The Case of Richard Meynell

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

"It was a day that decided all my life. We were so wretched. We thought we could never meet again—it seemed as though we were both—with every station we passed—coming nearer to something like death—something worse than death. Then—before we got to Euston—I couldn't bear it—I—I gave way. We sent a telegram from Euston to Edith that I was going to stay with a school friend in Cornwall—and that night we crossed to Paris—"

She covered her face with her hands a moment; then went on more calmly:

"You'll guess all the rest. I was a fortnight with him in Paris. Then I went home. In a few weeks Edith guessed—and so did Judith Sabin, who was Edith's maid. Edith made me tell her everything. She and Ralph were nearly beside themselves. They were very strict in those days; Ralph was a great Evangelical, and used to speak at the May meetings. All his party looked up to him so—and consulted him. It was a fearful blow to him. But Edith thought of what to do—and she made him agree. We went abroad, she and I—with Judith. It was given out that Edith was delicate, and must have a year away. We stopped about in little mountain places—and Hester was born at Grenoble. And then for the last and only time, they let Neville come to see me—"

Her voice sank. She could only go on in a whisper.

"Three weeks later he was drowned on the Donegal coast. It was called an accident—but it wasn't. He had hoped and hoped to get his wife to divorce him—and make amends. And when Mrs. Flood's—his wife's—final letter came—she was a Catholic and nothing would induce her—he just took his boat out in a storm, and never came back—"

The story lost itself in a long sobbing sigh that came from the depths of life. When she spoke again it was with more strength:

"But he had written the night before to Richard—Richard Meynell. You know he was the Rector's uncle, though he was only seven years older? I had never seen Richard then. But I had often heard of him from Neville. Neville had taken a great fancy to him a year or two before, when Richard was still at college, and Neville was in the Guards. They used to talk of religion and philosophy. Neville was a great reader always—and they became great friends. So on his last night he wrote to Richard, telling him everything, and asking him to be kind to me—and Hester. And Richard—who had just been appointed to the living here—came out to the Riviera, and brought me the letter—and the little book that was in his pocket—when they found him. So you see …"

She spoke with fluttering colour and voice, as though to find words at all were a matter of infinite difficulty:

"You see that was how Richard came to take an interest in us—in Hester and me—how he came to be the friend too of Ralph and Edith. Poor Ralph!—Ralph was often hard to me, but he meant kindly—he would never have got through at all but for Richard. If Richard was away for a week, he used to fret. That was eighteen years ago—and I too should never have had any peace—any comfort in life again—but for Richard. He found somebody to live with me abroad for those first years, and then, when I came back to Upcote, he made Ralph and Edith consent to my living in that little house by myself—with my chaperon. He would have preferred—indeed he urged it—that I should go on living abroad. But there was Hester!—and I knew by that time that none of them had the least bit of love for her!—she was a burden to them all. I couldn't leave her to them—I couldn't!… Oh! they were terrible, those years!" And again she caught Catharine's hands and held them tight. "You see, I was so young—not much over twenty—and nobody suspected anything. Nobody in the world knew anything—except Judith Sabin, who was in America, and she never knew who Hester's father was—and my own people—and Richard! Richard taught me how to bear it—oh! not in words—for he never preached to me—but by his life. I couldn't have lived at all—but for him. And now you see—you see—how I am paying him back!"

And again, as the rush of emotion came upon her, she threw herself into a wild pleading, as though the gray-haired woman beside her were thwarting and opposing her.