In the Year of Jubilee
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‘What has become of that jackanapes, Horace Lord?’ asked Fanny, after a contemptuous remark about ‘sermons.’
‘I don’t know. The question is, what’s going to become of you?’
Whereupon the girl grew vituperative in two languages, and made off. Her relatives saw no more of her for a long time.
To Mrs. Peachey was born a daughter. Naturally, the months preceding this event had been, for her husband, a renewal of martyrdom; his one supporting solace lay in the thought of the little lad at Canterbury. All the old troubles were revived; from morning to night the house rang with brawls between mistress and servants; in the paroxysms favoured by her physical condition, Ada behaved like a candidate for Bedlam, and more than once obliged her husband to seek temporary peace in lodgings. He left home at eight o’clock every morning, and returned as late as possible. The necessity of passing long evenings made him haunt places of entertainment, and he sometimes had recourse to drink,—he by nature the soberest of men,—in fear of what awaited him on his tardy appearance at Brixton. A month after Ada’s confinement he once more acted a sane part, and announced by letter that he would die rather than continue living with his wife. As it was fine autumn weather he went down to a seaside place, where his Canterbury relatives and the little boy joined him for a holiday of several weeks. Again Ada was to receive an allowance. She despatched a few very virulent post-cards, but presently grew quiet, and appeared to accept the situation.
In early winter Fanny French came over to England. She had again been ill, and this time with results obviously graver. Her first call was upon Beatrice, who still occupied the flat at Brixton, and here she unbosomed herself of a dolorous story. All her money had vanished; stolen, most of it, Fanny declared; she was without resources, and, as any one could see, in a wretched state of health. Would Beatrice have compassion on her? Would she lend her money till she was well enough to ‘look round’?
Miss. French at once took the girl into her own home, and had her looked after. Fanny coughed in an alarming way; the doctor, speaking privately with Beatrice, made an unpleasant report; was it possible to send the patient to a mild climate for the winter months? Yes, Miss. French could manage that, and would. A suitable attendant having been procured, Fanny was despatched to Bournemouth, whence, in a day or two, she wrote to her sister thus:
‘You’ve been awfully kind to me, and I shan’t forget it when I’m well again. Feel a good deal fitter already. Dullish place this, but I’ve got to put up with it. I’ve had a letter from Ada. If you see her, tell her she’s a beast, and I wish Arthur would wring her scraggy neck. She says it’s all my own fault; wait till I’m back again, and I’ll pay her a call. My own fault indeed! It seems to me I’m very much to be pitied.’
Walking one day along the sea-front by herself, Fanny observed a young man’s figure a few paces in advance of her, which seemed to awaken recollections. Presently the young man turned and showed, beyond doubt, the countenance of Horace Lord. He met her eyes, gave a doubtful, troubled look, and was going past when Fanny accosted him.
‘Well, don’t you know me?’
‘Why, it is—it really is! How glad I am to see you! But what on earth are you doing here?’
‘Amusing myself—comme vous voyez; and you?’
‘Oh, doing the same.’
They had shaken hands, and were sauntering on together.
‘Anything wrong with your health?’ Fanny asked, scrutinising the pale thin face, with its touch of warmth on the cheeks.
‘Oh, I’ve had a bit of a cold; nothing to speak of. You been out of sorts?’
‘A little run down. Over-study, they say.’
Horace looked his surprise.
‘Why, I didn’t know you went in for that kind of thing.’
‘Didn’t you? I’ve been studying abroad for a long time. Thinking of taking a place as French teacher in some tip-top high school.’
‘I am very glad to hear it. Capital idea. Sure I hope you’ll be successful.’
‘Thanks awf’ly. Tell me something about yourself. Why, it’s two years since we saw each other, isn’t it? Are you married yet?’
Horace smiled and coloured.
‘No, no—not yet. I’m in business with Luckworth Crewe,—sort of sleeping partner just now.’
‘Are you really? And how’s your sister?’
The young man bent his brows uncomfortably.
‘Don’t you know anything about her?’ he asked.
‘I’ve heard she’s married.’
‘Yes, a man called Tarrant. Very clever fellow; he writes for the papers.—I say, Miss. French, I generally have a glass of wine and a biscuit, at the confectioner’s, about this time. Will you give me the pleasure of your company?’
‘Charmee, Monsieur! I generally go in for the same kind of thing.’
So they repaired to the cake-shop, and sat talking for half-an-hour of trifles which made them laugh.
‘And you really didn’t know me?’ said Fanny, when her glass of wine was finished. ‘Have I changed so much?’
‘A good deal. Not for the worse, oh dear no!’
The girl giggled.
‘Well, I don’t mind saying that you have changed a good deal for the better.’
Horace flushed at the compliment.
‘I’m much older,’ he answered with a sigh, as though the years of a sexagenarian weighed upon him.
‘That’s just what I like in you. You’re so much more of a man. Don’t be offended.’
They went forth again into the sunshine. At the door both coughed, and both pretended that it wasn’t a cough at all, but a voluntary little hem.
CHAPTER 2
Mrs. Damerel was younger than ever. She had spent October abroad, with her friends Mrs. and Miss. Chittle, and the greater part of November at Brighton, with other friends. Back in town she established herself at one of the various boarding-houses honoured by her patronage, and prepared to enjoy the social life of winter.
Half a year ago an unwonted depression had troubled her serene existence. At the close of the London season she seemed weary and spiritless, very unlike herself; having no invitation for the next two months, she withdrew to Whitsand, and there spent some cheerless weeks.
Whitsand was the as yet unfashionable seaside place which had attracted the speculative eye of Luckworth Crewe. For the past two years he had been trying to inspire certain men of capital with his own faith in the possibilities of Whitsand; he owned a share in the new hotel just opened; whenever his manifold affairs allowed him a day’s holiday, he spent it at Whitsand, pacing the small esplanade, and meditating improvements. That these ‘improvements’ signified the conversion of a pretty little old-world spot into a hideous brand new resort of noisy hordes, in no degree troubled Mr. Crewe’s conscience. For his own part, he could appreciate the charms of Whitsand as it stood; he was by no means insensible to natural beauty and the ancient peace which so contrasted with his life of every day; but first and foremost in his mind came the necessity of making money; and to fill his pockets he would no more hesitate about destroying the loveliest spot on earth, than the starving hunter would stay his hand out of admiration for bird or beast.
It was with much delight that he heard of Mrs. Damerel’s retreat to Whitsand. To the note in which she acquainted him with her arrival there he replied effusively. ‘The patronage of a few really fashionable people, such as yourself, would soon do wonders. We must have a special paragraph in the local paper, drawing attention to your being there’—and so on. An answer by return of post rather disappointed him. On no account, wrote Mrs. Damerel, must her name be specially mentioned in the paper. She had taken very simple lodgings, very inexpensive, and wished to live as quietly as possible. But, after seeing the place, she quite agreed with Mr Crewe that it had a future, and if he could run down some day, whilst she was here, it would give her great pleasure to hear his projects explained on the spot.
Crewe ran down. In speaking of Mrs. Damerel as a ‘really fashionable’ person, he used no insincerity; from their first meeting he had seen in this lady his ideal of social distinction; she was, in fact, the only woman of skilfully pretentious demeanour with whom he had ever spoken. Her distant likeness to Nancy Lord interested and attracted him; her suave superiority awed his conscious roughness; she seemed to him exquisitely gracious, wonderfully sweet. And as, little by little, he attained the right to think of her almost as a friend, his humble admiration became blended with feelings he took particular care not to betray, lest he should expose himself to ridicule. That her age exceeded his own by some years he was of course aware, but this fact soon dropped out of his mind, and never returned to it. Not only did he think Mrs. Damerel a type of aristocratic beauty, he saw in her countenance all the freshness and the promise of youth.
The slight mystery attaching to her position only increased his susceptibility to her charms. It seemed to him very probable that she had but a moderate income; perhaps she was not free from anxieties on that score. But such a woman would of course marry again, and marry well. The thought grew troublesome, and presently accounted for ebullitions of wrath, accompanied by more than usually vigorous language, when business matters went wrong.
At Whitsand, Mrs. Damerel showed herself more than ever sweetly affable. The season, she said, had been rather too much for her; she must take care of her health; besides—and her smile played upon Crewe’s pulses—there were troubles, cares, of which she could not speak even to so valued a friend.
‘I’m afraid you’re anxious about your nephew,’ murmured the man of business; though at the same time he suspected other things, for the lodgings in which he found Mrs. Damerel were certainly modest.
‘Yes, I trouble a good deal about him. If only dear Horace would be reconciled to me. It seems such a long, long time. You know that we have corresponded, but he refuses to see me. It pains me deeply, Mr Crewe.’
And, after a silence:
‘There’s a special reason why I wish he would be friends with me,—a reason that concerns his own future. Why should I not tell you? I am sure you will respect my confidence.—He will very soon become independent, and then I do so fear he may make a foolish marriage. Yet all the time there is a chance waiting for him which would establish his fortune and his happiness for life. Did he ever speak to you of Miss. Chittle?’
‘I don’t remember the name.’
‘Such a dear, sweet girl, and with really large means. He was introduced to her during the happy time when we saw so much of each other, and she at once became interested in him. Her dear mother assured me of it. She is a very shy, retiring girl, and has refused many offers, before and since then. Isn’t it a pity? But I am losing all hope, and I so fear he may have formed some other attachment.’
Crewe went back to London resolved that Horace Lord should no longer ‘play the fool.’ And he was successful. Horace had all but lost his resentment against Mrs. Damerel; he kept aloof out of stubborn conceit—it had not dignity enough to be called pride; the same feeling that still estranged him from Nancy, though he would gladly have welcomed his sister’s offer of affection. Persuaded, or commanded, by Luckworth Crewe, he took the train to Whitsand, and remained there for several days. Mrs. Damerel wrote her friend in Farringdon Street a letter of gratitude, which acted upon him like champagne. In a postscript she said: ‘Mrs. Chittle and her daughter have consented to come here for a week or two. They will take rooms at the Imperial.’
Before the end of September, Horace Lord was engaged to Winifred Chittle.
Two years had made very little change in Miss. Chittle’s appearance. She was still colourless and abnormally shy, still had the look of one who sheds secret tears, and her repugnance to Society had, if possible, increased. Horace thought her pretty, was impressed by her extreme gentleness and refinement, but she obtained no power over his emotions such as that formerly exercised by Fanny French. It struck him, too, as a very strange thing, that a young lady with a large fortune should be willing to marry a man of his social insignificance. ‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Damerel, ‘it was a case of love at first sight.’ But Horace, who had gained some experience of life, could not believe this. He wooed, and won; yet even when Winifred accepted him, he felt that she did it under some constraint. Her pale face declared no happiness.
Had she chosen, Mrs. Damerel could have explained the mystery. She knew that, several years ago, Winifred’s name had been blighted by a scandal, and that the girl’s shrinking from every proposal of marriage was due, in part perhaps, to the memory of love betrayed, in part to a sense of honour, and to the suspicion that men, knowing her disgrace, condoned it for the sake of her wealth. Interest made Mrs. Damerel generous; she admitted every excuse for Winifred, and persuaded herself that in procuring Horace such a wife she was doing him only a nominal wrong. The young people could live apart from that corner of Society in which Miss. Chittle’s name gave occasion to smiles or looks of perfunctory censure. If Winifred, after marriage, chose to make confession, why, that was her own affair, and Horace would be wise enough, all advantages considered, to take the matter philosophically.
That was the view of a practical-minded observer. To read Winifred perfectly, there needed a much more subtle and sympathetic intelligence. The girl had, in truth, conceived a liking for Horace Lord, and it grew stronger when she learnt that neither by birth nor present circumstances did he belong to her own world. To please her mother she was willing to take a husband, but the husband must be of her own choice. She wished to enter upon a wholly new life, remote from the social conditions which of late years had crushed her spirit. From the men who had hitherto approached her, she shrank in fear. Horace Lord, good-looking and not uneducated, yet so far from formidable, suggested a new hope; even though he might be actuated by the ordinary motives, she discerned in him a softness, a pliability of nature, which would harmonise with her own timid disposition. To the thought of deceiving him on the subject of her past, she was reconciled by a resolve to make his happiness the sole object of her existence in the future. Horace was amiability itself, and seemed, if not to love her ardently (which, perhaps, she did not even desire), at least to regard her with an increasing affection.
Nothing was said about the condition of the prospective bridegroom’s health, though Horace had confided to Mrs. Damerel that he suffered from a troublesome cough, accompanied now and then by an alarming symptom. In her boundless exultation at the end achieved, Mrs. Damerel made light of this complaint. Horace was not free to marry until nearly the end of the year; for, though money would henceforth be no matter of anxiety, he might as well secure the small inheritance presently due to him. November and December he should spend at Bournemouth under the best medical care, and after that, if needful, his wife would go with him to Madeira or some such place.
No wonder Mrs. Damerel could think of nothing but the great fact that Horace had secured a fortune. Her own resources were coming to an end, and but for the certainty that Horace would not grudge her an ample provision, she must at this moment have been racking her brains (even as through the summer) for help against the evil that drew near. Constitutional lightness of heart had enabled her to enjoy life on a steadily, and rapidly, diminishing fund. There had been hope in Nancy’s direction, as well as in her brother’s; but the disclosure of Nancy’s marriage, and Horace’s persistency in unfriendliness, brought Mrs. Damerel to a sense of peril. One offer of marriage she had received and declined; it came from a man of advanced years and small property. Another offer she might, or thought she might, at any moment provoke; but only in direst extremity could she think of bestowing her hand upon Luckworth Crewe. Crewe was in love with her, an amusing fact in itself, and especially so in regard to his former relations with Nancy Lord. He might become a wealthy man; on the other hand, he might not; and in any case he was a plebeian.
All such miseries were now dismissed from her mind. She went abroad with the Chittles, enjoyed herself at Brighton, and came home to prepare for Horace’s wedding, Horace himself being at Bournemouth. After her letter of gratitude to Crewe she had ceased to correspond with him; she did not trouble to acquaint him with Horace’s engagement; and when Crewe, having heard the news from his partner, ventured to send her a letter of congratulation, Mrs. Damerel replied in two or three very civil but cold sentences. Back in London, she did not invite the man of projects to call upon her. The status she had lost when fears beset her must now be recovered. Let Crewe cherish a passion for her if he liked, but let him understand that social reasons made it laughably hopeless.
Horace was to come up to London in the third week of December, and to be married on New Year’s Day; the honeymoon would be spent at Ventnor, or somewhere thereabout. Afraid to lose sight of her relative for more than a week or two, Mrs. Damerel had already been twice to Bournemouth, and now she decided to go for a third time, just to talk quietly over the forthcoming event, and, whether Horace broached the subject or not, to apprise him of the straits into which she was drifting. Unannounced by letter, she reached Bournemouth early in the afternoon, and went straight to Horace’s lodgings. The young man had just finished luncheon, and, all things considered, including the fact that it was a remarkably bright and warm day for the time of year, he might have been expected to welcome Mrs. Damerel cheerfully. Yet on seeing her his countenance fell; he betrayed an embarrassment which the lady noted with anxious suspicion.
‘Aren’t you glad to see me, dear boy?’ she began, with a kiss upon his cheek.
‘Yes—oh yes. I never dreamt of your appearing just now, that was all.’
‘I couldn’t resist the temptation. Such a morning in London! Almost as fine as it is here. And how is your cough?’
Even as she made the inquiry, he answered it by coughing very badly.
‘I don’t think this place suits you, Horace,’ said Mrs. Damerel gravely. ‘You’re not imprudent, I hope? Don’t go out after dark?’
Oh, it was nothing, Horace maintained; for several days he had hardly coughed at all. But with every word he uttered, Mrs. Damerel became more convinced of something unusual in his state of mind; he could not keep still, and, in trying to put himself at ease, assumed strange postures.
‘When did you hear from Winifred?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday—no, the day before.’
He shrank from her scrutiny, and an expression of annoyance began to disturb his features. Mrs. Damerel knew well enough the significance of that particular look; it meant the irritation of his self-will, the summoning of forces to resist something he disliked.
‘There has been no difference between you, I hope?’
‘No—oh no,’ Horace replied, wriggling under her look.
At that moment a servant opened the door.
‘Two ladies have called in a carriage, sir, and would like to see you.’
‘I’ll go down. Excuse me for a moment, aunt.’
‘Who are they, Horace?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, rising with an ill-concealed look of dismay.
‘Some friends I have made here. I’ll just go and speak to them.’
He hurried away. No sooner was he gone than Mrs. Damerel sprang to the window, where she could look down upon the carriage standing before the house; it was open, and in it sat two ladies, one middle-aged, the other much younger. To her vexation she could not, from this distance, clearly discern their faces; but on glancing rapidly round the room, she saw Horace’s little binocular. An instant brought it into focus upon the carriage, and what she then saw gave Mrs. Damerel such a shock, that an exclamation escaped her. Still she gazed through the glasses, and only turned away when the vehicle drove on.
Horace came up flushed and panting.
‘It’s all right. They wanted me to go for a drive, but I explained—’
He saw the binocular in Mrs. Damerel’s hand, and at the same moment read detection on her countenance. She gazed at him; he answered the look with lowering challenge.
‘Horace, that was Fanny French.’
‘So it was, aunt.’
‘What is going on between you?’
The young man took a seat on the edge of the table, and swung his leg. He looked suddenly obstinate.
‘We met by accident—here—the other day.’
‘How can I believe that, Horace?’ said Mrs. Damerel, in a voice of soft reproach. And she drew near to him. ‘Be truthful with me, dear. Do tell me the truth!—Is she anything to you?’
‘I have told you the truth, aunt. She came here, as I have done, for her health. I haven’t seen her for two years.’
‘And you don’t wish to renew acquaintance with her,—I’m sure you don’t.’
He looked away, and said nothing.
‘My dear, do you know her character?’
‘What about her?’
The tone was startling, but Mrs. Damerel kept firm, though agitated.
‘She has led the most disgraceful life. I heard about her half a year after she ran away, but of course I wouldn’t tell you such painful things.’
Horace reddened with anger.
‘And who is to blame for it?’ he cried passionately. ‘Who drove her to it?’
‘Oh, don’t, don’t come back to that again, Horace!’ pleaded the other. ‘How can any one drive a girl into a life of scandalous immorality? It was in herself, dear. She took to it naturally, as so many women do. Remember that letter she wrote from Brussels, which I sent you a copy of—’
‘It was a forgery!’ thundered Horace. ‘I have asked her. She says she never wrote any such letter.’
‘Then she lies, as such creatures always do.’
Bitterness of apprehension overcame Mrs. Damerel’s prudence. With flashing eyes, she faced the young man and dared his wrath. As they stood thus, the two were astonishingly like each other, from forehead to chin.
‘It’s no use, I’m not going to quarrel with you, aunt. Think what you like of Miss. French, I know the truth about her.’
He slipped from the table, and moved away.
‘I will say no more, Horace. You are independent, and must have your own acquaintances. But after you are married—’
The other voice interrupted.
‘I had better tell you at once. I shall not marry Miss. Chittle. I am going to write this afternoon to break it off.’
Mrs. Damerel went pale, and stood motionless.
‘Horace, you can’t be so wicked as that!’
‘It’s better,’ he pursued recklessly, ‘to break it off now, than to marry her and make her miserable. I don’t love her, and I have never really thought I did. I was going to marry her only for her money. Why she wants to marry me, I don’t know. There’s something wrong; she doesn’t really care for me.’
‘She does! I assure you she does!’
‘Then I can’t help it.’
Mrs. Damerel went close to him, and touched his arm.
‘My dear,’—her voice was so low that it seemed terror-stricken,—‘you don’t mean to marry—any one else?’
He drew apart, she followed him.
‘Oh, that would be terrible! What can I say to open your eyes and show you what you are doing? Horace, have you no sense of honour? Can you find it in your heart to cast off a girl who loves you, and thinks that in so short a time she will be your wife?’
‘This again is your fault,’ he replied, with a violence which proved the conflict of emotions in him. ‘But for you, I should never have proposed to Winifred—never dreamt of such a thing. What do I want with her money? I have enough of my own, and I shall make more in business. Why have you driven me into this? Did you expect to get some profit out of it?’
The blow struck home, and Mrs. Damerel flinched.
‘I had your happiness in view, my dear.’
‘My happiness! that’s your view of things; that’s why I couldn’t really like you, from the first. You think of nothing but money. Why you objected to Fanny French at first was because you wished me to marry some one richer. I don’t thank you for that kind of happiness; I had rather marry a woman I can love.’