He was not convinced. "Vange is very dull," he said, obstinately; "and your friends will be wanting to see you. Have you heard from your mother lately?"
"No. I am surprised she has not written."
"She has not forgiven us for getting married so quietly," he went on.
"We had better go back to London and make our peace with her. Don"t you want to see the house my aunt left me at Highgate?"
Stella sighed. The society of the man she loved was society enough for her. Was he getting tired of his wife already? "I will go with you wherever you like." She said those words in tones of sad submission, and gently got up from his knee.
He rose also, and took from the sofa the letter which he had thrown on it. "Let us see what our friends say," he resumed. "The address is in Loring"s handwriting."
As he approached the table on which the lamp was burning, she noticed that he moved with a languor that was new in her experience of him. He sat down and opened the letter. She watched him with an anxiety which had now become intensified to suspicion. The shade of the lamp still prevented her from seeing his face plainly. "Just what I told you," he said; "the Lorings want to know when they are to see us in London; and your mother says she "feels like that character in Shakespeare who was cut by his own daughters." Read it."
He handed her the letter. In taking it, she contrived to touch the lamp shade, as if by accident, and tilted it so that the full flow of the light fell on him. He started back--but not before she had seen the ghastly pallor on his face. She had not only heard it from Lady Loring, she knew from his own unreserved confession to her what that startling change really meant. In an instant she was on her knees at his feet.
"Oh, my darling," she cried, "it was cruel to keep _that_ secret from your wife! You have heard it again!"
She was too irresistibly beautiful, at that moment, to be reproved. He gently raised her from the floor--and owned the truth.
"Yes," he said; "I heard it after you left me on the Belvidere--just as I heard it on another moonlight night, when Major Hynd was here with me.
Our return to this house is perhaps the cause. I don"t complain; I have had a long release."
She threw her arms round his neck. "We will leave Vange to-morrow," she said.
It was firmly spoken. But her heart sank as the words pa.s.sed her lips.
Vange Abbey had been the scene of the most unalloyed happiness in her life. What destiny was waiting for her when she returned to London?
CHAPTER II.
EVENTS AT TEN ACRES.
THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his wife from Vange Abbey. The villa at Highgate--called Ten Acres Lodge, in allusion to the measurement of the grounds surrounding the house--had been kept in perfect order by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now in the employment of her nephew.
On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mrs. Eyrecourt arrived at Ten Acres--on her way to a garden-party. Finding the house, to her great relief, a modern building, supplied with all the newest comforts and luxuries, she at once began to plan a grand party, in celebration of the return of the bride and bridegroom.
"I don"t wish to praise myself," Mrs. Eyrecourt said; "but if ever there was a forgiving woman, I am that person. We will say no more, Stella, about your truly contemptible wedding--five people altogether, including ourselves and the Lorings. A grand ball will set you right with society, and that is the one thing needful. Tea and coffee, my dear Romayne, in your study; Coote"s quadrille band; the supper from Gunter"s, the grounds illuminated with colored lamps; Tyrolese singers among the trees, relieved by military music--and, if there _are_ any African or other savages now in London, there is room enough in these charming grounds for encampments, dances, squaws, scalps, and all the rest of it, to end in a blaze of fireworks."
A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further enumeration of attractions at the contemplated ball. Stella had observed that her mother looked unusually worn and haggard, through the disguises of paint and powder. This was not an uncommon result of Mrs. Eyrecourt"s devotion to the demands of society; but the cough was something new, as a symptom of exhaustion.
"I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself," said Stella.
"You go to too many parties."
"Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse. The other night, I was waiting for the carriage in a draught (one of the most perfect private concerts of the season, ending with a delightfully naughty little French play)--and I caught a slight cold. A gla.s.s of water is all I want. Thank you. Romayne, you are looking shockingly serious and severe; our ball will cheer you. If you would only make a bonfire of all those horrid books, you don"t know how it would improve your spirits. Dearest Stella, I will come and lunch here to-morrow--you are within such a nice easy drive from town--and I"ll bring my visiting-book, and settle about the invitations and the day. Oh, dear me, how late it is. I have nearly an hour"s drive before I get to my garden party. Good-by, my turtle doves good-by."
She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of coughing.
But she still persisted in making light of it. "I"m as strong as a horse," she repeated, as soon as she could speak--and skipped into the carriage like a young girl.
"Your mother is killing herself," said Romayne.
"If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while," Stella suggested, "the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would you object to it, Lewis?"
"My darling, I object to nothing--except giving a ball and burning my books. If your mother will yield on these two points, my house is entirely at her disposal."
He spoke playfully--he looked his best, since he had separated himself from the painful a.s.sociations that were now connected with Vange Abbey.
Had "the torment of the Voice" been left far away in Yorkshire? Stella shrank from approaching the subject in her husband"s presence, knowing that it must remind him of the fatal duel. To her surprise, Romayne himself referred to the General"s family.
"I have written to Hynd," he began. "Do you mind his dining with us to-day?"
"Of course not!"
"I want to hear if he has anything to tell me--about those French ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to ascertain--"
He was unable to overcome his reluctance to p.r.o.nounce the next words.
Stella was quick to understand what he meant. She finished the sentence for him.
"Yes," he said, "I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and if there is any hope of curing him. Is it--" he trembled as he put the question--"Is it hereditary madness?"
Feeling the serious importance of concealing the truth, Stella only replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint of madness in the family. "I suppose," she added, "you would not like to see the boy, and judge of his chances of recovery for yourself?"
"You suppose?" he burst out, with sudden anger. "You might be sure. The bare idea of seeing him turns me cold. Oh, when shall I forget!
when shall I forget! Who spoke of him first?" he said, with renewed irritability, after a moment of silence. "You or I?"
"It was my fault, love--he is so harmless and so gentle, and he has such a sweet face--I thought it might soothe you to see him. Forgive me; we will never speak of him again. Have you any notes for me to copy? You know, Lewis, I am your secretary now."
So she led Romayne away to his study and his books. When Major Hynd arrived, she contrived to be the first to see him. "Say as little as possible about the General"s widow and her son," she whispered.
The Major understood her. "Don"t be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne," he answered.
"I know your husband well enough to know what you mean. Besides, the news I bring is good news."
Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his report.
"I am going to agreeably surprise you," he began. "All responsibility toward the General"s family is taken off our hands. The ladies are on their way back to France."
Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy incidents a.s.sociated with her visit to Camp"s Hill. "Madame Marillac spoke of a brother of hers who disapproved of the marriage," she said. "Has he forgiven her?"
"That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Naturally enough, he felt the disgrace of his sister"s marriage to such a man as the General.
Only the other day he heard for the first time that she was a widow--and he at once traveled to England. I bade them good-by yesterday--most happily reunited--on their journey home again. Ah, I thought you would be glad, Mrs. Romayne, to hear that the poor widow"s troubles are over.
Her brother is rich enough to place them all in easy circ.u.mstances--he is as good a fellow as ever lived."
"Have you seen him?" Stella asked, eagerly.
"I have been with him to the asylum."
"Does the boy go back to France?"
"No. We took the place by surprise, and saw for ourselves how well conducted it was. The boy has taken a strong liking to the proprietor--a bright, cheerful old man, who is teaching him some of our English games, and has given him a pony to ride on. He burst out crying, poor creature, at the idea of going away--and his mother burst out crying at the idea of leaving him. It was a melancholy scene You know what a good mother is--no sacrifice is too great for her. The boy stays at the asylum, on the chance that his healthier and happier life there may help to cure him. By-the-way, Romayne, his uncle desires me to thank you--"
"Hynd! you didn"t tell the uncle my name?"
"Don"t alarm yourself. He is a gentleman, and when I told him I was pledged to secrecy, he made but one inquiry--he asked if you were a rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand a year."