iii.
“seven months have passed, my dear dick, since my ‘inhuman obstinacy’ (those were the words you used) made you one of the witnesses at my marriage to miss dulane, sorely against your will. do you remember your parting prophecy when you were out of the bride’s hearing? ‘a miserable life is before that woman’s husband—and, by jupiter, he has deserved it!’
“never, my dear boy, attempt to forecast the future again. viewed as a prophet you are a complete failure. i have nothing to complain of in my married life.
“but you must not mistake me. i am far from saying that i am a happy man; i only declare myself to be a contented man. my old wife is a marvel of good temper and good sense. she trusts me implicitly, and i have given her no reason to regret it. we have our time for being together, and our time for keeping apart. within our inevitable limits we understand each other and respect each other, and have a truer feeling of regard on both sides than many people far better matched than we are in point of age. but you shall judge for yourself. come and dine with us, when i return on wednesday next from the trial trip of my new yacht. in the meantime i have a service to ask of you.
“my wife’s niece has been her companion for years. she has left us to be married to an officer, who has taken her to india; and we are utterly at a loss how to fill her place. the good old lady doesn’t want much. a nice-tempered refined girl, who can sing and play to her with some little taste and feeling, and read to her now and then when her eyes are weary—there is what we require; and there, it seems, is more than we can get, after advertising for a week past. of all the ‘companions’ who have presented themselves, not one has turned out to be the sort of person whom lady howel wants.
“can you help us? in any case, my wife sends you her kind remembrances; and (true to the old times) i add my love.”
on the day which followed the receipt of this letter, dick paid a visit to lady howel beaucourt.
“you seem to be excited,” she said. “has anything remarkable happened?”
“pardon me if i ask a question first,” dick replied. “do you object to a young widow?”
“that depends on the widow.”
“then i have found the very person you want. and, oddly enough, your husband has had something to do with it.”
“do you mean that my husband has recommended her?”
there was an undertone of jealousy in lady howel’s voice—-jealousy excited not altogether without a motive. she had left it to beaucourt’s sense of honor to own the truth, if there had been any love affair in his past life which ought to make him hesitates before he married. he had justified miss dulane’s confidence in him; acknowledging an attachment to a young widow, and adding that she had positively refused him. “we have not met since,” he said, “and we shall never meet again.” under those circumstances, miss dulane had considerately abstained from asking for any further details. she had not thought of the young widow again, until dick’s language had innocently inspired her first doubt. fortunately for both of them, he was an outspoken man; and he reassured her unreservedly in these words: “your husband knows nothing about it.”
“now,” she said, “you may tell me how you came to hear of the lady.”
“through my uncle’s library,” dick replied. “his will has left me his collection of books—in such a wretchedly neglected condition that i asked beaucourt (not being a reading man myself) if he knew of any competent person who could advise me how to set things right. he introduced me to farleigh & halford, the well-known publishers. the second partner is a book collector himself, as well as a bookseller. he kindly looks in now and then, to see how his instructions for mending and binding are being carried out. when he called yesterday i thought of you, and i found he could help us to a young lady employed in his office at correcting proof sheets.”
“what is the lady’s name?”
“mrs. evelin.”
“why does she leave her employment?”
“to save her eyes, poor soul. when the senior partner, mr. farleigh, met with her, she was reduced by family misfortunes to earn her own living. the publishers would have been only too glad to keep her in their office, but for the oculist’s report. he declared that she would run the risk of blindness, if she fatigued her weak eyes much longer. there is the only objection to this otherwise invaluable person—she will not be able to read to you.”
“can she sing and play?”
“exquisitely. mr. farleigh answers for her music.”
“and her character?”
“mr. halford answers for her character.”
“and her manners?”
“a perfect lady. i have seen her and spoken to her; i answer for her manners, and i guarantee her personal appearance. charming—charming!”
for a moment lady howel hesitated. after a little reflection, she decided that it was her duty to trust her excellent husband. “i will receive the charming widow,” she said, “to-morrow at twelve o’clock; and, if she produces the right impression, i promise to overlook the weakness of her eyes.”
iv.
beaucourt had prolonged the period appointed for the trial trip of his yacht by a whole week. his apology when he returned delighted the kind-hearted old lady who had made him a present of the vessel.
“there isn’t such another yacht in the whole world,” he declared. “i really hadn’t the heart to leave that beautiful vessel after only three days experience of her.” he burst out with a torrent of technical praises of the yacht, to which his wife listened as attentively as if she really understood what he was talking about. when his breath and his eloquence were exhausted alike, she said, “now, my dear, it’s my turn. i can match your perfect vessel with my perfect lady.”
“what! you have found a companion?”
“yes.”
“did dick find her for you?”
“he did indeed. you shall see for yourself how grateful i ought to be to your friend.”
she opened a door which led into the next room. “mary, my dear, come and be introduced to my husband.”
beaucourt started when he heard the name, and instantly recovered himself. he had forgotten how many marys there are in the world.
lady howel returned, leading her favorite by the hand, and gayly introduced her the moment they entered the room.
“mrs. evelin; lord—”
she looked at her husband. the utterance of his name was instantly suspended on her lips. mrs. evelin’s hand, turning cold at the same moment in her hand, warned her to look round. the face of the woman more than reflected the inconcealable agitation in the face of the man.
the wife’s first words, when she recovered herself, were addressed to them both.
“which of you can i trust,” she asked, “to tell me the truth?”
“you can trust both of us,” her husband answered.
the firmness of his tone irritated her. “i will judge of that for myself,” she said. “go back to the next room,” she added, turning to mrs. evelin; “i will hear you separately.”
the companion, whose duty it was to obey—whose modesty and gentleness had won her mistress’s heart—refused to retire.
“no,” she said; “i have been deceived too. i have my right to hear what lord howel has to say for himself.”
beaucourt attempted to support the claim that she had advanced. his wife sternly signed to him to be silent. “what do you mean?” she said, addressing the question to mrs. evelin.
“i mean this. the person whom you speak of as a nobleman was presented to me as ‘mr. vincent, an artist.’ but for that deception i should never have set foot in your ladyship’s house.”
“is this true, my lord?” lady howel asked, with a contemptuous emphasis on the title of nobility.
“quite true,” her husband answered. “i thought it possible that my rank might prove an obstacle in the way of my hopes. the blame rests on me, and on me alone. i ask mrs. evelin to pardon me for an act of deception which i deeply regret.”
lady howel was a just woman. under other circumstances she might have shown herself to be a generous woman. that brighter side of her character was incapable of revealing itself in the presence of mrs. evelin, young and beautiful, and in possession of her husband’s heart. she could say, “i beg your pardon, madam; i have not treated you justly.” but no self-control was strong enough to restrain the next bitter words from passing her lips. “at my age,” she said, “lord howel will soon be free; you will not have long to wait for him.”
the young widow looked at her sadly—answered her sadly.
“oh, my lady, your better nature will surely regret having said that!”
for a moment her eyes rested on beaucourt, dim with rising tears. she left the room—and left the house.
there was silence between the husband and wife. beaucourt was the first to speak again.
“after what you have just heard, do you persist in your jealousy of that lady, and your jealousy of me?” he asked.
“i have behaved cruelly to her and to you. i am ashamed of myself,” was all she said in reply. that expression of sorrow, so simple and so true, did not appeal in vain to the gentler side of beaucourt’s nature. he kissed his wife’s hand; he tried to console her.
“you may forgive me,” she answered. “i cannot forgive myself. that poor lady’s last words have made my heart ache. what i said to her in anger i ought to have said generously. why should she not wait for you? after your life with me—a life of kindness, a life of self-sacrifice—you deserve your reward. promise me that you will marry the woman you love—after my death has released you.”
“you distress me, and needlessly distress me,” he said. “what you are thinking of, my dear, can never happen; no, not even if—” he left the rest unsaid.
“not even if you were free?” she asked.
“not even then.”
she looked toward the next room. “go in, howel, and bring mrs. evelin back; i have something to say to her.”
the discovery that she had left the house caused no fear that she had taken to flight with the purpose of concealing herself. there was a prospect before the poor lonely woman which might be trusted to preserve her from despair, to say the least of it.
during her brief residence in beaucourt’s house she had shown to lady howel a letter received from a relation, who had emigrated to new zealand with her husband and her infant children some years since. they had steadily prospered; they were living in comfort, and they wanted for nothing but a trustworthy governess to teach their children. the mother had accordingly written, asking if her relative in england could recommend a competent person, and offering a liberal salary. in showing the letter to lady howel, mrs. evelin had said: “if i had not been so happy as to attract your notice, i might have offered to be the governess myself.”
assuming that it had now occurred to her to act on this idea, lady howel felt assured that she would apply for advice either to the publishers who had recommended her, or to lord howel’s old friend.
beaucourt at once offered to make th e inquiries which might satisfy his wife that she had not been mistaken. readily accepting his proposal, she asked at the same time for a few minutes of delay.
“i want to say to you,” she explained, “what i had in my mind to say to mrs. evelin. do you object to tell me why she refused to marry you? i couldn’t have done it in her place.”
“you would have done it, my dear, as i think, if her misfortune had been your misfortune.” with those prefatory words he told the miserable story of mrs. evelin’s marriage.
lady howel’s sympathies, strongly excited, appeared to have led her to a conclusion which she was not willing to communicate to her husband. she asked him, rather abruptly, if he would leave it to her to find mrs. evelin. “i promise,” she added, “to tell you what i am thinking of, when i come back.”
in two minutes more she was ready to go out, and had hurriedly left the house.
v.
after a long absence lady howel returned, accompanied by dick. his face and manner betrayed unusual agitation; beaucourt noticed it.
“i may well be excited,” dick declared, “after what i have heard, and after what we have done. lady howel, yours is the brain that thinks to some purpose. make our report—i wait for you.”
but my lady preferred waiting for dick. he consented to speak first, for the thoroughly characteristic reason that he could “get over it in no time.”
“i shall try the old division,” he said, “into first, second, and third. don’t be afraid; i am not going to preach—quite the contrary; i am going to be quick about it. first, then, mrs. evelin has decided, under sound advice, to go to new zealand. second, i have telegraphed to her relations at the other end of the world to tell them that she is coming. third, and last, farleigh & halford have sent to the office, and secured a berth for her in the next ship that sails—date the day after to-morrow. done in half a minute. now, lady howel!”
“i will begin and end in half a minute too,” she said, “if i can. first,” she continued, turning to her husband, “i found mrs. evelin at your friend’s house. she kindly let me say all that i could say for the relief of my poor heart. secondly—”
she hesitated, smiled uneasily, and came to a full stop.
“i can’t do it, howel,” she confessed; “i speak to you as usual, or i can never get on. saying many things in few words—if the ladies who assert our rights will forgive me for confessing it—is an accomplishment in which we are completely beaten by the men. you must have thought me rude, my dear, for leaving you very abruptly, without a word of explanation. the truth is, i had an idea in my head, and i kept it to myself (old people are proverbially cautious, you know) till i had first found out whether it was worth mentioning. when you were speaking of the wretched creature who had claimed mrs. evelin’s husband as her own, you said she was an inveterate drunkard. a woman in that state of degradation is capable, as i persist in thinking, of any wickedness. i suppose this put it into my head to doubt her—no; i mean, to wonder whether mr. evelin—do you know that she keeps her husband’s name by his own entreaty addressed to her on his deathbed?—oh, i am losing myself in a crowd of words of my own collecting! say the rest of it for me, sir richard!”
“no, lady howel. not unless you call me ‘dick.’”
“then say it for me—dick.”
“no, not yet, on reflection. dick is too short, say ‘dear dick.’”
“dear dick—there!”
“thank you, my lady. now we had better remember that your husband is present.” he turned to beaucourt. “lady howel had the idea,” he proceeded, “which ought to have presented itself to you and to me. it was a serious misfortune (as she thought) that mr. evelin’s sufferings in his last illness, and his wife’s anxiety while she was nursing him, had left them unfit to act in their own defense. they might otherwise not have submitted to the drunken wretch’s claim, without first making sure that she had a right to advance it. taking her character into due consideration, are we quite certain that she was herself free to marry, when mr. evelin unfortunately made her his wife? to that serious question we now mean to find an answer. with mrs. evelin’s knowledge of the affair to help us, we have discovered the woman’s address, to begin with. she keeps a small tobacconist’s shop at the town of grailey in the north of england. the rest is in the hands of my lawyer. if we make the discovery that we all hope for, we have your wife to thank for it.” he paused, and looked at his watch. “i’ve got an appointment at the club. the committee will blackball the best fellow that ever lived if i don’t go and stop them. good-by.”
the last day of mrs. evelin’s sojourn in england was memorable in more ways than one.
on the first occasion in beaucourt’s experience of his married life, his wife wrote to him instead of speaking to him, although they were both in the house at the time. it was a little note only containing these words: “i thought you would like to say good-by to mrs. evelin. i have told her to expect you in the library, and i will take care that you are not disturbed.”
waiting at the window of her sitting-room, on the upper floor, lady howel perceived that the delicate generosity of her conduct had been gratefully felt. the interview in the library barely lasted for five minutes. she saw mrs. evelin leave the house with her veil down. immediately afterward, beaucourt ascended to his wife’s room to thank her. carefully as he had endeavored to hide them, the traces of tears in his eyes told her how cruelly the parting scene had tried him. it was a bitter moment for his admirable wife. “do you wish me dead?” she asked with sad self-possession. “live,” he said, “and live happily, if you wish to make me happy too.” he drew her to him and kissed her forehead. lady howel had her reward.
