Chapter Sixteen.Vanity.I returned home late that night, but by this time my people were accustomed to my eccentricities. My father and mother made no comment when I came in looking tired and yet excited. Even George was silent. He evidently thought it useless to continue to torment me. I scarcely slept at all that night. I had fitted all the keys into their locks, and to-morrow my search would begin.Lady Ursula Redmayne, Captain Valentine, and his brother had all arranged to come and see me on the morrow in the Chamber of Myths.“We will none of us disturb your search,” Lady Ursula had said, “but the result we must—we really must know.”I could not forbid them to come, for the Valentines were also Cousin Geoffrey’s relations; but I was sorry. The secret had been in a measure confided to me alone, and I had an unreasonable feeling of jealousy in sharing it with any one.I was early at Cousin Geoffrey’s house the following day, and everything being arranged now according to the most approved method, I began my search without a moment’s delay. Oh! the pathos of the task. Oh! the strange, dreary, undefined sense of loneliness which came over me as one by one I opened those drawers, and looked into the secrets of the dead man’s life. The drawers of the different cabinets in the Chamber of Myths were filled, not with rubbish, but with strange, foreign curiosities. A sweet scent came from them which brought me a waft of another and richer world. Sandal-wood and spices, old-fashioned silks, gorgeous brocades, boxes full of exquisite dyes, shawls from Cashmere, coloured beads from Japan, piles of embroidery, Indian muslins of the softest and finest texture, all lay neatly folded and put away in the drawers of the cabinets in the Chamber of Myths.Were these things myths? Were they myths in the life of a man who had gone down to his grave leaving the world no whit better for his presence? He had hoarded his wealth instead of using it. He, living in the richest of homes, had yet been practically homeless; he, with a long rent-roll and a heavy banker’s account, had yet been poorest of the poor. He had never known children to love him or a wife to render his existence beautiful. On his tombstone only one word could be written—Vanity.I felt all these thoughts. They coursed through my brain as I opened the sacred drawers where the delicate riches from Eastern lands lay treasured up. No clue had I yet obtained to guide me in my search—no papers, no memoranda of any sort. The Eastern perfume began presently to intoxicate me—it seemed to get into my head, to put a light into my eyes and a flush of roses on my cheeks. I felt under a spell. I should not have been the least surprised if Cousin Geoffrey himself had opened the door of the Chamber of Myths and come up to my side and asked me what I did opening coffins. For in one sense these closed drawers were coffins. They held, I made no doubt, many buried hopes.At one o’clock the rattling of gay, light laughter was heard on the stairs, and Lady Ursula, accompanied by my two relatives—for by these names I was pleased to designate the Valentines—entered.“We have brought lunch,” said Lady Ursula; “a delicious basketful—containing all kinds of good things. Rupert must open it. Well, Rosamund, what rosy cheeks! Have you found the will?”“No,” I said. “Please, Lady Ursula—”“Well, what does this most pleading of pleases mean?”“We are not going to lunch in this room,” I said.“Why not? It is a charming room to lunch in. Oh, what a love of a cloth! I must open it. See the delicacy of this ground, and these fairy stitches, and that embroidery. We will spread it over the centre Queen Anne table, and put our lunch on it.”“You will not,” I said. “The cloth does not belong to us. We have no right to desecrate it.”“Desecrate! Honour, you mean, Rosamund. Oh! Rupert, Rupert,” continued Lady Ursula, turning to her future husband, “I do pray and trust that you will be discovered to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir. I absolutely pine for that cloth. I long for it as intensely as I used to long for Rosamund’s ruby ring.”Lady Ursula’s volatile spirits had a depressing effect on me. I was determined, however, not to yield to her whims. We had no right to spoil Cousin Geoffrey’s Chamber of Myths by dining in it.I took my friends down to the great drawing-room, and there we spread our repast; truth to tell, we had a merry time. Afterwards we all returned to the Chamber of Myths.“You alone have the right to continue the search, Miss Lindley,” said my cousin Tom Valentine.“I think I had better go on with it,” I said, steadily. “I have a certain plan marked out in my own mind, and if any one interfered with me now I should only feel puzzled.”“You must certainly continue the search,” said Captain Valentine.“And we will look at these loves of windows,” said Lady Ursula.My three visitors—for in one sense I considered them my visitors—went to the far end of the room and left me in comparative peace. With all my heart I wished them away, but I had not the courage to desire them to go. I felt also that I had not the right.The search, however, was now becoming irksome. The Eastern treasures no longer exercised a spell over me. I was anxious for the daylight to wane—for the time to arrive when I might re-lock the drawers, and return the keys to Mr Gray.I had now completely examined five of the cabinets. I approached the sixth, which stood exactly under the window which contained the representation of Christ blessing the children. I opened the top drawer of this cabinet with a renewed sense of great weariness, of fatigue of both mind and body. The first thing I saw lying by itself in the little shallow drawer was a thick envelope with my name on the cover—“Miss Rosamund Lindley.” I seized it with trembling fingers. I felt suddenly cold and faint—my heart seemed to stop—my brain to reel. I knew that my search was ended.“What is the matter?” said Lady Ursula, coming up to me quickly.“Nothing,” I replied, “except—except this—my search is over.”I held up the thick packet to her. She half screamed, and called the two Valentines to look. “Read it, Rosamund, read it,” she said. “Read the contents of that letter quickly, dear Rosamund.”“No,” I answered, “I could not take in the words now, my head aches, my hands shake, I am tired—I am very, very tired. I must read the words written to me inside this thick envelope when I am alone.”“Oh, but that is too bad. We are consumed with curiosity. Won’t you open the envelope? Won’t you read just a few words to satisfy us that you are really the heir.”“I may be as little the heir as you, Lady Ursula. The packet with my name on the cover proves nothing. But I am agitated—perhaps it is with hope. I should be glad to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir, for I am tired of great poverty. I am not a bit ashamed to say this; but I cannot read the letter which either confirms or destroys my hopes in the presence of any one else.”Lady Ursula looked annoyed. Captain Valentine also plainly expressed a sense of disappointment on his face, but my cousin Tom heartily approved my resolution.“You are right,” he said; “we will all go away. You shall read your letter in peace.”“You need not go away,” I said. “I am going myself. I will not read this letter until I get home. Now I must lock these drawers and return the keys to Mr Gray.”“And you will be sure to write at once and tell us the news, Rosamund,” said Lady Ursula.“Better still,” exclaimed Captain Valentine, “let us meet here to-morrow. Let Miss Lindley tell us the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s letter in person.”After a little consultation this plan was resolved upon. We four were to meet in the Chamber of Myths at noon on the following day.After this I took my leave, ordered a hansom, and drove to Mr Gray’s.He was in and disengaged. I entered his room without any delay. The moment he saw my face he jumped up, seized my two hands, shook them heartily, and exclaimed—“You have succeeded, Miss Lindley. I know by your face that you have succeeded.”“I have found this,” I answered, holding up the packet.“Yes, yes; in finding that you have found everything. What a relief this is to me. That eccentric clause of the will was the last straw to try the temper of any man. Now let me congratulate you. I do so most heartily.”“I don’t know what for; this solid packet may mean nothing to me.”“Oh! but it does.”“You know its contents then?”“Perfectly. Sit down, read your letter; know for yourself what a fortunate—what a really fortunate girl you are.”“I won’t read my letter now,” I answered. “I will take it home and read every word, study each sentence in my own room; but not now. You excite me. I am tired. I cannot bear any more.”“Poor little girl,” said Mr Gray, in quite a tender voice. “There never was a more plucky creature than you, Rosamund Lindley; but you are a true woman after all. Well, my dear, go home. Early to-morrow I shall see you again.”“I am to meet Lady Ursula Redmayne and Captain Valentine and his brother in Cousin Geoffrey’s house at twelve o’clock to-morrow,” I replied.“What!” answered Mr Gray. “Has Tom Valentine returned? Do you know the Valentines—your cousins?”“Are they really my cousins?”“Yes, three or four times removed; but undoubtedly there was at one time a relationship. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your cousin Tom Valentine?”“I scarcely know that I think of him at all,” I replied.“What! Have you not discovered that he is a traveller—a man who has met with remarkable adventures; a man of the world, a gentleman, a man of culture; also, and above all, an Englishman, with a true and honest heart?”“I have had no time to find out these many excellent qualities,” I answered back.“You will soon see them,” responded Mr Gray. “Your eyes will be opened. You will perceive what I mean; all, all that I mean. So you have already met Tom Valentine; and Tom has returned just in time. What an extraordinary coincidence! what a piece of luck!”“I don’t pretend to understand you,” I answered.“No, my dear; go home and read your letter. God bless you, Rosamund. Upon my word, this day’s work has taken a load off my mind.”He again wrung my hand. I had no time to think of his extraordinary rapture, nor of his queer uncalled-for words about Tom Valentine. Everything he said came back to me by and by; but I had no room in my mind to dwell upon his words at that moment. There was no doubt whatever that the packet held in my hand brought good fortune to me and mine. Ugly Poverty might take to himself wings and fly away—he and I—he and those I loved, would not have even a bowing acquaintance in future. This fact was quite sufficient to fill my mind to the exclusion of all other ideas. I went home early—had tea with my mother—said nothing at all about the packet which lay in my pocket, but listened to a long and miserable letter from Jack, while I held in my hand a little note from Hetty, which I knew must be sad, but which scarcely troubled me at that moment, for I also knew how soon I could relieve my dear little sister’s anxieties; how absolutely it now lay in my power to comfort and aid her, and to give to Jack all the good things which would make him a manly fellow once more.I do not think in my whole life I ever felt happier than I did that evening. My fatigue had vanished—a feeling of absolute rest reigned in my heart; even the annoyances, the vexations, the penury of home brought to me a sense of rejoicing. It was sweet to know that with a touch of my magic wand I could sweep them once and for ever out of sight.If I was happy, however, this could scarcely be said of any of the rest of the family. My mother had a headache; she had also caught cold, and the cough, which always more or less racked her slender frame, was worse than usual.My father kept looking at her anxiously. He really did love my beautiful, gentle mother very much. George was disagreeable and morose; and my mother’s eyes kept straying in the direction where Jack’s photograph stood. She was thinking no doubt of that last letter from the poor fellow. Never mind, these were passing clouds, and knowing how soon I could chase them away, I felt scarcely any pain as I watched them.At last, one by one, my family bade me good-night. I stayed down-stairs to put the little house in order, and then, going up to my room, locked my door, and prepared to acquaint myself with the contents of that letter, which was to turn all the dross of my life into pure and glittering gold.
I returned home late that night, but by this time my people were accustomed to my eccentricities. My father and mother made no comment when I came in looking tired and yet excited. Even George was silent. He evidently thought it useless to continue to torment me. I scarcely slept at all that night. I had fitted all the keys into their locks, and to-morrow my search would begin.
Lady Ursula Redmayne, Captain Valentine, and his brother had all arranged to come and see me on the morrow in the Chamber of Myths.
“We will none of us disturb your search,” Lady Ursula had said, “but the result we must—we really must know.”
I could not forbid them to come, for the Valentines were also Cousin Geoffrey’s relations; but I was sorry. The secret had been in a measure confided to me alone, and I had an unreasonable feeling of jealousy in sharing it with any one.
I was early at Cousin Geoffrey’s house the following day, and everything being arranged now according to the most approved method, I began my search without a moment’s delay. Oh! the pathos of the task. Oh! the strange, dreary, undefined sense of loneliness which came over me as one by one I opened those drawers, and looked into the secrets of the dead man’s life. The drawers of the different cabinets in the Chamber of Myths were filled, not with rubbish, but with strange, foreign curiosities. A sweet scent came from them which brought me a waft of another and richer world. Sandal-wood and spices, old-fashioned silks, gorgeous brocades, boxes full of exquisite dyes, shawls from Cashmere, coloured beads from Japan, piles of embroidery, Indian muslins of the softest and finest texture, all lay neatly folded and put away in the drawers of the cabinets in the Chamber of Myths.
Were these things myths? Were they myths in the life of a man who had gone down to his grave leaving the world no whit better for his presence? He had hoarded his wealth instead of using it. He, living in the richest of homes, had yet been practically homeless; he, with a long rent-roll and a heavy banker’s account, had yet been poorest of the poor. He had never known children to love him or a wife to render his existence beautiful. On his tombstone only one word could be written—Vanity.
I felt all these thoughts. They coursed through my brain as I opened the sacred drawers where the delicate riches from Eastern lands lay treasured up. No clue had I yet obtained to guide me in my search—no papers, no memoranda of any sort. The Eastern perfume began presently to intoxicate me—it seemed to get into my head, to put a light into my eyes and a flush of roses on my cheeks. I felt under a spell. I should not have been the least surprised if Cousin Geoffrey himself had opened the door of the Chamber of Myths and come up to my side and asked me what I did opening coffins. For in one sense these closed drawers were coffins. They held, I made no doubt, many buried hopes.
At one o’clock the rattling of gay, light laughter was heard on the stairs, and Lady Ursula, accompanied by my two relatives—for by these names I was pleased to designate the Valentines—entered.
“We have brought lunch,” said Lady Ursula; “a delicious basketful—containing all kinds of good things. Rupert must open it. Well, Rosamund, what rosy cheeks! Have you found the will?”
“No,” I said. “Please, Lady Ursula—”
“Well, what does this most pleading of pleases mean?”
“We are not going to lunch in this room,” I said.
“Why not? It is a charming room to lunch in. Oh, what a love of a cloth! I must open it. See the delicacy of this ground, and these fairy stitches, and that embroidery. We will spread it over the centre Queen Anne table, and put our lunch on it.”
“You will not,” I said. “The cloth does not belong to us. We have no right to desecrate it.”
“Desecrate! Honour, you mean, Rosamund. Oh! Rupert, Rupert,” continued Lady Ursula, turning to her future husband, “I do pray and trust that you will be discovered to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir. I absolutely pine for that cloth. I long for it as intensely as I used to long for Rosamund’s ruby ring.”
Lady Ursula’s volatile spirits had a depressing effect on me. I was determined, however, not to yield to her whims. We had no right to spoil Cousin Geoffrey’s Chamber of Myths by dining in it.
I took my friends down to the great drawing-room, and there we spread our repast; truth to tell, we had a merry time. Afterwards we all returned to the Chamber of Myths.
“You alone have the right to continue the search, Miss Lindley,” said my cousin Tom Valentine.
“I think I had better go on with it,” I said, steadily. “I have a certain plan marked out in my own mind, and if any one interfered with me now I should only feel puzzled.”
“You must certainly continue the search,” said Captain Valentine.
“And we will look at these loves of windows,” said Lady Ursula.
My three visitors—for in one sense I considered them my visitors—went to the far end of the room and left me in comparative peace. With all my heart I wished them away, but I had not the courage to desire them to go. I felt also that I had not the right.
The search, however, was now becoming irksome. The Eastern treasures no longer exercised a spell over me. I was anxious for the daylight to wane—for the time to arrive when I might re-lock the drawers, and return the keys to Mr Gray.
I had now completely examined five of the cabinets. I approached the sixth, which stood exactly under the window which contained the representation of Christ blessing the children. I opened the top drawer of this cabinet with a renewed sense of great weariness, of fatigue of both mind and body. The first thing I saw lying by itself in the little shallow drawer was a thick envelope with my name on the cover—“Miss Rosamund Lindley.” I seized it with trembling fingers. I felt suddenly cold and faint—my heart seemed to stop—my brain to reel. I knew that my search was ended.
“What is the matter?” said Lady Ursula, coming up to me quickly.
“Nothing,” I replied, “except—except this—my search is over.”
I held up the thick packet to her. She half screamed, and called the two Valentines to look. “Read it, Rosamund, read it,” she said. “Read the contents of that letter quickly, dear Rosamund.”
“No,” I answered, “I could not take in the words now, my head aches, my hands shake, I am tired—I am very, very tired. I must read the words written to me inside this thick envelope when I am alone.”
“Oh, but that is too bad. We are consumed with curiosity. Won’t you open the envelope? Won’t you read just a few words to satisfy us that you are really the heir.”
“I may be as little the heir as you, Lady Ursula. The packet with my name on the cover proves nothing. But I am agitated—perhaps it is with hope. I should be glad to be Cousin Geoffrey’s heir, for I am tired of great poverty. I am not a bit ashamed to say this; but I cannot read the letter which either confirms or destroys my hopes in the presence of any one else.”
Lady Ursula looked annoyed. Captain Valentine also plainly expressed a sense of disappointment on his face, but my cousin Tom heartily approved my resolution.
“You are right,” he said; “we will all go away. You shall read your letter in peace.”
“You need not go away,” I said. “I am going myself. I will not read this letter until I get home. Now I must lock these drawers and return the keys to Mr Gray.”
“And you will be sure to write at once and tell us the news, Rosamund,” said Lady Ursula.
“Better still,” exclaimed Captain Valentine, “let us meet here to-morrow. Let Miss Lindley tell us the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s letter in person.”
After a little consultation this plan was resolved upon. We four were to meet in the Chamber of Myths at noon on the following day.
After this I took my leave, ordered a hansom, and drove to Mr Gray’s.
He was in and disengaged. I entered his room without any delay. The moment he saw my face he jumped up, seized my two hands, shook them heartily, and exclaimed—
“You have succeeded, Miss Lindley. I know by your face that you have succeeded.”
“I have found this,” I answered, holding up the packet.
“Yes, yes; in finding that you have found everything. What a relief this is to me. That eccentric clause of the will was the last straw to try the temper of any man. Now let me congratulate you. I do so most heartily.”
“I don’t know what for; this solid packet may mean nothing to me.”
“Oh! but it does.”
“You know its contents then?”
“Perfectly. Sit down, read your letter; know for yourself what a fortunate—what a really fortunate girl you are.”
“I won’t read my letter now,” I answered. “I will take it home and read every word, study each sentence in my own room; but not now. You excite me. I am tired. I cannot bear any more.”
“Poor little girl,” said Mr Gray, in quite a tender voice. “There never was a more plucky creature than you, Rosamund Lindley; but you are a true woman after all. Well, my dear, go home. Early to-morrow I shall see you again.”
“I am to meet Lady Ursula Redmayne and Captain Valentine and his brother in Cousin Geoffrey’s house at twelve o’clock to-morrow,” I replied.
“What!” answered Mr Gray. “Has Tom Valentine returned? Do you know the Valentines—your cousins?”
“Are they really my cousins?”
“Yes, three or four times removed; but undoubtedly there was at one time a relationship. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your cousin Tom Valentine?”
“I scarcely know that I think of him at all,” I replied.
“What! Have you not discovered that he is a traveller—a man who has met with remarkable adventures; a man of the world, a gentleman, a man of culture; also, and above all, an Englishman, with a true and honest heart?”
“I have had no time to find out these many excellent qualities,” I answered back.
“You will soon see them,” responded Mr Gray. “Your eyes will be opened. You will perceive what I mean; all, all that I mean. So you have already met Tom Valentine; and Tom has returned just in time. What an extraordinary coincidence! what a piece of luck!”
“I don’t pretend to understand you,” I answered.
“No, my dear; go home and read your letter. God bless you, Rosamund. Upon my word, this day’s work has taken a load off my mind.”
He again wrung my hand. I had no time to think of his extraordinary rapture, nor of his queer uncalled-for words about Tom Valentine. Everything he said came back to me by and by; but I had no room in my mind to dwell upon his words at that moment. There was no doubt whatever that the packet held in my hand brought good fortune to me and mine. Ugly Poverty might take to himself wings and fly away—he and I—he and those I loved, would not have even a bowing acquaintance in future. This fact was quite sufficient to fill my mind to the exclusion of all other ideas. I went home early—had tea with my mother—said nothing at all about the packet which lay in my pocket, but listened to a long and miserable letter from Jack, while I held in my hand a little note from Hetty, which I knew must be sad, but which scarcely troubled me at that moment, for I also knew how soon I could relieve my dear little sister’s anxieties; how absolutely it now lay in my power to comfort and aid her, and to give to Jack all the good things which would make him a manly fellow once more.
I do not think in my whole life I ever felt happier than I did that evening. My fatigue had vanished—a feeling of absolute rest reigned in my heart; even the annoyances, the vexations, the penury of home brought to me a sense of rejoicing. It was sweet to know that with a touch of my magic wand I could sweep them once and for ever out of sight.
If I was happy, however, this could scarcely be said of any of the rest of the family. My mother had a headache; she had also caught cold, and the cough, which always more or less racked her slender frame, was worse than usual.
My father kept looking at her anxiously. He really did love my beautiful, gentle mother very much. George was disagreeable and morose; and my mother’s eyes kept straying in the direction where Jack’s photograph stood. She was thinking no doubt of that last letter from the poor fellow. Never mind, these were passing clouds, and knowing how soon I could chase them away, I felt scarcely any pain as I watched them.
At last, one by one, my family bade me good-night. I stayed down-stairs to put the little house in order, and then, going up to my room, locked my door, and prepared to acquaint myself with the contents of that letter, which was to turn all the dross of my life into pure and glittering gold.
Chapter Seventeen.Ugly Poverty and I.Cousin Geoffrey had sealed his letter with red wax. He had stamped the seal with his own signet-ring, which gave the impress of a coat-of-arms with a quaint device. That device became a household word with me by and by, but I was too impatient even to trouble myself to decipher it just then. I spread the thick sheets of paper before me, and gave myself up to the luxury of satisfying the most burning curiosity which surely ever besieged a girl.Cousin Geoffrey’s letter—a letter addressed to myself, well and carefully written—was far too long to make it possible for me to quote it here. I read it once, twice, three times. Then I sat with my hands before me, the open sheets of paper lying on my lap, my eyes fixed on vacancy. Two or three candles were lighted in my room; one by one they burnt low in the socket, and expired. I was in the dark, not mentally but physically. There was no darkness in my mental vision that night; my mind was so active that my body was incapable of feeling either fatigue or cold, and my eyes were incapable of noticing the thick darkness which surrounded them.This was my position: I was an heiress of Cousin Geoffrey’s wealth. On certain conditions I was to inherit exactly one-half of his houses and lands, of his money in stocks and shares, and in the English Funds. I could have for my own, exactly one-half of the marvellous treasures which filled the old house. I could divide those shawls from Cashmere, those sandal-wood boxes from China, those quaint embroideries from Persia. Even the half of those lovely painted windows in the Chamber of Myths would belong to me.It was very funny. I could not help almost laughing, as I sat in the dark, with Cousin Geoffrey’s open letter on my lap, over the persistency with which I would think of the treasures which the Chamber of Myths contained. Which Cashmere shawl might I take? Which piece of embroidery might I clasp to my heart as my very, very own? Above all, which of the painted windows might in future be known as Rosamund Lindley’s window—hers and no one else’s?I felt far, far more anxious about these comparatively minor matters than I did about the money in the Funds and the landed possessions, one-half of which also belonged to me.Alack and alas! the news in the letter had nearly stunned me. I found that I was incapable of clear reasoning. What a fool I was—what an idiotic girl—to plan and consider, and think of Cashmere shawls and Indian embroideries and painted windows, and wonder which would fall to my share—which of the beautiful things I might claim as my own.My own! Cousin Geoffrey gave me nothing, nothing whatever of all his wealth as my own absolutely.On a certain condition I might have half. Half of the money, half of the treasures, should be settled on me and on my children for ever, if—ah, here was the rub, here was the astounding discovery which took my breath away and paralysed me, and made me incapable of any consecutive thought beyond a burning sense of shame and anger. I was to have these riches if I fulfilled a condition.This was the condition. I was to marry the heir of all the other half of the wealth and the beauty. The other half of Cousin Geoffrey’s riches was left to my almost unknown cousin, Tom Valentine. He was to possess his half if he married me. I was to take possession of my half on the day I became his wife.“I like you, Rosamund Lindley,” Cousin Geoffrey had said in his letter; “you are no beggar, and no fawner. You are a simple-minded, honest, downright English girl. You have courage, too, and I always respect courage. You have come to me to help you with your art. You have done this with such a ludicrous, belief in yourself and your own powers, with such a simple sort of vanity, that I should probably have tried to cure it by granting your request had you come to me as a stranger. But I cannot look upon you as a stranger, Rosamund; you belong to my own kith and kin, and you are the daughter of the woman I love best on earth. Because you are Mary Rutherford’s daughter I give you half my wealthif you fulfil the conditions I require!”I knew these words of the long letter almost by heart; I said them over to myself many times.When the first light of morning dawned I rose from my chair, stretched my cramped limbs, pinched my arms to see if I were awake or if I had only been going through a horrid nightmare; opened the window, took in a draught of the cool morning air, and putting Cousin Geoffrey’s letter into my pocket went down-stairs.The place looked as I had left it last night—our maid-of-all-work had not yet come down-stairs. Ugly Poverty surrounded me, and once more it hemmed me tightly around, and made its presence more felt even than of old, I had looked into a land of promise—an ideal and lovely country. I had thought to enter; but alas! iron bars of pride, of maidenly modesty, of right feeling, of even righteousness, kept me out. All the womanhood within me declared wildly and desperately—“Even to enter into that promised land you shall not sell yourself?”Ugly Poverty and I must still be close acquaintances—nay more, we must be intimate friends, even comrades, walking the path of life side by side and hand in hand.
Cousin Geoffrey had sealed his letter with red wax. He had stamped the seal with his own signet-ring, which gave the impress of a coat-of-arms with a quaint device. That device became a household word with me by and by, but I was too impatient even to trouble myself to decipher it just then. I spread the thick sheets of paper before me, and gave myself up to the luxury of satisfying the most burning curiosity which surely ever besieged a girl.
Cousin Geoffrey’s letter—a letter addressed to myself, well and carefully written—was far too long to make it possible for me to quote it here. I read it once, twice, three times. Then I sat with my hands before me, the open sheets of paper lying on my lap, my eyes fixed on vacancy. Two or three candles were lighted in my room; one by one they burnt low in the socket, and expired. I was in the dark, not mentally but physically. There was no darkness in my mental vision that night; my mind was so active that my body was incapable of feeling either fatigue or cold, and my eyes were incapable of noticing the thick darkness which surrounded them.
This was my position: I was an heiress of Cousin Geoffrey’s wealth. On certain conditions I was to inherit exactly one-half of his houses and lands, of his money in stocks and shares, and in the English Funds. I could have for my own, exactly one-half of the marvellous treasures which filled the old house. I could divide those shawls from Cashmere, those sandal-wood boxes from China, those quaint embroideries from Persia. Even the half of those lovely painted windows in the Chamber of Myths would belong to me.
It was very funny. I could not help almost laughing, as I sat in the dark, with Cousin Geoffrey’s open letter on my lap, over the persistency with which I would think of the treasures which the Chamber of Myths contained. Which Cashmere shawl might I take? Which piece of embroidery might I clasp to my heart as my very, very own? Above all, which of the painted windows might in future be known as Rosamund Lindley’s window—hers and no one else’s?
I felt far, far more anxious about these comparatively minor matters than I did about the money in the Funds and the landed possessions, one-half of which also belonged to me.
Alack and alas! the news in the letter had nearly stunned me. I found that I was incapable of clear reasoning. What a fool I was—what an idiotic girl—to plan and consider, and think of Cashmere shawls and Indian embroideries and painted windows, and wonder which would fall to my share—which of the beautiful things I might claim as my own.
My own! Cousin Geoffrey gave me nothing, nothing whatever of all his wealth as my own absolutely.
On a certain condition I might have half. Half of the money, half of the treasures, should be settled on me and on my children for ever, if—ah, here was the rub, here was the astounding discovery which took my breath away and paralysed me, and made me incapable of any consecutive thought beyond a burning sense of shame and anger. I was to have these riches if I fulfilled a condition.
This was the condition. I was to marry the heir of all the other half of the wealth and the beauty. The other half of Cousin Geoffrey’s riches was left to my almost unknown cousin, Tom Valentine. He was to possess his half if he married me. I was to take possession of my half on the day I became his wife.
“I like you, Rosamund Lindley,” Cousin Geoffrey had said in his letter; “you are no beggar, and no fawner. You are a simple-minded, honest, downright English girl. You have courage, too, and I always respect courage. You have come to me to help you with your art. You have done this with such a ludicrous, belief in yourself and your own powers, with such a simple sort of vanity, that I should probably have tried to cure it by granting your request had you come to me as a stranger. But I cannot look upon you as a stranger, Rosamund; you belong to my own kith and kin, and you are the daughter of the woman I love best on earth. Because you are Mary Rutherford’s daughter I give you half my wealthif you fulfil the conditions I require!”
I knew these words of the long letter almost by heart; I said them over to myself many times.
When the first light of morning dawned I rose from my chair, stretched my cramped limbs, pinched my arms to see if I were awake or if I had only been going through a horrid nightmare; opened the window, took in a draught of the cool morning air, and putting Cousin Geoffrey’s letter into my pocket went down-stairs.
The place looked as I had left it last night—our maid-of-all-work had not yet come down-stairs. Ugly Poverty surrounded me, and once more it hemmed me tightly around, and made its presence more felt even than of old, I had looked into a land of promise—an ideal and lovely country. I had thought to enter; but alas! iron bars of pride, of maidenly modesty, of right feeling, of even righteousness, kept me out. All the womanhood within me declared wildly and desperately—
“Even to enter into that promised land you shall not sell yourself?”
Ugly Poverty and I must still be close acquaintances—nay more, we must be intimate friends, even comrades, walking the path of life side by side and hand in hand.
Chapter Eighteen.Are the Conditions Impossible?“Now, my dear young lady,” said Mr Gray; “now, my dear, good Miss Rosamund, let me ask you if you are doing right in flinging the gifts of Providence from you?”“I am doing perfectly right,” I retorted with spirit.“Pardon me, please do pardon me; youth is so impulsive and hot-headed; youth is so assertive, so positive, it must be guided by age—it simply must. Now, Miss Rosamund, will you sit down in this easy-chair? Will you sit perfectly still, and allow me to speak for three or four minutes?”“Yes, you may certainly do that,” I replied.“Take this chair, then; lean back in it. It is known to have the most soothing effect imaginable on irritable nerves.”“Thank you very much; but my nerves are not irritable, and I prefer to stand.”“Good heavens! Rosamund Lindley’s nerves not irritable. Rosamund, who is all fire and impatience; all quicksilver; the most sensitive, the most nervous of mortals.”“Oh, please, please, Mr Gray, don’t discuss me. If you have anything to say, please say it quickly.”Mr Gray was not a lawyer for nothing. He saw he had gone too far; his manner altered—he became business-like, grave, polite, and as a matter of course, persuasive.“You have been left this money, Miss Lindley,” he said, “on, I grant you, very peculiar conditions.”“On impossible conditions,” I interrupted.“Now, now, that is the point I am coming to;arethe conditions impossible?”“They are. Mr Gray, if you have nothing more to add I will say good-morning.”“I have a great deal more to add. This is a very serious matter, and you must not be a child about it.”“A child?”“Yes! a baby, if you like. The fact is, Miss Lindley, I have no patience with you.”“You have not?”“No, I have none whatever! You are both conceited and selfish. I am ashamed of you.”Mr Gray spoke in a very angry tone. Strange as it may seem, I quite enjoyed it. At that moment it was positively nice to be scolded.“I will listen to you,” I said, in a weak voice.“You are very selfish,” pursued Mr Gray. “Providence intends you to be wealthy, and to help all your relatives. Providence means you to be a blessing and assistance to your family. You prefer to be a hindrance, a clog, a kill-joy, a spoil-all. Your mother is delicate, your father poor, your brothers without any opening in life. You can remove the thorns out of all their paths. You refuse to do this. Why? Because of pride. Providence, in addition to wealth, offers you the best fellow in Christendom for a husband. You won’t even look at him. You refuse to make him happy by becoming his wife, and you leave him in a state of poverty, because he can not inherit the fortune which is offered to him without your assistance. Thousands and tens of thousands of pounds are placed at your feet. What a power they are! what a grand power! But you won’t have anything to say to them, and they go to enrich the Jews, and the Society for Befriending Lame Cats, or some other preposterous charity, I’m sure I can’t say what.” Mr Gray’s voice rose to a perfect storm of indignation as he spoke of the provisions Cousin Geoffrey had made for the spending of his wealth in case I refused to comply with the conditions of his will.“Well, what am I to do?” I said, when the angry little man paused again for want of breath. “Am I, influenced by the reasons you have mentioned, to lower myself, to have no regard at all for those natural feelings of pride which all girls ought to have, and go up to my almost unknown cousin and beg and pray of him to take pity on me, and allow me to become his wife?”“Who said you were to do anything of the kind?”“Please, Mr Gray,whatam I to do?”The lawyer jumped from his chair, rushed over to me, and seized both my hands.“Now you are reasonable,” he said; “now you are delightful—now you shall listen to my scheme.”“Please what is your scheme?”“Listen, listen. In the first place, Tom knows nothing of the conditions of the will.”“Of course he does not. How could he know?”“Listen, Miss Rosamund. Tom Valentine shall fall in love with you in the ordinary and orthodox fashion, and shall propose to you in orthodox fashion. And you shall fall in love with him.”“How can you bring that about?”“Never mind. Nothing shall be done to hurt your pride. My part in the matter is simple enough. I give you and Tom Valentine an opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other. I have a place at Putney—a charming place. You shall pay me a visit there.”“I won’t go,” I said.“Yes, you will go—you will do what I tell you.”“No,” I repeated; “you ask me to Putney for an object. You mean to conquer me—I won’t be conquered. I shall be very glad to visit you, if you will be kind enough to invite me on another occasion. But I am not going to meet Mr Valentine; I am not going to meet him, because at last I know the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”Mr Gray rubbed his hands with impatience. “You are doing wrong,” he said stoutly. “You are offered a gift which will befriend you and yours, which will help your mother who is ill.”“How do you know my mother is ill?” I asked testily.The lawyer gave me a piercing glance, he turned away.“Your mother is not well,” he said evasively. It was curious, but that tone in his voice broke me down. I said—“A visit to you, after all, involves nothing. Say no more about it—I will come.”I went home that day feeling uncommonly weak and small. My excitement had run its course—the re-action had set in; I felt dead tired and languid. I had a slight headache too, which I knew would get worse by and by. In short, I was more or less in a state of collapse, and I felt that tears were not far from my eyes.It seemed to me that I had just been going through a very severe fight, and that I was in danger of being beaten. I knew this by the fact that in my collapsed condition I did not much care whether I was beaten or not.I arrived home to find matters a little more dismal even than usual. My mother’s cough was so bad that the doctor had been sent for. He had prescribed (in those comfortable, unfaltering words which doctors are so fond of using) the Riviera as the sovereign remedy. My mother must leave the harsh east winds of our English spring, and go into the land of balmy breezes and colour and flowers.“You must go without delay, Mrs Lindley,” the doctor said, and then he shook hands with her, and pocketed his fee, and went away.His visit was over when I reached home, and my mother was seated, wrapped up in a white fleecy shawl, by the little fire in the drawing-room. That shawl became her wonderfully. Her beautiful face looked like the rarest old porcelain above it; her clear complexion, the faint winter roses on her cheeks, the soft light in her eyes, the sweetness of her lips, and the fine whiteness of her hair gave her as great a beauty as the loveliness of youth. In some way my mother’s picturesque loveliness exceeded that of the innocent freshness of childhood, for all the story, and all the sorrow, and all the love, the courage, the resignation which life rightly used can bring, was reflected on her beloved features.I bent forward and kissed her, and the tears which were so near welled up in my own eyes.“Well, Rose, I can’t go,” she said; “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll bring the Riviera here. With a few flowers, and a nice book, and a little more fire in the grate, we can get these pleasant things around us; and I have no doubt, notwithstanding gloomy Dr Hudson, that I shall soon lose my cough, and be as well as ever.”“Oh, yes, you will soon lose your cough, mother,” I said. I sat down at her feet, and took her thin hand and pressed it passionately to my lips. Over and over again I kissed it, and each moment a voice kept whispering to me:“The battle is going against you—you know it—you know it well!”We were very poor at our home; but I will say this for us, we did not make money the staple subject of conversation. When we met at meals we each of us pushed our penury away under a decent sort of cloak, and although we constantly fought and argued and disagreed, we did not mention our fears with regard to the possibility of meeting the next quarter’s rent, and paying the water rates, and filling the coal cellar with fuel.It seemed to-night, however, as if all my family were in league to break this customary rule. George crossly declared that he could not exist any longer without a new suit of clothes. My father desired him to hush, and said that he might be thankful if he had a roof to cover him, as there were already two quarters owing for rent, and he had not the faintest idea where the necessary cheque was to come from. Then he began to scold about the expenses incurred during Jack’s illness, and my mother, weak and low already, put her handkerchief up to her eyes and wept.In the midst of our tribulation a letter arrived from Hetty, in which she begged and implored me, for the love of Heaven, to send her a postal order for a couple of sovereigns by return of post.This letter of Hetty’s was the last drop. Whatdidit matter about me and my feelings, and my righteous pride, and all the holy instincts of my youth? There was my mother to be saved, my home to be relieved, my poor little new sister to be comforted and made happy. I rushed out of the room and wrote a frantic letter to Hetty. I could not send her the money, but I could send her hope. I did. I sent it flying to her on the wings of her Majesty’s post. Then I wrote to Lady Ursula, and apologised for not keeping my appointment at the Chamber of Myths that day. I said that Cousin Geoffrey’s letter was of a very startling character, and that it was impossible for me to disclose its contents to any one at present. I spoke to Lady Ursula affectionately and in a sisterly spirit, and I sent my kind regards to her intended husband, Captain Valentine. I paused and even blushed as I considered what message I could forward to my cousin Tom. After careful reflection I felt that I could say nothing about him. He was the thorn in my lot at present, and I felt that I owed him an enormous grudge, and that I should have liked very much to hate him. But when I remembered his extremely honest expression, his bluntness and downrightness, I could not quite manage to get up a feeling of hatred to a man who was really in himself quite innocent.Finally I wrote to Mr Gray, and told him that I would present myself at his villa in Putney to-morrow.
“Now, my dear young lady,” said Mr Gray; “now, my dear, good Miss Rosamund, let me ask you if you are doing right in flinging the gifts of Providence from you?”
“I am doing perfectly right,” I retorted with spirit.
“Pardon me, please do pardon me; youth is so impulsive and hot-headed; youth is so assertive, so positive, it must be guided by age—it simply must. Now, Miss Rosamund, will you sit down in this easy-chair? Will you sit perfectly still, and allow me to speak for three or four minutes?”
“Yes, you may certainly do that,” I replied.
“Take this chair, then; lean back in it. It is known to have the most soothing effect imaginable on irritable nerves.”
“Thank you very much; but my nerves are not irritable, and I prefer to stand.”
“Good heavens! Rosamund Lindley’s nerves not irritable. Rosamund, who is all fire and impatience; all quicksilver; the most sensitive, the most nervous of mortals.”
“Oh, please, please, Mr Gray, don’t discuss me. If you have anything to say, please say it quickly.”
Mr Gray was not a lawyer for nothing. He saw he had gone too far; his manner altered—he became business-like, grave, polite, and as a matter of course, persuasive.
“You have been left this money, Miss Lindley,” he said, “on, I grant you, very peculiar conditions.”
“On impossible conditions,” I interrupted.
“Now, now, that is the point I am coming to;arethe conditions impossible?”
“They are. Mr Gray, if you have nothing more to add I will say good-morning.”
“I have a great deal more to add. This is a very serious matter, and you must not be a child about it.”
“A child?”
“Yes! a baby, if you like. The fact is, Miss Lindley, I have no patience with you.”
“You have not?”
“No, I have none whatever! You are both conceited and selfish. I am ashamed of you.”
Mr Gray spoke in a very angry tone. Strange as it may seem, I quite enjoyed it. At that moment it was positively nice to be scolded.
“I will listen to you,” I said, in a weak voice.
“You are very selfish,” pursued Mr Gray. “Providence intends you to be wealthy, and to help all your relatives. Providence means you to be a blessing and assistance to your family. You prefer to be a hindrance, a clog, a kill-joy, a spoil-all. Your mother is delicate, your father poor, your brothers without any opening in life. You can remove the thorns out of all their paths. You refuse to do this. Why? Because of pride. Providence, in addition to wealth, offers you the best fellow in Christendom for a husband. You won’t even look at him. You refuse to make him happy by becoming his wife, and you leave him in a state of poverty, because he can not inherit the fortune which is offered to him without your assistance. Thousands and tens of thousands of pounds are placed at your feet. What a power they are! what a grand power! But you won’t have anything to say to them, and they go to enrich the Jews, and the Society for Befriending Lame Cats, or some other preposterous charity, I’m sure I can’t say what.” Mr Gray’s voice rose to a perfect storm of indignation as he spoke of the provisions Cousin Geoffrey had made for the spending of his wealth in case I refused to comply with the conditions of his will.
“Well, what am I to do?” I said, when the angry little man paused again for want of breath. “Am I, influenced by the reasons you have mentioned, to lower myself, to have no regard at all for those natural feelings of pride which all girls ought to have, and go up to my almost unknown cousin and beg and pray of him to take pity on me, and allow me to become his wife?”
“Who said you were to do anything of the kind?”
“Please, Mr Gray,whatam I to do?”
The lawyer jumped from his chair, rushed over to me, and seized both my hands.
“Now you are reasonable,” he said; “now you are delightful—now you shall listen to my scheme.”
“Please what is your scheme?”
“Listen, listen. In the first place, Tom knows nothing of the conditions of the will.”
“Of course he does not. How could he know?”
“Listen, Miss Rosamund. Tom Valentine shall fall in love with you in the ordinary and orthodox fashion, and shall propose to you in orthodox fashion. And you shall fall in love with him.”
“How can you bring that about?”
“Never mind. Nothing shall be done to hurt your pride. My part in the matter is simple enough. I give you and Tom Valentine an opportunity of becoming acquainted with each other. I have a place at Putney—a charming place. You shall pay me a visit there.”
“I won’t go,” I said.
“Yes, you will go—you will do what I tell you.”
“No,” I repeated; “you ask me to Putney for an object. You mean to conquer me—I won’t be conquered. I shall be very glad to visit you, if you will be kind enough to invite me on another occasion. But I am not going to meet Mr Valentine; I am not going to meet him, because at last I know the contents of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”
Mr Gray rubbed his hands with impatience. “You are doing wrong,” he said stoutly. “You are offered a gift which will befriend you and yours, which will help your mother who is ill.”
“How do you know my mother is ill?” I asked testily.
The lawyer gave me a piercing glance, he turned away.
“Your mother is not well,” he said evasively. It was curious, but that tone in his voice broke me down. I said—
“A visit to you, after all, involves nothing. Say no more about it—I will come.”
I went home that day feeling uncommonly weak and small. My excitement had run its course—the re-action had set in; I felt dead tired and languid. I had a slight headache too, which I knew would get worse by and by. In short, I was more or less in a state of collapse, and I felt that tears were not far from my eyes.
It seemed to me that I had just been going through a very severe fight, and that I was in danger of being beaten. I knew this by the fact that in my collapsed condition I did not much care whether I was beaten or not.
I arrived home to find matters a little more dismal even than usual. My mother’s cough was so bad that the doctor had been sent for. He had prescribed (in those comfortable, unfaltering words which doctors are so fond of using) the Riviera as the sovereign remedy. My mother must leave the harsh east winds of our English spring, and go into the land of balmy breezes and colour and flowers.
“You must go without delay, Mrs Lindley,” the doctor said, and then he shook hands with her, and pocketed his fee, and went away.
His visit was over when I reached home, and my mother was seated, wrapped up in a white fleecy shawl, by the little fire in the drawing-room. That shawl became her wonderfully. Her beautiful face looked like the rarest old porcelain above it; her clear complexion, the faint winter roses on her cheeks, the soft light in her eyes, the sweetness of her lips, and the fine whiteness of her hair gave her as great a beauty as the loveliness of youth. In some way my mother’s picturesque loveliness exceeded that of the innocent freshness of childhood, for all the story, and all the sorrow, and all the love, the courage, the resignation which life rightly used can bring, was reflected on her beloved features.
I bent forward and kissed her, and the tears which were so near welled up in my own eyes.
“Well, Rose, I can’t go,” she said; “but I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll bring the Riviera here. With a few flowers, and a nice book, and a little more fire in the grate, we can get these pleasant things around us; and I have no doubt, notwithstanding gloomy Dr Hudson, that I shall soon lose my cough, and be as well as ever.”
“Oh, yes, you will soon lose your cough, mother,” I said. I sat down at her feet, and took her thin hand and pressed it passionately to my lips. Over and over again I kissed it, and each moment a voice kept whispering to me:
“The battle is going against you—you know it—you know it well!”
We were very poor at our home; but I will say this for us, we did not make money the staple subject of conversation. When we met at meals we each of us pushed our penury away under a decent sort of cloak, and although we constantly fought and argued and disagreed, we did not mention our fears with regard to the possibility of meeting the next quarter’s rent, and paying the water rates, and filling the coal cellar with fuel.
It seemed to-night, however, as if all my family were in league to break this customary rule. George crossly declared that he could not exist any longer without a new suit of clothes. My father desired him to hush, and said that he might be thankful if he had a roof to cover him, as there were already two quarters owing for rent, and he had not the faintest idea where the necessary cheque was to come from. Then he began to scold about the expenses incurred during Jack’s illness, and my mother, weak and low already, put her handkerchief up to her eyes and wept.
In the midst of our tribulation a letter arrived from Hetty, in which she begged and implored me, for the love of Heaven, to send her a postal order for a couple of sovereigns by return of post.
This letter of Hetty’s was the last drop. Whatdidit matter about me and my feelings, and my righteous pride, and all the holy instincts of my youth? There was my mother to be saved, my home to be relieved, my poor little new sister to be comforted and made happy. I rushed out of the room and wrote a frantic letter to Hetty. I could not send her the money, but I could send her hope. I did. I sent it flying to her on the wings of her Majesty’s post. Then I wrote to Lady Ursula, and apologised for not keeping my appointment at the Chamber of Myths that day. I said that Cousin Geoffrey’s letter was of a very startling character, and that it was impossible for me to disclose its contents to any one at present. I spoke to Lady Ursula affectionately and in a sisterly spirit, and I sent my kind regards to her intended husband, Captain Valentine. I paused and even blushed as I considered what message I could forward to my cousin Tom. After careful reflection I felt that I could say nothing about him. He was the thorn in my lot at present, and I felt that I owed him an enormous grudge, and that I should have liked very much to hate him. But when I remembered his extremely honest expression, his bluntness and downrightness, I could not quite manage to get up a feeling of hatred to a man who was really in himself quite innocent.
Finally I wrote to Mr Gray, and told him that I would present myself at his villa in Putney to-morrow.
Chapter Nineteen.My Mother’s Wedding-Dress.Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.I was going to a gay house then—a “company” house.I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”“Oh, I can manage,” I said.“But you havenotgot an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.“One girl mustnotdo without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again—never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.“These are my wedding—shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are theyallonly papa’s friend’s?”Tottie shrugged her shoulders—she looked pleased and conscious—perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”I assented at once.“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice—for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.Remembering Hetty’s advice, I piled my dark hair high on my head; then I put on the dainty silk stockings and shoes with their funny pointed toes; the rich embroidered petticoat came next; over all, the dress. The skirt was very full, but the silk was so soft and rich that it fell gracefully. It showed a peep of my shoes, with their seed pearl ornaments, as I walked. Behind, it was cut away in a pointed train. My mother’s wedding-dress fitted me to perfection. The old ruffles of lovely lace lay softly against my young throat. More ruffles of lace half concealed half showed my arms. I did not need bracelets, and I clasped no ornament of any kind round my neck.As I was completing my toilet the dinner gong sounded solemn and loud through the house. I had heard the hall-door bell ring two or three times. I knew that the guests had arrived. Still I lingered, putting final touches. At the last moment I pinned a bunch of the softest blush roses, which must have come straight from the Riviera, in the front of my dress. There was no need to add anything further. A glance in the mirror revealed to me that the roses which lay near my heart matched in hue those which tinted my cheeks. For the time being I was beautiful—I was a picture, a walking picture out of long ago. I was glad to be the last to enter the drawing-room. I wanted to startle Mr Gray; to show him that he had presumed. I had no thought to give to any one else at that moment.
Never did a girl prepare for a gay visit with a sadder heart. I had not an idea what I was going to. Mr Gray was rich, and I felt certain that his villa was what my father would term “pretentious.” By this would be meant that he had large rooms instead of small, good furniture instead of shabby, good meals instead of bad, and in the place of loneliness and gloom, brightness and company.
This I was sure of, for Mr Gray’s eyes sparkled as if he lived well and cheerily, and the pleasant sunshine of hospitality shone all over his expressive features.
I was going to a gay house then—a “company” house.
I ran down-stairs early the next morning and told my mother of my invitation, and of my acceptance of it.
She seemed a little surprised, then, after a pause, she said she was pleased.
“Go, and have a good time, Rosamund,” she said; “it is quite right that girls should enjoy themselves; but oh! my love,” an anxious shadow coming across her face, “what have you got to wear?”
“Plenty of things, mother,” I retorted, “lashin’s and lavin’s, as they say in Ireland.”
“But you have no evening dress, Rose. At Mr Gray’s the girls are sure to dress for the evening.”
“Oh, I can manage,” I said.
“But you havenotgot an evening dress, my darling; all the girls will have evening dresses.”
“One girl must do without,” I retorted in a stout voice which concealed many qualms of the heart.
“One girl mustnotdo without,” replied my mother. “Come with me, Rosamund. Rose, did I ever show you my wedding-dress?”
My mother laughed gaily; her eyes were bright.
“I did not know your wedding-dress was in existence, mother,” I said.
“Yes, it is, and well preserved,” she replied. “Come up-stairs with me, and you shall see it.”
I followed my mother into her bedroom. She unlocked a great square wooden trunk, which stood in one of the windows, and laying aside many folds of tissue paper, took from the depths of the trunk a brocaded silk dress of heavy make and rich texture. She laid the dress on the bed, and looked at me with pink spots on each of her cheeks.
“There!” she said; “there! Geoffrey gave me the dress, and he saw me in it. You may suppose that Geoffrey knew how to choose good things. You could not buy silk like that now. Geoffrey pinned a rosebud just here. Do you notice the tiny, yellow stain? And then he kissed me on my forehead. We were good friends that day, although Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, had a strange look in his eyes. I remembered the look afterwards; but we were good friends, very great and affectionate friends. I never saw him again—never. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your mother’s wedding-dress?”
I was examining it all over. It was quaint in make, and the silk had the faint yellow tinge which years of lying by always produces. The sleeves were high and puffed. There was a ruffle of very soft and exquisite lace round the V-shaped body. The waist was long, with a pointed stomacher, and the skirt below was full and wide.
Never was there a dress less like the mode in vogue at the time of which I write.
“The dress is out of date, perhaps, but it is very good in itself,” said my mother. “It will fit you, Rosamund, for your figure is small and dainty, like mine used to be. Will you wear your mother’s wedding-dress, even if it is a little out of the fashion?”
“Yes, I will wear it,” I said. “Give it to me, and I will take it away with me.”
“But you must have other things to match,” said my mother. “Wait a moment; you must have other things to suit the dress.”
She rushed again to her trunk; she looked like a girl in her excitement.
“These are my wedding—shoes,” she said, “and these white silk stockings go with the shoes. This petticoat, with the deep embroidery, will have to be worn under the full skirt of the dress. Oh, Rose, how glad I am now that I did not cut this petticoat up! Rose, I should like to see you dressed for your first dinner-party!”
I kissed my mother, gathered up the poor old-world mementoes of lost youth and love, and ran away to my own room. I took with me on my visit a larger trunk than I had at first intended, for my mother’s wedding silk must not be crushed or injured.
I arrived at the Grays’ house about an hour before dinner.
The villa was less of a villa and more of a mansion than even I had imagined. There was a wide entrance hall, and an open roof overhead, and a square well-staircase, which opened on to galleries which led to the bedrooms. The spring light had nearly faded when I arrived at the house, but the soft and cheerful blaze of coloured lamps gave the brightest and most picturesque effect. There were flowers everywhere, and vistas of pretty things from open doorways, and little peeps of wide conservatories, and a distant faint clatter of glasses and silver in the far-off dining-room.
Mr Gray came out himself to bid me welcome. He was followed by his wife and two daughters, Nettie and Tottie. Nettie and Tottie were round and fat and fair and insignificant-looking. Mrs Gray was also round and fat, but she had a matronly dignity about her, and a comfortable, homely manner which made me take to her at once.
After Mr Gray had shaken me warmly by both my hands, Mrs Gray kissed me, and Nettie and Tottie came up, each to one side of me, and in this manner I was conveyed across the hall, and into a cheerful little boudoir, where three anxious women’s voices pressed hot tea and buttered cakes on my notice.
I drank my tea and ate hot muffins, and felt that the pleasant and luxurious surroundings of my present habitation suited me uncommonly well. After staring at me for half a minute Tottie made an abrupt observation.
“Two or three people are coming to dinner,” she said; “only gentlemen, however, friends of papa’s.”
“Oh, Tottie!” exclaimed Nettie, giving her sister a knowing look. “Friends of papa’s indeed! What next? Are theyallonly papa’s friend’s?”
Tottie shrugged her shoulders—she looked pleased and conscious—perhaps she expected me to quiz her; but that was not at all the kind of thing I felt capable of doing.
“Some gentlemen are coming to dinner,” resumed Tottie, after an expectant pause, “so perhaps you would like to come up to your room in good time to dress, Miss Lindley?”
I assented at once.
“I shall be very glad to go to my room,” I said.
Tottie preceded me up the shallow stairs. She ushered me into a large bedroom supplied with every modern comfort. It was getting well on into April now, but a bright fire burnt in the grate, and the room was further rendered cheerful with electric light. I had the key of my old-fashioned trunk in my pocket, so it was not yet unpacked; but to my surprise two dinner dresses lay on the bed. One was of soft creamy silk; the other pink, a kind of almost transparent muslin. Both were simple in outline and graceful. Even a brief glance showed me that they were exquisitely finished, and must have cost a large sum. Beside the dresses lay gloves, a fan, small shoes, and delicate openwork stockings. In a box were some beautiful freshly-arranged flowers, a spray for the hair, and another for the front of the dress.
“Oh dear, dear!” exclaimed Tottie. She rushed to the bed and stood silent, the colour mounting high into her cheeks. “That accounts for it,” she said, when she could find her astonished breath. “That accounts for the mysterious box, and for papa’s manner. Does papa take you to the dressmaker, Miss Lindley? How very, very odd that he should superintend your toilet!”
Tottie looked at me with intense curiosity as she spoke. I knew that my cheeks were burning, and that a burst of angry words was crowding to my lips. With a violent effort I restrained them.
“Your father is very civil,” I said, after a pause. “He has evidently fetched this box home. I am much obliged to him for his trouble. Now perhaps, Miss Gray, you will let me get ready for dinner?”
Tottie blushed and stepped away from the bed as if my manner half frightened her.
“Of course,” she said. “I forgot how time was flying. But can I do nothing to help you? Shall I send Dawson, our maid, to you presently to help you to put on one of your pretty dresses?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I always prefer to dress myself.”
With some difficulty I saw Tottie out of the room. Then I locked the door, and with a violent effort kept my hands from tearing those pretty and dainty robes. My heart was full of the most ungovernable anger. I felt that kind-hearted Mr Gray had offered me an insult. I must be sacrificed, and Mr Gray must deck me for the altar. No, no, not quite that; not this lowest depth of all. How thankful I was that I had my mother’s wedding-dress in my trunk.
I dressed myself slowly and with care. I was determined to look well. I was determined to show Mr Gray that Rosamund Lindley was not altogether dependent on him for her chance of looking nice—for looking what she was, on her mother’s side at least, a lady of old family and proud descent.
Remembering Hetty’s advice, I piled my dark hair high on my head; then I put on the dainty silk stockings and shoes with their funny pointed toes; the rich embroidered petticoat came next; over all, the dress. The skirt was very full, but the silk was so soft and rich that it fell gracefully. It showed a peep of my shoes, with their seed pearl ornaments, as I walked. Behind, it was cut away in a pointed train. My mother’s wedding-dress fitted me to perfection. The old ruffles of lovely lace lay softly against my young throat. More ruffles of lace half concealed half showed my arms. I did not need bracelets, and I clasped no ornament of any kind round my neck.
As I was completing my toilet the dinner gong sounded solemn and loud through the house. I had heard the hall-door bell ring two or three times. I knew that the guests had arrived. Still I lingered, putting final touches. At the last moment I pinned a bunch of the softest blush roses, which must have come straight from the Riviera, in the front of my dress. There was no need to add anything further. A glance in the mirror revealed to me that the roses which lay near my heart matched in hue those which tinted my cheeks. For the time being I was beautiful—I was a picture, a walking picture out of long ago. I was glad to be the last to enter the drawing-room. I wanted to startle Mr Gray; to show him that he had presumed. I had no thought to give to any one else at that moment.
Chapter Twenty.Like an Old Picture.Tottie was right when she said that several young men were coming to dinner. They were all more or less at home however; they were accustomed to the house and its ways. I saw when I entered the drawing-room that I was the greatest stranger present. Captain Valentine and his brother were both in the room, but Lady Ursula Redmayne was not one of Mr Gray’s guests. I had thought to startle Mr Gray by the magnificence and quaintness of my toilet; but I must own that I forgot all about him when I glanced up and encountered an earnest, puzzled, respectful look from the wide-open eyes of my cousin Tom. Like a flash my mind reverted to a memory which a moment ago I had forgotten. I was back again in my room reading Cousin Geoffrey’s will. I blushed all over as the hateful remembrance of the conditions of that will filled my brain.“I cannot see this visit out,” I said, under my breath; “I cannot even spend a second night under this roof. I must go away, I must return home, for never, never can I fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”At this moment Captain Valentine came up and offered me his arm. I was relieved to find that my other cousin was not to take me in to dinner; but matters were scarcely improved for me when I discovered that he sat exactly at the opposite side of the table, and that I could scarcely raise my eyes without encountering his.“We were greatly disappointed not to meet you in the Chamber of Myths,” said Captain Valentine. “I think Lady Ursula very nearly cried. The fact is, you have roused her profoundest interest, Miss Lindley.”“I am very much obliged to Lady Ursula,” I answered.“It was cruel to disappoint us all,” pursued Captain Valentine, “particularly when you gave no adequate reason.”“That was just it,” I retorted. “Had I come I should not have been entertaining. I had no news to bring—I had nothing to say.”“But you promised to tell us something of the contents of the letter.”“I found I could not keep my promise. That letter, as far as we, any of us, are concerned, might as well never have been written.”“Indeed!” Captain Valentine looked at me long and curiously. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate.When he spoke next it was on matters of indifference.Presently there fell a silence over most of the company. Captain Valentine bent towards me, and said in a low voice, almost a whisper:“No one can tell a better story than my brother Tom; you must listen to him.”After this whisper there was a kind of hush, and then the one voice, deep and musical, began to speak. It held every one under its spell. I forget the story now, but I shall always remember how the voice of the speaker affected me; how the turmoil and irritation in my breast first subsided, then vanished; how Cousin Geoffrey’s will sank out of sight; how his odious conditions ceased to be. By degrees the enthusiasm of the narrator communicated itself to at least one of his listeners. Tom Valentine was relating a personal experience, and step by step in that journey of peril which he so ably described I went with him. I shared his physical hunger and thirst; I surmounted his difficulties; I lived in the brave spirit which animated his breast. In the end his triumph was mine.I suppose there was something in my face which showed a certain amount of the feeling within me, for by degrees Tom Valentine ceased to look at any one but me.There was quite a little applause in the room when his story came to an end, but I think he sought and found his reward in the flashing and enthusiastic verdict which came from my eyes, although my lips said nothing.After dinner, in the conservatory, my cousin came up and spoke to me.“You liked my story?” he asked.“I did not tell you so,” I answered.“Not with your lips. Sit down here. I have another adventure to relate, and it is not often that a man’s vanity is soothed by such a listener as you are.”He began to speak at once, and again I forgot Cousin Geoffrey under the spell of my cousin’s voice. He told me two or three more of his adventures that evening. I made very few comments, but the hours flew on wings as I listened. No one interrupted us as we sat together in the conservatory; but although I remembered this fact with burning cheeks, later on, it passed unnoticed by me at the time. Suddenly my cousin stopped speaking.“You have been a very kind listener,” he said. “I did not know a girl could care so much just for a man’s mere adventures. I’m going back to Africa next week. I shall think of you in my next moments of peril.”Then I remembered Cousin Geoffrey’s will, and all that Tom Valentine’s going away meant to my family and me.“Must you go in a week? must you really go in a week?” I said excitedly.“I have made my arrangements to go in about a week,” he replied, starting back a little and looking at me in astonishment. I knew why he looked like that. The regret in my tone had been unmistakable.Before I could reply Tottie rushed in.“You two,” she exclaimed; “you really must come to make up the number we want in our round game.”Laughter filled her eyes and bubbled round her lips.“Come, come,” she said; “we can’t do without you, or rather the game can’t.”
Tottie was right when she said that several young men were coming to dinner. They were all more or less at home however; they were accustomed to the house and its ways. I saw when I entered the drawing-room that I was the greatest stranger present. Captain Valentine and his brother were both in the room, but Lady Ursula Redmayne was not one of Mr Gray’s guests. I had thought to startle Mr Gray by the magnificence and quaintness of my toilet; but I must own that I forgot all about him when I glanced up and encountered an earnest, puzzled, respectful look from the wide-open eyes of my cousin Tom. Like a flash my mind reverted to a memory which a moment ago I had forgotten. I was back again in my room reading Cousin Geoffrey’s will. I blushed all over as the hateful remembrance of the conditions of that will filled my brain.
“I cannot see this visit out,” I said, under my breath; “I cannot even spend a second night under this roof. I must go away, I must return home, for never, never can I fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”
At this moment Captain Valentine came up and offered me his arm. I was relieved to find that my other cousin was not to take me in to dinner; but matters were scarcely improved for me when I discovered that he sat exactly at the opposite side of the table, and that I could scarcely raise my eyes without encountering his.
“We were greatly disappointed not to meet you in the Chamber of Myths,” said Captain Valentine. “I think Lady Ursula very nearly cried. The fact is, you have roused her profoundest interest, Miss Lindley.”
“I am very much obliged to Lady Ursula,” I answered.
“It was cruel to disappoint us all,” pursued Captain Valentine, “particularly when you gave no adequate reason.”
“That was just it,” I retorted. “Had I come I should not have been entertaining. I had no news to bring—I had nothing to say.”
“But you promised to tell us something of the contents of the letter.”
“I found I could not keep my promise. That letter, as far as we, any of us, are concerned, might as well never have been written.”
“Indeed!” Captain Valentine looked at me long and curiously. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate.
When he spoke next it was on matters of indifference.
Presently there fell a silence over most of the company. Captain Valentine bent towards me, and said in a low voice, almost a whisper:
“No one can tell a better story than my brother Tom; you must listen to him.”
After this whisper there was a kind of hush, and then the one voice, deep and musical, began to speak. It held every one under its spell. I forget the story now, but I shall always remember how the voice of the speaker affected me; how the turmoil and irritation in my breast first subsided, then vanished; how Cousin Geoffrey’s will sank out of sight; how his odious conditions ceased to be. By degrees the enthusiasm of the narrator communicated itself to at least one of his listeners. Tom Valentine was relating a personal experience, and step by step in that journey of peril which he so ably described I went with him. I shared his physical hunger and thirst; I surmounted his difficulties; I lived in the brave spirit which animated his breast. In the end his triumph was mine.
I suppose there was something in my face which showed a certain amount of the feeling within me, for by degrees Tom Valentine ceased to look at any one but me.
There was quite a little applause in the room when his story came to an end, but I think he sought and found his reward in the flashing and enthusiastic verdict which came from my eyes, although my lips said nothing.
After dinner, in the conservatory, my cousin came up and spoke to me.
“You liked my story?” he asked.
“I did not tell you so,” I answered.
“Not with your lips. Sit down here. I have another adventure to relate, and it is not often that a man’s vanity is soothed by such a listener as you are.”
He began to speak at once, and again I forgot Cousin Geoffrey under the spell of my cousin’s voice. He told me two or three more of his adventures that evening. I made very few comments, but the hours flew on wings as I listened. No one interrupted us as we sat together in the conservatory; but although I remembered this fact with burning cheeks, later on, it passed unnoticed by me at the time. Suddenly my cousin stopped speaking.
“You have been a very kind listener,” he said. “I did not know a girl could care so much just for a man’s mere adventures. I’m going back to Africa next week. I shall think of you in my next moments of peril.”
Then I remembered Cousin Geoffrey’s will, and all that Tom Valentine’s going away meant to my family and me.
“Must you go in a week? must you really go in a week?” I said excitedly.
“I have made my arrangements to go in about a week,” he replied, starting back a little and looking at me in astonishment. I knew why he looked like that. The regret in my tone had been unmistakable.
Before I could reply Tottie rushed in.
“You two,” she exclaimed; “you really must come to make up the number we want in our round game.”
Laughter filled her eyes and bubbled round her lips.
“Come, come,” she said; “we can’t do without you, or rather the game can’t.”