"If you'd be a healthy sinner,
Eat with judgment when at dinner,
And remember with a shiver
Man is governed by his liver;
Viands rich and wine in plenty
Spoil life's dolce far niente.
He who shuns this vital question
Suffers soon from indigestion;
The corner-stone of dissipation
Is to act with moderation."
When the sceptre of the Cæsars passed into the hands of St. Peter and his successors, it carried with it among other fixtures--to use a legal expression--the art of giving a good dinner. The clergy have, therefore, always been famous for their attention to creature comforts, and among the various arts which they rescued from the wreck of the classic world, the art of dining is certainly one of which they were most careful.
In England the fat abbots and portly monks of the past have been transmuted, through the agency of that royal magician, Henry VIII, into the comfortable bishops and delectable vicars of the present; but the change is actually only in the Thirty-nine Articles, and the science of gastronomy still has its wisest savants among the clergy.
It is true that some ascetics, wishing to return to the bosom of the Romish Church, have denied themselves all dainties in favour of lentils and pulse; but, unlike Daniel and his friends, they are no fairer for doing so; yet the general run of curates (provided they are well paid), rectors, vicars, deans, bishops, yea, even archbishops, are worthy successors to the clerical gourmands of the Middle Ages so satirised by Rabelais, and are as careful of their cellars and kitchens as of their churches and parishioners.
Mr. Clendon, dry-as-dust grubber among ancient folios as he was, by no means neglected the substance for the shadow, and satisfied his brain, his stomach, and his palate in equal measure--the former by means of choice editions, the latter by choice viands; but, truth to tell, he to all appearances throve more on the library than on the kitchen.
The number of guests at dinner, according to some gastronomical worthy, should never be less than the three Graces nor greater than the nine Muses, so Vicar Clendon had taken this sage advice by limiting the friends assembled round his hospitable board to eight people, the sexes being in equal numbers, i.e. four of the one and four of the other.
The host took in Mrs. Valpy. A most admirable arrangement, as both were fond of their victuals, and thought eating preferable to talking, especially when the cook was a good one, as happened in this case.
Mr. Gelthrip escorted Mrs. Belswin. Fire and water! Sweet and sour! Black and white! Two galley slaves chained together against their will could not have been less suited than the clergyman and the companion were to one another. Good-breeding forbade either resenting the juxtaposition, so they had smiles on their faces and rage in their hearts at being thus coupled so unsuitably by their Amphitryon.
The engaged ones, of course, went dining-room-wards together--a good omen of the future, in the eyes of both, hinting that they would thus wander side by side towards the good things of this life.
Archie was squire to Kaituna. Ecstasy! Rapture! Bliss! Ah, how poor a language is English when required to express the joy of two lovers coming together for a whole evening, who have not expected Fate or Cupid or Mother Venus to be so kind.
Out of compliment to the month of roses, Vicar Clendon gave his guests a distinctly pink dinner, which was a novelty, both as regards viands, wines, and artistic arrangements. In the centre of the white tablecloth there was an oval, shaped of moist-looking emerald moss, filled with loose rose-leaves, from the midst of which sprang rich clusters of the flower in red, in white, and in yellow, set off here and there by masses of green leaves. No intrusive epergne to hide the faces of the guests from one another, but a tiny fountain shooting up a silver thread that fell again in diamond spray over the odorous blossoms below--rose-wreaths for the white bosoms of the ladies, rose bouquets with entanglements of delicate maiden-hair fern for the men, and on imitation rose-leaf menus the names of the dishes in purple ink. Viands for the most part rose-tinted by an artistic cook, and as for wines, there was claret deeply red, port amethystine in tint, sparkling burgundy of rosy hues, and from the roof roseate light suffused from a red-shaded lamp. The whole prevailing tint of this unique meal was the rose-red of dawn, and Parson Clendon, smiling benignly from the head of the table, felt that he had achieved a distinct success in the way of originality, a thing to be proud of in this century of used-up ideas.
The Romans, observed the vicar, discursively, by way of providing a subject of conversation, "the Romans would have enjoyed a meal served up in this fashion."
You are thinking of Vitellius, asserted Mr. Gelthrip, in a dictatorial manner.
No, sir! I am thinking of Lucullus. A gourmet, sir, not a gourmand.
Mr. Gelthrip, not being sufficiently learned either in French or gastronomy to appreciate the subtlety of this remark, wisely held his tongue and went on with his soup.
If we were like the Romans, father, we should be crowned with garlands of roses, said Toby, in order to keep the ball of conversation rolling.
Instead of which we wear the roses in our buttonholes, added Archie, gaily; "not so graceful, perhaps, but more comfortable."
Ah, we're not at all classic, observed the host, regretfully; "dining with Lucullus we should have reclined."
How uncomfortable! said Tommy, saucily; "as bad as having breakfast in bed."
Which is where you generally have it, interposed Mrs. Valpy, reprovingly.
Ah! said Toby, with a world of meaning in his tone, "I am afraid you have not studied one Dr. Watts----"
The early to bed man, you mean, cried Mrs. Belswin. "Horrible! I never could see the use of his cut-and-dried little proverbs."
His poems, madam, are very edifying, remarked Gelthrip, in a clerical manner.
Very probably; and like most things edifying, very dreary.
She said this so tartly that Clendon père was afraid of the probable rejoinder of his curate, so made the first remark that came into his mind apropos of nothing in particular.
Our conversation is like that of Praed's vicar, very discursive; we began with the Romans, we end with Dr. Watts.
I prefer the Romans, declared Archie, sipping his wine.
Not their dining, surely, observed Kaituna.
No, whispered Archie, literally sub rosa, for she wore a half-opened bud in her dark hair, "because you would not have been present. The nineteenth century, with all its faults, has one great virtue; it allows us to dine with you."
Kaituna laughed in a pretty confused manner, whereupon Mrs. Belswin flashed her glorious dark eyes sympathetically on the pair, for she was now quite in favour of this, to all appearances, imprudent marriage. Reasons two. First, the young couple loved one another devotedly, which appealed to her womanly and maternal instincts. Second, the match would be objected to by Sir Rupert, which pleased the revengeful part of her nature. With these two excellent reasons she was very satisfied, so smiled kindly on the lovers.
Burgundy, sir?
Thank you, Mrs. Belswin.
That lady bowed cordially to her host and touched the rim of her glass lightly with her lips. It is not now customary for gentlemen to drink healths with the opposite sex at dinner, but 'tis an old-fashioned custom, and therefore found favour with the vicar, lover of all things antique, as he was.
Drink to me only with thine eyes.
A most excellent sentiment, Tobias, said his father, with a waggish smile; "but we are not all so happily placed as you, my son."
Every dog has its day, father.
True! true! most true. 'Et ego in Arcadia fui.' Eh, Mr. Gelthrip?
I am not married, sir, responded that gentleman, stiffly.
Nor is he likely to be, whispered Archie to his neighbour. "How lucky--for the possible Mrs. Gelthrip."
I'm not so sure of that, she replied in the same tone; "every Jack has his Jill."
Even I?
Yes, I suppose so.
Oh! you are not certain?
How can I be certain? You do not wear your heart on your sleeve.
Do I not?
Kaituna was somewhat taken aback at this direct way of putting it, and, not feeling inclined to reply in the only way in which she could do so, looked round for a mode of escape from the pertinacity of her companion. Help came from the vicar.
Miss Pethram, I understand your father is coming home again.
Yes, Mr. Clendon; I am pleased to say he is.
Ah, no doubt! no doubt! Well, I can tell him you have been in safe hands, responded the vicar, bowing to Mrs. Belswin, who acknowledged the compliment with a somewhat doubtful smile.
You have never seen Sir Rupert? asked Toby, politely.
Mrs. Belswin started, drew her handkerchief--a flimsy feminine thing of lace and cambric--across her dry lips, and laughed in an embarrassed fashion as she replied--
No, I have not seen him; but, of course, Kaituna has told me all about him.
Ah! said the vicar, eyeing the rosy bubbles flashing in his glass, "I remember Rupert Pethram very well before he went out to New Zealand. He was a gay, light-hearted boy; but now, alas! tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis."
I can't fancy my father ever having been gay and light-hearted, cried Kaituna, doubtfully. "Ever since I can remember him he has been so grave and solemn."
Trouble! trouble! sighed the vicar; "it changes us all."
Mrs. Belswin, affecting to arrange the wreath at her breast, darted a lightning glance at the old man from under her long lashes.
I wonder if Rupert told you anything, she thought, rapidly. "Bah! what do I care if he did? This fool can do me no harm. There is only one man I'm afraid of meeting--Rupert Pethram himself. Well, perhaps I shall not need to meet him."
She smiled cruelly as she thought of the harm she proposed to do her unfortunate husband, and listened idly to Mr. Gelthrip, who was holding forth in his usual dogmatic style on the good which a moneyed man like Sir Rupert could do to the parish of Deswarth.
I hope, Miss Pethram, he said, turning to Kaituna, "that you will urge upon your father the advisability of throwing open the picture gallery at Thornstream to the villagers, in order to encourage a taste for art."
But they know nothing about art. The Illustrated London News and the Graphic form their idea of pictures.
They can learn, Mr. Clendon; they can learn, replied the curate, easily. "I should like them to appreciate the old masters."
Egad, it's a thing I could never do, cried Toby, flippantly. "I much prefer the modern painters."
You are a Philistine, sir.
Humph! said Toby, under his breath, "and this Samson is slaughtering me with the jawbone of an ass."
Then music, pursued Gelthrip, waxing eloquent; "a little Wagner."
Very little, said Archie, slily; "all chords and no melody."
I don't quite understand you, remarked Tommy, addressing Mr. Gelthrip with a demure smile. "You believe in Doctor Watts and Richard Wagner. Isn't it rather difficult to reconcile the two things?"
Not at all, Miss Valpy. Wagner is understandable by the meanest mind.
Meaning himself, whispered Archie, with a laugh.
The fact is, observed Mr. Clendon, with mock solemnity, "that when my worthy friend can get our labourers to descant learnedly on Claude Lorraine, Michael Angelo, and Titian, read and appreciate George Meredith's novels--of whom, Tobias, I have heard you speak--and understand the advanced school of music, of which I myself know nothing, he will have accomplished his life's work."
It would be a worthy career for a man, said Gelthrip, energetically.
So I think, remarked Mrs. Belswin, dryly; "but if you make all your labourers so learned, Mr. Gelthrip, I'm afraid they won't do much work. Instead of hedging and ditching, they will take to admiring the sunsets."
And to analysing the music of the lark.
Or comparing the latest novelist's description of Nature to the disadvantage of the real thing.
Mr. Gelthrip bore all this sarcasm with equanimity, smiling benignly all the time. He was an enthusiast on the subject, and had a hide impervious to shafts of ridicule, however skilfully launched. His scheme was simple. Sir Rupert had plenty of money, and, judging from his daughter's description, seemed to be philanthropically inclined. Mr. Gelthrip had full power in the parish--as his superior was too much taken up with the middle ages to pay attention to the nineteenth century--so he determined, with the aid of Sir Rupert's money and his own brains, to make Deswarth a model village in the matter of culture and high art. As to religion--well, Mr. Gelthrip was a clergyman, and thought he could mingle religion and high art together so as to make them palatable to his children-of-nature parishioners. Meanwhile his ideas stood in this order: culture, high art, religion. Alas for the possible model parish and the souls of its occupants!
This, however, is talk of futurity; but at present, the ladies, headed by Mrs. Valpy, retired, leaving the four gentlemen to their wine.
Tobias! said his father, benevolently--a man must feel benevolent with a glass of '34 port in his hand. "Tobias, to the health of your bride."
Thank you, father, replied Toby, gratefully, touching his lips with the glass. "Archie! to the future Mrs. Maxwell."
Ah! Ah! remarked the old gentleman, smiling. "Has it gone as far as that?"
Not yet, sir.
Archie was blushing deeply, being an ingenuous youth, and unused to such public compliments.
I'll bet, whispered Toby, looking at him gravely, "that you'll have something to say to me to-night over a pipe."
Do you think so? faltered Archie, toying with his glass.
I speak, said Clendon fils, "I speak from experience, having proposed and been accepted."
I can do the first, but what about the second?
Faint heart, remarked Toby, judiciously, "never won fair lady."
Then I'll take your advice this very night, said Archie, desperately.
I am, remarked Toby, as he lifted his glass, "a prophet in a small way. Old boy, your hand. To the health of our double marriage--and no heeltaps."
Archie finished his glass.
'Tis very easy to make love;
A smile--a pressure of the hand.
A reference to the stars above,
A "fly with me to some far land,"
A sigh as soft as coo of dove,
A kiss--the rest she'll understand.
Mr. Gelthrip, thinking no one but himself knew anything, had contradicted his clerical superior on some point connected with the introduction of printing into England, and the vicar in great wrath had carried off his dogmatic curate to the library in order to prove his case. The two elder ladies were talking about Sir Rupert as Mrs. Valpy had met him a few months previously, and Mrs. Belswin was trying to find out all about her quondam husband, in order to strengthen her position as much as possible. At present she knew that she was entirely at the mercy of Sir Rupert, so if she could discover something detrimental to his character it might serve as a weapon against him. The scheme which she hoped to carry through with the assistance of Ferrari, was a dangerous one; and moreover, she was doubtful if the Italian would consent to aid her; therefore she was anxious to try all other methods of coercing her husband before resorting to the last and most terrible expedient. She was a clever woman, was Mrs. Belswin, and the instinct for discovery, which she inherited from her savage grandparents, made her wonderfully acute in cross-examining simple Mrs. Valpy, who not comprehending the subtlety of her companion, told all she knew about the baronet in the most open manner. The result was not gratifying to Mrs. Belswin; for with all her dexterity in twisting, and turning and questioning, and hinting, she discovered nothing likely to compromise Sir Rupert in any way.
It's no use, she thought, with a feeling of despair in her heart, "Rupert has it all his own way, and I can do nothing--nothing except----"
She smiled significantly, and simple Mrs. Valpy, seeing that the companion was looking at Toby and her daughter, who were amusing themselves at the piano, misinterpreted the smile, and therefore spoke according to her misinterpretation.
They'll make a very happy couple, won't they, Mrs. Belswin?
Mrs. Belswin, thus being appealed to, started, smiled politely, and assented with much outward show of interest to the remark of the old lady.
It's so nice for Toby to have his home here, pursued Mrs. Valpy, with much satisfaction; "because, you know, our place is not far from the vicarage, so I shall not be parted from my daughter."
The other woman started, and laid her hand on her breast, as if to still the beating of her heart.
Yes; it would be a terrible thing to part with your only child, she said in a low voice. "I know what the pain of such a separation is."
You have parted from your child, then? said Mrs. Valpy, sympathetically.
Mrs. Belswin clutched her throat, and gave an hysterical laugh.
Well, no; not exactly; she said, still in the same low voice; "but--but my little daughter--my little daughter died many years ago."
It was very hard for her to lie like this when her daughter was only a few yards away, chatting to Maxwell at the window; but Mrs. Belswin looked upon such necessary denial as punishment for her sins, and accepted it accordingly.
I'm very sorry, observed Mrs. Valpy, with well-bred condolence. "Still, time brings consolation."
Not to all people.
Oh, yes, I think so. Besides, now you have that dear girl, Kaituna, and she seems very fond of you.
Yes.
She could say no more. The strangeness of the situation excited her to laughter, to that laughter which is very near tears, and she was afraid to speak lest she should break down.
And then Sir Rupert will be so glad to find his daughter has such a good friend.
The mention of the hated name restored Mrs. Belswin to her usual self, and with a supercilious glance at the blundering woman who had so unconsciously wounded her, she answered in her ordinary manner--
I hope so! But I'm afraid I shall not have an opportunity of seeing Sir Rupert at once, as I go to town shortly, on business.
But you will return?
Oh, yes! of course I shall return, unless some unforeseen circumstances should arise. We are never certain of anything in the future, you know, Mrs. Valpy.
No, perhaps not! At all events I think you will like Sir Rupert.
Mrs. Belswin sneered.
Oh, do you think so?
I'm certain. Such a gentlemanly man. Quite young for his age. I wonder he does not marry again.
Perhaps he had enough of matrimony with his first wife, said Mrs. Belswin, coolly.
Oh, he was devotedly attached to her.
Was he, indeed?
Yes! Simply worshipped her. She died in New Zealand when Kaituna was a baby, I believe, and Sir Rupert told me how this loss had overshadowed his life.
Hypocrite! murmured Mrs. Belswin, between her clenched teeth.
The conversation was becoming a little difficult for her to carry on, as she dare not disclose herself yet, and did not care about exchanging complimentary remarks on the subject of a man she detested so heartily.
At this moment Toby struck a chord on the piano, and Tommy burst out laughing, so, with ready wit, Mrs. Belswin made this interruption serve as an excuse to break off the conversation.
The young people seem to be merry, she said to Mrs. Valpy, and rising to her feet, "I must go over and see what the joke is about."
Mrs. Valpy nodded sleepily, feeling somewhat drowsy after her dinner, so Mrs. Belswin, seeing she did not mind being left to her own devices, walked across to the piano and interrupted the two lovers, for which interruption, however, they did not feel profoundly grateful.
Won't you sing something? asked the companion, addressing Toby, "or you, Miss Valpy?"
Oh, my songs are too much of the orthodox drawing-room' type, replied Miss Valpy, disparagingly. "Now Toby is original in his ditties. Come, let's have a little chin-music, Toby!"
Wherever do you learn such slang? said Mrs. Belswin, with a smile.
Toby.
I! Oh, how can you? I speak the Queen's English.
Do you really? said Tommy, laughing. "Well, I at present speak the President's American, so go right along, stranger, and look slippy with the barrel organ."
If your mother hears you, remonstrated Mrs. Belswin, "she will----"
Yes, I know she will, retorted Tommy, imperturbably; "but she's asleep and I'm awake, very much so. I say, Mrs. Belswin, where's Kaituna?"
I think she's walking on the lawn with Mr. Maxwell.
As a chaperon you should hunt them out, said Miss Valpy, mischievously.
Suppose I give the same advice to your mother, replied Mrs. Belswin, dryly.
Don't, said Toby, in mock horror; "as you are strong be merciful."
Certainly, if you sing something.
What shall I sing?
Anything, said Tommy, sitting down, "except that new style of song, all chords and no tune."
Toby laughed mischievously and began to sing--
"
If I mashed her would she kiss me? No! no! no! If I bolted would she miss me? No! no! no! She knows I haven't got a rap; Besides, there is the other chap-- At him, not me, she sets her cap; No! no! no!
"
Mr. Clendon, said Tommy, in a tone of dignified rebuke, "we don't want any music-hall songs. If you can't sing something refined, don't sing at all."
I must collect my ideas first, replied Toby, running his fingers over the piano. "Wait till the spirit moves me."
Mrs. Belswin had resumed her seat near the sleeping form of Mrs. Valpy, and was thinking deeply, though her thoughts, judging from the savage expression in her fierce eyes, did not seem to be very agreeable ones, while Tommy leaned over the piano watching Toby's face as he tried to seek inspiration from her smiles.
Outside on the short dry grass of the lawn, Kaituna was strolling, accompanied by Archie Maxwell. The grass extended for some distance in a gentle slope, and was encircled by tall trees, their heavy foliage drooping over the beds of flowers below. Beyond, the warm blue of the sky, sparkling with stars, and just over the trembling tree-tops the golden round of the moon. A gentle wind was blowing through the rustling leaves, bearing on its faint wings the rich odours of the flowers, and the lawn was strewn with aerial shadows that trembled with the trembling of the trees. Then the white walls of the vicarage, the sloping roof neutral tinted in the moonlight, the glimmer of the cold shine on the glass of the upstair windows, and below, the yellow warm light streaming out of the drawing-room casements on the gravelled walk, the lawn beyond, and the figures of the two lovers moving like black shadows through the magical light. A nightingale began to sing deliciously, hidden in the warm dusk of the leaves, then another bird in the distance answered the first. The hoot of an owl sounded faintly through the air, the sharp whirr of a cricket replied, and all the night seemed full of sweet sounds.
Kaituna sat down on a bench placed under the drawing-room windows, and Archie, standing beside her, lighted a cigarette after asking and obtaining the requisite permission. The voices of the vicar and his curate sounded in high dispute from the adjacent library; there was a murmur of conversation from within, where Mrs. Belswin was talking to the other lovers, and at intervals the sharp notes of the piano struck abruptly through the voices, the songs of the nightingale, and the charm of the night.
What I miss very much in the sky here, said Kaituna, looking up at the stars, "is the Southern Cross."
Yes; I have seen it myself, replied Archie, removing his cigarette. "You know I have travelled a great deal."
And intend to travel still more!
Perhaps.
You don't seem very sure, Mr. Maxwell. What about South America?
I thought I had told you that I had changed my mind about South America.
Kaituna flushed a little at the significance of his words, and cast down her eyes.
I believe you said something about putting off your journey till the end of the year.
I'll put it off altogether, if a certain event takes place.
And that certain event?
Cannot you guess?
Duplicity on the part of the woman, who knew perfectly well the event to which the young man referred.
No, I am afraid I can't.
Miss Pethram--Kaituna, I----
Hush! Mr. Clendon is singing.
It was only to gain time for reflection, as she knew that a declaration of love trembled on his lips, but with feminine coquetry could not help blowing hot to his cold.
And Toby was singing a bold martial song, with a curious accompaniment like the trotting of a horse--a song which thrilled through the listeners, with its fierce exultation and savage passion.
On God and his prophet I seven times called me;
I opened the Koran--the omen appalled me;
I read it--thou wast to be bride to another;
I knew my betrayer, 'twas him I called brother,
Zulema! Zulema!
I sprang on my steed as he waited beside me,
Then rode through the desert with Allah to guide me;
Fierce blew the sirocco, its terrors were idle;
I galloped till dawn to be first at your bridal
Zulema! Zulema!
I rode to the tent-door, your father's tribe knew me;
They dreamed of the glory they'd gain if they slew me;
I dashed through the cowards--I met my betrayer,
He fell from his saddle, and I was his slayer,
Zulema! Zulema!
You ran from your dwelling--your father's spears missed me;
You sprang to my saddle with fervour to kiss me;
We broke through the press of your kinsfolk, my foemen;
I won thee, Zulema, so false was the omen;
Zulema! Zulema!
Ah! said Archie, with a long breath, when the fierce cry had rung out for the last time, "that is the way to win a bride."
Kaituna thought so too, although she did not make any remark, but the shrill savagery of the song had stirred her hereditary instincts profoundly, and even in the dim moonlight Archie could see the distension of her nostrils, and the flash of excitement that sparkled in her eyes. It gave him an idea, and throwing himself on his knees, he began to woo her as fiercely and as freely as ever her dusky ancestors had been wooed in the virgin recesses of New Zealand woods.
Kaituna, I love you! I love you. You must have seen it; you must know it. This is no time for timid protestations, for doubtful sighing. Give me your hands. He seized them in his strong grasp. "I am a man, and I must woo like a man. I love you! I love you! I wish you to be my wife. I am poor, but I am young, and with you beside me, I can do great things. Say that you will marry me."
But my father!
He sprang to his feet, still holding her hands, and drew her forcibly towards him.
Your father may consent--he may refuse. I do not care for his consent or his refusal. Say you will be my wife, and no human being shall come between us. I have no money. I will gain a fortune for you. I have no home--I will make one for you. Youth, love, and God are on our side, and we are made the one for the other. You must not say no! You shall not say no. You are the woman needed to complete my life; and God has given you to me. Lay aside your coquetry, your hesitations, your fears. Speak boldly to me as I do to you. Let no false modesty--no false pride--no maidenly dread come between us. I love you, Kaituna. Will you be my wife?
There was something in this akin to the fierce wooing of primeval man. All the artificial restraints of civilisation were laid aside. The doubts, the fears, the looks, the shrinkings, all these safeguards and shields of nervous natures had vanished before this whirlwind of passion, which bore down such feeble barriers set between man and woman. As his eyes ardent with love, passionate with longing, flashed into her own she felt her bosom thrill, her blood rush rapidly through her veins, and, with an inarticulate cry, wherein all the instincts she had inherited from her Maori ancestors broke forth, she flung herself on his heaving breast.
Kaituna!
Yes! yes! take me I take me! I am yours, and yours only.
She smiles she laughs! she talks of this and that--
To all appearances a very woman.
Ah! but that phrase bears deep interpretation--
A very woman is a treacherous thing;
Her smile's a lie--a lie to hide the truth,
For when the time is ripe for all her schemes
A very woman slips her smiling mask,
And lo! behold, a look which means, "You die."
One who has been in strange lands, and ventured his life in far countries, is by no means anxious to court again the dangers he has so happily escaped. The traveller, telling his tales by his lately gained fireside, shudders as he remembers the perils he has dared, the risks he has encountered, and is thankful for his present safety, so thankful indeed that he is unwilling to place his life for the second time at the disposal of chance.
It was somewhat after this fashion that Mrs. Belswin viewed her present security in contrast to her past jeopardy. She had been a free-lance, and adventuress, an unprotected woman at the mercy of the world, so hard and pitiless to such unfortunates; but now she had found a home, a refuge, a daughter's love, a bright oasis in the desert of affliction, and she dreaded to be driven out of this peaceful paradise, which held all that made her life worth having, into a stormy world once more. Through perils more deadly than those of savage lands, through storms more terrible than those of the ocean, she had passed into a haven of tranquillity; but now that she was tasting of the pleasures of hope and repose, it seemed as though she would once more be driven forth to battle with her fellow-creatures.
Her quondam husband held her fate in his hand. He had right and might on his side, and she knew that she could expect no mercy from one whom she had so deeply wronged. Had the positions been reversed she felt that she would not have scrupled to enforce the powers she possessed, and, therefore, never for a moment dreamed that her husband would act otherwise. All she knew was that she was now in Paradise, that she enjoyed her daughter's affection, ignorant as that daughter was of the mother's identity, and that the husband of her youth, and the father of her dearly-loved child would expel her from this hardly won Paradise as soon as he discovered her therein.
This being the case, she did not waste time in asking for a mercy not likely to be granted, but set herself to work to find out some means of retaining her position in defiance of her husband's enmity and hatred. After her conversation with Mrs. Valpy, she saw that Rupert Pethram had glossed over the affair of the divorce in order to avoid all suspicion of scandal against himself and the mother of his child, for he was unwilling that the child should suffer for the sin of her parent. This was certainly a point in her favour, as by threatening to denounce the whole affair if she was not allowed to retain her position she could force him to acquiesce in her demand, in order to avoid scandal.
But then if he, though keeping the terrible affair secret from the outside world, told Kaituna all about her mother's disgrace, thus destroying the love which the girl had for the memory of one whom she thought was dead--it would be too terrible, as she could urge nothing in extenuation of her sin, and would be forced to blush before her own child. No, nothing could be done in that way. Should she throw herself on the mercy of the man she had wronged? Alas! she knew his stern nature well enough to be aware of the hopeless folly of such an attempt. Looking at the whole affair in whatever way that suggested itself to her fertile brain, she saw no means of retaining her position, her child or her newly-found respectability, except by enlisting the sympathy of Ferrari and----
But it was too terrible. It was a crime. Guilty as she was, to do this would render her still more guilty. Even if she succeeded in getting her husband out of the way, and it was not discovered by the law, there was still Ferrari to be reckoned with. It would give him a strong hold over her, which he would use to force her into marriage, and then she would be still separated from her child, so that the crime she contemplated would be useless.
To see this woman raging up and down her bedroom was a pitiful sight. Flinging herself on her knees she would pray to God to soften the heart of her husband, then, realising how futile was the hope, she would start to her feet and think again of the crime she contemplated committing with the assistance of her Italian lover. She raged, she wept, she sighed, she implored. Her mood changed with every tick of the clock; from hope she fell into despair; from despair she changed once more to hope--tears imprecations, prayers, threats, she tried them all in their turn, and the result was always the same--absolute failure. She was dashing herself in vain against an adamantine wall, for in her calmer moments she saw how helpless she was against the position held by her husband--a position approved of by law, approved of by the world. She could do nothing, and she knew it.
Still, Ferrari!
Yes, she would go up and see him, for perhaps he could solve the riddle which thus perplexed her so terribly. He would demand his price, she knew him well enough for that. Well, she would pay it in order to still retain possession of her child. Let her accomplish her present desire and the future would take care of itself. So, Mrs. Belswin, summoning all her philosophy to her aid, composed her features, and told Kaituna that she was going up to London on business.
But papa will be here next week, said the girl in dismay.
Yes; I'm sorry to go at such a time, dear, replied Mrs. Belswin, with an immovable countenance, "but it is a very important matter that takes me away."
You will be back again soon?
In a fortnight at the least.
Oh, I'm glad of that, said Kaituna, with a flush; "you know I want you to help me gain papa's consent to my marriage with Archie."
Mrs. Belswin smiled bitterly as she kissed her daughter, knowing how weak was the reed upon which the girl leaned. She ask Rupert Pethram to consent to the marriage--she dare to demand a favour of the man she had wronged for the child she had forsaken! She almost laughed as she thought of the terrible irony of the situation, but, restraining herself with her usual self-command, bade the girl hope for the best.
Your father must like Mr. Maxwell, he is such a charming young fellow, she said encouragingly, "and as you love him so dearly, Sir Rupert, for the sake of your happiness, may perhaps overlook his want of money."
But you will speak to papa, Mrs. Belswin?
Yes; if I see your father on my return I will certainly speak to him.
How strangely you talk, said Kaituna, rather puzzled; "if you come back in a fortnight you will be sure to see papa."
Of course, dear! of course. I was only thinking that some unforeseen accident----
Oh, no, no!
Kaituna, you love your father very dearly.
Very, very dearly. He is all I have in the world.
It required all Mrs. Belswin's self-restraint to prevent her then and there throwing herself into the girl's arms and telling her all. Such a course, however, would have been worse than madness, so she was forced to crush down her maternal feelings.
After this interview with Kaituna, she departed for London--departed for the possible commission of a crime, and as the carriage left Thornstream she looked back with a sigh to the girl standing on the terrace.
Perhaps I shall never see her again, she said, with a groan, throwing herself back in her seat. "But no; that will never happen; even if Rupert does turn me out of the house he will not tell Kaituna anything to destroy her belief in her mother, so I shall some day meet her with her husband."
Her lips curled as she said this, knowing well that Sir Rupert would never give his consent to the marriage, and then she clenched her hands with a frown.
He must consent to the marriage--Kaituna's heart is set on it. He can destroy my happiness, but I'll kill him before he destroys that of my child.
And with this firm determination she left her husband's house--the house in which she should have reigned a happy mistress and mother, and the house into which she had crept like a disguised thief, the house which she, in the mad instinct of her savage nature, intended to deprive of its master.
While waiting on the railway platform for the London train, she saw Samson Belk.
The relations between these two were peculiar. Ever since he had seen her at his mother's cottage, Belk had followed her everywhere like her shadow, much to Mrs. Belswin's astonishment, for, candid in all things to herself, she could not conceive how a handsome young man could leave younger women for one verging on middle age. Yet such was the case. This bucolic man had fallen passionately in love, and adored her with all the sullen ardour of his obstinate nature. He was slow-witted, dull-headed, and it took a long time for an idea to penetrate into his brain, but once the idea was there, nothing could get it out again. This woman, so different from all he had known, who spoke in a commanding way, who flashed her eyes fiercely on all, as if they were her slaves, had, without a word, without a sign, brought to his knees this uncultured man, who knew nothing of the deference due to the sex, and whose only attributes were great physical strength and a handsome exterior. Formerly, owing to these advantages, he had gained admiration from all women, and in return had treated them with brutal indifference, or scarcely veiled contempt; but now the positions were reversed, and he was the abject slave of this imperious queen, who looked down at him with disdain. It was a case of Samson like wax in the hands of Delilah--of Hercules subjugated by Omphale; and Samson Belk, with all his virile strength, his handsome face, his stalwart figure, was crouching like a dog at the feet of Mrs. Belswin.
He looked somewhat haggard as he came towards her and took off his hat, Mrs. Belswin nodding coldly to him in return.
Well, Mr. Belk, she said, indifferently, "what are you doing here?"
I heard you were going to town, madam.
Yes? How can that possibly concern you? Belk stood twisting his hat round and round in a sheepish manner.
I thought I might be of service to you, he stammered, looking at her portmanteau.
Thank you, but there is no need. The porters will attend to all that, replied the lady, graciously. "But you don't look very well, Mr. Belk. I suppose you've been drinking."
Candour was Mrs. Belswin's strong point, and looking at Belk as an inferior animal, she treated him accordingly, but he seemed in nowise displeased at her bluntness.
No; I haven't been drinking, madam.
That's just as well. You know Sir Rupert returns next week, and if he found you to be dissipated, he'd dismiss you on the spot.
Would he? said Belk, sullenly. "Let him if he likes. You seem to know Sir Rupert, madam."
I? No; but I have heard about him.
He's a hard man, what I've seen of him.
Mrs. Belswin was not going to discuss this subject with a servant like Belk, so she turned indifferently away as the train came into the station, and left him standing there, looking in sullen admiration at her graceful form in the dark garments she now affected.
When she was safely installed in a first-class carriage, her rustic admirer, who had seen personally after her luggage, appeared at the window with some newspapers.
You'll want them to read, madam, he said awkwardly, as she thanked him. "I hope you'll have a pleasant journey."
Thank you, Mr. Belk, I hope I shall.
You'll be coming back soon I hope?
He blurted out this question with a deep flush, and Mrs. Belswin stared at him with undisguised astonishment She could not understand the reason of this man's deference, for she judged it impossible that he could be so deeply in love with her as all his actions seemed to denote. Good-natured, however, when not crossed in any way, she replied politely, as the train moved off--
I shall return in a fortnight.
If you don't, muttered Belk, as the long line of carriages disappeared, "I'll follow you up to London."
Good heavens! said Mrs. Belswin, throwing herself back in her seat, "what on earth can the man see in me to admire? I'm not a vain woman. I never was a vain woman, and why that handsome young fellow should leave youth to run after age is more than I can understand. It's flattering; very much so; but," continued the lady, struck by a sudden thought, "if Ferrari met my new admirer, I'm afraid there would be trouble."
She laughed at the idea, and taking up the Telegraph began to read, but suddenly laid it down with a nervous start.
Ferrari loves me! Belk loves me! I love neither, but only my child. Rupert stands between me and my happiness. Which of these men will remove him out of my path? Ferrari--a subtle Italian, Belk--a brutal Saxon. Humph! The fox and the lion over again--craft and strength! I can depend on them both, and Rupert----
She struck her hands together with a triumphant laugh.
Rupert Pethram, you are marching blindfolded into a trap.
Number One is the greater number; if I assisted Number Two it would become the lesser.
Signor Ferrari was a gentleman who knew how to make himself thoroughly comfortable; and, in order to do so, squandered his earnings in a most spendthrift fashion. At present he was receiving a very handsome salary for his singing in Sultana Fatima, therefore he denied himself nothing in the way of luxury. He was a true Bohemian in every action of his life, and accepted his fluctuating fortunes with the utmost equanimity. If he fared badly on dry bread and water one day, he was hopeful of oysters and champagne the next; and when the feast of Dives was before him, made the most of it in eating and drinking, so as to recompense himself for all future deprivations, which would be the lot of poverty-stricken Lazarus.
While his voice lasted he was well aware that he could command an excellent income which satisfied him completely; for when he grew old and songless he was quite prepared to return to Italy, and live there the happy-go-lucky life of his youth on polenta and sour wine. In his impulsive southern fashion he loved Mrs. Belswin madly; but, strangely enough, it never for a moment occurred to him to save money against his possible marriage with her. If he starved, she would starve; if he made money, she would share it; and if she objected to such a chequered existence, Signor Ferrari was quite confident enough in his own powers of will and persuasion to be satisfied that he could force her to accept his view of the matter. This was the Ferrari philosophy, and no bad one either as times go, seeing that a singer's livelihood depends entirely upon the caprice of the public. As long as he could get enough to eat, be the food rich or plain, a smoke, and plenty of sleep, the world could go hang for all he cared. He lived in the present, never thought about the past, and let the future take care of itself; so altogether managed to scramble through life in a leisurely, selfish manner eminently egotistical in fashion.
At present, being in the heyday of life, he was dining with Dives, which was happiness enough in itself; but, in order that nothing should be wanting to complete his felicity, he had received a letter from Mrs. Belswin, telling him of her contemplated arrival. Under these circumstances he had nothing left to wish for, and lounging on the sofa in his sitting-room in a state of blissful contentment awaited the coming of his fair friend.
Buõno, said the signor, with smiling satisfaction, folding up the letter and putting it in his pocket, "the singing-bird returns to its nest. This time I will clip its wings, so that it flies not again. Per Bacco, the kind heart of Stephano surprises himself, for who would let his bird fly as he has done? But I fear not the jealousy, offspring of suspicion. Ecco! she loves but me, and comes again to the nest. And what a nest! Cospetto! My Lucrezia will be hard to please if she likes not this palazzo del amor."
It was a very pretty nest indeed, from a lodging-house point of view, although its incongruity of colouring and furnishing would have driven an artist out of his mind; but then the signor was not exacting in the way of harmonious effect, and, provided his dwelling was fairly comfortable, felt completely satisfied. Lying on the sofa, he looked complacently at the furniture, covered with painfully bright blue satin, at the scarlet curtains, the green wall-paper, and at all the wax flowers, Berlin wool mats, and gimcrack ornaments with which the room was adorned. Ferrari had added to this splendid furnishing an excellent piano for professional purposes, and numerous photographs, principally feminine, of his artistic friends; so that he conceived himself to be housed in a princely fashion.
It was three o'clock by the incorrect French timepiece on the tawdry mantelpiece, and Ferrari was getting somewhat impatient, as Mrs. Belswin had mentioned two o'clock as the time of her arrival; but with his accustomed philosophy he manifested no anger at the delay.
La Donna é mobile, he hummed, shrugging his shoulders, as he strolled towards the piano. "Women are always late; it is one of their charming follies. Ah! EH! EE! Diavolo! my voice is bad this day. These English fogs are down my throat Ah! Eh! EE! Dio! What a note! Voce del oca.
"
Ask not the stars the fate they deal. Read in my eyes the love I feel.
"
That's a good song, that serenade to Fatima. It shows off my voice. I'll sing it to exercise my high notes.
He did so, and was just in the middle of the first verse when Mrs. Belswin made her appearance, upon which he stopped abruptly, and came forward to greet her with theatrical effusion.
Stella dora! once more you shine, he cried, seizing her hands, with a passionate look in his dark eyes. "Oh, my life! how dear it is to see thee again."
You missed me then, Stephano? said Mrs. Belswin, sinking wearily into a chair.
Missed thee, carissima! exclaimed the Italian, throwing himself on his knees before her and kissing her hand; "by this, and this, and this again, I swear that all has been dark to me without the light of thine eyes. But you will not leave me again, angela mia. Thou hast come back for ever to be my wife."
Mrs. Belswin drew her hand away sharply and frowned, for in her present irritable state of mind the exaggerated manner of Ferrari jarred on her nerves.
Do be sensible, Stephano, she said in a vexed tone. "You are always acting."
How can that be acting, cruel one, which is the truth? replied Ferrari, reproachfully, rising from his knees. "Thou knowst my love, and yet when I speak you are cold. Eh, Donna Lucrezia, is your heart changed?"
My heart remains as It always was, my friend; but I've come up to see you on business----
Oh, business! interrupted Stephano, suspiciously. "Cospetto! You want once more to leave me."
For a time; yes.
Oh, for a time; yes! echoed Ferrari, mockingly. "Amica mia, you have a strange way of speaking to him who adores you. Dio, you play with me like a child. I love you, and wish you for my wife. You say 'yes,' and depart for a time. Now return you to me and again say, 'Stephano, I leave you for a time.'"
I made no promise to be your wife, said Mrs. Belswin, angrily, "nor will I do so unless you help me now."
Help you! and in what way? Has the little daughter been cruel? You wish me to speak as father to her.
I wish you to do nothing of the sort. My daughter is quite well, and I was perfectly happy with her.
And without me, cried Ferrari, jealously; upon which Mrs. Belswin made a gesture of irritation.
We can settle that afterwards, she said, drawing off her gloves: "meanwhile let us talk sense. I shall be up in town for a fortnight."
And you stay, cara?
At an hotel in the Strand. I'll give you the address before I leave.
Bene! I will then have you to myself for two weeks.
It all depends on whether you will help me in what I wish to do.
Ebbene! Is it il marito?
Mrs. Belswin nodded, and the Italian burst out laughing.
Povero diavolo. He has then come again.
No! but he arrives next week.
How pleased you are, said Ferrari, mockingly. "Oh, yes, he will be so sweet to behold you."
That's the very question! I don't want him to see me.
Then return not to the little daughter.
I must! I must! cried Mrs. Belswin in despair. "I can't give up my child after meeting her again. Twenty years, Stephano, and I have not seen her; now I am beside her every day. She loves me--not as her mother, but as her friend. I can't give up all this because my husband is returning."
Signor Ferrari shrugged his shoulders and lighted a cigarette.
But there is nothing more you can do, he said, spreading out his hands with a dramatic gesture, "eh, carrissima? Think of what is this affair. Il marito has said to you, 'Good-bye.' The little daughter thinks you to be dead. If then you come to reveal yourself, il marito--eh, amica mia! it is a trouble for all."
What can I do?
Nothing! oh no, certainly! You have beheld the little daughter for a time. Now you are to me again. I say, Stella 'dora, with me remain and forget all.
No, I will not! I will not! cried Mrs. Belswin, savagely, rising to her feet. "Cannot you see how I suffer? If you love me as you say, you must see how I suffer. Give up my child, my life, my happiness! I cannot do it."
Dio! you cannot make the miracles.
I can! I must! Do you think I will stay with you while my child calls me?
With me you must stay, my Norma. I love thee. I will not leave you no more.
You can't stop me.
Ebbene, said Ferrari, conscious that he held the advantage. "Go, then, and see how il marito will behold you."
Mrs. Belswin felt her helplessness, and clenched her hands with a savage cry of despair, that seemed to be torn out of her throbbing heart. Up and down the gaudy room she paced, with her face convulsed with rage, and her fierce eyes flashing with an unholy fire, while Ferrari, secure in his position, sat quietly near the window, smoking leisurely. His self-possession seemed to provoke her, ready as she was to vent her impotent anger on anything, and, stopping abruptly she poured forth all her anger.
Why do you sit there smiling, and smiling, like a fool? she shrieked, stamping her foot. "Can you not suggest something? Can you not do something?"
Eh, carissima, I would say, 'Be quiet' The people below will hear you cry out.
Let them! What do I care? I am a desperate woman, Ferrari, and I am determined to keep my position beside my child. I will stop at nothing--nothing--not even murder!
Murder!
Signor Ferrari let the cigarette drop from his fingers, and jumped up with a cry of dismay looking pale and unnerved. She saw this, and lashing him with her tongue, taunted him bitterly.
Yes, murder, you miserable! I thought you were a brave man; but I see I made a mistake. You love me! You want to be my husband! No, no, no! I marry a brave man--yes, a brave man; not a coward!
Ferrari winced, with an angry glitter in his eyes.
Eh, Lucrezia. You think I am a brave man if I go to assassin il marito. Cospetto! I am an Italian; but the Italians are not fools. If another man loved you, and would take you away, I would kill him--yes! But il marito--eh, that is not quite the same. I kill him and you return to the little daughter for always. What gain to me, carissima? I kill him, and your law gives me the rope. What gain to me? No, Donna Lucrezia. Do what you love. Stab him with a stiletto, or give the poison, I say nothing; but as for me to obey--Dio, the life is not trouble to me yet.
You are afraid.
He bounded across the room, and seized her roughly by the wrist.
Devil-woman, I have no fear! You lie to speak so I You lie, figlia inferna.
Then why do you refuse to help me?
Per Bacco, I am no assassin. Il marito is not an enemy to me. To you he is hateful. Revenge yourself as it pleases; but I--cospetto. You ask too much.
He flung her away from him with a gesture of anger, and began to walk about the room. Mrs. Belswin remained silent, savagely disappointed at the failure of her plan, and presently Ferrari began to talk again in his rapid, impulsive fashion.
If there was any gain. Yes. But I see not anything. I would work against myself. You know that, Signora Machiavelli. Ah, yes; I am not blind, cara mia. While il marito lives, you are mine. He will keep you from the little daughter. But he dies--eh, and you depart.
No, no! I swear----
I refuse your swearing. They are false. Forget, il marito--forget the little daughter! You are mine, mia moglie, and you depart not again.
Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully, and put on her gloves again with the utmost deliberation. Then, taking up her umbrella, she moved quickly towards the door; but not so quickly as to prevent Ferrari placing himself before her.
Where go you? demanded the Italian, between his clenched teeth.
To find a braver man than Stephano Ferrari.
No; you will find no one.
Won't I? Pshaw! I have found one already.
The Italian sprang on her with a bound like a tiger, seized her hands, and placed his face so close to her own that she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.
You have a lover, traditrice?
No.
You lie! I believe you not!
Mrs. Belswin laughed, and made an attempt to go away.
Sit in that chair, infamous!
I will not.
Sit in that chair, I order.
You order!
Yes, I, Stephano Ferrari.
She looked first at the Italian, then at the chair; and his aspect was so determined that, in order to avoid an unseemly struggle, she sat down as desired, with a shrug of the shoulders.
Now, tell me of this lover.
There is nothing to tell.
You lie!
I do not lie.
With eyes as fierce as his own, she looked straight at him, and it became a question as to which of them had the stronger will. Her determination to retain her position at any price, even at the cost of her husband's life, had roused all her worst passions, and for the first time since he had known her, the Italian averted his eyes with a shudder of dread.
Jettatura, he cried, recoiling from her malignant gaze, and making horns with his fingers to avert the blighting consequences of her look. Mrs. Belswin saw her advantage, and immediately began to play on his superstition.
I have the evil eye, you think. Yes; it is so. Why have you never discovered it before? Because I gave you love. To those who cross me not, I am kind; but an insult---- Ah! you shrink. Well, then, take care. I never forgive. I never forget.
Ferrari, completely cowed by her manner, threw himself on his knees before her, and held out his hands with a gesture of entreaty.
Stella 'dora, leave me not. Behold me at your feet, cruel one. I die in your anger.
Mrs. Belswin saw that she had gained command over him, but was too wise to push her conquest too far; so, bending down, she gave him her hand, which he covered with fierce kisses.
Rise, Stephano, and I will tell you all. For two weeks I will be in town, and with you all the days. You can call at my hotel if it pleases you. If I decide nothing about my husband you can come down with me to Deswarth, and we will face him together.
But this lover?
I have no lover. I spoke in jest. Your devotion has touched me, and I will reward it by becoming your wife. For the present, said Mrs. Belswin, with a charming smile, "I will say 'a reverderci.' If you send me a box I will come and hear you sing to-night."
Ferrari once more kissed her hand, there was a rustling of skirts, a closing of the door, and she was gone.
The Italian stood where she had left him, with a scared look on his face; and after a few minutes looked at the door through which she had vanished, with a nervous smile.
Jettatura! he muttered, shivering. "Jettatura."
"
Oh, I have seen the Southern Cross In Southern skies burn clear and bright, And I have seen the ocean toss Beneath its gleam in waves of white. Its beauty brought me no delight, For I was on a foreign shore; But now joy cometh with the sight Of England's chalky cliffs once more.
"
Quite unaware of the pitfalls prepared for him by his now nearly forgotten wife, Sir Rupert Pethram had returned once more to England, and rejoiced greatly, in his dry fashion, to find himself again under his own roof-tree. Kaituna was delighted to have him home again, and welcomed him with a filial affection that made a deep impression on his somewhat hard nature.
He was not a favourite with the world, being so stiff and dry in his manner that every one felt a feeling of uneasiness towards him; consequently, he was unused to affection, except from his daughter, whom he loved fondly in his own undemonstrative fashion. A difficult man to get on with, at least people said so; and the haughty, distant smile with which he greeted every one was enough to chill the most exuberant expressions of friendship. Not even his residence in New Zealand, where, as a rule, humanity is much more sociable than in England, had eradicated the inherent exclusiveness of his nature. True, in his young days he had been more friendly with his fellow-creatures, but the episode of his wife's divorce had destroyed his feelings of sociability entirely; and although, being an upright, honourable gentleman, he was respected throughout the colony, he was certainly not loved. He was a man who lived entirely alone, and, except his daughter Kaituna, there was no one on whom he bestowed a thought.
Yet he was not uncharitable. If he saw suffering he relieved it; if any one desired help he was not backward in giving his aid; still, even the recipients of his charity found it difficult to feel warmly towards him in any way. He did not believe in gratitude, and therefore never sought for it, but did his good deeds in a stolid matter-of-fact fashion that robbed them of their charm in the eyes of the onlookers. It seemed as though his unhappy married life had blighted his existence, had frozen in his breast all feelings of tenderness towards humanity, for he was eminently a man who acted from right motives, and not from any feelings of impulse to relieve suffering or help his fellow-creatures.
In appearance he was tall, slender, and rather good-looking, with a thin, wrinkled face, scanty grey hair, and a darkish moustache. Well dressed in a quiet fashion, undemonstrative and distant in his manners, he embarrassed all with whom he came in contact; for the well-bred coldness of his voice, and the supercilious look in his grey eyes, and the noli-me-tangere of his behaviour made every one around him feel uncomfortable.
With Kaituna he was always as pleasant and agreeable as he was able to be, but his daughter felt that any pointed display of affection would be received with disapproval by her singular parent.
A man so straight-laced, so rigid in the due observance of all social duties, could not but be annoyed at the absence of his daughter's chaperon at a time when he was expected home. She was Kaituna's guardian in his absence, responsible for her in every way, and he was naturally anxious to see if Mr. Dombrain's choice was a good one.
Shortly after his arrival he broached the subject to Kaituna, while waiting for his horse to be brought round, as it was his intention to ride round the estate with Belk.
Kaituna, he said, in his frigid voice, "when do you expect this lady to return?"
In about ten days, papa.
Do you like her, my child?
Oh, papa, I love her.
Sir Rupert raised his eyebrows.
That is a strong expression, and a mistaken one. My child, never give your love to any one. They will betray you.
Isn't that rather severe?
Not from my experience, answered Pethram, with emphasis. "But there, there! do not look so sad, child. You are young yet, and all geese are swans in your eyes. But about Mrs. Belswin. I am very much annoyed that she should have gone away at this time. It is not courteous to me, nor in keeping with her position as your companion."
But she had to go about some business, papa, said Kaituna, rather afraid at the frown she saw on her father's face.
Business! business! Her business is here, child. I expect Mrs. Belswin to give all her time to you.
She has done so until now.
And now is the most important time, as I wish to see if she is a good companion for you.
I'm sure you will like her very much, papa.
Impossible. I like no one very much.
Not even me?
She threw her arms round Sir Rupert's neck, and his face relaxed somewhat under her smile.
There, there, child! he said, pushing her gently away, "if I have a weak spot in my heart it is for you. Now, good-bye at present I'm going to see how things are looking."
So he went away in the bright, breezy morning, and Kaituna was left alone in deep thought, wondering how she could tell him of the offer of marriage made to her by Archie Maxwell. She was a brave enough girl in most things, but felt decidedly reluctant to speak to her father about a subject she knew would be disagreeable to him. Archie was young, handsome, hopeful, and loved her dearly; but these four excellent qualities would seem nothing in Sir Rupert's eyes as opposed to poverty. The girl was in despair, knowing her father's iron nature as she did, and longed for the return of Mrs. Belswin, in order to have at least one friend to stand by her. It was true that Archie had declared himself ready to speak to Sir Rupert at once; but Kaituna, dreading the refusal of her father to countenance the engagement, persuaded him to wait until her chaperon came back. Meanwhile, she went off to her own room to read her lover's last letter; for as Archie, not being duly accredited, could not come to the house, they were obliged to correspond in a clandestine manner, which was not without its charm to the romantic nature of Miss Pethram.
While, therefore, Kaituna was attending to her business, Sir Rupert was attending to his. Accompanied by Belk, he rode over the estate, looking into things, and exercised the young man's dull brains pretty considerably by his shrewd questions concerning this and that and the other thing. Sir Rupert Pethram had not been a penniless younger son, nor graduated in New Zealand for nothing, for he knew as much about land, and crops, and cattle, and top dressing as any man. Being thus accomplished, he took occasion to read his bailiff a severe lecture, which Belk received in sulky silence, on the slip-slop fashion in which things were conducted.
When I pay my servants well, said Sir Rupert, severely, "I expect them to look after my interests thoroughly. There has been a great deal of neglect here, and I expect you to place things on a much more satisfactory footing. Do you hear me?"
Yes, sir; I'll do my best.
Your best will be my worst, I'm afraid, judging from what I've seen. I'll give you a few months longer; but if you don't improve things in that time, Mr. Belk, I'm afraid you and I will have to part company.
Belk was in a towering rage at thus being spoken to; but, as he wanted to retain his situation, he held his tongue, nevertheless determining in his own mind that he would repay Sir Rupert for his reproof as soon as he was able. Fortune offered him an unexpected chance, of which he took immediate advantage.
Returning home with Sir Rupert, a dogcart containing two young men passed them on the road, the occupants of which nodded to Belk, whom they knew slightly.
Who are those gentlemen? asked Sir Rupert, sharply.
One is Mr. Clendon, the vicar's son, sir.
And the other?
Belk saw his chance; for, knowing all the gossip of the place, he was aware that Kaituna's engagement was unknown to Sir Rupert; so in the hope that it would be disagreeable, he spoke out straight.
Mr. Maxwell, sir. The gentleman engaged to Miss Pethram.
What the devil do you mean? demanded Sir Rupert, haughtily.
I beg your pardon, sir. I only answered your question.
Pethram looked keenly at the man, to read his real meaning; but Belk kept his countenance with the greatest skill, so the baronet was forced to believe that he had spoken in all good faith.
You can go, Belk, he said curtly, turning his horse's head; "and don't forget what I've said."
The bailiff looked after him with a savage look in his face.
No, I won't forget, he said to himself, scowling. "That affair's been kept from you, but you know all about it now. If I can find a chance of hurting you, my fine gentleman, I'll do it, to pay you out for your cursed pride this day."
Meanwhile Sir Rupert, outwardly calm, was riding home consumed with rage. What! his daughter engaged to a man of whom he knew nothing--of whose very name he was ignorant? It was infamous. And she had never said a word about it. Good heavens! where was Mrs. Belswin, to permit such a thing? Evidently it was common gossip. All the county knew it; and his daughter, whom he loved and trusted, had withheld her confidence.
She's like her mother, said Sir Rupert, between his clenched teeth; "deceptive in all things. Never mind, I'll get the truth out of her before the day is an hour older, and then--Oh, these women! these women! daughters and wives, they are all the same. They smile, they kiss, they betray; and we poor fools believe them."
Touching his horse with the spur, he rode at full gallop up the avenue, in order to relieve his over-burdened feelings; and, when he was once more in his own study, sent for his daughter without delay.
Kaituna obeyed this unexpected summons with considerable trepidation, having, with feminine instinct, guessed the reason for which her father wanted to see her so suddenly. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, with his hands behind his back, and a stern look on his face--a look she had never before seen directed at her.
Will you take a chair, said Pethram, with glacial politeness. "I'm sorry to trouble you about a disagreeable matter; but, being your father, I owe it to myself and to you to speak."
She sat down in the chair he indicated with a sinking heart, and waited in silence to hear his reproaches. Sir Rupert, however, had no intention of making any; he disliked a scene, and was moreover skilful in using that irony which cuts like a knife, and which is far more effective than unreasoning rage.
So you have deceived me, Kaituna?
Father!
Am I your father? I hardly think so, when you conceal from me the most important event of your life.
Kaituna had a considerable spice of the paternal nature in her, so she took a hint from the baronet, and used his own weapons to defend herself.
I don't understand to what you allude, sir.
Do you not? If, then, you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will try and enlighten you. I saw a young gentleman in the distance to-day, and asked Belk who he was. In reply I was informed that it was a Mr. Maxwell, to whom you are engaged. Will you kindly inform me if this is the case?
Kaituna lifted her head defiantly.
I love Mr. Maxwell, and wish to marry him.
Indeed. I presume you never considered that it was necessary to consult me?
I intended to do so, father, when--when Mrs. Belswin returned.
Ah! Mrs. Belswin then knows all about this affair?
Yes.
And is going to ask me to consent to the marriage?
Yes.
Sir Rupert walked up and down the room for a few minutes, then, pausing before his daughter, spoke deliberately.
I'm afraid you may think me somewhat inquisitive, but I should like to know something about this Mr. Maxwell. Where did you meet him?
At Marsh-on-the-Sea.
Indeed! And having fallen in love with you there, he followed you up here.
Yes! He was going to ask you to consent to our marriage.
Very considerate of him; but as yet he has not done so. Who is my future son-in-law?
Father, cried Kaituna, the tears coming into her eyes, "do not speak so cruelly. He is a civil engineer, and I love him very--very dearly. Mr. Clendon, the vicar, knows him. He is staying there just now."
Very interesting indeed. Has he any money?
I don't know! I think not.
So you were going to marry in this extremely doubtful fashion. I must say the whole affair does equal credit to your heart and head.
Father!
Pardon me! one moment. This estate is entailed, and should I die to-morrow, you do not inherit a penny, as it goes to the next male heir of the Pethrams. If, then, you do not make a good match, I confess I do not see how you are to live.
Kaituna said nothing, but remained with downcast eyes, looking at the ground, while her father went on speaking in a cold tranquil tone.
Knowing that you would be penniless at my death, I went out to New Zealand, sold all my property, and invested the money in an Australian Silver Mining Company. You may be sure I did not do so without first personally inquiring thoroughly about the prospects of the company. From what I learned, I am sure that it will turn out well, and in the event of its doing so, you will be an heiress. Under these circumstances I can rest assured as to your future, should I die in an unexpected manner.
I understand, father, but--but--what are you going to do?
I am going to write to Mr. Maxwell, thank him for his very gentlemanly behaviour, and refuse to sanction the match.
Kaituna flung herself on her knees before him.
No, no! you will not be so cruel. I love him, papa! Oh, you don't know how I love him.
I know well enough, Kaituna. You love him so much that you would go and live in a cottage, on dry bread and water. This is youthful folly, and I decline to aid you to ruin your life in such a way. Mr. Maxwell has behaved very badly----
No! No!
I say he has, replied Pethram, with emphasis; "no gentleman would have acted as he has done. I will write him at once, and if he seeks an interview he shall have it, so that I can tell him to his face my opinion of his conduct."
Father!
Not another word, Kaituna. Rise from your knees, for all your tears won't alter my decision. I won't ask you to dismiss this gentleman; I will do it myself.
His daughter, stung by his cold irony, sprang to her feet with a cry of anger.
Papa! Papa! Don't do that. I love him! I want to marry him! Then, after a pause, stamping her foot, "I will marry him."
Will you? I'm afraid not, replied Pethram, coldly; "you are under age, remember."
Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do, cried the girl, tearfully, raising her head.
Behave like a sensible woman, and give up this madness.
No, I will not. I will be true to Archie!
Pethram shook his head with a vexed air.
My dear child, you are really very foolish. I don't wish to argue any more on the subject.
You are going to write to--to Mr. Maxwell?
At once.
And refuse to let him marry me?
Exactly.
Then, said Kaituna, pausing a moment at the door, "I swear by the name of my mother that I will be true to him."
She was gone in a moment, and Sir Rupert, over whose face had come a grave, worn look, laughed discordantly.
By the name of her mother, he said with a sneer. "Ah! she little knows what her mother was."
"
'Tis ill work fighting in the dark, Though skilled you be in use of lance; A random thrust may stretch you sark, Though guided but by fickle chance. 'Tis wisest, then, to fight in light, For you can judge your foeman's skill; And though in armour he be dight, Your lance may find some place to kill.
"
The interview which had taken place between Mrs. Belswin and her Italian lover had been productive of a curious change in the demeanour of the latter. From being master he became slave, from commanding he changed to obeying; and taking advantage of this astonishing transformation, Mrs. Belswin ordered her quondam master about like a dog. She saw that by a single flash of her fierce eyes at a critical moment she had inculcated the superstitious Italian with the idea that she was possessed of the evil eye, and had by so doing taken all the manhood out of him. This son of the south, who was decidedly brave in the presence of physical danger, was so completely the slave of superstition that he firmly believed Mrs. Belswin's eyes exercised a malignant influence upon him, against which he was powerless to struggle. Notwithstanding this terrible feeling, he was too much in love with her to think of removing himself from the dread fascination of her presence, and therefore, he accepted his new position with superstitious resignation. Once or twice, indeed, he attempted to exert his former authority; but the ominous gleam in Mrs. Belswin's eyes, and the significant sneer on her lips, soon reduced him to obedience, and he cowered at the feet of his sometime slave in abject terror. It was not physical fear, it was not a want of manliness: it was simply the effect of a supernatural terror acting upon a nature singularly prone, both by birth and training, to yield to such weird superstitions.
Having thus reduced Ferrari to such a state of bondage, Mrs. Belswin thought that there would be no difficulty in making him put her husband out of the way in some stealthy manner. Here, however, she was entirely wrong, as Ferrari, being afraid of the English law, absolutely refused to lend himself to the committal of a crime even at the command of his evil genius. In vain, with all the artistic craft of a woman, she prayed, implored, cursed, ordered. Ferrari would not be moved from the position which he had taken up, in holding himself aloof from the power of the law. Afraid of her in every other way, he did exactly as she asked him, but in this special case his fear of the visible power of justice was greater than his fear of supernatural visitation from the glance of the evil eye, and after a fortnight's battling Mrs. Belswin was obliged to confess herself beaten by the steady refusal of her slave to obey her in what she desired most of all things to be done.
By means of Belk she had kept herself thoroughly well acquainted with all that had taken place at Thornstream during her absence. The bailiff employed his mother, who was always haunting the great house, to find out what was going on. So, the information she gave her son, he, in his turn, retailed by letter to Mrs. Belswin in London. From this source, therefore, the latter learned all about Sir Rupert's return, the discovery of the engagement, and the dismissal of Archie Maxwell by the angry baronet. On hearing all this news, Mrs. Belswin, with rare resolution, made up her mind to go down to Thornstream and see her husband face to face. She saw plainly that she could do nothing criminal against him, and so determined to have an interview with him, and throw herself on his mercy. If he granted her this all would be well; if, however, he spurned her--well---- Mrs. Belswin knitted her brows, clenched her hands, and drew a long breath. She was a despairing, reckless woman, and would stop at nothing to gain her ends, so it seemed as though Sir Rupert was in a very dangerous position. The baronet was no coward, but he would certainly have felt a thrill of fear had he known this meditated attack by his terribly savage wife.
One effect of Ferrari's newly-born dread of Mrs. Belswin's supernatural powers was that he followed her like a dog, and seemed afraid to let her out of his sight. Formerly, having a full belief in his power to draw her back to himself, he had not minded her being away for certain periods; but now that he deemed his dominating power was gone, he was afraid lest she should leave him altogether, and kept a close watch upon all her actions. He was with her all day, and at night, when forced to attend to his business, insisted that she should come to the theatre and stay in a private box, where he could see her during the performance. Mrs. Belswin did not wish to abuse her newly-gained power over him, so acquiesced in his somewhat unreasonable demands; but when she made her preparations to return to Thornstream, he insisted upon accompanying her there.
But what about your business? objected Mrs. Belswin.
That will be right, cara mia, he replied rapidly. "See you--we will go down on Sunday--I do not sing that night; and I will return on Monday--with you."
I will not return on Monday.
Signora, you will, I think so. On Sunday night you will behold il marito. He will order you away; and what is left but to come back with your faithful Stephano?
What you say is very true, said Mrs. Belswin, coolly, "but things may turn out so that I can stay."
Eh! have you the plan, Donna Lucrezia?
No; I leave everything to chance.
Dio! what faith! muttered Ferrari, lifting his hands; and the conversation ended with Mrs. Belswin agreeing that Ferrari should accompany her to Thornstream on Sunday afternoon.
With that profound belief in the unseen which is a strong characteristic of half-civilised natures, Mrs. Belswin, seeing that she could do nothing herself, left everything to chance, and expected this blind faith to be rewarded by some miraculous intervention which should change her husband's heart towards her. She had no grounds for such belief, but, hoping against hope, kept repeating to herself that all would yet be well, and that things would end happily.
Nevertheless, in spite of her striving to look upon the bright side of things, she received something of a shock when, on arriving at the Deswarth railway station, she saw Archie Maxwell advancing towards her with a most lugubrious expression of countenance. Wishing to speak with him, she sent Ferrari off to look after her portmanteau and drew the disconsolate lover into the bare waiting-room, where they could converse freely.
Well? asked Mrs. Belswin, sharply, looking at the downcast face of the young man; "is all this true?"
About Sir Rupert?
Yes, of course! What else would I speak of?
It's all true! quite true--worse luck!
He has refused to sanction the engagement?
Yes. I received a letter from him, in which he accuses me of acting shamefully in winning his daughter's heart. Oh! cried, Archie, clenching his hands, "if he was not her father! You never saw such a letter--a cruel, wicked letter! If he was not her father I would make him apologise for its insolence."
Oh, said Mrs. Belswin, cruelly. "So, being her father, you are going to sit quietly down under this insult."
What can I do?
Do! Oh, if I only were a man! Do! Why, marry Kaituna in spite of him. Why don't you see Kaituna and urge her to marry you at once?
I have done so, and she refuses to disobey her father.
Good heavens! thought Mrs. Belswin savagely, "the girl is no daughter of mine to allow herself thus to be robbed of the man she professes to love."
She kept this sentiment to herself, however, and only said abruptly--
What are you doing here?
I'm going up to town on business.
Indeed! So you capitulate without a struggle?
No, I don't, replied Maxwell, flushing at the cold contempt expressed in her tone. "I am going to see my employers about this Buenos Ayres business which I put off till the end of the year. If I can manage it I'll start for South America next month."
Alone?
Not if I can help it. On my return I'll try and persuade Kaituna to accompany me.
And disobey her father?
There's no help for it, replied Archie, with a groan. "We love one another very dearly, and I don't see why our lives should be spoilt at the caprice of a selfish old man."
What does your friend Mr. Clendon say?
He is entirely on my side.
And Mrs. Valpy?
The same. They think Sir Rupert is an old brute,
So he is, muttered Mrs. Belswin, angrily.
Well, Mr. Maxwell, she said aloud, "I also am on your side. It's a shame that your lives should be spoilt for a caprice. But remember one thing, Sir Rupert will cut his daughter off with a shilling."
Let him. Kaituna and I can face poverty together.
Poor innocents, said Mrs. Belswin, with a jeering laugh, "you don't know what poverty is."
You needn't speak so unkindly, replied Archie, rather hurt at her tone, "I thought you wished me to marry Kaituna."
So I do, but I don't want you to starve.
We shall not starve. I can always make a good income.
My dear sir, said Mrs. Belswin, candidly, "your income may be enough for one but it certainly is not enough for two, particularly when the other is a girl brought up as Kaituna has been. If you marry Kaituna without her father's consent, you drag her down to poverty."
Oh!
Yes, you do. It's no good glossing over those matters. Better look at the hard simple facts, Mr. Maxwell, and you will find it best in the long run. You love Kaituna, she loves you, and you look forward to love in a cottage and all that kind of thing, which does not exist out of novels. The reality, however, is not so pleasant.
Then what am I to do? Give up Kaituna?
Certainly not. Kahuna's happiness is as dear to me as it is to you. If you left her she would pine away, and I'm sure you would not be happy.
Mrs. Belswin, cried the young man in desperation, "I don't know what you mean. You blow hot and cold; you are both for and against. You say marry Kaituna, and then you add it is a selfish thing to drag her to poverty. I don't understand your meaning."
Oh, the density of lovers, said Mrs. Belswin, with an angry flash of her fierce eyes. "You are like all men, my dear Mr. Maxwell, and never see an inch beyond your nose. Does it never strike you that I am also fond of Kaituna, and would do anything to insure her happiness."
You?
Yes, even I. Oh, don't look so disbelieving, my friend. I may have more power than you think with Sir Rupert.
But you don't know Sir Rupert.
Don't I? replied Mrs. Belswin, grimly. "That's all you know. Well, here is your train, Mr. Maxwell, so I'll say good-bye."
But what are you going to do? said Archie as they went out on to the platform.
I don't know--yet.
Will you get Sir Rupert to consent to our marriage?
Perhaps.
Maxwell jumped into a first-class carriage with a sigh of despair, and put his head out of the window for a moment as the train started.
Mrs. Belswin!
Yes?
I don't know your meaning, but you seem to have some power, so I'll leave the future happiness of Kaituna and myself in your hands.
You will trust me?
Entirely.
Very well; you will see your trust has not been misplaced.
Mrs. Belswin, however, was promising more than she could perform, and stood frowning deeply as the train went off. From this reverie she was aroused by a touch on her shoulder, and on turning saw Ferrari.
Is that the man?
What do you mean?
Is it the one who is ready to do for you what I refuse.
She looked at him mockingly, and, woman-like, determined to torture him.
My good Stephano, if you knew that, you would be as wise as myself!
Before the storm the woods are still,
All Nature drowses as in sleep;
Yet, tho' her slumbers she may keep,
She feels a strange prophetic thrill,
Before the storm.
From heavy clouds on mount and hill,
The thunders mutter--lightnings leap,
And soon the heav'ns commence to weep,
Such strained silence augurs ill,
Before the storm.
Living at Thornstream was hardly very pleasant after the interview between Sir Rupert and his daughter. Everything went on just the same, but this very calmness was a foreboding sign of a coming tempest. The baronet was deeply angered at what he considered Kaituna's feminine duplicity, but hiding all such feelings under a mask of ultra politeness, he treated her with a cold courtesy which was far more irritating to the proud spirit of the girl than any outburst of wrath would have been.
Inheriting, however, no inconsiderable portion of the paternal pride, she, on her part, treated her father with distant politeness; so these two proud spirits found themselves entirely separated, the one from the other, by the insurmountable barrier of disdainful silence, which they had each contributed to build. They lived under the same roof, they took their meals at the same table, they interchanged the usual remarks concerning daily events, and, to all outward appearances, were the same to one another as they had ever been; but it was far from being the case, for the confidence of the father in the daughter, of the daughter in the father, had entirely disappeared, and they regarded one another with mutual distrust.
It was certainly a very unhappy state of things, and was entirely due to the peculiar views held by Sir Rupert, regarding his bearing towards his womankind. Had he interviewed Maxwell personally, and judged for himself as to his fitness to become the husband of his daughter--had he spoken of the matter to Kaituna in a kindly manner--had he made some allowance for the mutual love of these young people, who had set aside conventional observations, things might have been better. But, by ordering his daughter to give up her lover, as he had formerly ordered his high-spirited wife to give up her friend, he committed a fatal mistake, and as he had reaped the consequences of such high-handed proceedings before by losing his wife, it seemed as though history would repeat itself, and he would lose his daughter. Had he shown Kaituna the folly of a hasty love match, had he entreated her for her own sake to be cautious, had he requested her to consider her determination--but to order, ah, that was the mistake he made.
Curiously enough, he never saw this. In all things he demanded an absolute and unquestioning obedience from his household, so it never for a moment struck him that the girl would dare to defy his authority. Yet it was so; for in place of making her obedient, Sir Rupert's blundering conduct had made her crafty, and she made up her mind that she would never give up her lover.
Tommy Valpy stood her friend, and Kaituna met Archie at her house, where they parted with many promises of remaining true to one another. Then Kaituna returned to Thornstream, and resumed her mask of politeness; while Sir Rupert, thinking she had obeyed him, and given up her undesirable lover, was to a certain extent content, although still suspicious of her apparent acquiescence in his wish.
Things were in this state when Mrs. Belswin arrived. On leaving the railway station, after her interview with Maxwell, she had met Belk, but did not stop to speak to him, being afraid of Ferrari's jealousy. In this she was quite right, for Belk, seeing her driving past with a stranger, scowled savagely as he took off his hat; while Ferrari, noting the good looks of the young man, and seeing the scowl directed to himself, guessed directly that this was the rival mentioned by Mrs. Belswin.
Mia cara, he said, artfully, as they drove on to Deswarth, "that handsome gentleman who made the bow--is it your friend?"
Friend, echoed Mrs. Belswin, carelessly--"oh, I've so many friends."
Is it-- began Stephano, when Mrs. Belswin turned furiously upon him.
Don't worry me, Stephano; don't you see I'm busy. Is that the man I mentioned to you?--yes, it is. You see he is stronger than you, so don't fight him unless you like. I don't care a morsel for either of you. All I want is to stay by my child; and as you can't help me, you coward, don't worry me with silly questions.
Ferrari said no more, but made up his mind to seek an interview with the good-looking stranger, and find out whether Mrs. Belswin regarded him with favour.
On arriving at Deswarth, which was a short distance from Thornstream, Mrs. Belswin put the Italian down at "The Chequers Inn," told him to wait there in concealment until she saw him again, and then drove to the Hall.
Being determined not to see Sir Rupert until after dinner, in order to discover in the meantime how the land lay, she went up to her own room and sent for Kaituna, who was delighted to see her.
Now you are here, said the girl kissing her friend, "you may perhaps induce papa to let me marry Archie. You know----"
I know all about it, my dear, replied Mrs. Belswin, with a maternal air; "Mr. Maxwell met me at the railway station, and put me in full possession of all the facts."
And do you think papa will let me marry him? asked Kaituna, timidly.
I really cannot tell, dear, until I see your papa.
At dinner?
No-o, responded Mrs. Belswin, doubtfully; "I'm tired after my journey, so I'll have my dinner here. Afterwards I will ask for an interview with Sir Rupert, so you and your papa can dine tête-à-tête."
No, I'm sure we can't, said Kaituna, in rather a tone of relief; "Mr. Dombrain is here."
Mrs. Belswin faced round rapidly.
Dombrain! she echoed aghast. "Your father's solicitor."
Yes.
Now what does he want here, I wonder? muttered Mrs. Belswin, more to herself than to her auditor.
He came down to make papa's will, I think, said Kaituna.
His will! echoed Mrs. Belswin, struck with a sudden thought. "Kaituna, if your father dies, will he leave you well off?"
Oh, I don't want papa to die.
No, no! of course not, said her companion impatiently; "but one never knows what might happen. But suppose he did die, you would be an heiress no doubt."
Kaituna shook her head.
I don't think so, she replied, slowly. "You see, Thornstream is entailed on the male side, and none of it comes to me."
But your father was well enough off in New Zealand.
Why, how do you know that?
I don't know, dear, answered Mrs. Belswin hurriedly, seeing she had made a slip; "I only presume so."
He used to be well off, but he lost a lot of money lately, and this time when he went out he sold all his property.
Oh! said Mrs. Belswin, drawing a long breath of relief, "then he will have a large sum of money in hand."
No, indeed! He has put it all into silver mining shares in Melbourne.
The fool! muttered Mrs. Belswin, below her breath, "to risk his all in such security."
So you see, dear Mrs. Belswin, said Kaituna, pursuing her own train of thought, "that if Archie wants to marry me for my money, I shall not have any."
Mrs. Belswin caught the girl in her arms and kissed her with rare tenderness.
My dear, she said kindly, smoothing the dark hair, "Archie loves you for yourself, not for your money. Now go downstairs, dear, and excuse me to your father."
And you will see him to-night about Archie?
Mrs. Belswin gasped in a somewhat hysterical manner, and caught at the mantelpiece for support, as she repeated the words.
I will see him to-night--about--about--Archie.
Kaituna was satisfied and departed, but when the door was closed after her, Mrs. Belswin rushed madly across the room, and, flinging herself on her knees before the door, burst out into a terrible fit of crying.
Oh, my dear! my dear! she wailed, in a low moaning manner, "what can I do? what can I do? If your father dies you will be left penniless; if he lives I shall have to leave you forever--for ever, my dear--and go away into the outer darkness. Oh, God! God! is there nothing I can do?"
She looked up at the painted ceiling, as if expecting an answer, but none came; so, rising wearily to her feet, she locked the door, and dragged herself slowly towards the mirror.
What an old, old woman I look, she muttered, peering into the glass. "Grey hairs in the black; wrinkles in the smooth face. I wonder if he will recognise me. Surely not! Twenty years make a great difference. I will see him now in another two hours. He never dreams I am under the same roof, unless Dombrain----"
She started, drew herself up to her full height, and clenched her hands.
Dombrain! she said again. "Can he have revealed anything to Rupert? I know he hates me, and would do me an injury if he dared. But he cannot. No! I hold his secret; while I do that mine is safe with him. Oh! how ill I feel, but I must not faint, I must not quail. I must be brave--brave for my child's sake."
She bathed her face in cold water, took a small liqueur glass of brandy, which she produced from the dressing-bag, and then went to lie down for a time before facing her husband.
To-night, she murmured, as her head sank on the pillows. "To-night, Rupert Pethram, we measure swords. Let us see who will win. You or I!"
"
Oh, I was the husband and you were the wife; We met, and we married, and parted. Our meeting was happy, our marriage was strife: Our parting left each broken-hearted. Our hearts are now cured of their anguish and shame; We've learned each our lesson of sorrow; 'Tis folly to need the same lesson again, And so I will bid you 'good-morrow.'
"
Sir Rupert's study, which was one of the most comfortable apartments in the house, was placed in the east angle of the building, so that two of the walls were formed by the outside of the house. It was lighted by four French windows, two of which were generally open in fine weather, looking out on to the terrace.
It was furnished in a heavy, stately fashion, with cumbersome oaken furniture, upholstered in green morocco, and the walls, hung with velvety dark-green paper, were surrounded with low oaken bookcases, the height of a man, filled with well-selected volumes. On top of these cases were placed choice specimens of ceramic art, consisting of red Egyptian water-jars, delicate figures in Dresden china, and huge bowls of porcelain, bizarre with red and blue dragons. Interspersed with these, quaint effigies of squat Hindoo idols, grotesque bronze gods from Japan, and hideous fetishes from Central Africa.
Dainty water-colour pictures in slender gilt frames lightened the sombre tints of the walls, and between these were highly polished steel battle-axes, old-fashioned guns, delicate but deadly pistols of modern workmanship, and dangerous-looking swords, all arranged in symmetrical patterns. The floor of polished oak was covered with buffalo skins from American prairies, opossum rugs from Australian plains, striped tiger-skins from Indian jungles, and white bear-skins from the cold north; while in the centre of the room stood the desk, piled with books and loose papers. The whole room had a workmanlike appearance and an air of literary comfort eminently attractive to a bookish man.
On this night the two French windows were wide open, and into the room floated the rich perfumes of the flowers, broken by the pungent smell of a cigar which Sir Rupert was smoking as he sat writing at his desk. At his feet on either side were heavy books, carelessly thrown down after use, and scattered sheets of paper, while amid the confused mass on the desk itself was the red blotting-pad and the white note-paper on which he was writing. There was a lamp on his left, from beneath the green shade of which welled a flood of heavy yellow light--so heavy that it seemed to rest sluggishly on the floor and be unable to rise to the ceiling, where the shade made a dark circle.
Within--the yellow lighted room, the silent man writing rapidly, the steady ticking of the clock, and the acrid tobacco scent. Without--the close night, moonless and starless, the air drowsy with heat, the faint flower-odours, and the sombre masses of the trees sleeping dully under the soporific influence of the atmosphere.
There was something weird in the uncanny stillness of the night, a kind of premonition of coming woe, which would have certainly affected the nerves of a highly-strung man; but Sir Rupert did not believe in nerves, and wrote on carelessly without giving a thought to the strange prophetic feeling in the air.
If he had only known he would have fallen on his knees and prayed for the protection of his guardian angel until the red dawn broke through the dread shadows of the fatal night.
The rapid scratching of the pen, the sharp peremptory tick of the clock, and suddenly a distinct knock at the door. Sir Rupert raised his head with an expectant look on his face.
Come in!
A woman entered, tall and stately, arrayed in sombre garments; she entered slowly, with a faltering step, and paused in the shadow before the desk. Sir Rupert, his eyes dazzled by the glare of the lamp, could see her face but indistinctly in the semi-twilight, and only heard her short hurried breathing, which betokened great agitation.
Mrs. Belswin, is it not?
The woman placed one hand on her throat, as if striving to keep down an attack of hysteria, and answered in a low, choked voice--
Yes!
I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said, madam.
I--I am Mrs. Belswin.
Sir Rupert started, and passed his hand across his face with a confused sense of memory, but, dismissing the sudden flash of thought, he arose to his feet, and pointed politely to a chair.
Will you not be seated, Mrs. Belswin?
She was foolish to betray her identity, but whether it was that her resolution failed her, or that her nerve gave way, or that she determined to forestall discovery, with an appealing cry she fell on her knees.
Rupert!
God!
He tore the shade off the lamp. The heavy, concentrated, yellow light spread through the room in clear waves of brilliance, and there on the floor, with wild, white face, with outstretched, appealing hands, with the agony of despair in her eyes, he saw his divorced wife.
Rupert!
Step by step he retreated before the kneeling figure, with startled eyes and dry lips, until he leant against the wall, and thrust out cruel hands to keep off this spectre of the past.
You!
Yes. I--your wife!
My wife!
He burst out into a discordant laugh, on which, like a wounded snake, she dragged herself painfully along the floor until she reached his feet.
Keep off, he whispered, in a hoarse voice; "keep off, you shameless creature!"
But hear me.
Hear you!--hear you! said Sir Rupert, in a tone of concentrated scorn. "I heard you twenty years ago. The law heard you; the world heard you. What can you say to me now that I did not hear then?"
Pity me. Oh, Rupert, pity me!
Pity you! You that had no pity on me! You that ruined my life--that blasted my name--that made my home desolate! Pity you! I am not an angel! I am a man.
The woman twisted her hands together, and burst out crying into floods of hot bitter tears that burned and seared her cheeks--those cheeks that burned with shame at the righteous scorn of the man who had trusted her and whom she had wronged.
What are you doing here? said Pethram, harshly. "Rise and answer me. Don't lie grovelling there with your crocodile tears."
Have you no mercy?
None for such as you.
At these cruel words she arose to her feet with an effort and leaned heavily against the wall, while her husband took his seat in stern anger, as if she were a criminal brought before him for sentence.
You are Mrs. Belswin?
Yes.
My daughter's companion?
She is mine as well as yours.
Silence! he said, sternly. "Do not dare to claim the child which you left so cruelly twenty years ago. Have you no shame?"
Shame! she replied bitterly. "Yes, I have shame. I know what shame is--twenty years of bitter, cruel shame. God of mercy, twenty years!"
Twenty thousand years would not be too much for your sin.
Are you so pure yourself that you can judge me so harshly?
I am not here to argue such a question, he said, coldly, with a cruel look in his eyes. "I want to know what you are doing here."
I came as a companion to my daughter.
And you told her----
I told her nothing, said Mrs. Belswin, vehemently. "So help me, Heaven! she knows nothing. I am her companion, her paid companion--nothing more."
I am glad you have had the sense to spare my daughter the story of your shame. How did you obtain the situation?
It was advertised, and I got it through Dombrain.
Did he know who you were?
How could he? Do you think all the world knows the story of my folly?
Your folly! he repeated, with deep scorn; "your sin you mean. Dombrain was a long time in New Zealand; he must have heard of the case."
If he did he never saw me. He did not recognise me.
Sir Rupert looked at her doubtfully, as if he would drag the truth from her unwilling lips. She stood before him white, silent, defiant, and he arose slowly to his feet.
Twenty years ago, he said, coldly, "the law gave me my freedom from you, and I thought never to see you again. Like a thief you have entered my house during my absence. You have dared to contaminate with your presence my child--yes, my child, not yours. She ceased to be yours when you forsook her. How you obtained this entrance I will make it my business to find out; but now that I know that Mrs. Belswin is my divorced wife, I order her to leave my house at once. Go!"
She uttered a piteous cry, and stretched out her hands towards him in an agony of despair.
No, no! you cannot be so cruel.
I am not cruel. By your own act you forfeited your right to remain under my roof.
But my child.
Your child! Ah, you remember her now, after deserting her for twenty years! Do you think I will permit you to contaminate her young life by your presence? Do you think that I can see you day after day and not remember what you were, and see what you are?
His wife cowered before his vehemence, and, covering her face with her hands, shrank against the wall.
Rupert! she said, in a low pleading voice, "do not be so harsh with me. If I have sinned I have suffered for my sin. For twenty years I have longed for a sight of my child, but until now I dared not see her. Chance sent you away and gave me an opportunity of living with her as a companion. She does not know who I am. She will never know who I am, and as her paid companion she loves me! Let me stay beside her and have some happiness in my wretched life."
No; I will not! I wonder you dare ask me.
I dare anything for my child.
It is too late to talk like that--twenty years too late.
You will let me stay. Oh, Rupert, let me stay.
No!
For God's sake.
No! No!
Reflect! Some day you may need mercy. How can you expect it if you deny it to me?
You have heard my determination. Go!
Now?
At this moment.
You would turn me out of your house like a dog?
I would, and I do! It is all that you deserve at my hands.
Is there no mercy?
None--from me. Go!
I will not go, cried Mrs. Belswin, in despair. "I will not go, I tell you."
Sir Rupert advanced towards the bell rope.
Then I will order my servants to turn you out.
But, Rupert, think. Kaituna will learn who I am.
Better that than she should be contaminated by your presence.
The woman clasped her hands together, and then in a frenzy of rage dashed across the room to pull him away from the bell-rope.
You shall not! you shall not! she shrieked, her fierce eyes flashing with mad anger. "I will stay! I am a reckless woman! I love my child! I will not go!"
I have the power to make you go, and I will, said Pethram, coldly.
Are you a man or a devil?
I am what you have made me.
What I made you! she hissed, in a voice shaking with bitter scorn. "No! it is you who have made me what I am. I loved you when I married you. As there is a God above, I loved you; but with your cold, cruel words, with your sarcastic sneers, with your neglect you killed that love. I had no friend. I was only a girl, and you crushed my heart. I was dying for the love and tenderness which you refused to give me."
I was a good husband.
As the world says, 'A good husband.' You gave me a good home. You surrounded me with every comfort. To all outward appearance, I had nothing left to desire. Ah, how little you, with your cold, cruel nature, know what a woman wants. I desired love! I desired tenderness, but I did not get it. Oates was kind to me. He cheered my loneliness, and in a moment of madness I went with him. I regretted it the moment afterwards. I have regretted it ever since. God knows how miserable my life has been. Now I have a chance of happiness, I will take advantage of it. I will stay with my child; you can do what you like, you can say what you like--I stay.
Without changing a muscle of his face, Sir Rupert heard his miserable wife to the end, then advanced once more to the bell.
You have said all; now go, or I will have you turned out.
Mrs. Belswin laughed scornfully.
Do what you like, she said, indifferently. "You have said what you will do; I have said what I will do."
For the first time Sir Rupert hesitated, and let his hand fall without ringing the bell.
You fiend! he said, in a cold fury. "Having made my life miserable before, you now come to do so again. But I knew I was never safe from your malice. Dombrain, to whom I told all your vile conduct, said you would come again."
He said that? Dombrain said that?
Yes.
And he is a fit judge of my conduct! she burst out in passionate anger. "Do you know who he is? Do you know what he was? A convict--an embezzler--a man who has served his term in prison."
My solicitor--Mr. Dombrain? he said, incredulously.
Mr. Dombrain! she scoffed, sneeringly. "Mr. Damberton is his real name, and it was by knowing what he was and what he is, that I forced him to receive me as your daughter's companion. I would have spared him had he spared me, but now--well, you know the worst of him."
Yes, and I know the worst of you, he said, fiercely. "Oh, you played your cards well. But I will turn you out of my house, and to-morrow I will expose Dombrain or Damberton's real position to all the world."
You can do what you like about him, but I stay here.
You go, and at once.
I will not, she said, desperately.
Then I will shame you in the eyes of your own child, he replied, resolutely, seizing the bell rope.
No, no! not that!
I say I will. Either you go at once, or I call in Kaituna and tell her who and what you are.
Mrs. Belswin writhed in anguish.
Oh, I could not bear that! My own child! Pity, pity!
Will you go?
Pity! pity!
Will you go?
Yes, yes! My own child! I will go. Yes, don't ring the bell; I will go now. But do not tell her--oh, Rupert, do not tell her!
I will tell nothing if you leave this house at once.
She dragged herself slowly towards the window, conscious that she was beaten. Firm on every point, reckless to the verge of despair, the thought that her own child should know her shame was too much even for her.
Oh, God! is there no mercy?
None! Go!
On the threshold of the window she stood, with her tall form drawn up to its full height, and her fierce eyes flashing with rage.
You part the mother and the child. You drive me out of your house like a dog. But remember with whom you have to deal. To-night it is your turn; to-morrow it will be mine.
He looked at her with a scornful smile, and in a moment she was swallowed up by the darkness of the night, from whence she had emerged like a spectre of the past.
"I stand outside in the bitter night,
And beat at the fast-closed door;
'Oh, let me in to the kindly light,
Give back to me days of yore.'
But an angel says, with a frowning brow,
'The past can no power restore,
You must dwell in the outer darkness now
For ever and ever more.'"
Through the warm summer night, her heart filled with rage, humiliation, and despair, fled the unhappy woman, whither she knew not. All she wanted was to escape from Thornstream, lest her husband, seeing her by chance, should break his word and tell Kaituna what she was. If he did so--oh, the horror of it for her daughter to know that the mother whose memory she reverenced was alive, and an unhappy, fallen creature! A thousand fiends seemed to shriek in her ears as she ran onward, and it was only when she came against the trunk of a tree and fell half-stunned on the cool grass that she stopped in her mad career.
How cool was the delicate touch of the grass, how sweet the perfume of the flowers. She buried her hot face among the primroses, and pressed her aching breast against the chill bosom of the earth to still the agonised throbbing of her heart.
Under the great tree she lay in an exhausted condition, thinking of her failure to conciliate Pethram, of the past with all its follies, of the present with its pain, and the future which looked so hopeless and dreary.
It was all over. She had staked everything on the casting of a die, and lost. Her husband had driven her away from the house, from her child, and there was nothing left for her to do but to return to London with Ferrari and marry him at once. Never again would she live with her child. She might see her--yes; but without being seen--for she knew that if she spoke again to Kaituna everything would be revealed by Rupert Pethram. To destroy that beautiful memory of, motherhood, which was the chief treasure of Kaituna's life--to show herself in her true colours as a fallen and wretched woman--no, she could not do that; better exile, better wretchedness, better death than the terrible truth.
With a groan she sat up among the soft grass, her hands lying idly on her lap, her wild face raised to the lonely sky. Yes, lonely, for above there was nothing but clouds, black heavy clouds, as gloomy as her own future. Oh, God! was there no hope? Was there----
Stay! the clouds part, rolling heavily to the westward, revealing a glimpse of dark blue sky, and set therein like a diamond, the glimmer of a star. Hope! yes, it was a sign of hope! a sign of promise! a sign of comfort?
She thought she would go back to Ferrari and see if he could suggest any plan by which she could turn the tables on her husband; so brushing the dead leaves off her dress, she threw the lace kerchief she wore round her neck over her head, after the fashion of a mantilla, and walked rapidly down the avenue towards Deswarth.
The rapid motion of walking seemed to restore her nerve and with such restoration she regained again the fierceness of her savage spirit. The moment of softness was past, the good angel who had comforted her with the star of hope fled away in terror, and over her head the angel of evil, who had been her constant companion for so many years, now spread his sable wings.
He had ordered her away. He had parted her from her child. This man--her husband that used to be, who had ruined her life by his cruel words and studied neglect. The blame of her sin rested on his shoulders, and she had suffered in the eyes of the world. Now once more he triumphed, and while he was resting, honoured and respected in his own house, she was flying through the night like a guilty creature.
Oh! muttered Mrs. Belswin between her clenched teeth, "if I was a man I'd kill him. But I can do nothing! I can do nothing. Yet I don't know. If I can persuade that cowardly Ferrari, or Belk. Belk would do anything for me. What is to be done must be done to-night--to-morrow it will be too late. Which way am I to turn?"
She paused a moment; pressed her hands on her beating heart, then suddenly made up her mind.
I will see Ferrari--first.
The Chequers Inn was just on the outskirts of Deswarth, and a comparatively short distance from Thornstream, so it did not take Mrs. Belswin long, at the rapid pace at which she was walking, to arrive there.
It stood a short distance back from the road, and the night being hot, all the doors and windows were open, letting the yellow light within stream out on to the dark village street. On the benches outside a number of yokels were drinking and talking loudly together about some fortnight-old event which had just reached their out-of-the-way parish. Mrs. Belswin, not wishing to be recognised, flitted rapidly past them, and was standing in the passage hesitating whether to make herself known to the landlord or not, when luckily at that moment Ferrari came out of a side door with the intention of going into the taproom. Like a ghost the woman glided forward and laid her hand on his arm.
Stephano!
You, cara mia.
The passage was so dark that he was able to recognise her by her voice alone, and the noise from the taproom was so loud that only a quick ear like his could have distinguished her low tones.
Come into some room. I wish to speak to you.
Here, then! he said, drawing her into the room from whence he had emerged, "what is wrong? Il marito! eh! Dio! By your face there is trouble."
With a sigh of relief Mrs. Belswin flung herself wearily into a chair, while Ferrari carefully closed the door and took up his position on the hearthrug. Even in that moment of anxiety Mrs. Belswin, with that noting of trivial things common to a preoccupied mind, noticed the tawdry furnishing of the apartment--the gaudy wall-paper, on which hung brilliantly coloured portraits of the Queen, the Prince of Wales, and General Gordon; the vivid red of the tablecloth, the dingy blue of the chairs, and the tarnished mirror over the fireplace swathed in fly spotted yellow gauze. Ferrari had evidently been smoking, for there yet lingered about the room the odour of a cigar, and the atmosphere was slightly hazy with smoke, while the smoky flame of a badly trimmed kerosene lamp faintly illumined the whole place.
On a chair near the wall sat Mrs. Belswin, faint and weary, but with an angry light in her wonderful eyes; and standing on the hearthrug the Italian, his hands behind his back, and his body slightly bent forward, eager, anxious, and expectant.
II marito? he repeated, inquiringly.
The woman made a gesture of assent, upon which Ferrari rubbed his hands together with an air of satisfaction.
Bene! he said, smiling and showing his white teeth; "it is as I said it would be. Il marito has said 'Depart,' and you, my Lucrezia, have come back to the faithful one. Ah, che gioja! We will now leave this fog land and go to my beautiful Italy--dolce Napoli. The waiting is over, cara mia. You are to me at last, ah felicita!"
You go too fast, my friend, replied Mrs. Belswin, with a cold look of disapproval on her expressive face. "Do you think I will marry a coward?"
I am no coward! If a man to me dared to speak the word I would show him I am Italian. It is your eyes--your evil eyes--that make me afraid. But you will not be cruel to me again, bellissima, he added, in a caressing tone. "You have come to say, 'I love thee.'"
Listen, Stephano, said Mrs. Belswin, rising to her feet and crossing to the Italian. "I wish to tell you what he said. No! do not touch me! Wait! I saw my husband. He spoke cruelly to me; he made me leave his house--yes, turned me out like a dog!"
Cospetto!
Ah, that stirs your blood! I see your eyes flash! Can you see me--the woman you love--treated in this manner? No! I am sure you love me too much. You are Italian! You have a strong arm and a warm heart! Is it not so?
But what wish you, Signora?
Kill him!
She had caught the Italian by the coat with her two hands, and her face was so close to his own that he felt her hot breath on his pale cheek. With a gesture of alarm he shrank away, and was about to speak, but she prevented him.
You are afraid of the law, she went on hurriedly. "Do not be afraid. Listen! He--that man I hate--the man who has treated me like a dog--is in a room with open windows that lead on a terrace. Go there without noise--wait in the shadow. Within all is light--without all is darkness. Draw him to the window by some trick. When his figure is in the light, shoot him with this!"
Ferrari gave a gasp, for she had thrust a small revolver into his hand, upon which his fingers unconsciously closed.
I cannot do it myself, went on the temptress; "I dare not. They would find out who I was, and what I did. I bought this pistol to kill him to-night, but my heart failed me. No one will think it is you. Go! Go, if you love me, and kill him, I will be your wife--I will do what you wish--I will go where you like--only kill him! Kill him!"
It was no civilised woman who was thus planning a murder in such a cold-blooded manner. It was a savage, with all the blood-thirsty instincts of a barbaric race. All the European side of this woman's nature had vanished, and the primeval lust for blood dominated her entirely. Ferrari felt this horrible truth as her face, distorted with passion, pressed close to his own, and with a cry of fear thrust her away, dropped the pistol on the floor, and covered his face with his hands.
Devil woman that you are! No!
Mrs. Belswin whirled into the centre of the room like an enraged tigress.
You won't do it? she hissed madly. "You won't help me? I was right. You are a coward. Well, I will ask you no more--I will do it myself."
She picked up the pistol lying at his feet and turned to the door, but with a cry of horror he sprang in front of her, and prevented her exit.
No, no! you are mad! You are mad! I will not let you go.
Stand away! I will go.
No, cara, think. Dio!
Like a caged panther she looked round the room for a means of exit, for, mad with rage as she was, she yet retained sufficient sense to know that a scene at the "Chequers" would be detrimental to her plans.
I must go! I must go!
Her eye caught the window, and like a flash of lightning she sprang towards it, tore it open, and bounded through into the darkness like a panther, uttering a laugh of triumph as she vanished.
Ferrari darted forward, but stopped half-way across the room in amazement.
Dio! what a devil. I must go, or she will kill him.
He put on his hat and coat rapidly, and, closing the window, left the inn by the door.
My friend, he said to the landlord, "I go for a little walk. Addio!"
Luckily none of the labourers outside had seen Mrs. Belswin leave, as she had slipped past them in the shadow, and the road to Thornstream being perfectly deserted, she was free from discovery. Ferrari had explored the neighbourhood that afternoon, so, knowing the way to Thornstream, walked slowly along the road until out of sight of the inn, then ran rapidly onward through the darkness, longing to catch a glimpse of the flying woman speeding towards Thornstream with murder in her heart.
"Stark and stiff in the lonely night,
Stiff and stark in the dawning light,
There it lies
With unseeing eyes,
And placid face of a bloodless white.
"
Who hath slain this man by guilt and fraud Bears on his brow, deep-seared and broad, The blood-red stain Which is mark of Cain, Unseen by man but beheld by God.
"
The red light of dawn burned in the eastern skies, the first faint thrill of life ran through the earth as the twitter of awakening birds was heard in the green woods, then the glorious sun sent his beams over the chill lands, bathing everything in golden splendour. Thornstream Hall faced to the east, and the great shafts of sunlight breaking through misty morning clouds, pointed downward like the finger of God on to the terrace--to the open window of Sir Rupert's study, and there in the splendour of sunrise lay a dead man.
Face downward he lay, with half of his body in the room, the other half on the terrace, and the hands stretched out in the form of a cross, clenched in the agony of death.
Last night--this morning--nay, but a few hours back, and this was a living, breathing man, full of all the passions, sins, and hatred of humanity; now an empty shell, a soulless husk, was all that remained of Sir Rupert Pethram.
Then the servants began to move about the house attending to their morning duties, and one--it was the housemaid--entered the study to put it in order. There she saw the dead man, and with a terrible cry fell senseless to the ground. Her cry brought in her fellow-servants, there were expressions of incredulous wonder, exclamations of horror, and then a general hubbub of voices.
In a few minutes all the household knew the terrible truth that Sir Rupert had been found dead in his study, shot through the head, and Dombrain came to the scene of the tragedy with horror on his face, followed by Kaituna and Mrs. Belswin.
For God's sake don't let Miss Pethram see it, said Dombrain to the butler, "nor Mrs. Belswin. It is not a sight for women."
But it was too late; they were both in the room, and Kaituna with a cry of horror fell on her knees beside the dead body of her father, while Mrs. Belswin stood looking down at the corpse with an impassive expression on her strongly-marked features.
The servants had left the room in order to send for the police, and only three persons were left with the dead man--Kaituna, convulsed with grief, kneeling by the body, and Mrs. Belswin standing beside Dombrain, both silently looking--at the dead man? No. At the weeping daughter? No. At one another? Yes.
The questioning look of Dombrain said--
You were the dead man's enemy. Is this your work?
Mrs. Belswin's eyes replied defiantly.
I was, and am still, the dead man's enemy. I defy you to prove that this is my work.
They eyed one another steadily for a few moments, and then the man's eyes drooped before the fierce daring of the woman's.
There was silence in the room broken only by the sobs of Kaituna.
Come away, my dear, said Mrs. Belswin, bending down with a caressing gesture. "Come to your room; we can do no good here."
Oh! cried Kaituna, rising slowly from her knees; "who has done this? My poor father! My poor father! Who has murdered him?"
Again a flash of suspicion between Dombrain and Mrs. Belswin.
We do not know dear, said the latter, soothingly; "but Mr. Dombrain has sent for the police. Perhaps they will find out the truth."
They must! they must! cried the girl, in an agony of grief. "Oh, it is terrible. To have come back for this. To be killed under his own roof by an enemy. Oh, why does God permits such things?"
God permits many things, said Mrs. Belswin, bitterly, putting her arm round the shrinking form of her daughter. "Come away, dear. All that can be done will be done. The English police are clever, and may perhaps capture the murderer."
Dombrain smiled, and Mrs. Belswin noticed the smile.
Perhaps the murderer may escape, he said with emphasis, giving a stealthy glance at Mrs. Belswin's coldly impassive face.
He may escape man; but he will not escape God, cried Kaituna, fervently. "Oh, come away, Mrs. Belswin, come away. I shall die if I stay here."
You will of course do everything that is necessary, Mr. Dombrain, said the chaperon, as she led the weeping girl to the door.
Of course, he replied, stolidly. "I will arrange everything."
Mrs. Belswin looked at him steadily, and then left the room with the heart-broken daughter, while Dombrain, left alone beside the corpse, drew a long breath.
What nerve, he said, under his breath; "what nerve."
The police came, took possession of the house, brought down detectives from London, questioned every one, held an inquest, and--discovered nothing. Well; it was a difficult case. The police are not infallible; therefore they failed to discover the murderer of Sir Rupert Pethram. If it had been a low London murder case, for instance, of the Whitechapel poker sort, then, indeed, the criminal would not have escaped human justice; but in this affair it was impossible to move in any direction. Justice promised to do what she could, and did nothing. That bandage over her eyes is often in the way, and in this instance blinded her altogether; so whomsoever had killed Sir Rupert Pethram was quite safe, as far as this stupid, blind, blundering Justice was concerned.
Of course the police had a theory which explained everything, and accomplished nothing. The daily papers argued one way, the police argued another, the public gave their view of the matter; and after great cry, there was little wool.
Sir Rupert, according to an intelligent jury, came by his death at the hands of a person unknown, a verdict which was vague, and might mean anything. Then he was placed in the family vault, and the title and estates went to a distant cousin; Kaituna left Thornstream a penniless orphan, and a new order of things began.
The new heir was a man of business, who was hard, and prided himself on being hard. He had a large family; and thinking the Thornstream rents was quite small enough to rear his dozen children--male and female in equal proportion--declined to do anything for Kaituna, whom he scarcely knew.
Mrs. Belswin, thereupon, stepped forward, and took Kaituna off to London with her to see Mr. Dombrain, and ascertain, if possible, what private property Sir Rupert had died possessed of. Mr. Dombrain was quite happy to oblige Mrs. Belswin in every way and did what he could; but that was comparatively little; so little indeed, that it made no difference in the financial position of Kaituna, and she remained dependent on the bounty of Mrs. Belswin.
But Archie Maxwell! Oh, he behaved admirably. On hearing of the death of Sir Rupert, through the medium of the press, he came down at once to Deswarth, consulted with Toby, and made every effort to find out the assassin of Sir Rupert, but without success. Then he proposed to marry Kaituna as soon as possible after the death of her father, which arrangement was approved of by Mrs. Belswin, who added, however, that they could not marry on nothing; and as Archie was not rich, and Kaituna was now poor, there was nothing left for them but to wait.
This Archie agreed to do, after much persuasion, but meantime was with Kaituna as often as possible. He came up to London with Mrs. Belswin, helped her to select a comfortable lodging; and when his sweetheart and her chaperon were established, went off on his own account to see Mr. Dombrain.
Has Miss Pethram absolutely nothing? he asked.
Really, says the solicitor, "I don't know if I can give you any information----"
Yes, you can! I am engaged to Miss Pethram, and I am going to marry her as soon as I can. I don't want her money for myself, but I want her to get her rights.
Mr. Maxwell, said Dombrain, solemnly, "the late Sir Rupert was a great friend of mine, and I would do anything for his daughter, but I'm afraid that she inherits nothing but two thousand shares."
Oh, indeed! In what company?
In the Pole Star Silver Mining Company, Limited Melbourne, Australia.
Are they worth anything?
Not even the paper they are written on.
Hump! said Archie, thoughtfully, "from what I heard of Sir Rupert, I should hardly think he was a fool, and no one but a fool would invest his money in a rotten company. Do you know anything of Australian mining?"
I know New Zealand, replied Mr. Dombrain, evasively, "but I'm not acquainted with Australia. The mine may turn up trumps. On the other hand it may not."
Are these shares all the property left by Sir Rupert?
Yes! He had land in New Zealand; but when he came in for the title he sold it all, and invested the money in these shares. He thought he would be able to save money from the Thornstream rents, to leave to his daughter, but as he occupied the position of master such a short time, of course he saved nothing.
And the new baronet, Sir Thomas, will do nothing for Miss Pethram?
Nothing!
What a scoundrel!
Mr. Dombrain shrugged his shoulders, and declined to commit himself to an opinion,--a legal opinion is worth seven shillings and sixpence, so there is no use wasting that amount.
By the way, said Archie, as he was going, "what do you think of this murder?"
I think it is a most mysterious affair, said Dombrain, after a pause. "I can't account for it; I was staying in the house as you know, and left Sir Rupert in his study quite hearty. I heard no pistol shot, and in the morning he was dead. Most extraordinary."
Had Sir Rupert any enemies?
My dear sir, we all have enemies, replied Dombrain, evasively.
I dare say; but one's enemies don't go as far as murder as a rule, answered Archie, dryly.
No! no! that is true. But really, Mr. Maxwell, you know as much about the murder as I do, and I dare say are as completely in the dark.
I shan't be in the dark long.
How so?
Because I'm going to find out who murdered Sir Rupert.
Take my advice and don't try, said Dombrain slowly.
Why not? demanded Maxwell, looking at him keenly.
Because you'll discover nothing. How can you? The police have failed.
I don't believe in the police much, replied Archie lightly. "I may succeed where others have failed. Good-bye. Mr. Dombrain, I am going to see Miss Pethram, and will probably see you again about these shares."
When Maxwell had departed the solicitor sat in deep thought for a few minutes.
I wonder, he said at length, "I wonder if he knows anything about Mrs. Belswin."