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MR. MEDHURST AND THE PRINCESS.
by Wilkie Collins
I.
THE day before I left London, to occupy the post of second
secretary of legation at a small German Court, I took leave of my
excellent French singing-master, Monsieur Bonnefoy, and of his
young and pretty daughter named Jeanne.
Our farewell interview was saddened by Monsieur Bonnefoy's family
anxieties. His elder brother, known in the household as Uncle
David, had been secretly summoned to Paris by order of a
republican society. Anxious relations in London (whether
reasonably or not, I am unable to say) were in some fear of the
political consequences that might follow.
At parting, I made Mademoiselle Jeanne a present, in the shape of
a plain gold brooch. For some time past, I had taken my lessons
at Monsieur Bonnefoy's house; his daughter and I often sang
together under his direction. Seeing much of Jeanne, under these
circumstances, the little gift that I had offered to her was only
the natural expression of a true interest in her welfare. Idle
rumor asserted--quite falsely--that I was in love with her. I was
sincerely the young lady's friend: no more, no less.
Having alluded to my lessons in singing, it may not be out of
place to mention the circumstances under which I became Monsieur
Bonnefoy's pupil, and to allude to the change in my life that
followed in due course of time.
Our family property--excepting the sum of five thousand pounds
left to me by my mother--is landed property strictly entailed.
The estates were inherited by my only brother, Lord Medhurst; the
kindest, the best, and, I grieve to say it, the unhappiest of
men. He lived separated from a bad wife; he had no children to
console him; and he only enjoyed at rare intervals the blessing
of good health. Having myself nothing to live on but the interest
of my mother's little fortune, I had to make my own way in the
world. Poor younger sons, not possessed of the commanding ability
which achieves distinction, find the roads that lead to
prosperity closed to them, with one exception. They can always
apply themselves to the social arts which make a man agreeable in
society. I had naturally a good voice, and I cultivated it. I was
ready to sing, without being subject to the wretched vanity which
makes objections and excuses--I pleased the ladies--the ladies
spoke favorably of me to their husbands--and some of their
husbands were persons of rank and influence. After no very long
lapse of time, the result of this combination of circumstances
declared itself. Monsieur Bonnefoy's lessons became the indirect
means of starting me on a diplomatic career--and the diplomatic
career made poor Ernest Medhurst, to his own unutterable
astonishment, the hero of a love story!
The story being true, I must beg to be excused, if I abstain from
mentioning names, places, and dates, when I enter on German
ground. Let it be enough to say that I am writing of a bygone
year in the present century, when no such thing as a German
Empire existed, and when the revolutionary spirit of France was
still an object of well-founded suspicion to tyrants by right
divine on the continent of Europe.
II.
ON joining the legation, I was not particularly attracted by my
chief, the Minister. His manners were oppressively polite; and
his sense of his own importance was not sufficiently influenced
by diplomatic reserve. I venture to describe him (mentally
speaking) as an empty man, carefully trained to look full on
public occasions.
My colleague, the first secretary, was a far more interesting
person. Bright, unaffected, and agreeable, he at once interested
me when we were introduced to each other. I pay myself a
compliment, as I consider, when I add that he became my firm and
true friend.
We took a walk together in the palace gardens on the evening of
my arrival. Reaching a remote part of the grounds, we were passed
by a lean, sallow, sour-looking old man, drawn by a servant in a
chair on wheels. My companion stopped, whispered to me, "Here is
the Prince," and bowed bareheaded. I followed his example as a
matter of course. The Prince feebly returned our salutation. "Is
he ill?" I asked, when we had put our hats on again.
"Shakespeare," the secretary replied, "tells us that 'one man in
his time plays many parts.' Under what various aspects the
Prince's character may have presented itself, in his younger
days, I am no t able to tell you. Since l have been here, he has
played the part of a martyr to illness, misunderstood by his
doctors."
"And his daughter, the Princess--what do you say of her?"
"Ah, she is not so easily described! I can only appeal to your
memory of other women like her, whom you must often have
seen--women who are tall and fair, and fragile and elegant; who
have delicate aquiline noses and melting blue eyes--women who
have often charmed you by their tender smiles and their supple
graces of movement. As for the character of this popular young
lady, I must not influence you either way; study it for
yourself."
"Without a hint to guide me?"
"With a suggestion," he replied, "which may be worth considering.
If you wish to please the Princess, begin by endeavoring to win
the good graces of the Baroness."
"Who is the Baroness?"
"One of the ladies in waiting--bosom friend of her Highness, and
chosen repository of all her secrets. Personally, not likely to
attract you; short and fat, and ill-tempered and ugly. Just at
this time, I happen myself to get on with her better than usual.
We have discovered that we possess one sympathy in common--we are
the only people at Court who don't believe in the Prince's new
doctor."
"Is the new doctor a quack?"
The secretary looked round, before he answered, to see that
nobody was near us.
"It strikes me," he said, "that the Doctor is a spy. Mind! I have
no right to speak of him in that way; it is only my
impression--and I ought to add that appearances are all in his
favor. He is in the service of our nearest royal neighbor, the
Grand Duke; and he has been sent here expressly to relieve the
sufferings of the Duke's good friend and brother, our invalid
Prince. This is an honorable mission no doubt. And the man
himself is handsome, well-bred, and (I don't quite know whether
this is an additional recommendation) a countryman of ours.
Nevertheless I doubt him, and the Baroness doubts him. You are an
independent witness; I shall be anxious to hear if your opinion
agrees with ours."
I was presented at Court, toward the end of the week; and, in the
course of the next two or three days, I more than once saw the
Doctor. The impression that he produced on me surprised my
colleague. It was my opinion that he and the Baroness had
mistaken the character of a worthy and capable man.
The secretary obstinately adhered to his own view.
"Wait a little," he answered, "and we shall see."
He was quite right. We did see.
III.
BUT the Princess--the gentle, gracious, beautiful Princess--what
can I say of her Highness?
I can only say that she enchanted me.
I had been a little discouraged by the reception that I met with
from her father. Strictly confining himself within the limits of
politeness, he bade me welcome to his Court in the fewest
possible words, and then passed me by without further notice. He
afterward informed the English Minister that I had been so
unfortunate as to try his temper: "Your new secretary irritates
me, sir--he is a person in an offensively perfect state of
health." The Prince's charming daughter was not of her father's
way of thinking; it is impossible to say how graciously, how
sweetly I was received. She honored me by speaking to me in my
own language, of which she showed herself to be a perfect
mistress. I was not only permitted, but encouraged, to talk of my
family, and to dwell on my own tastes, amusements, and pursuits.
Even when her Highness's attention was claimed by other persons
waiting to be presented, I was not forgotten. The Baroness was
instructed to invite me for the next evening to the Princess's
tea-table; and it was hinted that I should be especially welcome
if I brought my music with me, and sang.
My friend the secretary, standing near us at the time, looked at
me with a mysterious smile. He had suggested that I should make
advances to the Baroness--and here was the Baroness (under royal
instructions) making advances to Me!
"We know what _that_ means," he whispered.
In justice to myself, I must declare that I entirely failed to
understand him.
On the occasion of my second reception by the Princess, at her
little evening party, I detected the Baroness, more than once, in
the act of watching her Highness and myself, with an appearance
of disapproval in her manner, which puzzled me. When I had taken
my leave, she followed me out of the room.
"I have a word of advice to give you," she said. "The best thing
you can do, sir, is to make an excuse to your Minister, and go
back to England."
I declare again, that I entirely failed to understand the
Baroness.
IV.
BEFORE the season came to an end, the Court removed to the
Prince's country-seat, in the interests of his Highness's health.
Entertainments were given (at the Doctor's suggestion), with a
view of raising the patient's depressed spirits. The members of
the English legation were among the guests invited. To me it was
a delightful visit. I had again every reason to feel gratefully
sensible of the Princess's condescending kindness. Meeting the
secretary one day in the library, I said that I thought her a
perfect creature. Was this an absurd remark to make? I could see
nothing absurd in it--and yet my friend burst out laughing.
"My good fellow, nobody is a perfect creature," he said. "The
Princess has her faults and failings, like the rest of us."
I denied it positively.
"Use your eyes," he went on; "and you will see, for example, that
she is shallow and frivolous. Yesterday was a day of rain. We
were all obliged to employ ourselves somehow indoors. Didn't you
notice that she had no resources in herself? She can't even
read."
"There you are wrong at any rate," I declared. "I saw her reading
the newspaper."
"You saw her with the newspaper in her hand. If you had not been
deaf and blind to her defects, you would have noticed that she
couldn't fix her attention on it. She was always ready to join in
the chatter of the ladies about her. When even their stores of
gossip were exhausted, she let the newspaper drop on her lap, and
sat in vacant idleness smiling at nothing."
I reminded him that she might have met with a dull number of the
newspaper. He took no notice of this unanswerable reply.
"You were talking the other day of her warmth of feeling," he
proceeded. "She has plenty of sentiment (German sentiment), I
grant you, but no true feeling. What happened only this morning,
when the Prince was in the breakfast-room, and when the Princess
and her ladies were dressed to go out riding? Even she noticed
the wretchedly depressed state of her father's spirits. A man of
that hypochondriacal temperament suffers acutely, though he may
only fancy himself to be ill. The Princess overflowed with
sympathy, but she never proposed to stay at home, and try to
cheer the old man. Her filial duty was performed to her own
entire satisfaction when she had kissed her hand to the Prince.
The moment after, she was out of the room--eager to enjoy her
ride. We all heard her laughing gayly among the ladies in the
hall."
I could have answered this also, if our discussion had not been
interrupted at the moment. The Doctor came into the library in
search of a book. When he had left us, my colleague's strong
prejudice against him instantly declared itself.
"Be on your guard with that man," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Haven't you noticed," he replied, "that when the Princess is
talking to you, the Doctor always happens to be in that part of
the room?"
"What does it matter where the Doctor is?"
My friend looked at me with an oddly mingled expression of doubt
and surprise. "Do you really not understand me?" he said.
"I don't indeed."
"My dear Ernest, you are a rare and admirable example to the rest
of us--you are a truly modest man."
What did he mean?
V.
EVENTS followed, on the next day, which (as will presently be
seen) I have a personal interest in relating.
The Baroness left us suddenly, on leave of absence. The Prince
wearied of his residence in the country; and the Court returned
to the capital. The charming Princess was reported to be
"indisposed," and retired to the seclusion of her own apartments.
A week later, I received a note f rom the Baroness, marked
"private and confidential." It informed me that she had resumed
her duties as lady-in-waiting, and that she wished to see me at
my earliest convenience. I obeyed at once; and naturally asked if
there were better accounts of her Highness's health.
The Baroness's reply a little surprised me. She said, "The
Princess is perfectly well."
"Recovered already!" I exclaimed.
"She has never been ill," the Baroness answered. "Her
indisposition was a sham; forced on her by me, in her own
interests. Her reputation is in peril; and you--you hateful
Englishman--are the cause of it."
Not feeling disposed to put up with such language as this, even
when it was used by a lady, I requested that she would explain
herself. She complied without hesitation. In another minute my
eyes were opened to the truth. I knew--no; that is too
positive--let me say I had reason to believe that the Princess
loved me!
It is simply impossible to convey to the minds of others any idea
of the emotions that overwhelmed me at that critical moment of my
life. I was in a state of confusion at the time; and, when my
memory tries to realize it, I am in a state of confusion now. The
one thing I can do is to repeat what the Baroness said to me when
I had in some degree recovered my composure.
"I suppose you are aware," she began, "of the disgrace to which
the Princess's infatuation exposes her, if it is discovered? On
my own responsibility I repeat what I said to you a short time
since. Do you refuse to leave this place immediately?"
Does the man live, honored as I was, who would have hesitated to
refuse? Find him if you can!
"Very well," she resumed. "As the friend of the Princess, I have
no choice now but to take things as they are, and to make the
best of them. Let us realize your position to begin with. If you
were (like your elder brother) a nobleman possessed of vast
estates, my royal mistress might be excused. As it is, whatever
you may be in the future, you are nothing now but an obscure
young man, without fortune or title. Do you see your duty to the
Princess? or must I explain it to you?"
I saw my duty as plainly as she did. "Her Highness's secret is a
sacred secret," I said. "I am bound to shrink from no sacrifice
which may preserve it."
The Baroness smiled maliciously. "I may have occasion," she
answered, "to remind you of what you have just said. In the
meanwhile the Princess's secret is in danger of discovery."
"By her father?"
"No. By the Doctor."
At first, I doubted whether she was in jest or in earnest. The
next instant, I remembered that the secretary had expressly
cautioned me against that man.
"It is evidently one of your virtues," the Baroness proceeded,
"to be slow to suspect. Prepare yourself for a disagreeable
surprise. The Doctor has been watching the Princess, on every
occasion when she speaks to you, with some object of his own in
view. During my absence, young sir, I have been engaged in
discovering what that object is. My excellent mother lives at the
Court of the Grand Duke, and enjoys the confidence of his
Ministers. He is still a bachelor; and, in the interests of the
succession to the throne, the time has arrived when he must
marry. With my mother's assistance, I have found out that the
Doctor's medical errand here is a pretense. Influenced by the
Princess's beauty the Grand Duke has thought of her first as his
future duchess. Whether he has heard slanderous stories, or
whether he is only a cautious man, I can't tell you. But this I
know: he has instructed his physician--if he had employed a
professed diplomatist his motive might have been suspected--to
observe her Highness privately, and to communicate the result.
The object of the report is to satisfy the Duke that the
Princess's reputation is above the reach of scandal; that she is
free from entanglements of a certain kind; and that she is in
every respect a person to whom he can with propriety offer his
hand in marriage. The Doctor, Mr. Ernest, is not disposed to
allow you to prevent him from sending in a favorable report. He
has drawn his conclusions from the Princess's extraordinary
kindness to the second secretary of the English legation; and he
is only waiting for a little plainer evidence to communicate his
suspicions to the Prince. It rests with you to save the
Princess."
"Only tell me how I am to do it!" I said.
"There is but one way of doing it," she answered; "and that way
has (comically enough) been suggested to me by the Doctor
himself."
Her tone and manner tried my patience.
"Come to the point!" I said.
She seemed to enjoy provoking me.
"No hurry, Mr. Ernest--no hurry! You shall be fully enlightened,
if you will only wait a little. The Prince, I must tell you,
believes in his daughter's indisposition. When he visited her
this morning, he was attended by his medical adviser. I was
present at the interview. To do him justice, the Doctor is worthy
of the trust reposed in him--he boldly attempted to verify his
suspicions of the daughter in the father's presence."
"How?"
"Oh, in the well-known way that has been tried over and over
again, under similar circumstances! He merely invented a report
that you were engaged in a love-affair with some charming person
in the town. Don't be angry; there's no harm done."
"But there _is_ harm done," I insisted. "What must the Princess
think of me?"
"Do you suppose she is weak enough to believe the Doctor? Her
Highness beat him at his own weapons; not the slightest sign of
agitation on her part rewarded his ingenuity. All that you have
to do is to help her to mislead this medical spy. It's as easy as
lying: and easier. The Doctor's slander declares that you have a
love-affair in the town. Take the hint--and astonish the Doctor
by proving that he has hit on the truth."
It was a hot day; the Baroness was beginning to get excited. She
paused and fanned herself.
"Do I startle you?" she asked.
"You disgust me."
She laughed.
"What a thick-headed man this is!" she said, pleasantly. "Must I
put it more plainly still? Engage in what your English prudery
calls a 'flirtation,' with some woman here--the lower in degree
the better, or the Princess might be jealous--and let the affair
be seen and known by everybody about the Court. Sly as he is, the
Doctor is not prepared for that! At your age, and with your
personal advantages, he will take appearances for granted; he
will conclude that he has wronged you, and misinterpreted the
motives of the Princess. The secret of her Highness's weakness
will be preserved--thanks to that sacrifice, Mr. Ernest, which
you are so willing and so eager to make."
It was useless to remonstrate with such a woman as this. I simply
stated my own objection to her artfully devised scheme.
"I don't wish to appear vain," I said; "but the woman to whom I
am to pay these attentions may believe that I really admire
her--and it is just possible that she may honestly return the
feeling which I am only assuming."
"Well--and what then?"
"It's hard on the woman, surely?"
The Baroness was shocked, unaffectedly shocked.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "how can anything that you do for
the Princess be hard on a woman of the lower orders? There must
be an end of this nonsense, sir! You have heard what I propose,
and you know what the circumstances are. My mistress is waiting
for your answer. What am I to say?"
"Let me see her Highness, and speak for myself," I said.
"Quite impossible to-day, without running too great a risk. Your
reply must be made through me."
There was to be a Court concert at the end of the week. On that
occasion I should be able to make my own reply. In the meanwhile
I only told the Baroness I wanted time to consider.
"What time?" she asked.
"Until to-morrow. Do you object?"
"On the contrary, I cordially agree. Your base hesitation may
lead to results which I have not hitherto dared to anticipate."
"What do you mean?"
"Between this and to-morrow," the horrid woman replied, "the
Princess may end in seeing you with my eyes. In that hope I wish
you good-morning."
VI.
MY enemies say that I am a weak man, unduly influenced by persons
of rank--because of their rank. If this we re true, I should have
found little difficulty in consenting to adopt the Baroness's
suggestion. As it was, the longer I reflected on the scheme the
less I liked it. I tried to think of some alternative that might
be acceptably proposed. The time passed, and nothing occurred to
me. In this embarrassing position my mind became seriously
disturbed; I felt the necessity of obtaining some relief, which
might turn my thoughts for a while into a new channel. The
secretary called on me, while I was still in doubt what to do. He
reminded me that a new prima donna was advertised to appear on
that night; and he suggested that we should go to the opera.
Feeling as I did at the time, I readily agreed.
We found the theater already filled, before the performance
began. Two French gentlemen were seated in the row of stalls
behind us. They were talking of the new singer.
"She is advertised as 'Mademoiselle Fontenay,'" one of them said.
"That sounds like an assumed name."
"It _is_ an assumed name," the other replied. "She is the
daughter of a French singing-master, named Bonnefoy."
To my friend's astonishment I started to my feet, and left him
without a word of apology. In another minute I was at the
stage-door, and had sent in my card to "Mademoiselle Fontenay."
While I was waiting, I had time to think. Was it possible that
Jeanne had gone on the stage? Or were there two singing-masters
in existence named Bonnefoy? My doubts were soon decided. The
French woman-servant whom I remembered when I was Monsieur
Bonnefoy's pupil, made her appearance, and conducted me to her
young mistress's dressing-room. Dear good Jeanne, how glad she
was to see me!
I found her standing before the glass, having just completed her
preparations for appearing on the stage. Dressed in her
picturesque costume, she was so charming that I expressed my
admiration heartily, as became her old friend. "Do you really
like me?" she said, with the innocent familiarity which I
recollected so well. "See how I look in the glass--that is the
great test." It was not easy to apply the test. Instead of
looking at her image in the glass, it was far more agreeable to
look at herself. We were interrupted--too soon interrupted--by
the call-boy. He knocked at the door, and announced that the
overture had begun.
"I have a thousand things to ask you," I told her. "What has made
this wonderful change in your life? How is it that I don't see
your father--"
Her face instantly saddened; her hand trembled as she laid it on
my arm to silence me.
"Don't speak of him now," she said, "or you will unnerve me. Come
to me to-morrow when the stage will not be waiting; Annette will
give you my address." She opened the door to go out, and
returned. "Will you think me very unreasonable if I ask you not
to make one of my audience to-night? You have reminded me of the
dear old days that can never come again. If I feel that I am
singing to _you_--" She left me to understand the rest, and
turned away again to the door. As I followed her out, to say
good-by, she drew from her bosom the little brooch which had been
my parting gift, and held it out to me. "On the stage, or off, "
she said, "I always wear it. Good-night, Ernest."
I was prepared to hear sad news when we met the next morning.
My good old friend and master had died suddenly. To add to the
bitterness of that affliction, he had died in debt to a dear and
intimate friend. For his daughter's sake he had endeavored to add
to his little savings by speculating with borrowed money on the
Stock Exchange. He had failed, and the loan advanced had not been
repaid, when a fit of apoplexy struck him down. Offered the
opportunity of trying her fortune on the operatic stage, Jeanne
made the attempt, and was now nobly employed in earning the money
to pay her father's debt.
"It was the only way in which I could do justice to his memory,"
she said, simply. "I hope you don't object to my going on the
stage?"
I took her hand, poor child--and let that simple action answer
for me. I was too deeply affected to be able to speak.
"It is not in me to be a great actress," she resumed; "but you
know what an admirable musician my father was. He has taught me
to sing, so that I can satisfy the critics, as well as please the
public. There was what they call a great success last night. It
has earned me an engagement for another year to come, and an
increase of salary. I have already sent some money to our good
old friend at home, and I shall soon send more. It is my one
consolation--I feel almost happy again when I am paying my poor
father's debt. No more now of my sad story! I want to hear all
that you can tell me of yourself." She moved to the window, and
looked out. "Oh, the beautiful blue sky! We used sometimes to
take a walk, when we were in London, on fine days like this. Is
there a park here?"
I took her to the palace gardens, famous for their beauty in that
part of Germany.
Arm in arm we loitered along the pleasant walks. The lovely
flowers, the bright sun, the fresh fragrant breeze, all helped
her to recover her spirits. She began to be like the happy Jeanne
of my past experience, as easily pleased as a child. When we sat
down to rest, the lap of her dress was full of daisies. "Do you
remember," she said, "when you first taught me to make a
daisy-chain? Are you too great a man to help me again now?"
We were still engaged with our chain, seated close together, when
the smell of tobacco-smoke was wafted to us on the air.
I looked up and saw the Doctor passing us, enjoying his cigar. He
bowed; eyed my pretty companion with a malicious smile; and
passed on.
"Who is that man?" she asked.
"The Prince's physician," I replied.
"I don't like him," she said; "why did he smile when he looked at
me?"
"Perhaps," I suggested, "he thought we were lovers."
She blushed. "Don't let him think that! tell him we are only old
friends."
We were not destined to finish our flower chain on that day.
Another person interrupted us, whom I recognized as the elder
brother of Monsieur Bonnefoy--already mentioned in these pages,
under the name of Uncle David. Having left France for political
reasons, the old republican had taken care of his niece after her
father's death, and had accepted the position of Jeanne's
business manager in her relations with the stage. Uncle David's
object, when he joined us in the garden, was to remind her that
she was wanted at rehearsal, and must at once return with him to
the theater. We parted, having arranged that I was to see the
performance on that night.
Later in the day, the Baroness sent for me again.
"Let me apologize for having misunderstood you yesterday," she
said: "and let me offer you my best congratulations. You have
done wonders already in the way of misleading the Doctor. There
is only one objection to that girl at the theater--I hear she is
so pretty that she may possibly displease the Princess. In other
respects, she is just in the public position which will make your
attentions to her look like the beginning of a serious intrigue.
Bravo, Mr. Ernest--bravo!"
I was too indignant to place any restraint on the language in
which I answered her.
"Understand, if you please," I said, "that I am renewing an old
friendship with Mademoiselle Jeanne--begun under the sanction of
her father. Respect that young lady, madam, as I respect her."
The detestable Baroness clapped her hands, as if she had been at
the theater.
"If you only say that to the Princess," she remarked, "as well as
you have said it to me, there will be no danger of arousing her
Highness's jealousy. I have a message for you. At the concert, on
Saturday, you are to retire to the conservatory, and you may hope
for an interview when the singers begin the second part of the
programme. Don't let me detain you any longer. Go back to your
young lady, Mr. Ernest--pray go back!"
VII.
ON the second night of the opera the applications for places were
too numerous to be received. Among the crowded audience, I
recognized many of my friends. They persisted in believing an
absurd report (first circulated, as I imagine, by the Doctor),
which asserted that my interest in the new singer was something
more than the interest of an old friend. When I went behind the
scenes to congratulate Jeanne on her success, I was annoyed in
another way--and by the Doctor again. He followed me to Jeanne's
room, to offer _his_ congratulations; and he begged that I would
introduce him to the charming prima donna. Having expressed his
admiration, he looked at me with his insolently suggestive smile,
and said he could not think of prolonging his intrusion. On
leaving the room, he noticed Uncle David, waiting as usual to
take care of Jeanne on her return from the theater--looked at him
attentively--bowed, and went out.
The next morning, I received a note from the Baroness, expressed
in these terms:
"More news! My rooms look out on the wing of the palace in which
the Doctor is lodged. Half an hour since, I discovered him at his
window, giving a letter to a person who is a stranger to me. The
man left the palace immediately afterward. My maid followed him,
by my directions. Instead of putting the letter in the post, he
took a ticket at the railway-station--for what place the servant
was unable to discover. Here, you will observe, is a letter
important enough to be dispatched by special messenger, and
written at a time when we have succeeded in freeing ourselves
from the Doctor's suspicions. It is at least possible that he has
decided on sending a favorable report of the Princess to the
Grand Duke. If this is the case, please consider whether you will
not act wisely (in her Highness's interests) by keeping away from
the concert."
Viewing this suggestion as another act of impertinence on the
part of the Baroness, I persisted in my intention of going to the
concert. It was for the Princess to decide what course of conduct
I was bound to follow. What did I care for the Doctor's report to
the Duke! Shall I own my folly? I do really believe I was jealous
of the Duke.
VIII.
ENTERING the Concert Room, I found the Princess alone on the
dais, receiving the company. "Nervous prostration" had made it
impossible for the Prince to be present. He was confined to his
bed-chamber; and the Doctor was in attendance on him.
I bowed to the Baroness, but she was too seriously offended with
me for declining to take her advice to notice my salutation.
Passing into the conservatory, it occurred to me that I might be
seen, and possibly suspected, in the interval between the first
and second parts of the programme, when the music no longer
absorbed the attention of the audience. I went on, and waited
outside on the steps that led to the garden; keeping the glass
door open, so as to hear when the music of the second part of the
concert began.
After an interval which seemed to be endless, I saw the Princess
approaching me.
She had made the heat in the Concert Room an excuse for retiring
for a while; and she had the Baroness in attendance on her to
save appearances. Instead of leaving us to ourselves, the
malicious creature persisted in paying the most respectful
attentions to her mistress. It was impossible to make her
understand that she was not wanted any longer until the Princess
said sharply, "Go back to the music!" Even then, the detestable
woman made a low curtsey, and answered: "I will return, Madam, in
five minutes."
I ventured to present myself in the conservatory.
The Princess was dressed with exquisite simplicity, entirely in
white. Her only ornaments were white roses in her hair and in her
bosom. To say that she looked lovely is to say nothing. She
seemed to be the ethereal creature of some higher sphere; too
exquisitely delicate and pure to be approached by a mere mortal
man like myself. I was awed; I was silent. Her Highness's sweet
smile encouraged me to venture a little nearer. She pointed to a
footstool which the Baroness had placed for her. "Are you afraid
of me, Ernest?" she asked softly.
Her divinely beautiful eyes rested on me with a look of
encouragement. I dropped on my knees at her feet. She had asked
if I was afraid of her. This, if I may use such an expression,
roused my manhood. My own boldness astonished me. I answered:
"Madam, I adore you."
She laid her fair hand on my head, and looked at me thoughtfully.
"Forget my rank," she whispered--"have I not set you the example?
Suppose that I am nothing but an English Miss. What would you say
to Miss?"
"I should say, I love you."
"Say it to Me."
My lips said it on her hand. She bent forward. My heart beats
fast at the bare remembrance of it. Oh, heavens, her Highness
kissed me!
"There is your reward," she murmured, "for all you have
sacrificed for my sake. What an effort it must have been to offer
the pretense of love to an obscure stranger! The Baroness tells
me this actress--this singer--what is she?--is pretty. Is it
true?"
The Baroness was quite mischievous enough to have also mentioned
the false impression, prevalent about the Court, that I was in
love with Jeanne. I attempted to explain. The gracious Princess
refused to hear me.
"Do you think I doubt you?" she said. "Distinguished by me, could
you waste a look on a person in _that_ rank of life?" She laughed
softly, as if the mere idea of such a thing amused her. It was
only for a moment: her thoughts took a new direction--they
contemplated the uncertain future. "How is this to end?" she
asked. "Dear Ernest, we are not in Paradise; we are in a hard
cruel world which insists on distinctions in rank. To what
unhappy destiny does the fascination which you exercise over me
condemn us both?"
She paused--took one of the white roses out of her bosom--touched
it with her lips--and gave it to me.
"I wonder whether you feel the burden of life as I feel it?" she
resumed. "It is immaterial to me, whether we are united in this
world or in the next. Accept my rose, Ernest, as an assurance
that I speak with perfect sincerity. I see but two alternatives
before us. One of them (beset with dangers) is elopement. And the
other," she added, with truly majestic composure, "is suicide."
Would Englishmen in general have rightly understood such fearless
confidence in them as this language implied? I am afraid they
might have attributed it to what my friend the secretary called
"German sentiment." Perhaps they might even have suspected the
Princess of quoting from some old-fashioned German play. Under
the irresistible influence of that glorious creature, I
contemplated with such equal serenity the perils of elopement and
the martyrdom of love, that I was for the moment at a loss how to
reply. In that moment, the evil genius of my life appeared in the
conservatory. With haste in her steps, with alarm in her face,
the Baroness rushed up to her royal mistress, and said, "For
God's sake, Madam, come away! The Prince desires to speak with
you instantly."
Her Highness rose, calmly superior to the vulgar excitement of
her lady in waiting. "Think of it to-night," she said to me, "and
let me hear from you to-morrow."
She pressed my hand; she gave me a farewell look. I sank into the
chair that she had just left. Did I think of elopement? Did I
think of suicide? The elevating influence of the Princess no
longer sustained me; my nature became degraded. Horrid doubts
rose in my mind. Did her father suspect us?
IX.
NEED I say that I passed a sleepless night?
The morning found me with my pen in my hand, confronting the
serious responsibility of writing to the Princess, and not
knowing what to say. I had already torn up two letters, when
Uncle David presented himself with a message from his niece.
Jeanne was in trouble, and wanted to ask my advice.
My state of mind, on hearing this, became simply inexplicable.
Here was an interruption which ought to have annoyed me. It did
nothing of the kind--it inspired me with a feeling of relief!
I naturally expected that the old Frenchman would return with me
to his niece, and tell me what had happened. To my surprise, he
begged that I would excuse him, and left me without a word of
explanation. I found Jeanne walking up and down her little
sitting-room, flushed and angry. Fragments of torn paper and
heaps of flowers littered the floor; and three unopen jewel-cases
appeared to have been thrown into the empty fireplace. She caught
me
excitedly by the hand the moment I entered the room.
"You are my true friend," she said; "you were present the other
night when I sang. Was there anything in my behavior on the stage
which could justify men who call themselves gentlemen in
insulting me?"
"My dear, how can you ask the question?"
"I must ask it. Some of them send flowers, and some of them send
jewels; and every one of them writes letters--infamous,
abominable letters--saying they are in love with me, and asking
for appointments as if I was--"
She could say no more. Poor dear Jeanne--her head dropped on my
shoulder; she burst out crying. Who could see her so cruelly
humiliated--the faithful loving daughter, whose one motive for
appearing on the stage had been to preserve her father's good
name--and not feel for her as I did? I forgot all considerations
of prudence; I thought of nothing but consoling her; I took her
in my arms; I dried her tears; I kissed her; I said, "Tell me the
name of any one of the wretches who has written to you, and I
will make him an example to the rest!" She shook her head, and
pointed to the morsels of paper on the floor. "Oh, Ernest, do you
think I asked you to come here for any such purpose as that?
Those jewels, those hateful jewels, tell me how I can send them
back! spare me the sight of them!"
So far it was easy to console her. I sent the jewels at once to
the manager of the theater--with a written notice to be posted at
the stage door, stating that they were waiting to be returned to
the persons who could describe them.
"Try, my dear, to forget what has happened," I said. "Try to find
consolation and encouragement in your art."
"I have lost all interest in my success on the stage," she
answered, "now I know the penalty I must pay for it. When my
father's memory is clear of reproach, I shall leave the theater
never to return to it again."
"Take time to consider, Jeanne."
"I will do anything you ask of me."
For a while we were silent. Without any influence to lead to it
that I could trace, I found myself recalling the language that
the Princess had used in alluding to Jeanne. When I thought of
them now, the words and the tone in which they had been spoken
jarred on me. There is surely something mean in an assertion of
superiority which depends on nothing better than the accident of
birth. I don't know why I took Jeanne's hand; I don't know why I
said, "What a good girl you are! how glad I am to have been of
some little use to you!" Is my friend the secretary right, when
he reproaches me with acting on impulse, like a woman? I don't
like to think so; and yet, this I must own--it was well for me
that I was obliged to leave her, before I had perhaps said other
words which might have been alike unworthy of Jeanne, of the
Princess, and of myself. I was called away to speak to my
servant. He brought with him the secretary's card, having a line
written on it: "I am waiting at your rooms, on business which
permits of no delay."
As we shook hands, Jeanne asked me if I knew where her uncle was.
I could only tell her that he had left me at my own door. She
made no remark; but she seemed to be uneasy on receiving that
reply.
X.
WHEN I arrived at my rooms, my colleague hurried to meet me the
moment I opened the door.
"I am going to surprise you," he said; "and there is no time to
prepare you for it. Our chief, the Minister, has seen the Prince
this morning, and has been officially informed of an event of
importance in the life of the Princess. She is engaged to be
married to the Grand Duke."
Engaged to the Duke--and not a word from her to warn me of it!
Engaged--after what she had said to me no longer ago than the
past night! Had I been made a plaything to amuse a great lady?
Oh, what degradation! I was furious; I snatched up my hat to go
to the palace--to force my way to her--to overwhelm her with
reproaches. My friend stopped me. He put an official document
into my hand.
"There is your leave of absence from the legation," he said;
"beginning from to-day. I have informed the Minister, in strict
confidence, of the critical position in which you are placed. He
agrees with me that the Princess's inexcusable folly is alone to
blame. Leave us, Ernest, by the next train. There is some
intrigue going on, and I fear you may be involved in it. You know
that the rulers of these little German States can exercise
despotic authority when they choose?"
"Yes! yes!"
"Whether the Prince has acted of his own free will--or whether he
has been influenced by some person about him--I am not able to
tell you. He has issued an order to arrest an old Frenchman,
known to be a republican, and suspected of associating with one
of the secret societies in this part of Germany. The conspirator
has taken to flight; having friends, as we suppose, who warned
him in time. But this, Ernest, is not the worst of it. That
charming singer, that modest, pretty girl--"
"You don't mean Jeanne?"
"I am sorry to say I do. Advantage has been taken of her
relationship to the old man, to include that innocent creature in
political suspicions which it is simply absurd to suppose that
she has deserved. She is ordered to leave the Prince's domains
immediately.--Are you going to her?"
"Instantly!" I replied.
Could I feel a moment's hesitation, after the infamous manner in
which the Princess had sacrificed me to the Grand Duke? Could I
think of the poor girl, friendless, helpless--with nobody near
her but a stupid woman-servant, unable to speak the language of
the country--and fail to devote myself to the protection of
Jeanne? Thank God, I reached her lodgings in time to tell her
what had happened, and to take it on myself to receive the
police.
XI.
IN three days more, Jeanne was safe in London; having traveled
under my escort. I was fortunate enough to find a home for her,
in the house of a lady who had been my mother's oldest and
dearest friend.
We were separated, a few days afterward, by the distressing news
which reached me of the state of my brother's health. I went at
once to his house in the country. His medical attendants had lost
all hope of saving him: they told me plainly that his release
from a life of suffering was near at hand.
While I was still in attendance at his bedside, I heard from the
secretary. He inclosed a letter, directed to me in a strange
handwriting. I opened the envelope and looked for the signature.
My friend had been entrapped into sending me an anonymous letter.
Besides addressing me in French (a language seldom used in my
experience at the legation), the writer disguised the identity of
the persons mentioned by the use of classical names. In spite of
these precautions, I felt no difficulty in arriving at a
conclusion. My correspondent's special knowledge of Court
secrets, and her malicious way of communicating them, betrayed
the Baroness.
I translate the letter; restoring to the persons who figure in it
the names under which they are already known. The writer began in
these satirically familiar terms:
"When you left the Prince's dominions, my dear sir, you no doubt
believed yourself to be a free agent. Quite a mistake! You were a
mere puppet; and the strings that moved you were pulled by the
Doctor.
"Let me tell you how.
"On a certain night, which you well remember, the Princess was
unexpectedly summoned to the presence of her father. His
physician's skill had succeeded in relieving the illustrious
Prince, prostrate under nervous miseries. He was able to attend
to a state affair of importance, revealed to him by the
Doctor--who then for the first time acknowledged that he had
presented himself at Court in a diplomatic, as well as in a
medical capacity.
"This state affair related to a proposal for the hand of the
Princess, received from the Grand Duke through the authorized
medium of the Doctor. Her Highness, being consulted, refused to
consider the proposal. The Prince asked for her reason. She
answered: 'I have no wish to be married.' Naturally irritated by
such a ridiculous excuse, her father declared positively that the
marriage should take place.
"The impression produced on the Grand Duke's favorite and
emissary was of a different kind.
"Certain suspicions of the Princess and yourself, which you had
successfully contrived to dissipate, revived in the Doctor's mind
when he heard the lady's reason for refusing to marry his royal
master. It was now too late to regret that he had suffered
himself to be misled by cleverly managed appearances. He could
not recall the favorable report which he had addressed to the
Duke--or withdraw the proposal of marriage which he had been
commanded to make.
"In this emergency, the one safe course open to him was to get
rid of You--and, at the same time, so to handle circumstances as
to excite against you the pride and anger of the Princess. In the
pursuit of this latter object he was assisted by one of the
ladies in waiting, sincerely interested in the welfare of her
gracious mistress, and therefore ardently desirous of seeing her
Highness married to the Duke.
"A wretched old French conspirator was made the convenient pivot
on which the intrigue turned.
"An order for the arrest of this foreign republican having been
first obtained, the Prince was prevailed on to extend his
distrust of the Frenchman to the Frenchman's niece. You know this
already; but you don't know why it was done. Having believed from
the first that you were really in love with the young lady, the
Doctor reckoned confidently on your devoting yourself to the
protection of a friendless girl, cruelly exiled at an hour's
notice.
"The one chance against us was that tender considerations,
associated with her Highness, might induce you to hesitate. The
lady in waiting easily moved this obstacle out of the way. She
abstained from delivering a letter addressed to you, intrusted to
her by the Princess. When the great lady asked why she had not
received your reply, she was informed (quite truly) that you and
the charming opera singer had taken your departure together. You
may imagine what her Highness thought of you, and said of you,
when I mention in conclusion that she consented, the same day, to
marry the Duke.
"So, Mr. Ernest, these clever people tricked you into serving
their interests, blindfold. In relating how it was done, I hope I
may have assisted you in forming a correct estimate of the state
of your own intelligence. You have made a serious mistake in
adopting your present profession. Give up diplomacy--and get a
farmer to employ you in keeping his sheep."
* * * * *
Do I sometimes think regretfully of the Princess?
Permit me to mention a circumstance, and to leave my answer to be
inferred. Jeanne is Lady Medhurst.
MR. LISMORE AND THE WIDOW.
I.
LATE in the autumn, not many years since, a public meeting was
held at the Mansion House, London, under the direction of the
Lord Mayor.
The list of gentlemen invited to address the audience had been
chosen with two objects in view. Speakers of celebrity, who would
rouse public enthusiasm, were supported by speakers connected
with commerce, who would be practically useful in explaining the
purpose for which the meeting was convened. Money wisely spent in
advertising had produced the customary result--every seat was
occupied before the proceedings began.
Among the late arrivals, who had no choice but to stand or to
leave the hall, were two ladies. One of them at once decided on
leaving the hall. "I shall go back to the carriage," she said,
"and wait for you at the door." Her friend answered, "I shan't
keep you long. He is advertised to support the second Resolution;
I want to see him--and that is all."
An elderly gentleman, seated at the end of a bench, rose and
offered his place to the lady who remained. She hesitated to take
advantage of his kindness, until he reminded her that he had
heard what she said to her friend. Before the third Resolution
was proposed, his seat would be at his own disposal again. She
thanked him, and without further ceremony took his place He was
provided with an opera-glass, which he more than once offered to
her, when famous orators appeared on the platform; she made no
use of it until a speaker--known in the City as a
ship-owner--stepped forward to support the second Resolution.
His name (announced in the advertisements) was Ernest Lismore.
The moment he rose, the lady asked for the opera-glass. She kept
it to her eyes for such a length of time, and with such evident
interest in Mr. Lismore, that the curiosity of her neighbors was
aroused. Had he anything to say in which a lady (evidently a
stranger to him) was personally interested? There was nothing in
the address that he delivered which appealed to the enthusiasm of
women. He was undoubtedly a handsome man, whose appearance
proclaimed him to be in the prime of life--midway perhaps between
thirty and forty years of age. But why a lady should persist in
keeping an opera-glass fixed on him all through his speech, was a
question which found the general ingenuity at a loss for a reply.
Having returned the glass with an apology, the lady ventured on
putting a question next. "Did it strike you, sir, that Mr.
Lismore seemed to be out of spirits?" she asked.
"I can't say it did, ma'am."
"Perhaps you noticed that he left the platform the moment he had
done?"
This betrayal of interest in the speaker did not escape the
notice of a lady, seated on the bench in front. Before the old
gentleman could answer, she volunteered an explanation.
"I am afraid Mr. Lismore is troubled by anxieties connected with
his business," she said. "My husband heard it reported in the
City yesterday that he was seriously embarrassed by the
failure--"
A loud burst of applause made the end of the sentence inaudible.
A famous member of Parliament had risen to propose the third
Resolution. The polite old man took his seat, and the lady left
the hall to join her friend.
"Well, Mrs. Callender, has Mr. Lismore disappointed you?"
"Far from it! But I have heard a report about him which has
alarmed me: he is said to be seriously troubled about money
matters. How can I find out his address in the City?"
"We can stop at the first stationer's shop we pass, and ask to
look at the Directory. Are you going to pay Mr. Lismore a visit?"
"I am going to think about it."
II.
THE next day a clerk entered Mr. Lismore's private room at the
office, and presented a visiting-card. Mrs. Callender had
reflected, and had arrived at a decision. Underneath her name she
had written these explanatory words: "On important business."
"Does she look as if she wanted money?" Mr. Lismore inquired.
"Oh dear, no! She comes in her carriage."
"Is she young or old?"
"Old, sir."
To Mr. Lismore--conscious of the disastrous influence
occasionally exercised over busy men by youth and beauty--this
was a recommendation in itself. He said: "Show her in."
Observing the lady, as she approached him, with the momentary
curiosity of a stranger, he noticed that she still preserved the
remains of beauty. She had also escaped the misfortune, common to
persons at her time of life, of becoming too fat. Even to a man's
eye, her dressmaker appeared to have made the most of that
favorable circumstance. Her figure had its defects concealed, and
its remaining merits set off to advantage. At the same time she
evidently held herself above the common deceptions by which some
women seek to conceal their age. She wore her own gray hair; and
her complexion bore the test of daylight. On entering the room,
she made her apologies with some embarrassment. Being the
embarrassment of a stranger (and not of a youthful stranger), it
failed to impress Mr. Lismore favorably.
"I am afraid I have chosen an inconvenient time for my visit,"
she began.
"I am at your service," he answered a little stiffly; "especially
if you will be so kind as to mention your business with me in few
words."
She was a woman of some spirit, and that reply roused her.
"I will mention it in one word, " she said smartly. "My business
is--gratitude."
He was completely at a loss to understand what she meant, and he
said so plainly. Instead of explaining herself, she put a
question.
"Do you remember the night of the eleventh of March, between five
and six years since?"
He considered for a moment.
"No," he said, "I don't r emember it. Excuse me, Mrs. Callender,
I have affairs of my own to attend to which cause me some
anxiety--"
"Let me assist your memory, Mr. Lismore; and I will leave you to
your affairs. On the date that I have referred to, you were on
your way to the railway-station at Bexmore, to catch the night
express from the North to London."
As a hint that his time was valuable the ship-owner had hitherto
remained standing. He now took his customary seat, and began to
listen with some interest. Mrs. Callender had produced her effect
on him already.
"It was absolutely necessary," she proceeded, "that you should be
on board your ship in the London Docks at nine o'clock the next
morning. If you had lost the express, the vessel would have
sailed without you."
The expression of his face began to change to surprise. "Who told
you that?" he asked.
"You shall hear directly. On your way into the town, your
carriage was stopped by an obstruction on the highroad. The
people of Bexmore were looking at a house on fire."
He started to his feet.
"Good heavens! are you the lady?"
She held up her hand in satirical protest.
"Gently, sir! You suspected me just now of wasting your valuable
time. Don't rashly conclude that I am the lady, until you find
that I am acquainted with the circumstances."
"Is there no excuse for my failing to recognize you?" Mr. Lismore
asked. "We were on the dark side of the burning house; you were
fainting, and I--"
"And you," she interposed, "after saving me at the risk of your
own life, turned a deaf ear to my poor husband's entreaties, when
he asked you to wait till I had recovered my senses."
"Your poor husband? Surely, Mrs. Callender, he received no
serious injury from the fire?"
"The firemen rescued him under circumstances of peril," she
answered, "and at his great age he sank under the shock. I have
lost the kindest and best of men. Do you remember how you parted
from him--burned and bruised in saving me? He liked to talk of it
in his last illness. 'At least' (he said to you), 'tell me the
name of the man who has preserved my wife from a dreadful death.'
You threw your card to him out of the carriage window, and away
you went at a gallop to catch your train! In all the years that
have passed I have kept that card, and have vainly inquired for
my brave sea-captain. Yesterday I saw your name on the list of
speakers at the Mansion House. Need I say that I attended the
meeting? Need I tell you now why I come here and interrupt you in
business hours?"
She held out her hand. Mr. Lismore took it in silence, and
pressed it warmly.
"You have not done with me yet," she resumed with a smile. "Do
you remember what I said of my errand, when I first came in?"
"You said it was an errand of gratitude."
"Something more than the gratitude which only says 'Thank you,' "
she added. "Before I explain myself, however, I want to know what
you have been doing, and how it was that my inquiries failed to
trace you after that terrible night."
The appearance of depression which Mrs. Callender had noticed at
the public meeting showed itself again in Mr. Lismore's face. He
sighed as he answered her.
"My story has one merit," he said; "it is soon told. I cannot
wonder that you failed to discover me. In the first place, I was
not captain of my ship at that time; I was only mate. In the
second place, I inherited some money, and ceased to lead a
sailor's life, in less than a year from the night of the fire.
You will now understand what obstacles were in the way of your
tracing me. With my little capital I started successfully in
business as a ship-owner. At the time, I naturally congratulated
myself on my own good fortune. We little know, Mrs. Callender,
what the future has in store for us."
He stopped. His handsome features hardened--as if he was
suffering (and concealing) pain. Before it was possible to speak
to him, there was a knock at the door. Another visitor, without
an appointment, had called; the clerk appeared again, with a card
and a message.
"The gentleman begs you will see him, sir. He has something to
tell you which is too important to be delayed."
Hearing the message, Mrs. Callender rose immediately.
"It is enough for to-day that we understand each other," she
said. "Have you any engagement to-morrow, after the hours of
business?"
"None."
She pointed to her card on the writing-table. "Will you come to
me to-morrow evening at that address? I am like the gentleman who
has just called; I, too, have my reason for wishing to see you."
He gladly accepted the invitation. Mrs. Callender stopped him as
he opened the door for her.
"Shall I offend you," she said, "if I ask a strange question
before I go? I have a better motive, mind, than mere curiosity.
Are you married?"
"No."
"Forgive me again," she resumed. "At my age, you cannot possibly
misunderstand me; and yet--"
She hesitated. Mr. Lismore tried to give her confidence. "Pray
don't stand on ceremony, Mrs. Callender. Nothing that _you_ can
ask me need be prefaced by an apology."
Thus encouraged, she ventured to proceed.
"You may be engaged to be married?" she suggested. "Or you may be
in love?"
He found it impossible to conceal his surprise. But he answered
without hesitation.
"There is no such bright prospect in _my_ life," he said. "I am
not even in love."
She left him with a little sigh. It sounded like a sigh of
relief.
Ernest Lismore was thoroughly puzzled. What could be the old
lady's object in ascertaining that he was still free from a
matrimonial engagement? If the idea had occurred to him in time,
he might have alluded to her domestic life, and might have asked
if she had children? With a little tact he might have discovered
more than this. She had described her feeling toward him as
passing the ordinary limits of gratitude; and she was evidently
rich enough to be above the imputation of a mercenary motive. Did
she propose to brighten those dreary prospects to which he had
alluded in speaking of his own life? When he presented himself at
her house the next evening, would she introduce him to a charming
daughter?
He smiled as the idea occurred to him. "An appropriate time to be
thinking of my chances of marriage!" he said to himself. "In
another month I may be a ruined man."
III.
THE gentleman who had so urgently requested an interview was a
devoted friend--who had obtained a means of helping Ernest at a
serious crisis in his affairs.
It had been truly reported that he was in a position of pecuniary
embarrassment, owing to the failure of a mercantile house with
which he had been intimately connected. Whispers affecting his
own solvency had followed on the bankruptcy of the firm. He had
already endeavored to obtain advances of money on the usual
conditions, and had been met by excuses for delay. His friend had
now arrived with a letter of introduction to a capitalist, well
known in commercial circles for his daring speculations and for
his great wealth.
Looking at the letter, Ernest observed that the envelope was
sealed. In spite of that ominous innovation on established usage,
in cases of personal introduction, he presented the letter. On
this occasion, he was not put off with excuses. The capitalist
flatly declined to discount Mr. Lismore's bills, unless they were
backed by responsible names.
Ernest made a last effort.
He applied for help to two mercantile men whom he had assisted in
_their_ difficulties, and whose names would have satisfied the
money-lender. They were most sincerely sorry--but they, too,
refused
The one security that he could offer was open, it must be owned,
to serious objections on the score of risk. He wanted an advance
of twenty thousand pounds, secured on a homeward-bound ship and
cargo. But the vessel was not insured; and, at that stormy
season, she was already more than a month overdue. Could grateful
colleagues be blamed if they forgot their obligations when they
were asked to offer pecuniary help to a merchant in this
situation? Ernest returned to his office, without money and
without credit.
A man threatened by ruin is in no state of mind to keep an
engagement at a lady's tea-table. Ernest sent a letter of apology
to Mrs. Call ender, alleging extreme pressure of business as the
excuse for breaking his engagement.
"Am I to wait for an answer, sir?" the messenger asked.
"No; you are merely to leave the letter."
IV.
IN an hour's time--to Ernest's astonishment--the messenger
returned with a reply.
"The lady was just going out, sir, when I rang at the door," he
explained, "and she took the letter from me herself. She didn't
appear to know your handwriting, and she asked me who I came
from. When I mentioned your name, I was ordered to wait."
Ernest opened the letter.
"DEAR MR. LISMORE--One of us must speak out, and your letter of
apology forces me to be that one. If you are really so proud and
so distrustfull as you seem to be, I shall offend you. If not, I
shall prove myself to be your friend.
"Your excuse is 'pressure of business.' The truth (as I have good
reason to believe) is 'want of money.' I heard a stranger, at
that public meeting, say that you were seriously embarrassed by
some failure in the City.
"Let me tell you what my own pecuniary position is in two words.
I am the childless widow of a rich man--"
Ernest paused. His anticipated discovery of Mrs. Callender's
"charming daughter" was in his mind for the moment. "That little
romance must return to the world of dreams," he thought--and went
on with the letter.
"After what I owe to you, I don't regard it as repaying an
obligation--I consider myself as merely performing a duty when I
offer to assist you by a loan of money.
"Wait a little before you throw my letter into the wastepaper
basket.
"Circumstances (which it is impossible for me to mention before
we meet) put it out of my power to help you--unless I attach to
my most sincere offer of service a very unusual and very
embarrassing condition. If you are on the brink of ruin, that
misfortune will plead my excuse--and your excuse, too, if you
accept the loan on my terms. In any case, I rely on the sympathy
and forbearance of the man to whom I owe my life.
"After what I have now written, there is only one thing to add. I
beg to decline accepting your excuses; and I shall expect to see
you tomorrow evening, as we arranged. I am an obstinate old
woman--but I am also your faithful friend and servant,
MARY CALLENDER."
Ernest looked up from the letter. "What can this possibly mean?"
he wondered.
But he was too sensible a man to be content with wondering--he
decided on keeping his engagement.
V.
WHAT Doctor Johnson called "the insolence of wealth" appears far
more frequently in the houses of the rich than in the manners of
the rich. The reason is plain enough. Personal ostentation is, in
the very nature of it, ridiculous. But the ostentation which
exhibits magnificent pictures, priceless china, and splendid
furniture, can purchase good taste to guide it, and can assert
itself without affording the smallest opening for a word of
depreciation, or a look of contempt. If I am worth a million of
money, and if I am dying to show it, I don't ask you to look at
me--I ask you to look at my house.
Keeping his engagement with Mrs. Callender, Ernest discovered
that riches might be lavishly and yet modestly used.
In crossing the hall and ascending the stairs, look where he
might, his notice was insensibly won by proofs of the taste which
is not to be purchased, and the wealth which uses but never
exhibits its purse. Conducted by a man-servant to the landing on
the first floor, he found a maid at the door of the boudoir
waiting to announce him. Mrs. Callender advanced to welcome her
guest, in a simple evening dress perfectly suited to her age. All
that had looked worn and faded in her fine face, by daylight, was
now softly obscured by shaded lamps. Objects of beauty surrounded
her, which glowed with subdued radiance from their background of
sober color. The influence of appearances is the strongest of all
outward influences, while it lasts. For the moment, the scene
produced its impression on Ernest, in spite of the terrible
anxieties which consumed him. Mrs. Callender, in his office, was
a woman who had stepped out of her appropriate sphere. Mrs.
Callender, in her own house, was a woman who had risen to a new
place in his estimation.
"I am afraid you don't thank me for forcing you to keep your
engagement," she said, with her friendly tones and her pleasant
smile.
"Indeed I do thank you," he replied. "Your beautiful house and
your gracious welcome have persuaded me into forgetting my
troubles--for a while."
The smile passed away from her face. "Then it is true," she said
gravely.
"Only too true."
She led him to a seat beside her, and waited to speak again until
her maid had brought in the tea.
"Have you read my letter in the same friendly spirit in which I
wrote it?" she asked, when they were alone again.
"I have read your letter gratefully, but--"
"But you don't know yet what I have to say. Let us understand
each other before we make any objections on either side. Will you
tell me what your present position is--at its worst? I can and
will speak plainly when my turn comes, if you will honor me with
your confidence. Not if it distresses you," she added, observing
him attentively.
He was ashamed of his hesitation--and he made amends for it.
"Do you thoroughly understand me?" he asked, when the whole truth
had been laid before her without reserve.
She summed up the result in her own words.
"If your overdue ship returns safely, within a month from this
time, you can borrow the money you want, without difficulty. If
the ship is lost, you have no alternative (when the end of the
month comes) but to accept a loan from me or to suspend payment.
Is that the hard truth?"
"It is."
"And the sum you require is--twenty thousand pounds?"
"Yes "
"I have twenty times as much money as that, Mr. Lismore, at my
sole disposal--on one condition."
"The condition alluded to in your letter?"
"Yes."
"Does the fulfillment of the condition depend in some way on any
decision of mine?"
"It depends entirely on you."
That answer closed his lips.
With a composed manner and a steady hand she poured herself out a
cup of tea.
"I conceal it from you," she said; "but I want confidence. Here"
(she pointed to the cup) "is the friend of women, rich or poor,
when they are in trouble. What I have now to say obliges me to
speak in praise of myself. I don't like it--let me get it over as
soon as I can. My husband was very fond of me: he had the most
absolute confidence in my discretion, and in my sense of duty to
him and to myself. His last words, before he died, were words
that thanked me for making the happiness of his life. As soon as
I had in some degree recovered, after the affliction that had
fallen on me, his lawyer and executor produced a copy of his
will, and said there were two clauses in it which my husband had
expressed a wish that I should read. It is needless to say that I
obeyed."
She still controlled her agitation--but she was now unable to
conceal it. Ernest made an attempt to spare her.
"Am I concerned in this?" he asked.
"Yes. Before I tell you why, I want to know what you would do--in
a certain case which I am unwilling even to suppose. I have heard
of men, unable to pay the demands made on them, who began
business again, and succeeded, and in course of time paid their
creditors."
"And you want to know if there is any likelihood of my following
their example?" he said. "Have you also heard of men who have
made that second effort--who have failed again--and who have
doubled the debts they owed to their brethren in business who
trusted them? I knew one of those men myself. He committed
suicide."
She laid her hand for a moment on his.
"I understand you," she said. "If ruin comes--"
"If ruin comes," he interposed, "a man without money and without
credit can make but one last atonement. Don't speak of it now."
She looked at him with horror.
"I didn't mean _that!_" she said.
"Shall we go back to what you read in the will?" he suggested.
"Yes--if you will give me a minute to compose myself."
VI.
IN less than the minute she had asked for, Mrs. Callender was
calm enough to go on.
"I now possess what i s called a life-interest in my husband's
fortune," she said. "The money is to be divided, at my death,
among charitable institutions; excepting a certain event--"
"Which is provided for in the will?" Ernest added, helping her to
go on.
"Yes. I am to be absolute mistress of the whole of the four
hundred thousand pounds--" her voice dropped, and her eyes looked
away from him as she spoke the next words--"on this one
condition, that I marry again."
He looked at her in amazement.
"Surely I have mistaken you," he said. "You mean on this one
condition, that you do _not_ marry again?"
"No, Mr. Lismore; I mean exactly what I have said. You now know
that the recovery of your credit and your peace of mind rests
entirely with yourself."
After a moment of reflection he took her hand and raised it
respectfully to his lips. "You are a noble woman!" he said.
She made no reply. With drooping head and downcast eyes she
waited for his decision. He accepted his responsibility.
"I must not, and dare not, think of the hardship of my own
position," he said; "I owe it to you to speak without reference
to the future that may be in store for me. No man can be worthy
of the sacrifice which your generous forgetfulness of yourself is
willing to make. I respect you; I admire you; I thank you with my
whole heart. Leave me to my fate, Mrs. Callender--and let me go."
He rose. She stopped him by a gesture.
"A _young_ woman," she answered, would shrink from saying--what
I, as an old woman, mean to say now. I refuse to leave you to
your fate. I ask you to prove that you respect me, admire me, and
thank me with your whole heart. Take one day to think--and let me
hear the result. You promise me this?"
He promised. "Now go," she said.
VII.
NEXT morning Ernest received a letter from Mrs. Callender. She
wrote to him as follows:
"There are some considerations which I ought to have mentioned
yesterday evening, before you left my house.
"I ought to have reminded you--if you consent to reconsider your
decision--that the circumstances do not require you to pledge
yourself to me absolutely.
"At my age, I can with perfect propriety assure you that I regard
our marriage simply and solely as a formality which we must
fulfill, if I am to carry out my intention of standing between
you and ruin.
"Therefore--if the missing ship appears in time, the only reason
for the marriage is at an end. We shall be as good friends as
ever; without the encumbrance of a formal tie to bind us.
"In the other event, I should ask you to submit to certain
restrictions which, remembering my position, you will understand
and excuse.
"We are to live together, it is unnecessary to say, as mother and
son. The marriage ceremony is to be strictly private; and you are
so to arrange your affairs that, immediately afterward, we leave
England for any foreign place which you prefer. Some of my
friends, and (perhaps) some of your friends, will certainly
misinterpret our motives--if we stay in our own country--in a
manner which would be unendurable to a woman like me.
"As to our future lives, I have the most perfect confidence in
you, and I should leave you in the same position of independence
which you occupy now. When you wish for my company you will
always be welcome. At other times, you are your own master. I
live on my side of the house, and you live on yours--and I am to
be allowed my hours of solitude every day, in the pursuit of
musical occupations, which have been happily associated with all
my past life and which I trust confidently to your indulgence.
"A last word, to remind you of what you may be too kind to think
of yourself.
"At my age, you cannot, in the course of Nature, be troubled by
the society of a grateful old woman for many years. You are young
enough to look forward to another marriage, which shall be
something more than a mere form. Even if you meet with the happy
woman in my lifetime, honestly tell me of it--and I promise to
tell her that she has only to wait.
"In the meantime, don't think, because I write composedly, that I
write heartlessly. You pleased and interested me, when I first
saw you, at the public meeting. I don't think I could have
proposed, what you call this sacrifice of myself, to a man who
had personally repelled me--though I might have felt my debt of
gratitude as sincerely as ever. Whether your ship is saved, or
whether your ship is lost, old Mary Callender likes you--and owns
it without false shame.
"Let me have your answer this evening, either personally or by
letter--whichever you like best."
VIII.
MRS. CALLENDER received a written answer long before the evening.
It said much in few words:
"A man impenetrable to kindness might be able to resist your
letter. I am not that man. Your great heart has conquered me."
The few formalities which precede marriage by special license
were observed by Ernest. While the destiny of their future lives
was still in suspense, an unacknowledged feeling of
embarrassment, on either side, kept Ernest and Mrs. Callender
apart. Every day brought the lady her report of the state of
affairs in the City, written always in the same words: "No news
of the ship."
IX.
ON the day before the ship-owner's liabilities became due, the
terms of the report from the City remained unchanged--and the
special license was put to its contemplated use. Mrs. Callender's
lawyer and Mrs. Callender's maid were the only persons trusted
with the secret. Leaving the chief clerk in charge of the
business, with every pecuniary demand on his employer satisfied
in full, the strangely married pair quitted England.
They arranged to wait for a few days in Paris, to receive any
letters of importance which might have been addressed to Ernest
in the interval. On the evening of their arrival, a telegram from
London was waiting at their hotel. It announced that the missing
ship had passed up Channel--undiscovered in a fog, until she
reached the Downs--on the day before Ernest's liabilities fell
due.
"Do you regret it?" Mrs. Lismore said to her husband.
"Not for a moment!" he answered.
They decided on pursuing their journey as far as Munich.
Mrs. Lismore's taste for music was matched by Ernest's taste for
painting. In his leisure hours he cultivated the art, and
delighted in it. The picture-galleries of Munich were almost the
only galleries in Europe which he had not seen. True to the
engagements to which she had pledged herself, his wife was
willing to go wherever it might please him to take her. The one
suggestion she made was, that they should hire furnished
apartments. If they lived at an hotel, friends of the husband or
the wife (visitors like themselves to the famous city) might see
their names in the book, or might meet them at the door.
They were soon established in a house large enough to provide
them with every accommodation which they required.
Ernest's days were passed in the galleries; Mrs. Lismore
remaining at home, devoted to her music, until it was time to go
out with her husband for a drive. Living together in perfect
amity and concord, they were nevertheless not living happily.
Without any visible reason for the change, Mrs. Lismore's spirits
were depressed. On the one occasion when Ernest noticed it she
made an effort to be cheerful, which it distressed him to see. He
allowed her to think that she had relieved him of any further
anxiety. Whatever doubts he might feel were doubts delicately
concealed from that time forth.
But when two people are living together in a state of artificial
tranquillity, it seems to be a law of Nature that the element of
disturbance gathers unseen, and that the outburst comes
inevitably with the lapse of time.
In ten days from the date of their arrival at Munich, the crisis
came. Ernest returned later than usual from the picture-gallery,
and--for the first time in his wife's experience--shut himself up
in his own room.
He appeared at the dinner-hour with a futile excuse. Mrs. Lismore
waited until the servant had withdrawn. "Now, Ernest," she said,
"it's time to tell me the truth."
Her manner, when she said those few words, took him by surprise.
She was unquestionably confused; and, instead of lookin g at him,
she trifled with the fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side,
he could only answer:
"I have nothing to tell."
"Were there many visitors at the gallery?" she asked.
"About the same as usual."
"Any that you particularly noticed?" she went on. "I mean, among
the ladies."
He laughed uneasily. "You forget how interested I am in the
pictures," he said.
There was a pause. She looked up at him--and suddenly looked away
again. But he saw it plainly: there were tears in her eyes.
"Do you mind turning down the gas?" she said. "My eyes have been
weak all day."
He complied with her request--the more readily, having his own
reasons for being glad to escape the glaring scrutiny of the
light.
"I think I will rest a little on the sofa," she resumed. In the
position which he occupied, his back would have been now turned
on her. She stopped him when he tried to move his chair. "I would
rather not look at you, Ernest," she said, "when you have lost
confidence in me."
Not the words, but the tone, touched all that was generous and
noble in his nature. He left his place, and knelt beside her--and
opened to her his whole heart.
"Am I not unworthy of you?" he asked, when it was over.
She pressed his hand in silence.
"I should be the most ungrateful wretch living," he said, "if I
did not think of you, and you only, now that my confession is
made. We will leave Munich to-morrow--and, if resolution can help
me, I will only remember the sweetest woman my eyes ever looked
on as the creature of a dream."
She hid her face on his breast, and reminded him of that letter
of her writing, which had decided the course of their lives.
"When I thought you might meet the happy woman in my life-time, I
said to you, 'Tell me of it--and I promise to tell _her_ that she
has only to wait.' Time must pass, Ernest, before it can be
needful to perform my promise. But you might let me see her. If
you find her in the gallery to-morrow, you might bring her here."
Mrs. Lismore's request met with no refusal. Ernest was only at a
loss to know how to grant it.
"You tell me she is a copyist of pictures," his wife reminded
him. "She will be interested in hearing of the portfolio of
drawings by the great French artists which I bought for you in
Paris. Ask her to come and see them, and to tell you if she can
make some copies. And say, if you like, that I shall be glad to
become acquainted with her."
He felt her breath beating fast on his bosom. In the fear that
she might lose all control over herself, he tried to relieve her
by speaking lightly. "What an invention yours is!" he said. "If
my wife ever tries to deceive me, I shall be a mere child in her
hands."
She rose abruptly from the sofa--kissed him on the forehead--and
said wildly, "I shall be better in bed!" Before he could move or
speak, she had left him.
X.
THE next morning he knocked at the door of his wife's room and
asked how she had passed the night.
"I have slept badly," she answered, "and I must beg you to excuse
my absence at breakfast-time." She called him back as he was
about to withdraw. "Remember," she said, "when you return from
the gallery to-day, I expect that you will not return alone."
* * * * * * *
Three hours later he was at home again. The young lady's services
as a copyist were at his disposal; she had returned with him to
look at the drawings.
The sitting-room was empty when they entered it. He rang for his
wife's maid--and was informed that Mrs. Lismore had gone out.
Refusing to believe the woman, he went to his wife's apartments.
She was not to be found.
When he returned to the sitting-room, the young lady was not
unnaturally offended. He could make allowances for her being a
little out of temper at the slight that had been put on her; but
he was inexpressibly disconcerted by the manner--almost the
coarse manner--in which she expressed herself.
"I have been talking to your wife's maid, while you have been
away," she said. "I find you have married an old lady for her
money. She is jealous of me, of course?"
"Let me beg you to alter your opinion," he answered. "You are
wronging my wife; she is incapable of any such feeling as you
attribute to her."
The young lady laughed. "At any rate you are a good husband," she
said satirically. "Suppose you own the truth? Wouldn't you like
her better if she was young and pretty like me?"
He was not merely surprised--he was disgusted. Her beauty had so
completely fascinated him, when he first saw her, that the idea
of associating any want of refinement and good breeding with such
a charming creature never entered his mind. The disenchantment to
him was already so complete that he was even disagreeably
affected by the tone of her voice: it was almost as repellent to
him as the exhibition of unrestrained bad temper which she seemed
perfectly careless to conceal.
"I confess you surprise me," he said, coldly.
The reply produced no effect on her. On the contrary, she became
more insolent than ever.
"I have a fertile fancy," she went on, "and your absurd way of
taking a joke only encourages me! Suppose you could transform
this sour old wife of yours, who has insulted me, into the
sweetest young creature that ever lived, by only holding up your
finger--wouldn't you do it?"
This passed the limits of his endurance. "I have no wish," he
said, "to forget the consideration which is due to a woman. You
leave me but one alternative." He rose to go out of the room.
She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed herself in the way of
his going out.
He signed to her to let him pass.
She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, kissed him
passionately, and whispered, with her lips at his ear: "Oh,
Ernest, forgive me! Could I have asked you to marry me for my
money if I had not taken refuge in a disguise?"
XI.
WHEN he had sufficiently recovered to think, he put her back from
him. "Is there an end of the deception now?" he asked, sternly.
"Am I to trust you in your new character?"
"You are not to be harder on me than I deserve," she answered,
gently. "Did you ever hear of an actress named Miss Max?"
He began to understand her. "Forgive me if I spoke harshly," he
said. "You have put me to a severe trial."
She burst into tears. "Love," she murmured, "is my only excuse."
From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand, and
made her sit by him.
"Yes," he said, "I have heard of Miss Max and of her wonderful
powers of personation--and I have always regretted not having
seen her while she was on the stage."
"Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest?"
"Yes, I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct,
and that she gave up her profession, at the height of her
success, to marry an old man."
"Will you come with me to my room?" she asked. "I have something
there which I wish to show you."
It was the copy of her husband's will.
"Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let
my dead husband speak for me."
The lines ran thus:
"My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, in
justice to her--and, I will venture to add, in justice to myself.
I felt the sincerest sympathy for her position. She was without
father, mother, or friends; one of the poor forsaken children,
whom the mercy of the Foundling Hospital provides with a home.
Her after life on the stage was the life of a virtuous woman:
persecuted by profligates; insulted by some of the baser
creatures associated with her, to whom she was an object of envy.
I offered her a home, and the protection of a father--on the only
terms which the world would recognize as worthy of us. My
experience of her since our marriage has been the experience of
unvarying goodness, sweetness, and sound sense. She has behaved
so nobly, in a trying position, that I wish her (even in this
life) to have her reward. I entreat her to make a second choice
in marriage, which shall not be a mere form. I firmly believe
that she will choose well and wisely--that she will make the
happiness of a man who is worthy of her--and that, as wife and
mother, she will set an example of inestimable value in the
social sphere that she occupies. In proof of the
heartfelt sincerity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues,
I add to this my will the clause that follows."
With the clause that followed, Ernest was already acquainted.
"Will you now believe that I never loved till I saw your face for
the first time?" said his wife. "I had no experience to place me
on my guard against the fascination--the madness some people
might call it--which possesses a woman when all her heart is
given to a man. Don't despise me, my dear! Remember that I had to
save you from disgrace and ruin. Besides, my old stage
remembrances tempted me. I had acted in a play in which the
heroine did--what I have done! It didn't end with me, as it did
with her in the story. _She_ was represented as rejoicing in the
success of her disguise. _I_ have known some miserable hours of
doubt and shame since our marriage. When I went to meet you in my
own person at the picture-gallery--oh, what relief, what joy I
felt, when I saw how you admired me--it was not because I could
no longer carry on the disguise. I was able to get hours of rest
from the effort; not only at night, but in the daytime, when I
was shut up in my retirement in the music-room; and when my maid
kept watch against discovery. No, my love! I hurried on the
disclosure, because I could no longer endure the hateful triumph
of my own deception. Ah, look at that witness against me! I can't
bear even to see it!"
She abruptly left him. The drawer that she had opened to take out
the copy of the will also contained the false gray hair which she
had discarded. It had only that moment attracted her notice. She
snatched it up, and turned to the fireplace.
Ernest took it from her, before she could destroy it. "Give it to
me," he said.
"Why?"
He drew her gently to his bosom, and answered: "I must not forget
my old wife."
MISS JEROMETTE AND THE CLERGYMAN.
I.
MY brother, the clergyman, looked over my shoulder before I was
aware of him, and discovered that the volume which completely
absorbed my attention was a collection of famous Trials,
published in a new edition and in a popular form.
He laid his finger on the Trial which I happened to be reading at
the moment. I looked up at him; his face startled me. He had
turned pale. His eyes were fixed on the open page of the book
with an expression which puzzled and alarmed me.
"My dear fellow," I said, "what in the world is the matter with
you?"
He answered in an odd absent manner, still keeping his finger on
the open page.
"I had almost forgotten," he said. "And this reminds me."
"Reminds you of what?" I asked. "You don't mean to say you know
anything about the Trial?"
"I know this," he said. "The prisoner was guilty."
"Guilty?" I repeated. "Why, the man was acquitted by the jury,
with the full approval of the judge! What call you possibly
mean?"
"There are circumstances connected with that Trial," my brother
answered, "which were never communicated to the judge or the
jury--which were never so much as hinted or whispered in court.
_I_ know them--of my own knowledge, by my own personal
experience. They are very sad, very strange, very terrible. I
have mentioned them to no mortal creature. I have done my best to
forget them. You--quite innocently--have brought them back to my
mind. They oppress, they distress me. I wish I had found you
reading any book in your library, except _that_ book!"
My curiosity was now strongly excited. I spoke out plainly.
"Surely," I suggested, "you might tell your brother what you are
unwilling to mention to persons less nearly related to you. We
have followed different professions, and have lived in different
countries, since we were boys at school. But you know you can
trust me."
He considered a little with himself.
"Yes," he said. "I know I can trust you." He waited a moment, and
then he surprised me by a strange question.
"Do you believe," he asked, "that the spirits of the dead can
return to earth, and show themselves to the living?"
I answered cautiously--adopting as my own the words of a great
English writer, touching the subject of ghosts.
"You ask me a question," I said, "which, after five thousand
years, is yet undecided. On that account alone, it is a question
not to be trifled with."
My reply seemed to satisfy him.
"Promise me," he resumed, "that you will keep what I tell you a
secret as long as I live. After my death I care little what
happens. Let the story of my strange experience be added to the
published experience of those other men who have seen what I have
seen, and who believe what I believe. The world will not be the
worse, and may be the better, for knowing one day what I am now
about to trust to your ear alone."
My brother never again alluded to the narrative which he had
confided to me, until the later time when I was sitting by his
deathbed. He asked if I still remembered the story of Jeromette.
"Tell it to others," he said, "as I have told it to you."
I repeat it after his death--as nearly as I can in his own words.
II.
ON a fine summer evening, many years since, I left my chambers in
the Temple, to meet a fellow-student, who had proposed to me a
night's amusement in the public gardens at Cremorne.
You were then on your way to India; and I had taken my degree at
Oxford. I had sadly disappointed my father by choosing the Law as
my profession, in preference to the Church. At that time, to own
the truth, I had no serious intention of following any special
vocation. I simply wanted an excuse for enjoying the pleasures of
a London life. The study of the Law supplied me with that excuse.
And I chose the Law as my profession accordingly.
On reaching the place at which we had arranged to meet, I found
that my friend had not kept his appointment. After waiting vainly
for ten minutes, my patience gave way and I went into the Gardens
by myself.
I took two or three turns round the platform devoted to the
dancers without discovering my fellow-student, and without seeing
any other person with whom I happened to be acquainted at that
time.
For some reason which I cannot now remember, I was not in my
usual good spirits that evening. The noisy music jarred on my
nerves, the sight of the gaping crowd round the platform
irritated me, the blandishments of the painted ladies of the
profession of pleasure saddened and disgusted me. I opened my
cigar-case, and turned aside into one of the quiet by-walks of
the Gardens.
A man who is habitually careful in choosing his cigar has this
advantage over a man who is habitually careless. He can always
count on smoking the best cigar in his case, down to the last. I
was still absorbed in choosing _my_ cigar, when I heard these
words behind me--spoken in a foreign accent and in a woman's
voice:
"Leave me directly, sir! I wish to have nothing to say to you."
I turned round and discovered a little lady very simply and
tastefully dressed, who looked both angry and alarmed as she
rapidly passed me on her way to the more frequented part of the
Gardens. A man (evidently the worse for the wine he had drunk in
the course of the evening) was following her, and was pressing
his tipsy attentions on her with the coarsest insolence of speech
and manner. She was young and pretty, and she cast one entreating
look at me as she went by, which it was not in manhood--perhaps I
ought to say, in young-manhood--to resist.
I instantly stepped forward to protect her, careless whether I
involved myself in a discreditable quarrel with a blackguard or
not. As a matter of course, the fellow resented my interference,
and my temper gave way. Fortunately for me, just as I lifted my
hand to knock him down, at policeman appeared who had noticed
that he was drunk, and who settled the dispute officially by
turning him out of the Gardens.
I led her away from the crowd that had collected. She was
evidently frightened--I felt her hand trembling on my arm--but
she had one great merit; she made no fuss about it.
"If I can sit down for a few minutes," she said in her pretty
foreign accent, "I shall soon be myself again, and I shall not
trespass any further on your kindness. I thank you very much,
sir, for taking care of me."
We sat down on a bench in a retired par t of the Gardens, near a
little fountain. A row of lighted lamps ran round the outer rim
of the basin. I could see her plainly.
I have said that she was "a little lady." I could not have
described her more correctly in three words.
Her figure was slight and small: she was a well-made miniature of
a woman from head to foot. Her hair and her eyes were both dark.
The hair curled naturally; the expression of the eyes was quiet,
and rather sad; the complexion, as I then saw it, very pale; the
little mouth perfectly charming. I was especially attracted, I
remembered, by the carriage of her head; it was strikingly
graceful and spirited; it distinguished her, little as she was
and quiet as she was, among the thousands of other women in the
Gardens, as a creature apart. Even the one marked defect in
her--a slight "cast" in the left eye--seemed to add, in some
strange way, to the quaint attractiveness of her face. I have
already spoken of the tasteful simplicity of her dress. I ought
now to add that it was not made of any costly material, and that
she wore no jewels or ornaments of any sort. My little lady was
not rich; even a man's eye could see that.
She was perfectly unembarrassed and unaffected. We fell as easily
into talk as if we had been friends instead of strangers.
I asked how it was that she had no companion to take care of her.
"You are too young and too pretty," I said in my blunt English
way, "to trust yourself alone in such a place as this."
She took no notice of the compliment. She calmly put it away from
her as if it had not reached her ears.
"I have no friend to take care of me," she said simply. "I was
sad and sorry this evening, all by myself, and I thought I would
go to the Gardens and hear the music, just to amuse me. It is not
much to pay at the gate; only a shilling."
"No friend to take care of you?" I repeated. "Surely there must
be one happy man who might have been here with you to-night?"
"What man do you mean?" she asked.
"The man," I answered thoughtlessly, "whom we call, in England, a
Sweetheart."
I would have given worlds to have recalled those foolish words
the moment they passed my lips. I felt that I had taken a vulgar
liberty with her. Her face saddened; her eyes dropped to the
ground. I begged her pardon.
"There is no need to beg my pardon," she said. "If you wish to
know, sir--yes, I had once a sweetheart, as you call it in
England. He has gone away and left me. No more of him, if you
please. I am rested now. I will thank you again, and go home."
She rose to leave me.
I was determined not to part with her in that way. I begged to be
allowed to see her safely back to her own door. She hesitated. I
took a man's unfair advantage of her, by appealing to her fears.
I said, "Suppose the blackguard who annoyed you should be waiting
outside the gates?" That decided her. She took my arm. We went
away together by the bank of the Thames, in the balmy summer
night.
A walk of half an hour brought us to the house in which she
lodged--a shabby little house in a by-street, inhabited evidently
by very poor people.
She held out her hand at the door, and wished me good-night. I
was too much interested in her to consent to leave my little
foreign lady without the hope of seeing her again. I asked
permission to call on her the next day. We were standing under
the light of the street-lamp. She studied my face with a grave
and steady attention before she made any reply.
"Yes," she said at last. "I think I do know a gentleman when I
see him. You may come, sir, if you please, and call upon me
to-morrow."
So we parted. So I entered--doubting nothing, foreboding
nothing--on a scene in my life which I now look back on with
unfeigned repentance and regret.
III.
I AM speaking at this later time in the position of a clergyman,
and in the character of a man of mature age. Remember that; and
you will understand why I pass as rapidly as possible over the
events of the next year of my life--why I say as little as I can
of the errors and the delusions of my youth.
I called on her the next day. I repeated my visits during the
days and weeks that followed, until the shabby little house in
the by-street had become a second and (I say it with shame and
self-reproach) a dearer home to me.
All of herself and her story which she thought fit to confide to
me under these circumstances may be repeated to you in few words.
The name by which letters were addressed to her was "Mademoiselle
Jeromette." Among the ignorant people of the house and the small
tradesmen of the neighborhood--who found her name not easy of
pronunciation by the average English tongue--she was known by the
friendly nickname of "The French Miss." When I knew her, she was
resigned to her lonely life among strangers. Some years had
elapsed since she had lost her parents, and had left France.
Possessing a small, very small, income of her own, she added to
it by coloring miniatures for the photographers. She had
relatives still living in France; but she had long since ceased
to correspond with them. "Ask me nothing more about my family,"
she used to say. "I am as good as dead in my own country and
among my own people."
This was all--literally all--that she told me of herself. I have
never discovered more of her sad story from that day to this.
She never mentioned her family name--never even told me what part
of France she came from or how long she had lived in England.
That she was by birth and breeding a lady, I could entertain no
doubt; her manners, her accomplishments, her ways of thinking and
speaking, all proved it. Looking below the surface, her character
showed itself in aspects not common among young women in these
days. In her quiet way she was an incurable fatalist, and a firm
believer in the ghostly reality of apparitions from the dead.
Then again in the matter of money, she had strange views of her
own. Whenever my purse was in my hand, she held me resolutely at
a distance from first to last. She refused to move into better
apartments; the shabby little house was clean inside, and the
poor people who lived in it were kind to her--and that was
enough. The most expensive present that she ever permitted me to
offer her was a little enameled ring, the plainest and cheapest
thing of the kind in the jeweler's shop. In all relations with me
she was sincerity itself. On all occasions, and under all
circumstances, she spoke her mind (as the phrase is) with the
same uncompromising plainness.
"I like you," she said to me; "I respect you; I shall always be
faithful to you while you are faithful to me. But my love has
gone from me. There is another man who has taken it away with
him, I know not where."
Who was the other man?
She refused to tell me. She kept his rank and his name strict
secrets from me. I never discovered how he had met with her, or
why he had left her, or whether the guilt was his of making of
her an exile from her country and her friends. She despised
herself for still loving him; but the passion was too strong for
her--she owned it and lamented it with the frankness which was so
preeminently a part of her character. More than this, she plainly
told me, in the early days of our acquaintance, that she believed
he would return to her. It might be to-morrow, or it might be
years hence. Even if he failed to repent of his own cruel
conduct, the man would still miss her, as something lost out of
his life; and, sooner or later, he would come back.
"And will you receive him if he does come back?" I asked.
"I shall receive him," she replied, "against my own better
judgment--in spite of my own firm persuasion that the day of his
return to me will bring with it the darkest days of my life."
I tried to remonstrate with her.
"You have a will of your own," I said. "Exert it if he attempts
to return to you."
"I have no will of my own," she answered quietly, "where _he_ is
concerned. It is my misfortune to love him." Her eyes rested for
a moment on mine, with the utter self-abandonment of despair. "We
have said enough about this," she added abruptly. "Let us say no
more."
From that time we never spoke again of the unknown man. During
the year that followed o ur first meeting, she heard nothing of
him directly or indirectly. He might be living, or he might be
dead. There came no word of him, or from him. I was fond enough
of her to be satisfied with this--he never disturbed us.
IV.
THE year passed--and the end came. Not the end as you may have
anticipated it, or as I might have foreboded it.
You remember the time when your letters from home informed you of
the fatal termination of our mother's illness? It is the time of
which I am now speaking. A few hours only before she breathed her
last, she called me to her bedside, and desired that we might be
left together alone. Reminding me that her death was near, she
spoke of my prospects in life; she noticed my want of interest in
the studies which were then supposed to be engaging my attention,
and she ended by entreating me to reconsider my refusal to enter
the Church.
"Your father's heart is set upon it," she said. "Do what I ask of
you, my dear, and you will help to comfort him when I am gone."
Her strength failed her: she could say no more. Could I refuse
the last request she would ever make to me? I knelt at the
bedside, and took her wasted hand in mine, and solemnly promised
her the respect which a son owes to his mother's last wishes.
Having bound myself by this sacred engagement, I had no choice
but to accept the sacrifice which it imperatively exacted from
me. The time had come when I must tear myself free from all
unworthy associations. No matter what the effort cost me, I must
separate myself at once and forever from the unhappy woman who
was not, who never could be, my wife.
At the close of a dull foggy day I set forth with a heavy heart
to say the words which were to part us forever.
Her lodging was not far from the banks of the Thames. As I drew
near the place the darkness was gathering, and the broad surface
of the river was hidden from me in a chill white mist. I stood
for a while, with my eyes fixed on the vaporous shroud that
brooded over the flowing water--I stood and asked myself in
despair the one dreary question: "What am I to say to her?"
The mist chilled me to the bones. I turned from the river-bank,
and made my way to her lodgings hard by. "It must be done!" I
said to myself, as I took out my key and opened the house door.
She was not at her work, as usual, when I entered her little
sitting-room. She was standing by the fire, with her head down
and with an open letter in her hand.
The instant she turned to meet me, I saw in her face that
something was wrong. Her ordinary manner was the manner of an
unusually placid and self-restrained person. Her temperament had
little of the liveliness which we associate in England with the
French nature. She was not ready with her laugh; and in all my
previous experience, I had never yet known her to cry. Now, for
the first time, I saw the quiet face disturbed; I saw tears in
the pretty brown eyes. She ran to meet me, and laid her head on
my breast, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping that shook
her from head to foot.
Could she by any human possibility have heard of the coming
change in my life? Was she aware, before I had opened my lips, of
the hard necessity which had brought me to the house?
It was simply impossible; the thing could not be.
I waited until her first burst of emotion had worn itself out.
Then I asked--with an uneasy conscience, with a sinking
heart--what had happened to distress her.
She drew herself away from me, sighing heavily, and gave me the
open letter which I had seen in her hand.
"Read that," she said. "And remember I told you what might happen
when we first met."
I read the letter.
It was signed in initials only; but the writer plainly revealed
himself as the man who had deserted her. He had repented; he had
returned to her. In proof of his penitence he was willing to do
her the justice which he had hitherto refused--he was willing to
marry her, on the condition that she would engage to keep the
marriage a secret, so long as his parents lived. Submitting this
proposal, he waited to know whether she would consent, on her
side, to forgive and forget.
I gave her back the letter in silence. This unknown rival had
done me the service of paving the way for our separation. In
offering her the atonement of marriage, he had made it, on my
part, a matter of duty to _her_, as well as to myself, to say the
parting words. I felt this instantly. And yet, I hated him for
helping me.
She took my hand, and led me to the sofa. We sat down, side by
side. Her face was composed to a sad tranquillity. She was quiet;
she was herself again.
"I have refused to see him, she said, "until I had first spoken
to you. You have read his letter. What do you say?"
I could make but one answer. It was my duty to tell her what my
own position was in the plainest terms. I did my duty--leaving
her free to decide on the future for herself. Those sad words
said, it was useless to prolong the wretchedness of our
separation. I rose, and took her hand for the last time.
I see her again now, at that final moment, as plainly as if it
had happened yesterday. She had been suffering from an affection
of the throat; and she had a white silk handkerchief tied loosely
round her neck. She wore a simple dress of purple merino, with a
black-silk apron over it. Her face was deadly pale; her fingers
felt icily cold as they closed round my hand.
"Promise me one thing," I said, "before I go. While I live, I am
your friend--if I am nothing more. If you are ever in trouble,
promise that you will let me know it."
She started, and drew back from me as if I had struck her with a
sudden terror.
"Strange!' she said, speaking to herself. "_He_ feels as I feel.
He is afraid of what may happen to me, in my life to come."
I attempted to reassure her. I tried to tell her what was indeed
the truth--that I had only been thinking of the ordinary chances
and changes of life, when I spoke.
She paid no heed to me; she came back and put her hands on my
shoulders and thoughtfully and sadly looked up in my face.
"My mind is not your mind in this matter," she said. "I once
owned to you that I had my forebodings, when we first spoke of
this man's return. I may tell you now, more than I told you then.
I believe I shall die young, and die miserably. If I am right,
have you interest enough still left in me to wish to hear of it?"
She paused, shuddering--and added these startling words:
"You _shall_ hear of it."
The tone of steady conviction in which she spoke alarmed and
distressed me. My face showed her how deeply and how painfully I
was affected.
"There, there!" she said, returning to her natural manner; "don't
take what I say too seriously. A poor girl who has led a lonely
life like mine thinks strangely and talks strangely--sometimes.
Yes; I give you my promise. If I am ever in trouble, I will let
you know it. God bless you--you have been very kind to
me--good-by!"
A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me. The door closed
between us. The dark street received me.
It was raining heavily. I looked up at her window, through the
drifting shower. The curtains were parted: she was standing in
the gap, dimly lit by the lamp on the table behind her, waiting
for our last look at each other. Slowly lifting her hand, she
waved her farewell at the window, with the unsought native grace
which had charmed me on the night when we first met. The curtain
fell again--she disappeared--nothing was before me, nothing was
round me, but the darkness and the night.
V.
IN two years from that time, I had redeemed the promise given to
my mother on her deathbed. I had entered the Church.
My father's interest made my first step in my new profession an
easy one. After serving my preliminary apprenticeship as a
curate, I was appointed, before I was thirty years of age, to a
living in the West of England.
My new benefice offered me every advantage that I could possibly
desire--with the one exception of a sufficient income. Although
my wants were few, and although I was still an unmarried man, I
found it desirable, on many accounts, to add to my resources.
Following the example of other young clergymen in my position, I
det ermined to receive pupils who might stand in need of
preparation for a career at the Universities. My relatives
exerted themselves; and my good fortune still befriended me. I
obtained two pupils to start with. A third would complete the
number which I was at present prepared to receive. In course of
time, this third pupil made his appearance, under circumstances
sufficiently remarkable to merit being mentioned in detail.
It was the summer vacation; and my two pupils had gone home.
Thanks to a neighboring clergyman, who kindly undertook to
perform my duties for me, I too obtained a fortnight's holiday,
which I spent at my father's house in London.
During my sojourn in the metropolis, I was offered an opportunity
of preaching in a church, made famous by the eloquence of one of
the popular pulpit-orators of our time. In accepting the
proposal, I felt naturally anxious to do my best, before the
unusually large and unusually intelligent congregation which
would be assembled to hear me.
At the period of which I am now speaking, all England had been
startled by the discovery of a terrible crime, perpetrated under
circumstances of extreme provocation. I chose this crime as the
main subject of my sermon. Admitting that the best among us were
frail mortal creatures, subject to evil promptings and
provocations like the worst among us, my object was to show how a
Christian man may find his certain refuge from temptation in the
safeguards of his religion. I dwelt minutely on the hardship of
the Christian's first struggle to resist the evil influence--on
the help which his Christianity inexhaustibly held out to him in
the worst relapses of the weaker and viler part of his nature--on
the steady and certain gain which was the ultimate reward of his
faith and his firmness--and on the blessed sense of peace and
happiness which accompanied the final triumph. Preaching to this
effect, with the fervent conviction which I really felt, I may
say for myself, at least, that I did no discredit to the choice
which had placed me in the pulpit. I held the attention of my
congregation, from the first word to the last.
While I was resting in the vestry on the conclusion of the
service, a note was brought to me written in pencil. A member of
my congregation--a gentleman--wished to see me, on a matter of
considerable importance to himself. He would call on me at any
place, and at any hour, which I might choose to appoint. If I
wished to be satisfied of his respectability, he would beg leave
to refer me to his father, with whose name I might possibly be
acquainted.
The name given in the reference was undoubtedly familiar to me,
as the name of a man of some celebrity and influence in the world
of London. I sent back my card, appointing an hour for the visit
of my correspondent on the afternoon of the next day.
VI.
THE stranger made his appearance punctually. I guessed him to be
some two or three years younger than myself. He was undeniably
handsome; his manners were the manners of a gentleman--and yet,
without knowing why, I felt a strong dislike to him the moment he
entered the room.
After the first preliminary words of politeness had been
exchanged between us, my visitor informed me as follows of the
object which he had in view.
"I believe you live in the country, sir?" he began.
"I live in the West of England," I answered.
"Do you make a long stay in London?"
"No. I go back to my rectory to-morrow."
"May I ask if you take pupils?"
"Yes."
"Have you any vacancy?"
"I have one vacancy."
"Would you object to let me go back with you to-morrow, as your
pupil?"
The abruptness of the proposal took me by surprise. I hesitated.
In the first place (as I have already said), I disliked him. In
the second place, he was too old to be a fit companion for my
other two pupils--both lads in their teens. In the third place,
he had asked me to receive him at least three weeks before the
vacation came to an end. I had my own pursuits and amusements in
prospect during that interval, and saw no reason why I should
inconvenience myself by setting them aside.
He noticed my hesitation, and did not conceal from me that I had
disappointed him.
"I have it very much at heart," he said, "to repair without delay
the time that I have lost. My age is against me, I know. The
truth is--I have wasted my opportunities since I left school, and
I am anxious, honestly anxious, to mend my ways, before it is too
late. I wish to prepare myself for one of the Universities--I
wish to show, if I can, that I am not quite unworthy to inherit
my father's famous name. You are the man to help me, if I can
only persuade you to do it. I was struck by your sermon
yesterday; and, if I may venture to make the confession in your
presence, I took a strong liking to you. Will you see my father,
before you decide to say No? He will be able to explain whatever
may seem strange in my present application; and he will be happy
to see you this afternoon, if you can spare the time. As to the
question of terms, I am quite sure it can be settled to your
entire satisfaction."
He was evidently in earnest--gravely, vehemently in earnest. I
unwillingly consented to see his father.
Our interview was a long one. All my questions were answered
fully and frankly.
The young man had led an idle and desultory life. He was weary of
it, and ashamed of it. His disposition was a peculiar one. He
stood sorely in need of a guide, a teacher, and a friend, in whom
he was disposed to confide. If I disappointed the hopes which he
had centered in me, he would be discouraged, and he would relapse
into the aimless and indolent existence of which he was now
ashamed. Any terms for which I might stipulate were at my
disposal if I would consent to receive him, for three months to
begin with, on trial.
Still hesitating, I consulted my father and my friends.
They were all of opinion (and justly of opinion so far) that the
new connection would be an excellent one for me. They all
reproached me for taking a purely capricious dislike to a
well-born and well-bred young man, and for permitting it to
influence me, at the outset of my career, against my own
interests. Pressed by these considerations, I allowed myself to
be persuaded to give the new pupil a fair trial. He accompanied
me, the next day, on my way back to the rectory.
VII.
LET me be careful to do justice to a man whom I personally
disliked. My senior pupil began well: he produced a decidedly
favorable impression on the persons attached to my little
household.
The women, especially, admired his beautiful light hair, his
crisply-curling beard, his delicate complexion, his clear blue
eyes, and his finely shaped hands and feet. Even the inveterate
reserve in his manner, and the downcast, almost sullen, look
which had prejudiced _me_ against him, aroused a common feeling
of romantic enthusiasm in my servants' hall. It was decided, on
the high authority of the housekeeper herself, that "the new
gentleman" was in love--and, more interesting still, that he was
the victim of an unhappy attachment which had driven him away
from his friends and his home.
For myself, I tried hard, and tried vainly, to get over my first
dislike to the senior pupil.
I could find no fault with him. All his habits were quiet and
regular; and he devoted himself conscientiously to his reading.
But, little by little, I became satisfied that his heart was not
in his studies. More than this, I had my reasons for suspecting
that he was concealing something from me, and that he felt
painfully the reserve on his own part which he could not, or
dared not, break through. There were moments when I almost
doubted whether he had not chosen my remote country rectory as a
safe place of refuge from some person or persons of whom he stood
in dread.
For example, his ordinary course of proceeding, in the matter of
his correspondence, was, to say the least of it, strange.
He received no letters at my house. They waited for him at the
village post office. He invariably called for them himself, and
invariably forbore to trust any of my servants with his own
letters for the post. Again, when we were out walking together, I
more than once caught him looking furtively over his shoulder, as
if he suspected some person of following him, for some evil
purpose. Being constitutionally a hater of mysteries, I
determined, at an early stage of our intercourse, on making an
effort to clear matters up. There might be just a chance of my
winning the senior pupil's confidence, if I spoke to him while
the last days of the summer vacation still left us alone together
in the house.
"Excuse me for noticing it," I said to him one morning, while we
were engaged over our books--"I cannot help observing that you
appear to have some trouble on your mind. Is it indiscreet, on my
part, to ask if I can be of any use to you?"
He changed color--looked up at me quickly--looked down again at
his book--struggled hard with some secret fear or secret
reluctance that was in him--and suddenly burst out with this
extraordinary question: "I suppose you were in earnest when you
preached that sermon in London?"
"I am astonished that you should doubt it," I replied.
He paused again; struggled with himself again; and startled me by
a second outbreak, even stranger than the first.
"I am one of the people you preached at in your sermon," he said.
"That's the true reason why I asked you to take me for your
pupil. Don't turn me out! When you talked to your congregation of
tortured and tempted people, you talked of Me."
I was so astonished by the confession, that I lost my presence of
mind. For the moment, I was unable to answer him.
"Don't turn me out!" he repeated. "Help me against myself. I am
telling you the truth. As God is my witness, I am telling you the
truth!"
"Tell me the _whole_ truth," I said; "and rely on my consoling
and helping you--rely on my being your friend."
In the fervor of the moment, I took his hand. It lay cold and
still in mine; it mutely warned me that I had a sullen and a
secret nature to deal with.
"There must be no concealment between us," I resumed. "You have
entered my house, by your own confession, under false pretenses.
It is your duty to me, and your duty to yourself, to speak out."
The man's inveterate reserve--cast off for the moment
only--renewed its hold on him. He considered, carefully
considered, his next words before he permitted them to pass his
lips.
"A person is in the way of my prospects in life," he began
slowly, with his eyes cast down on his book. "A person provokes
me horribly. I feel dreadful temptations (like the man you spoke
of in your sermon) when I am in the person's company. Teach me to
resist temptation. I am afraid of myself, if I see the person
again. You are the only man who can help me. Do it while you
can."
He stopped, and passed his handkerchief over his forehead.
"Will that do?" he asked--still with his eyes on his book.
"It will _not_ do," I answered. "You are so far from really
opening your heart to me, that you won't even let me know whether
it is a man or a woman who stands in the way of your prospects in
life. You used the word 'person,' over and over again--rather
than say 'he' or 'she' when you speak of the provocation which is
trying you. How can I help a man who has so little confidence in
me as that?"
My reply evidently found him at the end of his resources. He
tried, tried desperately, to say more than he had said yet. No!
The words seemed to stick in his throat. Not one of them would
pass his lips.
"Give me time," he pleaded piteously. "I can't bring myself to
it, all at once. I mean well. Upon my soul, I mean well. But I am
slow at this sort of thing. Wait till to-morrow."
To-morrow came--and again he put it off.
"One more day!" he said. "You don't know how hard it is to speak
plainly. I am half afraid; I am half ashamed. Give me one more
day."
I had hitherto only disliked him. Try as I might (and did) to
make merciful allowance for his reserve, I began to despise him
now.
VIII.
THE day of the deferred confession came, and brought an event
with it, for which both he and I were alike unprepared. Would he
really have confided in me but for that event? He must either
have done it, or have abandoned the purpose which had led him
into my house.
We met as usual at the breakfast-table. My housekeeper brought in
my letters of the morning. To my surprise, instead of leaving the
room again as usual, she walked round to the other side of the
table, and laid a letter before my senior pupil--the first
letter, since his residence with me, which had been delivered to
him under my roof.
He started, and took up the letter. He looked at the address. A
spasm of suppressed fury passed across his face; his breath came
quickly; his hand trembled as it held the letter. So far, I said
nothing. I waited to see whether he would open the envelope in my
presence or not.
He was afraid to open it in my presence. He got on his feet; he
said, in tones so low that I could barely hear him: "Please
excuse me for a minute"--and left the room.
I waited for half an hour--for a quarter of an hour after
that--and then I sent to ask if he had forgotten his breakfast.
In a minute more, I heard his footstep in the hall. He opened the
breakfast-room door, and stood on the threshold, with a small
traveling-bag in his hand.
"I beg your pardon," he said, still standing at the door. "I must
ask for leave of absence for a day or two. Business in London."
"Can I be of any use?" I asked. "I am afraid your letter has
brought you bad news?"
"Yes," he said shortly. "Bad news. I have no time for breakfast."
"Wait a few minutes," I urged. "Wait long enough to treat me like
your friend--to tell me what your trouble is before you go."
He made no reply. He stepped into the hall and closed the
door--then opened it again a little way, without showing himself.
"Business in London," he repeated--as if he thought it highly
important to inform me of the nature of his errand. The door
closed for the second time. He was gone.
I went into my study, and carefully considered what had happened.
The result of my reflections is easily described. I determined on
discontinuing my relations with my senior pupil. In writing to
his father (which I did, with all due courtesy and respect, by
that day's post), I mentioned as my reason for arriving at this
decision:--First, that I had found it impossible to win the
confidence of his son. Secondly, that his son had that morning
suddenly and mysteriously left my house for London, and that I
must decline accepting any further responsibility toward him, as
the necessary consequence.
I had put my letter in the post-bag, and was beginning to feel a
little easier after having written it, when my housekeeper
appeared in the study, with a very grave face, and with something
hidden apparently in her closed hand.
"Would you please look, sir, at what we have found in the
gentleman's bedroom, since he went away this morning?"
I knew the housekeeper to possess a woman's full share of that
amicable weakness of the sex which goes by the name of
"Curiosity." I had also, in various indirect ways, become aware
that my senior pupil's strange departure had largely increased
the disposition among the women of my household to regard him as
the victim of an unhappy attachment. The time was ripe, as it
seemed to me, for checking any further gossip about him, and any
renewed attempts at prying into his affairs in his absence.
"Your only business in my pupil's bedroom," I said to the
housekeeper, "is to see that it is kept clean, and that it is
properly aired. There must be no interference, if you please,
with his letters, or his papers, or with anything else that he
has left behind him. Put back directly whatever you may have
found in his room."
The housekeeper had her full share of a woman's temper as well as
of a woman's curiosity. She listened to me with a rising color,
and a just perceptible toss of the head.
"Must I put it back, sir, on the floor, between the bed and the
wall?" she inquired, with an ironical assumption of the humblest
deference to my wishes. "_That's_ where the girl found it when
she was sweeping the room. Anybody can see for themselves,"
pursued the housekeeper indignantly, "that the poor gentleman has
gone away broken-hearted.
And there, in my opinion, is the hussy who is the cause of it!"
With those words, she made me a low curtsey, and laid a small
photographic portrait on the desk at which I was sitting.
I looked at the photograph.
In an instant, my heart was beating wildly--my head turned
giddy--the housekeeper, the furniture, the walls of the room, all
swayed and whirled round me.
The portrait that had been found in my senior pupil's bedroom was
the portrait of Jeromette!
IX.
I HAD sent the housekeeper out of my study. I was alone, with the
photograph of the Frenchwoman on my desk.
There could surely be little doubt about the discovery that had
burst upon me. The man who had stolen his way into my house,
driven by the terror of a temptation that he dared not reveal,
and the man who had been my unknown rival in the by-gone time,
were one and the same!
Recovering self-possession enough to realize this plain truth,
the inferences that followed forced their way into my mind as a
matter of course. The unnamed person who was the obstacle to my
pupil's prospects in life, the unnamed person in whose company he
was assailed by temptations which made him tremble for himself,
stood revealed to me now as being, in all human probability, no
other than Jeromette. Had she bound him in the fetters of the
marriage which he had himself proposed? Had she discovered his
place of refuge in my house? And was the letter that had been
delivered to him of her writing? Assuming these questions to be
answered in the affirmative, what, in that case, was his
"business in London"? I remembered how he had spoken to me of his
temptations, I recalled the expression that had crossed his face
when he recognized the handwriting on the letter--and the
conclusion that followed literally shook me to the soul. Ordering
my horse to be saddled, I rode instantly to the railway-station.
The train by which he had traveled to London had reached the
terminus nearly an hour since. The one useful course that I could
take, by way of quieting the dreadful misgivings crowding one
after another on my mind, was to telegraph to Jeromette at the
address at which I had last seen her. I sent the subjoined
message--prepaying the reply:
"If you are in any trouble, telegraph to me. I will be with you
by the first train. Answer, in any case."
There was nothing in the way of the immediate dispatch of my
message. And yet the hours passed, and no answer was received. By
the advice of the clerk, I sent a second telegram to the London
office, requesting an explanation. The reply came back in these
terms:
"Improvements in street. Houses pulled down. No trace of person
named in telegram."
I mounted my horse, and rode back slowly to the rectory.
"The day of his return to me will bring with it the darkest days
of my life." . . . . . "I shall die young, and die miserably.
Have you interest enough still left in me to wish to hear of it?"
.... "You _ shall_ hear of it." Those words were in my memory
while I rode home in the cloudless moonlight night. They were so
vividly present to me that I could hear again her pretty foreign
accent, her quiet clear tones, as she spoke them. For the rest,
the emotions of that memorable day had worn me out. The answer
from the telegraph office had struck me with a strange and stony
despair. My mind was a blank. I had no thoughts. I had no tears.
I was about half-way on my road home, and I had just heard the
clock of a village church strike ten, when I became conscious,
little by little, of a chilly sensation slowly creeping through
and through me to the bones. The warm, balmy air of a summer
night was abroad. It was the month of July. In the month of July,
was it possible that any living creature (in good health) could
feel cold? It was _not_ possible--and yet, the chilly sensation
still crept through and through me to the bones.
I looked up. I looked all round me.
My horse was walking along an open highroad. Neither trees nor
waters were near me. On either side, the flat fields stretched
away bright and broad in the moonlight.
I stopped my horse, and looked round me again.
Yes: I saw it. With my own eyes I saw it. A pillar of white
mist--between five and six feet high, as well as I could
judge--was moving beside me at the edge of the road, on my left
hand. When I stopped, the white mist stopped. When I went on, the
white mist went on. I pushed my horse to a trot--the pillar of
mist was with me. I urged him to a gallop---the pillar of mist
was with me. I stopped him again--the pillar of mist stood still.
The white color of it was the white color of the fog which I had
seen over the river--on the night when I had gone to bid her
farewell. And the chill which had then crept through me to the
bones was the chill that was creeping through me now.
I went on again slowly. The white mist went on again slowly--with
the clear bright night all round it.
I was awed rather than frightened. There was one moment, and one
only, when the fear came to me that my reason might be shaken. I
caught myself keeping time to the slow tramp of the horse's feet
with the slow utterances of these words, repeated over and over
again: "Jeromette is dead. Jeromette is dead." But my will was
still my own: I was able to control myself, to impose silence on
my own muttering lips. And I rode on quietly. And the pillar of
mist went quietly with me.
My groom was waiting for my return at the rectory gate. I pointed
to the mist, passing through the gate with me.
"Do you see anything there?" I said.
The man looked at me in astonishment.
I entered the rectory. The housekeeper met me in the hall. I
pointed to the mist, entering with me.
"Do you see anything at my side?" I asked.
The housekeeper looked at me as the groom had looked at me.
"I am afraid you are not well, sir," she said. "Your color is all
gone--you are shivering. Let me get you a glass of wine. "
I went into my study, on the ground-floor, and took the chair at
my desk. The photograph still lay where I had left it. The pillar
of mist floated round the table, and stopped opposite to me,
behind the photograph.
The housekeeper brought in the wine. I put the glass to my lips,
and set it down again. The chill of the mist was in the wine.
There was no taste, no reviving spirit in it. The presence of the
housekeeper oppressed me. My dog had followed her into the room.
The presence of the animal oppressed me. I said to the woman:
"Leave me by myself, and take the dog with you."
They went out, and left me alone in the room.
I sat looking at the pillar of mist, hovering opposite to me.
It lengthened slowly, until it reached to the ceiling. As it
lengthened, it grew bright and luminous. A time passed, and a
shadowy appearance showed itself in the center of the light.
Little by little, the shadowy appearance took the outline of a
human form. Soft brown eyes, tender and melancholy, looked at me
through the unearthly light in the mist. The head and the rest of
the face broke next slowly on my view. Then the figure gradually
revealed itself, moment by moment, downward and downward to the
feet. She stood before me as I had last seen her, in her
purple-merino dress, with the black-silk apron, with the white
handkerchief tied loosely round her neck. She stood before me, in
the gentle beauty that I remembered so well; and looked at me as
she had looked when she gave me her last kiss--when her tears had
dropped on my cheek.
I fell on my knees at the table. I stretched out my hands to her
imploringly. I said: "Speak to me--O, once again speak to me,
Jeromette."
Her eyes rested on me with a divine compassion in them. She
lifted her hand, and pointed to the photograph on my desk, with a
gesture which bade me turn the card. I turned it. The name of the
man who had left my house that morning was inscribed on it, in
her own handwriting.
I looked up at her again, when I had read it. She lifted her hand
once more, and pointed to the handkerchief round her neck. As I
looked at it, the fair white silk changed horribly in color--the
fair white silk became darkened and drenched in blood.
A moment more--and the vision of her began to grow dim. By slow
degrees, the fi gure, then the face, faded back into the shadowy
appearance that I had first seen. The luminous inner light died
out in the white mist. The mist itself dropped slowly
downward--floated a moment in airy circles on the
floor--vanished. Nothing was before me but the familiar wall of
the room, and the photograph lying face downward on my desk.
X.
THE next day, the newspapers reported the discovery of a murder
in London. A Frenchwoman was the victim. She had been killed by a
wound in the throat. The crime had been discovered between ten
and eleven o'clock on the previous night.
I leave you to draw your conclusion from what I have related. My
own faith in the reality of the apparition is immovable. I say,
and believe, that Jeromette kept her word with me. She died
young, and died miserably. And I heard of it from herself.
Take up the Trial again, and look at the circumstances that were
revealed during the investigation in court. His motive for
murdering her is there.
You will see that she did indeed marry him privately; that they
lived together contentedly, until the fatal day when she
discovered that his fancy had been caught by another woman; that
violent quarrels took place between them, from that time to the
time when my sermon showed him his own deadly hatred toward her,
reflected in the case of another man; that she discovered his
place of retreat in my house, and threatened him by letter with
the public assertion of her conjugal rights; lastly, that a man,
variously described by different witnesses, was seen leaving the
door of her lodgings on the night of the murder. The
Law--advancing no further than this--may have discovered
circumstances of suspicion, but no certainty. The Law, in default
of direct evidence to convict the prisoner, may have rightly
decided in letting him go free.
But _I_ persisted in believing that the man was guilty. _I_
declare that he, and he alone, was the murderer of Jeromette. And
now, you know why.
End of Mr. Medhurst and the Princess
This etext was retrieved by ftp from ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg
It is also available from www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg
[Italics are indicatedby underscores
James Rusk, jrusk@cyberramp.net.]
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