Madam: A Novel

by Mrs. Oliphant

“Oh, it seems all a mistake,” he replied vaguely. He was, in fact, greatly cast down by the sudden check he had received. In the height of his consciousness that his own position as holding a clew to the whereabouts of this mysterious woman was immeasurably advantaged, there came upon him this chill of doubt lest perhaps after all— But then she had herself declared that to hear of the Trevanions was to her as life and death. Rivers did not know how to reconcile Rosalind’s instant change of tone, her evident certainty that his information did not concern her, with the impassioned interest of the woman whom he half felt that he had betrayed. How he had acquired the information which he had thought it would be a good thing for him thus to convey he could scarcely have told. It had been partly divination, partly some echo of recollection; but he felt certain that he was right; and he had also felt certain that to hear it would please Rosalind. He was altogether cast down by her reception of his news. He did not recover himself during all the long walk back to Aix in the moonlight, which he made in company with John Trevanion. But John was absorbed in the excitement of the expected meeting, and did not disturb him by much talking. They walked along between the straight lines of the trees, through black depths of shadow and the white glory of the light, exchanging few words, each wrapped in his own atmosphere. When the lights of the town were close to them John spoke. “Whether she will speak to me or not, you must place me where I can see her, Rivers. I must make sure.”

“I will do the best I can,” said Rivers; “but what if it should all turn out to be a mistake?”

“How can it be a mistake? Who else would listen as you say she did? Who else could take so much interest? But I must make sure. Place me, at least, where I may see her, even if I must not speak.”

The garden was nearly deserted, only one or two solitary figures in shawls and overcoats still lingering in the beauty of the moonlight. Rivers placed John standing in the shadow of a piece of shrubbery, close to the open space which she had crossed as she made her round of the little promenade, and he himself took the seat under the laurels which he had occupied on the previous night. He thought there was no doubt that she would come to him, that after the hotel people had disappeared she would be on the watch, and hasten to hear what he had to tell her. When time passed on and no one appeared, he got up again and began himself to walk round and round, pausing now and then to whisper to John Trevanion that he did not understand it—that he could not imagine what could be the cause of the delay. They waited thus till midnight, till the unfortunate waiters on the veranda were nearly distracted, and every intimation of the late hour which these unhappy men could venture to give had been given. When twelve struck, tingling through the blue air, John Trevanion came, finally, out of his hiding-place, and Rivers from his chair. They spoke in whispers, as conspirators instinctively do, though there was nobody to hear. “I cannot understand it,” said Rivers, with the disconcerted air of a man whose exhibition has failed. “I don’t think it is of any use waiting longer,” said John. “Oh, of no use. I am very sorry, Trevanion. I confidently expected—” “Something,” said John, “must have happened to detain her. I am disappointed, but still I do not cease to hope; and if, in the meantime, you see her, or any trace of her—” “You may be sure I will do my best,” Rivers said, ashamed, though it was no fault of his, and, notwithstanding Rosalind’s refusal to believe, with all his faith in his own conclusions restored.

They shook hands silently, and John Trevanion went away downcast and disappointed. When he had gone down the narrow street and emerged into the Place, which lay full in the moonlight, he saw two tall, dark shadows in the very centre of the white vacancy and brightness in the deserted square. They caught his attention for the moment, and he remembered after that a vague question crossed his mind what two women could be doing out so late. Were they sisters of charity, returning from some labor of love? Thus he passed them quickly, yet with a passing wonder, touched, he could not tell how, by something forlorn in the two solitary women, returning he knew not from what errand. Had he but known who these wayfarers were!

CHAPTER LVI.

Two days after this, while as yet there had appeared no further solution of the mystery, Roland Hamerton came hastily one morning up the sloping paths of Bonport into the garden, where he knew he should find Rosalind. He was in the position of a sort of outdoor member of the household, going and coming at his pleasure, made no account of, enjoying the privileges of a son and brother rather than of a lover. But the advantages of this position were great. He saw Rosalind at all hours, in all circumstances, and he was himself so much concerned about little Amy, and so full of earnest interest in everything that affected the family, that he was admitted even to the most intimate consultations. To Rosalind his presence had given a support and help which she could not have imagined possible; especially in contrast with Rivers, who approached her with that almost threatening demand for a final explanation, and shaped every word and action so as to show that the reason for his presence here was her and her only. Roland’s self-control and unfeigned desire to promote her comfort first of all, before he thought of himself, was in perfect contrast to this, and consolatory beyond measure. She had got to be afraid of Rivers; she was not at all afraid of the humble lover who was at the same time her old friend, who was young like herself, who knew everything that had happened. This was the state to which she had come in that famous competition between the three, who ought, as Mr. Ruskin says, to have been seven. One she had withdrawn altogether from, putting him out of the lists with mingled repulsion and pity. Another she had been seized with a terror of, as of a man lying in wait to devour her. The third—he was no one; he was only Roland; her lover in the nursery, her faithful attendant all her life. She was not afraid of him, nor of any exaction on his part. Her heart turned to him with a simple reliance. He was not clever, he was not distinguished; he had executed for her none of the labors either of Hercules or any other hero. He had on his side no attractions of natural beauty, or any of those vague appeals to the imagination which had given Everard a certain power over her; and he had not carried her image with him, as Rivers had done, through danger and conflict, or brought back any laurels to lay at her feet. If it had been a matter of competition, as in the days of chivalry, or in the scheme of our gentle yet vehement philosopher, Roland would have had little chance. But after the year was over in which Rosalind had known of the competition for her favor, he it was who remained nearest. She glanced up with an alarmed look to see who was coming, and her face cleared when she saw it was Roland. He would force no considerations upon her, ask no tremendous questions. She gave him a smile as he approached. She was seated under the trees, with the lake gleaming behind for a background through an opening in the foliage. Mrs. Lennox’s chair still stood on the same spot, but she was not there. There were some books on the table, but Rosalind was not reading. She had some needlework in her hands, but that was little more than a pretence; she was thinking, and all her thoughts were directed to one subject. She smiled when he came up, yet grudged to lose the freedom of those endless thoughts. “I thought,” she said, “you were on the water with Rex.”

“No, I told you I wanted something to do. I think I have got what I wanted, but I should like to tell you about it, Rosalind.”

“Yes?” she said, looking up again with a smiling interrogation. She thought it was about some piece of exercise or amusement, some long walk he was going to take, some expedition which he wanted to organize.

“I have heard something very strange,” he said. “It appears that I said something the other night to Rivers, whom I found when I went back to the hotel, and that somebody, some lady, was seen to come near and listen. I was not saying any harm, you may suppose, but only that the children were upset. And this lady came around to hear what I was saying.”