FEAR.
Lady Gwendolyn was so stunned by what she had seen, that for full ten
minutes she stood in the center of the room, with the paper in her
hand, not as yet realizing the misfortune that had befallen her, and
yet with a dead weight at her heart, and such a sense of bitter loss
and desecration, that she felt as if it would be a blessed thing to die.
Her husband had left her with a kiss, and yet all these months he had
been living a lie. And living it boldly, although he must have known
that chance might betray him at any moment. And the Nemesis which had
been dogging his steps all that while had at last tracked him home to
his shame and her sorrow. How she pitied herself as she thought of her
great loss, and pictured the long, lonely future that she must needs
pass without him.
The prospect appalled her so much that she had almost a mind at the
minute to brave the whole world and defy her own conscience rather than
be parted from him, whom she loved better than life.
And the child that was coming to her. Oh! that was hardest, after all.
To be born to an inheritance of shame; to come into a world which had
no welcome for it; to see tears always instead of smiles in the eyes
which would have been so fond and proud, but for all this shame. No
wonder Lady Gwendolyn threw herself down despairingly on the very
floor, feeling in her abasement as if this were the only fitting place
for such as she.
Fortunately Phœbe had stolen in an hour ago, while her mistress slept,
and lighted the fire, otherwise Lady Gwendolyn would have been chilled
to the bone, for the streets were crisp with frost, and there was a
cold, clear brightness in the air. As it was, she felt so benumbed,
that presently she had to get back into bed to warm herself, and lay
there, calm now, but utterly forlorn, trying to think.
Phœbe came in after awhile on tiptoe, and was almost startled at the
wild brilliancy of the wide-open eyes.
“I fancied you were still asleep, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “May I
get you some tea now?”
“If you please,” answered Lady Gwendolyn, listening curiously for the
sound of her own voice, and surprised to find that it had much the same
tone as usual. “And be quick, Phœbe, we are going to follow Colonel
Dacre as soon as we can get away.”
Phœbe forgot her manners, and actually stared. Not an hour ago Colonel
Dacre had told her that Lady Gwendolyn would remain in Paris until
he came back to fetch her, and had bade Phœbe be specially watchful
and attentive. Phœbe had promised readily, being much attached to her
mistress, and on the strength of this recommendation she ventured to
say:
“Surely you won’t travel alone, my lady, in your state of health?
Colonel Dacre said he should be returning in a few days.”
“He will not be able,” replied Lady Gwendolyn coldly. “And I dislike
being in a hotel without him. How soon can you get ready?”
“Not before evening, my lady, I am afraid.”
“Very well, then, we must travel in the night.”
“Oh! but my lady, it would kill you.”
“Nonsense! I am much stronger than you think, and with a carriage to
ourselves I shall be able to sleep the whole way. Anyhow, I mean to go,
so pray get on as fast as you can. If you are not ready, I shall be
forced to leave you behind.”
This threat had the desired effect. Phœbe began to bustle about her
valiantly, and soon made visible progress.
But in the middle of her packing, she suddenly appeared in the salon.
“You forgot to tell me, my lady, what I was to do with Colonel Dacre’s
things.”
“The same as you do with mine, put them into the boxes.”
“Very well, my lady,” answered Phœbe, and went back to her work.
By four o’clock that afternoon the boxes were all packed and corded,
the carriage ordered, and everything ready for their departure by the
seven-o’clock train from the Northern Railway.
Lady Gwendolyn managed to swallow a cutlet, and drink a couple of
glasses of light wine, as a preparation for the journey; and then
she dressed herself, while Phœbe was down-stairs, fortifying herself
against contingencies.
But before leaving the hotel, Lady Gwendolyn put the telegram which
had given her such sorrowful information into an envelope, directed
it to Colonel Dacre, “Hotel d’Albion,” stamped it, and then put it
into her pocketbook, ready to post in Calais. She thought it explained
everything, without its being necessary for her to add a single word;
and she was too utterly miserable to write.
Neither did she care to blame him, for she remembered, as the only
thing in his extenuation, that she had given way too weakly at
first, and ought never to have married him until she had thoroughly
investigated the Borton mystery, and made him prove that he was really
free.
But she had been too eager to secure herself a little happiness, and
she had loved him so foolishly. That was her excuse; and, though it may
seem a poor one to some, there are others who will understand it, and
pity the poor desolate woman, who had found the thing she had coveted
turn to ashes in her mouth, like the apples of the Dead Sea.
“If there are any letters for you, or monsieur, where shall we forward
them, miladi?” asked the obsequious manager, as he bowed her to the
carriage.
“You had better take care of them for the present,” she replied.
“Colonel Dacre will probably be passing through Paris in a few days,
and will call for them. If he changes his plans, I will send you my
address.”
We may be sure her heart was very full as she passed through the
brilliant streets, where but two days ago she had walked proudly on her
husband’s arm, happy in his love, and unconscious of a single care. But
Phœbe was opposite her, and she was obliged to assume an indifferent
air. She even pointed out a few objects of interest to the girl, and
bore her martyrdom so finely that the other never once suspected the
real state of the case.
Phœbe tried hard to persuade her mistress to rest a little while at
Dover, for her worn, wan look made the faithful creature anxious; but
Lady Gwendolyn shook her head.
“She would have plenty of time for rest later,” she said, with a
wistful, far-away look, as if the rest she longed for was not of this
world.
On reaching town in the cold, gray, early morning, Lady Gwendolyn
drove to a quiet little hotel, and then, in spite of herself, she was
obliged to let Phœbe put her to bed, for she was so utterly weary she
could scarcely speak. But mindful of her master’s orders, Phœbe took
the law into her own hands, and made Lady Gwendolyn take a bowl of hot
soup and a glass of wine. She was passive now from sheer lassitude, and
after awhile fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Phœbe sat by her for about an hour, during which time she never once
stirred. And then she began to feel so drowsy herself, she was glad to
remember that Lady Gwendolyn had told her to go and lie down. Phœbe was
not naturally a heavy sleeper, but then she had been up all night, and
was so dead beat by this time, that no sooner did her head touch the
pillow than she lost count of everything.
The clock striking roused her, and she sprang off the bed and rubbed
her eyes, glancing anxiously at the hour.
In her dismay she found it was exactly four! Phœbe smoothed her hair
and dress, and darted off to her mistress’ room. Too much shocked
at her own neglect to think of an excuse, she knocked softly at the
door, and, receiving no answer, concluded that Lady Gwendolyn was
still asleep, and ventured to enter. But the room was empty, and the
strangest part of it all was, that Lady Gwendolyn’s bonnet, and the
dark cloak in which she had traveled, were gone from the place in which
Phœbe had put them. And so also were the muff and gloves, and minor
accessories of her outdoor toilet.
It was difficult to suppose that, after such a fatiguing journey, and
other things taken into account as well, a delicate person like Lady
Gwendolyn would have gone out into the cold. But as she was not to
be found, this seemed the only feasible solution of the mystery; and
Phœbe went down-stairs to see if she could get any information on the
subject.
In the passage she came upon a very polite waiter, who was quite
willing to tell her all he knew, and even a little more. He knew the
lady at No. 10 had gone out, for he had fetched her a carriage himself.
But after he had sufficiently admired Phœbe’s black eyes, which had
done great havoc among couriers and valets since she had been abroad,
he did hint that the head chambermaid would know more about it than he
did, as she had been summoned to the lady’s room, and had brought down
the order for the carriage.
“Perhaps you will kindly tell me where to find her, then?”
“I’ll go and fetch her, miss,” answered the obliging waiter, and
vanished, returning presently with rather a sour-faced woman of forty,
whom he introduced as Miss Smith.
And Miss Smith, who was more amiable than she looked, was able to
give Phœbe all the information she required, and a message from Lady
Gwendolyn to boot, that she had gone away upon business, and should
not, probably, be back until the evening of the next day.
“And, meantime, miss, she said you was to be sure and make yourself
comfortable, and order whatever you required,” concluded Miss Smith
affably; “and at any time that you want a little company and change,
there’s a pleasant room down-stairs, where there’s always somebody in
and out, and ready for a chat.”
Phœbe thanked her, and said she would look in later, and then went back
to her room, wondering.
Lady Gwendolyn’s strange conduct suggested a mystery; but with all the
theories Phœbe started, the idea of any difference between her master
and mistress never once occurred to her. She would have quoted them
confidently anywhere as the most united couple in England.
She passed the evening down-stairs, and allowed the obliging waiter to
languish as much as he liked, being fortified against his seductions by
her honest love for a cousin in the country. But when Miss Smith said
slyly:
“Does her ladyship often go off so sudden-like?”
Phœbe drew up her head, and tightened her lips to answer:
“Ladies like my mistress have calls upon them people like us can’t
understand. The colonel’s uncle has just died, and left him the title
and heaps of money into the bargain; so, of course, there’s a good deal
to do.”
“Of course!” repeated Miss Smith, with an air of conviction; “only it’s
so odd her ladyship didn’t take you.”
“Not at all--I wasn’t wanted. I dare say the colonel sent for her in a
hurry, and she got too flurried to know what she was about.”
“But--well, it’s no affair of mine,” observed Miss Smith; “but I should
be sorry to see a fellow creature took in. Living in a hotel one sees a
good deal of life, and there’s often people coming here who pretend to
be very fine, and aren’t any better than I am, after all.”
It was the obliging waiter’s desertion that prompted this insinuation;
but Phœbe never guessed that her own bright eyes were at the bottom of
the scandal, and drew herself up with great dignity.
“I am not one of those who take people on trust,” she said, with her
nose well _en l’air_. “If her ladyship had not been what she pretended,
she wouldn’t have been troubled with my services. I have never had
anything but good places yet, and have no fancy for coming down in the
world.”
So saying, Phœbe withdrew to her own apartment, feeling that she had
had the best of it, on the whole; and, after visiting Lady Gwendolyn’s
room to see if by any chance she had returned as mysteriously as she
had departed, she went to bed, and slept undisturbed until the morning.