Chapter I.The Convent SchoolA great Cathedral Church rises high over the river, a beautiful landmark for miles round. It is not an old Gothic church, for these passed into the hands of the Anglicans at the Reformation, but is a model of modern Gothic, stately and tall, with stained glass windows between the slender buttresses.Below nestles the little town, terraced on the slope above the marshland where a sluggish river winds to the sea.Here in this quiet world a convent school was bedded in the woods, where the patient nuns devoted their lives to the education of all—whether of their own religion or not—who came under their charge.On a summer day nearly half a century ago, there came to the convent school an Italian lady, with a young girl, fresh as a rose bud, half formed, but giving promise of rare beauty.The mother was past her first youth, and like so many southerners was showing signs of fading charms, but still dangerously beautiful.The child, who spoke no English, gazed shyly round, as they were admitted through the gates to the lovely garden within, and into a cool large room, there to await the Mother Superior.The woman was dressed in excellent taste, the only jarring note being the quantity of jewelry she wore, which betrayed a certain vulgarity in her otherwise faultless appearance.The Mother Superior entered with a calm and sweet face as of one whose life was one long sacrifice.“I wish to leave my little daughter Carlotta with you,” said the Italian. “She is fourteen years old, and has been educated in Verona, but circumstances have arisen which render it necessary for me to part with her—for a time at any rate.”The Mother Superior bowed and waited. Although shut up in seclusion she knew the world, and was a shrewd judge of its people.“Her father is dead,” said the other, in a careless voice and crossed herself. “And I am about to marry a very dear friend, Count —, but perhaps I had better leave the name unsaid.“He has known me for many years, and at last I have agreed to yield to his appeal.” She shook out a fold of her cloak, and looked at the other.A grim look came to the eyes of the Mother Superior, seldom seen there, as she said. “And so the little one is to be left in our care? And is she to remain in our charge during the holidays? It is far to go to Italy.”“Yes, it would be better. You see Marco does not care for her to be at home, when we are first married, and I—well, it reminds me of advancing years,” and she gave a hard laugh.“I understand,” said the Mother Superior, then “poor child. She has been confirmed?” she asked.“Oh, yes. I have the certificate here,” and she opened her bag.“And her birth certificate? That may be necessary for examinations.”“No, I am afraid I have not got that. I lost it—I did not think it would be necessary.” She hesitated.“I think I understand,” said the other looking straight at her.“Our fold is open to all, especially to those children—without birth certificates.”“The fees shall be paid regularly,” the Italian went on hastily. “Marco is very rich, and will grudge nothing, you need have no anxiety.”The conversation had gone on in English of which Carlotta understood no word, but looked questioningly at each in turn, clinging shyly to her mother.When the time for parting came, she cried bitterly, silently.Her mother gave her a formal kiss, and told her to behave well in her new school. She would write to her, she said, and perhaps come and see her next year. Meanwhile the Sisters would look after her.And so she took her departure, impatient to be gone, and would not even stay for food which was offered her.“Poor lamb,” said the Mother Superior, and brought her to the Sisters. She handed her over to Sister Ursula, who was versed in these cases, who soon had Carlotta smiling, and in a few days her troubles were almost forgotten. Life was fair, and the English June beautiful as a picture. Roses were out in the gardens, the trees were in fresh green, and the flowers along the old wall were such as she had never seen. The Sisters were particularly kind to Carlotta; she was so fragile, with an exotic prettiness, given to sudden crying at times. And there was a wistful look in her eyes, as though gazing out over the sea to her southern home. She had beautiful dark eyes, with long lashes, was grave and composed at her lessons, and attentive in the dim chapel, where she would kneel with a devotion beyond her years, at the wonderful services, her eyes fixed as though in ecstasy.But she was happiest in the Chapel of Our Lady, where she would adore with clasped hands. The Mother Superior was disturbed, she did not like to see too much fervour in one so young. She knew the reactions which so often come later.“It is all so beautiful,” Carlotta said to Sister Ursula. “When I grow up I shall be a sister. Do you think they will let me or am I too wicked?”The Sister smiled and stroked her black hair. “My dear, we must do as Our Blessed Lady directs,” she said, “we can seldom choose for ourselves. To some is given the quiet and holiness of a religious life, but others are called to go out into the world, and to face the evil there—perhaps to marry.”A far away look came into her eyes, and a sigh escaped her.Carlotta did not see it; she rose and stamped her little foot. “I shall never marry,” she cried with passion “Never! Never!”“Hush, my child, you must not speak like that,” but she folded her in her arms.Of her mother Carlotta never spoke, and the promised letters never came. The fees were paid regularly for a year, but there was no mention of a visit from her mother, and then came silence, and when a letter was sent to her address, it was returned, undelivered. The Mother Superior sent for Ursula, and showed it to her without comment.“But you will not send her away?” she cried in alarm.The other was grave, but she smiled as she said. “I expected this, the so-called Count has got tired of her. We shall hear no more of them, but this sweet child, no, she shall remain with us. She must not be told. Mother Church does not cast out her children.”And so another year passed, and the promise of the bud was revealed in the flower. Carlotta ripened early as southerners do, and at sixteen would have lured St. Anthony from his devotions. Black curls fell round her sweet face, and the great, dark, innocent eyes, wondrous as the mirror of the sea, in their changeful emotions, looked out on the world fearless yet timid, dreaming of what lay in the glory of the future.Her figure was straight and supple, like one of the flowers in the garden she loved so passionately.Ursula was anxious. The child had fits of silence, when she would get away from the others, and sit motionless in the garden.With the other girls she was a favourite, for though she did not excel either at work or games, she was always kind and gentle, and took keen delight in the success of others.The early summer had come which was Carlotta’s happiest time, for she pined in the winter.The girls were allowed in the woods with the Sisters, and Carlotta loved the green and fragrant hollows where the bluebells made a carpet, and the birds sang for joy.One day she had wandered off by herself, for she was allowed a certain freedom, on account of her queer moods, and the others were not far off.She was aroused from her dreaming by the sound of a voice.“What a face to paint! Ye gods! I’ve never seen so perfect a picture.”She looked up in alarm and saw a young man standing before her. In her secluded life she had spoken to no men save the old priest who heard her blameless confessions. This one was tall and clean, and the face was moulded like one of the old Greek gods.Had she known more of the world she would have seen a restless hungry look in the eyes, but at present they were filled with the light of admiration.“Who are you, little goddess?” he asked in a musical voice. “And what do you among these woods? Perchance you are an Oread strayed from your home.”Carlotta was unafraid, and replied innocently.“I am at the convent school, The Convent of the Sacred Heart, and the others are near here, but I came to hear the birds, they sing so sweetly.”“And what do they tell you, little Daphne?”“They sing of something I cannot understand,” she said with a smile, “but it is very beautiful.”The man laughed outright. “What a quaint little girl you are. Shall I tell you what they sing about? It is Love. They are telling each other how much they love, and that all should love on such days as this.” He stretched his hands out to the sky.Carlotta suddenly remembered herself.“I must not talk to you,” she said “it is forbidden. I must go and find the others. Sister Ursula would be very angry if she knew I had been talking to a man.”The man smiled. “And is a man so very dreadful?” he asked.“I suppose you are taught that they are terrible creatures, ogres who are waiting to eat little girls.”“I don’t know,” she said “I have never spoken to one before,” and she opened wide her great eyes.“I must not keep you,” said the man. “I am a painter, I won’t say artist, and when I saw you, I thought what a beautiful picture I could make of you, for a Madonna.”“Oh, hush!” said Carlotta shocked. “I, as a picture of Our Blessed Lady, I must not listen,” and she rose in haste.“What a funny little girl you are,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. “We always have to use models; all artists have, even for the Christ or the Blessed Virgin; there is nothing wicked in that.”She looked at him doubtfully.“Well if you must go, tell me when I can see you again,” he said. “You’ve haven’t told me your name yet?”“My name is Carlotta, but they call me Carlot,” she said.“Carlot! That’s the name of my dog,” and he laughed boisterously.Carlotta was hurt. “That is not kind of you,” she said and turned to go.“One moment. I am sorry, but so sweet a face deserves a better name. I shall call you Daphne. When can we meet?”For the first time she was alarmed. Sitting on the ground was one thing, but standing beside him and seeing how tall and strong he was, she felt a vague fear.“Carlot … Carlot … where are you?” came a call.A sudden realisation of her wickedness in talking to a man came to her, and she turned and fled away.He did not try to detain her.“What a sweet face. What lovely eyes,” he said, and the sight of her little breast rising and falling with emotion as she spoke, appealed to more than the artist in him.“Now which is it?” he said aloud. “You blackguard, is this going to be a dream to think of and something on the credit side, or a mere seduction? You devil, I never know which way the balance will turn.”He went slowly into the town, the vision with him all the way.“Mr. Desmond, there is a Mrs. Wheatland to see you,” said the head waiter deferentially.“Oh! Damn!” said he, “that spoils the vision beautiful. All right, show her to my sitting room.”A young woman was ushered in, with a fascinating rather than pretty face, one who, a keen judge would have said, would not stand the wear and tear of life for long. The hands and feet were large, and though at present she was in the glory of early womanhood, there were unmistakable signs of latent vulgarity.She came forward at once, and flung her arms round the man’s neck, and almost smothered him.“Oh, Hugh! I have found you at last. Where have you been all this time? I have been longing for you. And my husband is getting worse than ever. I could just bear with him until I met you, but since then everything has been so different, and he is so common, so plebeian. But what is the matter, dear? You don’t seem glad to see me?”“Of course I am, Winnie, but you have taken me by surprise,” he said disengaging himself. “I am delighted to see you, but you know it is dangerous coming here.”“You need not be afraid,” she answered in a tone almost of contempt. “My husband is in Germany buying goods, or something of that sort—I don’t understand trade—and he will be away a fortnight.”“Oh, well, that’s all right, let’s have something to eat.”“What’s the matter with you, you don’t seem a bit pleased to see me?” she said petulantly. Desmond roused himself; the vision was still with him, but here was something more tangible.“I am sorry, dear, I have been having a long walk in the woods, and I got tired. When we have had a decent dinner and a bottle of the best we can talk over things.”She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then said:“Perhaps you would rather I went?”He laughed. “Of course not. It is delightful seeing you. Come on, go and get dressed, I suppose you have brought your things?”“I left my bag at the station, as I was not certain you were here. Shall I send for it?”For the moment he hesitated. “Yes, of course. I will tell the waiter. But you gave your name as Mrs. Wheatland?”“Never mind.”Desmond rang the bell.“Have Mrs. Wheatland’s bag fetched. Here is the ticket, and reserve a room for her,” he said in a tone used to command.When he saw her enter the dining room he was thrilled.She was certainly a very beautiful woman, he thought, and after all one must have some fun out of life.Her evening gown was not lacking in scantiness, and displayed as much of her body as could reasonably be expected in those austere times.Soon they were deep in the enjoyment of the other’s company, and oblivious of the other guests.They had much to talk over, for a jealous husband had kept them apart in a most unfeeling fashion. Perhaps that was what had whetted appetite. Two bottles of champagne—for she was fond of a glass of good wine helped to cheer the evening.By the time bedtime came, he took both her hands in his, and whispered. “And what did you say was the number of your room?”“I did not say any number, you silly boy,” she answered, showing her fine teeth, “but as a matter of fact it is No. 13.”“An easy one to remember,” he said lightly, “Good-night,” and he turned to the smoking room for a night-cap.
A great Cathedral Church rises high over the river, a beautiful landmark for miles round. It is not an old Gothic church, for these passed into the hands of the Anglicans at the Reformation, but is a model of modern Gothic, stately and tall, with stained glass windows between the slender buttresses.
Below nestles the little town, terraced on the slope above the marshland where a sluggish river winds to the sea.
Here in this quiet world a convent school was bedded in the woods, where the patient nuns devoted their lives to the education of all—whether of their own religion or not—who came under their charge.
On a summer day nearly half a century ago, there came to the convent school an Italian lady, with a young girl, fresh as a rose bud, half formed, but giving promise of rare beauty.
The mother was past her first youth, and like so many southerners was showing signs of fading charms, but still dangerously beautiful.
The child, who spoke no English, gazed shyly round, as they were admitted through the gates to the lovely garden within, and into a cool large room, there to await the Mother Superior.
The woman was dressed in excellent taste, the only jarring note being the quantity of jewelry she wore, which betrayed a certain vulgarity in her otherwise faultless appearance.
The Mother Superior entered with a calm and sweet face as of one whose life was one long sacrifice.
“I wish to leave my little daughter Carlotta with you,” said the Italian. “She is fourteen years old, and has been educated in Verona, but circumstances have arisen which render it necessary for me to part with her—for a time at any rate.”
The Mother Superior bowed and waited. Although shut up in seclusion she knew the world, and was a shrewd judge of its people.
“Her father is dead,” said the other, in a careless voice and crossed herself. “And I am about to marry a very dear friend, Count —, but perhaps I had better leave the name unsaid.
“He has known me for many years, and at last I have agreed to yield to his appeal.” She shook out a fold of her cloak, and looked at the other.
A grim look came to the eyes of the Mother Superior, seldom seen there, as she said. “And so the little one is to be left in our care? And is she to remain in our charge during the holidays? It is far to go to Italy.”
“Yes, it would be better. You see Marco does not care for her to be at home, when we are first married, and I—well, it reminds me of advancing years,” and she gave a hard laugh.
“I understand,” said the Mother Superior, then “poor child. She has been confirmed?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I have the certificate here,” and she opened her bag.
“And her birth certificate? That may be necessary for examinations.”
“No, I am afraid I have not got that. I lost it—I did not think it would be necessary.” She hesitated.
“I think I understand,” said the other looking straight at her.
“Our fold is open to all, especially to those children—without birth certificates.”
“The fees shall be paid regularly,” the Italian went on hastily. “Marco is very rich, and will grudge nothing, you need have no anxiety.”
The conversation had gone on in English of which Carlotta understood no word, but looked questioningly at each in turn, clinging shyly to her mother.
When the time for parting came, she cried bitterly, silently.
Her mother gave her a formal kiss, and told her to behave well in her new school. She would write to her, she said, and perhaps come and see her next year. Meanwhile the Sisters would look after her.
And so she took her departure, impatient to be gone, and would not even stay for food which was offered her.
“Poor lamb,” said the Mother Superior, and brought her to the Sisters. She handed her over to Sister Ursula, who was versed in these cases, who soon had Carlotta smiling, and in a few days her troubles were almost forgotten. Life was fair, and the English June beautiful as a picture. Roses were out in the gardens, the trees were in fresh green, and the flowers along the old wall were such as she had never seen. The Sisters were particularly kind to Carlotta; she was so fragile, with an exotic prettiness, given to sudden crying at times. And there was a wistful look in her eyes, as though gazing out over the sea to her southern home. She had beautiful dark eyes, with long lashes, was grave and composed at her lessons, and attentive in the dim chapel, where she would kneel with a devotion beyond her years, at the wonderful services, her eyes fixed as though in ecstasy.
But she was happiest in the Chapel of Our Lady, where she would adore with clasped hands. The Mother Superior was disturbed, she did not like to see too much fervour in one so young. She knew the reactions which so often come later.
“It is all so beautiful,” Carlotta said to Sister Ursula. “When I grow up I shall be a sister. Do you think they will let me or am I too wicked?”
The Sister smiled and stroked her black hair. “My dear, we must do as Our Blessed Lady directs,” she said, “we can seldom choose for ourselves. To some is given the quiet and holiness of a religious life, but others are called to go out into the world, and to face the evil there—perhaps to marry.”
A far away look came into her eyes, and a sigh escaped her.
Carlotta did not see it; she rose and stamped her little foot. “I shall never marry,” she cried with passion “Never! Never!”
“Hush, my child, you must not speak like that,” but she folded her in her arms.
Of her mother Carlotta never spoke, and the promised letters never came. The fees were paid regularly for a year, but there was no mention of a visit from her mother, and then came silence, and when a letter was sent to her address, it was returned, undelivered. The Mother Superior sent for Ursula, and showed it to her without comment.
“But you will not send her away?” she cried in alarm.
The other was grave, but she smiled as she said. “I expected this, the so-called Count has got tired of her. We shall hear no more of them, but this sweet child, no, she shall remain with us. She must not be told. Mother Church does not cast out her children.”
And so another year passed, and the promise of the bud was revealed in the flower. Carlotta ripened early as southerners do, and at sixteen would have lured St. Anthony from his devotions. Black curls fell round her sweet face, and the great, dark, innocent eyes, wondrous as the mirror of the sea, in their changeful emotions, looked out on the world fearless yet timid, dreaming of what lay in the glory of the future.
Her figure was straight and supple, like one of the flowers in the garden she loved so passionately.
Ursula was anxious. The child had fits of silence, when she would get away from the others, and sit motionless in the garden.
With the other girls she was a favourite, for though she did not excel either at work or games, she was always kind and gentle, and took keen delight in the success of others.
The early summer had come which was Carlotta’s happiest time, for she pined in the winter.
The girls were allowed in the woods with the Sisters, and Carlotta loved the green and fragrant hollows where the bluebells made a carpet, and the birds sang for joy.
One day she had wandered off by herself, for she was allowed a certain freedom, on account of her queer moods, and the others were not far off.
She was aroused from her dreaming by the sound of a voice.
“What a face to paint! Ye gods! I’ve never seen so perfect a picture.”
She looked up in alarm and saw a young man standing before her. In her secluded life she had spoken to no men save the old priest who heard her blameless confessions. This one was tall and clean, and the face was moulded like one of the old Greek gods.
Had she known more of the world she would have seen a restless hungry look in the eyes, but at present they were filled with the light of admiration.
“Who are you, little goddess?” he asked in a musical voice. “And what do you among these woods? Perchance you are an Oread strayed from your home.”
Carlotta was unafraid, and replied innocently.
“I am at the convent school, The Convent of the Sacred Heart, and the others are near here, but I came to hear the birds, they sing so sweetly.”
“And what do they tell you, little Daphne?”
“They sing of something I cannot understand,” she said with a smile, “but it is very beautiful.”
The man laughed outright. “What a quaint little girl you are. Shall I tell you what they sing about? It is Love. They are telling each other how much they love, and that all should love on such days as this.” He stretched his hands out to the sky.
Carlotta suddenly remembered herself.
“I must not talk to you,” she said “it is forbidden. I must go and find the others. Sister Ursula would be very angry if she knew I had been talking to a man.”
The man smiled. “And is a man so very dreadful?” he asked.
“I suppose you are taught that they are terrible creatures, ogres who are waiting to eat little girls.”
“I don’t know,” she said “I have never spoken to one before,” and she opened wide her great eyes.
“I must not keep you,” said the man. “I am a painter, I won’t say artist, and when I saw you, I thought what a beautiful picture I could make of you, for a Madonna.”
“Oh, hush!” said Carlotta shocked. “I, as a picture of Our Blessed Lady, I must not listen,” and she rose in haste.
“What a funny little girl you are,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. “We always have to use models; all artists have, even for the Christ or the Blessed Virgin; there is nothing wicked in that.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Well if you must go, tell me when I can see you again,” he said. “You’ve haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name is Carlotta, but they call me Carlot,” she said.
“Carlot! That’s the name of my dog,” and he laughed boisterously.
Carlotta was hurt. “That is not kind of you,” she said and turned to go.
“One moment. I am sorry, but so sweet a face deserves a better name. I shall call you Daphne. When can we meet?”
For the first time she was alarmed. Sitting on the ground was one thing, but standing beside him and seeing how tall and strong he was, she felt a vague fear.
“Carlot … Carlot … where are you?” came a call.
A sudden realisation of her wickedness in talking to a man came to her, and she turned and fled away.
He did not try to detain her.
“What a sweet face. What lovely eyes,” he said, and the sight of her little breast rising and falling with emotion as she spoke, appealed to more than the artist in him.
“Now which is it?” he said aloud. “You blackguard, is this going to be a dream to think of and something on the credit side, or a mere seduction? You devil, I never know which way the balance will turn.”
He went slowly into the town, the vision with him all the way.
“Mr. Desmond, there is a Mrs. Wheatland to see you,” said the head waiter deferentially.
“Oh! Damn!” said he, “that spoils the vision beautiful. All right, show her to my sitting room.”
A young woman was ushered in, with a fascinating rather than pretty face, one who, a keen judge would have said, would not stand the wear and tear of life for long. The hands and feet were large, and though at present she was in the glory of early womanhood, there were unmistakable signs of latent vulgarity.
She came forward at once, and flung her arms round the man’s neck, and almost smothered him.
“Oh, Hugh! I have found you at last. Where have you been all this time? I have been longing for you. And my husband is getting worse than ever. I could just bear with him until I met you, but since then everything has been so different, and he is so common, so plebeian. But what is the matter, dear? You don’t seem glad to see me?”
“Of course I am, Winnie, but you have taken me by surprise,” he said disengaging himself. “I am delighted to see you, but you know it is dangerous coming here.”
“You need not be afraid,” she answered in a tone almost of contempt. “My husband is in Germany buying goods, or something of that sort—I don’t understand trade—and he will be away a fortnight.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, let’s have something to eat.”
“What’s the matter with you, you don’t seem a bit pleased to see me?” she said petulantly. Desmond roused himself; the vision was still with him, but here was something more tangible.
“I am sorry, dear, I have been having a long walk in the woods, and I got tired. When we have had a decent dinner and a bottle of the best we can talk over things.”
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then said:
“Perhaps you would rather I went?”
He laughed. “Of course not. It is delightful seeing you. Come on, go and get dressed, I suppose you have brought your things?”
“I left my bag at the station, as I was not certain you were here. Shall I send for it?”
For the moment he hesitated. “Yes, of course. I will tell the waiter. But you gave your name as Mrs. Wheatland?”
“Never mind.”
Desmond rang the bell.
“Have Mrs. Wheatland’s bag fetched. Here is the ticket, and reserve a room for her,” he said in a tone used to command.
When he saw her enter the dining room he was thrilled.
She was certainly a very beautiful woman, he thought, and after all one must have some fun out of life.
Her evening gown was not lacking in scantiness, and displayed as much of her body as could reasonably be expected in those austere times.
Soon they were deep in the enjoyment of the other’s company, and oblivious of the other guests.
They had much to talk over, for a jealous husband had kept them apart in a most unfeeling fashion. Perhaps that was what had whetted appetite. Two bottles of champagne—for she was fond of a glass of good wine helped to cheer the evening.
By the time bedtime came, he took both her hands in his, and whispered. “And what did you say was the number of your room?”
“I did not say any number, you silly boy,” she answered, showing her fine teeth, “but as a matter of fact it is No. 13.”
“An easy one to remember,” he said lightly, “Good-night,” and he turned to the smoking room for a night-cap.