AT COURT NETHERLEIGH.
"Oh, Robert, what a lovely day!"
Standing at the open window of her own pretty sitting-room, a room
that had been built and decorated for her during the late alterations
to Moat Grange, was Mary Dalrymple. Robert, heated and flushed, had
come swinging in at the gate, and caught the words across the lawn. He
had been out since early morning, superintending various matters; for
today was the grand fête-day at Moat Grange, and preparations were
being made for it.
Robert called it a house-warming. He had talked of it, as a thing to
come, ever since his marvellous return--and marvellous the world
thought that return still: but he had waited for his marriage with
Mary Lynn to take place, and then for the alterations to be completed
that were to make the gloomy old house into a new one, and finally for
the warm summer weather. For this was to be an open-air entertainment,
for the gratification of the poor as well as the rich. Improvements
had gone on without doors as well as within. Those cottages by the old
mill had been rebuilt, and their humble tenants were reinstated.
Gratitude and contentment had taken the place of rebellion, and the
once angry men thought they could never do enough for their young
Squire, Robert Dalrymple.
"What a lovely day!" repeated Mary.
It was the first day of June, and one of the sweetest days that
charming month ever put forth. Excepting for a light fleecy cloud here
and there, the sky was of a deep blue; the sun flickered through the
trees, that yet wore somewhat of their tender green, and caught
Robert's head as he stood looking up at his wife.
"Ay, it is," said Robert, in reply to her remark, "very lovely. But it
will be uncommonly hot, Mary; it is so already."
She leaned from the window in her cool white morning gown, smiling at
her husband. How good-looking they both were--and how happy! Every now
and then, even yet, Mary could scarcely realize the change--the
intense happiness which had succeeded to the years of what had
appeared irredeemable sorrow.
"And now, Robert," said Mary, "I think you must want breakfast--if you
have not had it."
"But I have had it. I ran in to my mother's, and took some with her
and Alice. The tents are all up, Mary, and the people are getting into
their Sunday best."
"So soon! Don't forget, if you please, sir, that we sit down to lunch
today at one o'clock precisely. We can't do without you then, you
know, though we did without you at breakfast."
Robert drew a little nearer to the window. "Where are they all?" he
asked.
"Gone for a stroll. I told them that I had a famished husband coming
in and must wait at home for him. I think Gerard and his wife have
only gone to your mother's. I don't know about Oscar and Selina.
Perhaps she is gone to see the new baby at the Rectory."
"Selina does not care for babies."
"But she cares for gossip. And Lady Mary is well enough for any amount
of that."
"What is that letter in your hand?" asked Robert.
His wife's face changed to sadness. "It contains bad news, Robert; and
though I have been chattering to you so gaily and lightly, it is lying
on my heart. Francis cannot come."
"No!"
"Some dreadful measure--important, he calls it--has to be debated upon
in committee in the House this afternoon, and Francis has to stay for
it."
"Well, I am disappointed," cried Robert.
"As we all are. Robert, I do think it is too bad. I do think Francis
might have spared this one day to us," added Mary, with a sigh. "He
seems to regard politics as quite a recreation."
"Don't be hard on him, Mary. He has little else now in the way of
recreation."
Gerard Hope and Lady Frances had come to the Grange for the fête:
Gerard having coaxed a three days' holiday out of Mr. Howard, with
whom he was a favourite, though the old gentleman had grumblingly
reminded him that his honeymoon was not long over. Oscar Dalrymple and
Selina had also arrived the previous night from their own place,
Knutford. Perhaps in his heart Oscar had not been sorry to give up the
Grange and its troubles. At any rate, he made no sign of regret. Peace
and plenty had supervened on discomfort, and he and Selina were
friends with all.
Mary had guessed rightly: Selina had gone to the Rectory. If not to
see the new baby, to see the baby's mother. The baby was more than two
weeks old, and Lady Mary was seated on a sofa, doing some useful work.
"It is early days for that, is it not?" cried Selina, as she went in.
"Not at all," laughed Lady Mary. "With all my little ones, I have to
be always at work. And I am thankful to be well enough for it. You
reached the Grange yesterday?"
"Yes--and found all well. Mamma came up to dinner last night. She is
quite young and active. Gerard and Frances have gone to see Alice, who
is much better--and then Frances is coming here to see you. Every one
seems to be better," concluded Selina.--"And what delightful weather
we have for today!"
"Where is your husband?"
"Oscar! He went across the fields to the Mead House to see old
Bridport. What a pity you cannot come out today, Mary! And who else do
you think cannot come out? At least, not out _here_."
"Who is that?"
"Francis Netherleigh. Mary Dalrymple heard from him this morning. He
is kept in London by some business connected with the House. He would
have been the star of the fête. Yes, don't laugh at me--he _would_--
and we are all vexed. I wouldn't be in that House of Commons for the
world," resentfully concluded Selina. "I do think he might have
stretched a point today!"
"Y-e-s--if he wished to come," was the doubting assent. "The question
is--did he wish it?"
"What do you mean?" asked Selina.
Mary Cleveland dropped her needle and looked at Mrs. Oscar Dalrymple.
"It has struck me that he has not cared to come here, you know.
Instead of taking up his abode at Court Netherleigh, he pays only a
flying visit to it now and then. My husband and I both think that he
does not choose to subject himself to the chance of meeting Adela."
"I should not wonder. They were talking about Adela at the Grange last
night," resumed Selina, in accents of hesitation--"saying something
about her joining a sisterhood of nurses. But I'm sure _that_ can't be
true."
"It is quite true, Selina."
Selina opened her amazed eyes. "True! Why, she would have to put her
hair under a huge cap, and wear straight-down cotton gowns and white
aprons!"
Lady Mary smiled. _That_ part of the programme would assuredly have
kept Selina from entering on anything of the sort.
"Yes; it is true," repeated Mary. "The negotiations have been pending
for some time; but it is decided at last, and Adela departs for
Yorkshire on Saturday, the day after tomorrow, to shut herself into
the institution."
"And will she never come out again?"
Lady Mary shook her head. "We cannot foresee the future, Selina. All
we know is, that Adela is most unfitted for the kind of work, and we
shall be surprised if she does not break down under it. Her frame is
slight and delicate, her instincts are sensitive and refined. Fancy
Adela dressing broken heads, or sitting up for a week with a family of
children ill with fever!"
Selina put her hands before her eyes. "Oh!" she cried in horror. "But
she surely won't have to do all that?"
"She will. She must take any case she is appointed to."
Lady Mary took up her work again, and Selina, serious and sobered for
once in her life, sat revolving what she had heard.
"Surely she will not do this, Mary!"
"Indeed she will. She is fully determined to enter upon it, and she
intends that it shall be for life. Her father came down here to
remonstrate with her: he has always had more influence over her than
any one else: but it availed nothing. They were together for an hour
in Adela's sitting-room here--and I could see how distressing to her
the interview had been. Her eyes were swollen with crying."
"Well, I can't understand it," concluded Selina, rising. "Had it been
a question of necessity, there might be reason in her wanting to make
a guy of herself, but it is not so. Those big linen caps are
dreadful."
The door of the red parlour was open as Selina gained the hall. Adela
sat there sewing: and Selina went in. How fragile and dainty and
delicate she looked, this still young and lovely woman, in her simple
muslin dress, with a ribbon at her throat and an edging of lace at the
wrists. Selina sat down.
"At work today, Adela!"
"I am making frocks for that poor Widow Jeffrey's children. But for
Mr. Cleveland I don't know what they would do, now their father is
gone."
"But all Netherleigh is en fête today So ought you to be!"
Adela raised her sad and beautiful eyes to Selina's in some surprise.
"The fête can have nothing to do with me, Selina. I am very glad it is
so fine for it: and I hope every one will enjoy it, yourself
included."
"Thank you: I'm sure I shall. Adela, what is this we hear about you?"
broke forth Selina, unable to keep silence longer. "You are going to
shut yourself up in a grim building, and wear a most disfiguring
costume, and nurse cases of fever!"
"Yes," sighed Adela.
"But you surely never will?"
"I must do it. I leave for it the day after tomorrow."
Selina lowered her voice. "Have you sat down and _counted the cost?_"
"Over and over again. It will be less painful than what I have long
been enduring: bodily discomfort is more tolerable than remorse. I
shall live a useful life, at any rate, Selina. For a long while now it
has been worse than a wasted one."
"They think--Mary does at least--that you will not be strong enough to
stand the fatigue."
"I must do my best," sighed Adela. "I hope the strength--in all
ways--will come with the need."
"I dare say they give nothing but suet puddings for dinner four days
out of the seven!"
Adela faintly smiled. "I don't expect to find luxuries, Selina."
"Do you take Darvy?"
"Darvy!" echoed Lady Adela. "No, indeed. I shall be, so to say, a
servant myself."
Selina, in very dismay, gave her hands a slight wring. To her, it
seemed that Adela might as well put herself at once out of the world.
"I must be going," she said, advancing to say farewell. "You are sure
you will not come to the fête, Adela?"
"I have done with fêtes for ever," replied Adela, as she drew down
Selina's face for a farewell kiss. "Perhaps you will write to me
sometimes?" And Selina Dalrymple, sick and sorry for the blighted
life, went out with her eyes full of tears.
The day wore on to the afternoon, and the business of the fête began.
Old and young, gentle and simple, the aristocracy surrounding the
neighbourhood, the tenant-farmers and the labourers, all congregated
on the lawns, in the gardens, and in the home field, where the tents
were placed. Of the attendants, Reuben was chief, his fresh face happy
again as of yore.
Amidst games, dancing, and various other entertainments, there was a
fancy-fair, the proceeds of it to be distributed to the poor: though
indeed it was more for fun than gain, fortune-telling, post-offices,
and mock auctions prevailing.
Alice Dalrymple had a corner in this tent for her reclining chair, and
watched with pleasure the busy scene. Lady Frances Hope stood by her;
her husband was flitting from stall to stall. Robert's coming back had
worked wonders for Alice.
"There!" said Gerard, coming up to her, his face gay as usual,
his tone light, as he handed a charming bouquet to Alice: "a fine
squabble I have had to get you this. Ten shillings those keepers of
the flower-stall wanted, if you'll believe me I gave them five, and
told them they were harpies."
"You should not have bought it for me," smiled Alice, gratefully
inhaling at the same time the scent of the flowers. "You are just what
you always were, Gerard--thinking of every one else, never of self."
"Why should I think of self?" returned Gerard, his wife having left
them for a distant stall. "But you know you always liked to lecture
me, Alice."
"For your good," she answered, raising her eyes to his.
"Was it for my good? Ah, Alice," he added, his tone changing to one of
regret, "if you had only taken me into your hands, as you might have
done--as I prayed you to do--you would have made a Solomon of me for
wisdom----"
"Hush, Gerard. Best as it is," she impressively whispered, gently
laying her hand upon his. "I was not fit--in any way. As it is, I have
you both to love, and I am supremely happy. And I think you are."
"Ah, well," quaintly conceded Gerard, "one is warned not to expect
perfect bliss in this sublunary world, so one can only make the best
of what fate and fortune bestow upon us. Would you not like to walk
round and look at the stalls, Alice? You can go comfortably, I think,
on my arm."
"Thank you; yes, I should like it--if you will take me."
Amidst the few people of note not at the fête was Lady Adela. She had
kept to her determination not to go near it. Mr. Cleveland had asked
her, when setting out himself, whether she would not go with him just
to have a peep at it, but she said she preferred to sit with Mary. She
had heard the news, spoken openly by the Rector at the luncheon-table,
that Sir Francis Netherleigh was not coming to it. And in Lady Mary's
room she sat, pursuing her work.
But as the afternoon advanced, and its hours struck, one after the
other, Adela grew weary and restless, needing a little fresh air. She
put on her garden-hat and went out: not with any view of going near
the gaiety, rather of keeping securely away from it. And little fear
was there of her encountering any stragglers, for the feasting was
just beginning, and no Englishman voluntarily walks away from that.
These later hours of the day, as the earlier ones had been, were warm
and beautiful. Adela walked gently along, until she came to Court
Netherleigh. A sudden impulse prompted her to enter the grounds. She
had never yet done so during these months of sojourn, had always
driven back the almost irrepressible yearning. Surely there would be
no harm in entering now: she did want to see the place once more
before quitting Netherleigh and civilized life for ever. No one
would see her. She was perfectly secure from interruption by Sir
Francis--and from all other people besides, the world and his wife
having gone a-gadding.
Not by the lodge-gates and the avenue did she enter; but by a little
gate, higher up the road, that she had gone in and out of so often in
the time of Aunt Margery. Drawing near to the house, she sat down
under a group of trees in view of the favourite apartment that used to
be called Miss Margery's parlour, the glass-doors of which were
standing open. Cool and gentle she looked as she sat there; she wore
the same simple muslin gown that she had worn in the morning.
Unfastening the strings of her straw hat, she pushed it somewhat back
from her delicate face, and sat on, thinking of the past.
Of the past generally and of her own particular part in it--when was
it absent from her memory? Of the means of happiness that had been
bestowed upon her in a degree Heaven seldom vouchsafes to mortal
woman, and of her terrible ingratitude. How different all would have
been now had she only been what she might have been!
Not only had she wrecked her own life, but also her husband's. The
bitter requital she had dealt out to him day after day and year after
year in return for all the loving care he lavished on her, was very
present to her now. For a long while past she had pined for his
forgiveness--just to hear him speak it; she coveted it more than ever
now that she was about to put all chance of hearing it beyond
possibility. God's pardon she hoped she was obtaining, for she prayed
for it night and day--but she yearned for her husband's.
It was close upon two years since he put her away from him and from
her home. It would be two years next Christmas since Miss Margery
died. All that time to have been feeding the bitter grief that played
upon her heart-strings!--to have been doing perpetual battle with her
remorse!
Lost in these regrets, Adela sat on, taking no heed of the time, when
a movement caught her eye. Some one, who appeared to have come in by
the same little gate, was striding towards the house. With a faint
exclamation of dismay, Adela drew back within the trees. For it was
her husband.
Of all the world that could intrude, she had deemed herself most
secure from _him_: knowing that he was detained in London, and could not
be down. How was it, ran her tumultuous thoughts. She supposed--what
was indeed the truth--that he had at the last found himself able to
come.
Yes, but only for an hour or two. She did not know that he had got
down at midday, had been to the fête, and was now on his way back to
the train, calling at home on his road. He made straight for the open
doors of Miss Margery's room, and went in.
A strange impulse seized upon Adela. What if she dared speak to him
now? to sue for the forgiveness for which her heart seemed breaking?
He could not kill her for it: and perhaps he might speak it--and she
should carry with her to her isolation so much of peace.
Without pausing to weigh the words she should utter, or the
consequences of her act, she glided after him into the room. Sir
Francis stood at a table, his back to the window, apparently taking
some papers out of his pocketbook. The sudden darkening of the
light, for she made no noise, must have caused him to turn: and there
they stood face to face, each gazing, if they so minded, at the
ravages time had made in the other. She was the more changed. Her
once-brilliant eyes were sad and gentle, her cheeks bore the hectic of
emotion, all the haughtiness had gone out of her sweet face for ever.
And he? He was noble as always, but his hair had grey threads in it,
and his forehead was lined.
"May I be allowed to speak to you for a moment?" she panted, breaking
the silence, yet hardly able to articulate "I--I----" And then she
broke down from sheer inability to draw breath.
He stood quite still by the table, as if waiting, his tall form drawn
to its full height, his face and bearing perfectly calm. But he made
no answer.
"I beg your pardon," she humbly began again, having halted just inside
the window. "I would not have presumed to follow you in, or to speak
to you, but that it is the last opportunity we shall have of meeting
on earth. I go away the day after tomorrow to seclude myself from the
world; and I--I cannot go without your forgiveness. When I saw you
come in now, not knowing even that you were at Netherleigh--an impulse
I could not resist brought me after you to ask you to forgive me. Just
to ask it!"
But still Sir Francis did not answer. Poor Adela, now white, now
hectic, went on, in her weak and imploring tone.
"It has seemed to me that if I went away for good without your
forgiveness, I should almost die as the days went on--knowing that I
could never ask it then. If you could believe how truly, how bitterly
I have repented, perhaps you would not in pity withhold it from me.
Will you not give it me? Will you not hear me?" she added, lifting her
trembling hands, as he yet made no sign. "God forgives: will not you
forgive also?"
Advancing, she sank on her knees before him, as he stood; her sad face
lifted to his in yearning. He drew a step back: he had listened in
impassive silence; but he spoke now.
"Rise, rise, Lady Adela. Do not kneel to me."
She bent forward; she laid her poor weak hands upon him; the scalding
tears began to stream down her face, so pitiful in its sad entreaty.
Sir Francis gently touched her hands with his, essaying to raise her;
a cold, distant touch, evidently not of goodwill.
"Lady Adela, I will not say another word, or allow you to say one,
until you rise. You must be aware that you are only vexing me."
She rose to her feet obediently. She stood still, apart from him. He
drew back yet, and stood still also, his arms folded.
"Tell me what it is you wish. I scarcely understand."
"Only your forgiveness, your pardon for the past. It will be a comfort
to carry it with me where I am going."
"Where is it that you are going?"
"I am going to join some ladies in Yorkshire, who pass their time in
nursing the poor and sick," she answered. "It is called a Sisterhood.
I have been thinking that perhaps in that retirement, and in the
occupation it will entail, I may find peace. Once entered, I feel sure
I shall never have courage to leave it: therefore I know that we shall
not meet again."
He did not speak.
"And I should like to thank you, if I may dare, for all your
consideration, your generous loving-kindness. Believe me, that, in the
midst of the humiliation of accepting it, I have been grateful. When
once I have entered this refuge, the necessity for your bounty will
cease. Thank you deeply for all."
"You are tired of the world?"
"Yes. It has been to me so full of shame and misery."
"Do you know that you brought a great deal of misery upon _me?_"
"Oh, it is the consciousness of _that_ that is killing me. If I could
undo it with my life, I would; and be thankful. The recollection of
the past, the cruel remorse ever haunting my conscience, has well-nigh
crushed me. I want you to say that you will try to be happy in your
life; there will be less impediment, perhaps, now that I shall be far
away: I shall be to you as one dead. If I could only know that you
were happy! that I have not quite blighted your life, as I have my
own!"
"Do you like the idea of entering this retreat?"
"As well as I could like anything that can be open to me in this
world now. It will be a refuge; and I dare to hope--I have dared to
_pray_--that I may in time gain peace."
"Could the past come over again, you would, then, be a different wife
to me?"
"Don't reproach me," she sobbed. "None can know how cruel my fate is,
how bitter my repentance. Will you not be merciful?--will you not say
that you forgive me before I go away for ever?"
"Yes, Adela, I will say it," he answered then. "I forgive you from my
heart. I will say more. If you do wish to atone for the past, to be my
true and loving wife, these arms are open to you."
He opened them as he spoke. She staggered back, unable to comprehend
or believe. He did not move: simply stood still where he was, his
extended arms inviting her.
"Do not mock me, pray," she feebly wailed. "Do not be cruel: you were
never that. I have told you how bitterly I repent--that my remorse is
greater than I can bear. If my life could undo the past, could atone
to you in the least degree, I would gladly lay it down."
"Adela, I am not mocking you. You cannot surely think it, knowing me
as you do. You may come back to me, if you will, and be once more my
dear wife. My arms are waiting for you; my heart is waiting for you:
it shall be as you will."
Panting, breathless, the hectic coming and going on her wasted cheeks,
she slowly, doubtfully advanced; and when near him she halted and fell
at his feet. His own breath was shortening, emotion nearly overcame
him. Raising her, he enfolded her to his loving heart.
For a little while, as she lay in his arms, their tears mingled
together; ay, even his were falling. A moment of agitation, such as
this, does not often visit a man during his lifetime.
"There must be no mistake in future, Adela? You will be to me a loving
wife?"
Once more, in deep humiliation, she bent before him. "Your loving and
faithful wife for ever and for ever."
Quietly enough they walked, side by side, through the park. Who,
watching them, could have suspected the agitation just lived through,
the momentous change that had taken place in their lives? Sir Francis
went on his way to the railway-station, for he had to go back to
London. Adela returned to the Rectory.
And that night, in the solitude of her chamber, its window open to the
stars of the summer sky, she spent hours on her knees in prayer and
thanksgiving.
On the following morning Mr. Cleveland took Adela to Chenevix House.
Sir Francis had been there to prepare the way for her. It was great
news for the earl and countess; but it had not much diminished my
lady's tartness. She had been too angry with Adela to come round at
once.
"Do you know where you are going this evening, Adela?" Grace asked her
in a whisper, a happy light in her eyes.
"No. Where?"
"Francis Netherleigh has some mission that is taking him to Paris--my
belief is, he has improvised it. He starts tonight, and he will take
you with him--if you are very good."
"How kind he is!" murmured Adela.
"Have a care how you behave in future, Adela," said her father, in
solemn admonition that evening, as Sir Francis stood ready to take her
out to his carriage, which waited to convey them to the station.
"I will, papa: Heaven helping me. Good-bye, dear mamma."
"Oh, good-bye, and a pleasant journey to you! It's more than you
deserve," retorted my lady.