But Marion shook her head.
"I've a feeling," she said, "that if I don't go to-day, I won't go at all. And I really must. I'll take Betsy to carry the child till we're just above the town, and then send her home, so as not to be tired for coming back. Not that I'mevertired, as you know," with a smile.
He gave in, only stipulating that at all costs they should start to return by a certain hour, unless the snow should have already begun, in which case Marion was to run no risks, but either to hire a fly to bring her home by the road, or to stay in the town with some of her friends till the weather cleared again.
"And I'll meet you," he added. "Let us set our watches together—I'll start from here so as to be at—let me see——"
"Half-way between the stiles," said Marion. "We can each see the other from one stile to the opposite one, you know, even though it's a good bit of a way. Yes, dear, I'll time it as near as I can to meet half-way between the stiles."
And with these words the last on her lips, she set off, a picture of health and happiness—little Nelly crowing back to "Dada" from over stout Betsy's shoulder.
Betsy was home again within the hour.
But the mother and child—alas and alas! It was the immortal story of "Lucy Gray" in an almost more pathetic shape.
Farmer Giles, as I have said, was a studious, often absent-minded man. There was not much to do at that season and in such weather, and what there was, some amount of supervision on his part was enough for. After his early dinner he got out his books for an hour or two's quiet reading till it should be time to set off to meet his darlings. No fear of his forgettingthattime, but till the clock struck, and he saw it was approaching nearly, he never looked out—he was unconscious of the rapid growth of the lurid, steely clouds; he had no idea that the snowflakes were already falling, falling, more and more closely and thickly with each instant that passed.
Then rose the storm spirit and issued his orders—all too quickly obeyed. Before Barnett Giles had left the village street he found himself in what now-a-days would be called a "blizzard". And his pale face grew paler, and his heart beat as if to choke him, when at last he reached the first stile and stood there panting, to regain his breath. It was all he could do to battle on through the fury of the wind, the blinding, whirling snow, which seemed to envelop him as if in sheets. Not for many and many a day will that awful snowstorm be forgotten in Scarshire.
It was at the appointed trysting place they found him—"half-way between the stiles". But not till late that evening, when Betsy, more alarmed by his absence than by her mistress's not returning, at last struggled out through the deep-lying snow to alarm the nearest neighbours.
"The missis and Miss Nell will have stayed the night in the town," she said. "But I misdoubt me if the master will ever have got so far, though he may have been tempted on when he did not meet them."
By this time the fury of the storm had spent itself, and they found poor Giles after a not very protracted search, and brought him home—dead, they thought at first.
No, he was not dead, but it was less than halflifethat he returned to. For his first inquiry late the next day, when glimmering consciousness had begun to revive—"Marion, the baby?"—seemed by some subtle instinct to answer itself truthfully, in spite of the kindly endeavour to deceive him for the time.
"Dead!" he murmured. "I knew it. Half-way between the stiles," and he turned his face to the wall.
They almost wished he had died too—the rough but kind-hearted country-folk who were his neighbours. But he lived. He never asked and never knew the details of the tragedy, which, indeed, was never fully known by any one.
All that came to light was that the dead body of Marion Giles was brought by some semi-gipsy wanderers to the workhouse of a town several miles south of Colletwood, early on the morning after the blizzard. They had found it, they said, at some little distance from the road along which they were journeying, so that she must have lost her way long before approaching the Monksholdings confines, not improbably, indeed, in attempting to retrace her steps to the town which she had so imprudently quitted. But of the child the tramps said nothing, and after making the above deposition, they were allowed to go on their way, which they expressed themselves as anxious to do; for reasons of their own, no doubt; possibly the same reasons which had prevented their returning to Colletwood with the young woman's corpse, as would have seemed more natural.
And afterwards no very special inquiry was made about the baby. The father was incapable of it, and in those days people accepted things more carelessly, perhaps. It was taken for granted that "Little Nell" had fallen down some cliff, no doubt, and lay buried there, with the snow for her shroud, like a strayed lambkin. Her tiny bones might yet be found, years hence, maybe, by a shepherd in search of some bleating wanderer, or—no more might ever be known of the infant's fate!
Barnett Giles rose from his bed, after many weeks, with all the look of a very old man. At first it was thought that his mind was quite gone; but it did not prove to be so. After a time, with the help of an excellent foreman, or bailiff, he showed himself able to manage his farm with a strange, mechanical kind of intelligence. It seemed as if the sense of duty outlived the loss of other perceptions, though these, too, cleared by degrees to a considerable extent, and material things, curious as it may appear, prospered with him.
But he rarely spoke unless obliged to do so; and whenever he felt himself at leisure, and knew that his work was not calling for him, he seemed to relapse into the half-dreamy state which was his more real life. Then he would pass through the village and slowly climb the slope to the stile, where he would stand for hours together, patiently gazing before him, while he murmured the old refrain: "'Half-way between the stiles,' she said. I shall meet them there, 'half-way between the stiles'."
Fortunately, perhaps, it was not often he attempted to climb over; he contented himself with standing and gazing. Fortunately so, for otherwise the changes at Monksholdings would have probably terribly shocked his abnormally sensitive brain. But he did not seem to notice them, nor the new route of the old right-of-way agreed to by the compromise. He was content with his post—standing, leaning on the stile, and gazing before him.
His, of course, was the worn, wistful face which had half frightened, half appealed to Sybil Raynald.
But she forgot about it again, or other things put it temporarily aside, so that when the Raynalds came down to Monksholdings again the following Easter it did not at once occur to her to remind her father of the inquiry he had promised to make.
Miss March was not with her pupils and their parents at first. She had gone to spend a holiday week with the friends who had brought her up and seen to her education—good, benevolent people, if not specially sympathetic, but to whom she felt herself bound by ties of sincerest gratitude, though her five years with the Raynald family had given her more of the feeling of a "home" than she had ever had before.
And her arrival at Monksholdings was the occasion of much rejoicing. There was everything to show her, and every one, from Mark down to little Robin, wanted to be her guide. It was not till the morning of the next day that Sybil managed to get her to herself for atête-à-têtestroll.
Ellinor had some things to tell her quondam pupil. Mrs. Bellairs, her self-appointed guardian, was growing old and somewhat feeble.
"I fear she is not likely to live many years," said Miss March, "and she thinks so herself. She has a curious longing, which I never saw in her before, to find out my history—to know if there is no one really belonging to me to whom she can give me back, as it were, before she dies. She gave me the little parcel containing the clothes I had on when she rescued me from being sent to a workhouse. They are carefully washed and mended, and though I was a poor, dirty little object when I was found, they do not look really as if I had been a beggar child," with a little smile.
"You a beggar child!" exclaimed Sybil indignantly. "Of course not. Perhaps, on the contrary, you were somebody very grand."
"No, no," said Ellinor sensibly. "In that case I should have been advertised for and inquired after. No, I have never thought that, and I should not wish it. I should be more than thankful to know I came of good, honest people, however simple; to have some one of my very own."
"I forget the actual details," said Sybil, "though you have often told me about it. You were found—no, not literally in the workhouse, was it?"
"They were going to take me there," said Miss March. "It was at a village near Bath where Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs were then living, and one day, after a party of gipsies had been encamping on the common, a cottager's wife heard something crying in the night, and found me in her little garden. She was too poor to keep me herself, and felt certain I was a child the gipsies had stolen and then wanted to get rid of. I was fair-haired and blue-eyed, not like them. She was a friend or relation of some of Mrs. Bellairs's servants, and so the story got round to my kind old friend. And you know the rest—how they first thought of bringing me up in quite a humble way, and then finding me—well, intelligent and naturally rather refined, I suppose, I got a really good education, and my good luck did not desert me, dear, when I came to be your governess."
Sybil smiled.
"And can you remembernothing?"
Ellinor hesitated.
"Queer, dreamy fragments come back to me sometimes," she said. "I have a feeling of having seen hills long, long ago. It is strange," she went on, for by this time they had left the private grounds and were strolling along the hill-path in the direction of the town, "it is strange that since I came here I seem to have got hold of a tiny bit of these old memories, if they are such. It must be the hills," and she stood still and gazed round her with a deep breath of satisfaction, "I could only have been between two and three when I was found," she went on. "The only words I said were 'Dada' and 'Nennie'—it sounded like 'Nelly'. That was why Mrs. Bellairs called me 'Ellinor,' and 'March,' because it was in that month she took me to her house."
Sybil walked on in silence for a moment or two.
"Itissuch a romantic story," she said at last. "I am never tired of thinking about it."
They entered Monksholdings again from the east entrance, Ellinor glanced at the stile.
"By-the-bye," she said, "this is one of the two old stiles, I suppose. Have you ever seen your ghost again, Sybil? Have you found out anything about him?"
Sybil looked round her half nervously.
"It is the other stile he haunts," she said. "I rather avoid it, at least, I mean to do so now. It is curious you speak of it, for till yesterday I had not seen him again, and had almost forgotten about it. But yesterday afternoon, just before you came, there he was—exactly the same, staring in. I meant to speak to papa about it, but with the pleasure and bustle of your arrival, I forgot it. Remind me about it. I am afraid he is out of his mind."
"Poor old man!" said Ellinor. "I wish we could do something to comfort him. I feel as if everybodymustbe happy here. It is such a charming, exhilarating place. Dear me, how windy it is! The path is all strewn with the white petals of the cherry blossom."
"They have degenerated into wild cherry trees," said Sybil. "Long ago papa says these must have been good fruit trees of many kinds, and this is a great cherry country, you know."
The wind dropped that afternoon, but only temporarily. It rose again so much during the night that by the next morning the grounds looked, to use little Annis's expression, "quite untidy".
"And down in the village, or just beyond it," said Mark, who had been for an early stroll, "at one place it really looks as if it had been snowing. The road skirts that old farmhouse; you know it, father? I forget the name—there's a grand cherry orchard there."
"'Mayling Farm,' you must mean," said Mr. Raynald. "Farmer Giles's. Oh, by the way, that reminds me, Sybil," but a glance round the table made him stop short. They were at breakfast. He scarcely felt inclined to relate the tragic story before the younger children, "they might look frightened or run away if they came across the poor fellow," he reflected. "I will tell Sybil about it afterwards."
Easter holidays were not yet over, though the governess had returned, so regular routine was set aside, and the whole of the young party, Ellinor included, spent that morning in a scramble among the hills.
The children seemed untirable, and set off again somewhere or other in the afternoon. Sybil was busy with her mother, writing letters and orders to be despatched to London, so that towards four o'clock or so, when Miss March, having finished her own correspondence, entered the drawing-room, she found it deserted.
Sybil had promised to practise some duets with her, and while waiting on the chance of her coming, Ellinor seated herself at the piano and began to play—nothing very important—just snatches of old airs which she wove into a kind of half-dreamy harmony, one melting into another as they occurred to her.
All at once a shadow fell on the keys, and then she remembered having heard the door softly open a moment or two before—so softly, that she had not looked round, imagining it to be the wind, which, though fallen now, still lingered about.
Now her ideas took another shape.
"It is Sybil, no doubt," she thought with a smile. "She is going to make me jump," and she waited, half expecting to feel Sybil's hands suddenly clasped over her eyes from behind.
But this was not to be the mode of attack, apparently, though she heard what sounded like stealthy footsteps.
"You need not try to startle me, Sybbie," she exclaimed laughingly, without turning or ceasing to play, "I hear you."
It was no laughing voice which replied.
On the contrary, a sigh, almost a groan, close to her made her look up sharply—a trifle indignant perhaps at the joke being carried so far—and she saw, a pace or two from her only, the figure of an old man—a white-haired, somewhat bent form, a worn face with wistful blue eyes—gazing at her.
She had scarcely time to feel frightened, for almost instantaneously Sybil's "ghost" recurred to her memory.
"He has found his way in, then," she thought, not without a slight and natural tremor, which, however, disappeared as she gazed, so pathetically gentle was the whole aspect of the intruder.
But—his face changed curiously—the sight of hers, now fully in his view, seemed strangely to affect him. With a gesture of utter bewilderment he raised his hand to his forehead as if to brush something away—the cloud still resting on his brain—then a smile broke over the old face, a wonderful smile.
"Marion," he said, "at last? I—I thought I was dreaming. I heard you playing in my dream. It is the right place though, 'Half-way between the stiles,' you said. I have waited so long and come so often, and now it is snowing again. Just a little, dear, nothing to hurt. Marion, my darling, why don't you speak? Is it all a dream—this fine room, the music and all? Areyoua dream?"
He closed his eyes as if he were fainting. Inexpressibly touched, all Ellinor's womanly nature went out to him. She started forward, half leading, half lifting him to a seat close at hand.
"I—I am not Marion," she said, and afterwards she wondered what had inspired the words, "but I am"—not "Ellinor," something made her change the name as he spoke—"I am Nelly."
He opened his eyes again.
"Little Nell," he said, "has she sent you down to me from heaven? My little Nell!"
And then he fell back unconscious—this time he had fainted.
She thought he was dead, but it was not so—her cries for help soon brought her friends, Mr. Raynald first of all. He did not seem startled, he soothed Ellinor at once.
"It is poor old Giles," he said. "I know all about him, he has found his way in at last."
"But—but——," stammered the girl, "there is something else, Mr. Raynald. I—I seem to remember something."
She looked nearly as white as their poor visitor, and as Mr. Raynald glanced at her, a curious expression flitted across his own face.
Could it be so? He knew all her story.
"Wait a little, my dear," he said. "We must attend to poor Giles first."
They were very kind and tender to the old man, but he seemed to be barely conscious, even after restoratives had brought him out of the actual fainting fit. Then Mrs. Raynald proposed that his servants—his housekeeper if he had one—should be sent for.
And when faithful Betsy, stout as of old, though less nimble, made her appearance, her irrepressible emotion at the sight of Ellinor, pale and trembling though the young governess was, gave form and substance to Mr. Raynald's suspicions.
Yes, they had met at last—father and daughter—"half-way between the stiles". He was "Dada," she was little "Nell". Might it not be that Marion's prayers had brought them together?
Every reasonable proof was forthcoming—the little parcel of clothes, the correspondence in the dates, the strong resemblance to her mother.
And—joy does not often kill. Barnett was able to understand it all better than might have been expected. He was neverquitehimself, but infinitely better both in mind and body than poor old Betsy had ever dreamt of seeing him. And he was perfectly content—content to live as long as it should please God to spare him to his little Nell; ready to go to his Marion when the time should come.
And Ellinor had her wish—a home, though not a "grand" one; some one of her "very own" to care for; a father's devoted love, and, to complete her happiness, the friends who had grown so dear to her close at hand.
More may yet be hers in the future, for she is still young. Her father may live to see his grandchildren playing about the farmstead at Mayling, so that, though the name be changed, the old stock will still nourish where so many generations of its ancestors have sown and reaped.
Have I ever seen a ghost?
I do not know.
That is the only reply I can truthfully make to the question now-a-days so often asked. And sometimes, if inquirers care to hear more, I go on to tell them the one experience which makes it impossible for me to reply positively either in the affirmative or negative, and restricts me to "I do not know".
This was the story.
I was staying with relations in the country. Not a very isolated or out-of-the-way part of the world, and yet rather inconvenient of access by the railway. For the nearest station was six miles off. Though the family I was visiting were nearly connected with me I did not know much of their home or its neighbourhood, as the head of the house, an uncle of mine by marriage, had only come into the property a year or two previously to the date of which I am writing, through the death of an elder brother.
It was a nice place. A good comfortable old house, a prosperous, satisfactory estate. Everything about it was in good order, from the farmers, who always paid their rents, to the shooting, which was always good; from the vineries, which were noted, to the woods, where the earliest primroses in all the country side were yearly to be found.
And my uncle and aunt and their family deserved these pleasant things and made a good use of them.
But there was a touch of the commonplace about it all. There was nothing picturesque or romantic. The country was flat though fertile, the house, though old, was conveniently modern in its arrangements, airy, cheery, and bright.
"Not even a ghost, or the shadow of one," I remember saying one day with a faint grumble.
"Ah, well—as to that," said my uncle, "perhaps we——" but just then something interrupted him, and I forgot his unfinished speech.
Into the happy party of which for the time being I was one, there fell one morning a sudden thunderbolt of calamity. The post brought news of the alarming illness of the eldest daughter—Frances, married a year or two ago and living, as the crow flies, at no very great distance. But as the crow flies is not always as the railroad runs, and to reach the Aldoyns' home from Fawne Court, my uncle's place, was a complicated business—it was scarcely possible to go and return in a day.
"Can one of you come over?" wrote the young husband. "She is already out of danger, but longing to see her mother or one of you. She is worrying about the baby"—a child of a few months old—"and wishing for nurse."
We looked at each other.
"Nurse must go at once," said my uncle to me, as the eldest of the party. Perhaps I should here say that I am a widow, though not old, and with no close ties or responsibilities. "But for your aunt it is impossible."
"Quite so," I agreed. For she was at the moment painfully lamed by rheumatism.
"And the other girls are almost too young at such a crisis," my uncle continued. "Would you, Charlotte——" and he hesitated. "It would be such a comfort to have personal news of her."
"Of course I will go," I said. "Nurse and I can start at once. I will leave her there, and return alone, to give you, I have no doubt, better news of poor Francie."
He was full of gratitude. So were they all.
"Don't hurry back to-night," said my uncle. "Stay till—till Monday if you like." But I could not promise. I knew they would be glad of news at once, and in a small house like my cousin's, at such a time, an inmate the more might be inconvenient.
"I will try to return to-night," I said. And as I sprang into the carriage I added: "Send to Moore to meet the last train, unless I telegraph to the contrary."
My uncle nodded; the boys called after me, "All right;" the old butler bowed assent, and I was satisfied.
Nurse and I reached our journey's end promptly, considering the four or five junctions at which we had to change carriages. But on the whole "going," the trains fitted astonishingly.
We found Frances better, delighted to see us, eager for news of her mother, and, finally, disposed to sleep peacefully now that she knew that there was an experienced person in charge. And both she and her husband thanked me so much that I felt ashamed of the little I had done. Mr. Aldoyn begged me to stay till Monday; but the house was upset, and I was eager to carry back my good tidings.
"They are meeting me at Moore by the last train," I said. "No, thank you, I think it is best to go."
"You will have an uncomfortable journey," he replied. "It is Saturday, and the trains will be late, and the stations crowded with the market people. It will be horrid for you, Charlotte."
But I persisted.
Itwasrather horrid. And it was queer. There was a sort of uncanny eeriness about that Saturday evening's journey that I have never forgotten. The season was very early spring. It was not very cold, but chilly and ungenial. And there were such odd sorts of people about. I travelled second-class; for I am not rich, and I am very independent. I did not want my uncle to pay my fare, for I liked the feeling of rendering him some small service in return for his steady kindness to me. The first stage of my journey was performed in the company of two old naturalists travelling to Scotland to look for some small plant which was to be found only in one spot in the Highlands. This I gathered from their talk to each other. You never saw two such extraordinary creatures as they were. They both wore black kid gloves much too large for them, and the ends of the fingers waved about like feathers.
Then followed two or three short transits, interspersed with weary waitings at stations. The last of these was the worst, and tantalising, too, for by this time I was within a few miles of Moore. The station was crowded with rough folk, all, it seemed to me, more or less tipsy. So I took refuge in a dark waiting-room on the small side line by which I was to proceed, where I felt I might have been robbed and murdered and no one the wiser.
But at last came my slow little train, and in I jumped, to jump out again still more joyfully some fifteen minutes later when we drew up at Moore.
I peered about for the carriage. It was not to be seen; only two or three tax-carts or dog-carts, farmers' vehicles, standing about, while their owners, it was easy to hear, were drinking far more than was good for them in the taproom of the Unicorn. Thence, nevertheless—not to the taproom, but to the front of the inn—I made my way, though not undismayed by the shouts and roars breaking the stillness of the quiet night. "Was the Fawne Court carriage not here?" I asked.
The landlady was a good-natured woman, especially civil to any member of the "Court" family. But she shook her head.
"No, no carriage had been down to-day. There must have been some mistake."
There was nothing for it but to wait till she could somehow or other disinter a fly and a horse, and, worst of all a driver. For the "men" she had to call were all rather—"well, ma'am, you see it's Saturday night. We weren't expecting any one."
And when, after waiting half an hour, the fly at last emerged, my heart almost failed me. Even before he drove out of the yard, it was very plain that if ever we reached Fawne Court alive, it would certainly be more thanks to good luck than to the driver's management.
But the horse was old and the man had a sort of instinct about him. We got on all right till we were more than half way to our journey's end. The road was straight and the moonlight bright, especially after we had passed a certain corner, and got well out of the shade of the trees which skirted the first part of the way.
Just past this turn there came a dip in the road. It went down, down gradually, for a quarter of a mile or more, and I looked up anxiously, fearful of the horse taking advantage of the slope. But no, he jogged on, if possible more slowly than before, though new terrors assailed me when I saw that the driver was now fast asleep, his head swaying from side to side with extraordinary regularity. After a bit I grew easier again; he seemed to keep his equilibrium, and I looked out at the side window on the moon-flooded landscape, with some interest. I had never seen brighter moonlight.
Suddenly from out of the intense stillness and loneliness a figure, a human figure, became visible. It was that of a man, a young and active man, running along the footpath a few feet to our left, apparently from some whim, keeping pace with the fly. My first feeling was of satisfaction that I was no longer alone, at the tender mercies of my stupefied charioteer. But, as I gazed, a slight misgiving came over me. Who could it be running along this lonely road so late, and what was his motive in keeping up with us so steadily. It almost seemed as if he had been waiting for us, yet that, of course, was impossible. He was not very highwayman-like certainly; he was well-dressed—neatly-dressed that is to say, like a superior gamekeeper—his figure was remarkably good, tall and slight, and he ran gracefully. But there was something queer about him, and suddenly the curiosity that had mingled in my observation of him was entirely submerged in alarm, when I saw that, as he ran, he was slowly but steadily drawing nearer and nearer to the fly.
"In another moment he will be opening the door and jumping in," I thought, and I glanced before me only to see that the driver was more hopelessly asleep than before; there was no chance of his hearing if I called out. And get out I could not without attracting the strange runner's attention, for as ill-luck would have it, the window was drawn up on the right side, and I could not open the door without rattling the glass. While, worse and worse, the left hand window was down! Even that slight protection wanting!
I looked out once more. By this time the figure was close, close to the fly. Then an arm was stretched out and laid along the edge of the door, as if preparatory to opening it, and then, for the first time I saw his face. It was a young face, but terribly, horribly pale and ghastly, and the eyes—all was so visible in the moonlight—had an expression such as I had never seen before or since. It terrified me, though afterwards on recalling it, it seemed to me that it might have been more a look of agonised appeal than of menace of any kind.
I cowered back into my corner and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. It was the only idea that occurred to me. My heart was beating like a sledge hammer. All sorts of thoughts rushed through me; among them I remember saying to myself: "He must be an escaped lunatic—his eyes are so awfully wild".
How long I sat thus I don't know—whenever I dared to glance out furtively he was still there. But all at once a strange feeling of relief came over me. I sat up—yes, he was gone! And though, as I took courage, I leant out and looked round in every direction, not a trace of him was to be seen, though the road and the fields were bare and clear for a long distance round.
When I got to Fawne Court I had to wake the lodge-keeper—every one was asleep. But my uncle was still up, though not expecting me, and very distressed he was at the mistake about the carriage.
"However," he concluded, "all's well that ends well. It's delightful to have your good news. But you look sadly pale and tired, Charlotte."
Then I told him of my fright—it seemed now so foolish of me, I said. But my uncle did not smile—on the contrary.
"My dear," he said. "It sounds very like our ghost, though, of course, it may have been only one of the keepers."
He told me the story. Many years ago in his grandfather's time, a young and favourite gamekeeper had been found dead in a field skirting the road down there. There was no sign of violence upon the body; it was never explained what had killed him. But he had had in his charge a watch—a very valuable one—which his master for some reason or other had handed to him to take home to the house, not wishing to keep it on him. And when the body was found late that night, the watch was not on it. Since then, so the story goes, on a moonlight night the spirit of the poor fellow haunts the spot. It is supposed that he wants to tell what had become of his master's watch, which was never found. But no one has ever had courage to address him.
"He never comes farther than the dip in the road," said my uncle. "If you had spoken to him, Charlotte, I wonder if he would have told you his secret?"
He spoke half laughingly, but I have never quite forgiven myself for my cowardice. It was the look in those eyes!
"'Lingard,' 'Trevannion,'" murmured Captain Murray, as he ran his eye down the column of the morning paper specially devoted to so-called fashionable intelligence, "Lingard, Arthur Lingard; yes, I've met him; a very good fellow. And Trevannion; don't you know a Miss Trevannion, Bessie?"
Mrs. Murray glanced up from her teacups.
"What do you say, Walter? Trevannion; yes, I have met a girl of the name at my aunt's. A pretty girl, and I think I heard she was going to be married. Is that what you are talking about?"
"No," her husband replied. "It's the other way—broken off, I wonder why."
"What an old gossip you are," said Mrs. Murray. "No good reason at all, I daresay. People are so capricious now-a-days."
"Still, they don't often announce a marriage till it's pretty certain to come off. This sort of thing," tapping the paper as he spoke, "isn't exactly pleasant."
"Very much the reverse," agreed Mrs. Murray, and then they thought no more about it.
"I wonder why," said a good many people that morning, when they caught sight of the announcement. For the two principals it concerned—Arthur Lingard, especially—had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, and their engagement had been the subject of much and hearty congratulation. It seemed so natural and fitting that these two should marry. Both young, amiable, good-looking, and sufficiently well off. Even the most cynical could discern no cloud in the bright sky of their future, no crook in the lot before them.
And now—
No marvel that Captain Murray's soliloquy was repeated by many.
But who would have guessed that in one heart it was ever ringing with maddening anguish?
"I wonder why, oh, I wonder why he has done it. Oh, if he would but tell me, it could not surely seem quite so unendurable."
And Daisy Trevannion pressed her aching head, and her poor swollen eyes on to her mother's loving bosom in a sort of wild despair.
"Mamma, mamma," she cried, "help me. I cannot be angry with him. I wish I could. He was so gentle, so sweet—and he is so heartbroken, I can see by his letter. Oh, mamma, what can it be?"
But to this, even the devoted mother, who would gladly have given her own life to save her child this misery, could find no answer.
This was what had happened.
They had been engaged about three months, the wedding day was approximately fixed, when one morning the blow fell.
A letter to Daisy's father, enclosing one to herself—a letter which made Mr. Trevannion draw his brows together in instinctive indignation, and then as the first impulse cooled a little, caused him to turn to his daughter with a movement of irritation, underneath which, hope had, nevertheless, found time to reassert itself.
"Daisy," he exclaimed sharply, "what is the meaning of all this nonsense? Have you been quarrelling with Lingard? You're a bit of a spoilt child I know, my dear, but I don't like playing with edged tools—a man like Arthur won't stand being trifled with. Do you hear, Daisy—eh, what?"
For the girl had scarcely caught the sense of his words, so absorbed was she in those of the short, all too short, but terrible letter she had just read—the letter addressed to herself, which began "Daisy, my Daisy, for the last time," and ended abruptly with the simple signature, "Arthur Lingard".
She gazed up at her father—her white face all drawn, and as it were, withered with that minute's agony—her eyes dulled and yet wild. Never was there such a metamorphosis from the happy, laughing girl who had hurried in with some pretty excuse for her unpunctuality.
"Daisy, my child! Daisy," her father repeated, repenting already of his hasty remarks, "don't take it so seriously. Margaret," to his wife, "speak to her."
And Mrs. Trevannion, as pale almost as her daughter, drew the sheet of note-paper from the girl's unresisting hands, while her husband held out to her his own letter.
"Some complete mistake," she said, "some misplaced quixotry. Daisy, my own darling, do not take it so seriously. Your father will see him—you will, will you not, Hugh?" detecting the proud hesitation in her husband's face. "It is not as if we did not know him well, and all about him. Your father will find out, Daisy, and make it all right."
Mr. Trevannion did not contradict her, but murmured some consolatory words, and then the mother led Daisy away, and to a certain extent the girl allowed herself to be reassured.
"I will consult Keir if necessary," said the father when out of hearing of his daughter. "He is the natural person, both as our own connection and because he introduced Lingard, and thinks so highly of him. But first I will see Arthur alone. The fewer mixed up in such a case the better."
Mrs. Trevannion agreed. She was constitutionally sanguine, but a painful idea struck her as her husband spoke.
"Hugh," she said hesitatingly, "you don't think—it surely is not possible that his—that Arthur's brain is affected?"
"His brain—tut, nonsense! What a woman's idea!" replied Mr. Trevannion irritably. "Why, he is receiving compliments on every side, from the very highest quarters, too, on that article of his on the Capricorn Islands. Brain affected, indeed!"
And to a whisper of, "I was thinking of over-work," which followed him apologetically, he vouchsafed no reply.
Some intensely trying days passed. Mr. Trevannion's interview with his recalcitrant son-in-law-to-be, proved a complete failure. Nothing, absolutely nothing was to be "got out of the fellow," he told his wife in mingled anger and wretchedness, for the poor man was a devoted father. Arthur was gentleness itself, respectful, deferential even, to the man whose peculiarly disagreeable position he felt for inexpressibly. But he was as firm, as hard in his decision that all should be, must be, over between Miss Trevannion and himself, as if his own heart had suddenly turned to iron, as if he possessed no feelings at all. He grew white to the lips, with a terrible death-like whiteness, when he named her; he said with a quiet, deliberate emphasis, more impressive by far than any passionate declaration, that never, never while he lived, would he forgive himself for the trouble he had brought into her young life, but that he was powerless to do otherwise, he was absolutely without a choice. As to the reason for the breaking off of the engagement to be given to the world, he left it entirely in the Trevannions' own hands; he would contradict nothing they thought it best to say; but, if possible, he grew still whiter when his visitor from under his shaggy eyebrows glanced at him with a look of contempt while he replied cuttingly that he had no love of falsehood. For his part he would tell the truth, and in the end he believed it would be best for Daisy that all the world should know the way in which she had been treated.
"Best for her and worst for you," he repeated.
And Arthur only said:—
"I hope so. It must be as you think well."
Then Trevannion softened again a little.
"I shall say nothing to any one at present," he went on. "I must see Keir; possibly he may understand you better than I can."
But, "No, it will be no use," the young man repeated coldly, though his very heart was wrung for the father, crushing down his own pride while he thought he saw still the ghost of a hope. "It will be no use. No one can do anything."
"And you adhere to your determination not to see my—not to see Daisy again?"
Lingard bowed his head.
And Mr. Trevannion left him.
Philip Keir was no blood relation of the Trevannions, but a cousin by marriage and a very intimate friend. He was some years older than Mr. Lingard, and it was through him that the acquaintance resulting in Daisy's engagement had begun. He was a reserved man, with a frank and cordial manner. Daisy thought she knew him well, but as to this she was in some directions entirely mistaken.
He was away from home when Mr. Trevannion called on him, driving straight to his chambers from the fruitless interview with Lingard. Philip did not return for a couple of days, and had left no address. Hence ensued the painful interval of suspense alluded to.
But on the third evening a hansom dashed up to the Trevannions' door, and Mr. Keir jumped out. It was late, but there was no hesitation as to admitting him.
"I found your note," he said, as he grasped his host's hand, "and came straight on. I have only just got back. What is the matter? Tell me at once."
He was a self-controlled man, but his agitation was evident. "Daisy?" he added hastily.
"Yes," replied the father. The two were alone in his study. "Poor Daisy!" And then he told the story.
Keir listened, though not altogether in silence, for broken exclamations, which he seemed unable to repress, broke out from him more than once.
"Impossible—-inconceivable!" he muttered, "Lingard, of all men, to behave like a——" he stopped short, at a loss for a comparison.
"Then you can throw no light upon it—none whatever?" said Mr. Trevannion. "We had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—I had somehow hoped that you might have helped us. You know him well, you see, you have been so much together, your acquaintance is of old date, and you must understand any peculiarities of his character."
His tone still sounded as if he could not bring himself finally to accept the position. Keir was inexpressibly sorry for him.
"I know of none," he said. "Frankly, I know of nothing about him that is not estimable. And, as you say, we have been much and most intimately associated. We have travelled together half over the world, we have been dependent on each other for months at a time, and the more I have seen of him the more I have admired and—yes—loved him. If I had to pick a fault in him I would say it is a curious spice of obstinacy—I have seen it very strongly now and then. Once," and his face grew grave, "once, we nearly quarrelled because he would not give in on a certain point. It was in Siberia, not long ago," and here Philip gave a sort of shiver, "it was very horrible—no need to go into details. He, Arthur, got it into his head that a particular course of action was called for, and there was no moving him. However it ended all right. I had almost forgotten it. But he was determined."
Mr. Trevannion listened, but vaguely. Keir's remarks scarcely seemed to the point.
"Obstinate!" he repeated. "Yes, but that doesn't explain things. There was no question of giving in. They had had no quarrel. Daisy was perfectly happy. The only thing she can say on looking back over the last week or two closely, is that Arthur had seemed depressed now and then, and when she taxed him with it he evaded a reply. You don't think, Philip, that there is anything of that kind—melancholia, you know—in his family?"
"Bless you, no, my dear sir. He comes of the healthiest stock possible. People one knows all about for generations. No, no, it's nothing of that kind," Keir replied. "And—what man ever had such happy prospects?"
"Then what in heaven's name is it?" said Mr. Trevannion, bringing his hand down violently on the table beside which they were sitting. "Can you get it out of him, if you can do nothing else for us, Philip? It is our right to know; it is—it is due to my child, it is——" he stopped, his face working with emotion. "He won't see her, you know," he added disconnectedly.
"I will try," said Philip. "It is indeed the least I can do. If—if I could get him to see her—Daisy; surely that would be the best chance."
Mr. Trevannion looked at him sharply, scrutinisingly.
"You—you are satisfied then—entirely satisfied that there is nothing we need dread her being mixed up in, so to say? Nothing wrong—nothing to shock a girl like her? You see," half apologetically, "his refusing to see her makes one afraid——"
"I am as sure of him as of myself—surer," said Philip earnestly. "There is nothing in his past to explain it—nothing."
"An early secret marriage; a wife he thought dead turning up again," suggested the father. "It sounds absurd, sensational—but after all—there must be some reason."
"Not that," said Keir, getting up as he spoke. "Well then, I will see him first thing in the morning, and communicate with you as soon as possible after I have done so. You will tell Mrs. Trevannion and—and Daisy that I will do my best?"
"My wife is still in the drawing-room. Will you not see her to-night?"
Philip shook his head.
"It is late," he said, "and I am dusty and unpresentable. Besides, there is really nothing to say. To-morrow it shall be as you all think best. I will see Mrs. Trevannion—and Daisy," here he flushed a little, but his host did not observe it, "if you like and if she wishes it. Heaven send I may have better news than I expect."
And with a warm pressure of his old friend's hand, Mr. Keir left him.
The two younger men met the next morning. There was no difficulty about it, for Lingard, knowing by instinct that the interview must take place, had determined to face it. So of the two he was the more prepared, the more forearmed.
The conversation was long—an hour, two hours passed before poor Philip could make up his mind to accept the ultimatum contained in the few hard words with which Arthur Lingard first greeted him.
"I know what you have come about. I knew you must come. You could not help yourself. But, Philip, it will save you pain—I don't mind for myself; nothing can matter now—if you will at once take my word for it that nothing you can say will do the least shadow of good. No, don't shake hands with me. I would rather you didn't."
And he put his right arm behind his back and stood there, leaning against the mantelpiece, facing his friend.
Philip looked up at him grimly.
"No," he said, "I've given my word to—to these poor dear people, and I'll stick to it. You've got to make up your mind to a cross-examination, Lingard."
But through or below the grimness was a terrible pity. Philip's heart was very tender for the man whose inexplicable conduct was yet filling him with indignation past words. Arthur was so changed—the last week or two had done the work of years—all the youthfulness, the almost boyish brightness, which had been one of his charms, was gone, dead. He was pale with a strange indescribable pallor, that told of days, and worse still, of nights of agony; the lines of his face were hardened; the lips spoke of unalterable determination. Only once had Philip seen him look thus, and then it was but in expression—the likeness and the contrast struck him curiously. The other time it had been resolution temporarily hardening a youthful face; now—what did it remind him of? A monk who had gone through a life-time of spiritual struggle alone, unaided by human sympathy? A martyr—no, there was no enthusiasm. It was all dull, dead anguish of unalterable resolve.
There was silence for a moment. Keir was choking down an uncomfortable something in his throat, and bracing himself to the inquisitorial torture before him to perform.
"Well," said Arthur, at last.
And Philip looked up at him again.
How queer his eyes were—they used to be so deeply blue. Daisy had often laughed at his changeable eyes, as she called them—blue in the daytime, almost black at night, but always lustrous and liquid. Now, they were glassy, almost filmy. What was it? A sudden thought struck Philip.
"Arthur!" he exclaimed, "Arthur, old fellow, are you going blind? Is that the mystery? If it is that, good Lord, how little you know her, if you think that——"
Arthur's pale lips grew visibly paler. He had been unprepared for attack in this direction, and for the moment he quailed before it.
"No," he whispered hoarsely, "it is not that. Would to God it were!"
But almost instantly he had mastered himself, and from that moment throughout the interview not even the mention of Daisy's name had power to stir him.
And Philip, annoyed with his own impulsiveness, stiffened again.
"You are determined not to reveal your secret," he began, "but I want to come to an understanding with you on one point. If I guess it, if I put my finger on it, will you give me the satisfaction of owning that I have done so."
Lingard hesitated.
"Yes," he said, "I will do so on one condition—your word of honour, your oath, never to tell it to any human being."
"Not to—her—Daisy?"
"Least of all."
Philip groaned. This did not look very promising for the meeting with Daisy, which at the bottom of his heart he believed in as his last—his trump card.
Still, he had gained something.
"Then, my first question seems, in the face of that, almost a mockery. I was going to ask you," and he half gasped—"it is nothing—nothing about her that is at the root of all this misery? No fancy," again the gasp, "that—that she doesn't care for you, or love you enough? No nonsense about your not being suited to each other, or that you couldn't make a girl of her sensitive, high-strung nature happy?"
"No," said Arthur, and the word seemed to ring through the room. "No, I know she loves me as I love her. Oh, no, not quite like that, I trust," and his voice was firm through all the tragedy of the last sentence. "And I believe I could have made her very happy. Leave her name out of it now, Phil, once for all. It has nothing to do personally with the woman who is, and always will be, to me my perfect ideal of sweetness and excellence and truth and beauty."
"Then it has to do with yourself," murmured Keir. "Come, the radius is narrowing. I flew out at poor Trevannion when he suggested it, but all the same, it's nothing in your past you're ashamed of that's come to light, is it? The best fellows in the world make fools of themselves sometimes, you know. Don't mind my asking."
"I don't mind," said Arthur wearily, "but it's no use. No, it's nothing like that. I have done nothing I am ashamed of. I am not secretly married, nor have I committed forgery," with a very ghastly attempt at a smile.
"Then," said Philip, "is it something about your family. Have you found out that there's a strain of insanity in the Lingards perhaps? People exaggerate that kind of thing now-a-days. There's a touch of it in us all, I take it."
"No," said Arthur, again "my family's all right. I've no very near relations except my sister, but you know her, and you know all about us. We're not adventurers in any sense of the word."
"Far from it," agreed Philip warmly. Then for a moment or two he relapsed into silence. "Does your sister—does Lady West know about—about this mysterious affair?" he asked abruptly, after some pondering.
"Nothing whatever. I, of course, was bound by every consideration not to tell her—to tell no one anything till it was understood by—the Trevannions. And I had no reason for consulting her or—any friend," Arthur replied.
He spoke jerkily and with effort, as if he were putting force on himself to endure what yet he was convinced was absolutely useless torture.
But his words gave Keir a new opening, which he was quick to seize.
"That's just it," he exclaimed eagerly. "That's just where it strikes me you've gone wrong. You should have consulted some one—not myself, not your sister even; I don't say whom, but some one sensible and trustworthy. I believe your mind has got warped. You've been thinking over this trouble, whatever it is, till you can't see it rightly. You've exaggerated it out of all proportion, and you shouldn't trust your own morbid judgment."
Lingard did not answer. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon the ground. For an instant a wild hope dashed through Philip that at last he had made some impression. But as Arthur slowly raised his dim, worn eyes, and looked him in the face, it faded again, even before the young man spoke.
"To satisfy you, I will tell you this much. I have consulted one person—a man whom you would allow was trustworthy and wise and good. From him I have hidden nothing whatever, and he agrees with me that I have no choice—that duty points unmistakably to the course I am pursuing."
Again a flash of suggestion struck his hearer.
"One person—a man," he repeated. "Arthur, is it some priest? Have they been converting or perverting you, my boy? Are you going over to Rome, fancying yourself called to be a Trappist, or a—those fellows at the Grande Chartreuse, you remember?"
For the second time during the interview, Arthur smiled, and his smile was a trifle less ghastly this time.
"No, again," he said. "You're quite on a wrong tack. I have not the slightest inclination that way. I—I wish I had. No, my adviser is no priest. But he's one of the best of men, all the same, and one of the wisest."
"You won't tell me who he is?"
"I cannot."
"And"—Philip was reluctant to try his last hope, and felt conscious that he would do it clumsily—"Arthur," he burst out, "you will see her—Daisy—once more? She has a right to it. You are putting enough upon her without refusing this one request of hers."
He stood up as he spoke. He himself had grown strangely pale, and seeing this, as he glanced at him, Lingard's own face became ashen.
He shook his head.
"Good God!" he said, "I think this might have been spared me. No, I will not see her again. The only thing I can do for her is to refuse this last request. Tell her so, Philip—tell her what I say. And now leave me. Don't shake hands with me. I don't wish it, and I daresay you don't. If—if we never meet again, you and I—and who knows?—if this is our goodbye, thank you, old fellow, thank you for all you have tried to do. Perhaps I know the cost of it to you better than you imagine. Good-bye, Phil!"
Keir turned towards the door. But he looked back ere he reached it. Arthur was standing as he had been—motionless.
"You're not thinking of killing yourself, are you?" he said quietly.
Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a different expression now—or was it that something was gleaming softly in them that had not been there before?
"No, no—I am not going to be false to my colours. I—I don't care to talk much about it, but—I am a Christian, Phil."
"At least I can put that horrid idea out of the poor child's head, then," thought Keir to himself. Though to Arthur he did not reply, save by a bend of his head.
Time passed. And in his wings there was healing.
At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces of suffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To some extent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood.
It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally have been looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard's sister, Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. At first she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and though afterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, she never became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. And after a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad, and detained there on an important diplomatic mission.
Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy would ask Philip to "try to find out if Mary West knows where he is". And to please her he did so. But all he learnt was—what indeed was all the sister had to tell—that Arthur was off again on his old travels—to the Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which.
"He has promised that I shall hear from him once a year—as near my birthday as he can manage. That is all I can tell you," she said, trying to make light of it.
And whether this promise was kept or no, one thing was certain—Arthur Lingard had entirely disappeared from London society.
At twenty-five, Daisy married Philip. He had always loved her, though he had never allowed her to suspect it; and knowing herself and her history as he did, he was satisfied with the true affection she could give him—satisfied, that is to say, in the hope and belief that his own devotion would kindle ever-increasing response on her side. And his hopes were not disappointed. They were very happy.
Now for the sequel to the story—such sequel, that is to say, as there is to give—a suggestion of explanation rather than any positivedénoumentof the mystery.
They—Philip and Daisy—had been married for two or three years when one evening it chanced to them to dine at the house of a rather well-known literary man with whom they were but slightly acquainted. They had been invited for a special reason; their hosts were pleasant and genial people who liked to get those about them with interests in common. And Keir, though his wings were now so happily clipt, still held his position as a traveller who had seen and noted much in his former wanderings.
"We think your husband may enjoy a talk with Sir Abel Maynard, who is with us for a few days," Mrs. Thorncroft had said in her note.
And Sir Abel, not being of the surly order of lions who refuse to roar when they know that their audience is eager to hear them, made himself most agreeable. He appreciated Mr. Keir's intelligence and sympathy, and was by no means indifferent to Mrs. Keir's beauty, though "evidently," he thought to himself, "she is not over fond of reminiscences of her husband's travels. Perhaps she is afraid of his taking flight again."
During dinner the conversation turned, not unnaturally, on a subject just at that moment much to the fore. For it was about the time of the heroic Damien's death.
"No," said Sir Abel, in answer to some inquiry, "I never visited his place. But I have seen lepers—to perfection. By-the-by," he went on suddenly, "I came across a queer, a very queer, story a while ago. I wonder, Keir, if you can throw any light upon it?"
But at that moment Mrs. Thorncroft gave the magic signal and the women left the room.
By degrees the men came straggling upstairs after them, then a little music followed, but it was not till much later in the evening than was usual with him that Philip made his appearance in the drawing-room, preceded by Sir Abel Maynard. Philip looked tired and rather "distrait," thought Daisy, whose eyes were keen with the quick discernment of perfect affection, and she was not sorry when, before very long, he whispered to her that it was getting late, might they not leave soon? Nor was she sorry that during the interval before her husband made this suggestion, Sir Abel, who had been devoting himself to her, had avoided all mention of his travels, and had been amusing her with his criticism of a popular novel instead. She could never succeed altogether in banishing the painful association of Arthur Lingard from allusion to her husband's old wanderings.
Poor Arthur! Where was he now?
"Philip, dear," she said, slipping her hand into his when they found themselves alone, and with a longish drive before them, in their own little brougham, "there is something the matter. You have heard something? Tell me what it is."
Keir hesitated.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose it is best to tell you. It is the strange story Sir Abel alluded to before you left the room."
"About—about Arthur? Is it about Arthur?" whispered she, shivering a little.
Philip put his arm round her.
"I can't say. We shall perhaps never know certainly," he replied. "But it looks very like it. Listen, dear. Some little time ago—two or three years ago—Maynard spent some days at one of those awful leper settlements—never mind where. I would just as soon you did not know. There, to his amazement, among the most devoted of the attendants upon the poor creatures he found an Englishman, young still, at least by his own account, though to judge by his appearance it would have been impossible to say. For he was himself far gone, very far gone in some ways, in the disease. But he was, or had been, a man of strong constitution and enormous determination. Ill as he was, he yet managed to tend others with indescribable devotion. They looked upon him as a saint. Maynard did not like to inquire what had brought him to such a pass—he, the poor fellow, was a perfect gentleman. But the day Sir Abel was leaving, the Englishman took him to some extent into his confidence, and asked him to do him a service. This was his story. Some years before, in quite a different part of the world, the young man had nursed a leper—a dying leper—for some hours. He believed for long that he had escaped all danger, in fact he never thought of it; but it was not so. There must have been an unhealed wound of some kind—a slight scratch would do it—on his hand. No need to go into the details of his first misgivings, of the horror of the awful certainty at last. It came upon him in the midst of the greatest happiness; he was going to be married to a girl he adored."
"Oh, Philip, Philip, why did he not tell?" Daisy wailed.
"He consulted the best and greatest physician, who—as a friend, he said—approved of the course he had mapped out for himself. He decided to tell no one, to break off his engagement, and die out of her—the girl's—life; not once, after he was sure, did he see her again. He would not even risk touching her hand. And he believed that telling would only have brought worse agony upon her in the end than the agony he was forced to inflict. For he was a doomed man, though they gave him a few years to live. And he did the only thing he could do with those years. He set off to the settlement in question. Maynard was to call there some months later on his way home, and the young man knew he would be dead then, and so he was. But he showed Maynard a letter explaining all, that he had got ready—all but the address—that, he would not add till he was in the act of dying. There must be no risk of her knowing till he was dead. And this letter Maynard was to fetch on his return. He did so, but—there had been no time to add the address—death had come suddenly. All sorts of precautions had been ordered by the poor fellow as to disinfecting the letter and so on. But it did not seem to Maynard that these had been taken. So he contented himself by spreading out the paper on the sea-shore and learning it by heart, and then leaving it. The sum total of it was what I have told you, but not one name was named."
Daisy was sobbing quietly.
"Was it he?" she said.
"Yes, I feel sure of it," Philip replied. "For I can supply the missing link. The one time I really quarrelled with Arthur was when we were in Siberia. Hewouldspend a night in a dying leper's hut. I would have done it myself, I believe and hope, had it been necessary. But by riding on a few miles we could have got help for the poor creature—which indeed I did—and more efficient help than ours. But Lingard was determined, and no ill seemed to come of it. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. I never associated it with the mystery that caused you such anguish, my poor darling."
"It was he," whispered Daisy. "Philip, he was a hero after all."
"Not even you can feel that, as I do," Keir replied.
Then they were silent.
A few weeks afterwards came a letter from Lady West, in her far-off South American home. Daisy had not heard from her for years.
"By circuitous ways, I need not explain the details," she wrote, "I have learnt that my darling brother is dead. I thought I had better tell you. I am sure his most earnest wish was that you should live to be happy, dear Daisy, as I trust you are. And I know you have long forgiven him the sorrow he caused you—it was worse still for him."
"I wonder," said Daisy, "if she knows more?"
But the letter seemed to add certainty to their own conviction.
"You misunderstand me wilfully, Helen. I neither said nor inferred anything of the kind."
"What did you mean then, for if words to you bear a different interpretation from what they do to me, I must trouble you to speak inmylanguage when addressing me," angrily retorted a young girl, with what nature had intended to be a very pretty face with a charming expression, but which at the present moment was far from deserving the latter part of the description. Eyes flashing, cheeks burning and hands clenched in the excess of her indignation, stood Helen Beaumont by the window of her pretty little sitting-room, or "studio" as she loved to call it, presenting a striking contrast to the peaceful scene without; where a carefully tended garden still looked bright with the remaining flowers of late September. Her companion, standing in the attitude invariably assumed now-a-days by novelists' heroes, namely, leaning against the mantelpiece, was a young man of equally prepossessing appearance with her own. At first glance no one would have suspected him of sharing any of the young lady's excitement, for his expression was so calm as almost to merit the description of sleepy. Looking more closely, however, the signs of some unusual disturbance or annoyance were to be descried, for his face was slightly flushed and his blue eyes had lost the look of sweet temper evidently their ordinary expression.
"What I meant to say, Helen, was not, as you choose to misinterpret it, that I blame you for proper womanly courage and spirit, than which, I consider few things more admirable, nor as you are well aware do I admire the sweetly silly and affectedly timid order of young ladies. But this I do mean and repeat, that I think your persistence in this foolish scheme a piece of sheer bravado and foolhardiness, totally unworthy of any sensible person's approval, and what is more——"
"Thank you, Malcolm, or rather Mr. Willoughby, I have heard quite enough,"—and as she spoke, Helen turned from the window out of which she had been gazing while Malcolm spoke, with, it must be confessed, very little interest in the varied tints of the dahlias blooming in all their rich brilliance on the terrace,—"I have heard quite enough, and think myself exceedingly fortunate in having heard it now before it is too late. You may imagine," she continued, "that I am speaking in temper, but it is not so. I have for some time suspected, and now feel convinced, that we are not suited to each other. Your own words bear witness to your opinion of me, 'self-willed, foolhardy, unwomanly,' and I know not what other pretty expressions you have applied to me, and for my part I tell you simply that I cannot and will not marry a man whose opinion of what a woman should be is like yours; and who insults me constantly as you do, by telling me how far short I fall of his ideal. Marry your ideal, Malcolm Willoughby, and I shall wish you joy of her. Some silly little fool who dares not move a step alone in her bewitching helplessness. But do not think to convertmeinto such a piece of contemptible inanity," and so saying she turned towards the door.
"Helen," said Malcolm quietly, so quietly that Helen was arrested in spite of herself, "you are unjust, unreasonable and ungenerous. You know that I never cared for any woman but you, you know that nothing pleases me more than to witness your superiority in numberless particulars to the general run of girls, and you know too the pride and pleasure I take in your skill as an artist; but blinded by self-will you will not see the perfect reasonableness of my request that you will abandon this absurd expedition. If not for your own sake, at least do so for Edith's, who is as you know left in your special charge by Leonard."
The first part of this speech seemed, to judge by Helen's transparent countenance, likely to soften and move her, but the unlucky word "absurd" and the tone in which Malcolm spoke, as if it was necessary to remind her of her duty, effectually did away with any good result that his remonstrance might have worked. She turned, with her hand on the door, and saying, "I have told you my decision, Mr. Willoughby, and I wish you good-evening," left the room. Malcolm remained behind, lost in thought of no pleasurable nature. At last he too left the little sitting-room, after first ringing the bell and ordering his horse to be brought round. Making his way to the front entrance he there "mounted and rode away," his spirits, poor fellow, by no means the better for his visit.
It is time, I think, to explain the cause of the lovers' quarrel above described. Helen and Edith Beaumont were orphans, left to the guardianship of their brother Leonard, in whose house we have seen the former. Delicacy, induced by a severe illness some months previously, had obliged Mr. Beaumont, accompanied by his wife, to go for the autumn and winter months to the south of France, leaving his sisters at home under the nominal chaperonage of an elderly aunt, who performed her duty to the perfect satisfaction of her nieces by letting them do exactly as they liked. More correctly speaking, perhaps, exactly as Helen liked, for the younger of the two, Edith, a girl of seventeen and four years her sister's junior, could hardly be said to have likes or dislikes distinct from those of Helen. Possibly Mr. Beaumont might not have left the two to their own devices with so easy a mind, had he not quitted home happy in the knowledge of Helen's engagement to his friend and neighbour Malcolm Willoughby. The gentleman in question lived within a few miles of our heroine's home, having succeeded some years before to his father's property. His only sister, Mrs. Lindsay, was at this time living with him for a few months while awaiting her husband's return from India, and though some years older, was, next to her sister, Helen's most valued friend and companion. Malcolm Willoughby was a man of high character, peculiarly fitted, by his unusual amount of sterling good sense, to be the guide of an impulsive, enthusiastic girl like pretty Helen Beaumont, whom to know was to love, and who would have been altogether charming but for her inordinate amount of self-will and inveterate dislike to being, as she expressed it, "ordered" to do or not to do whatever came into her head. She and her sister had real talent as artists, and their spirited and well-executed landscapes bore but little resemblance to the insipid productions of most young lady painters. To improving herself in this direction Helen had devoted much time and labour. Unfortunately, it had so absorbed her thoughts and desires that in its pursuance she was inclined sometimes to forget what were for her more important avocations. Helen's fortunate engagement to Mr. Willoughby had for some time past corrected these only objectionable tendencies in her character, and all had gone smoothly and happily till the date at which our story commences, when, unluckily, some artist friends had filled her head with their descriptions of the exquisite autumn scenery, "effects of foliage," etc., to be seen in a mountainous and hitherto little explored part of Wales. Her imagination, and through her that of her sister Edith, ran wild on the subject, and now nothing would satisfy her but a journey to the spot in question, by themselves, in order that they might enjoy their freedom to the utmost, and revel in the delight of painting some of the wonderful Welsh scenery described to them. The idea had at first been mooted half in joke, but an impolitic expression of strong disapprobation on the part of Mr. Willoughby had done more to determine Helen on carrying it out than all the anticipated artistic enjoyment.