Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

"I suppose it's the old story," said Miss Spencer, with a sigh; then, lowering her voice, she said:

"I know a good deal about her now, and I think I ought to tell you her story, as she told it to me a few days ago. I meant to tell you about it, the first time I had a good opportunity. But it is rather private. She wanted me to promise not to tell any one, but, I didn't promise, absolutely.

"There's no one else in," said Nora. "Sophy's out, and Will's away attending some medical convention, and Cecilia's gone out for a walk with the other children."

"Then, I'll try to tell it to you, as she told it to me—by snatches. Part of it, of course, I had to guess at, putting things together as I best could."

"Yes, I understand," replied Nora.

"Well, as you know already, she's English, and only came out a few years ago, under very distressing circumstances. It's a very long story, but I'll tell it as briefly as I can.

"It seems that her father died from the effects of drinking;—probably he was a 'dipsomaniac,' too; and—her own mother having died during her infancy—she had to live with a step-mother who was by no means kind to her. She got a situation when only sixteen, as a nursery-governess with a lady who pitied her, and treated her most kindly. About a year after she went there, a young clergyman came to stay at the house. She must have been a most lovely girl, and he seems at once to have fallen desperately in love. She was, evidently, easily won. She says he was very handsome, and, I suppose, otherwise attractive. The lady she was with, must, I think, have promoted the match. I suppose she thought it was an excellent thing for her. So, after a very short engagement, they were married from the house of this lady, who wouldn't let her go back to her step-mother. She had only one aunt, the wife of her father's brother, a good and kind woman; who, however, was in straitened circumstances, and lived in a distant village. And I suppose her husband didn't care to have much to do with her relations.

"His curacy—for he was only a curate—was in a small town not far from London. At first she seems to have been very happy, but, by and by she began to feel lonely. I fancy her husband began to find that she wasn't much of a companion for him, for she hadn't had the chance of much education, though she has quite a taste for painting flowers. So, I suppose, when his affection began to cool down a little, he began to tire a little of her constant society and of the quiet life they led. He was passionately fond of music, and used to go up to London frequently, for concerts and lectures, leaving her often alone for a day or two at a time. She must always have been excitable, and she began to have fits of crying when she was alone, and by and by she was attacked by neuralgia, to which she had previously been subject. The doctor unhappily recommended stimulants, and her hereditary taste for them rapidly developed. The habit grew stronger and stronger, and at last her husband discovered that she was sometimes not quite herself. She seems to have had false friends, too, who tempted her. He, of course, was terribly shocked and angry when he found it out. Probably it broke the spell that her beauty had exerted to hold his affection. He declared that if she continued the practice, he would not keep her with him. But when the fit came upon her, she seemed to have no power to resist it, so she passed some miserable weeks, trying to keep from it, and, when she could not resist, in terror lest he should find it out.

"At last the crisis came. One warm day she went to visit one of these 'friends'—drank to excess—tried to get home—but, between the heat and the effect of the stimulant, sank down, unable to walk, and was brought home in that condition, insensible. Her husband left the house half frantic, I suppose, leaving a note for her to read when she came to herself, in which he told her they must part, at least until she was thoroughly reformed; that he could not risk the consequences to his usefulness in his profession, of having such a scandal in his house, and that he would pay for her maintenance in her aunt's house, if she would receive her; but, for the present, he would see her no more."

"Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed Nora, who had listened in silent dismay to the tragic tale.