II.

Seven years are a large slice out of one's life, and the seven years

spent in fighting poor dear mamma over that fixed project were not happy

ones. But on that point nothing on earth would bend me. I would not

marry Harry Verner. At last, after poor mamma's sudden death, I thought

it best to sell the remnant of the estate for what it would fetch, and

go back to England. I was twenty-five then, and had slowly learnt to

have a will of my own meanwhile. But during all that time I hardly ever

heard again of Ernest Carvalho. Once or twice, indeed, I was told he had

taken a distinguished place at Cambridge, and had gone to the bar in the

Temple; but that was all.

A month or two after my return to London my aunt Emily (who was not one

of the West Indian side of the house) managed to get me an invitation to

Mrs. Bouverie Barton's. Of course you know Mrs. Bouverie Barton, the

famous novelist, whose books everybody talks about. Well, Mrs. Barton

lives in Eaton Place, and gives charming Thursday evening receptions,

which are the recognized rendezvous of all literary and artistic London.

If there is a celebrity in town, from Paris or Vienna, Timbuctoo or the

South Sea Islands, you are sure to meet him in the little back

drawing-room at Eaton Place. The music there is always of the best, and

the conversation of the cleverest. But what pleased me most on that

occasion was the fact that Mr. Gerard Llewellyn, the author of that

singular book "Peter Martindale," was to be the lion of the party on

this particular Thursday. I had just been reading "Peter

Martindale"--who had not, that season? for it was the rage of the

day--and I had never read any novel before which so impressed me by its

weird power, its philosophical insight, and its transparent depth of

moral earnestness. So I was naturally very much pleased at the prospect

of seeing and meeting so famous a man as Mr. Gerard Llewellyn.

When we entered Mrs. Bouverie Barton's handsome rooms, we saw a great

crowd of people whom even the most unobservant stranger would instantly

have recognized as out of the common run. There was the hostess herself,

with her kindly smile and her friendly good-humoured manner, hardly, if

at all, concealing the profound intellectual strength that lay latent in

her calm grey eyes. There were artistic artists and rugged artists;

satirical novelists and gay novelists; heavy professors and deep

professors--every possible representative of "literature, science, and

art." At first, I was put off with introductions to young poetasters,

and gentlemen with an interest in cuneiform inscriptions; but I had

quite made up my mind to get a talk with Mr. Gerard Llewellyn; and to

Mr. Gerard Llewellyn our hostess at last promised to introduce me. She

crossed the room in search of him near the big fireplace.

A tall, handsome young man, with long moustache and beard, and piercing

black eyes, stood somewhat listlessly leaning against the mantelshelf,

and talking with an even, brilliant flow to a short, stout,

Indian-looking gentleman at his side. I knew in a moment that the short

stout gentleman must be Mr. Llewellyn, for in the tall young man, in

spite of seven years and the long moustaches, I recognized at once

Ernest Carvalho.

But to my surprise Mrs. Bouverie Barton brought the tall young man, and

not his neighbour, across the room with her. She must have made a

mistake, I thought. "Mr. Carvalho," she said, "I want you to come and be

introduced to the lady on the ottoman. Miss Hazleden, Mr. Carvalho!"

"I have met Mr. Carvalho long ago in Jamaica," I said warmly, "but I am

very glad indeed to meet him here again. However, I hardly expected to

see him here this evening."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Barton, with some surprise in her tone; "I thought

you asked to be introduced to the author of 'Peter Martindale.'"

"So I did," I answered; "but I understood his name was Llewellyn."

"Oh!" said Ernest Carvalho, quickly, "that is only my _nom de plume_.

But the authorship is an open secret now, and I suppose Mrs. Barton

thought you knew it."

"It is a happy chance, at any rate, Mr. Carvalho," I said, "which has

thrown us two again together."

He bowed gravely and with dignity. "You are very kind to say so," he

said. "It is always a pleasure to meet old acquaintances from Jamaica."

My heart beat violently. There was a studied coldness in his tone, I

thought, and no wonder; but if I had been in love with Ernest Carvalho

before, I felt a thousand more times in love with him now as he stood

there in his evening dress, a perfect English gentleman. He looked so

kinglike with his handsome, slightly Jewish features, his piercing black

eyes, his long moustaches, and his beautiful delicate thin-lipped mouth.

There was such an air of power in his forehead, such a speaking evidence

of high culture in his general expression. And then, he had written

"Peter Martindale!" Why, who else could possibly have written it? I

wondered at my own stupidity in not having guessed the authorship at

once. But, most terrible of all, I had probably lost his love for ever.

I might once have called Ernest Carvalho my husband, and I had utterly

alienated him by a single culpable act of foolish weakness.

"You are living in London, now?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, "we have a little home of our own in Kensington. I

am working on the staff of the _Morning Detonator_."

"Mrs. Carvalho is here this evening," said Mrs. Bouverie Barton. "Do you

know her? I suppose you do, of course."

Mrs. Carvalho! As I heard the name, I was conscious of a deep but rapid

thud, thud, thud in my ear, and after a moment it struck me that the

thud came from the quick beating of my own heart. Then Ernest Carvalho

was married!

"No," he said in reply, seeing that I did not answer immediately. "Miss

Hazleden has never met her, I believe; but I shall be happy to introduce

her;" and he turned to a sofa where two or three ladies were chatting

together, a little in the corner.

A very queenly old lady, with snow-white hair, prettily covered in part

by a dainty and becoming lace cap, held out her small white hand to me

with a gracious smile. "My mother," Ernest Carvalho said quietly; and I

took the proffered hand with a warmth that must have really surprised

the slave-born octaroon. The one thought that was uppermost in my mind

was just this, that after all Ernest Carvalho was not married. Once more

I heard the thud in my ear, and nothing else.

As soon as I could notice anybody or anything except myself, I began to

observe that Mrs. Carvalho was very handsome. She was rather dark, to be

sure, but less so than many Spanish or Italian ladies I had seen; and

her look and manner were those of a Louis Quinze marquise, with a

distinct reminiscence of the stately old Haitian French politeness. She

could never have had any education except what she had picked up for

herself; but no one would suspect the deficiency now, for she was as

clever as all half-castes, and had made the best of her advantages

meanwhile, such as they were. When she talked about the literary London

in which her son lived and moved, I felt like the colonial-bred

ignoramus I really was; and when she told me they had just been to visit

Mr. Fradelli's new picture at the studio, I was positively too ashamed

to let her see that I had never in my life heard of that famous painter

before. To think that that queenly old lady was still a slave girl at

Palmettos when my poor dear mother was a little child! And to think,

too, that my own family would have kept her a slave all her life long,

if only they had had the power! I remembered at once with a blush what

Ernest Carvalho had said to me the last time I saw him, about the people

with whom the guilt and shame of slavery really rested.

I sat, half in a maze, talking with Mrs. Carvalho all the rest of that

evening. Ernest lingered near for a while, as if to see what impression

his mother produced upon me, but soon went off, proudly I thought, to

another part of the room, where he got into conversation with the German

gentleman who wore the big blue wire-guarded spectacles. Yet I fancied

he kept looking half anxiously in our direction throughout the evening,

and I was sure I saw him catch his mother's eye furtively now and again.

As for Mrs. Carvalho, she made a conquest of me at once, and she was

evidently well pleased with her conquest. When I rose to leave, she took

both my hands in hers, and said to me warmly, "Miss Hazleden, we shall

be so pleased to see you whenever you like to come, at Merton Gardens."

Had Ernest ever told her of his proposal? I wondered.

Mrs. Bouverie Barton was very kind to me. She kept on asking me to her

Thursday evenings, and there time after time I met Ernest Carvalho. At

first, he seldom spoke to me much, but at last, partly because I always

talked so much to his mother perhaps, he began to thaw a little, and

often came up to me in quite a friendly way. "We have left Jamaica and

all that behind, Miss Hazleden," he said once, "and here in free England

we may at least be friends." Oh, how I longed to explain the whole truth

to him, and how impossible an explanation was. Besides, he had seen so

many other girls since, and very likely his boyish fancy for me had long

since passed away altogether. You can't count much on the love-making of

eighteen and twenty.

Mrs. Carvalho asked me often to their pretty little house in Merton

Gardens, and I went; but still Ernest never in any way alluded to what

had passed. Months went by, and I began to feel that I must crush that

little dream entirely out of my heart--if I could. One afternoon I went

in to Mrs. Carvalho's for a cup of five-o'clock tea, and had an

uninterrupted _tete-a-tete_ with her for half an hour. We had been

exchanging small confidences with one another for a while, and after a

pause the old lady laid her gentle hand upon my head and stroked back my

hair in such a motherly fashion. "My dear child," she said,

half-sighing, "I do wish my Ernest would only take a fancy to a sweet

young girl like you."

"Mr. Carvalho does not seem quite a marrying man," I answered, forcing a

laugh; "I notice he seldom talks to ladies, but always to men, and those

of the solemnest."

"Ah, my dear, he has had a great disappointment, a terrible

disappointment," said the mother, unburdening herself. "I can tell you

all about it, for you are a Jamaican born, and though you are one of the

'proud Palmettos' people you are not full of prejudices like the rest of

them, and so you will understand it. Before we left Jamaica he was in

love with a young lady there; he never told me her name, and that is the

one secret he has ever kept from me. Well, he talked to her often, and

he thought she was above the wicked prejudices of race and colour; she

seemed to encourage him and to be fond of his society. At last he

proposed to her. Then she wrote him a cruel, cruel letter, a letter that

he never showed me, but he told me what was in it; and it drove him away

from the island immediately. It was a letter full of wicked reproaches

about our octaroon blood, and it broke his heart with the shock of its

heartlessness. He has never cared for any woman since."

"Then does he love her still?" I asked, breathless.

"How can he? No! but he says he loves the memory of what he once thought

her. He has seen her since, somewhere in London, and spoken to her; but

he can never love her again. Yet, do you know, I feel sure he cannot

help loving her in spite of himself; and he often goes out at night, I

am sure, to watch her door, to see her come in and out, for the sake of

the love he once bore her. My Ernest is not the sort of man who can love

twice in a lifetime."

"Perhaps," I said, colouring, "if he were to ask her again she might

accept him. Things are so different here in England, and he is a famous

man now."

Mrs. Carvalho shook her head slowly. "Oh no!" she answered; "he would

never importune or trouble her. Though she has rejected him, he is too

loyal to the love he once bore her, too careful of wounding her feelings

or even her very prejudices, ever to obtrude his love again upon her

notice. If she cannot love him of herself and for himself,

spontaneously, he would not weary her out with oft asking. He will never

marry now; of that I am certain."

My eyes filled with tears. As they did so, I tried to brush them away

unseen behind my fan, but Mrs. Carvalho caught my glance, and looked

sharply through me with a sudden gleam of discovery. "Why," she said,

very slowly and distinctly, with a pause and a stress upon each word, "I

believe it must have been you yourself, Miss Hazleden." And as she spoke

she held her open hand, palm outward, stretched against me with a

gesture of horror, as one might shrink in alarm from a coiled

rattlesnake.

"Dear Mrs. Carvalho," I cried, clasping my hands before her, "do hear

me, I entreat you; do let me explain to you how it all happened."

"There is no explanation possible," she answered sternly. "Go. You have

wrecked a life that might otherwise have been happy and famous, and then

you come to a mother with an explanation!"

"That letter was not mine," I said boldly; for I saw that to put the

truth shortly in that truest and briefest form was the only way of

getting her to listen to me now.

She sank back in a chair and folded her hands faintly one above the

other. "Tell me it all," she said in a weak voice. "I will hear you."

So I told her all. I did not try to extenuate my own weakness in writing

from my mother's dictation; but I let her see what I had suffered then

and what I had suffered since. When I had finished, she drew me towards

her gently, and printed one kiss upon my forehead. "It is hard to

forget," she said softly, "but you were very young and helpless, and

your mother was a terrible woman. The iron has entered into your own

soul too. Go home, dear, and I will see about this matter."

We fell upon one another's necks, the Palmettos slave-girl and I, and

cried together glad tears for ten minutes. Then I wiped my red eyes dry,

covered them with a double fold of my veil, and ran home hurriedly in

the dusk to auntie's. It was such a terrible relief to have got it all

over.

That evening, about eleven o'clock, auntie had gone to bed, and I was

sitting up by myself, musing late over the red cinders in the little

back drawing-room grate. I felt as though I couldn't sleep, and so I was

waiting up till I got sleepy. Suddenly there came a loud knock and a

ring at the bell, after which Amelia ran in to say that a gentleman

wanted to see me in the dining-room on urgent business, and would I

please come down to speak with him immediately. I knew at once it was

Ernest.

The moment I entered the room, he never said a word, but he took my two

hands eagerly in his, and then he kissed me fervently on the lips half a

dozen times over. "And now, Edith," he said, "we need say no more about

the past, for my mother has explained it all to me; we will only think

about the future."

I have no distinct recollection what o'clock it was before Ernest left

that evening; but I know auntie sent down word twice to say it was high

time I went to bed, and poor Amelia looked awfully tired and very

sleepy. However, it was settled then and there that Ernest and I should

be married early in October.

A few days later, after the engagement had been announced to all our

friends, dear Mrs. Bouverie Barton paid me a congratulatory call. "You

are a very lucky girl, my dear," she said to me kindly. "We are half

envious of you; I wish we could find another such husband as Mr.

Carvalho for my Christina. But you have carried off the prize of the

season, and you are well worthy of him. It is a very great honour for

any girl to win and deserve the love of such a man as Ernest Carvalho."

Will you believe it, so strangely do one's first impressions and early

ideas about people cling to one, that though I had often felt before how

completely the tables had been turned since we two came to England, it

had not struck me till that moment that in the eyes of the world at

large it was Ernest who was doing an honour to me and not I who was

doing an honour to Ernest. I felt ashamed to think that Mrs. Bouverie

Barton should see instinctively the true state of the case, while I, who

loved and admired him so greatly, should have let the shadow of that old

prejudice stand even now between me and the lover I was so proud to own.

But when I took dear old Mrs. Carvalho's hand in mine the day of our

wedding, and kissed her, and called her mother for the first time, I

felt that I had left the guilt and shame of slavery for ever behind me,

and that I should strive ever after to live worthily of Ernest

Carvalho's love.

_PAUSODYNE:_