"Oh, I have seen the Southern Cross In Southern skies burn clear and bright, And I have seen the ocean tossBeneath its gleam in waves of white.Its beauty brought me no delight,For I was on a foreign shore;But now joy cometh with the sightOf England's chalky cliffs once more."
"Oh, I have seen the Southern Cross In Southern skies burn clear and bright, And I have seen the ocean toss
Beneath its gleam in waves of white.
Its beauty brought me no delight,
For I was on a foreign shore;
But now joy cometh with the sight
Of England's chalky cliffs once more."
Quite unaware of the pitfalls prepared for him by his now nearly forgotten wife, Sir Rupert Pethram had returned once more to England, and rejoiced greatly, in his dry fashion, to find himself again under his own roof-tree. Kaituna was delighted to have him home again, and welcomed him with a filial affection that made a deep impression on his somewhat hard nature.
He was not a favourite with the world, being so stiff and dry in his manner that every one felt a feeling of uneasiness towards him; consequently, he was unused to affection, except from his daughter, whom he loved fondly in his own undemonstrative fashion. A difficult man to get on with, at least people said so; and the haughty, distant smile with which he greeted every one was enough to chill the most exuberant expressions of friendship. Not even his residence in New Zealand, where, as a rule, humanity is much more sociable than in England, had eradicated the inherent exclusiveness of his nature. True, in his young days he had been more friendly with his fellow-creatures, but the episode of his wife's divorce had destroyed his feelings of sociability entirely; and although, being an upright, honourable gentleman, he was respected throughout the colony, he was certainly not loved. He was a man who lived entirely alone, and, except his daughter Kaituna, there was no one on whom he bestowed a thought.
Yet he was not uncharitable. If he saw suffering he relieved it; if any one desired help he was not backward in giving his aid; still, even the recipients of his charity found it difficult to feel warmly towards him in any way. He did not believe in gratitude, and therefore never sought for it, but did his good deeds in a stolid matter-of-fact fashion that robbed them of their charm in the eyes of the onlookers. It seemed as though his unhappy married life had blighted his existence, had frozen in his breast all feelings of tenderness towards humanity, for he was eminently a man who acted from right motives, and not from any feelings of impulse to relieve suffering or help his fellow-creatures.
In appearance he was tall, slender, and rather good-looking, with a thin, wrinkled face, scanty grey hair, and a darkish moustache. Well dressed in a quiet fashion, undemonstrative and distant in his manners, he embarrassed all with whom he came in contact; for the well-bred coldness of his voice, and the supercilious look in his grey eyes, and thenoli-me-tangereof his behaviour made every one around him feel uncomfortable.
With Kaituna he was always as pleasant and agreeable as he was able to be, but his daughter felt that any pointed display of affection would be received with disapproval by her singular parent.
A man so straight-laced, so rigid in the due observance of all social duties, could not but be annoyed at the absence of his daughter's chaperon at a time when he was expected home. She was Kaituna's guardian in his absence, responsible for her in every way, and he was naturally anxious to see if Mr. Dombrain's choice was a good one.
Shortly after his arrival he broached the subject to Kaituna, while waiting for his horse to be brought round, as it was his intention to ride round the estate with Belk.
"Kaituna," he said, in his frigid voice, "when do you expect this lady to return?"
"In about ten days, papa."
"Do you like her, my child?"
"Oh, papa, I love her."
Sir Rupert raised his eyebrows.
"That is a strong expression, and a mistaken one. My child, never give your love to any one. They will betray you."
"Isn't that rather severe?"
"Not from my experience," answered Pethram, with emphasis. "But there, there! do not look so sad, child. You are young yet, and all geese are swans in your eyes. But about Mrs. Belswin. I am very much annoyed that she should have gone away at this time. It is not courteous to me, nor in keeping with her position as your companion."
"But she had to go about some business, papa," said Kaituna, rather afraid at the frown she saw on her father's face.
"Business! business! Her business is here, child. I expect Mrs. Belswin to give all her time to you."
"She has done so until now."
"And now is the most important time, as I wish to see if she is a good companion for you."
"I'm sure you will like her very much, papa."
"Impossible. I like no one very much."
"Not even me?"
She threw her arms round Sir Rupert's neck, and his face relaxed somewhat under her smile.
"There, there, child!" he said, pushing her gently away, "if I have a weak spot in my heart it is for you. Now, good-bye at present I'm going to see how things are looking."
So he went away in the bright, breezy morning, and Kaituna was left alone in deep thought, wondering how she could tell him of the offer of marriage made to her by Archie Maxwell. She was a brave enough girl in most things, but felt decidedly reluctant to speak to her father about a subject she knew would be disagreeable to him. Archie was young, handsome, hopeful, and loved her dearly; but these four excellent qualities would seem nothing in Sir Rupert's eyes as opposed to poverty. The girl was in despair, knowing her father's iron nature as she did, and longed for the return of Mrs. Belswin, in order to have at least one friend to stand by her. It was true that Archie had declared himself ready to speak to Sir Rupert at once; but Kaituna, dreading the refusal of her father to countenance the engagement, persuaded him to wait until her chaperon came back. Meanwhile, she went off to her own room to read her lover's last letter; for as Archie, not being duly accredited, could not come to the house, they were obliged to correspond in a clandestine manner, which was not without its charm to the romantic nature of Miss Pethram.
While, therefore, Kaituna was attending to her business, Sir Rupert was attending tohis. Accompanied by Belk, he rode over the estate, looking into things, and exercised the young man's dull brains pretty considerably by his shrewd questions concerning this and that and the other thing. Sir Rupert Pethram had not been a penniless younger son, nor graduated in New Zealand for nothing, for he knew as much about land, and crops, and cattle, and top dressing as any man. Being thus accomplished, he took occasion to read his bailiff a severe lecture, which Belk received in sulky silence, on the slip-slop fashion in which things were conducted.
"When I pay my servants well," said Sir Rupert, severely, "I expect them to look after my interests thoroughly. There has been a great deal of neglect here, and I expect you to place things on a much more satisfactory footing. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir; I'll do my best."
"Your best will be my worst, I'm afraid, judging from what I've seen. I'll give you a few months longer; but if you don't improve things in that time, Mr. Belk, I'm afraid you and I will have to part company."
Belk was in a towering rage at thus being spoken to; but, as he wanted to retain his situation, he held his tongue, nevertheless determining in his own mind that he would repay Sir Rupert for his reproof as soon as he was able. Fortune offered him an unexpected chance, of which he took immediate advantage.
Returning home with Sir Rupert, a dogcart containing two young men passed them on the road, the occupants of which nodded to Belk, whom they knew slightly.
"Who are those gentlemen?" asked Sir Rupert, sharply.
"One is Mr. Clendon, the vicar's son, sir."
"And the other?"
Belk saw his chance; for, knowing all the gossip of the place, he was aware that Kaituna's engagement was unknown to Sir Rupert; so in the hope that it would be disagreeable, he spoke out straight.
"Mr. Maxwell, sir. The gentleman engaged to Miss Pethram."
"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Sir Rupert, haughtily.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I only answered your question."
Pethram looked keenly at the man, to read his real meaning; but Belk kept his countenance with the greatest skill, so the baronet was forced to believe that he had spoken in all good faith.
"You can go, Belk," he said curtly, turning his horse's head; "and don't forget what I've said."
The bailiff looked after him with a savage look in his face.
"No, I won't forget," he said to himself, scowling. "That affair's been kept from you, but you know all about it now. If I can find a chance of hurting you, my fine gentleman, I'll do it, to pay you out for your cursed pride this day."
Meanwhile Sir Rupert, outwardly calm, was riding home consumed with rage. What! his daughter engaged to a man of whom he knew nothing--of whose very name he was ignorant? It was infamous. And she had never said a word about it. Good heavens! where was Mrs. Belswin, to permit such a thing? Evidently it was common gossip. All the county knew it; and his daughter, whom he loved and trusted, had withheld her confidence.
"She's like her mother," said Sir Rupert, between his clenched teeth; "deceptive in all things. Never mind, I'll get the truth out of her before the day is an hour older, and then--Oh, these women! these women! daughters and wives, they are all the same. They smile, they kiss, they betray; and we poor fools believe them."
Touching his horse with the spur, he rode at full gallop up the avenue, in order to relieve his over-burdened feelings; and, when he was once more in his own study, sent for his daughter without delay.
Kaituna obeyed this unexpected summons with considerable trepidation, having, with feminine instinct, guessed the reason for which her father wanted to see her so suddenly. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, with his hands behind his back, and a stern look on his face--a look she had never before seen directed at her.
"Will you take a chair," said Pethram, with glacial politeness. "I'm sorry to trouble you about a disagreeable matter; but, being your father, I owe it to myself and to you to speak."
She sat down in the chair he indicated with a sinking heart, and waited in silence to hear his reproaches. Sir Rupert, however, had no intention of making any; he disliked a scene, and was moreover skilful in using that irony which cuts like a knife, and which is far more effective than unreasoning rage.
"So you have deceived me, Kaituna?"
"Father!"
"Am I your father? I hardly think so, when you conceal from me the most important event of your life."
Kaituna had a considerable spice of the paternal nature in her, so she took a hint from the baronet, and used his own weapons to defend herself.
"I don't understand to what you allude, sir."
"Do you not? If, then, you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will try and enlighten you. I saw a young gentleman in the distance to-day, and asked Belk who he was. In reply I was informed that it was a Mr. Maxwell, to whom you are engaged. Will you kindly inform me if this is the case?"
Kaituna lifted her head defiantly.
"I love Mr. Maxwell, and wish to marry him."
"Indeed. I presume you never considered that it was necessary to consult me?"
"I intended to do so, father, when--when Mrs. Belswin returned."
"Ah! Mrs. Belswin then knows all about this affair?"
"Yes."
"And is going to ask me to consent to the marriage?"
"Yes."
Sir Rupert walked up and down the room for a few minutes, then, pausing before his daughter, spoke deliberately.
"I'm afraid you may think me somewhat inquisitive, but I should like to know something about this Mr. Maxwell. Where did you meet him?"
"At Marsh-on-the-Sea."
"Indeed! And having fallen in love with you there, he followed you up here."
"Yes! He was going to ask you to consent to our marriage."
"Very considerate of him; but as yet he has not done so. Who is my future son-in-law?"
"Father," cried Kaituna, the tears coming into her eyes, "do not speak so cruelly. He is a civil engineer, and I love him very--very dearly. Mr. Clendon, the vicar, knows him. He is staying there just now."
"Very interesting indeed. Has he any money?"
"I don't know! I think not."
"So you were going to marry in this extremely doubtful fashion. I must say the whole affair does equal credit to your heart and head."
"Father!"
"Pardon me! one moment. This estate is entailed, and should I die to-morrow, you do not inherit a penny, as it goes to the next male heir of the Pethrams. If, then, you do not make a good match, I confess I do not see how you are to live."
Kaituna said nothing, but remained with downcast eyes, looking at the ground, while her father went on speaking in a cold tranquil tone.
"Knowing that you would be penniless at my death, I went out to New Zealand, sold all my property, and invested the money in an Australian Silver Mining Company. You may be sure I did not do so without first personally inquiring thoroughly about the prospects of the company. From what I learned, I am sure that it will turn out well, and in the event of its doing so, you will be an heiress. Under these circumstances I can rest assured as to your future, should I die in an unexpected manner."
"I understand, father, but--but--what are you going to do?"
"I am going to write to Mr. Maxwell, thank him for his very gentlemanly behaviour, and refuse to sanction the match."
Kaituna flung herself on her knees before him.
"No, no! you will not be so cruel. I love him, papa! Oh, you don't know how I love him."
"I know well enough, Kaituna. You love him so much that you would go and live in a cottage, on dry bread and water. This is youthful folly, and I decline to aid you to ruin your life in such a way. Mr. Maxwell has behaved very badly----"
"No! No!"
"I say he has," replied Pethram, with emphasis; "no gentleman would have acted as he has done. I will write him at once, and if he seeks an interview he shall have it, so that I can tell him to his face my opinion of his conduct."
"Father!"
"Not another word, Kaituna. Rise from your knees, for all your tears won't alter my decision. I won't ask you to dismiss this gentleman; I will do it myself."
His daughter, stung by his cold irony, sprang to her feet with a cry of anger.
"Papa! Papa! Don't do that. I love him! I want to marry him!" Then, after a pause, stamping her foot, "I will marry him."
"Will you? I'm afraid not," replied Pethram, coldly; "you are under age, remember."
"Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do," cried the girl, tearfully, raising her head.
"Behave like a sensible woman, and give up this madness."
"No, I will not. I will be true to Archie!"
Pethram shook his head with a vexed air.
"My dear child, you are really very foolish. I don't wish to argue any more on the subject."
"You are going to write to--to Mr. Maxwell?"
"At once."
"And refuse to let him marry me?"
"Exactly."
"Then," said Kaituna, pausing a moment at the door, "I swear by the name of my mother that I will be true to him."
She was gone in a moment, and Sir Rupert, over whose face had come a grave, worn look, laughed discordantly.
"By the name of her mother," he said with a sneer. "Ah! she little knows what her mother was."
"'Tis ill work fighting in the dark,Though skilled you be in use of lance;A random thrust may stretch you sark,Though guided but by fickle chance.'Tis wisest, then, to fight in light,For you can judge your foeman's skill;And though in armour he be dight,Your lance may find some place to kill."
"'Tis ill work fighting in the dark,
Though skilled you be in use of lance;
A random thrust may stretch you sark,
Though guided but by fickle chance.
'Tis wisest, then, to fight in light,
For you can judge your foeman's skill;
And though in armour he be dight,
Your lance may find some place to kill."
The interview which had taken place between Mrs. Belswin and her Italian lover had been productive of a curious change in the demeanour of the latter. From being master he became slave, from commanding he changed to obeying; and taking advantage of this astonishing transformation, Mrs. Belswin ordered her quondam master about like a dog. She saw that by a single flash of her fierce eyes at a critical moment she had inculcated the superstitious Italian with the idea that she was possessed of the evil eye, and had by so doing taken all the manhood out of him. This son of the south, who was decidedly brave in the presence of physical danger, was so completely the slave of superstition that he firmly believed Mrs. Belswin's eyes exercised a malignant influence upon him, against which he was powerless to struggle. Notwithstanding this terrible feeling, he was too much in love with her to think of removing himself from the dread fascination of her presence, and therefore, he accepted his new position with superstitious resignation. Once or twice, indeed, he attempted to exert his former authority; but the ominous gleam in Mrs. Belswin's eyes, and the significant sneer on her lips, soon reduced him to obedience, and he cowered at the feet of his sometime slave in abject terror. It was not physical fear, it was not a want of manliness: it was simply the effect of a supernatural terror acting upon a nature singularly prone, both by birth and training, to yield to such weird superstitions.
Having thus reduced Ferrari to such a state of bondage, Mrs. Belswin thought that there would be no difficulty in making him put her husband out of the way in some stealthy manner. Here, however, she was entirely wrong, as Ferrari, being afraid of the English law, absolutely refused to lend himself to the committal of a crime even at the command of his evil genius. In vain, with all the artistic craft of a woman, she prayed, implored, cursed, ordered. Ferrari would not be moved from the position which he had taken up, in holding himself aloof from the power of the law. Afraid of her in every other way, he did exactly as she asked him, but in this special case his fear of the visible power of justice was greater than his fear of supernatural visitation from the glance of the evil eye, and after a fortnight's battling Mrs. Belswin was obliged to confess herself beaten by the steady refusal of her slave to obey her in what she desired most of all things to be done.
By means of Belk she had kept herself thoroughly well acquainted with all that had taken place at Thornstream during her absence. The bailiff employed his mother, who was always haunting the great house, to find out what was going on. So, the information she gave her son, he, in his turn, retailed by letter to Mrs. Belswin in London. From this source, therefore, the latter learned all about Sir Rupert's return, the discovery of the engagement, and the dismissal of Archie Maxwell by the angry baronet. On hearing all this news, Mrs. Belswin, with rare resolution, made up her mind to go down to Thornstream and see her husband face to face. She saw plainly that she could do nothing criminal against him, and so determined to have an interview with him, and throw herself on his mercy. If he granted her this all would be well; if, however, he spurned her--well---- Mrs. Belswin knitted her brows, clenched her hands, and drew a long breath. She was a despairing, reckless woman, and would stop at nothing to gain her ends, so it seemed as though Sir Rupert was in a very dangerous position. The baronet was no coward, but he would certainly have felt a thrill of fear had he known this meditated attack by his terribly savage wife.
One effect of Ferrari's newly-born dread of Mrs. Belswin's supernatural powers was that he followed her like a dog, and seemed afraid to let her out of his sight. Formerly, having a full belief in his power to draw her back to himself, he had not minded her being away for certain periods; but now that he deemed his dominating power was gone, he was afraid lest she should leave him altogether, and kept a close watch upon all her actions. He was with her all day, and at night, when forced to attend to his business, insisted that she should come to the theatre and stay in a private box, where he could see her during the performance. Mrs. Belswin did not wish to abuse her newly-gained power over him, so acquiesced in his somewhat unreasonable demands; but when she made her preparations to return to Thornstream, he insisted upon accompanying her there.
"But what about your business?" objected Mrs. Belswin.
"That will be right, cara mia," he replied rapidly. "See you--we will go down on Sunday--I do not sing that night; and I will return on Monday--with you."
"I will not return on Monday."
"Signora, you will, I think so. On Sunday night you will behold il marito. He will order you away; and what is left but to come back with your faithful Stephano?"
"What you say is very true," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly, "but things may turn out so that I can stay."
"Eh! have you the plan, Donna Lucrezia?"
"No; I leave everything to chance."
"Dio! what faith!" muttered Ferrari, lifting his hands; and the conversation ended with Mrs. Belswin agreeing that Ferrari should accompany her to Thornstream on Sunday afternoon.
With that profound belief in the unseen which is a strong characteristic of half-civilised natures, Mrs. Belswin, seeing that she could do nothing herself, left everything to chance, and expected this blind faith to be rewarded by some miraculous intervention which should change her husband's heart towards her. She had no grounds for such belief, but, hoping against hope, kept repeating to herself that all would yet be well, and that things would end happily.
Nevertheless, in spite of her striving to look upon the bright side of things, she received something of a shock when, on arriving at the Deswarth railway station, she saw Archie Maxwell advancing towards her with a most lugubrious expression of countenance. Wishing to speak with him, she sent Ferrari off to look after her portmanteau and drew the disconsolate lover into the bare waiting-room, where they could converse freely.
"Well?" asked Mrs. Belswin, sharply, looking at the downcast face of the young man; "is all this true?"
"About Sir Rupert?"
"Yes, of course! What else would I speak of?"
"It's all true! quite true--worse luck!"
"He has refused to sanction the engagement?"
"Yes. I received a letter from him, in which he accuses me of acting shamefully in winning his daughter's heart. Oh!" cried, Archie, clenching his hands, "if he was not her father! You never saw such a letter--a cruel, wicked letter! If he was not her father I would make him apologise for its insolence."
"Oh," said Mrs. Belswin, cruelly. "So, being her father, you are going to sit quietly down under this insult."
"What can I do?"
"Do! Oh, if I only were a man! Do! Why, marry Kaituna in spite of him. Why don't you see Kaituna and urge her to marry you at once?"
"I have done so, and she refuses to disobey her father."
"Good heavens!" thought Mrs. Belswin savagely, "the girl is no daughter of mine to allow herself thus to be robbed of the man she professes to love."
She kept this sentiment to herself, however, and only said abruptly--
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm going up to town on business."
"Indeed! So you capitulate without a struggle?"
"No, I don't," replied Maxwell, flushing at the cold contempt expressed in her tone. "I am going to see my employers about this Buenos Ayres business which I put off till the end of the year. If I can manage it I'll start for South America next month."
"Alone?"
"Not if I can help it. On my return I'll try and persuade Kaituna to accompany me."
"And disobey her father?"
"There's no help for it," replied Archie, with a groan. "We love one another very dearly, and I don't see why our lives should be spoilt at the caprice of a selfish old man."
"What does your friend Mr. Clendon say?"
"He is entirely on my side."
"And Mrs. Valpy?"
"The same. They think Sir Rupert is an old brute,"
"So he is," muttered Mrs. Belswin, angrily.
"Well, Mr. Maxwell," she said aloud, "I also am on your side. It's a shame that your lives should be spoilt for a caprice. But remember one thing, Sir Rupert will cut his daughter off with a shilling."
"Let him. Kaituna and I can face poverty together."
"Poor innocents," said Mrs. Belswin, with a jeering laugh, "you don't know what poverty is."
"You needn't speak so unkindly," replied Archie, rather hurt at her tone, "I thought you wished me to marry Kaituna."
"So I do, but I don't want you to starve."
"We shall not starve. I can always make a good income."
"My dear sir," said Mrs. Belswin, candidly, "your income may be enough for one but it certainly is not enough for two, particularly when the other is a girl brought up as Kaituna has been. If you marry Kaituna without her father's consent, you drag her down to poverty."
"Oh!"
"Yes, you do. It's no good glossing over those matters. Better look at the hard simple facts, Mr. Maxwell, and you will find it best in the long run. You love Kaituna, she loves you, and you look forward to love in a cottage and all that kind of thing, which does not exist out of novels. The reality, however, is not so pleasant."
"Then what am I to do? Give up Kaituna?"
"Certainly not. Kahuna's happiness is as dear to me as it is to you. If you left her she would pine away, and I'm sure you would not be happy."
"Mrs. Belswin," cried the young man in desperation, "I don't know what you mean. You blow hot and cold; you are both for and against. You say marry Kaituna, and then you add it is a selfish thing to drag her to poverty. I don't understand your meaning."
"Oh, the density of lovers," said Mrs. Belswin, with an angry flash of her fierce eyes. "You are like all men, my dear Mr. Maxwell, and never see an inch beyond your nose. Does it never strike you that I am also fond of Kaituna, and would do anything to insure her happiness."
"You?"
"Yes, even I. Oh, don't look so disbelieving, my friend. I may have more power than you think with Sir Rupert."
"But you don't know Sir Rupert."
"Don't I?" replied Mrs. Belswin, grimly. "That's all you know. Well, here is your train, Mr. Maxwell, so I'll say good-bye."
"But what are you going to do?" said Archie as they went out on to the platform.
"I don't know--yet."
"Will you get Sir Rupert to consent to our marriage?"
"Perhaps."
Maxwell jumped into a first-class carriage with a sigh of despair, and put his head out of the window for a moment as the train started.
"Mrs. Belswin!"
"Yes?"
"I don't know your meaning, but you seem to have some power, so I'll leave the future happiness of Kaituna and myself in your hands."
"You will trust me?"
"Entirely."
"Very well; you will see your trust has not been misplaced."
Mrs. Belswin, however, was promising more than she could perform, and stood frowning deeply as the train went off. From this reverie she was aroused by a touch on her shoulder, and on turning saw Ferrari.
"Is that the man?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is it the one who is ready to do for you what I refuse."
She looked at him mockingly, and, woman-like, determined to torture him.
"My good Stephano, if you knew that, you would be as wise as myself!"
Before the storm the woods are still,All Nature drowses as in sleep;Yet, tho' her slumbers she may keep,She feels a strange prophetic thrill,Before the storm.From heavy clouds on mount and hill,The thunders mutter--lightnings leap,And soon the heav'ns commence to weep,Such strained silence augurs ill,Before the storm.
Before the storm the woods are still,All Nature drowses as in sleep;Yet, tho' her slumbers she may keep,She feels a strange prophetic thrill,
Before the storm.
From heavy clouds on mount and hill,The thunders mutter--lightnings leap,And soon the heav'ns commence to weep,Such strained silence augurs ill,
Before the storm.
Living at Thornstream was hardly very pleasant after the interview between Sir Rupert and his daughter. Everything went on just the same, but this very calmness was a foreboding sign of a coming tempest. The baronet was deeply angered at what he considered Kaituna's feminine duplicity, but hiding all such feelings under a mask of ultra politeness, he treated her with a cold courtesy which was far more irritating to the proud spirit of the girl than any outburst of wrath would have been.
Inheriting, however, no inconsiderable portion of the paternal pride, she, on her part, treated her father with distant politeness; so these two proud spirits found themselves entirely separated, the one from the other, by the insurmountable barrier of disdainful silence, which they had each contributed to build. They lived under the same roof, they took their meals at the same table, they interchanged the usual remarks concerning daily events, and, to all outward appearances, were the same to one another as they had ever been; but it was far from being the case, for the confidence of the father in the daughter, of the daughter in the father, had entirely disappeared, and they regarded one another with mutual distrust.
It was certainly a very unhappy state of things, and was entirely due to the peculiar views held by Sir Rupert, regarding his bearing towards his womankind. Had he interviewed Maxwell personally, and judged for himself as to his fitness to become the husband of his daughter--had he spoken of the matter to Kaituna in a kindly manner--had he made some allowance for the mutual love of these young people, who had set aside conventional observations, things might have been better. But, by ordering his daughter to give up her lover, as he had formerly ordered his high-spirited wife to give up her friend, he committed a fatal mistake, and as he had reaped the consequences of such high-handed proceedings before by losing his wife, it seemed as though history would repeat itself, and he would lose his daughter. Had he shown Kaituna the folly of a hasty love match, had he entreated her for her own sake to be cautious, had he requested her to consider her determination--but to order, ah, that was the mistake he made.
Curiously enough, he never saw this. In all things he demanded an absolute and unquestioning obedience from his household, so it never for a moment struck him that the girl would dare to defy his authority. Yet it was so; for in place of making her obedient, Sir Rupert's blundering conduct had made her crafty, and she made up her mind that she would never give up her lover.
Tommy Valpy stood her friend, and Kaituna met Archie at her house, where they parted with many promises of remaining true to one another. Then Kaituna returned to Thornstream, and resumed her mask of politeness; while Sir Rupert, thinking she had obeyed him, and given up her undesirable lover, was to a certain extent content, although still suspicious of her apparent acquiescence in his wish.
Things were in this state when Mrs. Belswin arrived. On leaving the railway station, after her interview with Maxwell, she had met Belk, but did not stop to speak to him, being afraid of Ferrari's jealousy. In this she was quite right, for Belk, seeing her driving past with a stranger, scowled savagely as he took off his hat; while Ferrari, noting the good looks of the young man, and seeing the scowl directed to himself, guessed directly that this was the rival mentioned by Mrs. Belswin.
"Mia cara," he said, artfully, as they drove on to Deswarth, "that handsome gentleman who made the bow--is it your friend?"
"Friend," echoed Mrs. Belswin, carelessly--"oh, I've so many friends."
"Is it--" began Stephano, when Mrs. Belswin turned furiously upon him.
"Don't worry me, Stephano; don't you see I'm busy. Is that the man I mentioned to you?--yes, it is. You see he is stronger than you, so don't fight him unless you like. I don't care a morsel for either of you. All I want is to stay by my child; and as you can't help me, you coward, don't worry me with silly questions."
Ferrari said no more, but made up his mind to seek an interview with the good-looking stranger, and find out whether Mrs. Belswin regarded him with favour.
On arriving at Deswarth, which was a short distance from Thornstream, Mrs. Belswin put the Italian down at "The Chequers Inn," told him to wait there in concealment until she saw him again, and then drove to the Hall.
Being determined not to see Sir Rupert until after dinner, in order to discover in the meantime how the land lay, she went up to her own room and sent for Kaituna, who was delighted to see her.
"Now you are here," said the girl kissing her friend, "you may perhaps induce papa to let me marry Archie. You know----"
"I know all about it, my dear," replied Mrs. Belswin, with a maternal air; "Mr. Maxwell met me at the railway station, and put me in full possession of all the facts."
"And do you think papa will let me marry him?" asked Kaituna, timidly.
"I really cannot tell, dear, until I see your papa."
"At dinner?"
"No-o," responded Mrs. Belswin, doubtfully; "I'm tired after my journey, so I'll have my dinner here. Afterwards I will ask for an interview with Sir Rupert, so you and your papa can dinetête-à-tête."
"No, I'm sure we can't," said Kaituna, in rather a tone of relief; "Mr. Dombrain is here."
Mrs. Belswin faced round rapidly.
"Dombrain!" she echoed aghast. "Your father's solicitor."
"Yes."
"Now what does he want here, I wonder?" muttered Mrs. Belswin, more to herself than to her auditor.
"He came down to make papa's will, I think," said Kaituna.
"His will!" echoed Mrs. Belswin, struck with a sudden thought. "Kaituna, if your father dies, will he leave you well off?"
"Oh, I don't want papa to die."
"No, no! of course not," said her companion impatiently; "but one never knows what might happen. But suppose he did die, you would be an heiress no doubt."
Kaituna shook her head.
"I don't think so," she replied, slowly. "You see, Thornstream is entailed on the male side, and none of it comes to me."
"But your father was well enough off in New Zealand."
"Why, how do you know that?"
"I don't know, dear," answered Mrs. Belswin hurriedly, seeing she had made a slip; "I only presume so."
"He used to be well off, but he lost a lot of money lately, and this time when he went out he sold all his property."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Belswin, drawing a long breath of relief, "then he will have a large sum of money in hand."
"No, indeed! He has put it all into silver mining shares in Melbourne."
"The fool!" muttered Mrs. Belswin, below her breath, "to risk his all in such security."
"So you see, dear Mrs. Belswin," said Kaituna, pursuing her own train of thought, "that if Archie wants to marry me for my money, I shall not have any."
Mrs. Belswin caught the girl in her arms and kissed her with rare tenderness.
"My dear," she said kindly, smoothing the dark hair, "Archie loves you for yourself, not for your money. Now go downstairs, dear, and excuse me to your father."
"And you will see him to-night about Archie?"
Mrs. Belswin gasped in a somewhat hysterical manner, and caught at the mantelpiece for support, as she repeated the words.
"I will see him to-night--about--about--Archie."
Kaituna was satisfied and departed, but when the door was closed after her, Mrs. Belswin rushed madly across the room, and, flinging herself on her knees before the door, burst out into a terrible fit of crying.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she wailed, in a low moaning manner, "what can I do? what can I do? If your father dies you will be left penniless; if he lives I shall have to leave you forever--for ever, my dear--and go away into the outer darkness. Oh, God! God! is there nothing I can do?"
She looked up at the painted ceiling, as if expecting an answer, but none came; so, rising wearily to her feet, she locked the door, and dragged herself slowly towards the mirror.
"What an old, old woman I look," she muttered, peering into the glass. "Grey hairs in the black; wrinkles in the smooth face. I wonder if he will recognise me. Surely not! Twenty years make a great difference. I will see him now in another two hours. He never dreams I am under the same roof, unless Dombrain----"
She started, drew herself up to her full height, and clenched her hands.
"Dombrain!" she said again. "Can he have revealed anything to Rupert? I know he hates me, and would do me an injury if he dared. But he cannot. No! I hold his secret; while I do that mine is safe with him. Oh! how ill I feel, but I must not faint, I must not quail. I must be brave--brave for my child's sake."
She bathed her face in cold water, took a small liqueur glass of brandy, which she produced from the dressing-bag, and then went to lie down for a time before facing her husband.
"To-night," she murmured, as her head sank on the pillows. "To-night, Rupert Pethram, we measure swords. Let us see who will win. You or I!"
"Oh, I was the husband and you were the wife;We met, and we married, and parted.Our meeting was happy, our marriage was strife:Our parting left each broken-hearted.Our hearts are now cured of their anguish and shame;We've learned each our lesson of sorrow;'Tis folly to need the same lesson again,And so I will bid you 'good-morrow.'"
"Oh, I was the husband and you were the wife;
We met, and we married, and parted.
Our meeting was happy, our marriage was strife:
Our parting left each broken-hearted.
Our hearts are now cured of their anguish and shame;
We've learned each our lesson of sorrow;
'Tis folly to need the same lesson again,
And so I will bid you 'good-morrow.'"
Sir Rupert's study, which was one of the most comfortable apartments in the house, was placed in the east angle of the building, so that two of the walls were formed by the outside of the house. It was lighted by four French windows, two of which were generally open in fine weather, looking out on to the terrace.
It was furnished in a heavy, stately fashion, with cumbersome oaken furniture, upholstered in green morocco, and the walls, hung with velvety dark-green paper, were surrounded with low oaken bookcases, the height of a man, filled with well-selected volumes. On top of these cases were placed choice specimens of ceramic art, consisting of red Egyptian water-jars, delicate figures in Dresden china, and huge bowls of porcelain, bizarre with red and blue dragons. Interspersed with these, quaint effigies of squat Hindoo idols, grotesque bronze gods from Japan, and hideous fetishes from Central Africa.
Dainty water-colour pictures in slender gilt frames lightened the sombre tints of the walls, and between these were highly polished steel battle-axes, old-fashioned guns, delicate but deadly pistols of modern workmanship, and dangerous-looking swords, all arranged in symmetrical patterns. The floor of polished oak was covered with buffalo skins from American prairies, opossum rugs from Australian plains, striped tiger-skins from Indian jungles, and white bear-skins from the cold north; while in the centre of the room stood the desk, piled with books and loose papers. The whole room had a workmanlike appearance and an air of literary comfort eminently attractive to a bookish man.
On this night the two French windows were wide open, and into the room floated the rich perfumes of the flowers, broken by the pungent smell of a cigar which Sir Rupert was smoking as he sat writing at his desk. At his feet on either side were heavy books, carelessly thrown down after use, and scattered sheets of paper, while amid the confused mass on the desk itself was the red blotting-pad and the white note-paper on which he was writing. There was a lamp on his left, from beneath the green shade of which welled a flood of heavy yellow light--so heavy that it seemed to rest sluggishly on the floor and be unable to rise to the ceiling, where the shade made a dark circle.
Within--the yellow lighted room, the silent man writing rapidly, the steady ticking of the clock, and the acrid tobacco scent. Without--the close night, moonless and starless, the air drowsy with heat, the faint flower-odours, and the sombre masses of the trees sleeping dully under the soporific influence of the atmosphere.
There was something weird in the uncanny stillness of the night, a kind of premonition of coming woe, which would have certainly affected the nerves of a highly-strung man; but Sir Rupert did not believe in nerves, and wrote on carelessly without giving a thought to the strange prophetic feeling in the air.
If he had only known he would have fallen on his knees and prayed for the protection of his guardian angel until the red dawn broke through the dread shadows of the fatal night.
The rapid scratching of the pen, the sharp peremptory tick of the clock, and suddenly a distinct knock at the door. Sir Rupert raised his head with an expectant look on his face.
"Come in!"
A woman entered, tall and stately, arrayed in sombre garments; she entered slowly, with a faltering step, and paused in the shadow before the desk. Sir Rupert, his eyes dazzled by the glare of the lamp, could see her face but indistinctly in the semi-twilight, and only heard her short hurried breathing, which betokened great agitation.
"Mrs. Belswin, is it not?"
The woman placed one hand on her throat, as if striving to keep down an attack of hysteria, and answered in a low, choked voice--
"Yes!"
"I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said, madam."
"I--I am Mrs. Belswin."
Sir Rupert started, and passed his hand across his face with a confused sense of memory, but, dismissing the sudden flash of thought, he arose to his feet, and pointed politely to a chair.
"Will you not be seated, Mrs. Belswin?"
She was foolish to betray her identity, but whether it was that her resolution failed her, or that her nerve gave way, or that she determined to forestall discovery, with an appealing cry she fell on her knees.
"Rupert!"
"God!"
He tore the shade off the lamp. The heavy, concentrated, yellow light spread through the room in clear waves of brilliance, and there on the floor, with wild, white face, with outstretched, appealing hands, with the agony of despair in her eyes, he saw his divorced wife.
"Rupert!"
Step by step he retreated before the kneeling figure, with startled eyes and dry lips, until he leant against the wall, and thrust out cruel hands to keep off this spectre of the past.
"You!"
"Yes. I--your wife!"
"My wife!"
He burst out into a discordant laugh, on which, like a wounded snake, she dragged herself painfully along the floor until she reached his feet.
"Keep off," he whispered, in a hoarse voice; "keep off, you shameless creature!"
"But hear me."
"Hear you!--hear you!" said Sir Rupert, in a tone of concentrated scorn. "I heard you twenty years ago. The law heard you; the world heard you. What can you say to me now that I did not hear then?"
"Pity me. Oh, Rupert, pity me!"
"Pity you! You that had no pity on me! You that ruined my life--that blasted my name--that made my home desolate! Pity you! I am not an angel! I am a man."
The woman twisted her hands together, and burst out crying into floods of hot bitter tears that burned and seared her cheeks--those cheeks that burned with shame at the righteous scorn of the man who had trusted her and whom she had wronged.
"What are you doing here?" said Pethram, harshly. "Rise and answer me. Don't lie grovelling there with your crocodile tears."
"Have you no mercy?"
"None for such as you."
At these cruel words she arose to her feet with an effort and leaned heavily against the wall, while her husband took his seat in stern anger, as if she were a criminal brought before him for sentence.
"You are Mrs. Belswin?"
"Yes."
"My daughter's companion?"
"She is mine as well as yours."
"Silence!" he said, sternly. "Do not dare to claim the child which you left so cruelly twenty years ago. Have you no shame?"
"Shame!" she replied bitterly. "Yes, I have shame. I know what shame is--twenty years of bitter, cruel shame. God of mercy, twenty years!"
"Twenty thousand years would not be too much for your sin."
"Are you so pure yourself that you can judge me so harshly?"
"I am not here to argue such a question," he said, coldly, with a cruel look in his eyes. "I want to know what you are doing here."
"I came as a companion to my daughter."
"And you told her----"
"I told her nothing," said Mrs. Belswin, vehemently. "So help me, Heaven! she knows nothing. I am her companion, her paid companion--nothing more."
"I am glad you have had the sense to spare my daughter the story of your shame. How did you obtain the situation?"
"It was advertised, and I got it through Dombrain."
"Did he know who you were?"
"How could he? Do you think all the world knows the story of my folly?"
"Your folly!" he repeated, with deep scorn; "your sin you mean. Dombrain was a long time in New Zealand; he must have heard of the case."
"If he did he never saw me. He did not recognise me."
Sir Rupert looked at her doubtfully, as if he would drag the truth from her unwilling lips. She stood before him white, silent, defiant, and he arose slowly to his feet.
"Twenty years ago," he said, coldly, "the law gave me my freedom from you, and I thought never to see you again. Like a thief you have entered my house during my absence. You have dared to contaminate with your presence my child--yes, my child, not yours. She ceased to be yours when you forsook her. How you obtained this entrance I will make it my business to find out; but now that I know that Mrs. Belswin is my divorced wife, I order her to leave my house at once. Go!"
She uttered a piteous cry, and stretched out her hands towards him in an agony of despair.
"No, no! you cannot be so cruel."
"I am not cruel. By your own act you forfeited your right to remain under my roof."
"But my child."
"Your child! Ah, you remember her now, after deserting her for twenty years! Do you think I will permit you to contaminate her young life by your presence? Do you think that I can see you day after day and not remember what you were, and see what you are?"
His wife cowered before his vehemence, and, covering her face with her hands, shrank against the wall.
"Rupert!" she said, in a low pleading voice, "do not be so harsh with me. If I have sinned I have suffered for my sin. For twenty years I have longed for a sight of my child, but until now I dared not see her. Chance sent you away and gave me an opportunity of living with her as a companion. She does not know who I am. She will never know who I am, and as her paid companion she loves me! Let me stay beside her and have some happiness in my wretched life."
"No; I will not! I wonder you dare ask me."
"I dare anything for my child."
"It is too late to talk like that--twenty years too late."
"You will let me stay. Oh, Rupert, let me stay."
"No!"
"For God's sake."
"No! No!"
"Reflect! Some day you may need mercy. How can you expect it if you deny it to me?"
"You have heard my determination. Go!"
"Now?"
"At this moment."
"You would turn me out of your house like a dog?"
"I would, and I do! It is all that you deserve at my hands."
"Is there no mercy?"
"None--from me. Go!"
"I will not go," cried Mrs. Belswin, in despair. "I will not go, I tell you."
Sir Rupert advanced towards the bell rope.
"Then I will order my servants to turn you out."
"But, Rupert, think. Kaituna will learn who I am."
"Better that than she should be contaminated by your presence."
The woman clasped her hands together, and then in a frenzy of rage dashed across the room to pull him away from the bell-rope.
"You shall not! you shall not!" she shrieked, her fierce eyes flashing with mad anger. "I will stay! I am a reckless woman! I love my child! I will not go!"
"I have the power to make you go, and I will," said Pethram, coldly.
"Are you a man or a devil?"
"I am what you have made me."
"What I made you!" she hissed, in a voice shaking with bitter scorn. "No! it is you who have made me what I am. I loved you when I married you. As there is a God above, I loved you; but with your cold, cruel words, with your sarcastic sneers, with your neglect you killed that love. I had no friend. I was only a girl, and you crushed my heart. I was dying for the love and tenderness which you refused to give me."
"I was a good husband."
"As the world says, 'A good husband.' You gave me a good home. You surrounded me with every comfort. To all outward appearance, I had nothing left to desire. Ah, how little you, with your cold, cruel nature, know what a woman wants. I desired love! I desired tenderness, but I did not get it. Oates was kind to me. He cheered my loneliness, and in a moment of madness I went with him. I regretted it the moment afterwards. I have regretted it ever since. God knows how miserable my life has been. Now I have a chance of happiness, I will take advantage of it. I will stay with my child; you can do what you like, you can say what you like--I stay."
Without changing a muscle of his face, Sir Rupert heard his miserable wife to the end, then advanced once more to the bell.
"You have said all; now go, or I will have you turned out."
Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully.
"Do what you like," she said, indifferently. "You have said what you will do; I have said what I will do."
For the first time Sir Rupert hesitated, and let his hand fall without ringing the bell.
"You fiend!" he said, in a cold fury. "Having made my life miserable before, you now come to do so again. But I knew I was never safe from your malice. Dombrain, to whom I told all your vile conduct, said you would come again."
"He said that? Dombrain said that?"
"Yes."
"And he is a fit judge of my conduct!" she burst out in passionate anger. "Do you know who he is? Do you know what he was? A convict--an embezzler--a man who has served his term in prison."
"My solicitor--Mr. Dombrain?" he said, incredulously.
"Mr. Dombrain!" she scoffed, sneeringly. "Mr. Damberton is his real name, and it was by knowing what he was and what he is, that I forced him to receive me as your daughter's companion. I would have spared him had he spared me, but now--well, you know the worst of him."
"Yes, and I know the worst of you," he said, fiercely. "Oh, you played your cards well. But I will turn you out of my house, and to-morrow I will expose Dombrain or Damberton's real position to all the world."
"You can do what you like about him, but I stay here."
"You go, and at once."
"I will not," she said, desperately.
"Then I will shame you in the eyes of your own child," he replied, resolutely, seizing the bell rope.
"No, no! not that!"
"I say I will. Either you go at once, or I call in Kaituna and tell her who and what you are."
Mrs. Belswin writhed in anguish.
"Oh, I could not bear that! My own child! Pity, pity!"
"Will you go?"
"Pity! pity!"
"Will you go?"
"Yes, yes! My own child! I will go. Yes, don't ring the bell; I will go now. But do not tell her--oh, Rupert, do not tell her!"
"I will tell nothing if you leave this house at once."
She dragged herself slowly towards the window, conscious that she was beaten. Firm on every point, reckless to the verge of despair, the thought that her own child should know her shame was too much even for her.
"Oh, God! is there no mercy?"
"None! Go!"
On the threshold of the window she stood, with her tall form drawn up to its full height, and her fierce eyes flashing with rage.
"You part the mother and the child. You drive me out of your house like a dog. But remember with whom you have to deal. To-night it is your turn; to-morrow it will be mine."
He looked at her with a scornful smile, and in a moment she was swallowed up by the darkness of the night, from whence she had emerged like a spectre of the past.