"Fashion for the nonce surrenders
Giddy Mayfair's faded splendours,
And with all her sons and daughters
Hastens to health-giving waters;
Rests when curfew bells are ringing,
Rises when the lark is singing,
Plays lawn tennis, flirts and idles,
Laying snares for future bridals;
Thus forgetting pleasures evil,
In return to life primeval."
It was Toby Clendon who named it "Pinchler's Dockyard "--Toby Clendon, young, handsome, and a trifle scampish, who wrote witty essays for The Satirist, slashing criticisms for The Bookworm, and dainty society verses for any journal which chose to pay for such poetical effusions. A very cruel remark to make about Mrs. Pinchler's respectable private hotel at Marsh-on-the-Sea; but then the truth is always cruel, and Mr. Clendon proved the truth of his statement in this wise--
A dockyard is a place where broken-down ships are repaired. Man, by poetical license, is a ship on the ocean of life. Some broken-down human ships under stress of circumstance put in to Pinchler's private hotel for repair in the matter of bodily ailments. Pinchler's harbours these broken-down human ships, therefore Pinchler's is a human dockyard. Strike out the word human as redundant, and there you are, Pinchler's Dockyard.
A whimsical deduction, doubtless, yet by no means void of a certain amount of truthful humour, as the guests at Pinchler's private hotel were for the most part deficient as regards physical completeness. If the lungs were healthy the liver was out of order. Granted that the head was "all there," the legs were not, unless one leg counted as two. Splendid physique, but something wrong with the internal organs. Yes, certainly a good many human ships were undergoing repair under the calculating eye of Mrs. Pinchler; and as her establishment was not healthy enough for a hotel nor sickly enough for an hospital, Toby Clendon's intermediate term "dockyard" fitted it exactly; so Pinchler's Dockyard it was called throughout Marsh-on-the-Sea.
It was a square red-brick house, built on a slight eminence, and facing the salt sea breeze of the Channel. On the one side a pleasant garden, on the other smooth green tennis lawns, and in front a mixture of turf, of flower-beds, and of gravel, sloping down to the road which divided it from the stony sea beach. A short distance away to the right was Marsh-on-the-Sea, with its rows of gleaming white houses set on the heights, while below was the red-roofed quaint old town, built long before its rival above became famous as a watering-place. To the left, undulating hills, clumps of trees, tall white cliffs, and here and there pleasant country houses, showing themselves above the green crests of their encircling woods. Add to this charming prospect a brilliant blue sea, a soft wind filled with the salt smell of the waters, and a sun tempered by intervening clouds, and it will be easily seen that Marsh-on-the-Sea was a pleasantly situated place, and Pinchler's Dockyard was one of the pleasantest houses in it.
And why, said Mr. Clendon, continuing an argument, "and why English people want to go to the Riviera for beauty, when they have all this side of the Channel to choose from is more than I can make out."
It was just after luncheon, and the wrecks at present being repaired in the dockyard were sunning themselves on the tennis lawn. Some were reading novels, others were discussing their ailments, a few ladies were working at some feminine embroidery, a few gentlemen were smoking their after-dinner pipe, cigar, cigarette, as the case might be, and all were enjoying themselves thoroughly in their different ways.
Toby himself, arrayed in spotless white flannels, with a blue-ribboned straw hat was lying ungracefully on the grass, smoking a cigarette, and talking in an affectedly cynical vein to three ladies. There was Mrs. Valpy, fat, ponderous and plethoric; Miss Thomasina Valpy, her daughter, familiarly called Tommy, a charmingly pretty girl, small, coquettish and very fascinating in manner. As a rule, men of susceptible hearts fell in love with Tommy; but when they heard Mrs. Valpy say that she was like Thomasina when young, generally retreated in dismay, having a prophetic vision that this fragile, biscuit-china damsel would resemble her mother when old, and as Mrs. Valpy--well they never proposed, at all events.
There was a third lady present, Miss Kaituna Pethram, who was staying at Pinchler's with the Valpys, and without doubt she was very handsome; so handsome, indeed, that Tommy's brilliant beauty paled before her sombre loveliness. She was dark, unusually dark, with a pale, olive-coloured skin, coils of splendid dusky hair, luminous dark eyes, and clearly-cut features, which were not exactly European in their outline. Neither was her Christian name European, and this being taken in conjunction with her un-English look, led some people to think she had African blood in her veins. In this supposition, however, they were decidedly wrong, as there was no suggestion of the negro in her rich beauty. Indian? not delicate enough, neither as regards features nor figure. Spanish? no; none of the languor of the Creole; then no doubt Italian; but then she lacked the lithe grace and restless vivacity of the Latin race. In fact Miss Kaituna Pethram puzzled every one. They were unable to "fix her," as the Americans say, and consequently gave up the unguessable riddle of her birth in despair.
As a matter of fact, however, she was the descendant, in the third generation, of that magnificent New Zealand race, now rapidly dying out--the Maories, and the blending of the dusky Polynesian with the fair European had culminated in the production of this strange flower of two diverse stocks--neither wholly of the one nor of the other, but a unique blending of both. Her great grandparents had been full-blooded Maories, with uncivilised instincts and an inborn preference for a savage life. Their daughter, also a full-blooded Maori, being the daughter of a chief, had married a European settler, and the offspring of this mixed marriage was Kaituna's mother, a half-caste, inheriting the civilised culture of her father, and the savage instincts of her mother. Kaituna was born of this half-caste and an English father, therefore the civilised heredity prevailed; but she still retained the semblance, in a minor degree, of her primeval ancestry, and without doubt, though ameliorated by two generations of European progenitors on the male side, there lurked in her nature the ineradicable instincts of the savage.
Of course, self-complacent Europeans, pure-blooded in themselves, never argued out the matter in this wise, and were apt to look down on this inheritor of Maori ancestry as "a nigger," but were decidedly wrong in doing so, as the magnificent race that inhabits New Zealand is widely removed from the African black. At all events, whatever they might think, Kaituna Pethram was a uniquely beautiful girl, attractive to a very great degree, and inspiring more admiration than the undecided blondes and brunettes who moved in the same circle cared to acknowledge. Toby Clendon was not in love with her, as he preferred the saucy manner and delicate beauty of Miss Valpy, but Archie Maxwell, who was the best looking young man at Pinchler's, had quite lost his heart to this unique flower of womanhood, and the damsels of Pinchler's resented this greatly. Mr. Maxwell, however, was at present engaged in talking to some of them at a distance, and if his eyes did wander now and then to where Clendon was playing Shepherd Paris to goddesses three--Mrs. Valpy being Minerva in her own opinion--they did their best to enchain his attention and keep him to themselves. Kaituna herself did not mind, as she was not particularly taken with Mr. Maxwell, and was quite content to lie lazily back in her chair under the shelter of a large red sunshade and listen to Toby Clendon's desultory conversation.
It was a pleasant enough conversation in a frivolous fashion. Mr. Clendon made startling statements regarding the world and its inhabitants, Kaituna commented thereon. Tommy sparkled in an idle, girlish way, and Mrs. Valpy, with sage maxims, culled from the monotonous past of an uneventful life, supplied the busy element requisite in all cases. Three of the party were young, the fourth was gracefully old, so, juvenility predominating, the conversation rippled along pleasantly enough.
After the patriotic Toby had made his remark concerning the superiority of things English over all the rest of the world, Kaituna waved the banner of Maoriland, and laughed softly.
Ah! wait till you see New Zealand.
Ultima Thule, said Clendon classically. "Eh I why should I go there, Miss Pethram?"
To see what nature can do in the way of beautiful landscape.
I am a domestic being, Miss Pethram, and find the domestic scenery of England sufficiently beautiful to satisfy my artistic longings. New Zealand, I have been told, is an uncivilised country, full of horrid woods and wild beasts.
There are no wild beasts at all, replied Kaituna indignantly, "and the bush is not horrid. As to it being uncivilised, that is the mistake you English make."
Oh, the contempt in the term 'you English,' interjected Toby, impudently.
We have cities, railways, theatres, musical societies, shops, and everything else necessary to make life pleasant. That is civilisation, I suppose. We have also great plains, majestic mountains, splendid rivers, undulating pasture lands and what not. This is uncivilised--if you like to call it so. England is pretty--oh yes, very pretty, but tame like a garden. One gets tired of always living in a garden. A garden is nature's drawing-room. I don't say a word against England, for I like it very much, but at times I feel stifled by the narrowness of the place. England is very beautiful, yes; but New Zealand, concluded Miss Pethram with conviction, "New Zealand is the most beautiful place in the whole world."
My dear, said Mrs. Valpy in a patronising manner, "are you not going a little too far? I've no doubt the place you come from is very nice, very nice indeed, but to compare it with England is ridiculous. You have no city, I think, like London. No, no! London is cosmopolitan, yes--quite so."
Having stated this plain truth, Mrs. Valpy looked round with a fat smile of triumph and resumed her knitting, while Tommy dashed into' the conversation with slangy vivacity.
Oh, I say, you know, New Zealand's a place where you can have a high old time, but London's the place for larks.
Why not the country, said Clendon drily, "the morning lark."
Oh, I don't mean that sort of lark, interrupted Tommy ingeniously, "the evenin' lark; my style, you know. Waltzin', flirtin', talkin', jolly rather."
You move in the highest circles, Tommy, said Kaituna, who was a somewhat satirical damsel. "You drop your 'g's.'"
Better than dropping your 'h's'.
Or your money, said Toby, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I don't know what we're all talking about."
I think, observed Mrs. Valpy in a geographical style, "we were discussing the Islands of New Zealand."
Rippin' place, said Tommy gaily.
Thomasina, my dear, remarked her Johnsonian mamma, "I really do not think that you are personally----"
Acquainted with the place! No! I'm not. But Kaituna has told me a lot. Archie Maxwell has told me more----
Mr. Maxwell? interposed Kaituna, quickly. "Oh, yes! he said that he had visited Auckland on his way to Sydney--but you can't tell New Zealand from one city."
Ex pede Herculem, said the classical Toby, "which, being translated means--by the foot shall ye know the head."
Auckland isn't the head of New Zealand. It was, but now Wellington is the capital. The city of wooden match-boxes built in a draughty situation.
How unpatriotic.
Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Clendon. But I reserve my patriotism for Dunedin?
"
You mean Edinburgh. I mean the new Edinburgh with the old name, not the old Edinburgh with the new name.""
"
Epigrammatic, decidedly. This is instructive, Miss Pethram. Do they teach epigram in the schools of Dunedin?
And why not? Do you think Oxford and Cambridge monopolise the learning of nations? We also in Dunedin, concluded Kaituna proudly, "have an university."
To teach the young idea how to shoot--delightful.
But I thought there was no game to shoot, said Tommy wickedly.
Mrs. Valpy reproved the trio for their frivolous conversation.
You are all talking sad nonsense.
On the contrary, gay nonsense, retorted Clendon lightly; "but I foresee in this badinage the elements of an article for The Satirist. Miss Pethram, I am going to use you as copy. Tell me all about yourself."
To be published as an essay, and ticketed 'The New Pocahontas.'
Perhaps, replied the essayist evasively, "for you are a kind of nineteenth century Pocahontas. You belong to the children of Nature."
Yes, I do, said Kaituna, quickly; "and I'm proud of it. My father went out to New Zealand a long time ago, and there married my mother, who was the daughter of a Maori mother. My grandmother was the child of a chief--a real Pocahontas."
Not quite; Pocahontas was a chieftainess in her own right.
And died at Wapping, didn't she? said Mrs. Valpy, placidly. "Of course the dark races always give way to the superiority of the white."
Kaituna looked indignantly at this fat, flabby woman, who spoke so contemptuously of her Maori ancestors, who were certainly superior to Mrs. Valpy from a physical point of view, and very probably her equal mentally in some ways. It was no use, however, arguing with Mrs. Valpy over such a nice point, as she was firmly intrenched behind her insular egotism, and would not have understood the drift of the argument, with the exception that she was a white, and therefore greatly superior to a black. Toby saw the indignant flash in her eyes, and hastened to divert the chance of trouble by saying the first thing that came into his mind.
Is your mother in England, Miss Pethram?
My mother is dead.
Oh! I beg--I beg your pardon, said Toby, flustering a little at his awkwardness: "I mean your father."
My father, replied Kaituna, cheerfully. "Oh, he is out in New Zealand again. You know, we lived out there until a year ago. Then my father, by the death of his elder brother, became Sir Rupert Pethram, so he brought me home. We always call England home in the Colonies. He had to go out again about business; so he left me in Mrs. Valpy's charge."
Delighted to have you, my dear, murmured the old lady, blinking her eyes in the sunshine like an owl. "You see, Mr. Clendon, we are near neighbours of Sir Rupert's down in Berkshire."
Oh! said Clendon, raising himself on his elbow with a look of curiosity in his eyes, "that is my county. May I ask what particular part you inhabit?"
Near Henley.
Why, I lived near there also.
What, cried Tommy, with great surprise, "can it be that you are a relative of Mr. Clendon, the Vicar of Deswarth?"
Only his son.
The young man who would not become a curate?
It didn't suit me, said Toby, apologetically; "I'm far too gay for a curate. It's a mistake putting a square peg into a round hole, you know; and I make a much better pressman than a preacher."
It is a curious thing we never met you, Mr. Clendon, observed Mrs. Valpy, heavily; "but we have only been at 'The Terraces' for two years."
Oh, and I've been away from the parental roof for five or six years. I do not wonder at never meeting you, but how strange we should meet here. Coincidences occur in real life as well as in novels, I see.
Mr. Maxwell told me he met a man in London the other day whom he had last seen in Japan, said Kaituna, smiling.
Maxwell is a wandering Jew--an engineering Cain.
Hush! hush! said Mrs. Valpy, shocked like a good church-woman, at any reference to the Bible in light conversation. "Mr. Maxwell is a very estimable young man."
I called him Cain in a figurative sense only, replied Toby, coolly; "but if you object to that name, let us call him Ulysses."
Among the sirens, finished Kaituna, mischievously.
Tommy caught the allusion, and laughed rudely. Confident in her own superiority regarding beauty, she was scornful of the attempts of the so-called sirens to secure the best-looking man in the place, so took a great delight in drawing into her own net any masculine fish that was likely to be angled for by any other girl. She called it fun, the world called it flirtation, and her enemies called it coquetry; and Toby Clendon, although not her enemy, possibly agreed with the appropriateness of the term. But then he was her lover; and lovers are discontented if they don't get the object of their affections all to themselves.
The sirens! repeated Miss Valpy, scornfully. "What, with voices like geese? What humbug! Let us take Archie Maxwell Ulysses away from the sirens, Kaituna."
No, no, don't do that! said Kaituna with a sudden rush of colour; "it's a shame."
What! depriving them of their big fish? Not at all. It's greedy of them to be so selfish. I'll call him. Mr. Maxwell!
It's very chilly here, said Kaituna, rising to her feet. "Mr. Clendon, my shawl, please. Thank you I'm going inside."
Because of Mr. Maxwell? asked Miss Valpy, maliciously.
No. I'm expecting some letters from Mr. Dombrain. Oh, here is Mr. Maxwell. Au revoir, and Miss Pethram walked quickly away towards the house.
Maxwell having extricated himself from the company of the sirens, who looked after their late captive with vengeful eyes, saw Kaituna depart, and hesitated between following her or obeying the invitation of Miss Valpy. His heart said "Go there," the voice of Tommy said "Come here," and the unfortunate young man hesitated which to obey. The lady saw his hesitation, and, purposely to vex Mr. Clendon, settled the question at once.
Mr. Maxwell, come here. I want you to play lawn-tennis.
Certainly, Miss Valpy, said Maxwell, with sulky civility.
Why, I asked you to play twice this afternoon, and you refused, cried Clendon, in some anger.
Well, I've changed my mind But you can play also, if you like.
No, thank you. I've--I've got an engagement.
Tommy moved close to the young man and laughed.
You've got a very cross face.
At this Clendon laughed also, and his cross face cleared.
Oh, I'll be delighted to play.
And what about Miss Pethram? asked Maxwell, rather anxiously.
Miss Pethram has gone inside to await the arrival of the post.
Isn't she coming out again?
I think not.
If you will excuse me, Miss Valpy, I won't play just at present.
Oh, never mind.
So Maxwell stalked away in a very bad temper with himself, with Miss Pethram, and with everything else. In any one but a lover it would have been sulks, but in the ars amoris it is called despair.
Tommy held her racket like a guitar, and, strumming on it with her fingers, hummed a little tune--a vulgar little tune which she had picked up from a common street boy--
"
Tho' I'm an earl, And she's a girl, Far, far below my level, Oh, Mary Jane, You give me pain, You wicked little----
"
Thomasina! cried the scandalised Mrs. Valpy, and Thomasina laughed.
"We are told in stories olden
Dragons watched the apples golden,
Quick to send a thief to Hades.
Now no fruit the world-tree ladens,
Apples gold are dainty maidens,
And the dragons are old ladies."
After dinner--a meal cooked, conducted, and eaten on strictly digestive principles--most of the inmates of Pinchler's retired to bed. Sleep was necessary to the well-being of these wrecks of humanity, so those who could sleep went to their repose with joyful hearts, and those who could not, put off the evil hour precluding a restless night by going to the drawing-room for a little music.
Here they sat in melancholy rows round the room, comparing notes as to their physical sensations, and recommending each other patent medicines. Some of the younger people sang songs and played popular airs on the out-of-tune piano furnished by Pinchler's. During the intervals between the songs scraps of curious conversation could be heard somewhat after this fashion--
There's nothing like a glass of hot water in the morning.
Dry toast, mind; butter is rank poison.
Rub the afflicted part gently and breathe slowly.
Put a linseed poultice at the nape of the neck.
With such light and instructive conversation did the wrecks beguile their leisure hours, keeping watchful eyes on the clock so as not to miss taking their respective medicines at the right times. Mrs. Pinchler, a dry, angular woman with a glassy eye and a fixed smile, revolved round the drawing-room at intervals, asking every one how they felt.
Better, Mrs. Tandle? Yes, I thought that syrup would do you good--it soothes the coats of the stomach. Miss Pols, you do look yellow. Let me recommend a glass of hot water in the morning. Mr. Spons, if you lie down on the sofa I'm sure it will do you good. Oh, are you going to play, Miss Valpy? Something quiet, please. Music is such a good digestive.
Tommy, however, was not a young lady who could play quiet tunes, her performance on the piano being of the muscular order. She therefore favoured the company with a noisy piece of the most advanced school, which had no melody, although full of contrapuntal devices. Having shaken every one's nerves with this trying performance, she glided off into a series of popular waltzes, mostly of the scrappy order, in which she sandwiched hymn tunes between music-hall melodies. The wrecks liked this style of thing, as they could all beat time with their feet, and when it was finished said waltzes were charming, but not so fine as "Batch's" passion music, of which they knew nothing, not even how to pronounce his name correctly.
Bach! echoed Tommy contemptuously. "Oh, he's an old fossil! Offenbach's more in my line. Oui! You bet! Sapristi! Vive la bagatelle!"
The company did not understand French, so suffered this observation to pass in discreet silence, but Kaituna laughed. She was sitting in a corner by herself, with a look of impatience on her face, for she was expecting a letter and the post was late.
Kaituna, cried Tommy, attracted by the laugh, "why are you sitting in the corner like a graven image? Come out and sing."
No, I don't want to. I'm waiting for my letter.
Hasn't it arrived yet? said Miss Valpy, skipping across the room. "I'd give it to that Dombrain thing if I were you. Dombrain! What a name! Who is he?"
My father's solicitor.
Oh, in the law and the profits? I don't mean biblically, but commercially. But, I say, don't keep thinking of your letter, or it won't come. The watched postman never boils.
What nonsense you talk!
I can't help it, dear. My brains leave me when there are no male things in the room.
There's Mr. Spons.
Oh, I don't bother about him. He's not a man; he's a medicine bottle. Hark! I hear footmarks approaching on horseback. It is the man. Now, will you take Mr. Clendon and I Mr. Maxwell, or will you take Mr. Maxwell and I Mr. Clendon?
I don't want either, said Kaituna hastily.
Now that's ungrateful, especially when Mr. Maxwell is such a dear. 'Oh, that heaven would send me such a man!'--Shakespeare, Kaituna, so don't look indignant. You can take Archie, and I'll satisfy myself with Toby.
You shouldn't call men by their Christian names, Thomasina.
Don't say that; it sounds like 'ma. I only call them by their Christian names to you. I wouldn't do it to their faces.
I hope not.
How proper you are! Behold the male sex are at the door! I can smell the tobacco on their clothes.
The rattle of the lively damsel was put an end to by the entry of the gentlemen, headed by Maxwell and Clendon, the latter of whom Miss Valpy bore off at once to the piano to make him sing, turn over her music, and make himself generally useful. Maxwell, however, went straight across to Kaituna, and held out a newspaper.
This is yours, Miss Pethram, he said, seating himself beside her, "I knew you were anxious about the post, so I waited downstairs till it came."
Was there no letter? said Kaituna, in some dismay.
No; nothing but that Telegraph.
Oh, there maybe something marked in it, she said quietly. "Excuse me a moment while I look."
Maxwell bowed and sat watching her as she tore the cover off the paper and opened the rustling leaves. He had only known this girl a fortnight, yet within that time had contrived to fall deeply in love with her. It was not her beauty, although, man-like, he naturally admired a pretty woman. It was not her charming manner, fascinating as it was in every way. It was not her clever brain, her bright conversation, her perfect taste in dress. No. It was that indescribable something which she had about her to attract him in a greater degree than any other woman he had ever known. What that something is no man knows until he has fallen in love, and then he feels it, but cannot describe his sensations. Scientists, no doubt, would call it animal magnetism; poets would call it love; scoffers would term it sensuality. But whatever scientists, poets, or scoffers choose to call it, the thing is unnameable, indescribable, and is the necessary concomitant of a happy marriage.
It was this indescribable feeling that had sprung up suddenly between those two young people. Kaituna also felt drawn to Maxwell, but in a lesser degree, for no matter what cynics may say about the frivolity of women, they are certainly less inflammable than men. A pretty woman knows her power to attract the opposite sex, and uses it daily, mostly for amusement; therefore when her time does come to feel the genuine pangs of love, she is more able to govern and control her feelings than a man who, as a rule, simply let's himself go. So this was exactly how the case stood between these two lovers. Maxwell felt that Kaituna was the one woman in the world for him, and never attempted to suppress his passion in any way. He allowed himself to be so entirely dominated by it, that it soon became his master, and all his days and nights were given over to dreams of this beautiful dark woman from a distant isle of the sea. On the other hand, Kaituna felt that she loved him, but controlling herself with feminine dexterity, never let her infatuated lover see that his passion was responded to in any way. Had he tried to go away she would speedily have lured him back by means of those marvellous womanly arts, the trick of which no man knoweth; but the poor love-lorn wretch was so abjectly submissive that she coolly planted her conquering foot on his neck and indulged in a little catlike play with this foolish mouse.
He was a handsome fellow too, Archie Maxwell, with his fresh-coloured face, his yellow hair and moustache, his blue eyes, and his stalwart figure. A lover any girl would be proud to have at her feet, as Kaituna undoubtedly was, though the woman predominated in her too much to allow her to let him see her approval. Poor! yes, he was poor, certainly. An engineer, who wandered over half the world building bridges and railways, and all kind of extraordinary things. Still, he was young, and engineering is a money making profession, so Kaituna positively determined that should he ask her to marry him, she would consent. But her father--well, he was thousands of miles away, and when he returned she would no doubt gain his approval; so at present she surrendered herself entirely to this new delicious feeling, and Ulysses, tangled in the snares of Calypso, forgot everything save the face of the conquering nymph.
Meanwhile Calypso read the paper while Ulysses watched her, and they both sat silent while every one round them talked loudly. Tommy was playing a nigger minstrel tune, and Toby, leaning on the piano, was chatting to her gaily, evidently on the fair way to become as much enamoured of his nymph as this other sighing rover.
Well, have you found what you wanted? asked Maxwell, as the lady looked up with a bright smile.
Yes! It is marked with a blue pencil, and as you have been so kind in playing postman, you can read it.
Archie did so.
Wanted, a companion for a young lady. Apply by letter, Dombrain, 13, Chintler Lane, City.
Short and sweet, he said, handing the paper back, with a puzzled look on his face; "but I don't understand it."
It's easily explained, replied Miss Pethram, composedly. "Mr. Dombrain is my father's solicitor, and is advertising for a chaperon--for me."
For you! But you have Mrs. Valpy.
Mrs. Valpy is a dear old lady, but she is--Mrs. Valpy.
It is a very serious thing to advertise in a paper for a chaperon. You never know the kind of person you may get.
Mr. Dombrain will.
Mr. Dombrain may not be infallible, retorted Archie, feeling rather angry, he knew not why, at the repetition of the name. "If your father wished you to have a chaperon, why didn't he ask Mrs. Valpy to recommend some one."
Kaituna laughed.
I'm sure I can't tell you! Papa has gone away to New Zealand on business, and asked Mrs. Valpy to look after me in the meantime. He left instructions with Mr. Dombrain--in whom he has full confidence--that I was to be provided with a companion, so I suppose Mr. Dombrain's only idea of getting one suitable is through the newspapers.
I think it's a pity.
Oh, not at all! Don't be afraid of me, Mr. Maxwell; I assure you I can take excellent care of myself. All colonial girls can. They are more self-reliant than English young ladies. If I don't like the companion chosen for me by Mr. Dombrain, I'll easily get rid of her.
But if Mrs. Valpy recommended you someone who could introduce you into society.
Some pauper peeress I suppose you mean, said Kaituna, equitably. "No, I wouldn't care for that at all. I don't wish to go into society until my father comes home again. Then it will be easy, for the Pethrams are an old family, and have sisters and cousins and aunts everywhere. When I wish to see the world, I've no doubt papa will find some one to present me at Court; but at present I want a companion to talk to. I say a chaperon, but I mean a companion."
Oh, I wish!--I wish! stuttered Archie, growing red; "I wish----"
He stopped short, this wise young man, for he was on the verge of saying something very foolish, which might have jeopardised his chances with the Maori maiden, but the fruit was not yet ripe, so with wisdom beyond his years, he refrained from finishing his sentence.
You've wished three times, said Miss Pethram calmly. "What is it about?"
The wish?
Yes!
I wish that you may get a good chaperon.
So do I, but I suppose they are as difficult to get as anything else. I'm afraid I'll be very hard to please. Of course, it's a difficult thing to choose a person to live with.
Even in marriage.
Kaituna blushed, and folded up the paper in a somewhat embarrassed fashion.
Marriage is a lottery, she said at length, with an attempt at lightness.
I think I've heard that remark before.
Very likely. It's hard to say anything original nowadays.
I suppose, said Archie, after a pause, "that when your chaperon is chosen by Mr. Dombrain, she will come down here."
Oh, dear, no. I'm going home next week with the Valpys.
Home?
Yes. To Thornstream, near Deswarth, in Berkshire. Papa's house, you know.
And I'll never see you again, he said dismally.
Oh, I don't know; the world is small.
Maxwell groaned in vexation of spirit, thinking that the heart of this desirable maiden was as the flint which is hard; and the maiden herself, having thus worried her mouse, consoled it in a pleasant fashion.
Besides, Berkshire is not very far from London.
I know that, of course, but I have no acquaintances in Deswarth.
Oh, fie! What about Mrs. Valpy!
Mrs. Valpy! of course, I quite forgot Mrs. Valpy, said Archie, determined to pay court at once to the old lady. "You know I like Mrs. Valpy."
Since when? asked Kaituna, mischievously.
Archie took out his watch gravely, and looked at it.
To be exact, since a minute ago.
Oh, the craft of the male sex.
The end justifies the means, quoted Archie, Jesuitically; "but oh, I say----" He stopped, and a look of alarm overspread his face.
What's the matter?
I'm afraid I won't be able to come down to Berkshire.
Why not?
Because I have to go to South America next month.
Kaituna froze instantly, and annihilated him with a glacial look, at which he quailed visibly.
I can't help it, Miss Pethram, he said piteously, "don't look at me like that."
I'm not looking at you like that, retorted Miss Pethram vengefully. "I--I hope you'll have a pleasant voyage."
I won't! I hate the sea.
Then why go?
Needs must, when the devil drives.
That's very coarse.
But it's very true. I beg your pardon, really; but, you know, it is hard to have to go prancing about the world when you don't want to.
How long will you be out in South America?
I don't know. Perhaps for ever, if I get yellow fever.
I wish you wouldn't talk like that.
Man is mortal, said Maxwell, with gloomy relish.
Man is silly, retorted Kaituna rising to her feet, "so I'm going to ask Mr. Clendon to sing a song."
You never ask me! said the young man reproachfully.
Oh! can engineers sing?
Maxwell said a naughty word under his breath, and walked meekly to the piano beside her. Toby was in possession of the instrument, and was giving Miss Valpy selections from the latest London burlesque.
This is the dance, you know, he said playing a breakdown; "and then comes the song 'Skip the gutter daddy, dear,'--a rippin' song."
Sounds like it, said Maxwell, caustically; "so refined."
Well, you needn't talk my boy, I've seen you enjoying it immensely.
Kaituna directed another look of scorn at the unhappy Maxwell, which inspired him with a vehement desire to break Toby's head. He refrained, however, and smiled in a sickly manner.
I prefer Shakespeare, he said at length, telling the best lie he could under the circumstances.
Dry old stick, observed Tommy, lightly. "There's no fun in him."
But he's so high class.
Listen to the virtuous one, said Clendon, scoffingly. "Oh, my gracious! that my boy should talk such jargon. You don't feel ill, do you, Archie?"
No, I don't, retorted Archie, in a rage, seeing that Kaituna was enjoying this little dialogue with great zest. "I wish you'd be quiet and sing something."
How can I be quiet and sing also?
Dosing, Mr. Clendon, said Kaituna, with a kind flash of her beautiful eyes at the happy bard.
Maxwell suppressed a second naughty word and sat down in dismal silence.
What shall I sing? asked Toby, running his fingers over the piano.
Something funny.
No, no! Something sentimental, said Kaituna, in a commanding tone, and sat down beside Miss Valpy.
Toby cleared his throat, looked up at the ceiling for inspiration, and laughed.
I'll sing a betwixt and between thing.
So he did.
"
She is the dearest of girls I confess, Her milliners' bills are a sight to see; Dearest of girls in the matter of dress, Dearest of girls in the world to me. I lost my heart, but I lost my gold, And hearts without gold are romantic trash; Her love was a thing to be bought and sold, But I couldn't purchase for want of cash. Now she is spouse to an aged man,
"
He's eighty-five and a trifle frail;
Soon he'll finish his life's brief span,
Then she'll look for another male.
Ah! but love comes not twice in our life,
Cupid for ever has passed us by;
So if she asked me to make her my wife,
I would not marry her, no not I."
Oh! said Tommy, when the song was ended, "so that's your idea of a woman's love."
Not mine--the world's.
And what about the love which cannot be bought? asked Kaituna.
Is there such a love?
Yes, cynic, growled Maxwell in disgust; "true love is not a saleable article. The woman who truly loves a man," here his eye rested on Kaituna, "lets nothing stand in the way of that love. She gives up rank, fortune, everything for his sake."
And what does she receive in return? demanded Miss Pethram, innocently.
The true joy which arises from the union of two loving hearts.
Very pastoral indeed, said Toby, lightly. "Chloe and Corydon in Arcadia. It once existed, indeed, but now----"
But now, finished Kaituna, rather tired of the discussion, "it is time to retire."
Both the gentlemen protested at the ladies going away so early, but Kaituna remained firm, and was supported by Tommy, who said she felt very tired.
Not of us, I hope! said Toby, meekly.
Thyself hath said it, she replied, holding out her hand. "Good-night."
When they were leaving the room, Maxwell, who was escorting Kaituna, bent over and whispered in her ear--
I won't go to South America.
South America, she repeated, with a pretended look of surprise, "Oh! yes, of course. I forgot all about it, I assure you. Good-night."
She was gone before he could say a word, leaving him overcome with anger at the flippant manner in which she spoke. Was she in jest or earnest. He could not tell. Perhaps she said one thing and meant another. He could not tell. Perchance--oh, women were all alike, they liked to put their victim on a sharp hook and watch him wriggle painfully to be free.
She's a coquette!
Who? Miss Valpy? asked Toby, overhearing.
No, Miss Pethram; but I dare say her friend's no better.
I'm afraid not! sighed Mr. Clendon, dismally; "it's six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. But what ails my Archibald? His brow is overcast."
Oh! rubbish, growled Archibald, rudely; "come and smoke."
The smoking-room was quite empty, so the young men established themselves in two comfortable armchairs, and devoted their energies to the consumption of tobacco. Clendon preferred the frivolous cigarette, but Archie produced with loving care a well coloured meerschaum, which had been his companion for many years.
This is a travelled pipe, he said to his friend when the blue smoke was rolling in clouds from his mouth, "a very Ulysses of pipes. It has been in far countries and knoweth the ways of the stranger."
Good idea for a story, observed Toby, who was always on the look-out for copy. "'The Tale of a Pipe in ten Fills.' Egad! I think it ought to go capitally. It's so difficult to get an idea nowadays."
Maxwell, luxuriating in his pipe, grunted in a manner which might have meant anything, so Toby promptly attacked him on his want of manners.
You might speak to a fellow when a fellow speaks to you! I tell you what, Archie, you've changed for the worse since we were at school together. Then you were a gregarious animal, and now you are an unsociable beast.
Don't call names, my good man! I can't help being quiet. My thoughts are far away.
Pish! not so very far.
Well, perhaps not.
Have you asked her to marry you?
Hardly! I've only known her a fortnight, and besides, I've got no money.
No; but she has!
I don't want to live on my wife. I'm going away to South America.
Never to see her again, I suppose, said Toby, ironically; "don't talk nonsense, Archie. You're madly in love with Miss Pethram and don't want to lose sight of her."
True! but I must when she goes away from here.
Not a bit of it. Listen, I will be your good angel.
Maxwell laughed grimly at the idea.
I will be your good angel, repeated Toby, imperturbably, "and take you down with me to Deswarth."
To your father's house? I thought you weren't friends with your governor.
I am not, acknowledged Clendon with touching candour; "he wanted me to become a churchman, and I didn't care about it. We had words and parted. Now, however, I've won a success in literature, I'll go back and ask the pater to kill the domestic veal. You I will bring with me to the banquet, and as Miss Pethram lives near you will be able to see her, woo her, wed her, and be happy ever afterwards."
Archie made no reply, but smoked furiously; and Toby, having delivered himself of what he had to say, also subsided into silence.
After a pause said Maxwell--
Toby.
Yes.
I'll come.
What about South America?
D---- South America.
You are a snake,
For the sly beast lies
Coiled in the brake
Of your sleepy eyes,
Lo, at your glances my weak soul dies.
Woman you are
With a face so fair;
But the snake must mar
All the woman there.
Your eyes affright, but your smiles ensnare.
Such a poor room it was, with a well-worn carpet, shabby furniture, a dingy mirror over the fireplace, and a mean sordid look everywhere. The bright sunshine, pouring in through the dirty windows, showed up the weak points of the apartment in the most relentless manner. Great folding-doors at one side half open, showing an untidy bedroom beyond, and on the other side the many-paned windows, veiled by ragged curtains, looked out into Jepple Street, Bloomsbury.
There was a shaky round table in the centre of the apartment, on which was spread a doubtfully clean cloth, and on it the remains of a very poor breakfast. An egg half eaten, a teacup half filled, and a portion of bread on the plate showed that the person for whom this meal was provided had not finished, and, indeed, she was leaning on the table with her elbows, looking at a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
A noticeable woman this, frowning down on the newspaper with tightly closed lips, and one whom it would be unwise to offend.. After a pause she pushed the paper away, arose to her feet, and marching across to the dingy mirror, surveyed herself long and anxiously. The face that looked out at her from the glass was a remarkable one.
Dark, very dark, with fierce black eyes under strongly marked eyebrows, masses of rough dark hair carelessly twisted up into a heavy coil, a thin-lipped, flexible mouth and a general contour of face not at all English. She had slender brown hands, which looked powerful in spite of their delicacy, and a good figure, though just now it was concealed by a loose dressing-gown of pale yellow silk much discoloured and stained. With her strange barbaric face, her gaudy dress, Mrs. Belswin was certainly a study for a painter.
Mrs. Belswin, so she called herself; but she looked more like a savage queen than a civilised woman. She should have been decked with coloured beads, with fantastic feathers, with barbaric bracelets, with strangely striped skins, as it was she was an anomaly, an incongruity, in the poor room of poor lodging-house, staring at her fierce face in the dingy mirror.
Mrs. Munser, who kept the establishment, acknowledged to her intimate friend, Mrs. Pegs, that the sight of this lady had given her a turn; and certainly no one could blame cockney Mrs. Munser, for of all the strange people that might be seen in London, this lithe, savage-looking woman was surely the strangest. Indian jungles, African forests, South American pampas, she would have been at home there, having all the appearance and fire of a woman of the tropics; but to see her in dull, smoky London--it was extraordinary.
After scrutinising herself for a time, she began to talk aloud in a rich full voice, which was broken every now and then by a guttural note which betrayed the savage; yet she chose her words well, she spoke easily, and rolled her words in a soft labial manner suggestive of the Italian language. Yet she was not an Italian.
Twenty years ago, she muttered savagely, "nearly twenty years ago, and I have hardly ever seen her. I must do so now, when Providence has put this chance into my hands. They can't keep a mother from her child. God's laws are stronger than those of man. Rupert would put the ocean between us if he could, but now he's in New Zealand, so for a time I will be able to see her, to speak to her, to hold her in my arms; not as her mother,--no, not as her mother,--but as her paid servant."
She turned away from the mirror with a savage gesture, and walked slowly up and down the room with the soft sinuous movement of a panther. Her soft silk dress rustled as she walked, and her splendid hair, released by her sudden movement, fell like a black veil over her shoulders. She thrust the tresses back from her temples with impatient hands, and her face looked forth from the cloud of hair, dark, sombre, and savage, with a flash of the fierce eyes and vicious click of the strong white teeth.
Curses on the man who took me away from her. I did not care for him, with his yellow hair and pink face. Why did I go? Why was I such a fool? I left her, my own child, for him, and went out into the world an outcast, for his sake. God! God! Why are women such fools?
For a moment she stood with uplifted hands, as if awaiting an answer; but none came, so, letting her arms fall, she walked back to her chair, and lighting a cigarette, placed it in her mouth.
I daren't use a pipe here, she said, with a discordant laugh, "it would not be respectable. But Spanish women smoke cigarettes, Russian women smoke cigarettes, so why should not the Maori woman smoke them also. Respectable, eh! Well, I'm going to be respectable now, when I've answered this."
This was an advertisement in the paper, which read as follows--
Wanted, a companion for a young lady. Apply by letter, Dombrain, 13, Chintler Lane, City.
Apply by letter, muttered Mrs. Belswin, with a sneer. "Indeed I won't, Alfred Dombrain. I'll apply in person, and I think I'll obtain the situation. I'll hold it, too--hold it till Rupert returns, and then--and then----"
She sprang to her feet and blew a cloud of smoke with a mocking laugh. "And then, my husband, I'll match myself against you."
Salve dimora casta e pura.
The singer was coming slowly upstairs, and, as he finished the line, knocked at the door.
Stephano, said Mrs. Belswin, with a frown, glancing at the clock; "what can he want so early? Avanti."
The door opened and Stephano, the singer, a tall, lithe Italian, with a beaming smile, presented himself and burst out into a torrent of greeting.
Buon Giorno cara mia! Ah, my beautiful Lucrezia! my splendid Norma! how like an angel you look this morning. Gran dio che grazia. Signora, I kiss your hand.
He dropped on one knee in an affectedly theatrical manner and pressed his lips to Mrs. Belswin's hand, upon which she twitched it away with a frown, and spoke roughly to her adorer.
What do you want, Ferrari?
Niente! niente! but to pay a visit of ceremony.
It's not customary to pay visits of ceremony at ten o'clock in the morning. I wish you would go away. I'm busy.
Che donna, said the Italian. With a gesture of admiration, and taking off his hat, sat down on the sofa.
Stephano Ferrari was a handsome man in a wicked way. He was tall and slender, with a dark, expressive face, white teeth, which gleamed under his heavy black moustache, wonderfully fine eyes, and a bland, ingratiating manner. English he spoke remarkably well, having been for many years away from his native land, but had a habit of interlarding his conversation with Italian ejaculations, which, in conjunction with his carefully-learnt English, had a somewhat curious effect. Being the tenor of an opera company in New York, he had become acquainted with Mrs. Belswin, who was also in the profession, and had fallen violently in love with this splendid-looking woman, who had so many of the characteristics of his countrywomen. Mrs. Belswin did not reciprocate this passion, and treated him with marked discourtesy; but this only added fuel to the fire of his love, much to her annoyance, as Ferrari had all the ardour and violence of his race strongly developed, and was likely to prove dangerous if she did not return his passion, a thing she felt by no means inclined to do.
At present he sat smiling on the sofa before her, adjusted his bright red tie, ran his fingers through his curly hair, and then twisted the ends of his moustache with peculiarly aggravating complacency.
Don't you hear what I say? said Mrs. Belswin, stamping her foot angrily. "I'm busy. Go away."
Bid me not fly from those star-like eyes, sang the Signor, rolling a cigarette with deft fingers. "Ah, che bella musica. If the words were but my beautiful Italian instead of this harsh English. Dio! It hurts the throat, your speaking--fog-voiced pigs that you are."
Take your abuse and yourself somewhere else, replied Mrs. Belswin, bringing her hand down sharply on the table. "I tell you I'm busy. You never leave me alone, Stephano. You followed me over from America, and now you stay beside me all day. Why do you make such a fool of yourself?"
Because I love thee, carissima. Let me light this; not at thine eyes--stelle radiante--but from thy cigarette. Grazia!
Mrs. Belswin knew of old that when Ferrari was in this humour nothing reasonable could be expected from him; so, resigned to the inevitable, she let him light his cigarette as he wished, then, flinging herself down on her chair, looked moodily at him.
How long is this foolery going to last? she demanded caustically.
Till you become the Signora Ferrari.
That will never be.
Nay, angela mia--it will be some day.
Was there ever such a man? burst out Mrs. Belswin, viciously. "He won't take no for an answer."
Not from thee, Donna Lucrezia.
"
Don't call me Donna Lucrezia. Perchè?""
"
Because I'm tired of opera. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of everything. I'm going to leave all the old life and become respectable.
The life of a singer is always respectable, declared Ferrari, mendaciously. "You mean to leave me, Signora?"
Yes, I do.
Ebbene! we shall see.
What claim have you on me? None. I met you in America two years ago. We nag together for a time, and because of that you persecute me with you ridiculous attentions.
I love thee.
I don't want your love.
Veramente!
No!
She spoke defiantly, and folding her arms stared steadily at her persistent lover. The Italian, however, was not at all annoyed. He simply threw his half-smoked cigarette into the teacup, and rising from his seat stood before her smiling and bland as ever.
Non e vero, Signora? Ebbene. I am the same. We met in San Francisco two years ago. I was a singer of opera. I obtained for you engagements. I loved you. Carissima, I love thee still! You are cold, cruel, you stone-woman, bella demonia. For long time I have been your slave. You have given me the kicks of a dog. Pazienza, I finish soon. I have told you all of myself. You have told me all of yourself. I come to this fog land with you, and now you say, 'Addio.' Bellissima, Signora, but I am not to be talked to like a child. I love you! and I marry you. Ecco! You will be Signora Ferrari. Senza dubbio!
Having thus delivered himself of his determination with many smiles and gesticulations, Signor Ferrari bowed in his best stage manner, sat down in his chair and began to roll another cigarette. Mrs. Belswin heard him in silence, the clenching of her hands alone betraying her anger, but having had two years' experience of the Italian's character, she knew what to do, and controlling herself with an effort, began to temporise in a highly diplomatic manner.
I suppose no woman could be indifferent to such love as you profess, Stephano, and some day I may be able to answer you as you wish--but not now, not now.
And why, cara mia?
Because I am going to see my daughter again.
Your daughter?
Yes! You know I told you all my past life. I was a fool to do so, as it gives you a certain hold over me. But I am a lonely--woman. Your manner was sympathetic, and so--well it's only natural I should wish to confide in some one.
So you confided in me. Per l'amor di Dio, Signora. Do not be sorry, I am simpatica! I feel for you. Ah, Dio! It was a terrible story of your husband, and the parting in anger. Basta! Basta! Think of it no more.
I must! Do you think I can forget the past by a simple effort of will? Happy for me, happy for all, if such a thing could be. But--I have forgotten nothing. That is my punishment!
And now, cara?
Now I am going to see my dear daughter again.
She is in London, then? Ah, che gioja.
Yes! she is in--in England.
And il marito?
He is at the other end of the world.
Bene. Let him say there!
Mrs. Belswin nodded her head in savage approval, then began to walk to and fro, talking rapidly.
While he is away I have a plan. In the paper there is a notice requiring a companion for my daughter.
How do you know?
Because it is put in by a Mr. Dombrain. He is Rupert Pethram's solicitor. Oh, I know him, better than he thinks. All these years I have been away from my child I have watched over her. Ah, yes! I know all of her life in New Zealand. I have good friends there. I found out when her father brought her to England, and that is why I came over here so quickly. I intended to see her again--to speak to her--but without revealing I was her unhappy mother. But--I was afraid of Pethram. Yes, you may smile, Stephano, but you do not know him. I do.
E incrédibile. You who fear no one.
I do not fear him physically, she said proudly, with a savage flash from her fierce eyes. "I fear no man in that way. But I am afraid because of my daughter. She thinks I am dead. It is better than that she should know I am a divorced, disgraced woman. If Sir Rupert were angry he might tell her all, and then--and then--oh, God! I could not bear to see her again. She would despise me. She would look on me with scorn. My own child. Ah, I should die--I should die!"
The tears actually came into her eyes, and for a moment softened their fierceness. This woman, hard and undisciplined, with savage instincts derived from a savage mother, yet felt the strong maternal instinct implanted in the breast of every woman, and quailed with terror as she thought of the power her former husband had to lower her in the eyes of her daughter. Ferrari, of course, could not understand this, having been always accustomed to think of Mrs. Belswin as an untamed tigress, but now she had a touch of feminine softness about her which puzzled him.
Ah! the strangeness of women, he said philosophically. "Ebbene, now il marito is away, what will you do?"
I'm going to see Mr. Dombrain, and obtain the situation of companion to my own daughter.
Not so fast, Signora! She will know you.
No; she will not know me, replied Mrs. Belswin softly; "she does not remember me. When I left her she was a little child. She thinks I am dead. I go to her as a stranger. It is hard; it is terribly hard. I will see her. I will speak to her. I will perhaps kiss her; but I dare not say, 'child, I am your mother!' Ah, it is cruel--but it is my punishment."
It is a good plan for you, cara mia! But about me, you forget your faithful Stephano!
No, I do not, she said coaxingly, for she was afraid he would spoil all, knowing what he did; "but you must wait. I want to see my daughter--to live with her for a time. When my husband returns he will know me, so I must leave before he sees me. Then I will come back to thee, carissima."
Basta! replied Ferrari, with great reluctance. "I do not wish to keep you from the child. I am not jealous of il marito."
You've no cause to be--I hate him.
Look, then, the love I bear you, carissima mia. Though all your life I know. Though you have had husband and lover, yet I wish to make you mine.
It is strange, said Mrs. Belswin, indifferently. "I am not a young woman; my good looks are going; my past life is not that of a saint; and yet you would marry me."
Because I love thee, carissima, said Ferrari, taking her hand. "I have loved many before, but none like thee, bella demonia. Ah, Dio, thou hast the fierceness of the tiger within thee. The hot blood of Italy burns in thy veins, my Lucrezia Borgia. I am weary of tame women who weep and sigh ever. I am no cold Englishman, thou knowest. The lion seeks but the lioness, and so I come to thee for thy love, stella adorata."
He caressed her softly as he spoke these words in his musical voice, and the woman softened under his caress with feline grace. All the treachery and sleepiness of the panther was observable in this woman; but under the smoothness of her manner lay the fierceness of her savage nature, which was now being controlled by the master hand of the Italian.
You will let me go to my daughter, then, she said in a soft, languid voice, her fierce eyes dulling under the mesmeric influence of his gaze.
As you will. I can deny thee nothing, regina del mia vita.
"The deeds we do, though done in heedless ways,
May have the shaping of our future lives;
And, stretching forth their long arms from the past,
May alter this and that in such strange fashion
That we become as puppets in their hands,
To play the game of life by old events."
Mr. Dombrain's office, situate in Chintle Lane, was a shabby little place consisting of three rooms. One where his clients waited, another occupied by three clerks constantly writing, and a third where Mr. Dombrain himself sat, like a crafty spider in his web waiting for silly flies. The three rooms were all bad, but Mr. Dombrain's was the worst; a square, low-roofed apartment like a box, with a dim twilight atmosphere, which filtered in through a dirty skylight in the roof. This being the case, Dombrain's desk was lighted by a gas-jet with a green shade, fed by a snaky-looking india-rubber tube attached to the iron gas-pipe projecting from the wall above his head.
The heavy yellow light flaring from under this green shade revealed the room in a half-hearted sort of fashion, illuminating the desk, but quite unable to penetrate into the dark corners of the place. On the writing-table were piles of papers, mostly tied into bundles with red tape, a glass inkstand, a pad of pink blotting-paper, three or four pens, all of which were arranged on a dingy ink-stained green cloth in front of a row of pigeon holes, full of loose letters and legal-looking documents.
In front of this table sat Mr. Dombrain in a heavy horsehair-covered chair, and near him were two other chairs of slender construction for the use of clients. Along the walls more pigeon holes crammed with papers, a tall bookshelf filled with hard-looking law books, which had a second-hand look of having been picked up cheap, a ragged carpet on the well-worn floor, and dust everywhere. Indeed, so thickly lay the dust on books, on floor, on papers, on desk, that the whole room looked as if it had just been opened after the lapse of years. The chamber of the Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, and Mr. Dombrain--well no, he was not a beauty, and he never was sleeping, so the comparison holds not. Indeed he was a singularly ugly man in a coarse fashion. A large bullet-shaped head covered with rough red hair, cut so remarkably short that it stood up stiffly in a stubbly fashion, a freckled face with a coarse red beard clipped short, cunning little grey eyes, rather bleared by the constant glare of the gaslight in which he worked, and large crimson ears. Dressed in a neat suit of black broadcloth, he appeared singularly ill at ease in it, and with his large stumpy-fingered hands, with clubbed nails, his awkward manner, his habit of stealthily glancing out of his bleared eyes, Mr. Dombrain was about as unsuited a person for a lawyer as one could find. There was nothing suave about him to invite confidence, and he looked as if he would have been more at home working as a navvy than sitting behind this desk, with his large red hands clumsily moving the papers about.
Three o'clock in the afternoon it was by Mr. Dombrain's fat-faced silver watch lying on the table in front of him, and as the lawyer noted the fact in his usual stealthy fashion, a timid-looking clerk glided into the room.
Yes? said Dombrain interrogatively, without looking up.
If you please--if you please, sir, a lady, stammered the timid clerk, washing his hands with invisible soap and water, "a lady about--about the situation, sir."
Humph! I said the application was to be by letter.
But--but the lady, sir?
Mr. Dombrain looked complacently at his nails, but said nothing.
But--but the lady, sir? repeated the timid clerk again.
I said the application was to be by letter.
The clerk, seeing that this was the answer he was expected to deliver, went sliding out of the room; but at the door encountered the lady in question, dressed in black, and closely veiled.
Madam, he stammered, growing red, "the application was to be by letter."
I preferred to come personally.
As she spoke, low though her voice was, Mr. Dombrain looked up suddenly with a startled look on his face.
Can you see me, Mr. Dombrain?
He arose slowly to his feet, as if in obedience to some nervous impulse, and with his grey eyes looking straight at the veiled woman, still kept silence.
Can you see me, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?
The lawyer's red face had turned pale, and looked yellow in the gaslight. The hot atmosphere of the room evidently made him gasp, used as he was to it, for he opened his mouth as if to speak, then, closing it again, signed to the clerk to leave the room.
Left alone with his visitor, Dombrain, still maintaining the same position, stood watching her with a mesmeric stare as she glided into one of the chairs beside the table.
Won't you sit down, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?
His face was suddenly suffused with a rush of blood, and he sat down heavily.
Madam! who are you?
Don't you know? Ah! what a pity; and you have such a good memory for voices.
I--memory--voices, he stammered, moving restlessly.
Yes; why not, Mr. Damberton?
Hush! For God's sake, hush! Who are you? Who are you?
The woman flung back her veil, and he recoiled from the sight of her face with a hoarse, strangled cry.
Jezebel Pethram!
Once Jezebel Pethram, now Miriam Belswin. I see you remember faces as well as voices--and names also. Ah! what an excellent memory.
Mr. Dombrain alias Damberton collected his scattered senses together, and, going over to a small iron safe set in the wall, produced a tumbler and a bottle of whisky. Mrs. Belswin looked at him approvingly as he drank off half a glass of the spirit neat.
That's right; you'll need all your Dutch courage.
Quite forgetting the demands of hospitality, Dombrain replaced the bottle and glass in the respectable safe, and resumed his seat at the table with his ordinary bullying nature quite restored to him by the potent spirit.
Now, then, Mrs. Pethram, or Belswin, or whatever you like to call yourself, he said, in a harsh, angry tone, "what do you want here?"
I want you.
Ho, ho! The feeling isn't reciprocal. Leave my office.
When I choose.
Perhaps a policeman will make you go quicker, growled Dombrain, rising.
Perhaps he will, retorted Mrs. Belswin, composedly; "and perhaps he'll take you along with him."
Infernal nonsense.
Is it! We'll try the experiment, if you like.
Mr. Dombrain resumed his seat with a malediction on all women in general, and Mrs. Belswin in particular. Then he bit his nails, and looked at her defiantly, only to quail before the fierce look in her eyes.
It's no use beating about the bush with a fiend like you, he growled sulkily, making a clumsy attempt to appear at his ease.
Not a bit.
I wish you'd go away, whined Dombrain, with a sudden change of front. "I'm quite respectable now. I haven't seen you for twenty years. Why do you come now and badger me? It isn't fair to pull a man down when he's up."
Do you call this up? sneered Mrs. Belswin, looking round the dingy office.
It's up enough for me.
The woman grinned in a disagreeable manner, finding Mr. Dombrain's manner very amusing. She glanced rapidly at him with her fierce eyes, and he wriggled uneasily in his chair.
Don't look at me like that, you witch, he muttered, covering his face with his large hands. "You've got the evil eye, confound you."
Mrs. Belswin, leaning forward, held up her forefinger and shook it gently at the lawyer.
It won't do, my friend; I tell you it won't do. You've tried bullying, you've tried whining; neither of them go down with me. If you have any business to do you've got to put it aside for me. If you have to see clients you can't and won't see them till I choose. Do you hear what I say, you legal Caliban? I've come here for a purpose, Mr. Dombrain--that, I believe, is your present name--for a purpose, sir. Do you hear?
Yes, I hear. What is your purpose?
She laughed; but not mirthfully.
To tell you a story.
I don't want stories. Go to a publisher.
Certainly. I'll go to the Scotland Yard firm. Hold your tongue, sir. Sneering doesn't come well from an animal like you. I have no time to waste.
Neither have I.
That being the case with both of us, sit still.
Mr. Dombrain stopped his wriggling and became as a stone statue of an Egyptian king, with his hands resting on his knees.
Now I'll tell you my story.
Can't you do without that?
No, my good man, I can't. To make you understand what I want I must tell you all my story. Some of it you know, some of it you don't know. Be easy. It's short and not sweet. Listen.
And Mr. Dombrain did listen, not because he wanted to, but because this woman with the fierce eyes had an influence over him which he, bully, coarse-minded man as he was, could not resist. When he recollected what she knew and what she could tell, and would tell if she chose, a cold sweat broke out all over him, and he felt nerveless as a little child. Therefore, for these and divers other reasons, Mr. Dombrain listened--with manifest reluctance, it is true, but still he listened.
We will commence the story in New Zealand twenty years--say twenty-two years ago. One Rupert Pethram, the younger son of a good family, come out there to make his fortune. He made it by the simple process of marrying a Maori half-caste, called Jezebel Manners. You see I don't scruple to tell everything about myself, dear friend. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Pethram got on very well together for a time, but she grew tired of being married to a fool. He was a fool, wasn't he?
She waited for a reply, so Dombrain, against his will, was forced to give her one.
Yes, he was a fool--to marry you.
The wisest thing he ever did in his life, seeing what a lot of property I brought him. But I couldn't get on with him. My mother was a pure-blooded Maori. I am only half a white, and I hated his cold phlegmatic disposition, his supercilious manners. I was--I am hot-blooded, ardent, quick-tempered. Fancy a woman like me tied to a cold-blooded fish like Rupert Pethram. Bah! it was madness. I hated him before my child was born; afterwards I hated him more than ever. Then the other man came along.
There always is another man!
Naturally! What would become of the Divorce Court if there wasn't? Yes, the other man did come along. A pink and white fool. My husband was a god compared to Silas Oates.
Then why did you run away with Oates?
Why indeed! He attracted me in some way, I suppose, or I was sick of my humdrum married life. I don't know why I left even Rupert Pethram for such a fool as Silas. I did so, however. I gave up my name, my child, my money, all for what?--for a man that tired of me in less than six months, and left me to starve in San Francisco.
You didn't starve, however.
It is not my nature to act foolishly all my life. No, I did not starve. I had a good voice, which I managed to get trained. I had also a good idea of acting, so I made a success on the operatic stage as Madame Tagni.
Oh! are you the celebrated Madame Tagni?
I was. Now I am Mrs. Belswin, of no occupation in particular. I sang in the States; I sang in New Zealand----
You didn't sing in Dunedin?
No, because my husband was there. Do you know why I came to New Zealand--a divorced, dishonoured woman? No, of course you don't. I came to see my child. I did see her, unknown to Rupert or to the child herself. I was in New Zealand a long time watching over my darling. Then I went again to the States, but I left friends behind me--good friends, who kept me posted up in all the news of my child Kaituna. Since I left her twenty years ago like a fool, I have known everything about her. I heard in New York how Rupert had lost all his money, owing to the decrease in the value of property. I heard his elder brother had died, and that he had come in for the title. He is Sir Rupert Pethram; I ought to be Lady Pethram.
But you're not, sneered Dombrain, unable to resist the opportunity.
She flashed a savage glance at him and replied quietly.
No, I am Mrs. Belswin, that's enough for me at present. But to go on with my story. I heard how my husband had brought our child home to the old country, and leaving her there had returned to New Zealand on business. When this news reached me, I made up my mind at once and came over here. I found out--how, it matters not--that my husband's legal adviser was an old friend of mine, one Alfred Damberton----
Hush! not that name here!
Ah, I forgot. You are the respectable Mr. Alfred Dombrain now. But it was curious that I should find an old friend in a position so likely to be of use to me.
Use to you? groaned Dombrain, savagely.
Yes; I have seen your advertisement in the paper for a companion for a young lady. Well, I have come to apply for the situation.
You?
Yes. Personally, and not by letter as you suggested in print.
Mr. Dombrain felt that he was in a fix, and therefore lied, with clumsy malignity.
That advertisement doesn't refer to your daughter.
Doesn't it? said Mrs. Belswin sharply. "Then, why refer to my daughter at all just now?"
Because!--oh, because----
Because you couldn't think of a better lie, I suppose, she finished, contemptuously. "It won't do, my friend, I tell you it won't do. I'm not the kind of woman to be played fast and loose with. You say it is not my daughter that requires a chaperon."
I do! yes I do!
Then you lie. What do you think private detectives are made for? Did you think I came here without having everything necessary to meet an unscrupulous wretch like you!
I thought nothing about you. I thought you were dead.
And wished it, I daresay. But I'm not! I'm alive enough to do you an injury--to have your name struck off the roll of English solicitors.
You can't! he retorted defiantly, growing pale again. "I defy you."
You'd better not, Mr. Damberton! I'm one too many for you. I can tell a little thing about your past career which would considerably spoil the respectable position you now hold.
No one would believe you against me. A respectable solicitor's word is worth a dozen of a divorced woman.
If you insult me I'll put a knife in you, you miserable wretch! said Mrs. Belswin, breathing hard. "I tell you I'm a desperate woman. I know that you have advertised for a chaperon for my daughter, and I--her mother--intend to have the situation under the name of Mrs. Belswin."
But your husband will recognise you.
My husband is out in New Zealand, and will be there for the next few months. When he returns I will deal with him, not you. This matter of the chaperon is in your hands, and you are going to give the situation to me. You hear, gaol-bird--to me!
Dombrain winced at the term applied to him, and jumped up with a furious look of rage.
I defy you! I defy you! he said in a low harsh voice, the veins in his forehead swelling with intense passion. "You outcast! You Jezebel! Ah, how the name suits you! I know what you are going to say. That twenty years ago I was in gaol in New Zealand for embezzlement. Well, I own it--I was. I was a friend of your lover, Silas Oates--your lover who cast you off to starve. I lost money betting. I embezzled a large sum. I was convicted and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Well, I worked out my term! I left the colony where, as Alfred Damberton, I was too well known to get a chance of honest employment, and came to England through America. I met you again in America. I was fool enough to think Silas Oates might help me for old time's sake. I found he had left you--left you alone in 'Frisco. You were little better than a vile creature on the streets; I was a gaol-bird. Oh, a nice pair we were! Outcasts, both you and I."
He passed his handkerchief over his dry lips as he paused, but Mrs. Belswin made no sign in any way, but simply sat looking at him with a sneer.
When I left you, resumed Dombrain, hurriedly, "I came to England--to my father. He was a lawyer in the country. He received me well--took me into his office and admitted me into partnership. When he died I came up to London, and have prospered since. I have changed my name to Alfred Dombrain, and am respected everywhere. Your husband does not know my story. He was recommended to me by a friend, and he has employed me for some years. I have his confidence in every way. I am a respectable man! I have forgotten the past, and now you come with your bitter tongue and spiteful mind to tear me down from the position I have so hardly won."
He dropped down exhausted into a chair; but Mrs. Belswin, still smiling, still sneering, pointed to the safe.
Take some more whiskey. You will need it.
Woman, leave me!
Not till I leave as chaperon to my child.
That you shall never have.
Oh yes, I shall!
I say you shall not! You can go and tell my story where you please; I shall tell yours; and we'll see who will be believed--Alfred Dombrain, the respectable, trusted lawyer, or Mrs. Belswin, the divorced woman! Bah! You can't frighten me with slanders. There is nothing to connect Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton, the convict.
Indeed! What about this?
She held up a photograph which she had taken out of her pocket--a photograph resembling Mr. Dombrain, but which had written under it--
Alfred Damberton.
You may alter your face, said Mrs. Belswin maliciously, "but you can't very well alter your handwriting. And now I look at you, I really don't think there is much alteration. A beard when there used to be only a moustache, more wrinkles, less smiles. Oh, I think any one will recognise this for you."
Dombrain made a snatch at the photograph, but she was too quick for him.
Not quite. This is my evidence against you. I heard in America, through my useful detectives, that you were lawyer to my husband; so, thinking I might require your help, and knowing I shouldn't get it without some difficulty, I took the trouble of writing to New Zealand for a full report of your very interesting case. You've cost me a good deal of money, my dear sir; but they pay well on the opera-stage, so I don't mind. I have all the papers telling your little story. I have this photograph with your own signature, proving the identity of Damberton with Dombrain; so taking all things into consideration, I think you had better do what I ask.
She had so completely got the better of Mr. Dombrain that she had reduced him to a kind of moral pulp, and he leaned back in his chair utterly crushed.
What do you want? he asked feebly.
"
I want the situation of chaperon to Miss Kaituna Pethram. If I give it to you, as I can, will you hold your tongue about--about--my past life?""
"
Yes, certainly; provided that you never disclose that the divorced Mrs. Pethram has anything to do with the respectable Mrs. Belswin.
I agree to all you say.
You will give me the situation?
Yes.
I am engaged, then?
You are.
As chaperon to Miss Pethram?
Yes; as chaperon to Miss Pethram.
Mrs. Belswin arose with a smile of triumph and took her leave.
Beaten all along the line, I see. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear friend, never to put your thick head against a woman's wits!
"Oh, what becomes of our prodigal sons
When worried by troublesome debts and duns.
When fatherly loving is quite worn out,
And how to exist is a matter of doubt?
Well, some go writing in London town,
A few rise up and a lot fall down,
Many as squatters go south of the line
And 'tend to their sheep instead of their swine,
Dozens in African jungles now rest,
Numbers ranch in the far wild west;
But have they full or an empty purse,
Have they lived decently or the reverse,
Married or single, wherever they roam
Our prodigal sons in the end come home."
When Mr. Clendon, Vicar of Deswarth, preached on the parable of "The Prodigal Son" he little thought that it would one day be applicable to his own offspring. Yet such was the case, for Tobias Clendon--called after that celebrated character in the Apocrypha--came home from Oxford, where he was supposed to be studying for the Church, and resolutely refused to become a curate, with the chance of a possible bishopric somewhere about the forties. The fact is, the young man had contracted the fatal habit of scribbling, and having had a few articles on dogcarts, poetry, Saint Simonism--such was the wideness of his range--accepted by friendly editors, had resolved to devote his energies to literature. He had not ambition enough to become a great writer, nor enough modesty to sink to the level of a literary hack; but seeing a chance of earning his bread and butter in an easy fashion, he determined to take advantage of it and get through life as happily as possible. Having, therefore, made up his mind to be a scribbler of ephemeral essays, verse, stories--anything that paid, in fact--he had also made up his mind to tell his respected parent, but, having a wholesome dread of said parent, was afraid to do so.
Chance--meddlesome goddess--helped him.
He was rusticated for an amusing escapade arising from a misuse of spirits--animal spirits and--and--other spirits. Unfortunately, the college authorities did not look at the affair precisely in Toby's way, so they banished him from Alma Mater, whom Toby henceforward regarded as an unjust step-mother.
Being thus summarily treated, he went home to Deswarth, and was received by his respectable parent with as strong language as his position as vicar allowed him to use.
Clendon père was a dry-as-dust old gentleman, who was always grubbing among antique folios, and he had sketched out his son's life in black and white. Clendon fils--this is the parental prophecy--was to be a curate, a vicar, edit a Greek play--something of Æschylus for choice--blossom into a full-blown bishop, keep a holy but watchful eye on any possible vacancy in the sees of York or Canterbury, and die as high up in the Church as he could get. It was truly a beautiful vision, and Bookworm Clendon, burrowing in out-of-way libraries, looked upon this vision as a thing which was to be.
But then that terrible cacoeihes scribendi, which spoils so many promising Bishops, Lord Chancellors, Prime Ministers, had infected the wholesome blood of Toby, and, in obedience to the itch, he scribbled--he scribbled--oh, Father Apollo, how he did scribble! Having scribbled, he published; having published he showed his printed compositions to his father; but that gentleman, despising modern print, modern paper, modern everything, would not look at his son's effusions.
This narrow-mindedness grieved Toby, as he had hoped to break the matter gently to his reverend sire; but as this could not be done, instead of shivering on the brink like a timid bather, he plunged in.
In plain English, he told his father that he wished to be a Shakespeare, a Dickens, a Tennyson, a--a--well select the most famous writers in the range of literature, and you have the people whom Toby wished to emulate in a nineteenth century sense.
After this the deluge.
No prophet likes to have his prophecies proved false, and Mr. Clendon was no exception to the rule. Having settled Toby's career in life, he was terribly angry that Toby should presume to unsettle it in any way. Not be a curate, not be a vicar, not be a bishop--what did the boy expect to be?
The boy, with all humility, stated that he expected to be a Dickens, a George Eliot.
George Eliot, sir, was a woman.
Well, then, a Walter Scott. Had his father any objections?
The reverend bookworm had several.
First objection.--Literature has no prizes. Money? Yes. Fame? Yes. But no official prizes. If you go into the law, you may hope some day to sit on the woolsack, which is stately but uncomfortable. If you prefer the Church, you may attain the dignity of a bishop--even of an archbishop. In medicine you may become physician to the court, and physic royalty, which entails large fees and a chance of populating the royal vaults in Westminster Abbey. Even in painting, the presidentship of the Royal Academy is not beyond the reach of a conventional painter who does not startle his generation with too much genius. All these things are worth striving for, because they smack of officialism. But literature--oh, shade of Richard Savage, what prize is there in literature?
Suggestion by Toby.--The Poet Laureateship.
Which has no salary worth speaking of attached to it; and rhymes to order are seldom rhymes in order. No, the Laureateship is out of the question; therefore literature has no prizes.
Second objection.--Literature is a good stick, but a bad crutch,--a remark of Walter Scott, which was uttered in the primeval times of scribbling. Still, according to Mr. Clendon, who knew nothing past that period, it held good to-day. If Toby went in for literature, how did he expect to live till the fame period, seeing that he could earn but little, and the paternal purse-strings were to be closed tightly? Poetry. It doesn't pay.
Verse
Is a curse;
Doesn't fill the purse.
Rhyme and reason both, according to Clendon père. Novels! Pshaw, the field is overrun by three volume rubbish by talented lady scribblers. Essays! No one wants essays when Lamb and Addison can be bought cheaply. Altogether, literature has no money in it.
Third objection, and strongest.--You were intended for the Church; and you must carry out my plans, even if against your own judgment.
Having thus stated his objections, Clendon père ordered Toby to take holy orders at once, and think no more of the draggle-tailed muse and all her tribe.
Toby refused.
His father used clerical bad language.
Toby left the room.
His father cut him off with a shilling, and bade him leave the paternal roof, which he did.
Here endeth the first Book of Tobias.
In London Toby had a hard time. He went through the mill, and did not like it. He sounded the depths of the London ocean, which contains all kinds of disagreeable things which appear not on the surface--fireless grates, abusive landladies, obdurate editors, well-worn clothing. Oh, it was certainly an unpleasant experience, but Toby sank to rise, and never forgot, when wandering amid this submarine wreckage of London, that he was a gentleman and had one definite object in view.
If a man keep these two things in mind, they are bladders which will float him to the surface among successful crafts.
Therefore Tobias Clendon rose--slowly at first, then rapidly.
He wrote articles about the wreckage amid which he wandered, and had them accepted by editors, who paid him as little as they could. Afterwards he scribbled comic songs for opulent music-hall artistes, which contained the latest ideas of the day and a superfluity of slang. These efforts brought him into contact with the theatrical profession, which is renowned for its modesty, and he put new wine into old bottles by patching up old burlesques. In this cobbling he was very successful, and what with one thing and another, he got on capitally. From burlesques he advanced to little curtain raisers; he wrote short abusive stories for charitably-minded society papers, scathing articles on books by celebrated writers, in which he proved conclusively that they did not know their business as novelists, and altogether became a sort of literary Autolycus, being a picker-up of unconsidered trifles in the literary line. This brought him in a good income, and in a few years he actually could face his bankers without blushing. Then he took a holiday, and during such holiday went to Marsh-on-the-Sea, where he met Miss Valpy, who reminded him about his father, and then----
I am, said Toby, sententiously, "a prodigal son. I have lived in a far country, and eaten husks with London swine. Unlike the young man, however, I have risen above the profession of swineherd. I have become friends with Dives, and he has bidden me to feasts where I have fared sumptuously. The prodigal son began with money and ended with swine. I began with swine and end now with money. This is a distinct improvement on the old parable; but now 'I will arise and go to my father.' I'm afraid he won't kill the fatted calf, but I don't particularly mind as I detest veal; it's indigestible. He won't fall on my neck because he's not a demonstrative old gentleman, but still I'll go, especially as there is no dear brother to make things unpleasant. My Lares and Penates I will collect, and the country of my fathers will see me once more."
With this idea in his mind, Toby, who had left home in a third-class carriage, returned in a first-class, and was puffed up accordingly. With all such pomposity, however, he took a common sense view of things with regard to the reception committee, and walked to the vicarage with a becoming air of humility. He had left his father grubbing among relics of Fust and Caxton, and on his return found him still grubbing--a little older looking, a little dryer--but still stranded among rare folios of the middle ages. Toby saluted this paternal ghoul, and was received kindly, the ghoul having a heart concealed somewhere in his anatomy.
I am glad to see you again, Tobias, said Clendon père, with marked cordiality. "I am a clergyman, and you offended me by not making the profession hereditary. However, I am also a father, and I have missed you very much, my boy--very much indeed--shake hands."
Which Toby did, and actually surprised a tear on the parchment cheek of his father, which touch of nature making them both akin, had a marked effect on the soft heart of the young man, and he fell into the arms of his sire.
Thus far the parable was excellently interpreted.
But the fatted calf.
Ah! it was truly an excellent beast, that same calf, for it consisted of several courses, and the wine was undeniable. Clendon père looked after his cellar as well as his folios, and after a good dinner father and son clasped hands once more under the influence of '47 port, which made them both sentimental.
You will stay with me, Tobias, and comfort my declining years?
Certainly, father; but you will let me go to London occasionally?
Oh, yes, Tobias; you must attend to your business. By the way, what is your business?
That of a scribbler.
Ah! Richard Savage and Grub Street. Never mind, my boy, I've got money enough for us both.
No, not Grub Street. Nous avons change tout cela, eh, father! I make about five hundred a year.
What!--what, at scribbling?
Yes.
Dear me, remarked Clendon père, eyeing his port, "what a lot of money there must be in the world."
My dear father, literature has improved since the Caxton period.
But printing has not, Tobias. No, no! Nowadays they use flimsy paper, bad type----
But the matter, father; the contents of a book.
I never read a modern book. Pish! You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I don't believe in your cheap literature.
It's a good thing for me, at any rate, father.
Of course. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
Well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year.
Good, good! Yes, folios make one narrow. You shall expand my mind, Tobias. You shall bring me into contact with the nineteenth century. But I won't read any books but your own.
I don't write books.
No? Well, I'm thankful for small mercies. How long are you going to stay with me?
Till you grow tired of me.
Then, Tobias, you are settled here for the rest of your life.
My dear father. By the way, I want to ask a friend of mine down here.
Not a woman?
"
No; I haven't got that far yet. A fellow called Archie Maxwell. He used to go to school with me, and we're great chums. Tobias, no slang. You mean you are a David and Jonathan?""
"
I do. That's about the size of it.
Eheu, hinc illæ lachrymæ. I like not the nineteenth century talk. It grates on the ear.
I beg your pardon, father; but can I have Archie Maxwell down?
Certainly. Is he also in Grub Street?
Oh, no! He's an engineer.
On the railway?
No; a civil engineer--builds bridges.
Well, well, let the young man come; but he'll find it dull here.
Oh no, he won't, because you see, father, there's a lady.
Eh!
Miss Kaituna Pethram, whom he loves.
Ho, ho! I know the young lady. She is a parishioner of mine. Her father came into the title a year ago, and has gone out to New Zealand again, leaving his daughter in charge of Mrs. Belswin.
Mrs. Belswin?
Yes! a very charming lady who acts as chaperon.
Poor Archie.
What, are you afraid of the dragon who guards the golden apples? said the bookworm with great good humour. "Pooh! pooh! in my time young men were not such faint-hearted lovers. If he really adores this nymph of the ocean--she comes from New Zealand I believe--he'll soon propitiate the dragon."
Is it an amiable dragon?
Humph! I'm afraid not! Your Hercules must be stout-hearted.
What a pity Mrs. Valpy and her daughter are not the chaperons still.
Eh! why I think Miss Valpy requires a chaperon herself, but perchance no Hercules eyes that golden fruit.
Silence on the part of Tobias, and a blush on his cheek.
Tobias! Tobias, said his father, with uplifted finger, "you've been looking over the garden wall of the Hesperides, and the golden fruit of the Valpys tempts you. Eh! my son, you also are in love--with Miss Valpy."
Yes.
And your friend is in love with Miss Pethram.
Yes.
And you both intend to stay with me for a time, so as to be near your inamoratas.
If you please, father.
Mr. Clendon smiled grimly and finished his glass of port, which he really felt he needed.
Cupid! Cupid! what have I done that thus I should be Sir Pandarus of Troy in my old age. Tobias, go to bed.
Good-night, father; and he vanished.
Sir Pandarus groaned.
Farewell, oh, lovely peace! I dwell no more under the shade of thy desirable olive. Four lovers in one parish, and I the vicar thereof. Alas! Alas! The Prodigal Son I sent abroad with curses has returned, and he hath brought back his curse with him. Eheu infelici.
"
An elderly dragon with cold grey eyes, Tongue that gibes at a lover rash, Ears quite deaf to pathetic sighs Uttered by men who are scant of cash. But when a millionaire comes to woo,
"The dragon inspires him not with fear.
Her sole idea of love that is true
Is measured by so many pounds a year."
Thornstream Manor, the residence of the Pethrams for many generations, was a quaint old house, surrounded by pleasant grounds. A grey weather-beaten structure of two stories, built on a slight rise, on which were wide terraces down to the green lawns below, which were girt some distance away by a circle of ancient trees. The house itself was a long, low, embattlemented place between two sharply pointed gables, beneath which were diamond-paned oriel windows. Along the front other wide low windows, and a massive door set in a heavy stone porch. The roofs above of deep-red tiles, with twisted chimneys here and there, and the whole house covered with a clinging garment of dark green ivy, as if to shelter it from the cold winds blowing across the park. Seen at the end of the drive as it emerged from the trees, the white terraced rise topped by the grey ivy-covered house, with the tint of red afforded by the roof, looked singularly peaceful and pleasant. The goddess with the olive branch had established herself in this pleasant domain, and a brooding air of Sunday quiet pervaded the place, as if it were indeed that delightful Castle of Indolence whereof one James Thomson discourseth so pleasantly.
The grounds were also charming--wide stretches of green lawn, flower-beds filled with homely cottage flowers, still stone-rimmed ponds, where broad-leaved water-lilies kept the sun from grilling the hoary carp in the depths below. An antique dial with its warning motto, and on the verge of the lush glass, heavily foliaged trees making pleasant shades for the timid deer browsing round their gnarled boles. White pigeons flashed in the blue sky round the grey walls of Thornstream, or nestled among the trees with gentle cooings, while a glimpse could be obtained every now and then of lazy cows in distant meadows, chewing the cud of contentment. It was one of those scenes of intense quiet which are only to be seen in full perfection in the pleasant lands of pastoral England, a home, a veritable home, which one engaged in the turmoil of the world would remember with regretful longing. Peace, absolute peace, that most desirable of all blessings was here. Peace, which youth scorns but which age prizes, brooded over the homestead, and the Sleeping Beauty herself might have dreamed away her hundred years in this happy English mansion without being disturbed in any way.
"
And on an English home--grey twilight poured, On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep--all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
"
I never understood those lines of Tennyson until I saw Thornstream.
It was Kaituna who was speaking--Kaituna arrayed in a cool white dress, standing on the terrace in the early morning looking over the peaceful scene spread out before her. The birds were singing joyously in the trees, the cool dew was lying on the grass, and this young girl, reared in a far-distant country, was now viewing with dreamy eyes the pleasant land of England.
Beside her was Mrs. Belswin, in a simple dress of black serge, with all her splendid hair smoothed firmly back, and a pensive look in her fierce eyes--eyes which had now lost in a great measure their savage expression, and which filled with soft maternal love when they rested on the straight slim form of her daughter. In the sordid lodging in Bloomsbury, in a gaudy dress, with her real nature unrestrained in any way, she had looked like a savage; but now, with all her feelings well under control, her sombre dress, and her demure look, she appeared quite civilized. The savage was there, however, all the same, and should occasion arise to excite her in any way, a keen observer could easily see that the thin veneer of civilization would vanish, and the true instinct of the uncivilized being would flash forth, with a force all the greater for suppression. Her voice also had altered, as it was no longer strident or harsh in its tones, and in replying to Kaituna's remark anent Tennyson, it was as soft and sweet as that of a Quakeress.
It is very beautiful in a mild way, she said quietly; "but I'm afraid I should grow weary of this everlasting tranquillity."
Oh, Mrs. Belswin, I'm sure that truer happiness can be found here than in the world.
I dare say you are right, Kaituna; but the sentiment sounds curious, coming from one so young.
It's the fault of my colonial training, replied Kaituna, with a smile. "Life in New Zealand is very quiet, you know. When I came home with papa I was quite bewildered by the noise and turmoil of London--every one rushing here and there--restless crowds in the streets, chattering women in the houses--no rest, no pause, no quiet. Oh, it was terrible."
And down here?
Down here it is charming. One can dream dreams in this delicious old place, and take life easily, not at the railroad speed of London folk.
You are too young for a hermit, Kaituna.
Oh, but I'm not a hermit, I assure you. I'm fond of gaiety. I adore balls and garden-parties. I'm never tired of riding and tennis-playing, but I can get all those in the country, and can live slowly, which I like. The hurry-skurry of town life would kill me.
You like England, then?
Oh, very much, very much indeed! It's a wonderful country; but my home has my dearest love. Life there is so pleasant, so steady-going. You can take pleasure at your own time, if you want to. Here in England it is all fever and excitement. When I stayed in London I felt as if it were a nightmare with the gas and glare and endless streets, with their endless crowds rushing on--on, without rest or pause. Ah, if you saw New Zealand I am sure you would like it. Do you know New Zealand?
No, answered Mrs. Belswin, quietly. "I do not know New Zealand; but I have been in Melbourne."
Ah, that's too much like London.
Say rather San Francisco. Melbourne is wonderfully like 'Frisco.
Are you an American, Mrs. Belswin?
Yes; I was born in New Orleans.
Then you are----
A Creole, finished Mrs. Belswin, quickly. "Yes, you can tell that from my appearance. I have black blood in my veins. In America it is thought a crime. Here it doesn't matter."
I've got black blood in my veins also, said Kaituna, with a flush in her olive-tinted cheek; "that is Maori blood. My mother was the granddaughter of a chief."
Mrs. Belswin moved a few steps away, as she could not trust herself to speak, so tumultuous were the feelings raging in her bosom. Her child--her own child, and yet she dare not take her to her bosom and tell her the truth. The girl's innocent words wounded her to the quick, and it needed all the stoical resignation of her savage nature to enable her to preserve a calm demeanour.
I don't remember my mother at all, went on Kaituna, idly leaning her arms on the terrace. "She died when I was a child; but I often picture her to myself."
And the picture? asked Mrs. Belswin, unsteadily, her face turned away.
Oh, a tall, beautiful woman, with dark eyes and haughty bearing. Proud to all, but loving to me. I once saw a picture of Pocahontas, and I always fancied my mother a woman like that--wild and free and majestic. Ah, it was a great sorrow to me that she died. I should have loved her so. I used to envy other girls when I saw them with their mothers, because I have none. Oh, it must be very, very beautiful to have a mother to take care of you--to whom you can appeal for comfort and sympathy; but--but--Mrs. Belswin, why, you are crying!
She was crying--crying bitterly, and the tears ran down her dark cheeks in great drops that showed how much she was moved by the girl's idle words--tears that were caused by the terrible agony of carrying on the part she was playing. Kaituna, in great wonder, approached her; but at the light touch of the girl's fingers the woman shrank back with a low cry of fear.
Don't touch me!--don't touch me, child!
Kaituna paused with a puzzled look on her face, upon which Mrs. Belswin dried her eyes hurriedly, and took the girl's hand.
I beg your pardon, Kaituna, she said, with forced composure, "but you must not mind me, my dear. I am not very well at present. My nerves are out of order."
I hope I have said nothing to vex you?
No, dear, no! But I--I had a little child of my own once, and--and--and she died.
Oh, I am so sorry! cried Kaituna, touched to the heart by this pathetic confession. "I should not have spoken as I did."
You did not know, my dear. It was not your fault. I lost my little girl many years ago, but the wound is quite fresh, and it bleeds on occasions. I am all right now, Kaituna--don't look so dismayed. We have all our skeletons, you know. Mine--mine is a little child!
Dear Mrs. Belswin, said Kaituna, touching her with tender fingers, "I have only known you a fortnight, it is true, but there is something about you that draws me to you. I don't know what it is, as I don't make friends easily, but with you, why, I feel as if I had known you all my life."
My dearest! replied Mrs. Belswin, taking the girl in her arms with fierce affection, "you do not know how happy your words have made me. If my daughter had lived, she would have been just like you now--just like you. Let me give you my love, dear--my dead love that has starved for so many years."
She pressed the girl to her breast, but Kaituna hesitated. As she had said, she was not ready in making new friends, but there was something in the tones of Mrs. Belswin's voice, something about the look in her eyes, in the pressure of her arms, that sent a thrill through her, and, hardly knowing what she did, with sudden impulse she kissed the woman on the mouth, upon which Mrs. Belswin, with an inarticulate cry, leant her face on the girl's shoulder and burst into tears.
Was it Nature that was working here to bring mother and daughter together?--Nature, that has her secret springs, her mysterious instincts, which enable those of one flesh to recognise one another by some hidden impulse. Who can tell? Science dissects the body, analyses the brain, gives hard and fast reasons for the emotions, but there is something that escapes her prying eyes, something that no one can describe, that no one has seen--a something which, obeying the laws of being, recognises its affinity in another body, and flies forth to meet it. We boasted scientists of the nineteenth century have discovered a great deal about that wonderful being--man, but there is one secret which is hidden from all save God Himself, and that is the secret of maternal instinct.
Suddenly they were disturbed by the sound of the gong, and hastily drying their tears--for Kaituna had been crying as much as Mrs. Belswin--they went in to breakfast.
Such a pleasant room, with bright, cheerful paper chintz-covered furniture, and the white cloth of the table covered with hearty country fare. Mrs. Belswin took her seat at the head of the table to pour out the coffee, and Kaituna sat at the side, looking over the bunch of homely flowers, brilliant among the dishes, out on to the fair country beyond. By the side of her plate Kaituna found a letter with the New Zealand postmark on it, and, knowing it came from her father, opened it at once.
Papa will be back in three months, she said, when she had finished reading it. "His business will not take him so long as he expected."
What is the business, dear? asked Mrs. Belswin, with her face bent over her plate.
Selling land. You know, my mother brought him a good deal of property, and he is now going to sell it.
Going to sell it! reiterated Mrs. Belswin, in angry surprise. "Why is he going to do that?"
Kaituna was rather astonished at her tone, on seeing which Mrs. Belswin hastened to excuse herself.
I beg your pardon, my dear, she said apologetically, "but I thought land in the colony was so very valuable?"
So it is; but papa desires to establish himself in England altogether now that he has come in for the title, so he wishes to sell his New Zealand property and invest the money in some other way; besides the value of property in the colony has decreased of late years.
You seem to be well up in the subject, Kaituna.
I could hardly help being so! Papa was always talking about the Government and their dealings with the land. You see, Mrs. Belswin, politics with us are more domestic than here. In England they deal with kings and governments, but there we attend to the welfare of the people--the parcelling out of the land, and all those kinds of things. I'm afraid I've got but a hazy idea of the true facts of the case, but you understand what I mean.
Oh, I understand, replied Mrs. Belswin, composedly--and so she did, a deal better than Kaituna herself. "So your papa is coming home in three months. I suppose you will be very pleased to see him?"
Oh, yes. I am very fond of my father. We are more like brother and sister than anything else. People say that papa is supercilious and haughty, but I never saw it myself.
He could hardly be so to you.
No! he is all that is good and kind. I try to make him as happy as possible, for it was a heavy blow to him when he lost my mother.
Mrs. Belswin turned away her head to conceal a sneer.
So I try to supply my mother's place as much as possible.
I'm sure you succeed, said Mrs. Belswin warmly; "he can hardly miss your mother when he has you beside him."
That's what he says, but of course I know he says it only to please me. A daughter cannot supply the place of a wife.
In this case it seems she can, said the lady caustically; "but what will he do when you marry?"
Kaituna blushed and cast down her eyes.
Well, I--I have not thought of marriage yet.
Oh, Kaituna!
No, really, said the girl, raising her clear eyes to Mrs. Belswin's face. "I should not think of marrying without gaining papa's consent."
Then you have not seen the prince yet?
The prince?
Yes, the fairy prince who is to awake the sleeping beauty.
Kaituna blushed again, and laughed in rather an embarrassed manner.
Dear Mrs. Belswin, what curious things you say, she replied evasively. "I have not seen any one in New Zealand I cared about, and since my arrival in England I have lived so quietly that I can hardly have met the fairy prince you speak of."
When the hour arrives the fairy prince comes with it, said Mrs. Belswin, oracularly. "My dear, you are too charming to remain with your father all your life, as I am sure he must acknowledge himself. Have the young men of to-day no eyes or no hearts that they can see my Kaituna without falling in love with her?"
I'm sure I don't know. No one has spoken to me of love yet.
Ah! it's not the speaking alone, dear! You are a woman, and the instinct of a woman can tell what a man means without him using his tongue.
But you see I am not versed in love lore.
My dear, you are a delightful girl in the first days of innocence. I am glad to see that the bloom of maidenhood is not rubbed off you by premature wisdom in love-affairs. A girl who flirts from her teens upwards, loses that delightful unconsciousness which is the great charm of a maiden. You have lived secluded in New Zealand. You are living secluded in England, and the world has passed you by. But the fairy prince will arrive, my dear, and his kiss will awaken you from the sleep of girlhood into the real life of womanly existence.
I thought such things only happened in novels.
No, dear, no. They happen around us every day. When you see a girl with a blushing face and a dreaming eye, or hear a young fellow singing gaily for very joy of life, you will know that love has come to them both, and they are telling each other the beautiful story, in the full belief that such story is quite original, though Adam told it to Eve in the garden of Eden.
It sounds delightful, sighed the girl, pensively. "I suppose you are telling me your experience."
My experience, echoed Mrs. Belswin, flushing acutely. "No, child, no. I have had my romance, like all women, but it ended sadly."
I understand, said Kaituna quietly; "you are thinking of your lost child."
Mrs. Belswin was about to make some passionate rejoinder, but checked herself suddenly, and went on eating her breakfast with forced composure.
Kaituna also became silent, thinking over what had been said, and there was no further conversation until the butler entered and handed the girl a letter.
From the vicarage, miss, he said ceremoniously, and retired.
The letter proved to be from Toby Clendon, being a few lines announcing the fact that Mr. Maxwell was staying with him, and that they would both come on that afternoon to Thornstream to renew the acquaintance so pleasantly begun at Marsh-on-the Sea.
What is the matter? asked Mrs. Belswin, staring in some astonishment at the rosy face and bright eyes of the girl. "Nothing is wrong, I hope?"
No! no! I'm sure I don't look as if anything were wrong. It's this letter from Mr. Clendon.
Mr. Clendon? repeated Mrs. Belswin, taking the letter handed to her by Kaituna. "Is that the charming young fellow we met the other day?"
Yes!
Oh, I see he has a friend staying with him, and they are going to call this afternoon. Kaituna, I am a sorceress--a witch, my dear, I should have been burnt in the middle ages as a practitioner of the black art. Give me your hand.
What for, asked Kaituna in some confusion, as Mrs. Belswin took her by the wrist.
For a magical ceremony! There! Now tell me. Is Mr. Clendon the prince?
No! No! No!
That's very emphatic. I mistrust emphasis in a girl. Well, we will dismiss Mr. Clendon, though he is very delightful. What about Mr. Maxwell? Ah! Now I know! Your pulse leaped at the name. Your face is rosy, your eyes are bright. By the white witchcraft I practise I interpret these signs. You are in love, my dear.
No!
And with Mr. Maxwell.
Kaituna snatched away her hands with a little laugh and covered her burning face.
You the sleeping beauty, said Mrs. Belswin, with mock severity. "My dear, your sleep is over. The true prince has arrived and the hundred years are at an end."
The girl made no reply, but between her fingers one bright eye looked forth at her chaperon.
I will talk to Mr. Maxwell this afternoon, and see if he is a man worthy of you.
Oh, I'm sure he is.
Ah! you have betrayed yourself. It is the prince after all. But what about your father?
My father will not cross me in this.
Of course not, provided your prince is rich.
Rich or poor; it doesn't matter. Papa will deny me nothing. He is the kindest man in the world.
Humph! muttered Mrs. Belswin under her breath. "He has altered since my time, then."
"In a garden fair you met me,
And I told you all my woes.
Then, in case you might forget me,
I bestowed on you a rose.
"
Love had captive to you brought me, For I felt his arrow's smart; So in mercy quick you sought me, And bestowed on me a heart.
"
Oh, wonderful! wonderful! and thrice wonderful was the soul of Vicar Clendon seeing that in this mummified body, battered by the assaults of sixty years, it still kept itself fresh and green in the very heyday of perennial youth. In spite of his grubbing among dusty books; in spite of the hardening process of continually celebrating marriages; in spite of the pessimistic ideas which come with old age, he could still feel sympathetic thrills when he heard the sighings of two lone lovers. He should have frowned and looked askance on such youthful foolery; he should have forgotten the days when Plancus was consul, and he wooed Amaryllis with bashful courtesy; he should have preached sermons a mile long on the sin of going to the temple of Venus, but, strange to tell, he did not. This withered old husk encased a fresh young soul, and the venerable clergyman felt a boyish pleasure in the courting of these young men. Is the age of miracles past, when such things can happen--when sober age can sympathize with frolic youth without pointing out the follies of the world, as seen telescopically from a distance of sixty years? No! oh, no! in spite of cynicism, and pessimism, and various other isms, all belonging to the same detestable class, there are still those among us whose souls bloom freshly, though cased in antique frames.
Your father, said Archie Maxwell, after making the acquaintance of the bookworm, "your father, Toby, is a brick."
My father, stated Toby solemnly, "is not a brick, for a brick is hard, and the pater is anything but that. On the contrary, he is as soft as butter. If you wish to express approval of my progenitor, O quoter of slang, say that he is the ninth wonder of the world--which he is."
And why, O utterer of dark sayings?
Because he is an old man who can see his son in love without calling him a fool.
This was true, and Toby appreciated the novelty of possessing such a father; demonstrating such appreciation by being a most attentive son, which exhilarated the old gentleman to such a degree that he became younger every day in appearance: thereby proving this saying of a forgotten sage to be true--
The body takes its complexion from the soul, not the soul from the body.
Archie Maxwell, having at the cost of many lies postponed his trip to Buenos Ayres, has duly arrived, and, strange to say, the vicar takes a great fancy to him. After living for so many years with no other company than a rusty housekeeper and a library of rustier books, he is quite delighted at the presence of two young men in the house, and actually foregoes his after-dinner sleep in order to talk with them while they smoke their pipes. Archie tells him all his history, of his travels, his struggles, his income, his aspirations, his love-affairs--in fact, everything about himself, and the old man's heart warms towards this handsome, graceless youth, who he sees has the makings of a fine man about him. He listens sympathetically to the endless catalogue of Kaituna's charms, to the hopes and fears and heart-burnings which are part of the disease of love, and then undergoes the same thing in duplicate from Toby. Indeed, so genial is he that both the young men wax eloquent on the merits of their respective Dulcineas, and spare him no detail, however small, of their perfections.
As to Toby's suit, Mr. Clendon thinks it will prosper if Thomasina is that way inclined, as Mrs. Valpy is a widow and would be only too glad to see her daughter in the safe keeping of such an excellent young man; but when questioned about Archie's wooing, the sage is doubtful. He has seen Sir Rupert and thinks him haughty and supercilious--not at all the kind of man to bestow his daughter on a pauper engineer, however good his prospects. The best thing he can do is to bid Archie wait and hope. If Kaituna loves him, parental opposition may be overcome; but the course of true love never did run smooth, and Archie must be prepared for trouble. But as gold is refined by passing through fire, so both these young lovers, if frizzled up in the furnace of affection, may benefit by the ordeal, and prove their mutual passions to be strong and enduring, whereas at present it may merely be the effect of juxtaposition and a desire to pass the time.
Archie is horrified at this flippant view of the case being taken by venerable age, and vows by the stars, the moon--yea--by the heart of his sweet mistress, that the love he bears her is not of to-day or to-morrow, but of all time, and that nothing shall prevent him marrying the object of his passion, even if he should have to adopt that last resource of young Lochinvar--a runaway marriage.
So things stand at present, and Toby sends a note over to Kaituna, asking permission to renew their acquaintance with her; then, without waiting for such permission to be granted--the note being a mere matter of form--sets off Thornstream-wards with his friend Archibald.
Before they start on this errand of charity on the part of Toby, and wooing on the part of Archibald, the sage discourseth.
You are going to seek the Garden of Hesperides, but there you will find no golden fruit. No; the dragons are better employed. They watch two beautiful maidens, and eye jealously wandering knights, such as yourselves, who would steal them. I am speaking not of the dragons, but of the maidens. Nevertheless, from this quest I know not how you will return. The dragon who guards the princess of Tobias is amenable to reason, and if the son succeeds in gaining the love of the princess the father may gain the consent of the dragon. But the other dragon, Mr. Maxwell, is a fire-breathing beast, and even if you succeed in overcoming this first danger your princess is still beyond your reach, because of her father. True, at present he is away, but when he returns, young man--oh, when he returns!
When he does it will be too late; for I shall have gained the heart of his daughter.
True. When the steed is stolen it is useless to shut the stable-door. Go, Mr. Maxwell, I see you have all the egotism and confidence of youth necessary to enable you to achieve this quest successfully.
So they went.
It was a bright summer day, and the sun shone brightly in a blue sky dappled with fleecy clouds. Gently blew the wind through the trees, rustling their foliage, wherein sang the joyous birds. Thrush and black-bird and ouzel and redcap piped gaily on the swaying boughs in very gladness of heart. At intervals there sounded the mellow voice of the cuckoo, and from the blue sky rained the song of the lark, invisible from the verdant earth. In the quaint gardens of Thornstream Manor bloomed the flowers--roses, roses everywhere in rich profusion, from pale cold buds to deeply crimsoned blossoms. A sudden flame of scarlet geraniums burns along the foot of the garden wall, and among their cool green leaves flash the orange circles of the marigolds. Rosemary dark and sombre, old man, with its thin leaves like grey-green seaweed, form beds of reposeful tint, overlaid by brilliant coloured flowers, scarlet and blue and yellow; but the prevailing tint is white. Foxgloves with delicate white bells round which hum the noisy bees--scattered clusters of pale flushed roses, other flowers with white petals all streaked and dappled and spotted with innumerable tints. A beautiful garden, truly, and the thievish wind stealing odours from the profusion of sweets carried them on languid wings to Mrs. Belswin and Kaituna, sitting on the terrace.
They had erected a great Japanese umbrella at one end, and were sitting beneath it in basket chairs. Between them stood a small table, on which lay some feminine work and a yellow-backed novel, but neither the work nor the novel were in requisition, for both ladies were chatting to Toby and Archie, as they lounged near in their cool-looking gray suits. Both gentlemen, by kind permission of the feminine half of the party, were smoking cigarettes, and Mrs. Belswin, knowing how it would shock Kaituna, bravely suppressed a desire to have one also.
Very handsome she looked in her dark dress, with a bunch of crimson poppies at her breast, but handsomer still looked Kaituna, her pale olive face delicately flushed as she toyed with a heap of pale white blossoms, and talked gaily to Archibald.
I think instead of spoiling those flowers you might make me a button-hole, said the audacious Archie in a small voice.
Kaituna looked doubtful.
You have a button-hole.
One of my own gathering, he said, throwing it away. "No man can arrange flowers; now you being a woman----"
Can arrange them charmingly. Don't pay me any more compliments, Mr. Maxwell.
Well, I won't, if you give me a button-hole.
I have nothing here worth making up, said Miss Pethram, rising suddenly and letting all the flowers fall on the terrace. "Come down with me to the garden. Mrs. Belswin, Mr. Maxwell and I are going to pick flowers."
Very well, dear, replied Mrs. Belswin, languidly, "I do not mind so long as I am not expected to come also."
Two's company, muttered Toby softly.
What did you say? asked the chaperon quickly.
"
Oh, nothing. We'll leave you two here to talk,"" said Kaituna, gaily. ""Come, Mr. Maxwell, you shall choose your own flowers.""
"
They descended the steps into the garden.
I'd rather you did so.
I--oh, I should not know which to choose.
Then, suppose I suggest something. A red rose, which means love, and a white rose, which means silence.
And the red and white roses together?
Mean silent love.
Oh! I see you are versed in the language of flowers. Does it form part of the education of an engineer?
No, but it does of every young man. Thank you, Miss Pethram. Two red roses and no white one, that means double love. The love of a girl for a boy, two buds; of a woman for a man, full blown blossoms.
Why do you not say the love of a man for a woman?
Eh! ah, well you know, ladies first always. Let me ask you to put these two red rosebuds in my coat.
Kaituna hesitated a moment, and looked down at the green grass, seeking for some excuse. None feasible enough came into her mind, so, still with downcast eyes, she took the flowers from his outstretched hand and placed them in his coat. He was taller than she, and could just espy her face flushing under the broad-brimmed straw hat, and she must have felt the devouring passion of his eyes instinctively, for her hands busied with the flowers trembled.
You have given me no white rose, I see, said Archie, in an unsteady voice, "so I am not compelled to keep silence. May I speak?"
No--no--oh, no!
She had finished fastening those obstinate flowers with a pin, and they had revenged themselves by wounding her finger with a thorn.
Oh! Oh!
Miss Pethram, what's the matter? Oh, have you hurt your finger?
Yes, but it's not very sore.
Why, it's bleeding, he cried in alarm, taking her hand; "let me bind my handkerchief round it."
Oh, no!
Oh, yes! You must obey your doctor. There! that's better.
He still held her hand, and before she was aware of what he was doing, bent down suddenly and kissed it.
Oh! she cried, blushing, "you must not do that."
Kaituna!
Mr. Maxwell! If you say another word I'll go back to my chaperon.
But----
I won't hear another word! So there!
Archie looked down disconsolately, not knowing what to say, when suddenly he heard a gay laugh in the distance, and on raising his head saw a white figure flitting away across the lawn towards the sun-dial. He hesitated a moment, and then laughed softly.
Faint heart never won fair lady.
Certainly nobody could accuse Archie Maxwell of being faint-hearted, for he ran after his sweet enemy with the utmost courage. When he reached her she was standing by the sun-dial, and the two spectators on the terrace saw the two actors suddenly appear on the stage. One spectator--a woman--frowned; the other--a man--laughed.
Don't go, Mrs. Belswin, said Toby, seeing she was about to rise. "We are having such a jolly conversation."
That's a very artful remark, but it doesn't deceive me.
Artful! I assure you, Mrs. Belswin, I am the most unsophisticated of men--a perfect child!
So I should judge from your description of London life, said Mrs. Belswin, drily, leaning back in her chair. "But perhaps you are not aware, Mr. Clendon, that I am Miss Pethram's chaperon?"
Happy Miss Pethram. I wish you were mine.
I'm afraid the task of keeping you in order would be beyond my powers.
Do you think so? observed Toby, sentimentally. He was a young man who would have flirted with his grandmother in default of any one better, and Mrs. Belswin being a handsome woman, this fickle youth improved the shining hours. Mrs. Belswin, however, saw through him with ease, not having gone through the world without learning something of the male sex, so she laughed gaily, and turned the conversation with feminine tact.
You are a good friend, Mr. Clendon.
I am! I am everything that is good!
Your trumpeter is dead, I see.
Yes, poor soul! He died from overwork.
Mrs. Belswin laughed again at Toby's verbal dexterity, and then began to talk about Maxwell, which was the subject nearest her heart. The lady wished to know all about Archie's position, so as to see if he was a suitable lover for Kaituna, and the man being a firm friend of the love-lorn swain, lied calmly, with that great ease which only comes from long experience.
Mr. Maxwell is a great friend of yours, isn't he?
Oh, yes! We were boys together,
You're not much more now. What is his profession?
He's an engineer! Awfully clever. He'd have invented the steam-engine if Stephenson hadn't been before him.
Would he indeed? What a pity he wasn't born before the age of steam. By the way, how is he getting on in his profession?
Splendidly! He's been in China, building railways, and at the end of the year he's going out to Buenos Ayres to build a bridge.
He's got no money, I suppose?
Well, no! He's not rich; but he's got great expectations.
Has he? But you can't marry on great expectations.
No; I can't, but Archie can.
Indeed! You forget there are always two people to a bargain of marriage.
There's double the number in this case.
How so?
There's Archie, Miss Pethram, Mrs. Belswin, and Sir Rupert Pethram.
There was a pause after this, as the lady was pondering over the situation. Toby had his eyes fastened on the two figures at the dial, and he smiled. Mrs. Belswin, looking up suddenly, caught him smiling, and spoke sharply--
Mr. Clendon! I believe you to be a sensible man. If my belief is correct, stop laughing and listen to me.
Toby became as serious as a judge at once.
I am not blind, continued Mrs. Belswin, looking at him, "and I can see plainly what is going on. As you know, I am responsible to Sir Rupert Pethram for his daughter's well-being, and this sort of thing won't do."
What sort of thing? asked Toby, innocently.
Oh, you know well enough. Mr. Maxwell making love to my charge is ridiculous. Sir Rupert would never consent to his daughter marrying a poor engineer, and I'm not going to have Kaituna's happiness marred for a foolish love-affair.
But what can I do?
Discontinue your visits here, and tell your friend to do the same.
He won't do what I ask him.
Then I'll take Kaituna away.
It's no use. He'll follow. Archie's the most obstinate fellow in the world, and he's too much in love with Miss Pethram to give her up without a struggle. Why, do you know, Mrs. Belswin, he gave up a good billet at Buenos Ayres because it would have taken him away from her.
I thought you said he was going out there at the end of the year?
So he is. But it's not half such a good billet. The one he has given up is worth two hundred pounds a year more.
And he gave it up for the sake of Kaituna?
Yes! He's madly in love with her.
He was very foolish to jeopardise his success in life because of a love-affair, particularly when nothing can come of it.
But why shouldn't anything come of it? I'm sure you will be a friend to these lovers.
These lovers, repeated Mrs. Belswin jealously. "Do you think Kaituna loves him."
I'm sure of it.
You seem very learned in love, Mr. Clendon; perhaps you are in love yourself.
A blush that had been absent for years crept into the bronze of Toby's cheeks.
"
Perhaps I am. I may as well tell the truth and shame the---- Mr. Clendon!""
"
Oh, you understand. I am in love, so is Archie. He loves your charge; I love another girl. Be a kind, good friend, Mrs. Belswin, and help Archie to make Miss Pethram Mrs. Maxwell.
What about Sir Rupert?
Oh, you can persuade him, I'm sure.
Mrs. Belswin frowned.
I have no influence with Sir Rupert, she said shortly, and rose to her feet. "Come with me, Mr. Clendon, and we will go to Kaituna."
You won't help them?
I can't, I tell you, she replied impatiently. "From all I can see, your friend seems a true-hearted man, but I shall have to know him a long time before I can say he is fit for my--for Miss Pethram. But even if I approve it is of no use. Sir Rupert is the person to give his consent."
Well?
And he'll never give it.
Toby felt depressed at this, and followed Mrs. Belswin meekly to the couple at the sun-dial. The said couple, both nervous and flushed, to all appearances having been talking--Chinese metaphysics.
Kaituna, don't you think these gentlemen would like some afternoon tea? said Mrs. Belswin sweetly.
I dare say they would, replied Kaituna with great composure. "What do you say, Mr. Clendon?"
She did not address herself to Archie, who stood sulkily by the dial following the figures with his finger. Toby glanced from one to the other, saw they were both embarrassed, and promptly made up his mind how to act.
I'm afraid we won't have time, Miss Pethram, he, replied, glancing at his watch. "It's nearly four, and we have some distance to walk."
Well, if you won't have tea you will take a glass of wine, said Mrs. Belswin, looking at Archie; then, without waiting for a reply, she made him follow her, and walked towards the house.
Toby followed with Kaituna, and surely never were maid or man more unsuited to each other. He was bold, she was shy. He talked, she remained silent, till they were in the drawing-room, and then the feminine element broke forth.
Mr. Clendon, she said, in a whisper.
Yes! speak low if you speak love.
What do you mean?
It's not mine. It's Shakespeare's. By the way, you wanted to say something.
I do! Tell him I didn't mean it.
She flitted away and Toby gasped.
Tell who? Didn't mean what? Things are getting mixed. Thank you, I'll take a glass of sherry.
How we all act in this world. Here were four people, each with individual ideas regarding the situation, and yet they chatted about the weather, the crops, the country--about everything except what they were thinking about. Mrs. Belswin and Toby did most of the talking, but Kaituna and Archie put in a word every now and then for the sake of appearances.
At last the young men took their departure, and when left alone with Kaituna, Mrs. Belswin drew her caressingly to her breast.
I like your prince, my dear.
I don't.
Oh, Kaituna, you've been quarrelling.
I haven't! He has! He doesn't understand me.
Does a man ever understand a woman?
Of course! If he loves her.
Then in this case there ought to be no misunderstanding, for I am sure he loves you.
Oh, do you think so? Do you really think so?
My dear, said Mrs. Belswin, as the girl hid her face on the breast of the chaperon, "I am quick at judging a man. All women are. It's instinct. I think Mr. Maxwell an honourable young fellow, and very charming. He would make you a good husband, but your father will never consent to your marrying a poor man."
Oh, you don't know papa.
Don't I? said Mrs. Belswin grimly, and closed the discussion.
This was one side of the question--and the other?
We have, said Archie, in deep despair, "been to the Garden of Hesperides, and the dragon has beaten us?"
Have you quarrelled with your mash? asked Toby, leaving allegory for common sense.
My mash! Toby, you are growing vulgar. I did not quarrel with Kaituna, but we had words.
Several hundred, I should think. What was the row?
How coarse you are! said the refined Archie. "There was no row. I spoke of myself in the third person."
When there are only two people, and those are of the opposite sex, you shouldn't introduce a third person. Well, what did you say?
I asked her whether she would accept a poor man if he proposed to her.
And she said?
She said 'no.'
Archie's face was tragic in its deep gloom, so Toby comforted him.
Old boy!
Yes, said the despairing lover.
She said she didn't mean it.
What! Did she say that to you?
Yes.
Toby, cried Archie, with great fervour, "I love that girl!"
So you've said a hundred times.
And I'll marry her!
Oh, will you? said Toby, grinning. "I can paint your future: a little cottage, a nice income, a charming girl----"
Yes, yes!
Don't you wish you may get it?
Oh, Toby, if you only knew----
I do know. I know all about it, so don't rhapsodise. And I know another thing; I'm hungry, so hurry up.
"The wisest of plans
A letter upsets,
The penny post bans
The wisest of plans
Tho' woman's tho' man's,
And then one regrets
The wisest of plans
A letter upsets."
About three weeks after the visit of Archie and his friend, Mrs. Belswin was seated on the fallen trunk of a tree in Thornstream Park, meditating deeply over two letters lying on her lap. Around her the heavy foliage of the trees rustled in the chilly morning air, above her the sun shot golden arrows from the blue sky, and below her feet the lush grass, starred with delicate woodland flowers, sloped gently down to a babbling brook, the brown waters of which rippled noisily over its smooth stones.
But Mrs. Belswin, with a frown on her face, paid no attention to these things, being occupied with disagreeable thoughts, evoked by the letters aforesaid; and after a pause she took up one impatiently, in order to read it for the second time.
"
Carissima Mia, Why have you not written to me for so long? Every day I say, 'She will send to me a letter,' and every day I find the postman comes not. This is not right conduct to him who adores thee, my Lucrezia, and there is fear in my heart that I may lose thee. I am now singing at the Theatre Folly, in an opera comique called 'Sultana Fatima,' and they pay me well, as they should, seeing I leave the grand Italian Opera for this street music. But that my English is so good, I would not have been the chief tenor here. It is not hard to sing, and I am content since I waste not my time and am near thee. But thou, oh my star adorable, must not stay long from him who hungers for thy smile. When does the illustrious husband come again? for I know that he will drive thee back to me, and we will go at once to my beautiful Italy. Send me a letter and say when thou wilt come to me, or I swear that I will come to thee in the country, in order to behold thee again. Thou hast seen thy child those many months; now I will that thou should'st return. I wait thy answer saying thou wilt return, or I myself will behold thee in thy village. Cara signora, I kiss your hand,
""
Thine unhappy Stephano.""
"
When she had finished this, Mrs. Belswin let it fall on her lap, with a shrug of her shoulders, and picked up the other letter, which consisted of two lines----
Pethram returns in three weeks, so unless you want trouble you'd better clear out.--A. D.
Had I? said the reader, sneering. "I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Dombrain. I'll leave this place when I choose. So Rupert Pethram is coming home, and I, if I please, can see him. Husband and wife will meet again after twenty years of separation. How dramatic the interview will be! I can well imagine it, and yet I am not sure it will take place. I cannot retain my position as chaperon to Kaituna if he is in the house. I cannot disguise myself, for Kaituna would ask the reason--besides, I'm too impulsive to act a part. If I go I part from my daughter for ever; if I stay, Rupert will certainly recognise me, and then he will force me to leave the house. What a terrible position!--to be driven away after a glimpse of paradise; and yet I can do nothing to help myself--positively nothing."
She stopped short, with a feeling of deep anger at her helplessness, but she did not attempt to disguise the truth from herself--she could do nothing. The law was on the side of her husband, and she could never hope to regain the position she had forfeited by her former folly. 'As to Stephano Ferrari----
He'll do what he says, she muttered, glancing at the Italian's flowery letter. "If I don't go to him, he will come to me, and, with his hot foreign blood, may create a disturbance. I wouldn't mind for myself, but Kaituna--I must consider Kaituna. If I refuse to go with Stephano, he is quite the sort of man to tell her all, and that would exile me from my daughter more than anything else. Rupert would make me leave the house; Stephano would lose his temper at what he calls my obstinacy--I should not care; but if Kaituna knew that I--her mother--was alive, that I had lost my place in the world and become an outcast, she would scorn me--my own child! Oh, I could not bear that, it would kill me!"
With her face in her hands she rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, and when she recovered herself somewhat, her countenance, haggard and worn, showed how bitterly she felt the position in which she was placed.
If I could only die! I wish I could! Hell cannot be worse than the life I live now. I am near my child, yet dare not tell her I am her mother; but soon I shall have to go away, and be denied even the poor consolation of being near her. If only I had the courage to kill myself! But there, I have the courage, and would die willingly, were it not for Kaituna. Oh, God! God! I have sinned deeply, but my punishment is very heavy--heavier than I can bear!
She had risen to her feet, and was walking to and fro in the narrow space of the glade, swinging her arms in a very storm of passionate grief. The mask she had worn for the last few weeks so carefully was now thrown aside, and she abandoned herself to her agony of despair in the most reckless manner. She wept, she cried, she raved, she flung herself on the ground--in fact, she gave herself up wholly to her mood of the moment. Truly the quiet English glade had never seen a stranger sight than that of this savage woman abandoning herself to transports of impotent fury.
Why am I so helpless? she cried furiously, lifting up her arms to the blue sky. "If I have sinned, I have been punished. For twenty years I have borne my punishment, but I can do so no longer. She is my child--mine--mine--mine! They cannot take her from me. I am her mother! God gave her to me, and man shall not take her away! I love her better than her cold fiend of a father; she is my life, my soul, my existence! If I leave her I shall die. I will not leave her! I will not leave her! No! no! no!"
She stamped furiously on the ground, gnashing her teeth with rage, and staring at the sky with fierce face and clenched hands; but after a time her fury exhausted itself, and, sitting down on the fallen tree again, she began to weep bitterly.
My little child! oh, my little child! I can do nothing. I must leave you, and go away alone. Ferrari loves me, but what is his love compared to yours, dear. You have kissed me, you have placed your arms round my neck, you have given my starved heart the love it desired; and now--now I must give up all, and go away--for ever! Oh, cruel! cruel! And I can do nothing!
Rocking herself to and fro, she wept quietly for a time; then, drying her tears, put the letters in her pocket and rose to go.
I must not give way like this, she said to herself as she left the glade. "It will do no good. I must see how I can manage to retain my position. Rupert, Stephano, Dombrain--they are all against me. Three against one, but I'll try my hardest to conquer them. It's a woman's wit against men's brutality; but I'll fight--I'll fight and win. If I win, I gain all. If I lose--oh, God! if I lose!--I surrender everything."
The morning was very chilly, in spite of its being summer, and Mrs. Belswin, having all the love for warmth inherent in those born in the tropics, shivered at the cold east wind, but feeling too upset to return direct to the house and face Kaituna's inquiring gaze, made up her mind to take a brisk walk. She wore a heavy sealskin mantle, and thrusting her hands into the deep pockets, walked quickly against the wind, thinking deeply over her position.
It was truly a terrible dilemma in which she now found herself. Exiled from her daughter for so many years, and all through her own fault, yet she had been quite unable to stifle the natural instinct in her heart. It may be that the desire to be near her daughter constantly was all the stronger because she knew it was out of the question, and the enforced suppression of her love in her own breast had given the pleasure of living with Kaituna, even as a servant, a peculiar charm of its own. It will doubtless be argued by some people that a woman who could give up her child for the sake of a lover, could not have had much maternal instinct; but then it must be recollected that Mrs. Belswin had then acted on the impulse of a moment in doing so, and had regretted her folly ever since. When she thought of all she had lost for one moment of folly it made her mad with rage, and she would have sacrificed anything to regain her forfeited position.
Thanks to her knowledge of how matters stood, and her own dexterity, she had been enabled to gain her ends for at least some months, but now her husband was coming home again she knew that she would have to seek refuge in flight. She was a bold woman, a determined woman, and all her life's happiness was at stake, yet she knew it was perfectly useless to appeal to her husband for pity or help. By her own act she had forfeited her right to approach him, and the act had brought its own bitter punishment, by robbing her of the delight of gratifying her strong maternal instinct. Like a tiger who desires more blood when he has once tasted it, Mrs. Belswin had just experienced sufficient delight in being near her child to make her passionately regret having to depart. Plan after plan she thought of and rejected as useless, because she saw quite plainly that she could do nothing against the position held by her husband. Law, society, morality were all against her, and she could only stand afar off weeping bitterly as she surveyed the paradise from which she had banished herself.
Oh, I could kill Rupert! I could kill him, she thought madly, "but that would do no good. If I thought it would I should not hesitate. I dare not tell Kaituna the truth, because she would shrink from me. Rupert, once he knows I am here will not let me remain. If I sold my soul it would be useless. I can do nothing except bear my punishment till I die."
Suddenly an idea came into her head. Suppose Rupert Pethram were to die before he came to Thornstream. In that case she would still retain her position, and be happy for the rest of her life. But then there was no chance of him dying--a healthy, strong man. And unless something happened he would return to Thornstream and turn her out on the world.
If the ship would only go down! If God would only unchain the winds of heaven and dash the ship to pieces on the rocks.
Mrs. Belswin, as it will be seen, was not a religious woman when she thought thus, and was willing to sacrifice dozens of human lives in order to get rid of her enemy. It was simply Balzac's mandarin over again, and Mrs. Belswin, with her savage disregard of human life, would have sacrificed all the mandarins in China, yea, China itself, if by so doing she could have retained her position undisturbed.
However, there was but small possibility of either mandarin or ship perishing to please her, so she began to wonder in her own mind how she could get rid of Pethram before he could arrive at Thornstream. Ah, if Stephano Ferrari----
Stephano Ferrari! The idea came to her like an inspiration, and she hurriedly thought out a plan. Ferrari loved her, he would do anything to get her to marry him. Well, she would do so provided he got rid of Pethram and secured her position with her daughter. Murder! no, not murder, but suppose Pethram disappeared? Then----
Her brain was in a whirl, her throat was dry with excitement, and she leaned against a fence for a few minutes to keep herself from falling, for the earth seemed spinning round her and the sky red as blood before her eyes. With an effort she pulled herself together and looked around.
Mrs. Belk's cottage, she said, with a gasp of relief! "I'll go in and rest."
"The marble statue of an antique god
May win our admiration for a time,
Seeing it lacks not any outward grace,
But stands a type of flesh idealised.
Yet as we gaze in silent wonderment,
We weary of the irresponsive stone,
Because the cold perfection wants a soul."
It was without doubt a charming cottage--such as one reads of in a fairy tale. Clay walls, thatched roof, wide diamond-paned casements, and twisted chimney, with all the violent colours subdued to a pleasant neutral tint by the sun and rain, while ivy, rose-trees and wistaria clambered over all, enclosing it in a network of greenery.
And the garden--oh, it was a most delightful garden; not too neat, but all the handiwork of man softened by the gentle touch of nature. Tall hollyhocks, odorous stocks, crimson-tipped daisies, flaunting dahlias, and staring sunflowers grew together in riotous sweetness, breaking bounds here and there as they nodded over the low white fence and bent across the narrow path leading up to the rose-wreathed trellis of the porch. There was an apple-tree, too, on one side--a gnarled, moss-tufted apple-tree, already snowy with white blossoms, and on the other a low-branched cherry-tree, looking like a frosted twelfth cake. Pigeons fluttered around the eaves of the cottage, fowls strutted among the flowers, and over all blazed the hot sun of summer from the cloud-dappled sky. It was really charming in its rustic picturesqueness, and Mrs. Belswin, pausing at the gate, looked regretfully at this vision of bucolic ease so far removed from her own feverish existence.
If I had been a village girl I might have been a good woman, she thought, walking up to the porch; "but I daresay I should have tired of this innocent sweetness and gone up to the evil life of London, as all village beauties have done."
On knocking at the door it was opened shortly by a tiny woman, old, shrivelled, and evil-looking enough to have been the witch of the cottage. Not that Mrs. Belk was ill-looking; on the contrary, she must have been pretty when young, for she still retained a sufficiency of beauty to warrant a second glance; but there was a restless look in her dark eyes, a settled sneer on her thin lips, and a generally discontented expression on her face which repelled the onlooker. Mrs. Belswin had an intuitive capability of reading faces, and the first glance she threw on this little figure with the withered face put her at once on her guard. On her guard against a cottager! Mrs. Belswin would have laughed at the idea. Still, the fact remains that Mrs. Belk bore her character in her face, and Mrs. Belswin at once put herself on her guard against Mrs. Belk. Hardly probable that these two women would meet again. The cottager could never have it in her power to harm the lady; but in spite of the absurdity of the situation, Mrs. Belswin, with that inherent suspicion created by a long life of duplicity and watchfulness, did not think it beneath her dignity to pick and choose her words while talking to this humble woman, in case chance should turn her into a possible enemy.
I beg your pardon, she said slowly; "but I am very tired, and would like to rest."
There's a public a little way on, ma'am, replied Mrs. Belk, respectfully, by no means inclined to entertain a stranger.
I prefer to rest here, said Mrs. Belswin, coolly. "You know me, I daresay--Miss Pethram's companion."
Mrs. Belsin? said the old woman, doubtfully.
Let the lady come in, mother, remarked the slow soft voice of a man inside the cottage. "Don't you see she looks tired?"
Whereupon Mrs. Belk with manifest reluctance moved to one side, and Miss Pethram's companion entered the room to find herself face to face with the handsomest man she had ever seen. He offered her a chair in silence, and she sat down thankfully, while Mrs. Belk closed the door, and the rustic Apollo stood leaning against the table looking at their visitor.
Handsome! yes; splendidly handsome this man, in a massive Herculean fashion. One who would be called a magnificent animal; for there was no intellect in the fresh-coloured face, no intelligence in the bright blue eyes, and his whole figure had but beauty and symmetry after the fashion of a brute. He was very tall--over six feet--with long limbs, a great breadth of chest, and a small, well-shaped head covered with crisp locks of curly golden hair. His skin was browned by the sun, he had a well-shaped nose, sleepy blue eyes, and his mouth and chin were hidden by a magnificent golden beard which swept his chest. Nature had lavished her gift of physical beauty on this man, but the casket contained no jewel, for the soul which would have lent light to the eyes, expression to the mouth, and noble bearing to the body, was absent, and Samson Belk was simply a fine animal whom one would admire like a soulless picture, but tire of in a few moments. Mrs. Belswin's first thought was, "What a handsome man!" her second, "What a brute he would be to the woman who loved him!"
They were a curious couple, the little withered mother and the tall handsome son, dissimilar enough in appearance to negative the relationship except for the expression of the face; for there, in the countenance of the man, appeared the same expression that pervaded the face of the woman. The eyes were not so restless, because they had rather a sleepy expression, the sneer on the lips was hidden by the drooping moustache, and the general look was more of ill-humour than discontent: but in spite of the physical difference between them, no one could have helped noticing, by the worst traits of the woman appearing in the man, that this splendid specimen of humanity was the offspring of this dwarfish feminine personality.
You are Sir Rupert's head bailiff, are you not? said Mrs. Belswin, when she had sufficiently admired her host.
Yes, madam, I have that honour.
He spoke in a slow sleepy voice, eminently attractive, and suited to his appearance; a voice which, in its languor and oily softness, had an accent of refinement and culture. Yet this man was a simple rustic, a bailiff, one of the peasant class. It was most perplexing; and Mrs. Belswin, clever woman of the world as she was, felt herself puzzled. She was a woman and inquisitive, so she set herself to work to solve this problem by a series of artful questions.
Have you been a bailiff here long?
About four years, madam. I was bailiff to Sir Robert, and when Sir Rupert came into the title he kindly kept me on.
I should think you were fitted for better things.
Belk gazed at her in a slow, bovine fashion, and a spark of admiration flashed into his sleepy eyes as he looked at this stately woman who spoke in such a friendly manner.
It's very kind of you to say so, madam, but I have no one to say a good word for me.
Ah! the rich never say a good word for the poor, my lady, said Mrs. Belk, with fawning deprecation. "If looks go for anything, my Samson ought to live in a palace. He's the finest wrestler in all the county, and the best shot, and the most daring rider----"
And the poorest man, finished Samson, with a coarse laugh, which betrayed his real nature. "Aye, aye, mother, if I'd money to play the swell, I'd cut a dash with the best of these fine, lily-handed gents."
What would you do? asked Mrs. Belswin, curious to find out how different this man's soul was to his body.
Do! echoed the giant, folding his arms; "why, madam, I'd keep a fine stable, and race my horses at the Derby. I'd marry a lady, and have a fine house with servants, and the finest of wine to drink and food to eat--that's what I'd do."
A very modest ambition, truly, said Mrs. Belswin, with a scarcely concealed sneer. "I presume you would not cultivate your brains."
I've had enough schooling, growled Belk, stroking his beard. "Mother made me learn things, and a fine time I had of it."
You were never a good boy, Samson, said his mother, shaking her head with a look of pride which belied her words. "Handsome is as handsome does--that's what I always tells him, my lady."
If it were handsome does as handsome is, your son would be a clever man, replied Mrs. Belswin, rising to go.
Neither Mrs. Belk nor Samson were clever enough to understand this remark, but after a time a faint idea of what she meant dawned on the obtuse intellect of the giant, and he smiled approvingly.
Won't you have a glass of milk, my lady? asked Mrs. Belk, dropping a curtsey.
No, thank you!
May I have the honour of showing you the nearest way through the wood, madam? said Belk, hat in hand, resuming his polite manner, and languid mode of speaking.
No, thank you, I know my way, answered Mrs. Belswin, coolly; "many thanks for your courtesy--good-day."
When she had vanished, Samson Belk stood for some minutes in a brown study, then, recovering himself with a huge sigh, ordered his mother to bring him a mug of beer.
Eh, she's a fine madam that, he said, as he drank the ale; "got a spice of the devil in her too. I wish I could marry her."
That wouldn't do much good, said his mother contemptuously, "she's only a companion. Now if you married Miss Pethram, you'd have all this place, and be master here."
Not much chance of that, growled Belk, putting on his hat; "she's in love with that friend of parson's."
A whipper-snapper.
Aye, that he is. I could smash him with one hand; not any great shakes with money either, as I've heard tell. What'll Sir Rupert say to his courting?
Well, I heard at the great house this morning, that Sir Rupert was on his way home.
Belk scowled and shook his broad shoulders in an uneasy manner. He did not like Sir Rupert, who was a severe master, and therefore was not at all pleased to hear that his term of liberty would soon be over.
I hope accounts are all right, Samson, said his mother anxiously. "Let Sir Rupert see you've been a good servant, lad."
I'm good enough for the wage I get, growled Belk, sulkily; "if Sir Rupert meddles with me, he'll get the worst of it; I'll stand no man's handling, d----n me if I do."
He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled off defiantly.
Where are you going, lad? asked his mother, as he paused at the gate.
To 'The Badger,' retorted Mr. Belk, curtly, and hurriedly retreated so as to escape his parent's expostulations.
The lad's always there, said Mrs. Belk to herself as she closed the door; "he's after no good I reckon. Eh, if I could only get some money, I'd march him off to America, where he could live like a gentleman. But there's no chance of that while rich folk have the handling of the money."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Belswin was walking rapidly back to the house, thinking over the curious couple she had just left.
Not a bit like the ordinary people, she thought. "The mother's not to be trusted except as concerns the son, and the son--well, he's discontented with his lot. I wonder if Rupert finds him a good servant. He must, or he wouldn't keep him on. But if Mr. Samson Belk tries any games on with his master, I think he'll get the worst of it."
Good-day, Mrs. Belswin.
It was Gelthrip, the curate, who saluted her, a lank lean man, with a hatchet face, lantern-jawed, and clean shaven, not by any means what the world would term handsome. Dressed in black he looked like a crow, and his hoarse voice--for he suffered from clergyman's soar throat--was not unlike the cawing of those dreary birds. He was a gossip, and very inquisitive. He supported a sick sister, and professed High Church principles, and it was lucky that he should have vowed himself to celibacy, for certainly no woman would have taken him as her husband. He had long bony hands, and cracked his knuckles in order to punctuate his sentences, and he talked without ceasing, mixing up religion, gossip, literature, music, art, and science in one heterogeneous mass of chatter.
Having drawn the cork of his eloquence by saying Good-day, and touching his low-crowned hat, Mr. Gelthrip cracked his knuckles cheerfully, and poured forth a flood of aimless nonsense.
Good-day! ah, yes, it is a charming day, is it not. The blue of the sky, with the lark singing so delightfully. You know Shelley's poem do you not--Yes--Turner might paint that scene. Puts me in mind of his Vale of Health, and this place by the way, is very healthy--plenty of oxygen in the air for weak lungs. Ah--ah, my heart swells with goodness towards the Creator of all things as I drink in the air. I think I saw you coming out of Belk's cottage, Mrs. Belswin!
Yes! I went in there to rest for a few minutes.
A great contrast, mother and son, Mrs. Belswin. The Witch of Endor and Apollo, the Far Darter. Yes! but a touching instance of parental affection, for she is devoted to her son. A devotion of which I regret to say he's not worthy, Mrs. Belswin, not worthy, my dear lady. He never comes to church. Passes his time in public-houses, and at wrestling matches, and horse-races. A most godless young man.
But surely Sir Rupert objects to this conduct?
He does not know, Mrs. Belswin. Belk, in a rough fashion, is crafty, very crafty, but when the baronet returns I have no doubt he will hear from others of the behaviour of this misguided young man. I deem it my duty, continued Mr. Gelthrip, inflating his chest, "to inform Sir Rupert of his servant's misdeeds."
I don't think I would do that, said Mrs. Belswin, drily. "Sir Rupert does not care about his private business being meddled with."
Ah, you know Sir Rupert then?
Mrs. Belswin bit her lip in vexation, for she saw that she had made a mistake, and at once hastened to put herself right in the eyes of this tale-bearer.
No! of course not. I only speak from hearsay.
Sir Rupert, said the curate in a dogmatic fashion, "does not, I believe, care about the church, therefore, as you say, he may resent my interference, but I would not be doing my duty as a clergyman if I did not warn him of the dissipated ways of his bailiff."
Do you think it is kind to deprive the young man of his situation?
In this case, Mrs. Belswin, I do. He is dissipated and neglects his business. He has the handling of money, and, seeing he is always betting on races, he may be tempted to--well, you know what I mean.
I know this, sir, said Mrs. Belswin, with great spirit, "that you are about to act a most unworthy part. If this man is as you say, warn him, remonstrate with him, but don't take the bread out of his mouth by getting him dismissed. Charity covers a multitude of sins. That remark is in the Bible, I believe. If so, practise what you preach, and you will be far more respected than if you drive this man to despair by taking away his only means of livelihood. Good morning."
She bowed and walked off, leaving the curate staring after her with open mouth, the stream of his eloquence being for once dried up.
Reflections on the part of Mr. Gelthrip.--"Where has this woman been brought up that she manifests such little reverence for the cloth? A dangerous woman, I am afraid, and not at all suited to be the companion of Miss Pethram. I'm afraid I shall have to warn Sir Rupert about her as well as about Belk. As for Belk! it is my duty--my duty as a clergyman, to open his master's eyes to the deplorable state of this young man. He gambles, bets, plays cards, drinks, all these things entail money, and yet he spends far more than his salary, so I must warn Sir Rupert of his bailiffs real character. Now, Mrs. Belswin--ah!"
There was a good deal of spiteful meaning in the curate's "ah," and there was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin had made a bitter enemy of this well-meaning but meddlesome young man.
Reflections on the part of Mrs. Belswin.--"I've been preaching a sermon to a man whose duty it is to preach one to me. Saul among the prophets this time. I'm not sorry, for I hate those meek young men who make mischief under the pretence of doing good. Why are these clergymen so meddlesome? It's none of his business to enlighten Rupert about Belk. If Belk is dissipated, I know Rupert will find it out quick enough and discharge him. I shouldn't like to be either Rupert or the curate if such a thing does come to pass, for Belk is a most unforgiving man. I can see that in his face. I have made an enemy of this Rev. Meekness. Well, he can't harm me until Rupert comes home, and then--ah well, I'll see."
"If two ladies talk together,
Be it fine or rainy weather,
Subjects three you'll find they handle--
Love, sans diamonds and a carriage,
Prospects of a wealthy marriage,
Or the latest piece of scandal."
What do ladies talk about over five o'clock tea when no male is present? Ah, that is one of the mysteries of Bona Dea, the ritual whereof is known to none of the stronger sex. They doubtless discuss fashions--for no woman, however affecting to despise the pomps and vanities of this world, can contemplate the raiment of another woman without blaming or praising the same, according to taste or price. Very likely they make remarks about their neighbours, and hint, with nods and winks mysteriously suggestive that--well, you know what. Nevertheless, men in their clubs do exactly the same thing, and scandal is by no means monopolized by ladies. However, the question is: What do they talk about?--and as the votaries of the Bona Dea will not tell us, we must be content to accept ambiguous smiles and tightly-closed lips as answer.
On this occasion, however, the subject under discussion was love, and four ladies--two married and two unmarried--were talking together on a very pleasant subject; and the subject was the courting of Tommy Valpy by Toby Clendon.
I must admit, said Mrs. Valpy, in her usual heavy fashion, "that I was astonished when the young man spoke to me."
I wasn't, observed Tommy, with a maiden blush.
Ah, from Mrs. Belswin, "forewarned's forearmed. We all know that."
I'm very pleased to hear about it, said Kaituna, putting her arm around Tommy's waist "Mr. Clendon is most delightful."
But not so much so as another person, hinted the engaged young lady, with wicked intuition, whereupon Kaituna grew red, and requested another piece of cake.
Love is all very well, said Mrs. Belswin, who was a practical person; "but it won't keep the pot boiling. Now about his income."
Eight hundred a year, declared Tommy, boldly. "We can live on that."
No doubt; but is the eight hundred a year certain?
Well, three hundred is very certain, because it comes from his father; but the remaining five hundred--well, you know, said Miss Valpy, hopefully, "literature pays so well nowadays, and Toby's in the first flight."
I don't think so much of his literature, observed Mrs. Valpy, stirring her tea. "He may or he may not make the income he says, but the three hundred a year is absolutely certain."
I hope you'll be happy, dear, said Kaituna, gaily. "I, of course, will be bridesmaid."
Tommy looked at her friend significantly, and then laughed.
We will be married together, she whispered confidentially.
I'm afraid not. Mr. Maxwell has said nothing----
No? Then he has looked a good deal.
Both girls laughed again, and then Mrs. Valpy began to explain her ideas for Tommy's trousseau, which interested every one.
The bride-elect and her mother were staying for a few days at Thornstream, and on this evening were going over to dine at the Vicarage in company with Kaituna and Mrs. Belswin.
Clendon père was delighted at the choice of his only son, and was giving this dinner in order to welcome his intended daughter-in-law to his family circle of two. Tommy got on very well with the vicar, who liked her vivacity and brilliant manner so much that he was actually weaned from his beloved library, and the black-letter folios saw less of their owner than they had done since the time when they had been purchased.
Mrs. Valpy was also calmly satisfied with her daughter's engagement, as her intended son-in-law was a very delightful young man, and, moreover, had a rich father, the latter fact being the most important in the good lady's eyes. If he dabbled in literature, well, let him do so. It would serve to keep him out of mischief; but as for deriving any solid benefit from novel-writing or play-scribbling, such an idea never entered Mrs. Valpy's head. All she knew was that Toby was a good son, and would make a good husband, besides which he could keep his wife in comfort, so what more could a mother desire? The old lady therefore sat in Kaituna's boudoir, smiling and nodding over her tea, completely satisfied with herself and the world.
By the way, said Kaituna, when the exhaustive subject of Tommy's trousseau had come to an end, "you know of course, Mrs. Valpy, that my father is on his way home."
Yes, dear, I heard something about it, replied the old lady lazily. "When do you expect him for certain?"
In about a fortnight.
So soon? said Mrs. Belswin to herself. "In that case I have no time to lose."
You'll be glad to see Sir Rupert, I suppose? asked Tommy, turning to the companion.
Oh, yes, of course! But I'm not sure if I shall be here when he arrives.
Not here! ejaculated Kaituna, in dismay. "Oh, Mrs. Belswin!"
I have to go up to town, my dear, said that lady, very slowly, "in order to see a--a friend of mine."
She hesitated over the last word, knowing in her own heart the errand which was taking her up to town.
But can't you put off your visit for a time?
I'm afraid not.
Kaituna said nothing, but looked reproachfully at her friend, whereupon Mrs. Belswin kissed her with a gay laugh.
Don't look so scared, my child. I shall only be away for a few days.
You will like Sir Rupert, I'm sure, said Mrs. Valpy, who had been slowly following out a train of thought. "He is a most delightful man."
So I have always heard, replied the chaperon coldly.
Perhaps he'll marry again, said Tommy, idly, more for the sake of saying something than from any idea of Sir Rupert's matrimonial intentions.
No.
The answer came from Mrs. Belswin, and had escaped her against her will; but on seeing the surprise her sudden ejaculation had created, she explained herself with calm grace.
Of course I mean that Sir Rupert would surely not think of marrying when he has this dear child to comfort him.
I don't think papa will ever marry again, said Kaituna, in a low tone. "I wonder at your saying such a thing. He was too fond of my mother to forget her easily."
Mrs. Belswin turned away her head and sneered, for she was too well acquainted with Rupert Pethram's selfish heart to believe that he regretted her in the least. Seeing, however, that the subject was a painful one to Kaituna, and by no means relishing it herself, she hastened to turn the conversation by saying the first thing that came into her head.
By the way, do you know I have an admirer here?
Not the vicar? cried Tommy, clapping her hands.
No; I'm not antique enough.
Then Mr. Gelthrip?
Ah, he's too devoted to his sick sister. No! My admirer is that handsome Mr. Belk.
Papa's bailiff, said Kaituna, smiling. "Well, he is very handsome, but I must confess I don't like his face."
Nor do I, declared Tommy, boldly. "He's got the same disagreeable countenance as his mother."
From what I've heard I think he's a very dissipated young man, said Mrs. Valpy, slowly.
I suppose Mr. Gelthrip told you that, remarked Mrs. Belswin, with curling lip. "So like him. He never opens his mouth except to destroy a reputation."
I'm afraid Belk has no reputation to destroy, laughed Tommy, jumping up. "But we shall meet the Rev. Gelthrip to-night, and I declare it's time to dress."
The clock chimed the half-hour, and the ladies went away to dress, with the exception of Mrs. Belswin, who remained in her chair absorbed in thought.
In a fortnight, she muttered to herself slowly. "Ah! I must be prepared for him. I'll try and see him in London, and convince him that I must stay by my child. If he consents, well and good; if he refuses----"
She stopped, drew a long breath, and clenched her hands.
If he refuses--I'll see Ferrari.