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 glass 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 associations 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 pronounce 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 litt le 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
associated 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 circumstances--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."
"Well?"
"Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He
said: 'I cannot presume to offer repayment to a person so wealthy. We
gratefully accept our obligation to our kind unknown friend. For the
future, however, my nephew's expenses must be paid from my purse.' Of
course I could only agree to that. From time to time the mother is
to hear, and I am to hear, how the boy goes on. Or, if you like,
Romayne--now that the General's family has left England--I don't see why
the proprietor might not make his report directly to yourself."
"No!" Romayne rejoined, positively. "Let things remain as they are."
"Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the
asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night? Then
let us go to the billiard-room; and as I am the worst of bad players, I
will ask you to help me to beat your accomplished husband."
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid arrived at Ten
Acres with a note from her mistress.
"Dearest Stella--Matilda must bring you my excuses for to-day. I don't
in the least understand it, but I seem to have turned lazy. It is most
ridiculous--I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I did do just a
little too much yesterday. The opera after the garden party, and a ball
after the opera, and this tiresome cough all night after the ball. Quite
a series, isn't it? Make my apologies to our dear dismal Romayne--and
if you drive out this afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your
affectionate mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.--You know what a fidget
Matilda is. If she talks about me, don't believe a word she says to
you."
Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.
"Is my mother very ill?" she asked.
"So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a
doctor. You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use your
influence--"
"I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me."
Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her husband.
He spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did not conceal that
he shared his wife's apprehensions. "Go at once," were his last words to
her; "and, if I can be of any use, send for me."
It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought sad news.
The physician consulted told her plainly that the neglected cough,
and the constant fatigue, had together made the case a serious one.
He declined to say that there was any absolute danger as yet, or any
necessity for her remaining with her mother at night. The experience
of the next twenty-four hours, at most, would enable him to speak
positively. In the meantime, the patient insisted that Stella should
return to her husband. Even under the influence of opiates, Mrs.
Eyrecourt was still drowsily equal to herself. "You are a fidget, my
dear, and Matilda is a fidget--I can't have two of you at my bedside.
Good-night." Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered:
"Three weeks notice, remember, for the party!"
By the next evening the malady had assumed so formidable an aspect that
the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance of recovery. With her
husband's full approval, Stella remained night and day at her mother's
bedside.
Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage,
Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.
The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There were
intervals during which her vigorous constitution rallied and resisted
the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella was able to
return to her husband for a few hours--subject always to a message which
recalled her to her mother when the chances of life or death appeared
to be equally balanced. Romayne's one resource was in his books and
his pen. For the first time since his union with Stella he opened the
portfolios in which Penrose had collected the first introductory
CHAPTERs of his historical work. Almost at every page the familiar
handwriting of his secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial
to his resolution to be working alone; never had he felt the absence
of Penrose as he felt it now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet
pleasant voice, and, more than both, the ever-welcome sympathy with his
work. Stella had done all that a wife could do to fill the vacant place;
and her husband's fondness had accepted the effort as adding another
charm to the lovely creature who had opened a new life to him. But
where is the woman who can intimately associate herself with the hard
brain-work of a man devoted to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She
can love him, admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other
men--but (in spite of exceptions which only prove the rule) she is out
of her place when she enters the study while the pen is in his hand.
More than once, when he was at work, Romayne closed the page bitterly;
the sad thought came to him, "Oh, if I only had Penrose here!" Even
other friends were not available as a resource in the solitary evening
hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and political engagements. And
Major Hynd--true to the principle of getting away as often as possible
from his disagreeable wife and his ugly children--had once more left
London.
One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death, Romayne
found his historical labors suspended by the want of a certain volume
which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He had mislaid the
references written for him by Penrose, and he was at a loss to remember
whether the book was in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or
in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this emergency a letter to his former
secretary would furnish him with the information that he required. But
he was ignorant of Penrose's present address. The Lorings might possibly
know it--so to the Lorings he resolved to apply.