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A Group of Noble Dames by Thomas Hardy

Part 3 out of 4

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ushered the girl into the great world more effectually than we ever
shall be able to do.'

'The Contessa take Dorothy?' said Lady Mottisfont with a start.
'What--was she the lady who wished to adopt her?'

'Yes; she was staying at Bath when Lawyer Gayton wrote to me.'

'But how do you know all this, Ashley?'

He showed a little hesitation. 'Oh, I've seen her,' he says. 'You
know, she drives to the meet sometimes, though she does not ride;
and she has informed me that she was the lady who inquired of
Gayton.'

'You have talked to her as well as seen her, then?'

'Oh yes, several times; everybody has.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' says his lady. 'I had quite forgotten to
call upon her. I'll go to-morrow, or soon . . . But I can't think,
Ashley, how you can say that it might have been better for Dorothy
to have gone to her; she is so much our own now that I cannot admit
any such conjectures as those, even in jest.' Her eyes reproached
him so eloquently that Sir Ashley Mottisfont did not answer.

Lady Mottisfont did not hunt any more than the Anglo-Italian
Countess did; indeed, she had become so absorbed in household
matters and in Dorothy's wellbeing that she had no mind to waste a
minute on mere enjoyments. As she had said, to talk coolly of what
might have been the best destination in days past for a child to
whom they had become so attached seemed quite barbarous, and she
could not understand how her husband should consider the point so
abstractedly; for, as will probably have been guessed, Lady
Mottisfont long before this time, if she had not done so at the very
beginning, divined Sir Ashley's true relation to Dorothy. But the
baronet's wife was so discreetly meek and mild that she never told
him of her surmise, and took what Heaven had sent her without cavil,
her generosity in this respect having been bountifully rewarded by
the new life she found in her love for the little girl.

Her husband recurred to the same uncomfortable subject when, a few
days later, they were speaking of travelling abroad. He said that
it was almost a pity, if they thought of going, that they had not
fallen in with the Countess's wish. That lady had told him that she
had met Dorothy walking with her nurse, and that she had never seen
a child she liked so well.

'What--she covets her still? How impertinent of the woman!' said
Lady Mottisfont.

'She seems to do so . . . You see, dearest Philippa, the advantage
to Dorothy would have been that the Countess would have adopted her
legally, and have made her as her own daughter; while we have not
done that--we are only bringing up and educating a poor child in
charity.'

'But I'll adopt her fully--make her mine legally!' cried his wife in
an anxious voice. 'How is it to be done?'

'H'm.' He did not inform her, but fell into thought; and, for
reasons of her own, his lady was restless and uneasy.

The very next day Lady Mottisfont drove to Fernell Hall to pay the
neglected call upon her neighbour. The Countess was at home, and
received her graciously. But poor Lady Mottisfont's heart died
within her as soon as she set eyes on her new acquaintance. Such
wonderful beauty, of the fully-developed kind, had never confronted
her before inside the lines of a human face. She seemed to shine
with every light and grace that woman can possess. Her finished
Continental manners, her expanded mind, her ready wit, composed a
study that made the other poor lady sick; for she, and latterly Sir
Ashley himself, were rather rural in manners, and she felt abashed
by new sounds and ideas from without. She hardly knew three words
in any language but her own, while this divine creature, though
truly English, had, apparently, whatever she wanted in the Italian
and French tongues to suit every impression; which was considered a
great improvement to speech in those days, and, indeed, is by many
considered as such in these.

'How very strange it was about the little girl!' the Contessa said
to Lady Mottisfont, in her gay tones. 'I mean, that the child the
lawyer recommended should, just before then, have been adopted by
you, who are now my neighbour. How is she getting on? I must come
and see her.'

'Do you still want her?' asks Lady Mottisfont suspiciously.

'Oh, I should like to have her!'

'But you can't! She's mine!' said the other greedily.

A drooping mariner appeared in the Countess from that moment.

Lady Mottisfont, too, was in a wretched mood all the way home that
day. The Countess was so charming in every way that she had charmed
her gentle ladyship; how should it be possible that she had failed
to charm Sir Ashley? Moreover, she had awakened a strange thought
in Philippa's mind. As soon as she reached home she rushed to the
nursery, and there, seizing Dorothy, frantically kissed her; then,
holding her at arm's length, she gazed with a piercing
inquisitiveness into the girl's lineaments. She sighed deeply,
abandoned the wondering Dorothy, and hastened away.

She had seen there not only her husband's traits, which she had
often beheld before, but others, of the shade, shape, and expression
which characterized those of her new neighbour.

Then this poor lady perceived the whole perturbing sequence of
things, and asked herself how she could have been such a walking
piece of simplicity as not to have thought of this before. But she
did not stay long upbraiding herself for her shortsightedness, so
overwhelmed was she with misery at the spectacle of herself as an
intruder between these. To be sure she could not have foreseen such
a conjuncture; but that did not lessen her grief. The woman who had
been both her husband's bliss and his backsliding had reappeared
free when he was no longer so, and she evidently was dying to claim
her own in the person of Dorothy, who had meanwhile grown to be, to
Lady Mottisfont, almost the only source of each day's happiness,
supplying her with something to watch over, inspiring her with the
sense of maternity, and so largely reflecting her husband's nature
as almost to deceive her into the pleasant belief that she reflected
her own also.

If there was a single direction in which this devoted and virtuous
lady erred, it was in the direction of over-submissiveness. When
all is said and done, and the truth told, men seldom show much self-
sacrifice in their conduct as lords and masters to helpless women
bound to them for life, and perhaps (though I say it with all
uncertainty) if she had blazed up in his face like a furze-faggot,
directly he came home, she might have helped herself a little. But
God knows whether this is a true supposition; at any rate she did no
such thing; and waited and prayed that she might never do despite to
him who, she was bound to admit, had always been tender and
courteous towards her; and hoped that little Dorothy might never be
taken away.

By degrees the two households became friendly, and very seldom did a
week pass without their seeing something of each other. Try as she
might, and dangerous as she assumed the acquaintanceship to be, Lady
Mottisfont could detect no fault or flaw in her new friend. It was
obvious that Dorothy had been the magnet which had drawn the
Contessa hither, and not Sir Ashley.

Such beauty, united with such understanding and brightness, Philippa
had never before known in one of her own sex, and she tried to think
(whether she succeeded I do not know) that she did not mind the
propinquity; since a woman so rich, so fair, and with such a command
of suitors, could not desire to wreck the happiness of so
inoffensive a person as herself.

The season drew on when it was the custom for families of
distinction to go off to The Bath, and Sir Ashley Mottisfont
persuaded his wife to accompany him thither with Dorothy. Everybody
of any note was there this year. From their own part of England
came many that they knew; among the rest, Lord and Lady Purbeck, the
Earl and Countess of Wessex, Sir John Grebe, the Drenkhards, Lady
Stourvale, the old Duke of Hamptonshire, the Bishop of Melchester,
the Dean of Exonbury, and other lesser lights of Court, pulpit, and
field. Thither also came the fair Contessa, whom, as soon as
Philippa saw how much she was sought after by younger men, she could
not conscientiously suspect of renewed designs upon Sir Ashley.

But the Countess had finer opportunities than ever with Dorothy; for
Lady Mottisfont was often indisposed, and even at other times could
not honestly hinder an intercourse which gave bright ideas to the
child. Dorothy welcomed her new acquaintance with a strange and
instinctive readiness that intimated the wonderful subtlety of the
threads which bind flesh and flesh together.

At last the crisis came: it was precipitated by an accident.
Dorothy and her nurse had gone out one day for an airing, leaving
Lady Mottisfont alone indoors. While she sat gloomily thinking that
in all likelihood the Countess would contrive to meet the child
somewhere, and exchange a few tender words with her, Sir Ashley
Mottisfont rushed in and informed her that Dorothy had just had the
narrowest possible escape from death. Some workmen were undermining
a house to pull it down for rebuilding, when, without warning, the
front wall inclined slowly outwards for its fall, the nurse and
child passing beneath it at the same moment. The fall was
temporarily arrested by the scaffolding, while in the meantime the
Countess had witnessed their imminent danger from the other side of
the street. Springing across, she snatched Dorothy from under the
wall, and pulled the nurse after her, the middle of the way being
barely reached before they were enveloped in the dense dust of the
descending mass, though not a stone touched them.

'Where is Dorothy?' says the excited Lady Mottisfont.

'She has her--she won't let her go for a time--'

'Has her? But she's MINE--she's mine!' cries Lady Mottisfont.

Then her quick and tender eyes perceived that her husband had almost
forgotten her intrusive existence in contemplating the oneness of
Dorothy's, the Countess's, and his own: he was in a dream of
exaltation which recognized nothing necessary to his well-being
outside that welded circle of three lives.

Dorothy was at length brought home; she was much fascinated by the
Countess, and saw nothing tragic, but rather all that was truly
delightful, in what had happened. In the evening, when the
excitement was over, and Dorothy was put to bed, Sir Ashley said,
'She has saved Dorothy; and I have been asking myself what I can do
for her as a slight acknowledgment of her heroism. Surely we ought
to let her have Dorothy to bring up, since she still desires to do
it? It would be so much to Dorothy's advantage. We ought to look
at it in that light, and not selfishly.'

Philippa seized his hand. 'Ashley, Ashley! You don't mean it--that
I must lose my pretty darling--the only one I have?' She met his
gaze with her piteous mouth and wet eyes so painfully strained, that
he turned away his face.

The next morning, before Dorothy was awake, Lady Mottisfont stole to
the girl's bedside, and sat regarding her. When Dorothy opened her
eyes, she fixed them for a long time upon Philippa's features.

'Mamma--you are not so pretty as the Contessa, are you?' she said at
length.

'I am not, Dorothy.'

'Why are you not, mamma?'

'Dorothy--where would you rather live, always; with me, or with
her?'

The little girl looked troubled. 'I am sorry, mamma; I don't mean
to be unkind; but I would rather live with her; I mean, if I might
without trouble, and you did not mind, and it could be just the same
to us all, you know.'

'Has she ever asked you the same question?'

'Never, mamma.'

There lay the sting of it: the Countess seemed the soul of honour
and fairness in this matter, test her as she might. That afternoon
Lady Mottisfont went to her husband with singular firmness upon her
gentle face.

'Ashley, we have been married nearly five years, and I have never
challenged you with what I know perfectly well--the parentage of
Dorothy.'

'Never have you, Philippa dear. Though I have seen that you knew
from the first.'

'From the first as to her father, not as to her mother. Her I did
not know for some time; but I know now.'

'Ah! you have discovered that too?' says he, without much surprise.

'Could I help it? Very well, that being so, I have thought it over;
and I have spoken to Dorothy. I agree to her going. I can do no
less than grant to the Countess her wish, after her kindness to my--
your--her--child.'

Then this self-sacrificing woman went hastily away that he might not
see that her heart was bursting; and thereupon, before they left the
city, Dorothy changed her mother and her home. After this, the
Countess went away to London for a while, taking Dorothy with her;
and the baronet and his wife returned to their lonely place at
Deansleigh Park without her.

To renounce Dorothy in the bustle of Bath was a different thing from
living without her in this quiet home. One evening Sir Ashley
missed his wife from the supper-table; her manner had been so
pensive and woeful of late that he immediately became alarmed. He
said nothing, but looked about outside the house narrowly, and
discerned her form in the park, where recently she had been
accustomed to walk alone. In its lower levels there was a pool fed
by a trickling brook, and he reached this spot in time to hear a
splash. Running forward, he dimly perceived her light gown floating
in the water. To pull her out was the work of a few instants, and
bearing her indoors to her room, he undressed her, nobody in the
house knowing of the incident but himself. She had not been
immersed long enough to lose her senses, and soon recovered. She
owned that she had done it because the Contessa had taken away her
child, as she persisted in calling Dorothy. Her husband spoke
sternly to her, and impressed upon her the weakness of giving way
thus, when all that had happened was for the best. She took his
reproof meekly, and admitted her fault.

After that she became more resigned, but he often caught her in
tears over some doll, shoe, or ribbon of Dorothy's, and decided to
take her to the North of England for change of air and scene. This
was not without its beneficial effect, corporeally no less than
mentally, as later events showed, but she still evinced a
preternatural sharpness of ear at the most casual mention of the
child. When they reached home, the Countess and Dorothy were still
absent from the neighbouring Fernell Hall, but in a month or two
they returned, and a little later Sir Ashley Mottisfont came into
his wife's room full of news.

'Well--would you think it, Philippa! After being so desperate, too,
about getting Dorothy to be with her!'

'Ah--what?'

'Our neighbour, the Countess, is going to be married again! It is
to somebody she has met in London.'

Lady Mottisfont was much surprised; she had never dreamt of such an
event. The conflict for the possession of Dorothy's person had
obscured the possibility of it; yet what more likely, the Countess
being still under thirty, and so good-looking?

'What is of still more interest to us, or to you,' continued her
husband, 'is a kind offer she has made. She is willing that you
should have Dorothy back again. Seeing what a grief the loss of her
has been to you, she will try to do without her.'

'It is not for that; it is not to oblige me,' said Lady Mottisfont
quickly. 'One can see well enough what it is for!'

'Well, never mind; beggars mustn't be choosers. The reason or
motive is nothing to us, so that you obtain your desire.'

'I am not a beggar any longer,' said Lady Mottisfont, with proud
mystery.

'What do you mean by that?'

Lady Mottisfont hesitated. However, it was only too plain that she
did not now jump at a restitution of one for whom some months before
she had been breaking her heart.

The explanation of this change of mood became apparent some little
time farther on. Lady Mottisfont, after five years of wedded life,
was expecting to become a mother, and the aspect of many things was
greatly altered in her view. Among the more important changes was
that of no longer feeling Dorothy to be absolutely indispensable to
her existence.

Meanwhile, in view of her coming marriage, the Countess decided to
abandon the remainder of her term at Fernell Hall, and return to her
pretty little house in town. But she could not do this quite so
quickly as she had expected, and half a year or more elapsed before
she finally quitted the neighbourhood, the interval being passed in
alternations between the country and London. Prior to her last
departure she had an interview with Sir Ashley Mottisfont, and it
occurred three days after his wife had presented him with a son and
heir.

'I wanted to speak to you,' said the Countess, looking him
luminously in the face, 'about the dear foundling I have adopted
temporarily, and thought to have adopted permanently. But my
marriage makes it too risky!'

'I thought it might be that,' he answered, regarding her steadfastly
back again, and observing two tears come slowly into her eyes as she
heard her own voice describe Dorothy in those words.

'Don't criticize me,' she said hastily; and recovering herself, went
on. 'If Lady Mottisfont could take her back again, as I suggested,
it would be better for me, and certainly no worse for Dorothy. To
every one but ourselves she is but a child I have taken a fancy to,
and Lady Mottisfont coveted her so much, and was very reluctant to
let her go . . . I am sure she will adopt her again?' she added
anxiously.

'I will sound her afresh,' said the baronet. 'You leave Dorothy
behind for the present?'

'Yes; although I go away, I do not give up the house for another
month.'

He did not speak to his wife about the proposal till some few days
after, when Lady Mottisfont had nearly recovered, and news of the
Countess's marriage in London had just reached them. He had no
sooner mentioned Dorothy's name than Lady Mottisfont showed symptoms
of disquietude.

'I have not acquired any dislike of Dorothy,' she said, 'but I feel
that there is one nearer to me now. Dorothy chose the alternative
of going to the Countess, you must remember, when I put it to her as
between the Countess and myself.'

'But, my dear Philippa, how can you argue thus about a child, and
that child our Dorothy?'

'Not OURS,' said his wife, pointing to the cot. 'Ours is here.'

'What, then, Philippa,' he said, surprised, 'you won't have her
back, after nearly dying of grief at the loss of her?'

'I cannot argue, dear Ashley. I should prefer not to have the
responsibility of Dorothy again. Her place is filled now.'

Her husband sighed, and went out of the chamber. There had been a
previous arrangement that Dorothy should be brought to the house on
a visit that day, but instead of taking her up to his wife, he did
not inform Lady Mottisfont of the child's presence. He entertained
her himself as well as he could, and accompanied her into the park,
where they had a ramble together. Presently he sat down on the root
of an elm and took her upon his knee.

'Between this husband and this baby, little Dorothy, you who had two
homes are left out in the cold,' he said.

'Can't I go to London with my pretty mamma?' said Dorothy,
perceiving from his manner that there was a hitch somewhere.

'I am afraid not, my child. She only took you to live with her
because she was lonely, you know.'

'Then can't I stay at Deansleigh Park with my other mamma and you?'

'I am afraid that cannot be done either,' said he sadly. 'We have a
baby in the house now.' He closed the reply by stooping down and
kissing her, there being a tear in his eye.

'Then nobody wants me!' said Dorothy pathetically.

'Oh yes, somebody wants you,' he assured her. 'Where would you like
to live besides?'

Dorothy's experiences being rather limited, she mentioned the only
other place in the world that she was acquainted with, the cottage
of the villager who had taken care of her before Lady Mottisfont had
removed her to the Manor House.

'Yes; that's where you'll be best off and most independent,' he
answered. 'And I'll come to see you, my dear girl, and bring you
pretty things; and perhaps you'll be just as happy there.'

Nevertheless, when the change came, and Dorothy was handed over to
the kind cottage-woman, the poor child missed the luxurious
roominess of Fernell Hall and Deansleigh; and for a long time her
little feet, which had been accustomed to carpets and oak floors,
suffered from the cold of the stone flags on which it was now her
lot to live and to play; while chilblains came upon her fingers with
washing at the pump. But thicker shoes with nails in them somewhat
remedied the cold feet, and her complaints and tears on this and
other scores diminished to silence as she became inured anew to the
hardships of the farm-cottage, and she grew up robust if not
handsome. She was never altogether lost sight of by Sir Ashley,
though she was deprived of the systematic education which had been
devised and begun for her by Lady Mottisfont, as well as by her
other mamma, the enthusiastic Countess. The latter soon had other
Dorothys to think of, who occupied her time and affection as fully
as Lady Mottisfont's were occupied by her precious boy. In the
course of time the doubly-desired and doubly-rejected Dorothy
married, I believe, a respectable road-contractor--the same, if I
mistake not, who repaired and improved the old highway running from
Wintoncester south-westerly through the New Forest--and in the heart
of this worthy man of business the poor girl found the nest which
had been denied her by her own flesh and blood of higher degree.

Several of the listeners wished to hear another story from the
sentimental member after this, but he said that he could recall
nothing else at the moment, and that it seemed to him as if his
friend on the other side of the fireplace had something to say from
the look of his face.

The member alluded to was a respectable churchwarden, with a sly
chink to one eyelid--possibly the result of an accident--and a
regular attendant at the Club meetings. He replied that his looks
had been mainly caused by his interest in the two ladies of the last
story, apparently women of strong motherly instincts, even though
they were not genuinely staunch in their tenderness. The tale had
brought to his mind an instance of a firmer affection of that sort
on the paternal side, in a nature otherwise culpable. As for
telling the story, his manner was much against him, he feared; but
he would do his best, if they wished.

Here the President interposed with a suggestion that as it was
getting late in the afternoon it would be as well to adjourn to
their respective inns and lodgings for dinner, after which those who
cared to do so could return and resume these curious domestic
traditions for the remainder of the evening, which might otherwise
prove irksome enough. The curator had told him that the room was at
their service. The churchwarden, who was beginning to feel hungry
himself, readily acquiesced, and the Club separated for an hour and
a half. Then the faithful ones began to drop in again--among whom
were not the President; neither came the rural dean, nor the two
curates, though the Colonel, and the man of family, cigars in mouth,
were good enough to return, having found their hotel dreary. The
museum had no regular means of illumination, and a solitary candle,
less powerful than the rays of the fire, was placed on the table;
also bottles and glasses, provided by some thoughtful member. The
chink-eyed churchwarden, now thoroughly primed, proceeded to relate
in his own terms what was in substance as follows, while many of his
listeners smoked.

DAME THE FIFTH THE LADY ICENWAY
By the Churchwarden

In the reign of His Most Excellent Majesty King George the Third,
Defender of the Faith and of the American Colonies, there lived in
'a faire maner-place' (so Leland called it in his day, as I have
been told), in one o' the greenest bits of woodland between Bristol
and the city of Exonbury, a young lady who resembled some aforesaid
ones in having many talents and exceeding great beauty. With these
gifts she combined a somewhat imperious temper and arbitrary mind,
though her experience of the world was not actually so large as her
conclusive manner would have led the stranger to suppose. Being an
orphan, she resided with her uncle, who, though he was fairly
considerate as to her welfare, left her pretty much to herself.

Now it chanced that when this lovely young lady was about nineteen,
she (being a fearless horsewoman) was riding, with only a young lad
as an attendant, in one o' the woods near her uncle's house, and, in
trotting along, her horse stumbled over the root of a felled tree.
She slipped to the ground, not seriously hurt, and was assisted home
by a gentleman who came in view at the moment of her mishap. It
turned out that this gentleman, a total stranger to her, was on a
visit at the house of a neighbouring landowner. He was of Dutch
extraction, and occasionally came to England on business or pleasure
from his plantations in Guiana, on the north coast of South America,
where he usually resided.

On this account he was naturally but little known in Wessex, and was
but a slight acquaintance of the gentleman at whose mansion he was a
guest. However, the friendship between him and the Heymeres--as the
uncle and niece were named--warmed and warmed by degrees, there
being but few folk o' note in the vicinity at that time, which made
a newcomer, if he were at all sociable and of good credit, always
sure of a welcome. A tender feeling (as it is called by the
romantic) sprang up between the two young people, which ripened into
intimacy. Anderling, the foreign gentleman, was of an amorous
temperament; and, though he endeavoured to conceal his feeling, it
could be seen that Miss Maria Heymere had impressed him rather more
deeply than would be represented by a scratch upon a stone. He
seemed absolutely unable to free himself from her fascination; and
his inability to do so, much as he tried--evidently thinking he had
not the ghost of a chance with her--gave her the pleasure of power;
though she more than sympathized when she overheard him heaving his
deep drawn sighs--privately to himself, as he supposed.

After prolonging his visit by every conceivable excuse in his power,
he summoned courage, and offered her his hand and his heart. Being
in no way disinclined to him, though not so fervid as he, and her
uncle making no objection to the match, she consented to share his
fate, for better or otherwise, in the distant colony where, as he
assured her, his rice, and coffee, and maize, and timber, produced
him ample means--a statement which was borne out by his friend, her
uncle's neighbour. In short, a day for their marriage was fixed,
earlier in the engagement than is usual or desirable between
comparative strangers, by reason of the necessity he was under of
returning to look after his properties.

The wedding took place, and Maria left her uncle's mansion with her
husband, going in the first place to London, and about a fortnight
after sailing with him across the great ocean for their distant
home--which, however, he assured her, should not be her home for
long, it being his intention to dispose of his interests in this
part of the world as soon as the war was over, and he could do so
advantageously; when they could come to Europe, and reside in some
favourite capital.

As they advanced on the voyage she observed that he grew more and
more constrained; and, by the time they had crossed the Line, he was
quite depressed, just as he had been before proposing to her. A day
or two before landing at Paramaribo, he embraced her in a very
tearful and passionate manner, and said he wished to make a
confession. It had been his misfortune, he said, to marry at Quebec
in early life a woman whose reputation proved to be in every way bad
and scandalous. The discovery had nearly killed him; but he had
ultimately separated from her, and had never seen her since. He had
hoped and prayed she might be dead; but recently in London, when
they were starting on this journey, he had discovered that she was
still alive. At first he had decided to keep this dark intelligence
from her beloved ears; but he had felt that he could not do it. All
he hoped was that such a condition of things would make no
difference in her feelings for him, as it need make no difference in
the course of their lives.

Thereupon the spirit of this proud and masterful lady showed itself
in violent turmoil, like the raging of a nor'-west thunderstorm--as
well it might, God knows. But she was of too stout a nature to be
broken down by his revelation, as many ladies of my acquaintance
would have been--so far from home, and right under the Line in the
blaze o' the sun. Of the two, indeed, he was the more wretched and
shattered in spirit, for he loved her deeply, and (there being a
foreign twist in his make) had been tempted to this crime by her
exceeding beauty, against which he had struggled day and night, till
he had no further resistance left in him. It was she who came first
to a decision as to what should be done--whether a wise one I do not
attempt to judge.

'I put it to you,' says she, when many useless self-reproaches and
protestations on his part had been uttered--'I put it to you
whether, if any manliness is left in you, you ought not to do
exactly what I consider the best thing for me in this strait to
which you have reduced me?'

He promised to do anything in the whole world. She then requested
him to allow her to return, and announce him as having died of
malignant ague immediately on their arrival at Paramaribo; that she
should consequently appear in weeds as his widow in her native
place; and that he would never molest her, or come again to that
part of the world during the whole course of his life--a good reason
for which would be that the legal consequences might be serious.

He readily acquiesced in this, as he would have acquiesced in
anything for the restitution of one he adored so deeply--even to the
yielding of life itself. To put her in an immediate state of
independence he gave her, in bonds and jewels, a considerable sum
(for his worldly means had been in no way exaggerated); and by the
next ship she sailed again for England, having travelled no farther
than to Paramaribo. At parting he declared it to be his intention
to turn all his landed possessions into personal property, and to be
a wanderer on the face of the earth in remorse for his conduct
towards her.

Maria duly arrived in England, and immediately on landing apprised
her uncle of her return, duly appearing at his house in the garb of
a widow. She was commiserated by all the neighbours as soon as her
story was told; but only to her uncle did she reveal the real state
of affairs, and her reason for concealing it. For, though she had
been innocent of wrong, Maria's pride was of that grain which could
not brook the least appearance of having been fooled, or deluded, or
nonplussed in her worldly aims.

For some time she led a quiet life with her relative, and in due
course a son was born to her. She was much respected for her
dignity and reserve, and the portable wealth which her temporary
husband had made over to her enabled her to live in comfort in a
wing of the mansion, without assistance from her uncle at all. But,
knowing that she was not what she seemed to be, her life was an
uneasy one, and she often said to herself: 'Suppose his continued
existence should become known here, and people should discern the
pride of my motive in hiding my humiliation? It would be worse than
if I had been frank at first, which I should have been but for the
credit of this child.'

Such grave reflections as these occupied her with increasing force;
and during their continuance she encountered a worthy man of noble
birth and title--Lord Icenway his name--whose seat was beyond
Wintoncester, quite at t'other end of Wessex. He being anxious to
pay his addresses to her, Maria willingly accepted them, though he
was a plain man, older than herself; for she discerned in a re-
marriage a method of fortifying her position against mortifying
discoveries. In a few months their union took place, and Maria
lifted her head as Lady Icenway, and left with her husband and child
for his home as aforesaid, where she was quite unknown.

A justification, or a condemnation, of her step (according as you
view it) was seen when, not long after, she received a note from her
former husband Anderling. It was a hasty and tender epistle, and
perhaps it was fortunate that it arrived during the temporary
absence of Lord Icenway. His worthless wife, said Anderling, had
just died in Quebec; he had gone there to ascertain particulars, and
had seen the unfortunate woman buried. He now was hastening to
England to repair the wrong he had done his Maria. He asked her to
meet him at Southampton, his port of arrival; which she need be in
no fear of doing, as he had changed his name, and was almost
absolutely unknown in Europe. He would remarry her immediately, and
live with her in any part of the Continent, as they had originally
intended, where, for the great love he still bore her, he would
devote himself to her service for the rest of his days.

Lady Icenway, self-possessed as it was her nature to be, was yet
much disturbed at this news, and set off to meet him, unattended, as
soon as she heard that the ship was in sight. As soon as they stood
face to face she found that she still possessed all her old
influence over him, though his power to fascinate her had quite
departed. In his sorrow for his offence against her, he had become
a man of strict religious habits, self-denying as a lenten saint,
though formerly he had been a free and joyous liver. Having first
got him to swear to make her any amends she should choose (which he
was imagining must be by a true marriage), she informed him that she
had already wedded another husband, an excellent man of ancient
family and possessions, who had given her a title, in which she much
rejoiced.

At this the countenance of the poor foreign gentleman became cold as
clay, and his heart withered within him; for as it had been her
beauty and bearing which had led him to sin to obtain her, so, now
that her beauty was in fuller bloom, and her manner more haughty by
her success, did he feel her fascination to be almost more than he
could bear. Nevertheless, having sworn his word, he undertook to
obey her commands, which were simply a renewal of her old request--
that he would depart for some foreign country, and never reveal his
existence to her friends, or husband, or any person in England;
never trouble her more, seeing how great a harm it would do her in
the high position which she at present occupied.

He bowed his head. 'And the child--our child?' he said.

'He is well,' says she. 'Quite well.'

With this the unhappy gentleman departed, much sadder in his heart
than on his voyage to England; for it had never occurred to him that
a woman who rated her honour so highly as Maria had done, and who
was the mother of a child of his, would have adopted such means as
this for the restoration of that honour, and at so surprisingly
early a date. He had fully calculated on making her his wife in law
and truth, and of living in cheerful unity with her and his
offspring, for whom he felt a deep and growing tenderness, though he
had never once seen the child.

The lady returned to her mansion beyond Wintoncester, and told
nothing of the interview to her noble husband, who had fortunately
gone that day to do a little cocking and ratting out by Weydon
Priors, and knew nothing of her movements. She had dismissed her
poor Anderling peremptorily enough; yet she would often after this
look in the face of the child of her so-called widowhood, to
discover what and how many traits of his father were to be seen in
his lineaments. For this she had ample opportunity during the
following autumn and winter months, her husband being a matter-of-
fact nobleman, who spent the greater part of his time in field-
sports and agriculture.

One winter day, when he had started for a meet of the hounds a long
way from the house--it being his custom to hunt three or four times
a week at this season of the year--she had walked into the sunshine
upon the terrace before the windows, where there fell at her feet
some little white object that had come over a boundary wall hard by.
It proved to be a tiny note wrapped round a stone. Lady Icenway
opened it and read it, and immediately (no doubt, with a stern
fixture of her queenly countenance) walked hastily along the
terrace, and through the door into the shrubbery, whence the note
had come. The man who had first married her stood under the bushes
before her. It was plain from his appearance that something had
gone wrong with him.

'You notice a change in me, my best-beloved,' he said. 'Yes, Maria-
-I have lost all the wealth I once possessed--mainly by reckless
gambling in the Continental hells to which you banished me. But one
thing in the world remains to me--the child--and it is for him that
I have intruded here. Don't fear me, darling! I shall not
inconvenience you long; I love you too well! But I think of the boy
day and night--I cannot help it--I cannot keep my feeling for him
down; and I long to see him, and speak a word to him once in my
lifetime!'

'But your oath?' says she. 'You promised never to reveal by word or
sign--'

'I will reveal nothing. Only let me see the child. I know what I
have sworn to you, cruel mistress, and I respect my oath. Otherwise
I might have seen him by some subterfuge. But I preferred the frank
course of asking your permission.'

She demurred, with the haughty severity which had grown part of her
character, and which her elevation to the rank of a peeress had
rather intensified than diminished. She said that she would
consider, and would give him an answer the day after the next, at
the same hour and place, when her husband would again be absent with
his pack of hounds.

The gentleman waited patiently. Lady Icenway, who had now no
conscious love left for him, well considered the matter, and felt
that it would be advisable not to push to extremes a man of so
passionate a heart. On the day and hour she met him as she had
promised to do.

'You shall see him,' she said, 'of course on the strict condition
that you do not reveal yourself, and hence, though you see him, he
must not see you, or your manner might betray you and me. I will
lull him into a nap in the afternoon, and then I will come to you
here, and fetch you indoors by a private way.'

The unfortunate father, whose misdemeanour had recoiled upon his own
head in a way he could not have foreseen, promised to adhere to her
instructions, and waited in the shrubberies till the moment when she
should call him. This she duly did about three o'clock that day,
leading him in by a garden door, and upstairs to the nursery where
the child lay. He was in his little cot, breathing calmly, his arm
thrown over his head, and his silken curls crushed into the pillow.
His father, now almost to be pitied, bent over him, and a tear from
his eye wetted the coverlet.

She held up a warning finger as he lowered his mouth to the lips of
the boy.

'But oh, why not?' implored he.

'Very well, then,' said she, relenting. 'But as gently as
possible.'

He kissed the child without waking him, turned, gave him a last
look, and followed her out of the chamber, when she conducted him
off the premises by the way he had come.

But this remedy for his sadness of heart at being a stranger to his
own son, had the effect of intensifying the malady; for while
originally, not knowing or having ever seen the boy, he had loved
him vaguely and imaginatively only, he now became attached to him in
flesh and bone, as any parent might; and the feeling that he could
at best only see his child at the rarest and most cursory moments,
if at all, drove him into a state of distraction which threatened to
overthrow his promise to the boy's mother to keep out of his sight.

But such was his chivalrous respect for Lady Icenway, and his regret
at having ever deceived her, that he schooled his poor heart into
submission. Owing to his loneliness, all the fervour of which he
was capable--and that was much--flowed now in the channel of
parental and marital love--for a child who did not know him, and a
woman who had ceased to love him.

At length this singular punishment became such a torture to the poor
foreigner that he resolved to lessen it at all hazards, compatible
with punctilious care for the name of the lady his former wife, to
whom his attachment seemed to increase in proportion to her punitive
treatment of him. At one time of his life he had taken great
interest in tulip-culture, as well as gardening in general; and
since the ruin of his fortunes, and his arrival in England, he had
made of his knowledge a precarious income in the hot-houses of
nurserymen and others. With the new idea in his head he applied
himself zealously to the business, till he acquired in a few months
great skill in horticulture. Waiting till the noble lord, his
lady's husband, had room for an under-gardener of a general sort, he
offered himself for the place, and was engaged immediately by reason
of his civility and intelligence, before Lady Icenway knew anything
of the matter. Much therefore did he surprise her when she found
him in the conservatories of her mansion a week or two after his
arrival. The punishment of instant dismissal, with which at first
she haughtily threatened him, my lady thought fit, on reflection,
not to enforce. While he served her thus she knew he would not harm
her by a word, while, if he were expelled, chagrin might induce him
to reveal in a moment of exasperation what kind treatment would
assist him to conceal.

So he was allowed to remain on the premises, and had for his
residence a little cottage by the garden-wall which had been the
domicile of some of his predecessors in the same occupation. Here
he lived absolutely alone, and spent much of his leisure in reading,
but the greater part in watching the windows and lawns of his lady's
house for glimpses of the form of the child. It was for that
child's sake that he abandoned the tenets of the Roman Catholic
Church in which he had been reared, and became the most regular
attendant at the services in the parish place of worship hard by,
where, sitting behind the pew of my lady, my lord, and his stepson,
the gardener could pensively study the traits and movements of the
youngster at only a few feet distance, without suspicion or
hindrance.

He filled his post for more than two years with a pleasure to
himself which, though mournful, was soothing, his lady never
forgiving him, or allowing him to be anything more than 'the
gardener' to her child, though once or twice the boy said, 'That
gardener's eyes are so sad! Why does he look so sadly at me?' He
sunned himself in her scornfulness as if it were love, and his ears
drank in her curt monosyllables as though they were rhapsodies of
endearment. Strangely enough, the coldness with which she treated
her foreigner began to be the conduct of Lord Icenway towards
herself. It was a matter of great anxiety to him that there should
be a lineal successor to the title, yet no sign of that successor
appeared. One day he complained to her quite roughly of his fate.
'All will go to that dolt of a cousin!' he cried. 'I'd sooner see
my name and place at the bottom of the sea!'

The lady soothed him and fell into thought, and did not recriminate.
But one day, soon after, she went down to the cottage of the
gardener to inquire how he was getting on, for he had been ailing of
late, though, as was supposed, not seriously. Though she often
visited the poor, she had never entered her under-gardener's home
before, and was much surprised--even grieved and dismayed--to find
that he was too ill to rise from his bed. She went back to her
mansion and returned with some delicate soup, that she might have a
reason for seeing him.

His condition was so feeble and alarming, and his face so thin, that
it quite shocked her softening heart, and gazing upon him she said,
'You must get well--you must! I have been hard with you--I know it.
I will not be so again.'

The sick and dying man--for he was dying indeed--took her hand and
pressed it to his lips. 'Too late, my darling, too late!' he
murmured.

'But you MUST NOT die! Oh, you must not!' she said. And on an
impulse she bent down and whispered some words to him, blushing as
she had blushed in her maiden days.

He replied by a faint wan smile. 'Time was! . . . but that's past!'
he said, 'I must die!'

And die he did, a few days later, as the sun was going down behind
the garden-wall. Her harshness seemed to come trebly home to her
then, and she remorsefully exclaimed against herself in secret and
alone. Her one desire now was to erect some tribute to his memory,
without its being recognized as her handiwork. In the completion of
this scheme there arrived a few months later a handsome stained-
glass window for the church; and when it was unpacked and in course
of erection Lord Icenway strolled into the building with his wife.

'"Erected to his memory by his grieving widow,"' he said, reading
the legend on the glass. 'I didn't know that he had a wife; I've
never seen her.'

'Oh yes, you must have, Icenway; only you forget,' replied his lady
blandly. 'But she didn't live with him, and was seldom seen
visiting him, because there were differences between them; which, as
is usually the case, makes her all the more sorry now.'

'And go ruining herself by this expensive ruby-and-azure glass-
design.'

'She is not poor, they say.'

As Lord Icenway grew older he became crustier and crustier, and
whenever he set eyes on his wife's boy by her other husband he would
burst out morosely, saying,

''Tis a very odd thing, my lady, that you could oblige your first
husband, and couldn't oblige me.'

'Ah! if I had only thought of it sooner!' she murmured.

'What?' said he.

'Nothing, dearest,' replied Lady Icenway.

The Colonel was the first to comment upon the Churchwarden's tale,
by saying that the fate of the poor fellow was rather a hard one.

The gentleman-tradesman could not see that his fate was at all too
hard for him. He was legally nothing to her, and he had served her
shamefully. If he had been really her husband it would have stood
differently.

The Bookworm remarked that Lord Icenway seemed to have been a very
unsuspicious man, with which view a fat member with a crimson face
agreed. It was true his wife was a very close-mouthed personage,
which made a difference. If she had spoken out recklessly her lord
might have been suspicious enough, as in the case of that lady who
lived at Stapleford Park in their great-grandfathers' time. Though
there, to be sure, considerations arose which made her husband view
matters with much philosophy.

A few of the members doubted the possibility of this.

The crimson man, who was a retired maltster of comfortable means,
ventru, and short in stature, cleared his throat, blew off his
superfluous breath, and proceeded to give the instance before
alluded to of such possibility, first apologizing for his heroine's
lack of a title, it never having been his good fortune to know many
of the nobility. To his style of narrative the following is only an
approximation.

DAME THE SIXTH: SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY
By the Crimson Maltster

Folk who are at all acquainted with the traditions of Stapleford
Park will not need to be told that in the middle of the last century
it was owned by that trump of mortgagees, Timothy Petrick, whose
skill in gaining possession of fair estates by granting sums of
money on their title-deeds has seldom if ever been equalled in our
part of England. Timothy was a lawyer by profession, and agent to
several noblemen, by which means his special line of business became
opened to him by a sort of revelation. It is said that a relative
of his, a very deep thinker, who afterwards had the misfortune to be
transported for life for mistaken notions on the signing of a will,
taught him considerable legal lore, which he creditably resolved
never to throw away for the benefit of other people, but to reserve
it entirely for his own.

However, I have nothing in particular to say about his early and
active days, but rather of the time when, an old man, he had become
the owner of vast estates by the means I have signified--among them
the great manor of Stapleford, on which he lived, in the splendid
old mansion now pulled down; likewise estates at Marlott, estates
near Sherton Abbas, nearly all the borough of Millpool, and many
properties near Ivell. Indeed, I can't call to mind half his landed
possessions, and I don't know that it matters much at this time of
day, seeing that he's been dead and gone many years. It is said
that when he bought an estate he would not decide to pay the price
till he had walked over every single acre with his own two feet, and
prodded the soil at every point with his own spud, to test its
quality, which, if we regard the extent of his properties, must have
been a stiff business for him.

At the time I am speaking of he was a man over eighty, and his son
was dead; but he had two grandsons, the eldest of whom, his
namesake, was married, and was shortly expecting issue. Just then
the grandfather was taken ill, for death, as it seemed, considering
his age. By his will the old man had created an entail (as I
believe the lawyers call it), devising the whole of the estates to
his elder grandson and his issue male, failing which, to his younger
grandson and his issue male, failing which, to remoter relatives,
who need not be mentioned now.

While old Timothy Petrick was lying ill, his elder grandson's wife,
Annetta, gave birth to her expected child, who, as fortune would
have it, was a son. Timothy, her husband, through sprung of a
scheming family, was no great schemer himself; he was the single one
of the Petricks then living whose heart had ever been greatly moved
by sentiments which did not run in the groove of ambition; and on
this account he had not married well, as the saying is; his wife
having been the daughter of a family of no better beginnings than
his own; that is to say, her father was a country townsman of the
professional class. But she was a very pretty woman, by all
accounts, and her husband had seen, courted, and married her in a
high tide of infatuation, after a very short acquaintance, and with
very little knowledge of her heart's history. He had never found
reason to regret his choice as yet, and his anxiety for her recovery
was great.

She was supposed to be out of danger, and herself and the child
progressing well, when there was a change for the worse, and she
sank so rapidly that she was soon given over. When she felt that
she was about to leave him, Annetta sent for her husband, and, on
his speedy entry and assurance that they were alone, she made him
solemnly vow to give the child every care in any circumstances that
might arise, if it should please Heaven to take her. This, of
course, he readily promised. Then, after some hesitation, she told
him that she could not die with a falsehood upon her soul, and dire
deceit in her life; she must make a terrible confession to him
before her lips were sealed for ever. She thereupon related an
incident concerning the baby's parentage, which was not as he
supposed.

Timothy Petrick, though a quick-feeling man, was not of a sort to
show nerves outwardly; and he bore himself as heroically as he
possibly could do in this trying moment of his life. That same
night his wife died; and while she lay dead, and before her funeral,
he hastened to the bedside of his sick grandfather, and revealed to
him all that had happened: the baby's birth, his wife's confession,
and her death, beseeching the aged man, as he loved him, to bestir
himself now, at the eleventh hour, and alter his will so as to dish
the intruder. Old Timothy, seeing matters in the same light as his
grandson, required no urging against allowing anything to stand in
the way of legitimate inheritance; he executed another will,
limiting the entail to Timothy his grandson, for life, and his male
heirs thereafter to be born; after them to his other grandson
Edward, and Edward's heirs. Thus the newly-born infant, who had
been the centre of so many hopes, was cut off and scorned as none of
the elect.

The old mortgagee lived but a short time after this, the excitement
of the discovery having told upon him considerably, and he was
gathered to his fathers like the most charitable man in his
neighbourhood. Both wife and grandparent being buried, Timothy
settled down to his usual life as well as he was able, mentally
satisfied that he had by prompt action defeated the consequences of
such dire domestic treachery as had been shown towards him, and
resolving to marry a second time as soon as he could satisfy himself
in the choice of a wife.

But men do not always know themselves. The embittered state of
Timothy Petrick's mind bred in him by degrees such a hatred and
mistrust of womankind that, though several specimens of high
attractiveness came under his eyes, he could not bring himself to
the point of proposing marriage. He dreaded to take up the position
of husband a second time, discerning a trap in every petticoat, and
a Slough of Despond in possible heirs. 'What has happened once,
when all seemed so fair, may happen again,' he said to himself.
'I'll risk my name no more.' So he abstained from marriage, and
overcame his wish for a lineal descendant to follow him in the
ownership of Stapleford.

Timothy had scarcely noticed the unfortunate child that his wife had
borne, after arranging for a meagre fulfilment of his promise to her
to take care of the boy, by having him brought up in his house.
Occasionally, remembering this promise, he went and glanced at the
child, saw that he was doing well, gave a few special directions,
and again went his solitary way. Thus he and the child lived on in
the Stapleford mansion-house till two or three years had passed by.
One day he was walking in the garden, and by some accident left his
snuff-box on a bench. When he came back to find it he saw the
little boy standing there; he had escaped his nurse, and was making
a plaything of the box, in spite of the convulsive sneezings which
the game brought in its train. Then the man with the encrusted
heart became interested in the little fellow's persistence in his
play under such discomforts; he looked in the child's face, saw
there his wife's countenance, though he did not see his own, and
fell into thought on the piteousness of childhood--particularly of
despised and rejected childhood, like this before him.

From that hour, try as he would to counteract the feeling, the human
necessity to love something or other got the better of what he had
called his wisdom, and shaped itself in a tender anxiety for the
youngster Rupert. This name had been given him by his dying mother
when, at her request, the child was baptized in her chamber, lest he
should not survive for public baptism; and her husband had never
thought of it as a name of any significance till, about this time,
he learnt by accident that it was the name of the young Marquis of
Christminster, son of the Duke of Southwesterland, for whom Annetta
had cherished warm feelings before her marriage. Recollecting some
wandering phrases in his wife's last words, which he had not
understood at the time, he perceived at last that this was the
person to whom she had alluded when affording him a clue to little
Rupert's history.

He would sit in silence for hours with the child, being no great
speaker at the best of times; but the boy, on his part, was too
ready with his tongue for any break in discourse to arise because
Timothy Petrick had nothing to say. After idling away his mornings
in this manner, Petrick would go to his own room and swear in long
loud whispers, and walk up and down, calling himself the most
ridiculous dolt that ever lived, and declaring that he would never
go near the little fellow again; to which resolve he would adhere
for the space perhaps of a day. Such cases are happily not new to
human nature, but there never was a case in which a man more
completely befocled his former self than in this.

As the child grew up, Timothy's attachment to him grew deeper, till
Rupert became almost the sole object for which he lived. There had
been enough of the family ambition latent in him for Timothy Petrick
to feel a little envy when, some time before this date, his brother
Edward had been accepted by the Honourable Harriet Mountclere,
daughter of the second Viscount of that name and title; but having
discovered, as I have before stated, the paternity of his boy Rupert
to lurk in even a higher stratum of society, those envious feelings
speedily dispersed. Indeed, the more he reflected thereon, after
his brother's aristocratic marriage, the more content did he become.
His late wife took softer outline in his memory, as he thought of
the lofty taste she had displayed, though only a plain burgher's
daughter, and the justification for his weakness in loving the
child--the justification that he had longed for--was afforded now in
the knowledge that the boy was by nature, if not by name, a
representative of one of the noblest houses in England.

'She was a woman of grand instincts, after all,' he said to himself
proudly. 'To fix her choice upon the immediate successor in that
ducal line--it was finely conceived! Had he been of low blood like
myself or my relations she would scarce have deserved the harsh
measure that I have dealt out to her and her offspring. How much
less, then, when such grovelling tastes were farthest from her soul!
The man Annetta loved was noble, and my boy is noble in spite of
me.'

The afterclap was inevitable, and it soon came. 'So far,' he
reasoned, 'from cutting off this child from inheritance of my
estates, as I have done, I should have rejoiced in the possession of
him! He is of pure stock on one side at least, whilst in the
ordinary run of affairs he would have been a commoner to the bone.'

Being a man, whatever his faults, of good old beliefs in the
divinity of kings and those about 'em, the more he overhauled the
case in this light, the more strongly did his poor wife's conduct in
improving the blood and breed of the Petrick family win his heart.
He considered what ugly, idle, hard-drinking scamps many of his own
relations had been; the miserable scriveners, usurers, and
pawnbrokers that he had numbered among his forefathers, and the
probability that some of their bad qualities would have come out in
a merely corporeal child, to give him sorrow in his old age, turn
his black hairs gray, his gray hairs white, cut down every stick of
timber, and Heaven knows what all, had he not, like a skilful
gardener, minded his grafting and changed the sort; till at length
this right-minded man fell down on his knees every night and morning
and thanked God that he was not as other meanly descended fathers in
such matters.

It was in the peculiar disposition of the Petrick family that the
satisfaction which ultimately settled in Timothy's breast found
nourishment. The Petricks had adored the nobility, and plucked them
at the same time. That excellent man Izaak Walton's feelings about
fish were much akin to those of old Timothy Petrick, and of his
descendants in a lesser degree, concerning the landed aristocracy.
To torture and to love simultaneously is a proceeding strange to
reason, but possible to practice, as these instances show.

Hence, when Timothy's brother Edward said slightingly one day that
Timothy's son was well enough, but that he had nothing but shops and
offices in his backward perspective, while his own children, should
he have any, would be far different, in possessing such a mother as
the Honourable Harriet, Timothy felt a bound of triumph within him
at the power he possessed of contradicting that statement if he
chose.

So much was he interested in his boy in this new aspect that he now
began to read up chronicles of the illustrious house ennobled as the
Dukes of Southwesterland, from their very beginning in the glories
of the Restoration of the blessed Charles till the year of his own
time. He mentally noted their gifts from royalty, grants of lands,
purchases, intermarriages, plantings and buildings; more
particularly their political and military achievements, which had
been great, and their performances in art and letters, which had
been by no means contemptible. He studied prints of the portraits
of that family, and then, like a chemist watching a crystallization,
began to examine young Rupert's face for the unfolding of those
historic curves and shades that the painters Vandyke and Lely had
perpetuated on canvas.

When the boy reached the most fascinating age of childhood, and his
shouts of laughter ran through Stapleford House from end to end, the
remorse that oppressed Timothy Petrick knew no bounds. Of all
people in the world this Rupert was the one on whom he could have
wished the estates to devolve; yet Rupert, by Timothy's own
desperate strategy at the time of his birth, had been ousted from
all inheritance of them; and, since he did not mean to remarry, the
manors would pass to his brother and his brother's children, who
would be nothing to him, whose boasted pedigree on one side would be
nothing to his Rupert's.

Had he only left the first will of his grandfather alone!

His mind ran on the wills continually, both of which were in
existence, and the first, the cancelled one, in his own possession.
Night after night, when the servants were all abed, and the click of
safety locks sounded as loud as a crash, he looked at that first
will, and wished it had been the second and not the first.

The crisis came at last. One night, after having enjoyed the boy's
company for hours, he could no longer bear that his beloved Rupert
should be dispossessed, and he committed the felonious deed of
altering the date of the earlier will to a fortnight later, which
made its execution appear subsequent to the date of the second will
already proved. He then boldly propounded the first will as the
second.

His brother Edward submitted to what appeared to be not only
incontestible fact, but a far more likely disposition of old
Timothy's property; for, like many others, he had been much
surprised at the limitations defined in the other will, having no
clue to their cause. He joined his brother Timothy in setting aside
the hitherto accepted document, and matters went on in their usual
course, there being no dispositions in the substituted will
differing from those in the other, except such as related to a
future which had not yet arrived.

The years moved on. Rupert had not yet revealed the anxiously
expected historic lineaments which should foreshadow the political
abilities of the ducal family aforesaid when it happened on a
certain day that Timothy Petrick made the acquaintance of a well-
known physician of Budmouth, who had been the medical adviser and
friend of the late Mrs. Petrick's family for many years; though
after Annetta's marriage, and consequent removal to Stapleford, he
had seen no more of her, the neighbouring practitioner who attended
the Petricks having then become her doctor as a matter of course.
Timothy was impressed by the insight and knowledge disclosed in the
conversation of the Budmouth physician, and the acquaintance
ripening to intimacy, the physician alluded to a form of
hallucination to which Annetta's mother and grandmother had been
subject--that of believing in certain dreams as realities. He
delicately inquired if Timothy had ever noticed anything of the sort
in his wife during her lifetime; he, the physician, had fancied that
he discerned germs of the same peculiarity in Annetta when he
attended her in her girlhood. One explanation begat another, till
the dumbfoundered Timothy Petrick was persuaded in his own mind that
Annetta's confession to him had been based on a delusion.

'You look down in the mouth?' said the doctor, pausing.

'A bit unmanned. 'Tis unexpected-like,' sighed Timothy.

But he could hardly believe it possible; and, thinking it best to be
frank with the doctor, told him the whole story which, till now, he
had never related to living man, save his dying grandfather. To his
surprise, the physician informed him that such a form of delusion
was precisely what he would have expected from Annetta's antecedents
at such a physical crisis in her life.

Petrick prosecuted his inquiries elsewhere; and the upshot of his
labours was, briefly, that a comparison of dates and places showed
irrefutably that his poor wife's assertion could not possibly have
foundation in fact. The young Marquis of her tender passion--a
highly moral and bright-minded nobleman--had gone abroad the year
before Annetta's marriage, and had not returned till after her
death. The young girl's love for him had been a delicate ideal
dream--no more.

Timothy went home, and the boy ran out to meet him; whereupon a
strangely dismal feeling of discontent took possession of his soul.
After all, then, there was nothing but plebeian blood in the veins
of the heir to his name and estates; he was not to be succeeded by a
noble-natured line. To be sure, Rupert was his son; but that glory
and halo he believed him to have inherited from the ages, outshining
that of his brother's children, had departed from Rupert's brow for
ever; he could no longer read history in the boy's face, and
centuries of domination in his eyes.

His manner towards his son grew colder and colder from that day
forward; and it was with bitterness of heart that he discerned the
characteristic features of the Petricks unfolding themselves by
degrees. Instead of the elegant knife-edged nose, so typical of the
Dukes of Southwesterland, there began to appear on his face the
broad nostril and hollow bridge of his grandfather Timothy. No
illustrious line of politicians was promised a continuator in that
graying blue eye, for it was acquiring the expression of the orb of
a particularly objectionable cousin of his own; and, instead of the
mouth-curves which had thrilled Parliamentary audiences in speeches
now bound in calf in every well-ordered library, there was the bull-
lip of that very uncle of his who had had the misfortune with the
signature of a gentleman's will, and had been transported for life
in consequence.

To think how he himself, too, had sinned in this same matter of a
will for this mere fleshly reproduction of a wretched old uncle
whose very name he wished to forget! The boy's Christian name,
even, was an imposture and an irony, for it implied hereditary force
and brilliancy to which he plainly would never attain. The
consolation of real sonship was always left him certainly; but he
could not help groaning to himself, 'Why cannot a son be one's own
and somebody else's likewise!'

The Marquis was shortly afterwards in the neighbourhood of
Stapleford, and Timothy Petrick met him, and eyed his noble
countenance admiringly. The next day, when Petrick was in his
study, somebody knocked at the door.

'Who's there?'

'Rupert.'

'I'll Rupert thee, you young impostor! Say, only a poor commonplace
Petrick!' his father grunted. 'Why didn't you have a voice like the
Marquis's I saw yesterday?' he continued, as the lad came in. 'Why
haven't you his looks, and a way of commanding, as if you'd done it
for centuries--hey?'

'Why? How can you expect it, father, when I'm not related to him?'

'Ugh! Then you ought to be!' growled his father.

As the narrator paused, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, the
Spark, and others exclaimed that such subtle and instructive
psychological studies as this (now that psychology was so much in
demand) were precisely the tales they desired, as members of a
scientific club, and begged the master-maltster to tell another
curious mental delusion.

The maltster shook his head, and feared he was not genteel enough to
tell another story with a sufficiently moral tone in it to suit the
club; he would prefer to leave the next to a better man.

The Colonel had fallen into reflection. True it was, he observed,
that the more dreamy and impulsive nature of woman engendered within
her erratic fancies, which often started her on strange tracks, only
to abandon them in sharp revulsion at the dictates of her common
sense--sometimes with ludicrous effect. Events which had caused a
lady's action to set in a particular direction might continue to
enforce the same line of conduct, while she, like a mangle, would
start on a sudden in a contrary course, and end where she began.

The Vice-President laughed, and applauded the Colonel, adding that
there surely lurked a story somewhere behind that sentiment, if he
were not much mistaken.

The Colonel fixed his face to a good narrative pose, and went on
without further preamble.

DAME THE SEVENTH: ANNA, LADY BAXBY
By the Colonel

It was in the time of the great Civil War--if I should not rather,
as a loyal subject, call it, with Clarendon, the Great Rebellion.
It was, I say, at that unhappy period of our history, that towards
the autumn of a particular year, the Parliament forces sat down
before Sherton Castle with over seven thousand foot and four pieces
of cannon. The Castle, as we all know, was in that century owned
and occupied by one of the Earls of Severn, and garrisoned for his
assistance by a certain noble Marquis who commanded the King's
troops in these parts. The said Earl, as well as the young Lord
Baxby, his eldest son, were away from home just now, raising forces
for the King elsewhere. But there were present in the Castle, when
the besiegers arrived before it, the son's fair wife Lady Baxby, and
her servants, together with some friends and near relatives of her
husband; and the defence was so good and well-considered that they
anticipated no great danger.

The Parliamentary forces were also commanded by a noble lord--for
the nobility were by no means, at this stage of the war, all on the
King's side--and it had been observed during his approach in the
night-time, and in the morning when the reconnoitring took place,
that he appeared sad and much depressed. The truth was that, by a
strange freak of destiny, it had come to pass that the stronghold he
was set to reduce was the home of his own sister, whom he had
tenderly loved during her maidenhood, and whom he loved now, in
spite of the estrangement which had resulted from hostilities with
her husband's family. He believed, too, that, notwithstanding this
cruel division, she still was sincerely attached to him.

His hesitation to point his ordnance at the walls was inexplicable
to those who were strangers to his family history. He remained in
the field on the north side of the Castle (called by his name to
this day because of his encampment there) till it occurred to him to
send a messenger to his sister Anna with a letter, in which he
earnestly requested her, as she valued her life, to steal out of the
place by the little gate to the south, and make away in that
direction to the residence of some friends.

Shortly after he saw, to his great surprise, coming from the front
of the Castle walls a lady on horseback, with a single attendant.
She rode straight forward into the field, and up the slope to where
his army and tents were spread. It was not till she got quite near
that he discerned her to be his sister Anna; and much was he alarmed
that she should have run such risk as to sally out in the face of
his forces without knowledge of their proceedings, when at any
moment their first discharge might have burst forth, to her own
destruction in such exposure. She dismounted before she was quite
close to him, and he saw that her familiar face, though pale, was
not at all tearful, as it would have been in their younger days.
Indeed, if the particulars as handed down are to be believed, he was
in a more tearful state than she, in his anxiety about her. He
called her into his tent, out of the gaze of those around; for
though many of the soldiers were honest and serious-minded men, he
could not bear that she who had been his dear companion in childhood
should be exposed to curious observation in this her great grief.

When they were alone in the tent he clasped her in his arms, for he
had not seen her since those happier days when, at the commencement
of the war, her husband and himself had been of the same mind about
the arbitrary conduct of the King, and had little dreamt that they
would not go to extremes together. She was the calmest of the two,
it is said, and was the first to speak connectedly.

'William, I have come to you,' said she, 'but not to save myself as
you suppose. Why, oh, why do you persist in supporting this
disloyal cause, and grieving us so?'

'Say not that,' he replied hastily. 'If truth hides at the bottom
of a well, why should you suppose justice to be in high places? I
am for the right at any price. Anna, leave the Castle; you are my
sister; come away, my dear, and save thy life!'

'Never!' says she. 'Do you plan to carry out this attack, and level
the Castle indeed?'

'Most certainly I do,' says he. 'What meaneth this army around us
if not so?'

'Then you will find the bones of your sister buried in the ruins you
cause!' said she. And without another word she turned and left him.

'Anna--abide with me!' he entreated. 'Blood is thicker than water,
and what is there in common between you and your husband now?'

But she shook her head and would not hear him and hastening out,
mounted her horse, and returned towards the Castle as she had come.
Ay, many's the time when I have been riding to hounds across that
field that I have thought of that scene!

When she had quite gone down the field, and over the intervening
ground, and round the bastion, so that he could no longer even see
the tip of her mare's white tail, he was much more deeply moved by
emotions concerning her and her welfare than he had been while she
was before him. He wildly reproached himself that he had not
detained her by force for her own good, so that, come what might,
she would be under his protection and not under that of her husband,
whose impulsive nature rendered him too open to instantaneous
impressions and sudden changes of plan; he was now acting in this
cause and now in that, and lacked the cool judgment necessary for
the protection of a woman in these troubled times. Her brother
thought of her words again and again, and sighed, and even
considered if a sister were not of more value than a principle, and
if he would not have acted more naturally in throwing in his lot
with hers.

The delay of the besiegers in attacking the Castle was said to be
entirely owing to this distraction on the part of their leader, who
remained on the spot attempting some indecisive operations, and
parleying with the Marquis, then in command, with far inferior
forces, within the Castle. It never occurred to him that in the
meantime the young Lady Baxby, his sister, was in much the same mood
as himself. Her brother's familiar voice and eyes, much worn and
fatigued by keeping the field, and by family distractions on account
of this unhappy feud, rose upon her vision all the afternoon, and as
day waned she grew more and more Parliamentarian in her principles,
though the only arguments which had addressed themselves to her were
those of family ties.

Her husband, General Lord Baxby, had been expected to return all the
day from his excursion into the east of the county, a message having
been sent to him informing him of what had happened at home; and in
the evening he arrived with reinforcements in unexpected numbers.
Her brother retreated before these to a hill near Ivell, four or
five miles off, to afford the men and himself some repose. Lord
Baxby duly placed his forces, and there was no longer any immediate
danger. By this time Lady Baxby's feelings were more
Parliamentarian than ever, and in her fancy the fagged countenance
of her brother, beaten back by her husband, seemed to reproach her
for heartlessness. When her husband entered her apartment, ruddy
and boisterous, and full of hope, she received him but sadly; and
upon his casually uttering some slighting words about her brother's
withdrawal, which seemed to convey an imputation upon his courage,
she resented them, and retorted that he, Lord Baxby himself, had
been against the Court-party at first, where it would be much more
to his credit if he were at present, and showing her brother's
consistency of opinion, instead of supporting the lying policy of
the King (as she called it) for the sake of a barren principle of
loyalty, which was but an empty expression when a King was not at
one with his people. The dissension grew bitter between them,
reaching to little less than a hot quarrel, both being quick-
tempered souls.

Lord Baxby was weary with his long day's march and other
excitements, and soon retired to bed. His lady followed some time
after. Her husband slept profoundly, but not so she; she sat
brooding by the window-slit, and lifting the curtain looked forth
upon the hills without.

In the silence between the footfalls of the sentinels she could hear
faint sounds of her brother's camp on the distant hills, where the
soldiery had hardly settled as yet into their bivouac since their
evening's retreat. The first frosts of autumn had touched the
grass, and shrivelled the more delicate leaves of the creepers; and
she thought of William sleeping on the chilly ground, under the
strain of these hardships. Tears flooded her eyes as she returned
to her husband's imputations upon his courage, as if there could be
any doubt of Lord William's courage after what he had done in the
past days.

Lord Baxby's long and reposeful breathings in his comfortable bed
vexed her now, and she came to a determination on an impulse.
Hastily lighting a taper, she wrote on a scrap of paper:

'Blood is thicker than water, dear William--I will come;' and with
this in her hand, she went to the door of the room, and out upon the
stairs; on second thoughts turning back for a moment, to put on her
husband's hat and cloak--not the one he was daily wearing--that if
seen in the twilight she might at a casual glance appear as some lad
or hanger-on of one of the household women; thus accoutred she
descended a flight of circular stairs, at the bottom of which was a
door opening upon the terrace towards the west, in the direction of
her brother's position. Her object was to slip out without the
sentry seeing her, get to the stables, arouse one of the varlets,
and send him ahead of her along the highway with the note to warn
her brother of her approach, to throw in her lot with his.

She was still in the shadow of the wall on the west terrace, waiting
for the sentinel to be quite out of the way, when her ears were
greeted by a voice, saying, from the adjoining shade -

'Here I be!'

The tones were the tones of a woman. Lady Baxby made no reply, and
stood close to the wall.

'My Lord Baxby,' the voice continued; and she could recognize in it
the local accent of some girl from the little town of Sherton, close
at hand. 'I be tired of waiting, my dear Lord Baxby! I was afeard
you would never come!'

Lady Baxby flushed hot to her toes.

'How the wench loves him!' she said to herself, reasoning from the
tones of the voice, which were plaintive and sweet and tender as a
bird's. She changed from the home-hating truant to the strategic
wife in one moment.

'Hist!' she said.

'My lord, you told me ten o'clock, and 'tis near twelve now,'
continues the other. 'How could ye keep me waiting so if you love
me as you said? I should have stuck to my lover in the Parliament
troops if it had not been for thee, my dear lord!'

There was not the least doubt that Lady Baxby had been mistaken for
her husband by this intriguing damsel. Here was a pretty underhand
business! Here were sly manoeuvrings! Here was faithlessness!
Here was a precious assignation surprised in the midst! Her wicked
husband, whom till this very moment she had ever deemed the soul of
good faith--how could he!

Lady Baxby precipitately retreated to the door in the turret, closed
it, locked it, and ascended one round of the staircase, where there
was a loophole. 'I am not coming! I, Lord Baxby, despise ye and
all your wanton tribe!' she hissed through the opening; and then
crept upstairs, as firmly rooted in Royalist principles as any man
in the Castle.

Her husband still slept the sleep of the weary, well-fed, and well-
drunken, if not of the just; and Lady Baxby quickly disrobed herself
without assistance--being, indeed, supposed by her woman to have
retired to rest long ago. Before lying down, she noiselessly locked
the door and placed the key under her pillow. More than that, she
got a staylace, and, creeping up to her lord, in great stealth tied
the lace in a tight knot to one of his long locks of hair, attaching
the other end of the lace to the bedpost; for, being tired herself
now, she feared she might sleep heavily; and, if her husband should
wake, this would be a delicate hint that she had discovered all.

It is added that, to make assurance trebly sure, her gentle
ladyship, when she had lain down to rest, held her lord's hand in
her own during the whole of the night. But this is old-wives'
gossip, and not corroborated. What Lord Baxby thought and said when
he awoke the next morning, and found himself so strangely tethered,
is likewise only matter of conjecture; though there is no reason to
suppose that his rage was great. The extent of his culpability as
regards the intrigue was this much; that, while halting at a cross-
road near Sherton that day, he had flirted with a pretty young
woman, who seemed nothing loth, and had invited her to the Castle
terrace after dark--an invitation which he quite forgot on his
arrival home.

The subsequent relations of Lord and Lady Baxby were not again
greatly embittered by quarrels, so far as is known; though the
husband's conduct in later life was occasionally eccentric, and the
vicissitudes of his public career culminated in long exile. The
siege of the Castle was not regularly undertaken till two or three
years later than the time I have been describing, when Lady Baxby
and all the women therein, except the wife of the then Governor, had
been removed to safe distance. That memorable siege of fifteen days
by Fairfax, and the surrender of the old place on an August evening,
is matter of history, and need not be told by me.

The Man of Family spoke approvingly across to the Colonel when the
Club had done smiling, declaring that the story was an absolutely
faithful page of history, as he had good reason to know, his own
people having been engaged in that well-known scrimmage. He asked
if the Colonel had ever heard the equally well-authenticated, though
less martial tale of a certain Lady Penelope, who lived in the same
century, and not a score of miles from the same place?

The Colonel had not heard it, nor had anybody except the local
historian; and the inquirer was induced to proceed forthwith.

DAME THE EIGHTH: THE LADY PENELOPE
By the man of Family

In going out of Casterbridge by the low-lying road which eventually
conducts to the town of Ivell, you see on the right hand an ivied
manor-house, flanked by battlemented towers, and more than usually
distinguished by the size of its many mullioned windows. Though
still of good capacity, the building is much reduced from its
original grand proportions; it has, moreover, been shorn of the fair
estate which once appertained to its lord, with the exception of a
few acres of park-land immediately around the mansion. This was
formerly the seat of the ancient and knightly family of the
Drenghards, or Drenkhards, now extinct in the male line, whose name,
according to the local chronicles, was interpreted to mean Strenuus
Miles, vel Potator, though certain members of the family were averse
to the latter signification, and a duel was fought by one of them on
that account, as is well known. With this, however, we are not now
concerned.

In the early part of the reign of the first King James, there was
visiting near this place of the Drenghards a lady of noble family
and extraordinary beauty. She was of the purest descent; ah,
there's seldom such blood nowadays as hers! She possessed no great
wealth, it was said, but was sufficiently endowed. Her beauty was
so perfect, and her manner so entrancing, that suitors seemed to
spring out of the ground wherever she went, a sufficient cause of
anxiety to the Countess her mother, her only living parent. Of
these there were three in particular, whom neither her mother's
complaints of prematurity, nor the ready raillery of the maiden
herself, could effectually put off. The said gallants were a
certain Sir John Gale, a Sir William Hervy, and the well-known Sir
George Drenghard, one of the Drenghard family before-mentioned.
They had, curiously enough, all been equally honoured with the
distinction of knighthood, and their schemes for seeing her were
manifold, each fearing that one of the others would steal a march
over himself. Not content with calling, on every imaginable excuse,
at the house of the relative with whom she sojourned, they
intercepted her in rides and in walks; and if any one of them
chanced to surprise another in the act of paying her marked
attentions, the encounter often ended in an altercation of great
violence. So heated and impassioned, indeed, would they become,
that the lady hardly felt herself safe in their company at such
times, notwithstanding that she was a brave and buxom damsel, not
easily put out, and with a daring spirit of humour in her
composition, if not of coquetry.

At one of these altercations, which had place in her relative's
grounds, and was unusually bitter, threatening to result in a duel,
she found it necessary to assert herself. Turning haughtily upon
the pair of disputants, she declared that whichever should be the
first to break the peace between them, no matter what the
provocation, that man should never be admitted to her presence
again; and thus would she effectually stultify the aggressor by
making the promotion of a quarrel a distinct bar to its object.

While the two knights were wearing rather a crest-fallen appearance
at her reprimand, the third, never far off, came upon the scene, and
she repeated her caveat to him also. Seeing, then, how great was
the concern of all at her peremptory mood, the lady's manner
softened, and she said with a roguish smile -

'Have patience, have patience, you foolish men! Only bide your time
quietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in turn!'

They laughed heartily at this sally, all three together, as though
they were the best of friends; at which she blushed, and showed some
embarrassment, not having realized that her arch jest would have
sounded so strange when uttered. The meeting which resulted thus,
however, had its good effect in checking the bitterness of their
rivalry; and they repeated her speech to their relatives and
acquaintance with a hilarious frequency and publicity that the lady
little divined, or she might have blushed and felt more
embarrassment still.

In the course of time the position resolved itself, and the
beauteous Lady Penelope (as she was called) made up her mind; her
choice being the eldest of the three knights, Sir George Drenghard,
owner of the mansion aforesaid, which thereupon became her home; and
her husband being a pleasant man, and his family, though not so
noble, of as good repute as her own, all things seemed to show that
she had reckoned wisely in honouring him with her preference.

But what may lie behind the still and silent veil of the future none
can foretell. In the course of a few months the husband of her
choice died of his convivialities (as if, indeed, to bear out his
name), and the Lady Penelope was left alone as mistress of his
house. By this time she had apparently quite forgotten her careless
declaration to her lovers collectively; but the lovers themselves
had not forgotten it; and, as she would now be free to take a second
one of them, Sir John Gale appeared at her door as early in her
widowhood as it was proper and seemly to do so.

She gave him little encouragement; for, of the two remaining, her
best beloved was Sir William, of whom, if the truth must be told,
she had often thought during her short married life. But he had not
yet reappeared. Her heart began to be so much with him now that she
contrived to convey to him, by indirect hints through his friends,
that she would not be displeased by a renewal of his former
attentions. Sir William, however, misapprehended her gentle
signalling, and from excellent, though mistaken motives of delicacy,
delayed to intrude himself upon her for a long time. Meanwhile Sir
John, now created a baronet, was unremitting, and she began to grow
somewhat piqued at the backwardness of him she secretly desired to
be forward.

'Never mind,' her friends said jestingly to her (knowing of her
humorous remark, as everybody did, that she would marry them all
three if they would have patience)--'never mind; why hesitate upon
the order of them? Take 'em as they come.'

This vexed her still more, and regretting deeply, as she had often
done, that such a careless speech should ever have passed her lips,
she fairly broke down under Sir John's importunity, and accepted his
hand. They were married on a fine spring morning, about the very
time at which the unfortunate Sir William discovered her preference
for him, and was beginning to hasten home from a foreign court to
declare his unaltered devotion to her. On his arrival in England he
learnt the sad truth.

If Sir William suffered at her precipitancy under what she had
deemed his neglect, the Lady Penelope herself suffered more. She
had not long been the wife of Sir John Gale before he showed a
disposition to retaliate upon her for the trouble and delay she had
put him to in winning her. With increasing frequency he would tell
her that, as far as he could perceive, she was an article not worth
such labour as he had bestowed in obtaining it, and such snubbings
as he had taken from his rivals on the same account. These and
other cruel things he repeated till he made the lady weep sorely,
and wellnigh broke her spirit, though she had formerly been such a
mettlesome dame. By degrees it became perceptible to all her
friends that her life was a very unhappy one; and the fate of the
fair woman seemed yet the harder in that it was her own stately
mansion, left to her sole use by her first husband, which her second
had entered into and was enjoying, his being but a mean and meagre
erection.

But such is the flippancy of friends that when she met them, and
secretly confided her grief to their ears, they would say cheerily,
'Lord, never mind, my dear; there's a third to come yet!'--at which
maladroit remark she would show much indignation, and tell them they
should know better than to trifle on so solemn a theme. Yet that
the poor lady would have been only too happy to be the wife of the
third, instead of Sir John whom she had taken, was painfully
obvious, and much she was blamed for her foolish choice by some
people. Sir William, however, had returned to foreign cities on
learning the news of her marriage, and had never been heard of
since.

Two or three years of suffering were passed by Lady Penelope as the
despised and chidden wife of this man Sir John, amid regrets that
she had so greatly mistaken him, and sighs for one whom she thought
never to see again, till it chanced that her husband fell sick of
some slight ailment. One day after this, when she was sitting in
his room, looking from the window upon the expanse in front, she
beheld, approaching the house on foot, a form she seemed to know
well. Lady Penelope withdrew silently from the sickroom, and
descended to the hall, whence, through the doorway, she saw entering
between the two round towers, which at that time flanked the
gateway, Sir William Hervy, as she had surmised, but looking thin
and travel-worn. She advanced into the courtyard to meet him.

'I was passing through Casterbridge,' he said, with faltering
deference, 'and I walked out to ask after your ladyship's health. I
felt that I could do no less; and, of course, to pay my respects to
your good husband, my heretofore acquaintance . . . But oh,
Penelope, th'st look sick and sorry!'

'I am heartsick, that's all,' said she.

They could see in each other an emotion which neither wished to
express, and they stood thus a long time with tears in their eyes.

'He does not treat 'ee well, I hear,' said Sir William in a low
voice. 'May God in Heaven forgive him; but it is asking a great
deal!'

'Hush, hush!' said she hastily.

'Nay, but I will speak what I may honestly say,' he answered. 'I am
not under your roof, and my tongue is free. Why didst not wait for
me, Penelope, or send to me a more overt letter? I would have
travelled night and day to come!'

'Too late, William; you must not ask it,' said she, endeavouring to
quiet him as in old times. 'My husband just now is unwell. He will
grow better in a day or two, maybe. You must call again and see him
before you leave Casterbridge.'

As she said this their eyes met. Each was thinking of her lightsome
words about taking the three men in turn; each thought that two-
thirds of that promise had been fulfilled. But, as if it were
unpleasant to her that this recollection should have arisen, she
spoke again quickly: 'Come again in a day or two, when my husband
will be well enough to see you.'

Sir William departed without entering the house, and she returned to
Sir John's chamber. He, rising from his pillow, said, 'To whom hast
been talking, wife, in the courtyard? I heard voices there.'

She hesitated, and he repeated the question more impatiently.

'I do not wish to tell you now,' said she.

'But I wooll know!' said he.

Then she answered, 'Sir William Hervy.'

'By G- I thought as much!' cried Sir John, drops of perspiration
standing on his white face. 'A skulking villain! A sick man's ears
are keen, my lady. I heard that they were lover-like tones, and he
called 'ee by your Christian name. These be your intrigues, my
lady, when I am off my legs awhile!'

'On my honour,' cried she, 'you do me a wrong. I swear I did not
know of his coming!'

'Swear as you will,' said Sir John, 'I don't believe 'ee.' And with
this he taunted her, and worked himself into a greater passion,
which much increased his illness. His lady sat still, brooding.
There was that upon her face which had seldom been there since her
marriage; and she seemed to think anew of what she had so lightly
said in the days of her freedom, when her three lovers were one and
all coveting her hand. 'I began at the wrong end of them,' she
murmured. 'My God--that did I!'

'What?' said he.

'A trifle,' said she. 'I spoke to myself only.'

It was somewhat strange that after this day, while she went about
the house with even a sadder face than usual, her churlish husband
grew worse; and what was more, to the surprise of all, though to the
regret of few, he died a fortnight later. Sir William had not
called upon him as he had promised, having received a private
communication from Lady Penelope, frankly informing him that to do
so would be inadvisable, by reason of her husband's temper.

Now when Sir John was gone, and his remains carried to his family
burying-place in another part of England, the lady began in due time
to wonder whither Sir William had betaken himself. But she had been
cured of precipitancy (if ever woman were), and was prepared to wait
her whole lifetime a widow if the said Sir William should not
reappear. Her life was now passed mostly within the walls, or in
promenading between the pleasaunce and the bowling-green; and she
very seldom went even so far as the high road which then skirted the
grounds on the north, though it has now, and for many years, been
diverted to the south side. Her patience was rewarded (if love be
in any case a reward); for one day, many months after her second
husband's death, a messenger arrived at her gate with the
intelligence that Sir William Hervy was again in Casterbridge, and
would be glad to know if it were her pleasure that he should wait
upon her.

It need hardly be said that permission was joyfully granted, and
within two hours her lover stood before her, a more thoughtful man
than formerly, but in all essential respects the same man, generous,
modest to diffidence, and sincere. The reserve which womanly
decorum threw over her manner was but too obviously artificial, and
when he said 'the ways of Providence are strange,' and added after a
moment, 'and merciful likewise,' she could not conceal her
agitation, and burst into tears upon his neck.

'But this is too soon,' she said, starting back.

'But no,' said he. 'You are eleven months gone in widowhood, and it
is not as if Sir John had been a good husband to you.'

His visits grew pretty frequent now, as may well be guessed, and in
a month or two he began to urge her to an early union. But she
counselled a little longer delay.

'Why?' said he. 'Surely I have waited long! Life is short; we are
getting older every day, and I am the last of the three.'

'Yes,' said the lady frankly. 'And that is why I would not have you
hasten. Our marriage may seem so strange to everybody, after my
unlucky remark on that occasion we know so well, and which so many
others know likewise, thanks to talebearers.'

On this representation he conceded a little space, for the sake of
her good name. But the destined day of their marriage at last
arrived, and it was a gay time for the villagers and all concerned,
and the bells in the parish church rang from noon till night. Thus
at last she was united to the man who had loved her the most
tenderly of them all, who but for his reticence might perhaps have
been the first to win her. Often did he say to himself; 'How
wondrous that her words should have been fulfilled! Many a truth
hath been spoken in jest, but never a more remarkable one!' The
noble lady herself preferred not to dwell on the coincidence, a
certain shyness, if not shame, crossing her fair face at any
allusion thereto.

But people will have their say, sensitive souls or none, and their
sayings on this third occasion took a singular shape. 'Surely,'
they whispered, 'there is something more than chance in this . . .
The death of the first was possibly natural; but what of the death
of the second, who ill-used her, and whom, loving the third so
desperately, she must have wished out of the way?'

Then they pieced together sundry trivial incidents of Sir John's
illness, and dwelt upon the indubitable truth that he had grown
worse after her lover's unexpected visit; till a very sinister
theory was built up as to the hand she may have had in Sir John's
premature demise. But nothing of this suspicion was said openly,
for she was a lady of noble birth--nobler, indeed, than either of
her husbands--and what people suspected they feared to express in
formal accusation.

The mansion that she occupied had been left to her for so long a
time as she should choose to reside in it, and, having a regard for
the spot, she had coaxed Sir William to remain there. But in the
end it was unfortunate; for one day, when in the full tide of his
happiness, he was walking among the willows near the gardens, where
he overheard a conversation between some basket-makers who were
cutting the osiers for their use. In this fatal dialogue the
suspicions of the neighbouring townsfolk were revealed to him for
the first time.

'A cupboard close to his bed, and the key in her pocket. Ah!' said
one.

'And a blue phial therein--h'm!' said another.

'And spurge-laurel leaves among the hearth-ashes. Oh-oh!' said a
third.

On his return home Sir William seemed to have aged years. But he
said nothing; indeed, it was a thing impossible. And from that hour
a ghastly estrangement began. She could not understand it, and
simply waited. One day he said, however, 'I must go abroad.'

'Why?' said she. 'William, have I offended you?'

'No,' said he; 'but I must go.'

She could coax little more out of him, and in itself there was
nothing unnatural in his departure, for he had been a wanderer from
his youth. In a few days he started off, apparently quite another
man than he who had rushed to her side so devotedly a few months
before.

It is not known when, or how, the rumours, which were so thick in
the atmosphere around her, actually reached the Lady Penelope's
ears, but that they did reach her there is no doubt. It was
impossible that they should not; the district teemed with them; they
rustled in the air like night-birds of evil omen. Then a reason for
her husband's departure occurred to her appalled mind, and a loss of
health became quickly apparent. She dwindled thin in the face, and
the veins in her temples could all be distinctly traced. An inner
fire seemed to be withering her away. Her rings fell off her
fingers, and her arms hung like the flails of the threshers, though
they had till lately been so round and so elastic. She wrote to her
husband repeatedly, begging him to return to her; but he, being in
extreme and wretched doubt, moreover, knowing nothing of her ill-
health, and never suspecting that the rumours had reached her also,
deemed absence best, and postponed his return awhile, giving various
good reasons for his delay.

At length, however, when the Lady Penelope had given birth to a
still-born child, her mother, the Countess, addressed a letter to
Sir William, requesting him to come back to her if he wished to see
her alive; since she was wasting away of some mysterious disease,
which seemed to be rather mental than physical. It was evident that
his mother-in-law knew nothing of the secret, for she lived at a
distance; but Sir William promptly hastened home, and stood beside
the bed of his now dying wife.

'Believe me, William,' she said when they were alone, 'I am
innocent--innocent!'

'Of what?' said he. 'Heaven forbid that I should accuse you of
anything!'

'But you do accuse me--silently!' she gasped. 'I could not write
thereon--and ask you to hear me. It was too much, too degrading.
But would that I had been less proud! They suspect me of poisoning
him, William! But, oh my dear husband, I am innocent of that wicked
crime! He died naturally. I loved you--too soon; but that was
all!'

Nothing availed to save her. The worm had gnawed too far into her
heart before Sir William's return for anything to be remedial now;
and in a few weeks she breathed her last. After her death the
people spoke louder, and her conduct became a subject of public
discussion. A little later on, the physician, who had attended the

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