"I can bear my agony in silence no longer. I write to you, I speak to you, for the last time. This is my last farewell to him I loved, to the father of my child, to the husband who should have been my shield."Do you remember the words you addressed to me when we were married? 'I love you,' you said, 'I am your husband and lover. Nothing shall ever harm or wound you. I am your shield--the shield of love.'"With what fondness I used to repeat these words to myself! My shield! My shield of love! Side by side with my worship of the Eternal did I worship you, as the realization of a young girl's happiest dreams; my joy, my hope, my shield of love!"Slowly, slowly did I awake from my dream. I would not, I could not, believe what you were showing me day by day, but the terrible truth forced itself upon me with power so resistless, with conviction so absolute, that I could no longer refuse to believe. How bitter was the knowledge, how bitter, how bitter!"I gave you all my love. But for your own actions it would never have wavered. O Richard! if in a moment of temptation you had turned to me, I might have been your shield, as you promised to be mine!"I know your secret. I have known it for years--for long, bitter years. I cannot blame myself that I did not satisfy your expectations. All that a loving woman could do I did to retain your love. I hid nothing from you; I strove with all my might to make your home pleasant and attractive to you; what power lay within me to keep you faithful to the vows we pledged was exercised by me to the utmost of my abilities. I used to say to myself, 'What can I do to win my husband's society and confidence? How can I act so that he shall not continue to grow weary of me?' You will never know how hard I strove, you will never know the tears I shed as I slowly recognized that my shield of love was a mockery, and that there was as little loving meaning in your declaration as if it had been uttered by a deadly enemy."Yes, Richard, I know your secret; I know that you have not been faithful to me; I know that for years your heart has been given to another. I cannot say that I hope you will be happy with her who occupies my place. At this solemn moment I will not be guilty of a subterfuge. The issue lies in God's hand, not in mine, nor in yours."I should not address this farewell to you if it were not that I feel I have not long to live. It is grief that is killing me, not a mortal disease which doctors can minister to."It is with distinct purpose that I put no address to this farewell. I have left the place I went to when you bade me good-by in London, and it is my desire that you shall not know where I am, that you shall not come to me. Remorse may touch your soul, and you may wish to come; but it would not be a sincere wish, springing, as it must, from a sudden false feeling of compassion in which there is no truth or depth. How could I believe what you said, after all the years of suffering I have gone through? And as a wife I must preserve my self-respect. Coming to me from a woman for whom you deserted me, I would not receive you. It is long since I bade farewell to happiness. I now bid farewell to you."
"I can bear my agony in silence no longer. I write to you, I speak to you, for the last time. This is my last farewell to him I loved, to the father of my child, to the husband who should have been my shield.
"Do you remember the words you addressed to me when we were married? 'I love you,' you said, 'I am your husband and lover. Nothing shall ever harm or wound you. I am your shield--the shield of love.'
"With what fondness I used to repeat these words to myself! My shield! My shield of love! Side by side with my worship of the Eternal did I worship you, as the realization of a young girl's happiest dreams; my joy, my hope, my shield of love!
"Slowly, slowly did I awake from my dream. I would not, I could not, believe what you were showing me day by day, but the terrible truth forced itself upon me with power so resistless, with conviction so absolute, that I could no longer refuse to believe. How bitter was the knowledge, how bitter, how bitter!
"I gave you all my love. But for your own actions it would never have wavered. O Richard! if in a moment of temptation you had turned to me, I might have been your shield, as you promised to be mine!
"I know your secret. I have known it for years--for long, bitter years. I cannot blame myself that I did not satisfy your expectations. All that a loving woman could do I did to retain your love. I hid nothing from you; I strove with all my might to make your home pleasant and attractive to you; what power lay within me to keep you faithful to the vows we pledged was exercised by me to the utmost of my abilities. I used to say to myself, 'What can I do to win my husband's society and confidence? How can I act so that he shall not continue to grow weary of me?' You will never know how hard I strove, you will never know the tears I shed as I slowly recognized that my shield of love was a mockery, and that there was as little loving meaning in your declaration as if it had been uttered by a deadly enemy.
"Yes, Richard, I know your secret; I know that you have not been faithful to me; I know that for years your heart has been given to another. I cannot say that I hope you will be happy with her who occupies my place. At this solemn moment I will not be guilty of a subterfuge. The issue lies in God's hand, not in mine, nor in yours.
"I should not address this farewell to you if it were not that I feel I have not long to live. It is grief that is killing me, not a mortal disease which doctors can minister to.
"It is with distinct purpose that I put no address to this farewell. I have left the place I went to when you bade me good-by in London, and it is my desire that you shall not know where I am, that you shall not come to me. Remorse may touch your soul, and you may wish to come; but it would not be a sincere wish, springing, as it must, from a sudden false feeling of compassion in which there is no truth or depth. How could I believe what you said, after all the years of suffering I have gone through? And as a wife I must preserve my self-respect. Coming to me from a woman for whom you deserted me, I would not receive you. It is long since I bade farewell to happiness. I now bid farewell to you."
"That was all. Many times did I pause to question myself, and to read again, in doubt whether I had mistaken the words. That the accusation my wife brought against me was untrue you may believe, Rathbeal. No woman had won me from her side, and I was so far innocent. That, ignorant of the true cause of my neglect, she may have had grounds for suspicion, I could well believe, but she seemed to speak with something more than suspicion. Who had maligned me? Who had played me false? And for what purpose?
"I could think of no one. At times during my degraded career in London I had had disagreements with the men I played with, but I could not convict one of them with any degree of certainty.
"The postmark on the envelope was Paris, and there was but one means of ascertaining my wife's address--through the only friend I had in the world. To go to her, beggared as I was, would be adding shame to shame. Besides, I could not pay my hotel bill. But still it impressed itself upon me as an imperative duty that I should find her and make full confession; and then to bid her farewell forever.
"I wrote to my friend, to his address in London; I made a strong appeal to him, and informed him of the position I was in. He wrote back after a delay of two days; he said he had something of a very grave nature to attend to that would take him from England, and he could not, therefore, come to me at once. When he saw me he would inform me why he could not come earlier. I was to remain where I was till he arrived; he would be responsible for my hotel bill; I was not to trouble myself about that. I learned from the landlord that he had received a letter from my friend, making himself responsible for my debt to him.
"'You have had a turn of ill luck at the tables,' said the landlord. 'It is the way with most gentlemen; but sometimes a turn comes the other way.' He appeared perfectly satisfied, but I could not help feeling that he regarded me as a personal hostage for the amount of the bill.
"I wrote again to my friend, imploring him not to delay, and this time I received no answer to my letter. I supposed he had left England on the business he referred to, and in my helpless position I was compelled to wait and eat my heart away.
"Ten days elapsed before he came; he was dressed in mourning, and was sad and anxious, as though he had passed through some deep trouble.
"'It was impossible for me to get here before,' he said gravely.
"I nodded impatiently, and then, with an awkward, consciousness that something was due to him, I touched his black coat.
"'You have had a loss," I said.
"'You will hear sad news presently,' he answered, 'and you must prepare yourself for it. But tell me first of your troubles here. I was so harassed and grieved at the time your letter arrived that I hardly understood it; and then I laid it aside and could not find it again.'
"Curbing my impatience, for he insisted upon my exposing the full extent of my misfortunes, I related to him briefly the result of my mad venture.
"'And you are utterly ruined?' he said.
"'Utterly, utterly ruined,' I replied. 'Enough of myself for the present. Tell me of my wife.'
"His countenance fell. There was a significance in his manner which profoundly agitated me. Eager for an answer, and dreading it, I asked him why he did not speak.
"'It is cruel,' he murmured, his face still averted from me, 'at such a time, when you have lost every hope in life, to say what I have come to say. We will speak together to-morrow.'
"'We will speak together now!' I cried, seizing him by the arm, and compelling him to turn toward me. 'Do you think that anything you can say, any message you may bring from her, can add to the misery and degradation of my position? Tell me of my wife!'
"'How can I speak?' he murmured. 'What can I say?'
"'Speak the truth,' I said, 'and do not spare me. I deserve no mercy. I had none upon her; I cannot expect her to have any upon me. But an imputation has been cast upon me, an infamous, revolting imputation, and I must clear myself of it. That done, I shall not care what becomes of me. I have not told you of the last letter I received from her, the only letter she has written to me since we parted. In that letter she brings a horrible charge against me, instigated by some villain who bears me ill will, and I insist upon my right to defend myself.'
"I would have said more, but my emotion overpowered me.
"'She will not hear you,' said my friend sadly.
"'She has told me so in her letter,' I replied; 'but you can give me her address, and I will write to her.'
"'It will be useless,' he said, 'quite useless, I grieve to say.'
"'You mean that she will return the letter to me unopened; but I will not rest until she receives my denial of the crime of which she believes me guilty.'
"'She will never receive it,' he said in a solemn tone. 'Cannot you guess the truth?'
"'Good God!' I cried, a despairing light breaking upon me.
"'I can keep it from you no longer,' said my friend; 'sooner or later it must be spoken. She had been for a long time in bad health, as you know; it was impossible to disguise it--her state was serious. The only hope for her lay in a change of climate and in perfect freedom from mental anxiety. In my answer to your letter informing me of your misfortunes at this fatal place I told you I had something of a grave nature to attend to. It concerned your wife. A secret sorrow which she did not impart to me had aggravated her condition, which had become so alarming that the doctor held out no hope of recovery. She had another terrible grief to contend with. Your child--but I cannot go on.'
"'You must go on. My wife--my Clair!----'
"He assisted me to a seat; I was too weak to stand.
"'Go on,' I muttered. 'Go on. All must be told--all, all! Do not spare me. Let me know the worst.'
"'Grave symptoms had developed themselves in Clair,' he continued, 'and it was feared that she would share the fate that awaited your wife. In these distressing circumstances she called upon me, and I went to her without delay. I was shocked at her appearance. Death was in her face; death was in the face of your child! I begged her to let me send for you. She would not hear of it; it terrified me to hear the vehemence of her refusal. "He shall not look upon me again, dead or alive!" she cried. "He shall not look upon my child! We are parted for ever and ever!" The doctor, coming in at that moment, warned me that opposition to anything upon which she had set her heart would snap the frail cord that bound her to life. "She can survive but a short time," he said. "In mercy to her, let her last moments be peaceful." What could I say--what could I do but obey?'
"My friend waited for my answer. 'You did what was right,' I murmured, racked with anguish. 'Was she at this time in the village she went to when we parted?'
"'She had removed from it without my knowledge, in order that you should not find her. It grieves me to make these revelations to you, but the time has gone by for concealment. Clair died first. Her death was painless.'
"'Did she not speak? Did she not ask for me?'
"'She spoke no word that I could hear. She passed away with her lips to her mother's face. "I am glad my Clair has gone first," your wife said. "It would have pained me to leave her alone in this cruel world. She is safe now; she has not lived to have her heart broken. She is waiting for me, and I shall join her soon--very soon!" I remained with her to the last. Believe me when I say I would have written to you had she not bound me by a solemn obligation which I dared not break. She demanded an oath from me, and to ease her aching heart I gave it. I could not, I could not refuse her. She died on the following day. Your wife and child lie in one grave.'
"'Where?' I found voice to ask.
"'I dare not tell you. Not for any worldly consideration will I be false to the dead. Again she made me swear that absolute secrecy should be preserved as to her last resting-place. "I should not rest in my grave," she said, "if my husband stood above it." I implore you not to press me, for I will not, I cannot be false to my trust. Alas, that I should be compelled to say this to the friend of my youth! You know the worst now. There is nothing more to tell.'
"It was just; it was what I had earned. Of what avail would tears have been, shed over the cold earth that covered the forms of my wife and child? I had tortured them for years, and I was justly punished.
"'She sent me no message?' I asked, after a long pause.
"'None; and she made no distinct complaint against you. All that she said was that her heart was broken, and that she left the world gladly. It is the saddest of news, but we reap as we sow.'
"I acknowledged it. As I had sown, so had I reaped. What better harvest could I have expected? Desolate and alone I stood upon the shore, without kith or kin. It was with a stern satisfaction that I thought I should not remain long on earth. It was truly my impression at that time; I had the firmest belief that my hours were numbered.
"'You will make no attempt,' said my friend, 'to discover where they are laid?'
"'Her wishes shall be respected,' I said gloomily. 'I could have brought no comfort to her or to my child had they lived. I will not disturb them now they are gone.'
"'It is due from you, I think,' he said, and presently added, 'What will you do now?'
"'With my life?' I asked; and then I told him what I believed, that I had not long to live. 'But for the short time that yet remains to me I cut myself entirely away from all personal associations with men and women whom I have known. I renounce even the name I bear, to avoid recognition, and shall assume another. I am as one who has died, and who commences life anew. If by my actions during the days that yet may be mine I can atone in some small measure for the guilt that lies upon my soul, such atonements shall be made. It is likely I may not reside in England; the recollections that would force themselves upon me there would be too painful to bear.'
"He approved of my resolution, and offered to render me some small regular assistance to assist me to live. I accepted it after some hesitation; he had made money out of me while acting as my steward, and I thought he could afford it. Should I find myself master of more than would be requisite for the barest necessaries, I would devote it to the children of misery in memory of my wife, who had a charitable heart, and was always giving to the poor. But what sweet virtue could be named that did not grace her soul?
"You know now, Rathbeal, how it was that I did not bear my own name when you first became acquainted with me. It was by chance that you made this discovery, and it was partly because I felt that there was a cowardice in the subterfuge, and that I was practicing it to avoid the moral punishment I had earned, that when we were together abroad I resumed my own. There was no need to make my friend acquainted with this, and it is probable that he is in ignorance of it to this day. It does not in any way concern him. I have cut myself away from him as I have done from every person who knew me during my wife's lifetime. The motive that induced me to request you to inform him that he would be troubled with me no more was this: I had to some extent bound myself to him not to return to England, and when I resolved to do so in your company I felt that I was partially violating that understanding. Consequently I determined to sever all personal relations between him and myself. He has not sought me, nor shall I ever seek him. Our ways of life lie widely apart, and it is hardly likely we shall ever meet again. He believes me probably to be dead; let him rest in this belief.
"I have nothing to add, Rathbeal, to this lengthy confession. You know the worst of me. If you condemn me be silent, it will be charitable. If I am still allowed to retain your friendship, it will ease my heart.
"Robert Grantham."
In a state of deep dissatisfaction with the world in general, Mr. Fox-Cordery paced the lawn fronting the country house he had taken on the banks of the Thames. He was smoking one of his fragrant cigars, but it had no soothing effect upon him; a common weed of British make would have afforded him as much gratification. He was perplexed and annoyed, and was growing savage; and yet he had cause, if not for gratitude--of which it may be doubted whether he was capable--at least for self-congratulation.
To commence with the credit side of his ledger, here he was comfortably installed in the house facing the river of which we have heard his mother speak, with its piece of meadow-land, and its lawn, and its garden of fruit and flowers, and its rustic bridge stretching to a bank on the opposite side. This bridge, being erected over an inlet, did not interfere with the traffic of the river proper, and was a decided attraction to the summer residence which Mr. Fox-Cordery had taken to carry out a long cherished design. The arm of water it spanned was deep, and upon it was floating a gayly-painted boat, bearing in gilt letters the name, "Lucy and Clair." He had so christened it in honor of the guests he was entertaining, Mrs. Grantham and her little daughter. He had intended to call it simply "Lucy"; but love is sometimes wanting in boldness, and for this reason, or because he was not sure of his ground, he had associated the names of mother and daughter, which he considered the lady he was scheming to win could not but regard as a delicate mark of attention.
To go on with, his mind was more at ease with respect to the fate of the friend he had betrayed than it had been on the day of his interviews with John Dixon and Rathbeal. Six weeks had passed by and he had not seen or heard from John Dixon: a distinct proof that that astute person had been gasconading when he spoke of having caught a glimpse of Robert Grantham's face on a foggy night in March. Mr. Fox-Cordery had arrived at the conclusion that the tale was a clumsy invention, introduced for the purpose of winning compliance with John Dixon's suit for the hand of his sister Charlotte.
"Dixon thought I would strike my flag," he reasoned, "and that I would implore him to take Charlotte at once, and a handsome dowry with her, as the price of his silence. A likely thing when he had nothing to sell but an empty tale!" Of the legacy he had heard nothing more. Mrs. Grantham had not seen the advertisement in the _Times_, the paper being one which she did not read, nor had she been approached by the lawyers with respect to it, as had been threatened by John Dixon. "Lawyers don't part with money too readily," again reasoned Mr. Fox-Cordery, "when once it gets into their clutches. I know their tricks."
Then, Charlotte was behaving admirably. She and Mrs. Grantham and Clair were constantly together, Mr. Fox-Cordery believed that his sister was doing something--perhaps in an indirect way, but that was of no account--to advance his cause. And yet that cause was making no progress. It was unaccountable, and he was moodily reflecting upon this as he paced the lawn and smoked his cigar.
On the debit side of the ledger were some ridiculous, though mysterious, eccentricities on the part of Rathbeal. Rathbeal did not appear personally, but he kept himself in Mr. Fox-Cordery's mind by a series of written and pictorial communications. These, carefully sealed, were addressed to Mr. Fox-Cordery's London residence, and were forwarded on to his suburban home. He destroyed them, wrathfully, almost as soon as he received them, but it was an additional annoyance that he could not forget them after they were destroyed; indeed, the impression they produced was so strong that they were the cause of many fantastic and disturbing dreams from which he would awake in perturbation. The peculiar nature of these communications will be seen from the following examples:
"When you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote Rathbeal, quoting an observation made by Mr. Fox-Cordery in the course of their recent interview, "nothing ever escapes from it.(Signed) "Rathbeal."
"When you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote Rathbeal, quoting an observation made by Mr. Fox-Cordery in the course of their recent interview, "nothing ever escapes from it.
(Signed) "Rathbeal."
Beneath these words was the picture of a large web, in a corner of which lurked a spider, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Mr. Fox-Cordery. A number of unfortunate creatures, with human faces, struggled in the meshes. The face of one figure, designated Fate, was hidden, purposely it seemed.
Again, after an interval of a few days:
"There are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote Rathbeal, quoting his reply to Mr. Fox-Cordery's observation. "Fate is ever at work.(Signed) "Rathbeal."
"There are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote Rathbeal, quoting his reply to Mr. Fox-Cordery's observation. "Fate is ever at work.
(Signed) "Rathbeal."
Beneath this was the same web, but this time Mr. Fox-Cordery was in the meshes, struggling in terror to release himself; while in the corner lurked the figure of Fate, still with its face hidden.
"The man is crazy," was Mr. Fox-Cordery's comment, "or in his dotage."
Nevertheless he could not banish these sketches from his mind, and he found himself wondering who the figure with his hidden face was intended to represent.
At intervals came couplets of verse:
The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell:We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.
The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.
"For auspicious," wrote Rathbeal, "read malefic. For love, read hate."
At another time:
Better the drunkard void of fraud and wilesThan virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.
Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles
Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.
Another post brought:
What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce?What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?
What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce?
What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?
Had Mr. Fox-Cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their frequency, savored of persecution. He was tempted, as his eyes fell upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it, unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself, and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness.
But these were small matters in comparison with the one desire of which he had become the slave. In the retreat he had chosen he had hoped to attain his wish, and to win from Mrs. Grantham a promise that she would become his wife. Long as he had loved her, he had not had the courage to speak to her openly. Many times had he approached the boundary line which stood between friendship and love, and had never dared to cross it. Something in her manner, which he could not define or satisfactorily explain to himself, deterred him; and he lacked the gamester's mettle to risk his all upon the hazard of the die. He argued with himself that she could scarcely mistake the meaning of the attentions he was paying her during this visit. Daily offerings of flowers, a constant ministering to her pleasure, fulfillment of any wish she expressed, the most careful attention to the adornment of his small person, a display of amiability to her, to Charlotte and his mother, and even to the servants who waited on them--all these efforts seemed to be thrown away upon her. As has been stated, he was growing savage to find his meaning thus misunderstood, his desire thus frustrated. Had he seen her while he was restlessly and moodily pacing the lawn and been able to read what was passing within her, he might have arrived at a better understanding of the position of affairs; and had he witnessed a scene which was presently to take place between Mrs. Grantham and his sister Charlotte, it would not have assisted in comforting him.
Mrs. Grantham was alone in her room. It was Charlotte's birthday, and she was looking in her trunk for a gift she designed to give her friend, a brooch of turquoise and pearls which she herself had worn as a young girl. The brooch was in a desk which lay at the bottom of the trunk, and it was seldom she opened it, for it contained mementos of the past which it pained her to handle; but they were dear to her despite the pain they caused her, and she would not have parted with them for untold gold. Lifting the desk from the trunk, she rose with it in her hands and seated herself at a table.
The deep sorrow of her life had left its traces on her face, had touched her eyes with an abiding sadness; but a delicate beauty dwelt there still. Charlotte, who had insisted upon being her handmaiden, and had begged to be allowed to attend her when she retired to bed, would comment admiringly upon the graces of her person, comments which Mrs. Grantham would receive with gentle deprecation. Until late years Charlotte had known nothing of Mrs. Grantham, and was even now as ignorant of her history as she was of the close association which had existed between her and her brother. During the present visit a fond confidence was established between the women, and each knew that in the other she possessed a true and faithful friend. But Mrs. Grantham had not admitted Charlotte into the secrets of her married life. The anguish and indignation which had tortured her soul when she learned from Mr. Fox-Cordery that her husband was unfaithful to her had long since passed away. Death had consecrated her grief, and had robbed it of its bitter sting.
Mrs. Grantham unlocked her desk. In a small box, at the top of two or three packets of letters, were the brooch and a few ornaments she used to wear in happier days. She placed the brooch aside, and taking out the other articles of jewelry, gazed at them with yearning tenderness. They were chiefly gifts which her husband had given her during their courtship and the first few months of their marriage. Since she had received the news of her husband's death from the lips of Mr. Fox-Cordery she had not worn an ornament he had given her; and the only ring upon her fingers was her wedding ring, which had never been removed. But she had preserved them all, even the smallest article, and every letter he had written to her was in the desk, carefully folded and preserved. An impulse stirred her to untie the packets and read the endearing words he had addressed to her, and for a moment she was inclined to yield to it, but she went no farther than to place her fingers on the ribbon which held them together. With a sigh she replaced the packets in the desk, but not before she had put her lips to them. Her husband, living, had sorely wronged her, but when she heard that he was dead she forgave him, and did not thereafter allow her thoughts to dwell upon any remembrances of him that were not tender and kind. He had sinned, and had suffered for his sin. She could not carry resentment beyond the grave. And he was the father of her child, the sweetest hope the world contained for her.
When her trunk was repacked the turquoise and pearl brooch was not the only ornament she had retained, There was a ring of gold set with one black pearl which her husband used to wear. One day she had expressed admiration of it, and he had had it made smaller for her. She put it on her finger now, and pressed her lips to it. As she did so her eyes filled with tears.
"May I come in?"
It was Charlotte's voice, following a tap at the door.
"Yes, come in, dear."
Charlotte entered, a different young woman from the last occasion upon which we saw her. She was neatly dressed, and her eyes were sparkling and her face radiant.
"A happy birthday to you, dear," said Mrs. Grantham. "Let me fasten this on."
Charlotte had never possessed a gold ornament of any kind, and her eyes fairly danced as she looked at herself in the glass.
"For me, Mrs. Grantham? Really for me?"
"Yes, dear. It was one I used to wear when I was a girl, and I thought you would like it."
"Like it! I shall love it all my life. Do you know, Mrs. Grantham, it is the first brooch I have ever had!"
"You don't mean that? And you twenty-nine to-day!"
"Yes, I am not a girl, as you were when you wore it. I am not at all sorry to be twenty-nine, for I think no one is happier than I am."
The fact is Charlotte had received this morning the tenderest letter from John Dixon, wishing her happiness and every good on earth, He had bought a birthday gift for her (said John Dixon), but it had required a little alteration, and to his annoyance the man who was making the alteration had disappointed him; but he was after him like a tiger (said John Dixon), and she should have the token that very morning, or he would know the reason why. John Dixon always wrote to Charlotte in good spirits, and in this birthday letter he was at his blithest.
"It takes very little to make you happy," observed Mrs. Grantham, looking rather thoughtfully at Charlotte, who was exhibiting, not the pleasure of a woman at her gift, but the delight of a child.
"Do you call this very little?" asked Charlotte, gayly. "I call it a great deal."
"Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, "did not your mother or your brother ever give you a brooch, or a bracelet, or any little thing of the kind?"
Charlotte was on her guard instantly. She had felt during the past few weeks that much depended upon her mother and brother, and that they expected her to speak of them at their best. Therefore she was uncertain what to say in answer to Mrs. Grantham's straight question.
"But tell me, dear," urged Mrs. Grantham, "did you never have such a gift?"
"Do not ask me," replied Charlotte. "I must not say anything unkind."
"It is an answer, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, with a pitying smile. "I have noticed that you never wear the smallest ornament."
"Nor do you; only your wedding ring. And now I declare you have another ring on! Is it a pearl?"
"Yes, Charlotte. It is a ring my husband gave me. I have not worn any jewels since his death, but I have a number in my desk."
"And you have put it on to-day in remembrance."
"Yes, dear, in remembrance."
She was on the point of saying that she did not wish to continue the subject, but she was reminded that this would afford Charlotte a valid excuse for not giving her some information which she was now desirous to obtain. She had not been quite oblivious of the attentions which Mr. Fox-Cordery was paying her, and although she had marked out her course of life, she had lately become not only curious concerning him, but doubtful. Upon her first introduction to Charlotte she had observed the menial dress the young woman wore, and the want of affection displayed toward her in her home. Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother had not been careful to disguise their feelings in her presence, and it was pity and sympathy for Charlotte which had attracted her. She afterward learned to love Charlotte for her own sake, and it was chiefly because of Charlotte's pleadings that she had been induced to accept the invitation which led to her present visit. And in this closer association she had grown to love the young woman more.
Never before had Charlotte the opportunity of unbosoming herself to one of her own sex, to one in whom she felt she could confide. In their walks together, she and her little Clair and Charlotte, constant evidences of Charlotte's kindness of heart and humane instincts had presented themselves to her, and she more than once suspected that here was a well which never yet had had free play. The information that this little brooch was the first gift of any value that Charlotte could call her own caused her to reflect. That a being so tender and kind should be treated with so much neglect gave her a shock.
"Dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, "how you must have suffered when you lost your dear husband! I can imagine it. I should wish to die."
"There was my little Clair left to me, dear; and life means, not love alone, but duty. I am glad I lived to take care of my child. Do you expect to be married soon, Charlotte?"
"Some time this year, I think."
"When in your position, dear, one thinks one generally knows. I should not be a false prophet if I said for certain this year."
"I think it will be."
"I have not seen your intended, dear."
"He is noble and good," said Charlotte, enthusiastically.
"And loves you with his whole heart, as you love him."
"Yes, it is truly so."
The women kissed each other.
"You must introduce me to him," said Mrs. Grantham, "when he comes to London."
"Oh, but he is in London," said Charlotte simply. "He lives here."
Mrs. Grantham looked at her in astonishment.
"But why does he not visit you?"
Charlotte's face grew scarlet; she dared not answer the question.
"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, pitying her confusion; "but you understand that I wish to know him, for your sake."
"I understand. Mrs. Grantham, I ought not to keep anything from you. The reason why Mr. Dixon does not come to see me here, is that he and my brother are not exactly friends. They had a disagreement in business, and that is how the trouble occurred. Do not say anything to my brother about it; it might make him angry."
"With me, dear?"
"Oh, no," said Charlotte, without thinking, "he could not be angry with you."
"With you, then?" said Mrs. Grantham, her mind half on Charlotte and half on herself.
"I don't know how it is," said Charlotte, in a tone of distress, "but I seem to be saying things I ought not to speak of. If I were clever it would not happen."
"You are clever, dear, and you are good; that is why I love you."
"If I only thought that what I have said without intending it, and what perhaps I have made you think without intending it, wouldn't make you run away from us----"
"I will not run away, Charlotte. If you wish it, I will stay as long as I have promised."
"I do wish it; with all my heart I wish it. I never had a friend like you; I never had a sister----"
But here Charlotte quite broke down; her sobs would not allow her to proceed.
"There, there, dear," said Mrs. Grantham, soothing her. "Tears on your birthday! Why, Charlotte, what are you thinking of? And with a true friend by your side----!"
"I know, I know," murmured Charlotte. "I am very ungrateful."
"You are a dear, loveable young woman, and you have won my heart. And who knows whether I may not be able to help you just where you most need help? There is a knock at the door. Don't move; no one must catch you crying, or they will have a bad opinion of me. I will go and see who it is."
It was a maid with a little parcel for Charlotte.
"I was to give it to Miss Fox-Cordery at once, ma'am," said the maid, "and I was told she was in your room."
"She is here," said Mrs. Grantham, "and she shall have it immediately."
The maid departed, and Mrs. Grantham locked the door, so as to be secure from intrusion.
"Something for you, dear. I guess a birthday present."
"Oh!" cried Charlotte eagerly, starting to her feet and holding out her hand.
"The question is, from whom," said Mrs. Grantham, with tender playfulness.
"I know!" said Charlotte, still more eagerly.
"From your brother?"
Charlotte shook her head rather sadly.
"From your mother?"
Another sad shake of Charlotte's head.
"They have given you something already, perhaps!"
"No, Mrs. Grantham; I do not expect anything from them. They do not make birthday presents."
"Don't think I want to tease you; I only want to find out how I can best serve you. I will not keep you in suspense any longer. Here it is, dear."
Charlotte opened the packet clumsily, her fingers trembled so, and disclosed a tiny note and a small jewel case. The note ran:
My Dear Charlotte: Accept this, with my fond and constant love. Ever yours,John.
My Dear Charlotte: Accept this, with my fond and constant love. Ever yours,John.
The jewel case contained a ring of diamonds. The tears that glistened now in Charlotte's eyes were tears of joy.
"An engagement ring, I should say," said Mrs. Grantham, gayly. "I want more than ever to be friends with John. And it fits perfectly. Now, how did John manage that?" Her mood changed from gayety to tender solicitude. She drew Charlotte to her side. "I wish you a happy life, dear. Take a piece of advice from a friend who has had experiences: When you are married have no secrets from your husband. Trust him unreservedly; conceal nothing from him. If you note any change in him that causes you uneasiness do not brood over it in silence; ask him frankly the reason, and if he is reluctant to give it, implore him to confide in you. In married life there is no true happiness unless full confidence exists between husband and wife. And if the man is true and the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow."
"I will remember what you say, Mrs. Grantham. I hope Fox will not be displeased. He is not friends with John, and I have never worn a ring; and this is so grand and beautiful----"
"Never meet trouble, dear. Perhaps I shall have an opportunity of saying something to your brother to-day."
Charlotte looked at her and hesitated; there was something on her tongue to which she did not venture to give utterance. Knowing it was her brother's wish to make Mrs. Grantham his wife, she wondered whether any words to that end had passed between them. To call Mrs. Grantham sister would be a great happiness to her, but she trembled to think of the price at which that happiness would be bought. The oppression to which she herself had been subjected in her home since her father's death rose before her. Was such a fate in store for Mrs. Grantham? Was it not her duty to warn her? But she dared not speak; she could only hope that nothing had been settled, and that her dear friend would be spared unhappiness.
"Of what are you thinking, dear?" asked Mrs. Grantham, perceiving that a struggle was going on in Charlotte's heart.
"Of nothing," Charlotte replied, and inwardly prayed for courage to warn her before it was too late.
Shortly afterward Mr. Fox-Cordery saw Mrs. Grantham issue from the house and advance toward him. With conspicuous gallantry he went to meet her, and raised his hat. He was careful to omit no form of politeness and attention to establish himself in her regard.
"I have come especially to have a chat with you," said Mrs. Grantham, declining the arm he offered her. "Such old friends as ourselves need not stand upon ceremony."
Mr. Fox-Cordery looked upon this as a promising opening.
"There is something I wish to say to you," he said boldly and tenderly, "if you will listen to me."
"Certainly I will listen to you. Is it about business?"
"It is of far more importance than business," he replied, with a significance of tone that could not fail to convey some perception of his meaning.
She paused awhile before she spoke again, and then seemed to have arrived at a decision.
"I wish to say a word about your sister."
"Dear Charlotte!" he murmured, and could not have said anything, nor uttered what he said in a tone that would have been more fatal to his cause, even if she were willing to listen to it favorably. He had been his own enemy, and had forged the weapon that was to strike him down; for it was Mrs. Grantham's insight into the life Charlotte must have led with him and her mother that had made her reflect upon the true nature of the man who had been for so many years her husband's friend and her own. The closer intimacy of the last few weeks had served him ill. Mrs. Grantham was a lady of much sweetness, but the trials she had passed through had taught her to observe and sometimes to suspect.
"To-day is Charlotte's birthday," she said.
"Charlotte's birthday!" he exclaimed. "How could we have overlooked it? Charlotte's birthday! Why so it is! I must wish her every happiness." He began to pick some flowers. "For Charlotte," he said.
"She will appreciate them. I have grown very fond of your sister."
"You could not say anything to make me happier--except----"
She nipped his tenderly suggested exception in the bud by continuing:
"She has the most amiable nature in the world--"
"No, no," he protested; "not the _most_ amiable nature in the world."
"And is so sweet-tempered and self-sacrificing--"
"She shares the best qualities of our family," he managed to get in.
"That I am as anxious for her happiness as you yourself can be. She has had two birthday presents, which have given her great pleasure, one especially." ("Confound her!" was Mr. Fox-Cordery's thought, as he bent over a dwarf rose tree. "Who has been making her birthday presents?") "I have given her a poor little brooch"--("That is one of the presents," thought Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and Clair has given her the other. Of course, of course." He was content that the gifts should have come from Mrs. Grantham and her little girl)--"and Mr. Dixon," continued Mrs. Grantham, "sent her an engagement ring."
Mr. Fox-Cordery looked suddenly up.
"Mr. Dixon!" he cried. "An engagement ring!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Grantham, ignoring his surprise, "a very beautiful ring. It is set with diamonds, and Charlotte, you may depend, put it on her finger at once. She must never take it off, at least till she is married. We foolish women, you know, have superstitions."
"Charlotte has been telling you a great deal about Mr. Dixon," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, striving to speak amiably, and not succeeding.
"Not a great deal; very little, indeed. It is only because I would have an answer to my questions that I learned anything at all. I have a common failing of my sex: I am intensely curious. And I am really annoyed, taking the interest I do in your sister, that I have not yet been introduced to Mr. Dixon. How is it that I have not been introduced to Mr. Dixon? Put a little forget-me-not in your posy; it means remembrance."
He obeyed her, and then took the bull by the horns.
"Mrs. Grantham," he said, "inspired by a hope I have entertained for many years, you must not remain in ignorance of our family secrets. I do not blame Charlotte for speaking to you about Mr. Dixon----"
"No," she gently interposed, "you must not blame her. We chat together every night before we retire, and little things come out in our conversation. If you must blame anybody, blame me, for it is entirely my fault that I know anything of her engagement. I teased it out of her."
"I regarded it as a family secret," he said. "The fact is--it pains me to make the statement--that neither my mother nor I quite approve of Mr. Dixon. You do not know him, and I do not wish to say anything against him. We are more likely to form a correct estimate of his character than Charlotte. We have a wider experience of human nature."
"Granted. But Charlotte has set her heart upon him, and he appears to have a very sincere love for her. But I am wrong, perhaps, in presuming to interfere in a matter which you say is a family secret. I was not aware of it when I commenced to speak to you. Forgive me."
"Dear Mrs. Grantham," he said, "do not distress me by saying that you are wrong. You are right, entirely right, in everything you do. I only wished to explain to you why it is that Mr. Dixon does not visit us. We have Charlotte's interests at heart, and if she insists upon having her way we shall not thwart her. Our hope will be that her marriage will turn out better than we anticipate. It is true that we put her upon probation for a time. We desired her--you can ask her for confirmation of my statement--to wait for two months before she finally committed herself, and she consented to do so. And now, Mrs. Grantham----"
"Pardon me," interrupted Mrs. Grantham; "let me justify myself completely. In speaking to you about your sister, I was prompted by my affection for her; she is not a young girl, and can to some extent judge for herself. We will not discuss Mr. Dixon, who is represented to me in two opposite lights. Let us hope for the best, and that her union with that gentleman will be a happy one. My own married life taught me much that brought sadness to my heart; I will pray that no shadow shall rest upon hers. But my sorrows have been softened by time, and I have a heavenly consolation in the love of my child, to whom, since I lost my husband, I have consecrated my life."
"Let that life," he said grandiloquently, "be consecrated to make another happy, as well as your darling child."
"No," she said firmly; "I am fixed in my resolve to form no other ties. Mr. Fox-Cordery, it would be a mere pretense for me to say I do not understand you. I beg you to go no farther--to say nothing more. You were my husband's friend; you are mine. Let us remain friends."
"But, dear Mrs. Grantham," he stammered, enraged and confounded at this unexpected repulse, "surely you must have seen, you must have known--the devotion of years----"
Either inability to proceed, or an expression in her face, restrained him here.
"Do not say what cannot be unsaid or forgotten. It will be best for both of us. Clair and I have been very happy during our visit. If you wish to drive us away----"
"No, no!" he cried; "you are cruel to make the suggestion. I do not deserve such a return. My mother would look upon it as an affront; and Charlotte--you love Charlotte----"
He hardly knew what to say in his confusion; but he felt it would be quite fatal to his hopes if he lost his present hold upon her.
"You do not deserve such a return," she said; "and not for worlds would I wound your mother's feelings or yours. It was only an hour ago that I promised Charlotte not to curtail my visit; and I will promise you, if you will engage not to reopen the subject. Let us forget what has passed. Shall we exchange promises?"
She held out her hand, and he deluded himself into the belief that he saw signs of softening in her face. As he took her hand his native cunning and coolness returned to him, and he was more than ever determined that she should not slip from him. He would be her master yet, and she should pay for her treatment of him. Even as he held her hand in his, the skeleton of a scheme to force her compliance presented itself to his mind, fertile in schemes and snares.
"I am almost inclined to be jealous of dear Clair," he said, in a plaintive tone, "for she seems to stand in the way of my happiness."
"You must not say that. If it were not for her, I might not be living this day. Through her, I saw my duty clear before me. I live only for her and for her happiness. It is an understanding, then?"
"Yes," he said, "it is an understanding. Excuse me now; I will go and give these flowers to Charlotte."
But he did nothing of the kind. He walked away, and when he was sure that no one saw him he tore the posy to pieces, and trod savagely upon the fragments, stamping at the same time upon every living thing beneath him that caught his eye. Such acts of destruction and cruelty always afforded him satisfaction, and after a few minutes so occupied he devoted himself more calmly to the difficulties of his position. Gradually a scheme formed itself in his mind, and he smiled at the thought that it would lead him to victory. He recalled the words Mrs. Grantham had spoken:
"The love of her child is a heavenly consolation to her, and she has consecrated her life to the brat. She lives only for Clair's happiness. If I prove to her how that happiness is imperiled, and that her infernal consecration will land her in the gutter .... Yes, I see my way; I see my way!"
But he saw not the Nemesis that was following his footsteps, born of a base action he had committed without ruth or remorse. He thought it was dead and buried, and that a woman he had wronged--not the only one--was happily lost to him, if not to the world. Neither did he bestow a thought upon Robert Grantham, nor upon the double deceit he had practiced upon husband and wife. In fancied security he paced a secluded path, meditating upon the new lie which would bring Mrs. Grantham to her knees, for the sake of the child she loved so well.