IT is a glorious winter’s day. The sky is clear, the frost is hard, the
ice bears for skating.
The dining-room of the ancient mansion called Mablethorpe House,
situated in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous among artists
and other persons of taste for the carved wood-work, of Italian origin,
which covers the walls on three sides. On the fourth side the march of
modern improvement has broken in, and has va ried and brightened the
scene by means of a conservatory, forming an entrance to the room
through a winter-garden of rare plants and flowers. On your right hand,
as you stand fronting the conservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall
is relieved by a quaintly patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading
into the library, and thence, across the great hall, to the other
reception-rooms of the house. A corresponding door on the left hand
gives access to the billiard-room, to the smoking-room next to it,
and to a smaller hall commanding one of the secondary entrances to the
building. On the left side also is the ample fireplace, surmounted by
its marble mantelpiece, carved in the profusely and confusedly ornate
style of eighty years since. To the educated eye the dining-room, with
its modern furniture and conservatory, its ancient walls and doors,
and its lofty mantelpiece (neither very old nor very new), presents a
startling, almost a revolutionary, mixture of the decorative workmanship
of widely differing schools. To the ignorant eye the one result
produced is an impression of perfect luxury and comfort, united in the
friendliest combination, and developed on the largest scale.
The clock has just struck two. The table is spread for luncheon.
The persons seated at the table are three in number. First, Lady Janet
Roy. Second, a young lady who is her reader and companion. Third, a
guest staying in the house, who has already appeared in these pages
under the name of Horace Holmcroft--attached to the German army as war
correspondent of an English newspaper.
Lady Janet Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with the
slightest pretension to experience in London society knows Lady Janet
Roy.
Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies? Who has not
admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressed white hair, her
wonderful black eyes, which still preserve their youthful brightness,
after first opening on the world seventy years since? Who has not felt
the charm of her frank, easily flowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits,
her good-humored, gracious sociability of manner? Where is the modern
hermit who is not familiarly acquainted, by hearsay at least, with
the fantastic novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generous
encouragement of rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high or low;
with her charities, which know no distinction between abroad and at
home; with her large indulgence, which no ingratitude can discourage,
and no servility pervert? Everybody has heard of the popular old
lady--the childless widow of a long-forgotten lord. Everybody knows Lady
Janet Roy.
But who knows the handsome young woman sitting on her right hand,
playing with her luncheon instead of eating it? Nobody really knows her.
She is prettily dressed in gray poplin, trimmed with gray velvet, and
set off by a ribbon of deep red tied in a bow at the throat. She is
nearly as tall as Lady Janet herself, and possesses a grace and beauty
of figure not always seen in women who rise above the medium height.
Judging by a certain innate grandeur in the carriage of her head and in
the expression of her large melancholy gray eyes, believers in blood and
breeding will be apt to guess that this is another noble lady. Alas! she
is nothing but Lady Janet’s companion and reader. Her head, crowned with
its lovely light brown hair, bends with a gentle respect when Lady Janet
speaks. Her fine firm hand is easily and incessantly watchful to supply
Lady Janet’s slightest wants. The old lady--affectionately familiar
with her--speaks to her as she might speak to an adopted child. But the
gratitude of the beautiful companion has always the same restraint in
its acknowledgment of kindness; the smile of the beautiful companion
has always the same underlying sadness when it responds to Lady Janet’s
hearty laugh. Is there something wrong here, under the surface? Is she
suffering in mind, or suffering in body? What is the matter with her?
The matter with her is secret remorse. This delicate and beautiful
creature pines under the slow torment of constant self-reproach.
To the mistress of the house, and to all who inhabit it or enter it,
she is known as Grace Roseberry, the orphan relative by marriage of Lady
Janet Roy. To herself alone she is known as the outcast of the London
streets; the inmate of the London Refuge; the lost woman who has stolen
her way back--after vainly trying to fight her way back--to Home and
Name. There she sits in the grim shadow of her own terrible secret,
disguised in another person’s identity, and established in another
person’s place. Mercy Merrick had only to dare, and to become Grace
Roseberry if she pleased. She has dared, and she has been Grace
Roseberry for nearly four months past.
At this moment, while Lady Janet is talking to Horace Holmcroft,
something that has passed between them has set her thinking of the day
when she took the first fatal step which committed her to the fraud.
How marvelously easy of accomplishment the act of personation had been!
At first sight Lady Janet had yielded to the fascination of the noble
and interesting face. No need to present the stolen letter; no need
to repeat the ready-made story. The old lady had put the letter aside
unopened, and had stopped the story at the first words. “Your face is
your introduction, my dear; your father can say nothing for you which
you have not already said for yourself.” There was the welcome which
established her firmly in her false identity at the outset. Thanks
to her own experience, and thanks to the “Journal” of events at
Rome, questions about her life in Canada and questions about Colonel
Roseberry’s illness found her ready with answers which (even if
suspicion had existed) would have disarmed suspicion on the spot. While
the true Grace was slowly and painfully winning her way back to life
on her bed in a German hospital, the false Grace was presented to
Lady Janet’s friends as the relative by marriage of the Mistress of
Mablethorpe House. From that time forward nothing had happened to rouse
in her the faintest suspicion that Grace Roseberry was other than a
dead-and-buried woman. So far as she now knew--so far as any one now
knew--she might live out her life in perfect security (if her conscience
would let her), respected, distinguished, and beloved, in the position
which she had usurped.
She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was to shake
herself free of the remembrances which haunted her perpetually as they
were haunting her now. Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge
from it was in change of occupation and change of scene.
“May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?” she asked.
“Certainly, my dear.”
She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady,
compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the
room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace followed her, as
long as she was in view, with a curious contradictory expression
of admiration and disapproval. When she had passed out of sight the
admiration vanished, but the disapproval remained. The face of the young
man contracted into a frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand,
playing absently with the fragments on his plate.
“Take some French pie, Horace,” said Lady Janet.
“No, thank you.”
“Some more chicken, then?”
“No more chicken.”
“Will nothing tempt you?”
“I will take some more wine, if you will allow me.”
He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and
emptied it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet’s bright eyes watched him
with sardonic attention; Lady Janet’s ready tongue spoke out as freely
as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.
“The air of Kensington doesn’t seem to suit you, my young friend,” she
said. “The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your
glass and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man.
When you first came here you arrived invalided by a wound. In your
place, I should not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other
object in view than describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes
differ. Are you ill? Does your wound still plague you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you out of spirits?”
Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and
answered:
“Awfully.”
Even Lady Janet’s large toleration had its limits. It embraced every
human offense except a breach of good manners. She snatched up the
nearest weapon of correction at hand--a tablespoon--and rapped her young
friend smartly with it on the arm that was nearest to her.
“My table is not the club table,” said the old lady. “Hold up your head.
Don’t look at your fork--look at me. I allow nobody to be out of spirits
in My house. I consider it to be a reflection on Me. If our quiet life
here doesn’t suit you, say so plainly, and find something else to do.
There is employment to be had, I suppose--if you choose to apply for it?
You needn’t smile. I don’t want to see your teeth--I want an answer.”
Horace admitted, with all needful gravity, that there was employment to
be had. The war between France and Germany, he remarked, was still going
on: the newspaper had offered to employ him again in the capacity of
correspondent.
“Don’t speak of the newspapers and the war!” cried Lady Janet, with a
sudden explosion of anger, which was genuine anger this time. “I detest
the newspapers! I won’t allow the newspapers to enter this house. I lay
the whole blame of the blood shed between France and Germany at their
door.”
Horace’s eyes opened wide in amazement. The old lady was evidently in
earnest. “What can you possibly mean?” he asked. “Are the newspapers
responsible for the war?”
“Entirely responsible,” answered Lady Janet. “Why, you don’t understand
the age you live in! Does anybody do anything nowadays (fighting
included) without wishing to see it in the newspapers? _I_ subscribe
to a charity; _thou_ art presented with a testimonial; _he_ preaches a
sermon; _we_ suffer a grievance; _you_ make a discovery; _they_ go to
church and get married. And I, thou, he; we, you, they, all want one and
the same thing--we want to see it in the papers. Are kings, soldiers,
and diplomatists exceptions to the general rule of humanity? Not they! I
tell you seriously, if the newspapers of Europe had one and all decided
not to take the smallest notice in print of the war between France and
Germany, it is my firm conviction the war would have come to an end for
want of encouragement long since. Let the pen cease to advertise the
sword, and I, for one, can see the result. No report--no fighting.”
“Your views have the merit of perfect novelty, ma’am,” said Horace.
“Would you object to see them in the newspapers?”
Lady Janet worsted her young friend with his own weapons.
“Don’t I live in the latter part of the nineteenth century?” she asked.
“In the newspapers, did you say? In large type, Horace, if you love me!”
Horace changed the subject.
“You blame me for being out of spirits,” he said; “and you seem to think
it is because I am tired of my pleasant life at Mablethorpe House. I am
not in the least tired, Lady Janet.” He looked toward the conservatory:
the frown showed itself on his face once more. “The truth is,” he
resumed, “I am not satisfied with Grace Roseberry.”
“What has Grace done?”
“She persists in prolonging our engagement. Nothing will persuade her to
fix the day for our marriage.”
It was true! Mercy had been mad enough to listen to him, and to
love him. But Mercy was not vile enough to marry him under her false
character, and in her false name. Between three and four months had
elapsed since Horace had been sent home from the war, wounded, and
had found the beautiful Englishwoman whom he had befriended in France
established at Mablethorpe House. Invited to become Lady Janet’s
guest (he had passed his holidays as a school-boy under Lady Janet’s
roof)--free to spend the idle time of his convalescence from morning to
night in Mercy’s society--the impression originally produced on him in
a French cottage soon strengthened into love. Before the month was out
Horace had declared himself, and had discovered that he spoke to willing
ears. From that moment it was only a question of persisting long
enough in the resolution to gain his point. The marriage engagement was
ratified--most reluctantly on the lady’s side--and there the further
progress of Horace Holmcroft’s suit came to an end. Try as he might, he
failed to persuade his betrothed wife to fix the day for the marriage.
There were no obstacles in her way. She had no near relations of her own
to consult. As a connection of Lady Janet’s by marriage, Horace’s mother
and sisters were ready to receive her with all the honors due to a new
member of the family. No pecuniary considerations made it necessary, in
this case, to wait for a favorable time. Horace was an only son; and he
had succeeded to his father’s estate with an ample income to support
it. On both sides alike there was absolutely nothing to prevent the
two young people from being married as soon as the settlements could
be drawn. And yet, to all appearance, here was a long engagement
in prospect, with no better reason than the lady’s incomprehensible
perversity to explain the delay. “Can you account for Grace’s conduct?”
asked Lady Janet. Her manner changed as she put the question. She looked
and spoke like a person who was perplexed and annoyed.
“I hardly like to own it,” Horace answered, “but I am afraid she has
some motive for deferring our marriage which she cannot confide either
to you or to me.”
Lady Janet started.
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now and then--sometimes
when she is talking quite gayly--she suddenly changes color and becomes
silent and depressed. Just now, when she left the table (didn’t you
notice it?), she looked at me in the strangest way--almost as if she was
sorry for me. What do these things mean?”
Horace’s reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet’s anxiety, seemed to
relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had not noticed herself.
“You foolish boy!” she said, “the meaning is plain enough. Grace has
been out of health for some time past. The doctor recommends change of
air. I shall take her away with me.”
“It would be more to the purpose,” Horace rejoined, “if I took her away
with me. She might consent, if you would only use your influence. Is
it asking too much to ask you to persuade her? My mother and my sisters
have written to her, and have produced no effect. Do me the greatest of
all kindnesses--speak to her to-day!” He paused, and possessing himself
of Lady Janet’s hand, pressed it entreatingly. “You have always been so
good to me,” he said, softly, and pressed it again.
The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute that there were
attractions in Horace Holmcroft’s face which made it well worth looking
at. Many a woman might have envied him his clear complexion, his
bright blue eyes, and the warm amber tint in his light Saxon hair.
Men--especially men skilled in observing physiognomy--might have noticed
in the shape of his forehead and in the line of his upper lip the signs
indicative of a moral nature deficient in largeness and breadth--of
a mind easily accessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate in
maintaining those prejudices in the face of conviction itself.
To the observation of women these remote defects were too far below
the surface to be visible. He charmed the sex in general by his rare
personal advantages, and by the graceful deference of his manner. To
Lady Janet he was endeared, not by his own merits only, but by old
associations that were connected with him. His father had been one of
her many admirers in her young days. Circumstances had parted them. Her
marriage to another man had been a childless marriage. In past times,
when the boy Horace had come to her from school, she had cherished a
secret fancy (too absurd to be communicated to any living creature) that
he ought to have been _her_ son, and might have been her son, if she had
married his father! She smiled charmingly, old as she was--she yielded
as his mother might have yielded--when the young man took her hand and
entreated her to interest herself in his marriage. “Must I really speak
to Grace?” she asked, with a gentleness of tone and manner far from
characteristic, on ordinary occasions, of the lady of Mablethorpe House.
Horace saw that he had gained his point. He sprang to his feet; his eyes
turned eagerly in the direction of the conservatory; his handsome face
was radiant with hope. Lady Janet (with her mind full of his father)
stole a last look at him, sighed as she thought of the vanished days,
and recovered herself.
“Go to the smoking-room,” she said, giving him a push toward the door.
“Away with you, and cultivate the favorite vice of the nineteenth
century.” Horace attempted to express his gratitude. “Go and smoke!” was
all she said, pushing him out. “Go and smoke!”
Left by herself, Lady Janet took a turn in the room, and considered a
little.
Horace’s discontent was not unreasonable. There was really no excuse for
the delay of which he complained. Whether the young lady had a special
motive for hanging back, or whether she was merely fretting because she
did not know her own mind, it was, in either case, necessary to come to
a distinct understanding, sooner or later, on the serious question of
the marriage. The difficulty was, how to approach the subject without
giving offense. “I don’t understand the young women of the present
generation,” thought Lady Janet. “In my time, when we were fond of a
man, we were ready to marry him at a moment’s notice. And this is an age
of progress! They ought to be readier still.”
Arriving, by her own process of induction, at this inevitable
conclusion, she decided to try what her influence could accomplish, and
to trust to the inspiration of the moment for exerting it in the right
way. “Grace!” she called out, approaching the conservatory door.
The tall, lithe figure in its gray dress glided into view, and stood
relieved against the green background of the winter-garden.
“Did your ladyship call me?”
“Yes; I want to speak to you. Come and sit down by me.”
With those words Lady Janet led the way to a sofa, and placed her
companion by her side.