Name and Fame: A Novel

by Adeline Sergeant

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she mean to do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She was only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife? They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them would forgive her—not even Mrs. Hartley—for her treatment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and for her association with Alan Walcott.

As for that—it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had not coupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing him away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock her friends—she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thought so much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, she sympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. How much could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What she thought right, that she would do—no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right?

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, she had been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her so straight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done good by intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. One thing only was plain to her at the moment—that she must be kind to this man who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison gates?

She was trying to persuade herself that she could; and so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention.

It seemed to be close at hand—a cry like that of a little child; and she stood up and peered into the shadow behind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, and stood by the low garden wall.

There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish the form of a woman, crouching on the rank grass in what used to be Mrs. Harrington's garden, and vainly attempting to soothe the baby which she held in her arms.

It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satisfied to leave her where she was.

"Who are you?" she asked; and, at the sound of her voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a friend was near. But the mother did not answer.

"What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have you no home?"