte, what are you thinking of? And with a true
friend by your side----!"
"I know, I know," murmured Charlotte. "I am very ungrateful."
"You are a dear, loveable young woman, and you have won my heart. And
who knows whether I may not be able to help you just where you most
need help? There is a knock at the door. Don't move; no one must catch
you crying, or they will have a bad opinion of me. I will go and see
who it is."
It was a maid with a little parcel for Charlotte.
"I was to give it to Miss Fox-Cordery at once, ma'am," said the maid,
"and I was told she was in your room."
"She is here," said Mrs. Grantham, "and she shall have it
immediately."
The maid departed, and Mrs. Grantham locked the door, so as to be
secure from intrusion.
"Something for you, dear. I guess a birthday present."
"Oh!" cried Charlotte eagerly, starting to her feet and holding out
her hand.
"The question is, from whom," said Mrs. Grantham, with tender
playfulness.
"I know!" said Charlotte, still more eagerly.
"From your brother?"
Charlotte shook her head rather sadly.
"From your mother?"
Another sad shake of Charlotte's head.
"They have given you something already, perhaps!"
"No, Mrs. Grantham; I do not expect anything from them. They do not
make birthday presents."
"Don't think I want to tease you; I only want to find out how I can
best serve you. I will not keep you in suspense any longer. Here it
is, dear."
Charlotte opened the packet clumsily, her fingers trembled so, and
disclosed a tiny note and a small jewel case. The note ran:
My Dear Charlotte: Accept this, with my fond and constant love. Ever
yours, John.
The jewel case contained a ring of diamonds. The tears that glistened
now in Charlotte's eyes were tears of joy.
"An engagement ring, I should say," said Mrs. Grantham, gayly. "I want
more than ever to be friends with John. And it fits perfectly. Now,
how did John manage that?" Her mood changed from gayety to tender
solicitude. She drew Charlotte to her side. "I wish you a happy life,
dear. Take a piece of advice from a friend who has had experiences:
When you are married have no secrets from your husband. Trust him
unreservedly; conceal nothing from him. If you note any change in him
that causes you uneasiness do not brood over it in silence; ask him
frankly the reason, and if he is reluctant to give it, implore him to
confide in you. In married life there is no true happiness unless full
confidence exists between husband and wife. And if the man is true and
the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a
protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow."
"I will remember what you say, Mrs. Grantham. I hope Fox will not be
displeased. He is not friends with John, and I have never worn a ring;
and this is so grand and beautiful----"
"Never meet trouble, dear. Perhaps I shall have an opportunity of
saying something to your brother to-day."
Charlotte looked at her and hesitated; there was something on her
tongue to which she did not venture to give utterance. Knowing it was
her brother's wish to make Mrs. Grantham his wife, she wondered
whether any words to that end had passed between them. To call Mrs.
Grantham sister would be a great happiness to her, but she trembled to
think of the price at which that happiness would be bought. The
oppression to which she herself had been subjected in her home since
her father's death rose before her. Was such a fate in store for Mrs.
Grantham? Was it not her duty to warn her? But she dared not speak;
she could only hope that nothing had been settled, and that her dear
friend would be spared unhappiness.
"Of what are you thinking, dear?" asked Mrs. Grantham, perceiving that
a struggle was going on in Charlotte's heart.
"Of nothing," Charlotte replied, and inwardly prayed for courage to
warn her before it was too late.