It was now Mary’s turn to become frightened, for he had every appearance of a mad man. “Roger, Roger,” she cried, “constrain yourself. I will say no more. You shall have your will in everything, and if evil befalls you, do not say that you had no warning.”
For many days after this, comparative quiet reigned between Mary and Roger. She maintained a dignified silence, and spoke only when spoken to, while Roger spent his time mostly in grumbling at everybody, and everything that came near enough to him to cause him displeasure, but this forced peace was rudely broken one day by a message to Mary. Her grandfather was dead, and had been buried several days. She was needed in England, being sole heir to all his wealth. Roger smiled and congratulated himself as being a most fortunate fellow, while Mary in tears—for she had truly loved her grandparent—prepared for her sad journey.
Upon reaching England and meeting with old Mr. Willing’s lawyer, Roger’s feelings can better be imagined than described, when he found that Mary’s grandfather had died from the effects of her letter, telling of her unhappiness, but he had lived long enough to curse his nephew, and to add a codicil to his will, tying up everything so securely in Mary’s favor, that Roger could never hope for a shilling of it, even in the event of his wife’s death, for then it was to go to found a home for aged men, if she died without issue. Roger flew into a towering passion, and swore by all the gods that he would break the will, but he found that the old man knew well what he was doing, and that now Mary was independent of him, and could leave him if she chose, but she did not choose. He was still her husband, for better or for worse. She had chosen her lot. She must abide by the choosing. Divorce was something unheard of in those days, and even if it had been, Mary had too high a sense of honor to have availed herself of so questionable a mode of becoming free from a distasteful marriage. She uncomplainingly bowed her shoulders to the burden placed upon them, and after all business connected with her grandfather’s estates was settled, followed her husband on board an American vessel, and set sail for a new and untried land, to meet she knew not what.
As Roger neared his birthplace, he began to feel that pride in his possessions which is characteristic of us all to feel, no matter how humble may be the object which is our very own, and he pointed out to Mary with more real feeling in his manner than she had ever seen him manifest, the old house standing on the bluff, and as they entered the door he turned and kissed her, saying: “Welcome home, Mary. This is yours as well as mine,” and the thought came to her, that perhaps from this time on, they might live happier, and learn to love again.
Roger anticipated a stormy scene with Bella, but he had always been master in his own house, and it would not take long, he felt sure, to convince her that discretion was the better part of valor, and that she must again become slave where she had reigned mistress. After removing their wraps, he began at once to show Mary the quaint house in which she must now make her home. Through long crooked passages ending in unexpected octagon rooms, or perhaps in a high-ceilinged picture-gallery, they wandered, laughing and chatting pleasantly, and Mary felt nearer to and more at ease with Roger, than at any time since that terrible night in Paris. The shadow seemed lifting, and she gaily placed her arm within that of her husband’s, saying: “How delightful all this is, dear Roger. You have not told me half the beauties of this old place.”
“There is one more room, Mary, which will delight you, I know. We call it the gable room. There is not another like it in the whole world. If you wish it, it shall be yours. We can reach it best through my study. Come and I will show it you.”
They passed through the study, and Roger opened a panel in the wall most cunningly concealed, and began to ascend the narrow spiral staircase. Mary followed close behind.
“There is a grand staircase leading from the other side,” said Roger. “We will descend by that.” He had reached the top, when suddenly with a stealthly spring, a beautiful creature barred his further progress. Was it a woman? For a moment Mary could hardly have told. She was held spell-bound, fascinated by the panther-like grace of the creature, who threw back her magnificent head, and at the same time raised a faultless arm, bare to the shoulder of any covering, except many and curiously-wrought bracelets. “Halt, Roger Willing!” she cried in the rich, peculiar voice of her race. “You cannot enter here, and bring that woman. These are my apartments. If you wish to see me, come alone.”
Roger for a moment was startled, but quickly regaining his composure, he laughed lightly, saying: “Don’t be a fool, Bella. This lady is my wife, and your mistress.”
“Never!” cried Bella, passionately. “Never will I acknowledge any person as my mistress. Give me my freedom papers as you promised to do, and I will go away; me and my child.”