XIII
When Delorme left Duddon, carrying with him a huge full-length ofVictoria, which must, Victoria felt, entirely cut her off from Londonduring the ensuing spring and summer--for it was to go into the Academy,and on no account could she bear to find herself in the same room withit--he left behind him a cordial invitation to the "little painting girl"to come and work in his Somersetshire studio--where he was feverishlybusy with a great commission for an American town-hall for the remainderof August and September. Such invitations were extraordinarily coveted;and Lydia, "advanced" as she was, should have been jubilant. She acceptedfor her art's sake; but no one could have called her jubilant.
Mrs. Penfold, who for some weeks had been in a state of nervous andrather irritable mystification with regard to Lydia, noticed the fact atonce. She consulted Susy.
"I can't make her out!" said the mother plaintively. "Oh, Susy, do youknow what's been going on? Lydia has been at Duddon at least six timesthis last fortnight--and Lord Tatham has been here--and _nothing_happens. And all the time Lydia keeps telling me she's not in love withhim, and doesn't mean to marry him. But what's _he_ doing?"
Susan was looking dishevelled and highly strung. She had spent theafternoon in writing the fifth act of a tragedy on Belisarius; and itwas more than a fortnight since Mr. Weston, the young vicar of Dunscale,had been to call. Her cheeks were sallow; her dark eyes burnt behindtheir thick lashes.
"Suppose he's done it?" she said gloomily.
Mrs. Penfold gave a little shriek.
"Done what? What do you mean?"
"He's proposed--and she's said 'No.'"
"Lord Tatham! Oh, Susy!" wailed Mrs. Penfold; "you don't think that?"
"Yes, I do," said Susan, with resolution. "And now she's letting him downgently."
"And never said a word to you or me! Oh, Susy, she couldn't be sounkind."
Mrs. Penfold's pink and white countenance, on which age had as yet laidso light a finger, showed the approach of tears. She and Susy weresitting in a leafy recess of the garden; Lydia had gone after tea to seeold Dobbs and his daughter.
"That's all this _friendship_ business, she's so full of," said Susy. "Ifshe'd accepted him, she'd have told us, of course. Now he's plucked as alover, and readmitted as a friend. And one doesn't betray a friend'ssecrets--even to one's relations. There it is."
"I never heard such nonsense," cried Mrs. Penfold. "I used to try thatkind of thing--making friends with young men. It was no use at all. Theyalways proposed."
Susan's state of tension--caused by the fact that her Fifth Act had beena veritable shambles--broke up in laughter. She couldn't help kissing hermother.
"You're priceless, darling, you really are. I wouldn't say anything toher about it, if I were you," she added, more seriously. "I shall attackher, of course, some day."
"But she still goes on seeing him," said Mrs. Penfold, pursuing her ownbewildered thoughts.
"That's her theory. She sees him--they write to each other--they probablycall each other 'Lydia' and 'Harry.'"
"Susy!"
"Why not? Christian names are very common nowadays."
"In my youth if any girl called a young man by his Christian name, itmeant she was engaged to him," said Mrs. Penfold with energy, her lookclearing. "And if they do call each other 'Lydia' and 'Harry' you may saywhat you like, Susy, but she will be engaged to him some day--if not now,in the winter, or some time."
"Well, you may be right. Anyway, don't talk to her, mother. Leave heralone!"
Mrs. Penfold sighed deeply.
"Just think, Susy, what it would be like"--she dropped hervoice--"'_Countess_ Tatham!'--can't you see her going to thedrawing-room--with her feathers and her tiara? Wouldn't she belovely--wouldn't she have the world at her feet? Think what yourfather would have said."
"I don't believe those things ever enter Lydia's mind!"
Mrs. Penfold slowly shook her head.
"It isn't human," she said plaintively, "it really isn't." And in amournful silence she returned to her embroidery.
Susan invaded her sister's bedroom late that night, and found Lydiabefore her looking-glass enveloped in shimmering clouds of hair. Theyounger sister sat down on the edge of the bed with her arms folded.
"Why are you so slack about this Delorme plan, Lydia? I don't believe youwant to go."
Lydia turned with a start.
"But of course I want to go! It's the greatest chance. I shall learn aheap of things."
Susan nodded.
"All the same you don't seem a bit keen."
Lydia fidgeted.
"Well, you see, I admire Mr. Delorme's work as much as ever. But--"
"You don't like Mr. Delorme? The greatest egotist I ever saw," said theuncompromising Susan, who, as a dramatist, prided herself on a knowledgeof character.
"Ah, but a great, great painter!" cried Lydia. "Don't dissuade me, Susan.Professionally--I must do it!"
"It's not because Mr. Delorme is an egotist, that you don't want to goaway," said Susan, quietly. "It's for quite a different reason."
"What do you mean?"
"It's because--no, I don't mind if I do make you angry!--it's becauseyou're so desperately interested in Mr. Faversham."
"Really, Susan!" The cloud of hair was thrown back, and Lydia's faceemerged, the clear, indignant eyes shining in the candlelight.
"Oh, I don't mean that you're in love with him--wish you were! But you'reroping him in--just like Lord Tatham. And as he's the latest, he's themost--well, exciting!"
Susan with her chin in her hands, and her dusky countenance very muchalive, seemed to be playing her sister with cautious mockery--feeling herway.
"Dear Susy--I don't know why you're so unkind--and unjust," said Lydia,after a moment, in the tone of one wounded.
"How am I unkind? You're the practical one of us three. You run us andtake care of us. We know we're stupids compared to you. But really mammaand I stand aghast at the way in which you manage your love affairs!"
"My love affairs!" cried Lydia, "but I haven't got any!"
"Do you mean to say that Lord Tatham is not in love with you?" said Susanseverely--"that he wouldn't marry you to-morrow if you'd let him?"
Lydia flushed, but her look was neither resentful nor repentant.
"Why should we put it in that way?" she said, ardently. "Isn't itpossible to look at men in some other light than as possible husbands?Haven't they got hearts and minds--don't they think and feel--just likeus?"
"Oh, no, not like us," said Susan hastily--"never."
Lydia smiled.
"Well, enough like us, anyway. Do you ever think, Susy!" she seized hersister's wrist and looked her in the eyes--"that there are a million morewomen than men in this country? It is evident we can't all be married.Well, then, I withdraw from the competition! It's demoralizing to women;and it's worse for men. But I don't intend to confine myself to womenfriends."
"They bore you," said Susy sharply; "confess it at once!"
"How unkind of you!" Lydia's protest was almost tearful. "You know I haveat least four"--she recalled their names--"who love me, and I them. Butneither men nor women should live in a world apart. They complete eachother."
"Yes--in marriage," said Susan.
"No!--in a thousand other ways--we hardly dream of yet. Not marriageonly--but comradeship--help--in all the great--impersonal--delightfulthings!"
"You look like a prophetess," said Susan, appraising her sister's kindledbeauty, with an artistic eye; "but I should like to know what Lady Tathamhas to say!"
Lydia was silent, her lip quivering a little.
"And I warn you," Susan continued, greatly daring, "that Faversham won'tlet you do what you like with him!"
Lydia rose slowly, gathered up her golden veil into one big knot withoutspeaking, and went on with her preparations for bed.
Susy too uncoiled her small figure and stood up.
"I've told mamma not to bother you," she saidabruptly.
Lydia threw an
arm round her tormentor.
"Dear Sue, I don't want to scold, but if you only knew how you spoilthings!"
Susy's eyes twinkled. She let Lydia kiss her, and then walking veryslowly to the door, so as not to have an appearance of being put toflight, she disappeared.
Lydia was left to think--and think--her eyes on the ground. Never hadlife run so warmly and richly; she was amply conscious of it. And what,pray, in spite of Susy's teasing, had love to say to it? Passion wasruled out--she held the senses in leash, submissive. Harry Tatham,indeed, was now writing to her every day; and she to him, less often.Faversham, too, was writing to her, coming to consult her; and all that awoman's sympathy, all that mind and spirit could do to help him in hisheavy and solitary task she would do. Toward Tatham she felt with atender sisterliness; anxious often; yet confident in herself, and in theissue. In Faversham's case, it was rather a keen, a romantic curiosity,to see how a man would quit himself in a great ordeal suddenly thrustupon him; and a girlish pride that he should turn to her for help.
His first note to her lay there--inside her sketch book. It had reachedher the morning after his interview with Mr. Melrose.
"I didn't find Mr. Melrose in a yielding mood last night. I beg of youdon't expect too much. Please, please be patient, and remember that if Ican do as yet but little, I honestly believe nobody else could doanything. We must wait and watch--here a step, and there a step. But Ithink I may ask you to trust me; and, if you can, suggest to others to dothe same. How much your sympathy helps me I cannot express."
Of course she would be patient. But she was triumphantly certain ofhim--and his power. What Susy said to her unwillingness to go south waspartly true. She would have liked to stay and watch the progress ofthings on the Melrose estates; to be at hand if Mr. Faversham wanted her.She thought of Mainstairs--that dying girl--the sickly children--thehelpless old people. Indignant pity gripped her. That surely would be thefirst--the very first step; a mere question of weeks--or days. It was sosimple, so obvious! Mr. Melrose would be _shamed_ into action! Mr.Faversham could not fail there.
But she must go. She had her profession; and she must earn money.
Also--the admission caused her discomfort--the sooner she went, thesooner would it be possible for Lady Tatham to induce her son to migrateto the Scotch moor where, as a rule, she and he were always to be foundsettled by the first days of August. It was evident that she was anxiousto be gone. Lydia confessed it, sorely, to herself. It seemed to her thatshe had been spending some weeks in trying hard to make friends with LadyTatham; and she had not succeeded.
"Why won't she talk to me!" she thought; "and I daren't--to her. It wouldbe so easy to understand each other!"
Three days later, Green Cottage was in the occupation of a Manchestersolicitor, who was paying a rent for it, which put Mrs. Penfold inhigh spirits; especially when coupled with the astonishing fact thatLydia had sold all her three drawings which had been sent to a Londonexhibition--also, apparently, to a solicitor. Mrs. Penfold expressed hersurprise to her daughter that the practice of the law should lead both toa love of scenery and the patronage of the arts; she had been brought upto think of it as a deadening profession.
Lydia had gone south; Mrs. Penfold and Susy were paying visits torelations; and Duddon was closed till the end of September. It was knownthat Mr. Melrose had gone off on one of his curio-hunting tours; and thenew agent ruled. A whole countryside, or what was left of it in August,settled down to watch.
* * * * *
High on the moors of Ross-shire, Lady Tatham too watched. The lodgefilled up with guests, and one charming girl succeeded another, byVictoria's careful contrivance. None of your painted and powderedcampaigners with minds torn between the desire to "best" a rival, andthe terror of their dressmakers' bills; but the freshest, sweetest,best-bred young women she could discover among the daughters of herfriends. Tatham was delightful with them all, patiently played golf withthem, taught them to fish, and tramped with them over the moors. And whenthey said good-bye, and the motor took them to the station, Victoriabelieved that he remembered them just about as much, or as little, as the"bag" of the last shoot.
Her own feeling was curiously mixed. There were many days when she wouldhave liked to beat Lydia Penfold, and at all times her pride lay wounded,bitterly wounded, at the girl's soft hands. When Harry had first confidedin her, she had been certain that no nice girl could long resist him, ifonly she, Harry's mother, gave opportunities and held the lists. It wouldnot be necessary for her to take any active steps. Mere propinquity woulddo it. Then, when Tatham stumbled prematurely into his proposal, Victoriamight have intervened to help, but for Lydia's handling of the situation.She had refused the natural place offered her in Harry's life--the placeof lover and wife. But she had claimed and was now holding a place onlyless intimate, only less important; and Victoria felt herself disarmedand powerless. To try and separate them was to deal a blow at her son ofwhich she was incapable; and at the same time there was the gnawinganxiety lest their absurd "friendship" should stand in the way of herboy's marriage--should "queer the pitch" for the future.
Meanwhile, day by day, Tatham's letters travelled south to Lydia, andtwice a week or thereabout, letters addressed in a clear and beautifulhandwriting arrived by an evening post from the south. And graduallyVictoria became aware of new forces and new growths in her son. "Whatdoes she write to you about?" she had said to him once, with herhalf-sarcastic smile. And after a little hesitation--silently, Tatham hadhanded over to her the letter of the afternoon. "I'd like you to see it,"he had said simply. "She makes one think a lot."
And, indeed, it was a remarkable letter, full of poetry but also full offun. The humours of Delorme's studio--a play she had seen in London--abook she had read--the characteristics of a Somersetshire village--theeager pen ran on without effort, without pretence. But it was the pen ofyouth, of feeling, of romance; and it revealed the delicate heart andmind of a woman. There was a liberal education in it; and Victoriawatched the process at work, sometimes with jealousy, sometimes withemotion. After all, might it not be a mere stage--and a useful one. Shereserved her judgment, waiting for the time when these two should meetagain, face to face.
September was more than halfway through, when one morning Tatham tossed aletter to his mother across the breakfast table with the remark:
"I say, mother, the new broom doesn't seem to be sweeping very well!"
The letter was from Undershaw. Tatham--in whom the rural reformer wassteadily developing--kept up a fairly regular correspondence with theactive young doctor, on medical and sanitary matters, connected withhis own estate and the county.
"Matters are going rather oddly in this neighbourhood. I must say I can'tmake Faversham out. You remember what an excellent beginning he seemed tomake a couple of months ago. Colonel Barton told me that he had everyhope of him; he was evidently most anxious to purge some at least of Mr.Melrose's misdeeds; seemed businesslike, conciliatory, etc. Well, Iassure you, he has done almost nothing! It is not really a question ofgiving him time. There were certain scandalous things, years old, that heought to have put right _at once_--on the nail--or thrown up his post.The Mainstairs cottages for instance. We are in for another diphtheriaepidemic there. The conditions are simply horrible. Melrose, as before,will do nothing, and defies anybody else to do anything; says he hasgiven the tenants notice that he intends to pull the cottages down, andthe people stay in them at their own peril. The local authority can donothing; the people say they have nowhere to go, and cling like limpetsto the rock. Melrose could put those sixteen cottages in order for acouple of thousand pounds, which would be about as much to him ashalf-a-crown to me. It is all insane pride and obstinacy--he won't bedictated to--and the rest. I shall be a land-nationalizer if I hear muchmore of Melrose.
"Meanwhile, Faversham will soon come in for his master's hideousunpopularity, if he can't manage him better. He is looking white andharassed, and seems to avoid persons like myself who mig
ht attack him.But I gather that he has been trying to come round Melrose by attemptingsome reforms behind his back, and probably with his own money. Something,for instance, was begun at Mainstairs, while Melrose was away in Holland,after the fresh diphtheria cases broke out. There was an attempt made toget at the pollutions infecting the water supply, and repairs were begunon the worst cottage.
"But in the middle Melrose came home, and was, I believe, immediatelyinformed of what was going on by that low scoundrel Nash who used tobe his factotum, and has shown great jealousy of Faversham since hisappointment. What happened exactly I can't say, but from something oldDixon said to me the other day--I have been attending him forrheumatism--I imagine there was a big row between the two men. WhyFaversham didn't throw up there and then, I can't understand. Howeverthere he is still, immersed they tell me in the business of the estate,but incessantly watched and hampered by Melrose himself, an extraordinarydevelopment in so short a time; and able, apparently, even if he iswilling, which I assume--to do little or nothing to meet the worstcomplaints of the tenants. They are beginning to turn against himfuriously.
"Last week the sight of Mainstairs and the horrible suffering there goton my nerves. I sat down and wrote to Melrose peremptorily demanding aproper supply of antitoxin at once, at his expense. A post-card from himarrived, refusing, and bidding me apply to a Socialist government. Thatnight, however, on arriving at my surgery, I found a splendid supply ofantitoxin, labelled 'for Mainstairs,' without another word. I have reasonto think Faversham had been in Carlisle himself that day to get it; hemust have cleared out the place.
"Next day I saw him in the village. He specially haunts a cottage wherethere is a poor girl of eighteen, paralyzed after an attack of diphtherialast year, and not, I think, long for this world. The new epidemic hasnow attacked her younger sister, a pretty child of eight. I doubt whetherwe shall save her. Miss Penfold has always been very kind in coming tovisit them. She will be dreadfully sorry.
"Faversham, I believe, has tried to move the whole family. But where arethey to go? The grandfather is a shepherd on a farm near--too old for anew place. There isn't a vacant cottage in the whole neighbourhood--asyou know; and scores that ought to be built.
"As to the right-of-way business, Melrose's fences are all up again, hisrascally lawyers, Nash at the head, are as busy as bees trumping up hiscase; and I can only suppose that he has been forcing Faversham to writethe unscrupulous letters about it that have been appearing in some of thepapers.
"What makes it all rather gruesome is that there are the most persistentrumours that the young man has been adopted by Melrose, and will probablybe his heir. I can't give you any proofs, but I am certain that all thepeople about the Tower believe it. If so, he will no doubt be well paidfor his soul! But sell it he must, or go. I have no doubt he thought hecould manage Melrose. Poor devil!
"The whole thing makes me very sick--I liked him so much while he was mypatient. And I expect you and Lady Tatham will be pretty disappointedtoo."
* * * * *
Victoria returned the letter to her son, pointing to the last sentence.
"It depends on what you expected. I never took to the young man."
"Why doesn't he insist--or go!" cried Tatham.
"Apparently Melrose has bought him."
"I say, don't let's believe that till we know!"
When his mother left him, Tatham took his way to the moor, and spentan uncomfortable hour in rumination. Lydia had spoken of Faversham onceor twice in her early letters from the south; but lately there had beenno references to him at all. Was she disappointed--or too muchinterested?--too deeply involved? A vague but gnawing jealousy wasfastening on Tatham day by day; and he had not been able to conceal itfrom his mother. Lydia was free--of course she was free! But friends havetheir right too. "If she is really going that way, I ought to know,"thought poor Tatham.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Lydia herself would have been hard put to it to say whither shewas going. But that moral and intellectual landscape which had lain soclear before her when she left Green Cottage was certainly beginning toblur; the mists were descending upon it.
She spent the August and September days working feverishly hard inDelorme's studio, and her evenings in a pleasant society of youngartists, of both sexes, all gathered at the feet of the great man. Buther mind was often far away; and rational theories as to the truerelations between men and women were neither so clear nor so supportingas they had been.
She had now two intimate men friends; two ardent and devotedcorrespondents. Scarcely a day passed that she was not in touch with bothof them. Her knowledge of the male temperament and male ways of lookingat things was increasing fast. So far she had her desire. And in hercorrespondence with the two men, she had amply "played up." She had givenherself--her thoughts, feelings, imaginations--to both; in differentways, and different degrees.
And what was happening? Simply a natural, irresistible discrimination,which was like the slow inflooding of the tide through the river mouthit forces. Tatham's letters were all pleasure. Not a word of wooing inthem. He had given his word, and he kept it. But the unveiling of acharacter so simple, strong, and honest, to the eyes of this girl offour-and-twenty, conveyed of itself a tribute that could not but rouseboth gratitude and affection in Lydia. She did her best to reward him;and so far her "ideas" had worked.
Faversham's letters, on the other hand, from the governing event of theday, had now become a pain and a distress. The exultant and exuberantself-confidence of the earlier correspondence, the practical dreams onpaper which had stirred her enthusiasm and delight--they came, it seemedto her, to a sudden and jarring end, somewhere about the opening ofSeptember. The change was evidently connected with the return of Mr.Melrose from abroad just at that time. The letters grew rambling,evasive, contradictory. Doubt and bitterness began to appear in them.She asked for facts about his work, and they were not given her. Insteadthe figure of Melrose rose on the horizon, till he dominated thecorrespondence, a harsh and fantastic task-master, to whose will andconscience it was useless to appeal.
When two months of this double correspondence had gone by, and in theabsence of Lydia's usual friends and correspondents from the Pengarthneighbourhood, no other information from the north had arrived tosupplement Faversham's letters, Susy, who was in the Tyrol with a friend,might have drawn ample "copy," from her sister's condition, had shewitnessed it. Lydia was most clearly unhappy. She was desperatelyinterested, and full of pity; yet apparently powerless to help. Therewas a tug at her heart, a grip on her thoughts, which increasedperpetually. Faversham wrote to her often like a guilty man; why, shecould not imagine. The appeal of his letters to her had begun to shakeher nerves, to haunt her nights. She longed for the October day whenGreen Cottage would be free from its tenants, and she once more on thespot.
With the second week of October, Lady Tatham returned to Duddon. Tathamwould have been with her, but that he was detained, grumbling, by apolitical demonstration at Newcastle. Never had he felt politicalspeech-making so tedious. But for a foolish promise to talk drivel to acrowd of people who knew even less about the subject than he, he mighthave been spending the evening with Lydia. For the strangers in GreenCottage had departed, and Lydia was again within his reach.
The return to Duddon after an absence had never lost its freshness forVictoria. Woman of fifty as she was, she was still a bundle of passions,in the intellectual and poetic sense. The sight of her own fells andstreams, the sound of the Cumbrian "aa's," and "oo's," the scurrying ofthe sheep among the fern, the breath of the wind in the Glendarra woods,the scent of moss and heather--these things rilled her with just the samethrills and gushes of delight as in her youth. Such thrills and gusheswere for her own use only; she never offered them for inspection by otherpeople.
She had no sooner looked at her letters, and chatted with herhousekeeper, on the day of her return, than clothed in her oldest gownand thickes
t shoes, she went out wandering by herself through the Octoberdusk; ravished by the colour in which autumn had been wrapping theCumbrian earth since she had beheld it last; the purples and golds andamethysts, the touches of emerald green, the fringes of blue and purplemist; by the familiar music of the streams, which is not as the Scotchmusic; and the scents of the hills, which are not as the scents of theHighlands. Yet all the time she was thinking of Harry and Lydia Penfold;trying to plan the winter, and what she was to do.
It was dark, with a rising moon when she got back to Duddon. The butler,an old servant, was watching for her in the hall. She noticed disturbancein his manner.
"There are two ladies, my lady, in the drawing-room."
"Two ladies!--Hurst!" The tone was reproachful. Victoria did not alwayssuffer her neighbours gladly, and Hurst knew her ways. The first eveningat home was sacred.
"I could not help it, my lady. I told them you were out, and might not bein till dark. They said they must see you--they had come from Italy--andit was most important."
"From Italy!" repeated Victoria, wondering--"who on earth--Did they givetheir name?"
"No, my lady, they said you'd know them quite well."
Victoria hurried on to the drawing-room. Two figures rose as she enteredthe room, which was only lit by the firelight; and then stood motionless.
Victoria advanced bewildered.
"Will you kindly tell me your names?"
"Don't you remember me, Lady Tatham?" said a low, excited voice.
Victoria turned on an electric switch close to her hand, and the room wassuddenly in a blaze of light. She looked in scrutinizing astonishment atthe figure in dingy black, standing before her, and at a girl, lookingabout sixteen--deathly pale--who seemed to be leaning on a chair in thebackground.
That strange, triangular face, with the sharp chin, and the abnormaleyes--where, in what dim past, had she seen it before? For some secondsmemory wrestled. Then, old and new came together; and she recognized hervisitor.
"Mrs. Melrose!" she said, in incredulous amazement. The woman in blackcame nearer, and spoke brokenly--the bitter emotion beneath graduallyforcing its way.
"I am in great distress--I don't know what to do. My daughter and I arestarving--and I remembered you'd come to see me--that once--at Threlfall.I knew all about you. I've asked English people often. I thought perhapsyou'd help me--you'd tell me how to make my husband do something forme--for me--and for his daughter! Look at her"--Netta paused andpointed--"she's ill--she's dropping. We had to hurry through from Lucca.We couldn't afford to stop on the way. We sold everything we had; somepeople collected a hundred francs for us; and we just managed to buy ourtickets. Felicia didn't want to come, but I made her. I couldn't see herdie before my eyes. We've starved for months. We've parted witheverything, and I've written to Mr. Melrose again and again. He's neveranswered--till a few weeks ago, and he said if we troubled him againhe'd stop the money. He's a bad, bad man."
Shaking, her teeth chattering, her hands clenched at her side, theforlorn creature stared at Victoria. She was not old, but she was awreck; a withered, emaciated wreck of the woman Victoria had once seentwenty years before.
Victoria, laying a gentle hand upon her, drew an armchair forward.
"Sit down, please, and rest. You shall have food directly. I will haverooms got ready. And this is your daughter?"
She went up to the girl who stood shivering like her mother, andspeechless. But her proud black eyes met Victoria's with a passion inthem that seemed to resent a touch, a look. "She ought to be lovely!"thought Victoria; "she is--if one could feed and dress her."
"You poor child! Come and lie down."
She took hold of the girl and guided her to a sofa. When they reached it,the little creature fell half fainting upon it. But she controlledherself by an astonishing effort, thanked Victoria in Italian, andcurling herself up in a corner she closed her eyes. The white profile onthe dark sofa cushion was of a most delicate perfection, and as Victoriahelped to remove her hat she saw a small dark head covered with shortcurls like a boy's.
Netta Melrose looked round the beautiful room, its pictures, its deepsofas and chairs, its bright fire, and then at the figures of Victoriaand the housekeeper in the distance. Victoria was giving her orders. Thetears were on Netta's cheeks. Yet she had the vague, ineffable feeling ofone just drawn from the waves. She had done right. She had saved herselfand Felicia.
Food was brought, and wine. They were coaxed to eat, warmed andcomforted. Then Victoria took them up through the broad, scented passagesof the beautiful house to rooms that had been got ready for them.
"Don't talk any more to-night. You shall tell me everything to-morrow. Mymaid will help you. I will come back presently to see you have everythingyou want."
Felicia, frowning, wished to unpack their small hand-bag, with its shabbycontents, for herself. But she was too feeble, and the maid, in spite ofwhat seemed to the two forlorn ones her fine clothes and fine ways, waskind and tactful. Victoria's wardrobe was soon laid under contribution;beautiful linen, and soft silken things she possessed but seldom wore,were brought out for her destitute guests.
Victoria came in to say good-night. Netta looked at the stately woman,the hair just beginning to be gray, the strong face with its story offastidious thought, of refined and sheltered living.
"You're awfully good to us. It's twenty years!--" Her voice failed her.
"Twenty years--yes, indeed! since I drove over to see you that time! Yourdaughter was a little toddling thing."
"We've had such a life--these last few years--oh, such an awfullife! My old father's still alive--but would be better if he were dead.My mother depended on us entirely--she's dead. But I'll explaineverything--everything."
It was clear, however, that till sleep had knit up the ravelled nerves ofthe poor lady, no coherent conversation was possible. Victoria hastenedto depart.
"To-morrow you shall tell me all about yourself. My son will be hometo-morrow. We will consult him and see what can be done."
Mother and daughter were left alone. Felicia rose feebly to go to her ownroom, which adjoined her mother's. She was wearing a dressing-gown ofembroidered silk--pale blue, and shimmering--which Victoria's maid hadwrapped her in, after the child's travelling clothes, thread-bare andmud-stained, had been taken off. The girl's tiny neck and wrists emergedfrom it, her little head, and her face from which weariness and distresshad robbed all natural bloom. What she was wearing, or how she looked,she did not know and did not care. But her mother, in whom dress had beenfor years a passion never to be indulged, was suddenly--though all herexhaustion--enchanted with her daughter's appearance.
"Oh, Felicia, you look so nice!"
She took up the silk of the dressing-gown and passed it through herfingers covetously; then her tired eyes ran over the room, the white bedstanding ready, the dressing-table with its silver ornaments and flowers,the chintz-covered sofas and chairs.
"Why shouldn't we be rich too?" she said angrily. "Your father is richerthan the Tathams. It's a wicked, wicked shame!"
Felicia put her hand to her head.
"Oh, do let me go to bed," she said in Italian.
Netta put her arm round her, supporting her. Presently they passed aportrait on the wall, an enlarged photograph of a boy in cricketingdress.
Underneath it was written:
"_Harry. Eton Eleven. July 189---_."
Felicia for the first time showed a gleam of interest. She stopped tolook at the picture.
"Who is it?"
"It must be her son, Lord Tatham."
The girl's sunken eyes seemed to drink in the pleasant image of theEnglish boy.
"Shall we see him?"
"Of course. To-morrow. Now come to bed!"
Felicia's head was no sooner on the pillow than she plunged into sleep.Netta, on the other hand, was for a long time sleepless. The luxury ofthe bed and the room was inexpressibly delightful and reviving to her.Recollections of a small bare house in the Apuan Alps a
bove Lucca, and ofall that she and Felicia had endured there, ran through her mind, mingledwith visions of Threlfall as she had known it of old, its chokedpassages--the locked room from which she had stolen the Hermes--thegreat table in Edmund's room with its litter of bric-a-brac--Edmundhimself....
She trembled; alternately desperate, and full of fears. The thought thatMelrose was only a few miles from her--that she was going to face andbrave him after all these years--turned her cold with terror. And yetmisery had made her reckless.
"He _shall_ provide for us!" She gathered up her weak soul into thissupreme resolve. How wise she had been to follow the sudden impulse whichhad bade her appeal to the Tathams! Were they not her kinsfolk bymarriage?
They knew what Edmund was! They were kind and powerful. They wouldprotect her, and take up her cause. Edmund was now an old man. If hedied, who else had a right to his money but she and Felicia? Oh! LadyTatham would help them; she'd see them righted! Cradled in that hope,Netta Melrose at last fell asleep.