He asked if there were any apartments to be let in the house.
No, the portress told him. There were only old-established families living there. There had not been a floor to let for three years.
"Indeed! Not the third floor, for example?"
"No. But why does Monsieur inquire especially about the third floor?" the portress-asked, looking at him keenly with her bright black eyes.
"I confess to having a particular curiosity about the third floor," replied Heathcote, judging that frankness would serve him best with this outspoken matron, "and if by any chance the family were absent——"
"Monsieur would like to indulge a morbid curiosity," interrupted the portress, "to see the rooms which were occupied by a beautiful woman who was murdered. There was a time when I had twenty, forty, fifty such applications in a day, when all the idlers in Paris came here to spy about and to question. If the murder had been done in one of those very rooms instead of in the wood, I should have made my fortune. As it was, people stared and pried and touched things; as if the very curtains and the sofa cushions had been steeped in blood. But that was ten years ago. I wonder that Monsieur should feel any curiosity after all those years."
"You were living in this house ten years ago, at the time of the murder?" questioned Heathcote eagerly.
"Yes, Monsieur, and for three years before that. I was with Madame Georges from the day she first entered this house to the day she was carried out of it in her coffin. I am Barbe Leroux, born Girot. If you have heard of the murder of Marie Prévol, you must have heard of Barbe Girot, her servant. I was one of the chief witnesses before theJuge d'Instruction."
"Madame, I have read your evidence," replied Heathcote. "I am deeply interested in the history of that terrible murder, and I rejoice in having met a lady who can, if she pleases, help me to unravel a mystery which baffled the police."
"The police!" exclaimed Madame Leroux contemptuously; "the police are a parcel of no-great-things, or they would have found the man who killed my mistress and Monsieur de Maucroix in a week."
"Provided that he stopped in Paris to be found. But it seems evident that he got away from Paris, and instantly, or he would have been taken red-handed."
"I have reason to know that he was in Paris long after the murder," said Barbe decisively.
"What reason? Pray consider, Madame, that I am brought to this house by no idle curiosity, no morbid love of the horrible. It is my mission to discover the murderer of Marie Prévol. Give me your confidence, I entreat, Madame. You who loved your mistress must desire to see her assassin punished."
Barbe Leroux shrugged her shoulders with an air of doubt.
"I don't quite know that, Monsieur. Yes, I loved my mistress; but I pity her murderer. Come, we cannot talk in this passage all day. Will you walk into my room, Monsieur, and seat yourself for a little while? and then, if you are anxious to see the apartment in which that poor lady lived, it may perhaps be managed."
"You are very good," said Heathcote, slipping a napoleon into Barbe Leroux's broad palm.
Had it been half a napoleon she would have considered herself repaid for ordinary civility; but the larger coin secured extraordinary devotion. She would, in her own phrase, have thrown herself into the fire for this gentlemanly stranger, whose hat and coat were so decidedly English, but who spoke almost as a Parisian.
She ushered him into her little sitting-room, the very sanctuary and stronghold of her domestic life, since there was a bed in a curtained corner, while there was a cradle sunning itself in the few rays of light which crept down the hollow square of brick and stone on which the window opened. Thepot-au-feuwas simmering on a handful of wood-ashes in a corner of the hearth; and Madame Leroux's plethoric work-basket showed that she had been lately occupied in the repair of a blue linen blouse.
"Leroux is one of the porters at the Central Markets," she explained. "It is a hard life, and the pay is small; but there are perquisites, and between us we contrive to live and to put away a little for the daughter there," with a nod and a smile in the direction of the cradle, whence came the rhythmical breathing of a fat baby.
"The only one?" inquired Heathcote.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And you have lived in this house for thirteen years, Madame Leroux?"
"Nearer fourteen, Monsieur, when all is counted. I was a dresser at the Porte-Saint-Martin when Mademoiselle Prévol first appeared there. It was a wretched life—bad pay, late hours, hard work. I caught cold from going to and fro on the winter nights, thinly clad; for I had an old mother to support in those days, and I could not afford warm clothing. I had a cough which tore me to pieces; but I dared not give up my employment, and my fear was of being sent away on account of bad health. I had not a friend in Paris to help me. Then it was, Monsieur, that Mademoiselle Prévol took pity on me. She spoke about me to a doctor who used to come behind the scenes and was on friendly terms with all the actors and actresses. She asked him to prescribe for me; but he told her that medicines would be of no use in my case. I was young, and I had a good constitution. All that was needed for my cure was warmth and comfort. I was not to go out of doors after dark, or in bad weather, if I wanted to cure myself. I almost laughed at the doctor for his advice. I lived on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, and had to walk to and fro in all weathers, good or bad. It was January at this time, and the snow was on the ground."
"It was then that Mademoiselle Prévol took you into her service?" speculated Heathcote.
"Yes, Monsieur. There are not many ladies in her position who would have cared what became of a drudge like me. She was new to the theatre, and she had just become the rage on account of her beauty. The papers had all been full of her praises. Cigars, hats, fans, shoes were called after her. The public applauded her songs and dances madly every night. Admirers were waiting in crowds at the stage-door to see her leave the theatre, in the shabby little forty-sous that used to take her home. She dared not walk, for fear of being followed and mobbed. She was young enough to have had her head turned by all this fuss; but she seemed to care hardly anything about it. One honest man's love would be worth all this rubbish, she said to me once, when I asked her if she was not proud of being the rage with all Paris. I was proud of dressing her; and I used to take the greatest care in everything I did for her; and I suppose it was this that made her so good to me. She knew that I loved her; and the poor dresser's love was honest love. In a word, Monsieur, she asked me if I would like to be her servant. She was going to leave her mother's lodgings, where she was not comfortable, and to take an apartment of her own. I might have to work hard, perhaps, she told me, and I should have to be careful and saving, as she had only her salary to live on. She was not like those ladies who rolled their carriages and lived in the Bois yonder; but she would feed me and lodge me well, and she would give me as much money as I was getting at the theatre, without either food or lodging."
"Naturally, you accepted?"
"With delight, Monsieur. And three days after, I came to this house. My young mistress had taken the third floor for five years. The landlord put the rooms in order for her; and she furnished them very modestly, scantily even, partly out of her little savings since she had been at the theatre, partly on credit. She was to pay so many francs a week to the upholsterer till all was paid for. She had no extravagant tastes, no craving for finery or luxurious living. If you had seen her rooms in those days, you might have thought them the rooms of a nun—all things so simple, so neat, so pure."
"But there came a change afterwards, I suppose?"
"There came a time when Monsieur Georges loaded her with presents, and the apartment changed gradually under his influence. He sent her easy-chairs, velvet-coloured tables, a bookcase, an escritoire, satin curtains, rich carpets, pictures, china, hothouse flowers. He showered his gifts upon her; but I knew that she would have been better pleased to live in her own simple way. She had a horror of seeming like those other ladies of the theatre, with their luxurious houses and fine clothes. She spent very little money on herself; she lived almost as plainly as a workman's wife."
"Was she called Madame Georges when she first came to this house?"
"No, Monsieur; she did not even know the name of Monsieur Georges at that time. She only knew that she had a mysterious admirer, who came to the theatre every night, who used to sit in a dark corner of a small private box close to the stage, who never showed himself to the audience, and who was always alone. This was all she knew of Monsieur Georges in those days."
"Do you know how their acquaintance advanced from this point?"
"No, Monsieur. I hardly know anything of the progress of their attachment. There were letters—gifts—which came to the house. And I know that, in the spring nights of that first year, my mistress used to walk home from the theatre, escorted by Monsieur Georges. But he never entered our apartment till after Madame's return from England, where she went during the summer vacation. She had been very silent about her strange admirer—she had told me nothing—but she had shed many tears on his account. That was a secret which she could not hide from me. She had spent many wakeful nights, breathed many sighs. When she told me she was going to England, I thought all was over. She had fought hard to be true to herself, poor girl: she had struggled against her fate: but this man's love had conquered her."
"She did not tell you that she was going away to be married?"
"No, Monsieur; but when she came back, after a fortnight's absence, she showed me her wedding-ring, and she told me that she was to be called Madame Georges henceforward. This I took to mean that Monsieur Georges had married her while in England, and I believe it still. He loved her too well to degrade her by making her his mistress."
"He loved her well enough to murder her," said Heathcote. "I suppose that is about the highest flight for a lover."
"He loved her as women are not often loved, Monsieur," replied Barbe, with conviction. "I saw enough to know that from first to last he adored her; that the jealousy which devoured him later—the jealousy which made him act like a madman many times in my hearing—was the madness of intense love. I have listened outside the door, trembling for my mistress's safety, ready to give the alarm to the house, to rush in and rescue her from his violence; and then the storm was lulled by her sweet words, her gentleness, and he became like a penitent child. Yes, Monsieur, he loved her as few men love."
"If this were so, why did he keep her in such a discreditable position? Why did he not introduce her to the world as his wife?"
"I cannot tell. There must have been reasons for his secrecy. He seldom came to this house before nightfall. He never showed himself anywhere with Madame till after the theatre."
"Since he was rich enough to be lavish, why did he not remove her from the stage?"
"That was one of the causes of unhappiness towards the last, Monsieur. It was his wish that she should leave the theatre, and she refused. I believe it was at this time she became acquainted with Monsieur de Maucroix."
"You stated before theJuge d'Instructionthat you believed the acquaintance between your mistress and Monsieur de Maucroix to have been an innocent acquaintance. Is that still your belief?"
"It is my conviction, Monsieur. I never doubted my dear mistress's honour, though I doubted her wisdom in allowing herself to think about Monsieur de Maucroix. It must be pleaded for her excuse that he was one of the most fascinating men in Paris. At least that is what I have heard people say of him. I know that he was young, handsome, and remarkably elegant in his appearance."
"And now tell me how you happen to know that Georges remained in Paris after the murder? Did you ever see him?"
"Yes, Monsieur. It is rather a long story. If I were not afraid of tiring you——" Madame Leroux began deprecatingly.
"You will not tire me. I want to hear every detail, however insignificant."
"Then, Monsieur, you must know that in consequence of Madame's kindness and of the lavish generosity of Monsieur Georges, and also by reason of a good many presents from Monsieur de Maucroix, who threw about his money with full hands, I was very comfortably off at the time of Madame's sad death. I had buried my poor mother two years before, and I had been able to save almost every penny of my wages. I felt, therefore, independent of service. The term would have to be paid by Madame Lemarque, who inherited all her daughter's property, and as she had a horror of the rooms in which her poor daughter had lived, and could not bear to be alone in them for an hour, she asked me to stay till the end of the quarter. Then, as I told you, people came in crowds to see the rooms; and as I had power to show them, or to refuse to show them, just as I pleased, I need not tell you that I made a good deal of money in this way. I did not make a trade of showing the rooms, Monsieur; I never asked any one for money, but on the other hand I did not refuse it when it was offered to me. This continued for some weeks; then came the sale. All the handsome articles of furniture, all the pictures and ornaments, fetched high prices. They were bought by fashionable people as souvenirs of the beautiful Marie Prévol. But the plainer furniture, the things which my mistress had paid for out of her own earnings, were sold for very little, and these I bought. I had conferred with the landlord, and he had agreed to retain me as his tenant. With the furniture which I bought at the sale, and with other things which I picked up cheaply among the secondhand dealers, I contrived to make the rooms very comfortable as furnished lodgings, and from that time to this I have carried them on with reasonable profit. Three years later I was able to take the fourth floor; and two years after that, on the second floor falling vacant, I ventured to become tenant for that also. There remains only the first floor, which is let to an old lady of ninety; and if Providence prospers Leroux and me, we ought to be able to take the first floor by the time the old lady dies."
"You will then be lessees of the whole house; a bold speculation, Madame, but one which with your prudent habits will doubtless succeed. But to return to this man Georges, whom you saw in Paris after the murder."
"I was accustomed to go every week to the cemetery of Père Lachaise, Monsieur, to look at my dear mistress's grave, and to lay my humble offering of flowers upon the marble slab which had been placed there at Madame Lemarque's expense. It bore for inscription only the one word—Marie: Madame Lemarque dared not describe her daughter as a wife—she would not record her name as a spinster. Marie was enough. For the first month after her burial I found the slab covered with flowers, wreaths, crosses, bouquets of the costliest flowers that can be bought in Paris. I noticed that among the variety of flowers there was one wreath frequently renewed, and always the same—a wreath of Maréchal Niel roses—and I knew that these had been her favourite flowers, the flowers she always wore, and had about her in her rooms. I had often heard her call the Maréchal Niel the king of roses. Months passed, and on my weekly visits with my poor little bunch of violets, or snowdrops, or jonquils, I found always the wreath of yellow roses. All through the winter, when even other token had ceased to adorn the grave—when the beautiful actress was beginning to be forgotten—the yellow roses were always renewed. I felt that this could be done only by some one who had devotedly loved Marie Prévol. For her admirers of the theatre her death had been a nine days' wonder. They had covered her grave with flowers, and then had gone away and forgotten all about her; but the wreath of yellow roses, renewed again and again, all through the dark dull winter, was the gift of a steadfast love, a grief which did not diminish with time. I questioned the people at the gates, but they knew nothing of the hand which laid those flowers on my mistress's grave. I hoped I should some day surprise the visitor who brought them; but though I altered the days of my visits, never going two weeks running on the same day, I seemed no nearer finding out that constant mourner. At last, early in the February after my mistress's death, I resolved upon going to the cemetery every day, and remaining there, in view of the grave, as long as my stock of patience would allow me. I spent three or four hours there for six days running, till my heart and my feet were alike weary. But I had seen no one: the roses had not been renewed. The seventh day was a Saturday, the day I always devoted to cleaning the apartment, which was now in the occupation of an elderly gentleman and his wife. I was not able to leave the house till late in the afternoon. The day had been foggy, and the fog had thickened by the time I left the omnibus, which took me to the Rue de la Roquette. At the gates of the cemetery it was so dark that if I had not been familiar with the paths which led to my mistress's grave, I should hardly have been able to find my way to the spot. The grave is in a narrow path, midway between two of the principal walks; and as I turned the corner between two large and lofty monuments, I saw a man standing in the middle of the path in front of Marie Prévol's grave. A tall figure, in a furred overcoat, a figure I knew well. I had not an instant's doubt that the murderer of my mistress stood there before me, looking at his victim's grave."
"Did you accost him?"
"Alas, no! He was not more than a dozen yards from the spot where I stood, and I quickened my footsteps, intending to speak to him; but at the sound of those footsteps he looked round, saw a figure approaching through the fog, and hurried off in the opposite direction. I ran after him, but he had reached the other end of the path before I could overtake him; and when I got there it was in vain that I looked for any trace of him either right or left of the pathway. He had disappeared in the fog, which was thicker at this end of the path, as it was on lower ground. My mistress's grave was on the slope of the hill, and there the fog was less dense.
"I went back to the grave and looked at the flowers on the slab. A wreath of yellow roses, fresh from the hothouse where they had been grown, lay on the marble, surrounding that one word 'Marie.'"
"Are you sure that the man you saw was Georges?"
"Perfectly sure. I knew his figure; I knew his walk. I could not be mistaken in him. And who else was there in Paris who would come week after week, in all weathers, to lay the roses my mistress loved upon her grave? Many had admired her on the stage; but only two men had been allowed to love her, to know anything of her in her private life. Of those two, one was the murdered man, Maxime de Maucroix; the other was the murderer Georges."
"Did you find the flowers renewed after this day, or did the murderer take alarm and avoid the cemetery?"
"The roses were renewed week after week for more than a year after that foggy Saturday afternoon; but I never again saw the person who laid them there. I had, indeed, no desire to see him again. I had satisfied myself as to his identity. I did not want to betray him to the police. The shedding of his blood might have avenged my dear mistress's death, but it could not have restored her to life. It could have been no consolation to her in purgatory to know that this man, whom she had once loved, who had loved her only too well, was to die on the scaffold for her sake. I hated him as the murderer of my mistress, but I pitied him even in the midst of my hatred. I pitied him for the reality of his love."
"You say the flowers appeared on the grave for more than a year after that February afternoon?" said Heathcote. "Did the tribute fall off gradually? Was the wreath renewed at longer and longer intervals till it ceased altogether, or did the offering stop suddenly?"
"Suddenly. In the March of the second year after Madame's death I found a faded wreath on my weekly visit, and that faded wreath has never been replaced."
"That would be in March 1874?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"You never saw Georges again, either in the cemetery or anywhere else?"
"Never."
"I have been told that he was a French Canadian. Have you any knowledge as to his country or his family history?"
"None, Monsieur. I always supposed him to be a Frenchman. I never heard him speak in any other language."
"Did he speak like a Parisian?"
"No, Monsieur. He did not speak exactly like the people about here, or the actors at the Porte-Saint-Martin. I used to think that he was a provincial."
"Did you hear from your mistress what part of England she had visited?"
"I heard, Monsieur, but have forgotten. The names of places were strange to me—such queer names—but I know it was a place in which there were lakes and mountains."
"Was it in Scotland or Ireland?"
"No, it was in England. I am sure of that. And now, if Monsieur would like to see the third floor."
Heathcote said he was most anxious to do so; and he followed Madame Leroux up-stairs, to a landing out of which the door of the apartment opened. The rooms were small and low, but well lighted, and with a balcony looking out on the street. The littlesalonwas neatly furnished, with those very chairs and tables which Marie Prévol had bought out of her first economies as an actress. The things were meagre and shabby after the wear and tear of years; but the perfect neatness and cleanliness of everything made amends. Barbe Leroux was one of those admirable managers who by sheer industry and good taste can make much out of little.
There was a tiny dining-room opening out of thesalon, with a window overlooking chimneys and backs of houses, and this window had been filled with painted glass in the time of Monsieur Georges. All the other elegances and luxuries with which he had embellished the cosy little rooms had been disposed of at the sale of Marie Prévol's effects. There had been Venetian mirrors and girandoles on the walls of the dining-room, Barbe explained.
"Madame used to light all the wax candles when she came in from the theatre. There were candles on the supper-table with rose-coloured shades. There were fruit and flowers always. Everything was made to look pretty in honour of Monsieur Georges—and there had to be some delicate little dish for supper, and choicest wine. Monsieur was not a man who cared much what he ate or drank; but Madame wished that everything should be nicely arranged, that the supper-table should look as inviting as at the Café de Paris or at the Maison d'Or."
The bedroom opened out of thesalon. There was a dressing-room between that and the little back room in which Barbe had slept, when she was in Mademoiselle Prévol's service. On her occasional visits Léonie Lemarque had occupied a truckle-bed in Barbe's room.
"How is it that Léonie Lemarque in all her visits never happened to see Monsieur Georges?" inquired Heathcote, when he had looked at all the rooms, peopling them in his imagination with the figures of the actress and her lover.
"Madame took good care to prevent that. She told me that Monsieur Georges hated children, and that the little one was to be kept out of his way."
"Did he never spend his mornings here? Was he only here at night?"
"Only at night. It was for that reason Madame Lemarque used to call him the night-bird. I think she was very angry because she was never allowed to see him—never invited to supper. Monsieur Georges used to take a cup of coffee early in the morning, and he left the house before most people were up. As early as five o'clock in summer, never later than half-past six in winter."
Hilda's presence at Penmorval was full of comfort and solace for Dora Wyllard. She had known Hilda all her life, had seen her grow from childhood to womanhood, had loved her with a sisterly love, trusting her as she trusted no one else. Hilda had been only a child at the time of Dora's engagement to Edward Heathcote; yet, even at eleven years of age, Hilda's tender heart had been full of sympathy for her brother when that engagement was broken off, and when Dora became the wife of another man. She had been angry, with vehement, childish anger. That Dora should like any man better than him who, in the fond eyes of the younger sister, seemed the prince and pattern of fine gentlemen, was an unpardonable offence.
Hilda at eleven was precocious in her knowledge of books, and very self-opinionated in her judgment of people. She told her brother she would never speak to Dora again, that she would run a mile to avoid even seeing her: and then, a few months after Dora's marriage, finding that her brother had forgiven that great wrong with all his heart, Hilda melted one day suddenly, at meeting Mrs. Wyllard on the moor, and fell into her old friend's arms.
"I have tried to hate you for being so wicked to my brother," she sobbed, as Dora bent over her and kissed her.
"Your brother forgave me ever so long ago, Hilda," said Dora. "Why should you be less generous than he?"
"Because I love him better than he loves himself," cried Hilda, in her vehement way; "because I know his value better than he does. O Dora, how could you like any one else better than Edward?"
"You must not ask me that, my darling. Those things cannot be explained. Fate willed it so."
"And I suppose you are very happy in your grand house?" said Hilda sullenly.
"I am very happy with the husband I love, Hilda. The grand house makes no difference. And now we are going to be good friends, aren't we, dear? and we are never going to talk of the past. How you have grown, Hilda!"
"Out of all my frocks," answered Hilda, glancing contemptuously at her ankles. "It is perfectly degrading never to have a frock long enough for one—and never to have one's waist in the right place. The dressmaker says I have no waist yet. Dressmakers are so insulting to girls of my age. I think I shall positively trample upon my dressmaker when I am grown up, to revenge myself for all I have suffered from the tribe."
"My Hilda, what an old-fashioned puss you have grown!"
"How can I help being old-fashioned? I never see any young people. Edward never comes to The Spaniards now. You have driven him away."
"Hilda, if we are to be friends—"
"Well, I won't say it again; but you have, you know. It is awfully dull at home. I suppose I may say that?"
"I hear you have a new governess. I hope you like her?"
"You needn't hope that, for you know girls never do. She is a poor sheep of a thing, and I don't suppose I hate her quite so much as some girls hate their governesses. But she is dreadfully dreary. She makes her own gowns; and of an evening her needle goes stitch, stitch, stitch, in time to the ticking of the clock, while I practise my scales. I don't know which I hate most, the clock, or the piano, or the needle."
"Poor Hilda, you must spend half your time with me in future. I shall call to-morrow, and ask your father's permission to have you at Penmorval as often as I like."
"He won't refuse, if there's any consistency in him," replied Hilda, "for he is always grumbling about the noise I make, and about my sliding down the banisters. How didhego downstairs I wonder, at my age? Those broad banisters at The Spaniards must have been made for sliding. But fathers are so inconsistent," concluded Hilda. "I shouldn't wonder if he wouldn't rather have me and my noise at home than allow me to be happy at Penmorval."
"Let us hope that he will be reasonable," said Dora, smiling, "even though he is a father."
Mrs. Wyllard called at The Spaniards next day, and was not too graciously received by Mr. Heathcote—old Squire Heathcote, as he was called in that part of the world. He was a testy invalid, a sufferer from some chronic complaint which was so obscure in its complications as to seem only an excuse for ill-temper, and he had not forgiven Dora for jilting his son. He softened gradually, however, melted by the sweetness of her manner, and by memories of days that were gone, when he had admired her mother, and had been ruthlessly cut out by her father. The eyes that looked at him seemed to be the eyes that he had loved in his youth.
"If you care to be troubled with the girl, I ought to be grateful for any kindness you may show her," said the Squire. "She makes more noise than a regiment, and she is always disobeying her governess, or neglecting her lessons; and then I am called upon to interfere. I wouldn't mind if they would fight it out between them, and leave me in peace."
"You shall be left in peace very often, if you will allow me to have Hilda for my little companion at Penmorval," said Dora. "And I promise you that her education shall not be altogether neglected while she is with me."
"If you can teach her manners, I shall be eternally your debtor," said the Squire. "I would much rather a young woman should know how to behave herself in society than that she should be able to read Æschylus or take a degree in mathematics."
Thus it came about that Hilda spent a great deal of her life at Penmorval, where the sheep-like governess escorted her, or whence she fetched her with unfailing patience, grateful exceedingly when she was rewarded with a cup of tea in Mrs. Wyllard's pretty drawing-room, or in the yew-tree arbour.
And thus in the seven happy years of Dora Wyllard's married life—her apprenticeship, as she had called it playfully last June, when the anniversary of her marriage came round—Hilda had been her chief companion. The girl had grown up at the young matron's side as a younger sister, and had been a link between Dora and Edward, albeit these two saw each other but seldom, for Edward's home had been in the neighbourhood of Plymouth until within the last two years.
The old Squire did not long survive that interview in which he complained of his young daughter's hoydenish manners. He did not live to see the hoyden soften into a graceful, modest girl, reserved and silent among strangers, full of vivacity among those she loved. His elder son succeeded him in the possession of The Spaniards, a bachelor, and an enthusiastic sportsman. He was one of those ideal brothers with whom a sister can do just what she likes; and under hisrégimeHilda learnt to ride to hounds, and contrived to enjoy herself as much as any girl in Cornwall. She mourned him passionately when he was snatched away in the flower of his manhood, victim to a cold caught during a fishing tour in Connemara.
Edward's rule was almost as kind, but not quite so easy. He had narrower ideas about the rights of young ladies, especially in relation to the hunting-field.
"When I hunt you can go with me," he said, "but I will not have you flourishing about the country with no one but a groom to look after you;" and this narrower rule deprived Hilda of many a day's sport. Courtenay, the elder brother, had never missed a day with fox-hounds or harriers, and he had allowed his sister the run of his stables, and much latitude in all things.
While Hilda was growing up under Dora Wyllard's wing, while Edward Heathcote changed from bachelor to married man, and then to widower, Bothwell Grahame was serving his Queen and his country in the far East. He could just remember having seen Hilda now and again as a child. He came back to Cornwall to find her a woman, or a girl on the verge of womanhood; and it was not long before he grew to believe in her as the very perfection of girlhood and womanhood in one—girlhood when she was gay, and in her more serious moods altogether womanly.
In these darker days, under that heavy cloud which had fallen upon Dora Wyllard's life, Hilda's presence was an inestimable blessing. Dora was able to put aside the thought of her own great sorrow every now and then, while she entered with all her heart into the life of her young friend—this fresh young life, so full of hope in the future, of earnest purpose and sweet humility. If a king had stooped from his throne to woo her, Hilda could not have been prouder of her royal lover than she was of Bothwell. She spoke of him as of one who honoured her by his affection, and she seemed full of fearfulness lest she should not be good enough for her hero. It never occurred to her that it was Bothwell who ought to be thankful, that it was he who had won the prize.
There was a sweet self-abnegation in this girlish love which touched Dora deeply, she being all unconscious of her unselfish worship of her husband, her own surrender to the lover who stole her from her betrothed.
Hilda was very fearful of intruding her new joys and hopes upon her friend's sorrow.
"I ought not to chatter about our prospects, Dora; when you are so weighed down with care," she said apologetically.
But Dora insisted upon hearing all about the new home which was to be made out of the old cottage. She insisted upon discussing the trousseau and the linen-closet, glass and china, and even hardware; albeit her own lines had fallen in a mansion where all these things were provided on a lavish scale, and left to the care of a housekeeper, to be destroyed and renewed periodically, for the benefit of old-established tradesmen.
"You never had a linen-closet to look after, Dora," said Hilda, pitying her friend. "That is the worst of being so rich. There is no individuality in your home-life. I mean to be a regular Dutch housewife, and to keep count of every table-cloth in my stock. I shall make and mark and mend all the house-linen; and I shall be much prouder of my linen-closet than of my gowns and bonnets. And the china-closet, Dora, ought not that to be lovely? One can get such delicious glass and china nowadays for so little money. I have looked at the Plymouth china-shops, and longed to buy the things, before I was engaged; and now I can buy all the glass and china for our house—I have saved enough money out of my allowance to pay for all we want in that way."
"What an independent young person you are, Hilda!" said her friend, laughing at her; "but you must not spend all your money on cups and saucers—"
"And teapots!" interjected Hilda—"such sweet little china teapots. I will have one for every day in the week."
"Teapots are all very well; but you will have your trousseau to buy. You must keep some of your money for frocks."
"I have no end of frocks; more than enough," protested Hilda. "I shall buy just two new gowns—my wedding-gown, and a tailor gown for riding outside coaches in the honeymoon. Bothwell proposes that we should go round the south coast as far as the Start, and then across country to Hartland, and home by Bude. That is to be our honeymoon tour."
"Very nice, and very inexpensive, dearest. And then you are to come here to live till your new home is ready?"
"I am afraid we shall be very much in your way."
"You will be a comfort to me, Hilda; both you and Bothwell will be a help and comfort to me."
Hilda spent her evenings for the most part in the invalid's room. Her sympathetic nature made it easy for her to adapt herself to the necessities of a sick-room. She could be very quiet, and yet she could be bright and gay. She could be cheerful without being noisy. She sang with exquisite taste, and sang the songs which are delightful to all hearers—songs that appeal to the heart and soothe the senses.
Julian Wyllard was particularly fond of her German ballads—Schubert, Mendelssohn, Jensen, old Volks-Lieder; but once when she began a little French song, "Si tu savais," he stopped her with a painful motion of his distorted hand.
"Not that, Hilda. I detest that song;" and for the first time Hilda doubted the excellence of his judgment.
"I wonder you dislike it," she began.
"O, the thing is pretty enough; but it has been so vulgarised. All the organs were grinding it when I lived in Paris."
"And those organs disturbed you at your work sometimes, perhaps," said Dora, seated in her accustomed place beside his pillow, ready to adjust his reading-lamp, to give him a new book, or to discuss any passage he showed her. He read immensely in those long hours of enforced captivity, but his reading had been chiefly on one particular line. He was reading the metaphysicians, from Plato and Aristotle to Schopenhauer and Hartmann; trying to find comfort for the anguish of his own individual position in the universal despondency of modern metaphysics.
"A man chained to a sick-bed ought to be able to console himself with the notion that the great world around him is only an idea of his own brain; and yet even when convinced of the unreality of all things, there remains this one central point in the universe, the sense of personal pain. Such a belief might reconcile the sufferer to the idea of suicide, but hardly to the idea of existence. Ah, my Dora, if you are only a phantasm, you are the sweetest ghost that ever a man's brain invented to haunt and bless his life."
"Don't you think you might read more interesting books while you are ill, Julian?" suggested his wife.
"No, dear. These books are best, for they set me thinking upon abstract questions, and hinder me from brooding upon my own misery."
What could Dora say to him by way of comfort, knowing too well that this misery of his was without hope on earth; knowing that this burden of pain which had fallen upon him must be carried to the very end; that day by day and hour by hour the gradual progress of decay must go on; no pause, no respite; decay so slow as to be almost imperceptible, save on looking back at what had been?
"Thank God the brain is untouched," said Julian Wyllard, when his wife pitied him in his hours of suffering. "I should not have cared to sink into imbecility, to have only a dull vague sense of my own identity, like a vegetable in pain. I am thankful that Spencer assures me the brain is sound, and is likely to outlast this crippled frame."
Bothwell rode over on Sunday morning as he had threatened, and appeared at the parish church with his cousin and Hilda, much to the astonishment of some of the parishioners who had suspected and almost condemned him. They were now veering round, and had begun to inform each other that Mr. Grahame had been a much-wronged man, and that there was evidently a great deal more in the mystery of the strange girl's death than any one in Bodmin had yet been able to fathom. No doubt Mr. Distin, the famous criminal lawyer, knew all about it, and his cross-examination of Bothwell Grahame had been only a blind to throw the press and the public off the right scent. The very fact of his coming all the way from London to attend a Cornish inquest argued an occult knowledge, a shadow behind the throne. Some among Bothwell's late detractors hinted that the business involved a personage of very high rank, and were disposed to transfer their suspicions to a local peer, who was not so popular as he might have been, having but recently refused to remit more than one-third of his farmers' rents, or to renew leases at less than half the previous rental, while he was known to have narrow views about ground game.
And now Bodmin beheld Bothwell Grahame seated in the Penmorval pew between his cousin and Hilda Heathcote, and Bodmin opined that his engagement to Miss Heathcote must be a settled thing, since it was known that he had taken a house at Trevena, and was building and improving there on a large scale. There were some who approved, and some who condemned; some who wondered that Squire Heathcote could allow his only sister to marry such a reprobate, others who declared that Bothwell was a high-spirited fellow, who had been a fine soldier, and would make a capital army-coach; but these differences of opinion helped to sustain conversation, which sometimes sank to a very low ebb in Bodmin for lack of matter.
It was a lovely autumn day, and Bothwell strolled in the rose-garden with his sweetheart, between luncheon and five-o'clock tea, talking over their house and their future.
"And now, dearest, there is only one point to settle," said Bothwell, when they had discussed furniture and china and glass to their hearts' content, and when Bothwell had given a graphic description of sundry Chippendale chairs and Early-English bureaux which he had discovered and bargained for in cottages and farmhouses within twenty miles of Trevena. "I had a little talk with Wyllard before luncheon. He is most cordially disposed towards us; and he wants to hurry on our marriage in order that he may be present at the ceremony. He feels just able to go down to the church in a Bath-chair. His chair could be wheeled up the aisle, and placed within sight and sound of the altar, without being in anybody's way. He says if we delay our marriage he may no longer have the power to do even this much; and for this reason he is urgent that we should marry almost immediately. What do you say, dearest? Will you take up your burden as a poor man's wife? Will you be mine soon; at once almost? The week after next, for instance."
"O Bothwell!"
"Think, dear love, there is nothing to delay our marriage, except want of faith in each other, or in ourselves. If you have any doubt of me, Hilda, or any doubt as to your own love for me—"
"I have none, Bothwell—not a shadow of doubt."
"Then let us be married on Tuesday week. That is the day Dora suggested. She tells me that you are the most sensible girl she ever met with, and that you are not going to buy a wagon-load of clothes in order to overdress your part in that old, old play calledLove in a Cottage: so you see there is nothing to wait for."
"But I must have a wedding-gown, Bothwell, and a gown for travelling."
"Then you have just a week in which to get them made, dear. Not an hour more."
There was some further discussion; but in the end Hilda yielded to her lover's pleading. It should be any day he liked—it should be Tuesday. The two gowns should be ordered next morning. Edward Heathcote had given Dora full powers, and he would doubtless hurry home at her bidding in time to arrange the terms of Hilda's marriage-settlement, and to be present at the wedding.
Bothwell was almost beside himself with gladness for the rest of the day; but good-feeling impelled him to restrain his exuberance, and to be grave and quiet in the presence of the patient sufferer, whose pale calm face told but little of mental struggle or bodily pain. The evening was spent in Julian Wyllard's room. There was a good deal of conversation, and Hilda sang some of her favourite songs; a sacred song of Gounod's, "There is a green hill far away," which Dora especially loved, and again, "Ave Maria," by the same composer. Bothwell sat in a corner by the pretty little cottage piano, listening to the rich full voice of his beloved, watching her slender fingers as they strayed over the keys, ineffably happy. He had no thought of evenings in the years that were gone, when he had listened to another singer, and watched other hands, delicate nervous fingers, glittering with diamonds. The voice of that old time was a thinner voice, a somewhat reedy soprano, and those tapering fingers had something of a bird's claws in their extreme attenuation; but he had thought the thin voice passing sweet in the days that were gone, and the hand of the siren had seemed to him a thing of beauty.
He left Penmorval soon after daybreak next morning, to ride back to Trevena. He was to return on the following Saturday to take up his abode there until the wedding-day; while Hilda was to go back to The Spaniards almost immediately, to collect her belongings, and make herself ready for her new life. All the business of furnishing could be done after the wedding, in that interval which the young couple were to spend at Penmorval.
Hilda was up in time to watch from her bedroom window while her lover rode away in the misty morning; but she was much too shy to go downstairs and wish him good-bye. She would have quailed before the awful eye of Stodden, the butler, had she ventured to show herself at such an unseemly hour, unchaperoned, unsanctioned by the presence of a matron. So she hid behind the window-curtain, and watched her true knight's departure, and did not even fling him a flower by way of love-token.
When horse and rider were out of sight, Hilda went to her desk and wrote to her brother, urging him to come back without delay, explaining and apologising for the early date named for her wedding—reminding him as to her marriage-settlement that she wished Bothwell to profit as much as possible by her small independence—an altogether womanly letter, brimming over with love for her betrothed.
She went home that morning, and she and Fräulein Meyerstein began immediately to busy themselves with preparations for the wedding. It would naturally be the quietest of weddings, since Mr. Wyllard's condition forbade all festivity. Hilda said she would have the twins for her bridesmaids, and no others. They were to be dressed exactly alike, and all in pure white, like biscuit-china figures; they were to have little Pompadour frocks and petticoats and mob-caps. There was a tremendous consultation that Monday afternoon with the chief dressmaker of Bodmin, a person of high reputation among those steady old-fashioned people who liked to spend their money in their own town, and who were naturally looked down upon by that other section of county society which had all its clothes from London or Paris. The dressmaker had made Hilda's frocks ever since she was a baby, and was inclined to be doleful at the idea of this trousseaux-less entrance into matrimony; but on being put upon her mettle she declared that the neat little white satin wedding-gown and the handy little olive cloth travelling-gown should be perfection after their kind; and then came a lengthy discussion about sleeves and velvet waistcoat, and the all-important question of buttons was treated exhaustively. Miss Pittman, the dressmaker, had been told of Doré and of Redfern, and had lain awake of a night thinking of their productions; she had been shown dresses from Swan & Edgar and from Lewis & Allenby; but she believed that for the hang of a skirt or the fit of a sleeve she could hold her own with any house in London. And then she favoured Hilda and the Fräulein with a little lecture upon the righteous and the unrighteous manner of making and putting in a sleeve, which was eminently interesting from a technical point of view.
The first three days of that week seemed to Hilda to pass like a dream. She managed to maintain an outward aspect of supreme calmness; but her brain seemed to her in a whirl all the time. She went in and out of the house, and wandered about the gardens without knowing why; she went hither and thither, half her time hardly conscious where she was. She began one thing after another, and never finished anything. She was always waiting for Bothwell's letters, which came by every post, albeit a third person might have supposed that he could find very little to write about. For Hilda the letters were full of interest, and she made as much haste to answer them as if she and Bothwell had been heads of parties carrying on the business of the nation at a crisis. She was anxious to receive her brother's answer to her letter; but when it came, though satisfactory upon some points, the reply was not altogether agreeable.
"Mrs. Wyllard is quite justified in saying that I left the arrangement of your wedding in her hands," wrote Heathcote. "You could have no kinder friend or wiser counsellor, and to her decision, as to the date of your marriage, I bow. But I regret to say that I shall not be present at the ceremony. I have business which still detains me in Paris; and I have other reasons which hinder my being a witness of your wedding. You must not suppose that this decision on my part arises from any unfriendly feeling to Bothwell Grahame. I have reconciled myself to his marriage with you; and I shall do my uttermost in the future to prove myself his friend as well as yours. He will find that the instructions I have sent as to your settlement are framed with a due regard to his interests."There is one thing, however, in which I desire to alter Mrs. Wyllard's scheme, kind and hospitable as her idea is—namely with regard to your residence after your marriage. I cannot allow you to spend the first few months of your married life under Mr. Wyllard's roof, while your brother's house is more than large enough to hold you and your husband. It is my wish, therefore, that Bothwell should bring you back to The Spaniards after your honeymoon, and that you and he should live there till your new home is ready for you. You will, in all probability, be very little troubled with my company, as I am likely to remain in Paris for some time to come; and you and Bothwell can ride my hunters and consider yourselves master and mistress of everything. I must beg that upon this question my wishes shall be regarded, and that you will carry out my plan, even at the hazard of offending Mrs. Wyllard, whom you know I esteem and respect above all other women."And now, my dear girl, I have nothing to do but to wish you all the blessings which a good and true-hearted woman deserves when she marries the man of her choice, and to request your acceptance of the enclosed cheque for your house and your trousseau.—Your very affectionate brother,"EDWARD HEATHCOTE."
"Mrs. Wyllard is quite justified in saying that I left the arrangement of your wedding in her hands," wrote Heathcote. "You could have no kinder friend or wiser counsellor, and to her decision, as to the date of your marriage, I bow. But I regret to say that I shall not be present at the ceremony. I have business which still detains me in Paris; and I have other reasons which hinder my being a witness of your wedding. You must not suppose that this decision on my part arises from any unfriendly feeling to Bothwell Grahame. I have reconciled myself to his marriage with you; and I shall do my uttermost in the future to prove myself his friend as well as yours. He will find that the instructions I have sent as to your settlement are framed with a due regard to his interests.
"There is one thing, however, in which I desire to alter Mrs. Wyllard's scheme, kind and hospitable as her idea is—namely with regard to your residence after your marriage. I cannot allow you to spend the first few months of your married life under Mr. Wyllard's roof, while your brother's house is more than large enough to hold you and your husband. It is my wish, therefore, that Bothwell should bring you back to The Spaniards after your honeymoon, and that you and he should live there till your new home is ready for you. You will, in all probability, be very little troubled with my company, as I am likely to remain in Paris for some time to come; and you and Bothwell can ride my hunters and consider yourselves master and mistress of everything. I must beg that upon this question my wishes shall be regarded, and that you will carry out my plan, even at the hazard of offending Mrs. Wyllard, whom you know I esteem and respect above all other women.
"And now, my dear girl, I have nothing to do but to wish you all the blessings which a good and true-hearted woman deserves when she marries the man of her choice, and to request your acceptance of the enclosed cheque for your house and your trousseau.—Your very affectionate brother,
"EDWARD HEATHCOTE."
The cheque was for two hundred and fifty pounds; but liberal as the gift was, it did not reconcile Hilda to the idea of her brother's absence on her wedding-day.
"It is extremely unkind of him not to come," she said, throwing the letter and enclosure into her desk. "And it is not kind of him to alter Dora's plans. I know she looked forward to having us at Penmorval. But I shall go and see her every day, poor darling."
This idea of her brother's absence on her wedding-day—that most fateful day in a woman's life—cast a shadow across the sunlight of Hilda's bliss. She could think of nothing else after the receipt of Heathcote's letter; and she was full of wonder as to his reasons for thus absenting himself upon an occasion when duty and good feeling both demanded his presence.
What could be his motive? she asked herself. He was not the kind of man to spare himself the trouble of crossing the Channel, even had it been necessary for him to return to Paris directly after the wedding. He had never spared himself trouble or shirked a duty. It was clear to her, therefore, that he had some very strong motive for absenting himself from the marriage ceremony.
She could only imagine one reason for his conduct. She told herself that her brother, in his heart of hearts, still doubted Bothwell, and still disapproved of her marriage. He had allowed himself to be talked over by Mrs. Wyllard. The influence of that unforgotten love had prevailed over his own inclination. He had allowed his consent to be wrung from him; and now that it was too late to withdraw that consent he was not the less Bothwell's enemy. He could not bring himself to look on as an approving witness at a marriage which he regretted. He had told his sister that his discoveries in Paris had gone far to convince him of Bothwell's guiltlessness in relation to the French girl's death: but there was still something in the background, some prejudice yet undispelled, some doubt which darkened friendship.
It was the Wednesday before her wedding-day, and her preparations and arrangements had been for the most part made. There had been, indeed, but little to do, since her return to The Spaniards as a bride would simplify matters, and give her ample time for packing her belongings—namely, those books and nicknacks which had beautified her own rooms; her jewels, chiefly an inheritance from her mother; and those few wedding presents which had arrived from the three or four intimate friends who had heard of her engagement. Among these gifts there was an immense satin-lined work-basket, from Fräulein Meyerstein—a basket provided with an orderly arrangement of tapes, buttons, cottons, and needles, such as a careful housewife must needs require in the repair of the family linen. The Fräulein had made a special journey to Plymouth in order to purchase and furnish this treasury of usefulness; and had brought it back in triumph.
"I cannot give you beautiful things," said the kind creature apologetically. "You have too many valuable jewels of your own to care for any trinket which I could offer; but in this basket you will find all which an industrious wife needs to preserve order and neatness in her household goods. There is flourishing thread of every quality to darn your table linen. There are pearl buttons of every size for your husband's shirts; angolas of every shade for his socks; needles of every number; bobbins; scissors of every kind; and lastly, for remembrance of an old friend, there is this golden thimble, which I hope you will wear every day."
And with this little speech the Fräulein plumped her basket down in front of Hilda, and burst into tears, remembering how she, too, had once been engaged, and how adverse Fate had hindered her marriage.
"You are a dear kind soul," said Hilda, kissing her affectionately; "and I am sure you could not have given me anything I should have liked better. I shall think of you every day when I use this delightful basket. There is nothing like a useful gift for recalling an old friend."
Dora's present arrived the same day. A George II. tea-service, with two little caddies for black tea and green tea, holding about a quarter of a pound each. Hilda thought her silver teapot the sweetest thing that had ever been made, and she sat gazing at the service for an hour at a stretch, and thinking how delightful it would be to make tea for Bothwell in the cosy winter dusk, when they two should be settled in their own house above the great Atlantic sea, the curtains drawn across their old-fashioned lattices, the wind raving over the hills, the waves roaring, and they two beside the domestic hearth, wrapped in a blessed calm—two hearts united and at rest.
She had been so happy yesterday in the thought of her future; and now to-day her brother's letter seemed to have changed the aspect of things. She was full of a vague disquietude—could not settle to any occupation, did not even care to take her usual walk across the hills to the Manor to inquire about Mr. Wyllard's health, and to spend an hour in confidential talk with Dora. To-day she sent a messenger instead, and sat all day in her own room brooding over Heathcote's letter. She felt unequal to facing the twins or the Fräulein, and pleaded a headache as a reason for not going down to luncheon; and indeed her troubled thoughts about that letter from Paris had given her a very real headache.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when she heard a carriage drive up to the hall-door, and thought with horror that she would be summoned to receive callers. Her window commanded only an angle of the porch. She could just see a shabby-looking vehicle, which she knew could only be a fly from the station; and her heart began to beat violently as she thought that perhaps her brother had changed his mind, and had come home to do honour to her wedding.
No; it was no such pleasant surprise, only a strange lady who asked to see her. She had sent up her card:
"LADY VALERIA HARBOROUGH."
"The lady will be greatly obliged if you will see her," said the servant. "She has come from Plymouth on purpose to see you."
"Of course I will see her," answered Hilda cheerfully. "You have shown her into the drawing-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Take in tea as soon as you can."
Hilda glanced at her glass before she left the room. Her plain cashmere gown was neat enough, and her hair was tolerably tidy, but her eyes had a heavy look, and she was very pale.
"I'm afraid I don't look a joyful bride, or do Bothwell credit in any way," she said to herself.
She had heard her lover speak once or twice of General Harborough as his kindest and most powerful friend in India. She had heard from Dora of the General's death, and that Bothwell had attended the funeral. And now she felt flattered exceedingly at the idea that the General's widow had taken the trouble to come to see her; no doubt from pure friendliness for her dead husband'sprotégé—deeming that there was no better compliment she could pay Mr. Grahame than to assume an interest in his betrothed. She, like Dora, took it for granted that old General Harborough's wife would be an elderly woman; and she went down to the drawing-room expecting to see a portly matron, gray-haired, bland, perhaps a little patronising in her double rank of Earl's daughter and General's widow. She was surprised beyond all measure when a tall and slender figure rose to meet her, and she found herself face to face with a young woman whose brilliant eyes and interesting countenance were more striking than commonplace beauty.
The two women stood face to face in silence for a few moments. Surprise made Hilda dumb. She gazed in unconcealed wonderment at the small pale face framed in white crape, the delicate high-bred features, refined almost to attenuation, the luminous violet eyes with their long dark lashes, eyes which alone gave life and colour to the face.
Lady Valeria looked at the girl with so piercing a scrutiny that those brilliant eyes of hers seemed to burn into the face of her rival—a scathing look, measuring and appraising that modest girlish beauty, cheapening those innocent charms in scornful wonder.
And this was the woman for whose sake she, Valeria, had been flung away like an old glove—this girl-face, with its candid blue eyes and babified bloom, its broad white forehead ringed round with infantile curls of golden brown, its delicately pencilled eyebrows, its coral lips, and small white teeth.
"For people who admire babies the girl is well enough," thought Lady Valeria.
Yet even her small knowledge of physiognomy taught her that the broad full forehead and the firmly-moulded lips meant force of character and firmness of purpose—that this girlish beauty was the beauty of a good and brave woman—that here there was no reed for her to twist and rend at her own passionate will, but a nature that was firmer and more concentrated than her own. Equal forces had met in these two—the force of passion and the force of principle.
"So you are Miss Heathcote," said the pale lips at last, after that silent interval, in which Hilda had heard the beating of her own heart; "you are the Miss Heathcote who is to marry Bothwell Grahame?"
"Yes, Lady Valeria. Bothwell has told me how kind a friend he had in General Harborough," returned Hilda calmly, trying to feel at her ease under that searching gaze. "I am very much flattened that you should come to see me."
"I fear you will feel less flattered when you know the motive of my visit. No, thanks; I prefer to stand," she said curtly, as Hilda wheeled a chair towards her guest, and courteously invited her to be seated. "You will hate me, no doubt, when you know why I am here; and yet I am come to do you a service—perhaps the greatest service which one woman can render to another."
"What service, Lady Valeria?" asked Hilda, whose girlish bloom had been momently fading, and who was now almost as pale as her visitor.
"I am here to save you from a most unhappy union—from a fatal union—from marriage with a man who loves another woman!"
"That is not true," said Hilda very calmly. "Whoever your informant may have been, you have been misinformed. I am as firmly convinced of Bothwell Grahame's love, and of the worth of his character, as I am of my existence. I would as soon doubt one as doubt the other."
"You are like most girls of your age reared in the country," said Lady Valeria, with quiet scorn. "You are very ignorant, and you are very vain. I suppose you imagine that you are the first woman Bothwell Grahame ever loved—that at seven-and-twenty he brings you a heart hitherto untouched by beauty; that his senses only awake from a life-long torpor at sight of your exquisite charms; that nothing less than your exceptional loveliness could kindle that cold nature into flame."
"Lady Valeria, if you came here only to insult me—" began Hilda, moving towards the door.
"I came here to read you a lesson, to save you from a life of misery if I can; and you shall hear me," said Valeria passionately. "I am here for your sake, do you understand?—to save you and your lover from an irreparable folly. He would sacrifice his own happiness and a brilliant future, from a mistaken sense of honour to you. Now, I want you at least to know what manner of sacrifice he is going to make for you; and if you are not made of wood—if you have a woman's heart in your bosom—you will release him."
"Release him! What do you mean, Lady Valeria? This is sheer madness. Mr. Grahame sought me of his own accord—chose me deliberately for his wife, in the face of great difficulties. We are both completely happy in our love for each other—our faith in each other. There never was a fairer prospect of a happy domestic life than that which smiles upon us. There is not a cloud, or the shadow of a cloud, between us."
A footman brought in a little bamboo table, and arranged the old-fashioned silver tea-tray; and during this brief interruption hostilities were suspended, and both women composed their faces to placid neutrality. Lady Valeria declined Hilda's cup of tea, proffered with a tremulous hand; and directly the man had gone, she coldly pursued her interrogation.
"Answer me one question, Miss Heathcote. Do you believe yourself Mr. Grahame's first love?"
"No," faltered Hilda. "I know that there was some one else—that there was an entanglement from which Mr. Grahame released himself, honourably and completely, before I accepted him as my future husband. I made that condition when first he asked me to be his wife. I waited until he could give me his assurance upon this point before I consented to marry him."
"O, then you did know that there was some one?" exclaimed Lady Valeria, with crushing scorn. "You did know that there was an entanglement—or, in plain words, you knew that you were stealing another woman's lover."
"Lady Valeria, you have no right to say such a thing."
"I have every right. Yes, you knew well enough what you were doing, in spite of your provincial bringing up. Every woman is wise in these matters. An entanglement, you say. Do you know, girl, that this entanglement, of which you speak so flippantly, was a passionate all-absorbing love—a love that had lasted three years, that had braved all consequences, that had laughed at danger—a love that burns in every line of these letters? Read them; read them, girl, and see what your 'entanglement' means."
She had opened her reticule, and had taken out a packet of letters while she was speaking. She flung the packet on to a table near Hilda.
"Read them, Miss Heathcote. I suppose you know Mr. Grahame's handwriting. I suppose he has written to you."
"I can see that they are in Bothwell's hand," said Hilda, looking down at the bundle of letters, as if they had been a nest of scorpions; "but I decline to read letters that are not addressed to me."
"You are afraid to read them?"
"I will take it upon trust that they are love-letters. May I ask if they were written to you—General Harborough's wife?"
The calm and measured accents, the steady gaze of those honest eyes, the resolute attitude, the small well-balanced head proudly erect, the nervous hands clasped firmly on the back of a chair by which the girl was standing, surprised Lady Valeria, and with a far from pleasant surprise. She had expected Hilda to be more easily crushed. She had expected to see a love-sick girl sobbing at her feet, ready to surrender her sweetheart at the first attack. And instead of girlish weakness, she found a woman prepared to do battle for her love.
"The letters are addressed to me. I should much like you to read them, in order that you may understand the nature of Bothwell Grahame's 'entanglement'."
"I decline to read them. It is quite enough for me to know that he was in love with a married woman, and that she encouraged his love—she, the wife of a good and brave old man—she who, by the right of her noble birth, should have been prouder, truer, purer than women of meaner race. She stooped so low! I am sorry that you came here, Lady Valeria. I am sorry that we have ever met—very sorry that you have told me your secret."
"It is everybody's secret by this time. A woman in my position is surrounded by lynx-eyed friends, who read her inmost thoughts. Everybody knows that Bothwell Grahame loved me, and that I returned his love. To you this seems terrible, no doubt. Yet I can tell you that I was a true wife to my husband, as the world estimates truth, and that he died honouring me. You, with your provincial inexperience and your narrow mind, cannot imagine a love which, although unconquered, could remain pure—passionate, intense, devoted, but unstained by sin. Such a love I cherished for Bothwell Grahame, and he for me. We had promised each other that, whenever my release came—and in the course of nature it was not likely to be long deferred—our lives should be linked, our love should be blest. I lived on that hope, and to Bothwell, as those letters would tell you, that hope was no less dear than to me. Honour, right feeling, honesty, were all involved in the promise which bound Bothwell Grahame to me; and I never for an instant doubted that he would keep that promise, never doubted that he was mine till death. But in an evil hour he met you. He was under a cloud. He was maddened by the idea that his neighbours thought the most horrible things of him. You interposed with your girlish sympathy, your sentimental prettiness. You consoled, you encouraged him in his dark hour; and that impulsive nature was moved to a step which he has repented ever since. He committed himself by an avowal which left him no possibility of retreat; and to be true to you he has broken the most sacred promise that man ever made to woman."
"You released him from that promise, Lady Valeria."
"Never. Some hasty words passed between us on one occasion, and we parted in anger. But there was no question of a release from his solemn engagement to me."
"He told me that the lady he had once loved had released him," said Hilda, terribly crestfallen.
She could not believe that Lady Valeria Harborough would tell her a deliberate lie. She was convinced, in spite of herself. Bothwell had deceived her.
"I beg you to read those letters," urged Valeria. "If you do not read them, you may think just a little worse of me than I deserve. I do not pretend to be a good woman; but I want you to know that my attachment to Bothwell Grahame never degenerated into a low intrigue. You may hear the vilest things said of me, perhaps, by and by, when it is known that Mr. Grahame is not going to marry me."
Hilda looked at the letters. She knew that the reading of them would wring her heart; and yet the temptation was too strong to be steadfastly resisted.