A MOMENT OF MADNESS.
CHAPTER I.
FORTHILL TERRACE, CAMDEN TOWN.
It is the middle of July, but the London season has not, as yet, shown any symptoms of being on the wane, and the drawing-room of the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks is arranged for the reception of visitors. Curtains of guipure lace, looped with pale-blue ribbons, shroud every window, purple irises and yellow jonquils as displayed in art needlework, adorn each chair and sofa; fanciful little tables of silk and velvet, laden with Sevres and Dresden china are placed in everybody’s way, and a powerful odour of hot-house flowers pervades the apartment. A double knock sounds at the door, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks starts from the dose into which she has fallen, and seizing a novel, sits upright, and pretends that she is deep in its contents. But she need not have been so punctilious, for the footman, throwing open the door, announces her brother, Mr Tresham. Roland enters the room, looking fagged, dusty, and out of sorts, a complete contrast to the dainty adornments of his sister’s drawing-room.
‘Well, Roland!’ exclaims Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and what is your news? It is an age since we have seen you! I was beginning to think you must have made away with yourself.’
‘No such luck,’ replies her brother, moodily, ‘though I believe it would be the best thing that I could do.’
He is a handsome man of only thirty years of age, but the look of care upon his brow makes him appear older. His dress is not exactly shabby, but it is the dress of a needy gentleman, and did not issue from the tailor’s hands this season, nor even last.
‘How are you all at home?’ continues the lady.
‘Just the same as usual; a medley of dirt, ill-management, and unpunctuality! I dread to enter the house.’
‘Ah! Roland, it is too late to advise you now, but that marriage was the worst day’s work you ever did. Not thirty till September, and with a wife and six children on your hands. It is a terrible misfortune!’
‘And two hundred a-year on which to support them,’ laughs Mr Tresham, bitterly. ‘Don’t speak of it, Valeria, unless you wish to drive me mad. And to add to my troubles I have just received this letter;’ tossing it over to her.
‘Who is it from?’
‘Lady Tresham! Her generosity seems to be on a par with his! You see how she writes me word that Sir Ralph is in Switzerland mountain-climbing with Handley Harcourt, but that if he were at home she fears he would be unlikely to comply with my request.’
‘Did you ask Ralph for money then?’
‘Not as a gift. I wrote to him for a loan of fifty pounds, to carry on the war, but of course I should regard it as a debt. The fact is, Valeria, I don’t know where to look for money; my profession brings me in nothing, and we cannot live on the miserable pittance my father left me. It is simply impossible!’
If Roland Tresham has entertained any hope that, on hearing of his difficulty, his rich sister will offer to lend or give him the money, which would be a trifle out of her pocket, he has reckoned without his host. She likes Roland in her way, and is always pleased to see him in her house, but the woman and the children may starve for aught she will do to help them. She considers them only in the light of a burthen and disgrace.
‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t live on two hundred a-year,’ she answers shortly. ‘Of course it is very little, but if your wife were worth her salt she would make you comfortable on it. But that is what comes of marrying a beauty. They’re seldom good for anything else.’
‘There’s not much beauty left about Juliet now,’ replies Roland Tresham, ‘but I don’t think it is entirely her fault. The children worry her so, she has no energy left to do anything.’
‘It’s a miserable plight to be in,’ sighs the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and I can see how it tells upon your health and spirits. What do you propose to do?’
‘Do! I should like to hang myself. Do you think there is any chance, Valeria, of your husband getting me a foreign appointment? I don’t care where it is. I would go out to the Fiji Islands, or Timbuctoo, or to the devil himself, to get away from it all.’
‘And leave them at home?’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks.
‘Yes! Juliet should have the two hundred, and I would keep myself. Perhaps if she had only the children to look after, she might get on better. And the happiest thing for me would be, never to return!’
‘I will ask Mr Carnaby-Hicks about it,’ replies his sister. ‘If it is to be done at all, it must be before Parliament is prorogued. But I wouldn’t lose all hope with regard to Ralph on account of Lady Tresham’s letter. When he returns he can hardly refuse to lend you such a trifling sum as fifty pounds.’
It does not seem to occur to her that she would miss the money as little as Sir Ralph himself.
‘I shall not ask him a second time,’ says Roland, ‘nor Lady Tresham either. They may keep their money to themselves. But how a father can justify to himself the fact of leaving ten thousand a-year to one son, and two hundred to the other, beats me altogether!’
‘The money must go with the baronetcy,’ remarks his sister coolly, ‘and your portion was only intended to supplement your professional income. You ought to have made a competency by this time, Roland. You would have done so, had you not hampered yourself in such a reckless manner!’
At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a young lady, dressed in the height of the reigning fashion.
‘My husband’s niece, Miss Mabel Moore,’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, and then extending a hand to the girl, she draws her forward. ‘Mabel, dear, this is my younger brother, of whom you have heard me speak. Ring the bell and let us have tea. Roland and I have had a long conversation, and I feel quite fatigued.’
Roland Tresham stares at his new acquaintance with unmitigated surprise. Miss Moore is a tall, dark girl with a commanding figure, clad in a pale, cream-coloured dress that fits it like a skin. Her rounded arms, her well-developed bust and shapely waist are as distinctly displayed as if the material had been strained across them; and the uninitiated Roland gazes at her in astonishment.
‘Such a sweet girl,’ whispers Mrs Carnaby-Hicks to him, as Mabel quits her side; ‘I love her as if she were my daughter. As soon as the season is over, Mr Carnaby-Hicks and I are going to take her for a tour in Italy. And, by the way, Roland, could you not manage to accompany us? A second gentleman would be a great acquisition on the journey, and you would be invaluable to Mabel and me as a cicerone. Do come!’
‘You might as well talk of my going to the moon, Valeria. I should enjoy it above all things, but it is impossible. Only fancy the delight though of change of scene and air and freedom from all the horrors of Camden Town. It would be like a taste of Heaven to me!’
‘I am sure you could manage it if you tried! Come here, Mabel, and persuade my brother to join us in our trip to Italy.’
‘Oh! Mr Tresham, do come,’ says Mabel, throwing a glance at him from a pair of dark, languishing eyes. ‘It will double Aunt Valeria’s pleasure to have your company.’
Roland Tresham has not, as a rule, admired dark eyes in women nor commanding figures. His wife is very fair, and slight and fragile in appearance, and when he married her eight years before, he thought her the loveliest creature God ever made. But as Mabel Moore casts her black-lashed eyes upon him, he feels a very strong desire to join the travelling party to Italy.
‘You hold out powerful temptations to me, Miss Moore,’ he answers, ‘but it is too important a matter to be settled in a day. But if I can go, you may be sure I will.’
And then he falls to wondering whether Mrs Carnaby-Hicks intends her offer to be taken as an invitation, and means to defray his expenses. For she must know he has no money to pay them himself. Meanwhile Miss Moore pours out his tea, and hands it to him in a porcelain cup with the most gracious and encouraging of smiles. It is a strange contrast to the man who knows what he will encounter on reaching home, to be seated among all the refinement of his sister’s drawing-room, sipping the most fragrant Pekoe from a costly piece of china, whilst he is waited on by a handsome woman clad in a cream-coloured skin, every fold of the train of which shakes out the essence of a subtle perfume. He revels in it whilst it lasts, though after a while he rises with a sudden sigh of recollection, and says he must be going home.
‘Don’t forget to ask Hicks about the appointment,’ he whispers to his sister as he takes his leave. ‘Remember, I will take anything and go anywhere just to get away from this.’
‘Very good,’ she answers, ‘and don’t you forget that we expect you to be one of our party to Italy.’
‘Yes! indeed,’ echoes Mabel with a parting glance, ‘I shall not enjoy my trip at all now, unless Mr Tresham goes with us!’
‘What a good-looking fellow!’ she exclaims as soon as the door has closed behind him. ‘Aunty! why did you never tell me what he was like?’
‘My dear child, where was the use of talking of him? The unfortunate man is married, and has no money. Had he been rich and a bachelor, it would have been a different thing!’
‘I don’t know that,’ says Miss Mabel, ‘for my part I prefer married men to flirt with; they’re so safe. Besides, it’s such fun making the wives jealous.’
‘It would take a great deal to make Mrs Tresham jealous,’ says the elder lady. ‘They’re past all that, my dear. So you can flirt with Roland to your heart’s content, only don’t go too far. Remember Lord Ernest Freemantle!’
‘Bother Lord Ernest,’ returns the fashionable young lady in precisely the same tone as she would have used the stronger word had she been of the stronger sex.
Meanwhile the gentleman is going home by train to Camden Town: a locality which he has chosen, not on account of its convenience, but because he can rent a house there for the modest sum of thirty pounds a-year. His immediate neighbours are bankers’ clerks, milliners, and petty tradesmen from the West End, but the brother of Sir Ralph Tresham of Tresham Court, and the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, of 120 Blue Street, Mayfair, has no alternative but to reside amongst them. He has chosen a profession in which he has signally failed, and has hampered himself with a wife and six children, when his private means are not sufficient to support himself. He fancies he can hear his children shouting even before he has gained the little terrace in which they reside. They are all so abominably strong and healthy: their voices will reach to any distance. And as he comes in sight of the familiar spot, his suspicions turn to certainties. Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred, three sturdy rascals with faces surrounded by aureoles of golden hair like angels’ crowns, but plastered with dirt like the very lowest of human creatures, are hanging on to the palings which enclose a patch of chickweed and dandelions in front of the house, and shouting offensive epithets to every passer-by.
‘Can’t you keep inside and behave yourselves? How often have I ordered you not to hang about the garden in this way?’ exclaims Roland Tresham, as he cuffs the little urchins right and left. The two youngest rush for protection to their mother, howling, whilst the eldest sobs out,—
‘Mamma said we might play here.’
‘Then your mother’s as great a fool as you are,’ replies the father, angrily, as he strides into the house.
Juliet Tresham is waiting to receive him, with a deep frown upon her brow. Any unprejudiced observer would see at a glance that she is a lovely woman, but it is the loveliness of beauty unadorned. Her luxuriant golden hair is all pushed off her face, and strained into a tight knot at the back of her head. Her large blue eyes are dull and languid; her lips are colourless, and her ill-fitting, home-made dress hangs awkwardly upon her figure. In her husband’s eyes, all her beauty and her grace have faded long ago. He associates her with nothing now, but weak lungs and spirits, squalling children, badly-cooked dinners, and an untidy home. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she does not smile him a welcome home.
‘You might inquire whether the children are in the right or wrong, before you hit them,’ she says sharply. ‘I told them they might play in the front garden.’
‘Then they must suffer for your folly, for I won’t have them hanging about the place like a set of beggars’ brats.’
‘It’s all very fine for you to talk, but what am I to do with them cooped up in the house, on a day like this? If you had the charge of them, you’d turn them out anywhere, just to get rid of them.’
‘Why don’t you let the girl look after them?’
‘“The girl!” That’s just how you men talk! As if one wretched girl of fourteen had not enough to do to keep the house clean, and cook the dinner, without taking charge of half-a-dozen children!’
‘Oh! well, don’t bother me about it. Am I to have any dinner to-day or not?’
‘I suppose Ann will bring it up when it is ready,’ says his wife indifferently; ‘you can’t expect to be waited on as if you were the owner of Tresham Court.’
‘D—n you! I wish you’d hold your tongue!’ he answers angrily.
He calls it his dinner, for the good reason that it is the only dinner he ever gets, but it is a wretched mockery of the meal.
‘What do you call this?’ he says, as he examines the untempting-looking viands, and views with disgust the evident traces of black fingers on the edge of the dish. ‘Take it away, and serve it me on a clean plate. I may be obliged to swallow any dog’s meat you chose to put before me, but I’ll be hanged if I’ll eat the smuts off your servant’s hands as well.’
Mrs Tresham, who is occupied at the other end of the table in cutting slices of bread and salt butter for the tribe of little cormorants by which she is surrounded, just turns her head and calls through the open door to the maid-of-all-work in the kitchen.
‘Ann, come and fetch away this dish; your master says it is dirty.’
‘Do it yourself!’ roars her exasperated husband. ‘It is quite bad enough that you are so lazy, you won’t look after any of my comforts in my absence, without your refusing to set matters right now.’
His wife takes up the dish in silence, and leaves the apartment, whereupon two of the children, disappointed of their bread and butter, begin to cry. Roland Tresham, after threatening to turn them out of the room if they do not hold their tongues, leaves his seat and leans out of the open window, disconsolately. What a position it is in which to find his father’s son! Outside, his neighbours are sitting in their shirt sleeves, smoking clay pipes in their strips of garden, or hanging over the railings talking with one another; in the road itinerant merchants are vending radishes, onions, and shellfish; whilst a strong, warm smell is wafted right under his nostrils from the pork-pie shop round the corner. Inside, the children are whimpering for the return of their mother round a soiled table-cloth which bears a piece of salt butter, warm and melting, a jar of treacle with a knife stuck in it, a stale loaf, a metal teapot, and knives and forks which have been but half-cleaned. A vision comes over Roland of that art-decorated drawing-room in Blue Street, with the porcelain tea-service, the silken clad figure, and the subtle perfume that pervaded the scene; and a great longing for all the delicacies and refinements of life comes over him, with a proportionate disgust for his surroundings. When his wife returns with the beefsteak, he pushes it from him. His appetite has vanished with the delay.
‘I can’t eat it,’ he says impatiently. ‘Take the filth away.’
‘Well, it’s the best I can do for you,’ is her reply. ‘It’s quite enough for a woman to be nurse and housemaid, without turning cook into the bargain.’
‘It is a long time since I have expected you to do anything to please me, Juliet; however, stop the mouths of those brats of yours, and send them to bed. I want the room to myself. I have work which must be done this evening.’
She supplies the children’s wants, and hurries them from the room, whilst her husband sits sulking and dreaming of Blue Street. If his brother-in-law can only get him a foreign appointment, how gladly he will fly from this squalid home for ever. He pictures a life by the shores of the Mediterranean, in the forests of Brazil, on the plains of India, or the Australian colonies, and each and every one seems a paradise compared with that which he leads at present.
Mrs Tresham, putting her little ones to rest, feels also that, except for them, she would lay down her existence. She is utterly sick and wearied of her life. She is almost cross with Wilfrid and Bertie and Fred, because they will bolster one another, instead of lying down in their cots and going to sleep like pattern boys. For Baby Roland is whimpering for the breast, and two-year-old May is fractious with the pain of cutting her double teeth. Lily, her mother’s help and companion, is the only one that waits patiently until her turn arrives to be undressed. But when the rest are at last subdued, or satisfied, and Juliet Tresham turns to attend to her eldest daughter, her trembling fingers have busied themselves but for a few seconds with strings and buttons, before her arms are cast around the child, and she bursts into a storm of tears.
‘Mamma, why do you cry?’ asks Lily anxiously.
‘Oh, Lily, Lily! It is not my fault—it is not my fault.’
God help her, poor Juliet, it is not! Almost a girl in years, yet laden with cares such as few wives in her position are ever called upon to bear, she has sunk beneath the weight of an overwhelming load. Health and energy have failed her, and her husband’s patience has not proved equal to the occasion, and so irritability and discontent have crept in on the one hand, and disgust and indifference on the other. And yet they loved each other once, oh! so dearly, and believed from their hearts they would have died sooner than give up their mutual affection.
But Mrs Tresham does not cry long. She persuades herself that the man downstairs is not worth crying for.
‘Get into bed, Lily, darling, or papa will be coming up to see what we are about.’
‘I didn’t kiss papa nor wish him good-night,’ says the child.
‘No, no! it doesn’t signify. He doesn’t care for your kisses, nor for mine.’
She tucks her little girl into her bed and descends to the sitting-room again, feeling injured and hard of heart. Roland, as she enters, glances at her with a look of disgust.
‘Your hair is half way down your back.’
She laughs slightly, and, pulling out the fastenings of her hair, lets the rippling mass fall over her shoulders. Roland used to admire it so much in the days gone by, and say it was the only gold he cared to possess. Has she any hope that he will recall his former feelings at the sight of her loosely falling locks? If so, she is mistaken, for he only remarks coldly,—
‘I must beg you not to turn my room into a dressing-room. Go and put your hair up tidily. I hate to find it amongst my papers.’
‘I believe you hate everything except your own comfort,’ she replies. ‘You’re the most selfish man I ever came across.’
‘Perhaps so! But as long as this house belongs to me, you’ll be good enough to keep your opinions to yourself. If I can’t have comfort when I come home, I will at least have peace.’
‘And much peace I get, day or night.’
‘It is by your own mismanagement if you do not.’
‘How do you make that out? Has your want of money anything to do with my mismanagement? Have the children anything to do with it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Ought I?’ he returns, biting his lip. ‘Then, perhaps, you’ll be glad to hear that I have applied for a foreign appointment that will take me out to India, or the Brazils, for the remainder of my life.’
‘Oh, Roland!’ she cries, catching her breath; ‘but not to leave us?’
‘Certainly to leave you. That was the sole object of my application. Aren’t you delighted to hear it? We lead a cat-and-dog life as things are at present, and the sooner we are separated the better.’
‘But the children—and me!’ she gasps, with a face of chalky whiteness.
‘Oh, don’t be afraid! you will be provided for.’
‘But if you should be ill?’ suggests the woman fearfully.
‘Then I shall die, perhaps, and so much the better. You have not made my life such a heaven to me that I shall lose much by its resignation.’
Then she falls upon his neck, weeping.
‘Oh, Roland, Roland! do not speak to me like that.’
But he pushes her from him. He has had no dinner, and that is a trial that never improves the masculine temper.
‘Don’t make a fool of yourself!’ he says roughly.
Juliet raises her head and dries her eyes. She is a proud woman and a high-spirited one, and never disposed to take a rebuff meekly.
‘I am a fool,’ she answers. ‘Any woman would be a fool who wasted a regret upon such an icicle as you are. I hope to Heaven you may get your appointment and go out to the Brazils, and never come back again; for the less I see and hear of you the better.’
‘Just what I said,’ remarks her husband indifferently. ‘You are as sick of me as I am of you, and it’s of no use disguising the truth from one another.’
‘There was a time when you thought nothing too good to say of me,’ she cries, hysterically.
‘Was there? Well, you can’t expect such things to last for ever, and you have really made my life such a hell to me of late that you can’t be surprised if I look forward to any change as a blessing.’
‘Oh! It has come to that, has it—that you want to get rid of me? Why don’t you put the finishing stroke to your cruelty and say at once that you hate me?’
‘I am afraid you are making me do something very much like it.’
‘The truth is, you are tired of me, Roland! It is nursing your children and trying out of our scanty income to provide for your wants that has brought me down to what I am, and since I have ceased to please your eyes, I have wearied out your fancy.’
‘Yes! my dear,’ he says, with provoking nonchalance. ‘You are quite right; I am very tired of you, and particularly at this moment. Suppose you leave me to my writing, and go to bed.’
Mrs Tresham rushes from the little room and slams the door behind her. But she does not go to bed. She takes a seat amongst her sleeping children, and, resting her head upon her hands, weeps for the past which is slumbering like them, although she thinks it dead. It is just nine o’clock, and as the hour strikes from a neighbouring church tower, she sees the postman coming up the street. He enters the parterre of chickweed and dandelions, and gives a double knock at the front door, whilst Mrs Tresham, sitting at her bedroom window, wonders vaguely who the letter can be from. But presently she hears a shout from below—a mingled shout of surprise and horror and excitement, and startled and curious she runs downstairs to learn the cause.
Her husband’s handsome face—flushed and animated—turns towards her as she opens the door.
‘What is the matter?’ she exclaims hurriedly.
‘What is the matter?’ he repeats. ‘What is not the matter? My God! can it possibly be true?’
He has leapt from his seat and passed his fingers through his hair, which is all on end. His eyes flame like living fire; his whole frame is trembling; she thinks for the moment that he has gone mad.
‘Roland, you are frightening me terribly! Have you had bad news?’
‘Bad news! No. Glorious news! At least I suppose I ought not to call it so, because he’s my brother, but he has never been like a brother to me. Juliet! Only fancy—Ralph is dead, killed by a fall down the mountain side.’
‘Oh! Poor Sir Ralph! How terrible! But perhaps it is not true.’
‘It is true. This letter is from Lady Tresham’s nephew, Handley Harcourt, who was with Ralph at the time of his death. And they are bringing the body to England. And—and—can’t you understand? I am Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court—with ten thousand a-year to keep it up on, and—Oh, my God!—my God! I believe the news will drive me mad.’
He casts himself face downwards on the rickety couch in the corner of the room, and sobs as if, without that relief, his heart would burst with joy. Meanwhile his wife stands motionless, almost unable to comprehend the sudden change in their condition, until her husband starts up again, exclaiming,—
‘What a child I am. But it only proves what I have suffered. To be free, once and for ever, of all this struggling and starvation—to see my poor children placed in the position to which they were born—It is too great a change to be believed in, all at once. My boys shall enter the army and navy—and my girls have every advantage my wealth can procure them. Oh, it is too much! It has all happened so suddenly. I feel as if I should die before I come into it. Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Sir Roland Tresham, of Tresham Court! Merciful heavens, am I awake or in a dream?’
He has never mentioned his wife whilst enumerating the advantages his new fortune will bring him. He has never once congratulated himself on the fact that she will no longer be obliged to slave and work and deny herself as she has been used to do. All he thinks of are the children and himself.
‘When will you come into all this, Roland?’ she asks.
‘I am it now! I was the Baronet from the moment of my poor brother’s death.’
‘And shall we go to Tresham Court soon?’
‘Directly the funeral is over. I shall see the lawyers and Valeria the first thing in the morning, and know all about it. But I would rather you went upstairs and left me alone. I must have time to become accustomed to the idea of this wonderful transformation scene. By to-morrow morning I shall be all right. Good-night! Good-night! There will be no more trouble about money now. And Sir Wilfrid shall be at Eton before he knows what he is about. By Jove! How marvellously things do come round.’
He nods her a careless farewell in an excited sort of manner, and the new Lady Tresham creeps up to her bed and takes baby Roland in her arms, and sobs herself to sleep with his chubby face pressed close against her bosom.
CHAPTER II.
TRESHAM COURT, GLAMORGANSHIRE.
‘Now you will be able to take that trip to Italy with us,’ says the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks a few days later, as Sir Roland and she sit in the artistic drawing-room in Blue Street together. The funeral of the late baronet is over—and the new one is installed in his stead. Lady Tresham and the children are already at the Court, and Sir Roland has come up to town to see his sister. ‘You can come to Italy with us,’ repeats Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. ‘You are sadly in need of rest and change, and it will do you all the good in the world. You will find our dear Mabel a most charming companion, and I am sure you have earned the right to take a holiday!’
‘I should enjoy it above all things,’ replies Sir Roland, as he glances at Miss Moore. ‘But do you think it would be advisable. Shall I not be expected to take up my residence at Tresham Court, at all events for a while?’
‘Not a bit of it! I hope you are not going to make yourself a slave to your position. Besides, from what you tell me, I should imagine it will be all the better for Lady Tresham to get a little accustomed to housekeeping before you rejoin her. She must need practice.’
Sir Roland lifts his hands deprecatingly.
‘Heaven help my guests if she doesn’t improve! But there seems to be an excellent staff of servants down there, and the majority will remain with us. And it would be so delightful to get away from it all. I thirst to leave the remembrance of the past entirely behind me—when do you start, Valeria?’
‘The day after to-morrow!’
‘That is sharp work. I shall hardly have time to do my business here and run down to Tresham Court and back again in a couple of days.’
‘Why go down to the Court? There will only be a scene if you do. Write and tell Lady Tresham of your intention.’
‘Oh, Sir Roland, I shall never forgive you if you cry off now,’ interposes Mabel. ‘You know it was a bargain that you should go with us if you could. And aunty means to take Venice on our way. Fancy Venice and gondolas in this heavenly weather! It will be too delicious.’
Gondolas and Mabel Moore win the day, and Sir Roland agrees to write to his wife instead of going down to Tresham Court.
‘Now, you are quite, quite sure you are not telling us a story,’ says Miss Moore, with a winning smile, ‘because I know if you go home that Lady Tresham will not let you return to us again. You promise only to write, don’t you?’
‘I promise!’ repeats Sir Roland, with an uneasy twinge of conscience nevertheless. But he keeps his word, and a letter by the next day’s post informs Juliet that her husband is going to visit Italy with his sister, and that she must manage matters at Tresham Court as best she can until his return. This intelligence falls upon the wife like a sudden blow. She feels very strange and awkward as the mistress of this great rambling house, with its retinue of servants, but she has been seizing the opportunity of Sir Roland’s absence to try and become acquainted with the ménage of the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room, that she may astonish him with her aptitude on his return. And now he is going to leave her to fight with all her new responsibilities alone, whilst he is enjoying a trip upon the Continent. Well, she will not be so mean spirited a creature as to sit down and weep for his absence. She will show him that she can enjoy life as well as himself when she has the means to do so. Yet the tears chase themselves rapidly down her cheeks as she thinks thus to herself, for Lady Tresham has two nurses now to look after her children, and can afford to indulge her feelings without spectators. It is a bright sunny morning in the first week of August; the grounds of Tresham Court are filled with beautiful flowers and leafy trees and singing birds, and the pale-faced, weary woman takes her husband’s letter in her hand, and seats herself beneath the shade of a cedar tree on the smooth green lawn, and indulges her sorrowful thoughts to their fullest extent.
Presently she hears a soft voice calling her by name. She looks up in surprise; beside her stands an elderly lady, dressed in widow’s weeds.
‘Your servants said you were not at home, Lady Tresham, but I caught a glimpse of your dress through the trees, and hoped you would not deem it a liberty if I introduced myself to you as the widow of your husband’s brother.’
‘Lady Tresham!’ cries Juliet, springing to her feet. ‘I am glad to see you, but I am very untidy; I did not expect any one to call to-day. I did not even know that you were in the county.’
‘I have a house of my own about five miles from here, but I only returned to it yesterday. And so you are really Sir Roland’s wife. Why, you are a mere girl.’
‘Indeed, you are mistaken. It is a long time since I was a girl. I am twenty-six!’
‘And I am twenty years older than yourself, so you see I have a right to consider you a girl. But you have been crying. Surely you have no trouble now. I thought all your troubles lay in the want of means.’
‘We were very, very poor,’ says Juliet, with proud simplicity, ‘and I am hardly accustomed to the use of money yet. But I was crying—it is very foolish of me, I know, but I cannot help it—because my husband is going away.’
‘Going away! and where?’
‘To Italy, with his sister, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. He has been very worried and upset lately, Lady Tresham, and he wants change, and I know it will be best for him—but—but—’
‘You feel the responsibility of being left alone; that is very natural. Yet, perhaps, it will teach you self-dependence. And for my own part, I am glad Sir Roland is away just now. I want to make friends with you, my dear; to help you, if it is in my power. I know your husband has thought hard things of me, and, perhaps, of poor Sir Ralph into the bargain; but in what we did we believed we were acting for the best. Now, all that is over; you will neither of you ever want money again, but you may need advice. And I should like to begin by advising you. Why do you not take this trip with your husband? You look pale and worn out. It would do you good as well as him.’
‘He does not want me,’ says Juliet, sadly; ‘he is only going in order to get away from me.’
‘That is hardly possible. You are a wife of whom any man must be proud.’
‘I used to be told I was pretty,’ replies Lady Tresham, with a faint blush; ‘but that was a long time ago.’
‘Rubbish, child; you are in your prime. And you have six children; and I have not even one. What a happy woman you ought to be.’
But Lady Tresham does not answer. The tears are rising thickly to her eyes, and falling down her cheeks again.
‘I would give them all up—yes, every one!’ she cries, hysterically, ‘to regain their father’s love. Oh, Lady Tresham, what must you think of me for speaking like this to an utter stranger?’
‘Cease to look on me as a stranger, then, dear child, and let us be friends. Cannot I do anything to help you out of this heavy trouble?’
‘Nothing; nothing. It is incurable, and I must bear it as best I can. He loved me whilst I had the means to make myself look pretty; when I had a colour in my cheeks, and a gloss upon my hair. But I have lost all that, Lady Tresham. Days and nights of sickness and privation have robbed me of my beauty and his love. And then my temper grew irritable, and he sickened of his home and me; and I shall never know any happiness in this world again.’
‘If you have somewhat wearied your husband’s love in poverty, you must regain it in prosperity,’ says Sir Ralph’s widow.
‘Indeed, you do not know him, Lady Tresham.’
‘I do not know Sir Roland, my dear, but I have known many men, and they are all alike. The philosophy of few of them will survive their personal discomfort. Sir Roland will find things very different on his return to England, and the old feelings will have an opportunity of revival. Come, my dear girl, you must not lose heart.’
‘But I am so ignorant how to order things aright,’ sighs Juliet, ‘I have had so little experience.’
‘I will be your teacher, if you will permit me. Tresham Court always had the credit of being well governed under my reign. And first, I would make an improvement in your dress. Such a beautiful figure was never meant to be concealed under that clumsy thing.’
‘I was obliged to get my mourning ready made,’ says Juliet, looking down at her ill-fitting black robe.
‘True; but I must send my dressmaker to you forthwith. And now let me see the dear little ones. I love children all the more that I have never been a mother.’ And so the ladies, already friends, drift away into that most interesting of feminine topics, the nursery, and great plans are laid for the benefit of Juliet’s little family before they separate again. On the same day Sir Roland is making his final preparations to join his sister’s party, though not without a few self-reproaches, which he stifles by recalling the establishment at Forthill Terrace, Camden Town. It is only fair, he tells himself, that after so many years of domestic misery he should use his unexpected liberty by taking a little change. And for the first few days the change bids fair to fulfil its promise. The Carnaby-Hicks proceed South leisurely, taking the Rhine on their way, and Sir Roland can conceive of no more delicious sensation than floating down the River of Romance on those balmy August evenings by the side of Mabel Moore. That young lady does not spare him in any way. From the beginning she claims his attendance for herself, and exercises all her fascination freely upon the unfortunate man, who cannot help being attracted by the charms of her person, and the meaning glances she so liberally bestows upon him.
‘What a pity that Juliet has not a more commanding appearance,’ he thinks to himself, as he watches Mabel’s fine form distinctly outlined in the moonlight. ‘Miss Moore has twice her importance; she looks as if she had been born to a title.’ And Mabel interrupts his reverie by a heavy sigh.
‘Why do you sigh, Miss Moore?’
‘I was thinking how unequally this world is balanced, Sir Roland. Everything goes wrong, doesn’t it?’
‘I cannot quite agree with that sentiment; not, at least, whilst you and I are floating down the Rhine together.’
‘But it won’t last.’
‘Not for ever, unfortunately. But let us enjoy it whilst it does.’
‘I cannot thoroughly enjoy myself when I know my pleasure must come to an end. When I am most happy, I remember that in a few weeks it will all be over, and we shall be back in Blue Street, and you down at Tresham Court with your wife and family.’
‘Don’t talk of it please,’ says Sir Roland with a shudder.
‘Why?’ asks Miss Moore innocently; ‘don’t you love little children?’
‘Not particularly. Do you?’
‘I don’t care for most people’s children, but I should for yours.’
‘You are very good to say so’, replies Sir Roland: but he knows they are treading on dangerous ground, and the subject had better be dropped. As he lies in his berth that night, and thinks over the events of the day, he remembers how his wife told him before their marriage that she disliked children, and he had twitted her with the fact on seeing her devotion to their firstborn. And he recalls how she had looked into his face with her large blue eyes—so clear and lovely and loving as they were in those days—and whispered, ‘But this is yours, Roland.’ There is something like a tear in Sir Roland Tresham’s eye as he turns uneasily in his berth, and thinks how those happy days have faded; but it is of Juliet, and not of Mabel, he dreams as he falls asleep. The Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks sees the flirtation going on between her niece and her brother, but does not concern herself in the matter. Miss Moore knows what she is about, and is perfectly able to take care of herself; indeed, Mrs Carnaby-Hicks thinks she can already discern the instinct by which the young lady is guided. But Sir Roland, who can only interpret her words and glances by his own lights, believes himself to be on the verge of a precipice, and yet has not the moral courage to fly from a temptation that is so flattering to his vanity. Mabel’s chief weapon is melancholy. She professes melancholy whenever it occurs to her, until Sir Roland is forced to demand the reason of her serious looks.
‘How can you ask?’ she says one evening—the first of their arrival in Venice—‘when you know that auntie has asked Lord Ernest Freemantle to join our party to-morrow?’
‘What difference will that make to us?’
‘Why, will he not expect to be always by my side, and break in upon the pleasant têtes-à-tête we have had together?’
‘Have they been so very pleasant to you then, Mabel?’
‘Oh, Sir Roland, cannot you judge of my feelings by your own?’
‘If I did that—’ he commences fervently, but there he stops. The vision of two blue eyes, dimmed with tears, rises before him, and he stamps the temptation down.
‘Whatever I may feel,’ he says to himself afterwards, ‘I will not allow my tongue to turn traitor,’ and so Miss Moore is disappointed of her answer.
Letters came to him frequently from his wife—long letters, in which she gives him a full account of her friendship with Sir Ralph’s widow, but not a word of the way in which she is managing the household.
‘I shouldn’t think the presence of the dowager will do much to enliven the Court,’ remarks Mrs Carnaby-Hicks spitefully.
‘She is not likely to teach my wife extravagance,’ laughs Sir Roland; ‘but Juliet and she seem to get on very well together.’
‘Perhaps she is a style that suits Lady Tresham,’ says his sister. ‘I have always understood she was a dowdy and a screw.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean to let my wife screw,’ replies the baronet uneasily. ‘She has had little enough pin-money hitherto, poor girl, and she shall have a liberal allowance now, if nothing else.’
‘Why do you call Lady Tresham “poor”?’ whispers Mabel in his ear. ‘I should have said she was the richest of women.’
‘Not quite that,’ he answers, wilfully misunderstanding her, ‘though she need have no fear for the future. But she has had barely enough for comfort until now.’
‘She has always had you,’ says Miss Moore, softly.
‘Some ladies might consider that an extra misfortune!’
‘Some might,’ echoes the girl with a heavy sigh, the meaning of which it is impossible to misconstrue. Lord Ernest Freemantle proves to be a simple, undersized little gentleman, who is very much enamoured of Miss Mabel Moore, and becomes proportionately jealous of Sir Roland Tresham. And the latter, delighted at the feeling he has provoked, takes pleasure in exciting it to the last degree, by a still closer attendance on the young lady. One evening, when she has refused to accompany Lord Ernest and her aunt on a walking expedition through the town, Sir Roland persuades her to go on the water with him in a gondola. Mabel assents with alacrity, and they are soon floating together over the placid surface of the canal, seated under the canopy at one end of the boat, whilst the gondoliers ply their oars to the music of their own voices at the other.
‘How I wish we could go floating on like this into eternity,’ remarks Sir Roland, presently.
‘It would be very easy,’ replies Mabel in a low voice. ‘It is but to cast ourselves over the side into those dark waters and sink out of sight for ever. It would be a happier fate—at least for me—than any I have to look forward to.’
‘You mustn’t talk like that. You are young, and have every prospect of a happy life before you.’
‘Indeed, I have not.’
‘My dear Mabel, why those tears?’ exclaims Sir Roland, as the girl dashes her hand across her eyes. ‘What have I said to vex you?’
‘Nothing. But life is so hard, and—and—disappointing.’
He passes his arm around her waist.
‘Tell me what makes it so to you.’
‘Oh, Roland,’ she whispers, ‘you know.’
The tone, the words, are too much for him. To hold a pretty woman in his arms and hear her murmuring her love for himself would be perhaps too much for any man. Anyway, it disperses all Sir Roland’s prudence.
‘My darling,’ he says emphatically, ‘why cannot we end all this misery, and live for each other from this time forward?’ But as he speaks, the gondoliers alter their chant, and strike up a little Neapolitan barcarolle. It is a simple plaintive air, without much merit in itself, but the last time Sir Roland heard it, it came from Juliet’s lips as she was hushing a fractious child to rest. In a moment the past scene rises before him. He can see his wife’s drooping figure, the sad look in her eyes; can hear the faltering tones of her weary voice. He recalls, in fact, the mother of his children, the woman who has borne, however impatiently, the burden and heat of the day with him; and all the best part of the man’s nature rises up to condemn his present faithless action.
‘God in heaven!’ he exclaims aloud; ‘what am I saying and doing? Mabel, forgive me! It was the madness of a moment. It shall never be repeated.’
But he has said the words, and they are not to be unsaid. Miss Moore enjoys the situation. It appeals to her romantic proclivities, and she clings to him tightly even whilst she murmurs.
‘Oh no; you mustn’t say such things to me. It is very, very wrong. But, Roland, to know you love me atones for everything. I can die happy now.’
‘Indeed, I had no right to speak to you in such a manner, but your tears made me lose sight of prudence. Mabel, promise me that you will forget what I said.’
‘Don’t ask me that, it will be so sweet to remember,’ she says, still clinging to him. He tries gently to disengage himself.
‘Sit back on your seat, there’s a good girl. These fellows are looking at us. Mabel, try and be calm. We must never mention this subject again. It is too painful.’
‘But why should we deny ourselves the poor delights of memory, since it is all that is left?’
‘We must stamp it out. It can lead to no good for either of us; and for you, perhaps, to irreparable harm. I am not a Trojan in virtue, Mabel; you must not try me too hard.’
‘But you will love me always, Roland, will you not?’
What can he say? He knows already that he does not love her at all. But he is a man, and she is a woman, and he does as many other men would do—he swears he shall never cease to care for her.
‘If I were free!’ he murmurs; ‘but you see how it is, my darling. I am bound hand and foot, and we never can be anything more than we are to one another. I must not quite forget my poor children.’
‘But we shall be friends always, shall we not?’
‘The very best and closest of friends, but we mustn’t trust ourselves alone again. You are too lovely, Mabel, and I—I am too weak. I am sure you must see the reason of what I say?’
‘Yes; yes. But let us enjoy this one last evening together. Don’t go home just yet. Remember it is for the last time.’
He cannot but yield to her entreaty, but when they reach the hotel he resolves that it must never occur again. Mabel Moore is not the woman to let him off easily. She will make him remember his avowal of that evening for ever afterwards, and Sir Roland feels that his only safety lies in flight. During the self-reproachful night that follows, when the thought of his wife and children rises up to make him acknowledge that nothing in the whole world could compensate him for the loss of that which he has held so loosely, he makes a resolution to return to Tresham Court the very next morning. Poor Juliet! Now he comes to think of it, he does not believe he has given her one kiss of congratulation on her newly-acquired dignity. They were beginning to be very unhappy in the past, he knows, but it seems hard now that he should have visited the entire blame on the head of the woman who had so much the heavier portion of the load to bear. When he rises the following morning his first act is to seek the apartments of his sister, and inform her of his determination to return to England. He finds Mrs Carnaby-Hicks radiantly triumphant, and apparently quite indifferent as to whether he remains with them or not.
‘My dear Roland, you must do just as you think best, and indeed I have this moment received news that renders it very improbable that we shall be able to extend our trip to Italy this year. Lord Ernest Freemantle has proposed to our dear Mabel. Mr Carnaby-Hicks is delighted, and so am I. I have had hopes of such an occurrence for a long time (for no one could help seeing how Lord Ernest admired our dear girl), but your taking her out in the gondola alone last evening brought matters to a crisis. And indeed, were it not for the issue, I should feel almost disposed to quarrel with you, Roland, for being so careless of her reputation. It might have turned matters just the other way. You are too young and handsome to play such freaks with an unmarried girl.’
‘From what you say, then, I may conclude Miss Moore has accepted Lord Ernest’s offer.’
‘Why, of course! What else should she do? And as he is anxious the marriage should take place as soon as possible, I suppose we shall have to go home again.’
‘Then, will you convey my warmest congratulations to the bride-elect, and tell her that I trust we shall meet again in England?’
‘Won’t you stop and see her yourself?’
‘I think not—thanks! I see there is a midday train to Paris, which I can catch if I lose no time. So I will wish you good-bye at once, Valeria!’
‘Good-bye, my dear Roland! We shall, as you say, soon meet again, and I think you are wise to return, for I am afraid all our fun is over for this season!’
The midday train takes him to Paris, and the next day he finds himself on his road to Glamorganshire. The carriage in which he travels is filled with men, all strangers to him, but who converse freely with one another.
‘Have you seen the new owner of Tresham Court, Conway?’ asks one fellow of his neighbour.
‘What, Sir Roland? Not yet! He is abroad, so I am told, and won’t be home till Christmas!’
‘By George! Well, if I were the owner of Lady Tresham the country wouldn’t see me that didn’t hold her!’
‘Is she so handsome then?’
‘She’s better than handsome! She’s one of the sweetest-looking women I ever saw. I met her at General Carroll’s last week with the dowager.’
‘Fair or dark?’
‘Fair as a lily, with glorious golden hair, and great blue eyes as clear as spring water. She’s as graceful as a gazelle, too, and got a voice like a thrush. She said she was awfully out of practice, but she sung better than anyone there.’
‘I shall get my mother to take me over to Tresham Court,’ says a young dandy in the corner; ‘a pretty woman is not to be despised in Glamorganshire.’
‘You won’t get anything by that, my boy,’ says the first speaker. ‘Handley Harcourt, the dowager’s nephew, has found her out already, and is there morning, noon, and night.’
Sir Roland is just about to proclaim that the beautiful woman they speak of is his wife, when the last sentence makes him shrink back in his seat instead. He feels ashamed to acknowledge her now. What if the scandal should be true! But no, it is impossible! Juliet has been his wife for eight long years, and faithful to him in thought, word, and deed. He would answer for her fidelity as for his own. His own! At that thought the hot blood courses through Sir Roland’s veins, and mantles in his handsome face. He has not been faithful to her—he acknowledges it with shame—but he will atone as there is a heaven above him.
‘Gentlemen,’ he says suddenly, ‘the lady you speak of is my wife, and had you all been at Tresham Court during my absence, ‘morning, noon, and night,’ it would not have given me a moment’s uneasiness.’ His confession is naturally followed by apologies, introductions, hand-shaking, and general invitations to the Court. Sir Roland even assures the somewhat shy little dandy in the corner that he has his hearty permission to flirt with Lady Tresham as much as possible. And then they all light up and try each other’s cigars, and become the fastest of friends in a very few minutes. Yet as he leaves them at the station, where the carriage is in waiting to convey him home, he cannot help wondering at the enthusiasm his wife’s looks have provoked amongst them. She used to be very pretty in their first wedded days, before she grew so careless of her personal appearance—when she took pride in arraying her graceful little form, and dressing her beautiful hair, but slatternly clothes and unbecoming coiffure are sufficient to conceal the beauty of any woman. Well! Sir Roland supposes that such things can be altered, but if he finds that Juliet’s bad taste is irreparable, he will be content with her as she is. He has brought enough trouble on her head already—the present shall never be clouded by his reproaches nor complaints. He is so eager to make atonement for the past, that the five miles between the station and Tresham Court appear like ten; but they are accomplished at last, and the carriage rolls through the iron gates and up the wooded drive. Half-way they come upon a group of children escorted by their nurses and a groom. Two beautiful boys in velvet suits, with golden curls falling over their Vandyke collars, are mounted on one pony, whilst another animal carries a pair of panniers, from which familiar little faces and blue eyes gaze up expectantly to meet his own.
‘Can those be my children?’ exclaims Sir Roland to himself; and then he gives the order to stop, and another minute sees him in the midst of them. But what a change! He can scarcely believe they are the same brats who, six weeks ago, used to hang over the garden palings in Camden Town, and put out their tongues at the passers-by—Lily and May in their white frocks and black ribbons, and little Roland in his smart pelisse; and the boys looking such noble fellows in their jackets and knickerbockers, with sunny hair, and clean faces and hands—it seems like a dream to the father as he kisses them all round, and admires the ponies and the panniers to their hearts’ content. He strides on to the house with his bosom swelling with pride at the appearance of his little ones, and is almost too pre-occupied to notice that everything is perfectly arranged within the Court and out.
A footman meets him at the door with the information that her ladyship awaits him in the morning-room, and thither, still in a dream, Sir Roland rapidly proceeds. As he enters the apartment he starts back, thunderstruck with amazement. A lady stands upon the hearthrug—a woman delicately fair, and very lovely, though still too thin and pale, and with tears of expectation and suspense within her eyes.
She is robed in black velvet, fitting closely to her graceful figure—at her throat and wrists are falls of Venetian lace—and her dainty feet are cased in silk stockings and buckled shoes. Her golden hair cut short upon her brow, is piled in innumerable little curls upon the top of her head, which grow longer and longer until they lay in a flossy mass upon her neck and shoulders. For a moment, Sir Roland gazes at this unlooked-for apparition in utter silence.
‘Husband!’ says Juliet shyly, ‘don’t you know me?’
‘My dearest!’ he exclaims, rushing forward and clasping her in his arms; ‘how beautiful you have become.’
Then, with the touch of his arms and lips, all her womanhood asserts itself, and she casts herself, sobbing, on his breast.
‘Oh, Roland! forgive me! forgive me! Take me back and love me as you used to do!’
‘What have I to forgive you, darling?’
‘All my ill-temper and impatience and want of fortitude. I bore our lot so badly—I did not deserve to have it bettered—and now that prosperity has come to us, I feel it will be worthless without your love.’
‘But you have my love, Juliet! you have never lost it. The ills and discomforts of poverty soured my nature, and made me behave like a brute to you; but my heart has been yours through it all, dearest wife, and I have never been more convinced of the fact than during our present separation.’
She looks up at him and smiles—oh! such a heavenly smile of renewed happiness and hope.
‘And, Roland, you are quite, quite sure that you love me best of all the world! That there is no other woman dearer to you than myself?’
He has just one twinge as she puts the question to him; but men are used to twinges, and he can answer honestly,—
‘Not one, my love!—not a single one! nor ever shall be. Take your husband’s word for it, and let us resolve from this moment to banish the painful memory of the Past, and live for each other only in the Future.’
And so they have and do, and there is only one thing that Lady Tresham cannot understand, which is Sir Roland’s rooted aversion to Lady Ernest Freemantle. He will not let his wife invite her down to Tresham Court, although she has often hinted she would like to visit them, and all the excuse he can give for his conduct is that he does not choose to cultivate the lady’s acquaintance.
So the matter rests, and as long as Sir Roland does not renew it, there is no need he should confess the little scene that took place in the gondola on the moonlighted Venice canal.
THE END.
