Another visitor came, if Margaret did not. About four o'clock, just as Julian was beginning to wonder when he would be fetched away, a thundering peal at the door knocker announced the appearance of Wyvis Brand. Janetta was in the drawing-room putting away some music when he came in. She saw that he glanced eagerly round the room, as if expecting to see someone else—perhaps Margaret Adair—and her heart hardened to him a little as she gave him her hand. Had he come at that hour because Margaret generally took her lesson then?
"How cold you are!" cried Wyvis, holding the little hand for the moment in his own. "On this hot day! Howcanyou manage to keep so cool??"
If his heart had been throbbing and his head burning as Janetta's were just then, he might have known how to answer the question.
"You have come for Julian, I suppose?" she said, a little coldly.
"Yes—in a minute or two. Won't you let me rest for a few minutes after my walk in the broiling sun?"
"Oh, certainly; you shall have some tea, if you like. I am at liberty this afternoon," said Janetta, with a little malice, "as my pupil has just sent me word that she has a headache, and cannot come."
"Who is your pupil this afternoon?" said Wyvis, stroking his black moustache.
"Miss Adair."
He gave her a quick, keen glance, then turned away. She read vexation in his eyes.
"Don't let me trouble you," he said, in a different tone, as she moved towards the door; "I really ought not to stay—I have an engagement or two to fulfill. No tea, thanks. Is Julian ready?"
"In a minute or two I will call him. I want to ask you a question first—if you will let me?"
"All right; go on. That's the way people begin disagreeable subjects, do you know?"
"I don't know whether you will consider this a disagreeable question. I suppose you will," said Janetta, with an effort. "I promised you once to say nothing to my friends about your affairs—about Julian's mother, and I have kept my word. But I must ask you now—does Miss Adair know that you are married?"
There was a moment's pause. They stood opposite one another, and, lifting her eyes to his face, she saw that he was frowning heavily and gnawing his moustache.
"What does that matter toyou?" he said, angrily, at last.
She shrank a little, but answered steadily—
"Margaret is my friend."
"Well, what then?"
The color rose to Janetta's face. "I don't believe you knew what you were doing yesterday," she said; "but I knew—I heard people talking, and I knew what people thought. They said that you were paying attention to Miss Adair. They supposed you were going to marry her soon. None of them seemed to know that—that—your wife was still alive. And of course I could not tell them."
"Of course not," he assented, with curious eagerness; "I knew you would keep your word."
"You made Margaret conspicuous," Janetta continued, with some warmth. "You placed her in a very false position. Ifshethinks, as other people thought, that you want to marry her, she ought to be told the truth at once. You must tell her—yourself—that you were only amusing yourself—only playing with her, as no man has a right to play with a girl," said Janetta, with such vehemence that the tears rose to her great dark eyes and the scarlet color to her cheeks—"that you were flirting, in fact, and that Julian's mother—your wife, Cousin Wyvis—is still alive."
"And what if I refuse to tell her this?" said Wyvis Brand.
"Then I shall tell her myself."
"And break your word to me?"
"And break my word."
He stood looking at her for a minute in silence, and then an ironical smile curled his lip as he turned aside.
"Women are all alike," he said. "They cannot possibly hold their tongues. I thoughtyouwere superior to most of your sex. I remember that your father once spoke of you to me as 'his faithful Janet.' Is this your faithfulness?"
"Yes, it is, it is," she cried; and then, sitting down, she suddenly burst into tears. She was unnerved and agitated, and so she wept, as girls will weep—for nothing at all sometimes, and sometimes in the very crisis of their fate.
Wyvis looked on, uncomprehending, a little touched, though rather against his will, by Janetta's tears. He knew that she did not often cry. He waited for the paroxysm to pass—waited grimly, but with "compunctuous visitings." And presently he was rewarded for his patience. She dried her eyes, lifted up her head, and spoke.
"I don't know why I should make such a fool of myself," she said. "I suppose it was because you mentioned my father. Yes, he used to call me his faithful Janet very often. I have always tried—to—todeservethat name."
"Forgive me, Janetta," said her cousin, more moved than he liked to appear. "I did not want to hurt you; but, indeed, my dear girl, you must let me manage my affairs for myself. You are not responsible for Margaret Adair as you were for Nora; and you can't, you know, bring me to book as you did my brother, Cuthbert."
"You mean that I interfere too much in other people's business?" said poor Janetta, with quivering lips.
"I did not say so. I only say, 'Don'tinterfere.'"
"It is very hard to do right," said Janetta, looking at him with wistful eyes. "One's duty seems so divided. Margaret is not my sister—that is true, but she is my friend; and I always believed that one had responsibilities and duties towards friends as well as towards relations."
"Possibly"—in a very dry tone. "But you need not meddle with what is no concern of yours."
"It is my concern, if you—my cousin—are not acting rightly to my friend."
"I say it is no concern of yours at all."
They had come to a deadlock. He faced her, with the dark, haughty, imperious look which she knew so well upon his fine features; she stood silent, angry too, and almost as imperious. But, womanlike, she yielded first.
"You asked me once to be your friend, Cousin Wyvis. I want to be yours and Margaret's too. Won't you let me see what you mean?"
Wyvis Brand's brow relaxed a little.
"I don't understand your views of friendship: it seems to mean a right to intermeddle with all the affairs of your acquaintances," he said, cuttingly; "but since you are so good as to ask my intentions——"
"If you talk like that, I'll never speak to you again!" cried Janetta, who was not remarkable for her meekness.
Wyvis actually smiled.
"Come," he said, "be friends, Janetta. I assure you I don't mean any harm. You must not be straight-laced. Your pretty friend is no doubt well able to take care of herself."
But he looked down as he said this and knitted his brows.
"She has never had occasion to do it," said Janetta, epigrammatically.
"Then don't you think it is time she learns?"
"You have no right to be her teacher."
"Right! right!" cried Wyvis, impatiently "I am tired of this cuckoo-cry about my rights! I have the right to do what I choose, to get what pleasure out of life I can, to do my best for myself. It is everybody's right, and he is only a hypocrite who denies it."
"There is one limitation," said Janetta. "Get what you can for yourself, if you like—it seems to me a somewhat selfish view—as long as you don't injure anybody else."
"Whom do I injure?" he asked, looking at her defiantly in the face.
"Margaret."
He dropped his eyes, and the defiance went suddenly out of his look and voice.
"Injure her?" he said, in a very low tone. "Surely, you know, I wouldn't dothat—to save my life."
Janetta looked at him mutely. The words were a revelation. There was a pause, during which she heard, as in a dream, the sound of children's voices and children's feet along the passages of the house. Julian and Tiny were running riot; but she felt, for the time being, as if she had nothing to do with them: their interests did not touch her: she dwelt in a world apart. Hitherto Wyvis had stood, hat in hand, as if he were ready to go at a moment's notice; but now he changed his attitude. He seated himself determinedly, put down his hat, and looked back at her.
"Well," he said, "I see that I must explain myself if I mean to make my peace with you, Janetta. I am, perhaps, not so bad as you think me. I have not mentioned to Miss Adair that Julian's mother is alive, because I consider myself a free man. Julian's mother, once my wife, has divorced me, and is, I believe, on the point of marrying again. Surely in that case I am free to marry too."
"Divorced you?" Janetta repeated, with dilating eyes.
"Yes, divorced me. She has gone out to America and managed it there. It is easy enough in some of the States to get divorced from an absent wife or husband, as no doubt you know. Incompatibility of temper was the alleged reason. I believe she is going to marry a Chicago man—something in pork."
"And you are legally free?"
"She says so. I fancy there is a legal hitch somewhere but I have not yet consulted my lawyers. We were married by the Catholic rite in France, and the Catholic Church will probably consider us married still. But Margaret is not a Catholic—nor am I."
"And you think," said Janetta, very slowly, "of marrying Margaret?"
He looked up at her and laughed, a little uneasily.
"You think she won't have me?"
"I don't know. I think you don't know her yet, Wyvis."
"I dare say not," said her cousin. Then he broke out in quite a different tone: "No wonder I don't; she's a perpetual revelation to me. I never saw anything like her—so pure, so spotless, so exquisite. It's like looking at a work of art—a bit of delicate china, or a picture by Francia or Guido. Something holy and serene about her—something that sets her apart from the ordinary world. I can't define it: but it's there. I feel myself made of a coarse, common clay in her presence: I want to go down on my knees and serve her like a queen. That's how I feel about Margaret."
"Ah!" said Janetta, "my princess of dreams. That is what I used to call her. That is what I—used to feel."
"Don't you feel it now?" said Wyvis, sitting up and staring at her.
Janetta hesitated. "Margaret is my dear friend, and I love her. But I am older—perhaps I can't feel exactly in that way about her now."
"You talk as if you were a sexagenarian," said Wyvis, exploding into genial laughter. He looked suddenly brighter and younger, as if his outburst of emotion had wonderfully relieved him. "I am much older than you, and yet I see her in the same light. What else is there to say about her? She is perfect—there is not much to discuss in perfection."
"She is most lovely—most sweet," said Janetta, warmly. "And yet—the very things you admire may stand in your way, Wyvis. She is very innocent of the world. And if you have won her—her—affection before you have told her your history——"
"You think this wretched first marriage of mine will stand in the way?"
"I do. With Margaret and with her parents."
Wyvis frowned again. "I had better make sure of her—marry her at once, and tell her afterwards," he said. But perhaps he said it only to see what Janetta would reply.
"You would not do that, Wyvis?"
"I don't know."
"But you want to be worthy of her?"
"I shall never be that so it's no good trying."
"She would never forgive you if you married her without telling her the truth."
Wyvis laughed scornfully. "You know nothing about it. A woman will forgive anything to the man she loves."
"Not a meanness!" said the girl, sharply.
"Yes, meanness, deceit, lies, anything—so long as it was done for her sake."
"I don't believe that would be the case with Margaret. Once disgust her, and you lose her love."
"Then she can't have much to give," retorted Wyvis.
Janetta was silent. In her secret heart she did not think that Margaretcouldlove very deeply—that, indeed, she had not much to give.
"Well, what's the upshot?" said her cousin, at last, in a dogged tone. "Are you satisfied at last?"
"I shall be better satisfied when you make things plain to the Adairs. You have no right to win Margaret's heart in this secret way. You blamed Cuthbert for making love to Nora. It is far worse for you to do it to Margaret Adair."
"I am so much beneath her, am I not?" said Wyvis, with a sneer. And then he once more spoke eagerly. "Iambeneath her: I am as the dust under her feet. Don't you think I know that? I'll tell you what, Janetta, when I first saw her and spoke to her—here, in this room, if you remember—I thought that she was like a being from another world. I had never seen anyone like her. She is the fairest, sweetest of women, and I would not harm her for the world."
"I don't know whether I ought even to listen to you," said Janetta, in a troubled voice and with averted head. "You know, many people would say that you were in the wrong altogether—that you were not free——"
"Then they would say a lie! I am legally free, I believe, and morally free, I am certain. I thank God for it. I have suffered enough."
He looked so stern, so uncompromising, that Janetta hastened to take refuge in concrete facts.
"But you will tell Margaret everything?"
"In my own good time."
"Do promise me that you will not marry her without letting her know—if ever it comes, to a talk of your marriage."
"If ever?It will come very soon, I hope. But I'll promise nothing. And you must not make mischief."
"I am like you—I will promise nothing."
"I shall never forgive you, if you step between Margaret and me," said Wyvis.
"I shall never step between you, I hope," said Janetta, in a dispirited tone. "But it is better for me to promise nothing more."
Wyvis shrugged his shoulders, as if he thought it useless to argue with her. She was sorry for the apparently unfriendly terms on which they seemed likely to part; and it was a relief to her when, as they were saying good-bye, he looked into her face rather wistfully and said, "Wish me success, Janetta, after all."
"I wish you every happiness," she said. But whether that meant success or not it would have been hard to say.
She saw him take his departure, with little Julian clinging to his hand, and then she set about her household duties in her usual self-contained and steadfast way. But her heart ached sadly—she did not quite know why—and when she went to bed that night she lay awake for many weary hours, weeping silently, but passionately, over the sorrow that, she foresaw for her dearest friends, and, perhaps, also for herself.
It seemed to Janetta as if she had almost expected to see Lady Caroline Adair drive up to her door about four o'clock next day, in the very victoria wherein the girl had once sat side by side with Margaret's mother, and from which she had first set eyes on Wyvis Brand. She had expected it, and yet her heart beat faster, and her color went and came, as she disposed of her pupils in the little dining-room, and met her visitor just as she crossed the hall.
"Can I speak to you for five minutes, Miss Colwyn?" said Lady Caroline, in so suave a voice that for a moment Janetta felt reassured. Only for a moment, however. When she had shut the drawing-room door, she saw that her visitor's face was for once both cold and hard. Janetta offered a chair, and Lady Caroline took it, but without a word of thanks. She had evidently put on the "fine lady" manner, which Janetta detested from her heart.
"I come to speak on a very painful subject," said Lady Caroline. Her voice was pitched a little higher than usual, but she gave no other sign of agitation. "You were at Lady Ashley's garden party the day before yesterday I believe?"
Janetta bowed assent.
"May I ask if you observed anything remarkable in my daughter's behavior? You are supposed to be Margaret's friend: you must have noticed what she was doing all the afternoon."
"I do not think that Margaretcouldbehave unsuitably," said Janetta, suddenly flushing up.
"I am obliged to you for your good opinion of my daughter. But that is not the point. Did you notice whether she was talking or walking a great deal with one person, or——"
"Excuse me, Lady Caroline," said Janetta, "but I did not spend the afternoon in watching Margaret, and I am quite unable to give you any information on the subject."
"I really do not see the use of beating about the bush," said Lady Caroline, blandly. "You must know perfectly well to what I refer. Mr. Wyvis Brand is a connection of yours, I believe. I hear on all sides that he and my daughter were inseparable all the afternoon. Greatly to my astonishment, I confess."
"Mr. Brand is a second cousin of mine, and his brother is engaged to my half-sister," said Janetta; "but I have nothing to do with his acquaintance with Margaret."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Caroline. She put up her eye-glass, and carefully inspected Janetta from head to foot. "Nothing to do with their acquaintance, you say! May I ask, then,wheremy daughter met Mr. Brand? Not inmyhouse, I think."
Janetta gave a slight start. She had for the moment utterly forgotten that it was in Gwynne Street that Wyvis Brand and Margaret had first met.
"I beg your pardon: I forgot," she said. "Of course—Margaret no doubt told you—she came here one day for her singing-lesson, and Mr. Brand called for his little boy. It was the first time they had seen each other."
"And how often have they met here since, may I ask?"
"Never again, Lady Caroline."
"I was of course to blame in letting my daughter go out without a chaperon," said Lady Caroline, disagreeably. "I never thought of danger inthisquarter, certainly. I can quite appreciate your motive, Miss Colwyn. No doubt it would be very pleasant foryouif Margaret were to marry your cousin; but we have prejudices that must be consulted."
"I hope you did not come here meaning to insult me," said Janetta, starting to her feet; "but I think you cannot know what you are saying, Lady Caroline.Iwant my cousin to marry your daughter? I never thought of such a thing—until yesterday!"
"And what made you think of it yesterday, pray? Please let us have no heroics, no hysterics: these exhibitions of temper are so unseemly. What made you think so yesterday?"
"Mr. Brand came here," said Janetta, suddenly growing very white, "and told me that he cared for Margaret. I do not know how they had met. He did not tell me. He—he—cares very much for her."
"Cares for her! What next? He came here—when? At Margaret's lesson-time, I suppose?"
She saw from Janetta's face that her guess was correct.
"I need hardly say that Margaret will not come here again," said Lady Caroline, rising and drawing her laces closely around her. "There is the amount due to you, Miss Colwyn. I calculated it before I came out, and I think you will find it all right. There is one more question I must really ask before I go: there seems some uncertainty concerning the fate of Mr. Brand's first wife; perhaps you can tell me whether she is alive or dead?"
Poor Janetta scarcely knew what to say. But she told herself that truth was always best.
"I believe he—he—is divorced from her," she stammered, knowing full well how very condemnatory her words must sound in Lady Caroline's ear. They certainly produced a considerable effect.
"Divorced?And you introduced him to Margaret? Of course I know that adivorcéis often received in society, and so on, but I always set my face against the prevalent lax views of marriage, and I hoped that I had brought up my daughter to do the same. I suppose"—satirically—"you did not think it worth while to tell Margaret this little fact?"
"I did not know it then," Janetta forced herself to say.
"Indeed?" Lady Caroline's "indeed" was very crushing. "Well, either your information or your discretion must have been very much at fault. I must say, Miss Polehamptonnowstrikes me as a woman of great discrimination of character. I will say good-morning, Miss Colwyn, and I think the acquaintance between my daughter and yourself had better be discontinued. It has certainly been, from beginning to end, an unsuitable and disastrous friendship."
"Before you go, Lady Caroline, will you kindly take the envelope away that you have left upon the table?" said Janetta, as haughtily as Lady Caroline herself could have spoken. "I certainly shall not take money from you if you believe such evil things of me. I have known nothing of the acquaintance between my cousin and Miss Adair; but after what you have said I will not accept anything at your hands."
"Then I am afraid it will have to remain on the table," said Lady Caroline, as she swept out of the room, "for I cannot take it back again."
Janetta caught up the envelope. One glance showed her that it contained a cheque. She tore it across and across, and was in time to place the fragments on the seat beside Lady Caroline, just before the carriage was driven away. She went back into the house with raised head and flaming cheeks, too angry and annoyed to settle down to work, too much hurt to be anything but restless and preoccupied. The reaction did not set in for some hours; but by six o'clock, when the children were all out of doors and her stepmother had gone to visit a friend, and Janetta had the house to herself, she lay down on a couch in the drawing-room with a feeling of intense exhaustion and fatigue. She was too tired almost to cry, but a tear welled up now and then, and was allowed to trickle quietly down her pale cheek. She was utterly wretched and depressed: the world seemed a dark place to her, especially when she considered that she had already lost one friend whom she had so long and so tenderly loved, and that she was not unlikely to lose another. For Wyvis might blame her—wouldblame her, probably—for what she had said to Lady Caroline.
A knock at the front door aroused her. It was a knock that she did not know; and she wondered at first whether one of the Adairs or one of the Brands were coming to visit her. She sat up and hastily rearranged her hair and dried her eyes. The charity orphan was within hearing and had gone to the door: it was she who presently flung open the door and announced, in awe-stricken tones—
"Sir Philip Hashley."
Janetta rose in some consternation. What did this visit portend? Hadhealso come to reproach her for her conduct to Margaret and Wyvis? For she surmised—chiefly from the way in which she had seen him follow Margaret with his eyes at the garden-party—that his old love was not dead.
He greeted her with his usual gentleness of manner, and sat down—not immediately facing her, as she was glad to think, scarcely realizing that he had at once seen the trouble in her face, and did not wish to embarrass her by a straightforward gaze. He gave her a little time in which to recover herself, too; he spoke of indifferent subjects in an indifferent tone, so that when five minutes had elapsed Janetta was quite herself again, and had begun to speculate upon her chance of an engagement to sing at another musical party.
"I hope Lady Ashley is well," she said, when at last a short pause came.
"Quite well, I thank you, and hoping to see you soon."
"Oh, I am so grateful to you for saying that," said Janetta, impulsively. "I felt that I did not know whether she was satisfied with my singing or not. You know I am a beginner."
"I am sure I may say that she was perfectly satisfied," said Sir Philip, courteously. "But it was not in allusion to your singing that she spoke of wishing to see you again."
"Lady Ashley is very kind," said Janetta, feeling rather surprised.
"She would like to see more of you," Sir Philip went on in a somewhat blundering fashion. "She is very much alone: it would be a great comfort to her to have some one about her—some one whom she liked—some one who would be like a daughter to her——"
A conviction as to the cause of his visit flashed across Janetta's mind. He was going to ask her to become Lady Ashley's companion! With her usual quickness she forgot to wait for the proposition, and answered it before it was made.
"I wish I could be of some use to Lady Ashley," she said, with the warm directness that Sir Philip had always liked. "I have never seen any one like her—I admire her so much! You will forgive me for saying so, I hope? But I could not be spared from home to do anything for her regularly. If she wants a girl who can read aloud and play nicely, I think I know of one, but perhaps I had better ask Lady Ashley more particularly about the qualifications required?"
"I did not say anything about a companion, did I?" said Sir Philip, with a queer little smile. "Not in your sense of the word, at any rate."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Janetta, suddenly flushing scarlet: "I thought—I understood——"
"You could not possibly know what I meant: I was not at all clear," said Sir Philip, decidedly. "I had something else in my mind."
She looked at him inquiringly. He rose from his chair and moved about the room a little, with an appearance of agitation which excited her deepest wonderment. He averted his eyes from her, and there was something like a flush on his naturally pale cheek. He seemed really nervous.
"Is there anything that I can do for Lady Ashley?" said Janetta, at last, when the silence had lasted as long as she thought desirable.
"There is something you can do for me."
"For you, Sir Philip?"
Sir Philip faced her resolutely. "For me, Miss Colwyn. If I tell you in very few words, will you forgive my abruptness? I don't think it is any use beating about the bush in these matters. Will you be my wife? That is what I came to say."
Janetta sat gazing at him with wide open eyes, as if she thought that he had taken leave of his senses.
"Don't answer at once; take time," said Sir Philip, quickly. "I know that I may perhaps have startled you: but I don't want you to answer hastily. If you would like time for reflection, pray take it. I hope that reflection will lead you to say that you will at least try to like me enough to become my wife."
Janetta felt that he was very forbearing. Some men in his position would have thought it sufficient to indicate their choice, and then to expect the favored lady, especially if she were small and brown and plain, and worked for her bread, to fall at his feet in an ecstasy of joy. Janetta had never yet felt inclined to fall at anybody's feet. But Sir Philip's forbearance seemed to call for additional care and speed in answering him.
"But—I am sure Lady Ashley——" she began, and stopped.
"My mother will welcome you as a daughter," said Sir Philip, gently. "She sends her love to you to-day, and hopes that you will consent to make me happy."
Janetta sat looking at her crossed hands. "Oh, it is impossible—impossible," she murmured.
"Why so? If there is no obstacle in—in your own affections, it seems to me that it would be quite possible," said Sir Philip, standing before her in an attitude of some urgency. "But perhaps you have a dislike to me?"
"Oh, no." She could not say more—she could not look up.
"I think I could make your life a happy one. You would not find me difficult. And you need have no further anxiety about your family; we could find some way of managing that. You think as I do about so many subjects that I am sure we should be happy together."
It was a big bribe. That was how Janetta looked at it in that moment. She was certain that Sir Philip did not love her: she knew that she did not love Sir Philip; and yet—it did seem that she might have a happy, easy, honored life if she consented to marry him—a life that would make her envied by many who had previously scorned her, and which would be, she hoped, productive of good to those whom she deeply loved. It was a bribe—a temptation. She was tempted, as any girl might have been, to exchange her life of toil and anxiety for one of luxury and peace; but there was something that she would also have to lose—the clear, upright conscience, the love of truth, the conviction of well-doing. She could not keep these and become Sir Philip's wife.
She raised her eyes at length, and looked Sir Philip in the face. What a manly, honest, intelligent face it was! One that a woman might well be proud of in her husband: the face of a man whom she might very safely trust. Janetta thought all this, as she made her answer.
"I am very sorry, Sir Philip, but I cannot be your wife."
"You are answering me too hastily. Think again—take a day, a week—a month if you like. Don't refuse without considering the matter, I beg of you."
Janetta shook her head. "No consideration will make any difference."
"I know that I am not attractive," said her suitor, after a moment's pause, in a somewhat bitter tone. "I have not known how to woo—how to make pretty speeches and protestations—but for all that, I should make, I believe, a very faithful and loving husband. I am almost certain that I could make you happy, Janetta—if you will let me call you so—may I not try?"
"I should not feel that I was doing right," said Janetta, simply.
It was the only answer that could have made Sir Philip pause. He was quite prepared for hesitation and reluctance of a sort; but a scruple of conscience was a thing that he respected. "Why not?" he said, in a surprised tone.
"I have two or three reasons. I don't think I can tell them to you, Sir Philip; but they are quite impossible for me to forget."
"Then I think you would be doing better to tell me," said he, gently. He pulled a chair forward, sat down close to Janetta, and quietly laid his hand upon hers. "Now, what are they—these reasons?" he asked.
Her seat was lower than his chair, and she was obliged to lift her eyes when she looked at him. His face compelled truthfulness. And Janetta was wise enough to know whom she might trust.
"If I speak frankly, will you forgive me?" she said.
"If you will speak frankly, I shall esteem it a great honor."
"Then," said Janetta, bravely, "one of my reasons is this. You are most kind, and I know that you would be always good to me. I might even, as you say, be very happy after a time, but you do not—care for me—you do not love me, and"—here she nearly broke down—"and—I think you love some one else."
Sir Philip made a movement as if to take away his hand; but he restrained himself and grasped hers still more closely.
"And who is it that I am supposed to care for?" he asked, in a light tone.
"Margaret," Janetta answered, almost in a whisper. Then there was a silence, and this time Sir Philip did slowly withdraw his hand. But he did not look angry.
"I see," he said, "you are a friend of hers: you doubtless heard about my proposition to her concerning the Miss Polehampton business."
Janetta looked surprised. "No, I heard nothing of that. And indeed I heard very little from Margaret. I heard a good deal from Lady Caroline."
"Ah, that woman!" cried Sir Philip, getting up and making a little gesture with his hand, expressive of contempt. "She is worldly to the core. Did she tell you why Margaret refused me?"
"I did not know—exactly—that she had. Lady Caroline said that it was a misunderstanding," said Janetta, the startled look growing in her eyes.
"Just like her. She wanted to bring me back. Forgive me for speaking so hotly, but I am indignant with Lady Caroline Adair. She has done Margaret incalculable harm."
"But Margaret herself is so sweet and generous and womanly," said Janetta, watching his face carefully, "that she would recover from all that harm if she were in other hands."
"Yes, yes; I believe she would," he answered, eagerly. "It only needs to take her from her mother, and she would be perfect." He stopped, suddenly abashed by Janetta's smile. "In her way, of course, I mean," he added, rather confusedly.
"Ah," said Janetta, "it is certain that I should never be perfect. And after Margaret!"
"I esteem you, I respect you, much more than Margaret."
"But esteem is not enough, Sir Philip. No, you do not love me; and I think—if I may say so—that you do love Margaret Adair."
Sir Philip reddened distressfully, and bit his lip.
"I am quite sure, Miss Colwyn, that I have no thoughts of her that would do you an injustice. I did love Margaret—perhaps—but I found that I was mistaken in her. And she is certainly lost to me now. She loves another."
"And you will love another one day, if you do not win her yet," said Janetta, with decision. "But you do not loveme, and I certainly will never marry any one who does not. Besides—I should have a feeling of treachery to Margaret."
"Which would be quite absurd and unwarrantable. Think of some better reason if you want to convince me. I hope still to make you believe that I do care for you."
Janetta shook her head. "It's no use, Sir Philip. I should be doing very wrong if I consented, knowing what I do. And besides, thereisanother reason. I cannot tell it to you, but indeed there is a good reason for my not marrying you."
"Has it anything to do with position—or—or money, may I ask? Because these things are immaterial to me."
"And I'm afraid I did not think about them," said Janetta, with a frank blush, which made him like her better than ever. "I ought to have remembered how great an honor you were doing me and been grateful!—no, it was not that."
"Then you care for some one else? That is what it is."
"I suppose it is," said Janetta.
And then a very different kind of blush began—a blush of shame, which dyed her forehead and ears and neck with so vivid a crimson hue that Sir Philip averted his eyes in honest sympathy.
"I'm afraid, then," he said, ruefully, but kindly, "that there's nothing more to be said."
"Nothing," said Janetta, wishing her cheeks would cool.
Sir Philip rose from his chair, and stood for a moment as if not knowing whether to go or stay. Janetta rose too.
"If you were to change your mind——" he said.
"This is a thing about which I could not possibly change my mind, Sir Philip."
"I am sorry for it." And then he took his leave, and Janetta went to her room to bathe her hot face and to wonder at the way in which the whirligig of Time brings its revenges.
"Who would have thought it?" she said to herself, half diverted and half annoyed. "When Miss Polehampton used to lecture me on the difference of Margaret's position and mine, and when Lady Caroline patronized me, I certainly never thought that I should be asked to become Lady Ashley. To take Margaret's place! I have a feeling—and I always had—that he is the proper husband for her, and that everything will yet come right between them. If I had said 'yes'—if I onlycouldhave said 'yes,' for the children's sake—I should never have got over the impression that Margaret was secretly reproaching me! And as it is, she may reproach me yet. For Wyvis will not make her happy if he marries her: and she will not make Wyvis happy. And as for me, although he is, I suppose, legally divorced from his wife, I do not think that I could bear to marry him under such circumstances. But Margaret is different, perhaps, from me."
But the more she meditated upon the subject, the more was Janetta surprised at Margaret's conduct. It seemed unlike her; it was uncharacteristic. Margaret might be for a time under the charm of Wyvis Brand's strong individuality; but if she married him, a miserable awakening was almost sure to come to her at last. To exchange the smooth life, the calm and the luxury, of Helmsley Court for the gloom, the occasional tempests, and the general crookedness of existence at the Red House would be no agreeable task for Margaret. Of the two, Janetta felt that life at the Red House would be far the more acceptable to herself: she did not mind a little roughness, and she had a great longing to bring mirth and sunshine into the gloomy precincts of her cousin's house. Janetta agreed with Lady Caroline as to the inadvisability of Margaret's attachment to Wyvis far more than Lady Caroline gave her credit for.
Lady Caroline was almost angrier than she had ever been in her life. She had had some disagreeable experiences during the last few hours. She had had visitors, since Lady Ashley's garden-party, and amongst them had been numbered two or three of her intimate friends who had "warned" her, as they phrased it, against "Margaret's infatuation for that wild Mr. Brand." Lady Caroline listened with her most placid smile, but raged inwardly. That her peerless Margaret should have been indiscreet! She was sure that it was only indiscretion—nothing more—but even that was insufferable! And what had Alicia Stone been doing? Where had her eyes been? Had she been bribed or coaxed into favoring the enemy?
Miss Stone had had a very unpleasant half-hour with her patroness that morning. It had ended in her going away weeping to pack up her boxes; for Lady Caroline literally refused to condone the injury done to Margaret by any carelessness of chaperonage on Miss Stone's part. "You must be quite unfit for your post, Alicia," she said, severely. "I am sorry that I shall not be able to recommend you for Lord Benlomond's daughters. I never thought you particularly wise, but such gross carelessness I certainly never did expect." Now this was unfortunate for Alicia, who had been depending on Lady Caroline's good offices to get her a responsible position as chaperon to three motherless girls in Scotland.
Lady Caroline had as yet not said a single word to Margaret. She had not even changed her caressing manner for one of displeasure. But she had kept the girl with her all the morning, and had come out alone only because Margaret had gone for a drive with two maiden aunts who had just arrived for a week, and with whom Lady Caroline felt that she would be absolutely safe. She was glad that she had the afternoon to herself. It gave her an opportunity of seeing Janetta Colwyn, and of conducting some business of her own as well. For after seeing Janetta she ordered the coachman to drive to the office of her husband's local solicitor, and in this office she remained for more than half an hour. The lawyer, Mr. Greggs by name, accompanied her with many smiles and bows to the carriage.
"I am sure we shall be able to do all that your ladyship wishes," he said, politely. "You shall have information in a day or two." Whereat Lady Caroline looked satisfied.
It was nearly six o'clock when she reached home, and her absence had caused some astonishment in the house. Tea had been carried out as usual to the seats under the cedar-tree on the lawn, and Mr. Adair's two sisters were being waited on by Margaret, fair and innocent-looking as usual, in her pretty summer gown. Lady Caroline's white eyelids veiled a glance of sudden sharpness, as she noticed her daughter's unruffled serenity. Margaret puzzled her. For the first time in her life she wondered whether she had been mistaken in the girl, who had always seemed to reproduce so accurately the impressions that her teachers and guardians wished to make. Had it been, all seeming? and was Margaret mentally and morally an ugly duckling, hatched in a hen's nest?
"Dear mamma, how tired you look," said the girl, softly. "Some fresh tea is coming for you directly. I took Alicia a cup myself, but she would not let me in. She said she had a headache."
"I dare say," replied Lady Caroline, a little absently. "At least—I will go to see her presently: she may be better before dinner. I hope you enjoyed your drive, dear Isabel."
Isabel was the elder of Mr. Adair's two sisters.
"Oh, exceedingly. Margaret did the honors of her County so well: she seems to know the place by heart."
"She has ridden with Reginald a good deal," said the mother.
Margaret had seated herself beside the younger of the aunts—Miss Rosamond Adair—and was talking to her in a low voice.
"How lovely she is!" Miss Adair murmured to her sister-in-law. "She ought to marry well, Caroline."
"I hope so," said Lady Caroline, placidly. "But I always think that Margaret will be difficult to satisfy." It was not herrôleto confide in her husband's sisters, of all people in the world.
"We heard something about Sir Philip Ashley: was there anything in it?"
Lady Caroline smiled. "I should have thought him everything that was desirable," she said, "but Margaret did not seem to see it in that light. Poor dear Sir Philip was very much upset."
"Ah, well, she may do better!"
"Perhaps so. Of course we should never think of forcing the dear child's inclinations," said Lady Caroline.
And yet she was conscious that she had laid her hand on a weapon with which she meant to beat down Margaret's inclinations to the ground. But it was natural to her to talk prettily.
Wheels were heard at that moment coming up the drive. Lady Caroline, raising her eyes, saw that Margaret started as the sound fell upon her ear.
"A bad sign!" she said to herself. "Girls do not start and change color when nothing is wrong. Margaret used not to be nervous. I wonder how far that man went with her. She may be unconscious of his intentions—he may not have any; and then she will have been made conspicuous for nothing! I wish the Brands had stayed away for another year or two."
The sound of wheels had proceeded from a dog-cart in which Mr. Adair, after an absence of a fortnight, was driving from the station. In a very few minutes he had crossed the lawn, greeted his wife, sisters and daughter, and thrown himself lazily into a luxurious lounging-chair.
"Ah, this is delightful!" he said. "London is terribly smoky and grimy at this time of year. And you all look charming—and so exactly the same as ever! Nothing changes down here, does it, my Pearl?"
He was stroking Margaret's hand, which lay upon his knee, as he spoke. The girl colored and dropped her eyes.
"Changes must come to us all," she said, in a low voice.
"A very trite remark, my dear," said Lady Caroline, smiling, "but we need not anticipate changesbeforethey come. We are just as we were when you went away, Reginald, and nothing at all has happened."
She thought that Margaret looked at her oddly, but she did not care to meet her daughter's eyes just then. Lady Caroline was not an unworldly woman, not a very conscientious one, or apt to set a great value on fine moral distinctions; but she did regret just then that she had not impressed on her daughter more deeply the virtue of perfect truthfulness.
"By-the-by," said Mr. Adair, "I saw some letters on the hall table and brought them out with me. Will you excuse me if I open them? Why—that's the Brands' crest."
Lady Caroline wished that he had left the words unsaid. Margaret's face went crimson and then turned very pale. Her mother saw her embarrassment and hastened to relieve it.
"Margaret, dear, will you take Alicia my smelling salts? I think they may relieve her headache. Tell her not to get up—I will come and see her soon."
And as Margaret departed, Mr. Adair with lifted eyebrows and in significant silence handed an envelope to his wife. She glanced at it with perfectly unmoved composure. It was what she had been expecting: a letter from Wyvis Brand asking for the hand of their daughter, Margaret Adair.
Margaret heard nothing of her lover's letter that night. It was not thought desirable that the tranquillity of the evening should be disturbed. Lady Caroline would have sacrificed a good deal sooner than the harmonious influences of a well-appointed dinner and the passionless refinement of an evening spent with her musical and artistic friends. Mr. Adair's sisters were women of cultured taste, and she had asked two gentlemen to meet them, therefore it was quite impossible (from her point of view) to discuss any difficult point before the morning. Margaret, who knew pretty well what was coming, spent a rather feverish half-hour in her room before the ringing of the dinner-bell, expecting every minute that her mother would appear, or that she would be summoned to a conference with her father in the library. But when the dinner hour approached without any attempt at discussion of the matter, and she perceived that it was to be left until the morrow, it must be confessed that she drew long breath of relief. She was quite sufficiently well versed in Lady Caroline's tactics to appreciate the force and wisdom of this reserve. "It is so much better, of course," she said to herself, as her maid dressed her hair, "that we should not have any agitating scene just before dinner. I dare say I should cry—if they were all very grave and solemn I am sure I should cry!—and it would be so awkward to come down with red eyes. And, of course, I could not stay upstairs to-night Perhaps mamma will come to me to-night when every one is gone."
And armed with this anticipation, she went downstairs, looking only a little more flushed than usual, and able to bear her part in the conversation and the amusements as easily as if no question as to her future fate were hanging undecided in the air.
But Lady Caroline did not stay when she visited Margaret that night as usual in her pretty room. She caressed and kissed her with more than customary warmth, but she did not attempt to enter into conversation with her in spite of the soft appeal of Margaret's inquiring eyes. "My dear child, I cannot possibly stay with you to-night," she said. "Your Aunt Isabel has asked me to go into her room for a few minutes. Good-night, my own sweetest: you looked admirable to-night in that lace dress, and your singing was simply charming. Mr. Bevan was saying that you ought to have the best Italian masters. Good-night, my darling," and Margaret was left alone.
She was a little disturbed—a little, not very much. She was not apt to be irritable or impatient, and she had great confidence in her parents' love for her. She had never realized that she lived under a yoke. Everything was made so smooth and easy that she imagined that she had only to express her will in order to have it granted. That there might be difficulties she foresaw: her parents might hesitate and parley a good deal, but she had not the slightest fear of overcoming their reluctance in course of time. She had always been a young princess, and nobody had ever seriously combated her will.
"I am sure that if I am resolute enough I shall be allowed to do as I choose," she said to herself; and possibly this was true enough. But Margaret had never yet had occasion to measure her resolution against that of her father and mother.
She went to bed and to sleep, therefore, quite peacefully, and slept like a child until morning, while Wyvis Brand was frantically pacing up and down his old hall for the greater part of the night, and Janetta was wetting her pillow with silent tears, and Philip Ashley, sleepless like these others, vainly tried to forget his disappointment in the perusal of certain blue-books. Margaret was the cause of all this turmoil of mind, but she knew nothing of it, and most certainly did not partake in it.
She suspected that she was to be spoken to on the subject of Mr. Brand's letter, when, after breakfast, next morning, she found that her father was arranging to take his sisters and Miss Stone for a long drive, and that she was to be left alone with her mother. Lady Caroline had relented, so far as Alicia was concerned. It would not look well, she had reflected, to send away her own kinswoman in disgrace, and although she still felt exceedingly, angry with Alicia, she had formally received her back into favor, cautioning her only not to speak to Margaret about Wyvis Brand. When every one was out of the way Lady Caroline knew that she could more easily have a conversation with her daughter, and Margaret was well aware of her intent. The girl looked mild and unobservant as usual, but she was busily engaged in watching for danger-signals. Her father's manner was decidedly flurried: so much was evident to her: the very way in which he avoided her eye and glanced uneasily at her mother spoke volumes to Margaret. It did not surprise her to see that Lady Caroline's face was as calm, her smile as sweet as ever: Lady Caroline always masked her emotion well; but there was still something visible in her eyes (which, in spite of herself,wouldlook anxious and preoccupied) that made Margaret uncomfortable. Was she going to have a fight with her parents? She hoped not: it would be quite too uncomfortable!
"Come here, darling," said Lady Caroline, when the carriage had driven away; "come to my morning-room and talk to me a little. I want you."
Margaret faintly resisted. "It is my practicing time, mamma."
"But if I want you, dearest——"
"Oh, of course it does not matter," said Margaret, with her usual instinct of politeness. "I would much rather talk than practice."
The mother laid her hand lightly within her tall daughter's arm, and led her towards the morning-room, a place of which she was especially fond in summer, as it was cool, airy, and looked out upon a conservatory full of blossoming plants. Lady Caroline sank down upon a low soft couch, and motioned to the girl to seat herself beside her; then, possessing herself of one of Margaret's hands and stroking it gently, she said with a smile—
"You have another admirer, Margaret?"
This opening differed so widely from any which the girl had expected that she opened her eyes with a look of intense surprise.
"Why should you be astonished, darling?" said Lady Caroline, with some amusement in her light tones. "You have had a good many already, have you not? And, by the by, you have had one or two very good offers, Margaret, and you have refused everything. You must really begin to think a little more seriously of your eligible suitors! This last one, however, is not an eligible one at all."
"Who, mamma?" said Margaret, faintly.
"The very last man whom I should have expected to come forward," said her mother. "Indeed, I call it the greatest piece of presumption I ever heard of. Considering that we are not on visiting terms, even."
"Oh, mamma, do tell me who you mean!"
Lady Adair arched her pencilled eyebrows over this movement of impatience. "Really, Margaret, darling! But I suppose I must be lenient: a girl naturally desires to hear about her suitors; but you must not interrupt me another time, love. It is that most impossible man, Mr. Brand of the Red House."
Margaret's face flushed from brow to chin. "Why impossible, mamma?"
"Dear child! You are so unworldly! But there is a point at which unworldliness becomes folly. We must stop short of that. Poor Mr. Brand is, for one thing, quite out of society."
"Not in Paris or London, mamma. Only in this place, where people are narrow and bigoted and censorious."
"And where, unfortunately, he has to live," said Lady Caroline, with gentle firmness. "It matters tousvery little what they say of him in Paris or London: it matters a great deal what the County says."
"But if the County could be induced to take him up!" said Margaret, rather breathlessly. "He was at Lady Ashley's the other day, and he seemed to know a great many people. And if you—we—received him, it would make all the difference in the world."
"Oh, no doubt we could float him if we chose," said Lady Caroline, indifferently; "but would it really be worth the trouble? Even if he went everywhere, dear, he would not be a man that I should care to cultivate; he has not a nice reputation at all."
"Nobody knows of anything wrong that he has done," Margaret averred, with burning cheeks.
"Well, I have heard of one or two things that are not to his credit. I am told that he drinks and plays a good deal, that his language to his groom is something awful, and that he makes his poor little boy drunk every night." In this version had Wyvis Brand's faults and weaknesses gone forth to the world near Beaminster! "Then he has very disagreeable people to visit him, and his mother is not in the least a lady—a publican's daughter, and not, I am afraid, quite respectable in her youth." Lady Caroline's voice sank to a whisper. "Some very unpleasant things have been said about Mrs. Brand. Nobody calls on her. I am very sorry for her, poor thing, but what could one do? I would not set foot in the house while she was in it—I really would not. Mr. Brand ought to send her away."
"But what has she done, mamma?"
"There is no necessity for you to hear, Margaret. I like your mind to be kept innocent of evil, dear. Surely it is enough if I tell you that there is something wrong."
The girl was silent for a minute or two: she was beginning to feel abashed and ashamed. It was in a very low voice that she said at last—
"Mr. Brand would probably find another home for her if he married."
"Oh, most likely. But I do not know that what he would do affects us particularly. He is quite a poor man: even his family is not very good, although it is an old one, and it has been the proverb of the country-side for dissipation and extravagance for upwards of a century."
"But if he had quite reformed," Margaret murmured.
"My darling, what difference would it make? I am sure I do not know why we discuss the matter: it is a little too ridiculous to speak of it seriously. Your father will give Mr. Wyvis Brand his answer, and in such a way that he will not care to repeat his presumptuous and insolent proposal, and there will be an end of it. I hope, dearest, you have not been annoyed by the man? I heard something of his pursuing you with his attentions at Lady Ashley's party."
"Mamma," said Margaret, in a tragic tone, "this must not go on. You must not speak to me as you are doing now. You do not understand the position of affairs at all. I——"
"I beg your pardon, darling—one moment. Will you give me that palm-leaf fan from the mantel-piece? It is really rather a hot morning. Thanks, dear. What was it you were saying?"
Lady Caroline knew the value of an adroit interruption. She had checked the flow of Margaret's indignation for the moment, and was well aware that the girl would not probably begin her speech in quite the same tone a second time. At the same time she saw that she had given her daughter a momentary advantage. Margaret did not reseat herself after handing her mother the fan—she remained standing, a pale, slender figure, somewhat impressive in the shadows of the half-darkened room, with hands clasped and head slightly lifted as if in solemn protest.
"Mamma," she began, in a somewhat subdued voice, "I must tell you. Mr. Brand spoke to me before he wrote to papa. I told him to write."
Lady Caroline put her eye-glass and looked curiously at her daughter. "You told him to write, my dear child? And how did that come about? Don't you know that it was equivalent to accepting him?"
"Yes, mamma. And I did accept him."
"My dear Margaret!" The tone was that of pitying contempt. "You must have been out of your senses! Well, we can easily rectify the matter—that is one good thing. Why, my darling, when did he find time to speak to you? At Lady Ashley's?"
"In the park, near the forget-me-not brook," murmured Margaret, with downcast eyes.
"He met you there?"
"Yes."
"More than once? And you allowed him to meet you? Oh, Margaret!"
Lady Caroline's voice was admirably managed. The gradual surprise, shocked indignation, and reproach of her tones made the tears come to Margaret's eyes.
"Indeed, mamma," she said, "I am very sorry. I did not know at first—at least I did not think—that I was doing what you would not like. He used to meet me when I went into the park, sometimes—when Alicia was reading. Alicia did not know. And he was very nice, he was alwaysnicemamma. He told me a great deal about himself—how discontented he was with his life, and how I might help him to make it better. And I should like to help him, mamma: it seems to me it would be a good thing to do. And if you and papa would help him too, he might take quite a different position in the County."
"My poor child!" said Caroline. "My poor deluded child!"
She lay silent for a few moments, thinking how to frame the argument which she felt was most likely to appeal to Margaret's tenderer feelings. "Of course," she said at last, very slowly, "of course, if he told you so much about his past life, he told you about his marriage—about that little boy's mother."
"He said that he had been very unhappy. I do not think," said Margaret with simplicity, "that he loved his first wife as he loves me."
"No doubt he made you think so, dear. His first wife, indeed! Did he tell you that his first wife was alive?"
"Mamma!"
"He says he is divorced from her," said Lady Caroline, sarcastically, "and seems to think it is no drawback to have been divorced. I and your father think differently. I do not mean there is any legal obstacle; but he took a very unfair advantage of your youth and inexperience by never letting you know that fact—or, at any rate, letting us know it before he paid you any attention. That stamps him as not being a gentleman, Margaret."
"Who told you, mamma?"
"His cousin and your friend," said Lady Caroline, coldly: "Miss Janetta Colwyn."
Margaret's color had fluctuated painfully for the last few minutes; she now sat down on a chair near the open window, and turned so pale that her mother thought her about to faint. Lady Caroline was on her feet immediately, and began to fan her, and to hold smelling salts to her nostrils; but in a very short time the girl's color returned, and she declined any further remedies.
"I did not know this," she said at last, rather piteously, "but it is too late to make any difference, mamma, it really is. I love Wyvis Brand, and he loves me. Surely you won't refuse to let us love one another?"
She caught her mother's hand, and Lady Caroline put her arms around her daughter's shoulders and kissed her as fondly as ever.
"My poor dear, romantic Child!" she said. "Do you think we can let you throw yourself quite away?"
"But I have given my promise!"
"Your father must tell Mr. Brand that you cannot keep your promise, my darling. It is quite out of the question."
And Lady Caroline thought she had settled the whole matter by that statement.