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 M A D A 1^1 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 POTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STHEET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STKEET
 
 MADAM 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS OLIPHANT 
 
 ArxHOK OF 'in trust' etc. 
 
 IN THREE VOLmiES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1885 
 
 All lighti reserved
 
 I 
 
 0^'>. 
 
 ^^<^ 
 
 
 rd* 
 
 MADAM 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 g 
 
 A LARGE drawing-room in a country house, in 
 the perfect warmth, stillness and good order of 
 
 o after-dinner, awaiting the ladies coming in ; 
 
 ■* the fire perfection, reflecting itself in all the 
 polished brass and steel and tiles of the fire- 
 place : the atmosphere just touched with the 
 , ^ scent of the flowers on the tables ; the piano 
 
 *^ open, with candles lit upon it : some pretty- 
 work laid out upon a stand near the fire, books 
 on another, ready for use, velvet curtains 
 
 1 7 drawn. The whole softly, fully hghted, a place 
 
 '?'; full of every gentle luxiury and comfort in per- 
 fection — the scene prepared, waiting only the 
 actors in it. 
 
 ^ It is curious to look into a centre of life 
 
 ^ like this, all ready for the human affairs about 
 to be transacted there. Tragedy or comedy, 
 
 VOL. L B 
 
 ^
 
 2 MADAM. 
 
 who can tell which ? — the clash of human Avills, 
 the encounter of hearts, or perhaps only that 
 serene blenclincf of khidred tastes and inclina- 
 tions which makes domestic happiness. Who 
 was coming in ? A fair mother, with a flock 
 of girls fairer still, a beautiful wife adding the 
 last grace to the beautiful place ? some fortu- 
 nate man's crown of well-being and happiness, 
 the nucleus of other happy homes to come ? 
 
 A pause : the lire only crackling now and 
 then, a little burst of flame puffing forth, the 
 clock on the mantelpiece chiming softly. Then 
 there entered alone a young lady about eighteen, 
 in the simple white dinner dress of a home 
 party, a tall shght girl, with smooth brown 
 hair, and eyes for the moment enlarged with 
 anxiety and troubled meaning. She came in not 
 as the daughter of the house in ordinary circum- 
 stances comes in, to take her pleasant place, and 
 begin her evening occupation whatever it may 
 be. Her step was almost steahhy, like that of 
 a pioneer, investigating anxiously if all was sale 
 in a place full of danger. Her eyes, with the 
 lids curved over them in an anxiety almost 
 despairing, seemed to plunge into and search 
 through and through the absolute tranquility 
 of this peaceful place. Then she said in a
 
 MADAM. 6 
 
 half-whisper, the intense tone of which was 
 equal to a cry, ' Mother ! ' Nothing stirred : 
 the plaoe was so warm, so perfect, so happy ; 
 while this one human creature stood on the 
 threshold gazing — as if it had a desert full of 
 nothing but trouble and terror. She stood 
 thus only for a moment and then disappeared. 
 It was a painful intrusion, suggestive of every- 
 thincr that was most alien to the sentiment of 
 the place : when she withdrew it fell again 
 into that soft beaming of warmth and bright- 
 ness waiting for the warmer interest to come. 
 
 The doorway in which she had stood for 
 that momentary inspection, which was deep in 
 a solid wall, with two doors, in case any breath 
 of cold should enter, opened into a hall, very 
 lofty and fine, a sort of centre to the quiet 
 house. Here the light was dimmer, the place 
 being deserted, though it had an air of habita- 
 tion, and the fire still smouldered in the huge 
 chimney, round which chairs were standing. 
 Sounds of voices muffled by closed doors and 
 curtains came from the further side where the 
 dining-room w'as. The young lady shrank 
 from this as if her noiseless motion could have 
 been heard over the sounds of the male voices 
 there. She hurried along to the other end of 
 
 b2
 
 4 MADAM. 
 
 the hall, which lay in darkness with a glimmer 
 of pale sky showing between the pillars from 
 without. The outer doors were not yet shut. 
 The inner glass door sliow^ed this paleness of 
 night, with branches of trees tossing against a 
 grey heaven full of flying clouds — the strangest 
 w^eird contrast to all the warmth and luxury 
 within. The girl shivered as she came in sight 
 of that dreary outer world. This was the 
 opening of the park in front of the house, a 
 width of empty space, and beyond it the com- 
 motion of the wind, the stormy show of the 
 coursing clouds. She went close to the door 
 and gazed out, pressing her forehead against 
 the glass, and searching the darkness, as she 
 had done the light, with anxious eyes. She 
 stood so for about five minutes, and then she 
 breathed an impatient sigh. ' What is the 
 o'ood ? ' she said to herself half aloud. 
 
 Here something stirred near her which 
 made her start, at first with an eager move- 
 ment of hope. Then a low voice said — ' No 
 good at all. Miss Eosalind. Why should yor. 
 mix yourself up with what's no concern of 
 yours ? ' 
 
 Eosalind had started violently when she 
 recognised the voice, but subdued herself while
 
 MADA^I. D 
 
 the other spoke. She answered, with qiiiet 
 self-restraint : ' Is it you, Eussell F What are 
 you doing here ? You will make it impossible 
 for me to do anything for you if you forget 
 your own place ! ' 
 
 ' I am doing what my betters are doing, 
 Miss Eosalind — looking out for Madam, just as 
 you are.' 
 
 ' How dare you say such things ? I 
 
 am looking out to see what sort of night it is. 
 It is very stormy. Go away at once. You 
 have no right to be here ! ' 
 
 ' I've been here longer than most folks — 
 longer than them that has the best opinion of 
 themselves ; — longer than ' 
 
 ' Me, perhaps,' said Eosalind. * Yes, I 
 know — you came before I was born ; but you 
 know what folly this is. Mamma,' the girl 
 said, with a certain tremor and hesitation, ' will 
 be very angry if she finds you here.' 
 
 ' I wish, Miss Eosalind, you'd have a little 
 more respect for yourself. It goes against me 
 to hear you say mamma. And your own dear 
 mamma, that should have been lady of e very- 
 thin o- ' 
 
 ' Eussell, I wish you would not be such a 
 fool I My poor little mother that died when I
 
 G MADAM. 
 
 was born. And you to keep up a grudge like 
 this for so many years ! ' 
 
 ' And will, whatever you may say,' cried the 
 woman, under her breath ; ' and will, till I die, 
 or till one of us ' 
 
 ' Go upstairs,' said Eosalind peremptorily, 
 'at once! Y/hat have you to do here? I 
 don't think you are safe in the house. If I had 
 the power I should send you away.' 
 
 ' Miss Eosalind, you are as cruel as 
 
 You have no heart. Me, that nursed you, and 
 
 watched over you ' 
 
 ' It is too terrible a price to pay,' cried the 
 girl, stamping her foot on the floor. ' Go ! I 
 will not have you here. If mamma finds you 
 when she comes downstairs ' 
 
 The woman laughed. ' She will ask what 
 you are doing here, Miss Eosalind. It will not 
 be only me she'll fly out upon. What are you 
 doing her ? Who's outside that interests you 
 so ? It interests us both, that's the truth ; only 
 I am the one that knows the best.' 
 
 Eosalind's white figure flew across the faint 
 light. She grasped the shoulder of the dark 
 shadow, almost invisible in the gloom. ' Go ! ' 
 she cried in her ear, pushing Eussell before 
 her ; the onslauc^ht was so sudden and vehe-
 
 MADAM. / 
 
 meut, that the woman yielded and disappeared 
 reluctantly, ghding away by one of the pas- 
 sages that led to the other part of the house. 
 The girl stood panting and excited in the brief 
 sudden fury of her passion, a miserable sense 
 of failing faith and inability to explain to 
 herself the circumstances in which she was, 
 heicrhtening^ the fervour of her in dicf nation. 
 
 DO O 
 
 Were Eussell's suspicions true.^ Had she been 
 in the right all along ? Those who take per- 
 sistently the worse view of human nature are. 
 alas ! so often in the right. And what is there 
 more terrible than the passion of defence and 
 apology for one whom the heart begins to 
 doubt ? The oirl was youncr, and in her ra^'e 
 and pain could scarcely keep herself from those 
 vehement tears which are the primitive attri- 
 bute of passion. How calm she could have 
 been had she been quite, quite sure ! How 
 she had laughed at Eussell's prejudices in the 
 old days when all was well. She had even 
 excused Eussell, feeling that after all it was 
 pretty of her nurse to return continually to the 
 image of her first mistress — Eosahnd's own 
 mother — and that in the uneducated mind the 
 prepossession against a stepmother, the wrath 
 with which the woman saw her own nurslinL^
 
 5 MADAM. 
 
 supplanted, had a sort of feudal flavour wliicli 
 was rather agreeable than otherwise. 
 
 Eosalind had pardoned Eussell as Mrs. 
 Trevanion herself had pardoned her. So long 
 as all was well : so long as there was nothinor 
 mysterious, nothing that baffled the spectator 
 in the object of Eussell's animadversions. 
 But now something had fallen into life wdiich 
 changed it altogether. To defend those we 
 love from undeserved accusations is so easy. 
 And in books and plays, and every other ex- 
 hibition of human nature in fiction, the accused 
 always possesses the full confidence of those 
 who love him. In ordinary cases they will not 
 even hear any explanation of equivocal circum- 
 stances — they know that guilt is impossible : 
 it is only those who do not know him who can 
 believe anything so monstrous. Alas ! this is 
 not so in common life — the most loving and 
 ])elieving cannot always have that sublime 
 faith. Sometimes doubt and fear gnaw the 
 very souls of those who are the champions, the 
 advocates, the warmest partizans of the accused. 
 This terrible canker had got into Eosalind's 
 being. She loved her step-mother with en- 
 thusiasm. She was ready to die in her defence. 
 She would not listen to the terrible murmur in
 
 MADAM. 9' 
 
 her own heart : but yet it was there. And as 
 she stood and gazed- out upon the park, upon 
 the wild bit of stormy sky, with the black 
 tree -tops waving wildly against it, she was 
 miserable, as miserable as a heart of eighteen 
 ever was. Where had Madame gone, hurrying 
 from the dinner-table where she had smiled 
 and talked and given no sign of trouble ? She 
 was not in her room, nor in the niursery, nor 
 anywhere that "Rosalind cculd think of. It 
 was in reality a confession of despair, a sort of 
 giving up of the cause altogether when the girl 
 came to spy out into the wintry world outside 
 and look for the fugitive there. 
 
 Eosalind had resisted the impulse to do so 
 for many an evening. She had paused by 
 stealth in the dark window above in the cor- 
 ridor, and blushed for herself and fled from 
 that spy's place. But by force of trouble and 
 doubt and anguish her scruples had been over- 
 come, and now she had accepted for herself 
 this position of spy. If her fears had been 
 verified, and she had seen her mother cross 
 that vacant space and steal into the house, 
 what the better would she have been? But 
 there is in suspicion a wild curiosity, an eager- 
 ness for certainty, which grows like a fever.
 
 10 MADAM. 
 
 She had come to feel that she must know — 
 whatever happened she must be satisfied — 
 come what would, that would be better than 
 the gnawing of this suspense. And she had 
 another object too. Her father was an invalid, 
 exacting and fretful. If his wife was not ready 
 at his call whenever he wanted her, his dis- 
 pleasure was unbounded ; and of late it had 
 happened many times that his wife had not 
 been at his call. The scenes that had followed, 
 the reproaches, the insults even, to which the 
 woman whom she called mother had been sub- 
 jected, had made Eosalind's heart sick. If she 
 could but see her, hasten her return, venture 
 to call her, to bid her come quick, quick ! it 
 would be something. The girl was not philo- 
 sopher enough to say to herself that Madam 
 would not come a moment the sooner for being 
 thus watched for. It takes a great deal of 
 philosophy to convince an anxious woman of 
 this in any circumstances, and Eosalind was in 
 the pangs of a first trouble, the earliest anguish 
 she had ever known. After she had driven 
 Eussell away, she stood with her face pressed 
 against the glass, and all her senses gone into 
 her eyes and ears. She heard, she thought, 
 the twitter of the twigs in the wind, the sharp
 
 MADAM. 11 
 
 sound now and then of one wliich broke and 
 fell, which was like a footstep on the path ; 
 besides the louder sweep of the tree tops in the 
 wind, and on the other hand the muffled and 
 faint sound of hfe from the dining-room, every 
 variation in which kept her in alarm. 
 
 But it was in vain she i^azed ; nothinof 
 crossed the park except the sweep of the 
 clouds driven along the sky ; nothing sounded 
 in the air except the wind, the trees, and some- 
 times the opening of a distant door or clap of 
 a gate ; until the dining-room became more 
 audible, a sound of chairs pushed back and 
 voices rising, warning the watcher. She flew 
 like an arrow through the hall, and burst into 
 the still sanctuary of domestic warmth and 
 tranquillity as if she had been a hunted crea- 
 ture, escaping from a fatal pursuit with her 
 enemies at her heels. Her hands were like 
 ice, her slight figure shivering with cold, yet 
 her heart beating so that she could scarcely 
 draw her breath. All this must disappear 
 before the gentlemen came in. It was Eosa- 
 lind's first experience in that strange art whi ch 
 comes naturally to a woman, of obliterating 
 herself and her own sensations ; but how wa s 
 she to still her pulse, to restore her colour, to
 
 12 MADAM. 
 
 bring warmth to her chilled heart ? She felt 
 sure that her misery, her anguish of suspense, 
 her appalling doubts and terrors, must be 
 written in her face ; but it was not so. The 
 emergency brought back a rush of the warm 
 blood tingling to her fingers' ends. Oh never, 
 never, through her, must the mother she loved 
 be betrayed ! That brave impulse brought 
 colour to her cheek and strength to her heart. 
 She made one or two of those minute changes 
 in the room which a woman always finds 
 occasion for, drawing the card table into a 
 ]:)Osition more exactly like that which her 
 father approved, giving an easier angle to his 
 chair, with a touch moving that of Madam into 
 position as if it had been risen from that mo- 
 ment. Then Eosahnd took up the delicate 
 work that lay on the table, and when the gen- 
 tlemen entered, was seated on a low seat within 
 the circle of the shaded lamp, warm in the glow 
 of the genial fireside, her pretty head bent a 
 little over her pretty industry, her hands busy. 
 She who had been the image of anxiety and 
 unrest a moment before, was now the culmin- 
 ating point of all the soft domestic tranquillity, 
 luxury, boundless content and peace, of which 
 tins silent room was the home. She looked up
 
 MADAM. 1 3 
 
 with a smile to greet them as they came in. 
 The brave girl had recovered her sweet looks, 
 her colour, and air of youthful composure and 
 self-possession, by sheer force of will, and strain 
 of the crisis in which she stood to maintain the 
 honour of the family at every hazard. She 
 had been able to do that, but she could not 
 yet for the moment trust herself to speak.
 
 14 MADAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 The gentlemen who came into the drawing- 
 room at Highcourt were four in number : the 
 master of the house, his brother, the doctor, 
 and a young man fresh from the university who 
 w^as a visitor. Mr. Trevanion was an invahd ; 
 he had been a tall man, of what is called aris- 
 tocratic appearance ; a man with fine clearly 
 cut features, holding his head high, with an air 
 ' as if all the world belonged to him.' These 
 fine features were contracted by an expression 
 of fastidious discontent and dissatisfaction which 
 is not unusually associated with such universal 
 proprietorship, and illness had taken the flesli 
 from his bones, and drawn the ivory skin 
 tightly over the high nose and tall narrow 
 forehead. His lips were thin and querulous, 
 his shoulders stooping, his person as thin and 
 angular as human form could be. When he 
 had warmed his ghostly hands at the fire, and 
 seated himself in his accustomed chair, he cast
 
 31 AD AM. IS 
 
 a look round him as if seeking some subject of 
 complaint. His eyes were blue, very cold, 
 deficient in colom-, and looked out from amid 
 the puckers of his eyelids with the most un- 
 questionable meaning. They seemed to demand 
 something to object to, and this want is one 
 which is always supplied. The search was 
 but momentary, so that he scarcely seemed 
 to have entered the room before he asked 
 ' Where is your mother ? ' in a high-pitched 
 querulous voice. 
 
 Mr. John Trevanion had followed his 
 brother to the fire, and stood now with his 
 back to the blaze looking at Eosalind. His 
 name was not in reality John, but something 
 much more ornamental and refined ; but 
 society had availed itself of its well-known 
 propensity in a more judicious manner than 
 usual, and re-christened him with the short and 
 manly monosyllable which suited his character. 
 He was a man who had been a great deal about 
 the world, and had discovered of how little 
 importance was a Trevanion of Highcourt, and 
 yet how it simplified life to possess a well- 
 known name. One of these discoveries without 
 the other is not improving to the character, but 
 taken together the result is mellowing and
 
 16 MADAM. 
 
 happy. He was very tolerant, very considerate, 
 a man who judged no one, yet formed very 
 shrewd opinions of his own, upon which he 
 was apt to act, even while putting forth every 
 excuse and acknowledging every extenuating 
 circumstance. He looked at Eosalind with a 
 certain veiled anxiety in his eyes, attending her 
 answer with solicitude ; but to all appearance 
 he was only spreading himself out as an 
 Englishman loves to do before the clear glow- 
 ing fire. Dr. Beaton had gone as far away as 
 possible from that brilliant centre, He was 
 stout, and disapproved, he said, ' on principle,' 
 of the habit of gathering round the fireside. 
 ' Let the room be properly warmed,' he was in 
 the habit of saying, ' but don't let us bask in 
 the heat like the dogues,' for the doctor was 
 Scotch and betrayed now and then in a pro- 
 nunciation, and always in accent, his northern 
 origin. He had seated himself on the other 
 side of the card-table, ready for the invariable 
 game. Young Eoland Hamerton, the Christ- 
 church man, immediately gravitated towards 
 Eosalind, who, to tell the truth, could not have 
 given less attention to him had he been one 
 of the above-mentioned ' dogues.' 
 
 ' Where is your mother ? ' Mr. Trevanion 
 said, looking round for matter of offence.
 
 MADAM. 17 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Eosalind, with a quick drawing 
 of her breath ; ' mamma has gone for a moment 
 to the nursery — I suppose.' She drew breath 
 again before the last two words, thus separating 
 them from what had gone before — a little 
 artifice which Uncle John perceived, but no 
 one else. 
 
 ' Now this is a strange thing,' said Air. 
 Trevanion, ' that in my own house, and in my 
 tailing state of health, I cannot secure my own 
 wife's attention at the one moment in the day 
 when she is indispensable to me. The nursery ! 
 What is there to do in the nursery? Is not 
 Eussell there ? If the woman is not fit to be 
 trusted, let her be discharged at once and some- 
 one else got.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is not that there is any doubt 
 about Eussell, papa, only one hkes to see for 
 oneself.' 
 
 ' Then why can't she send you to see for 
 yourself. This is treatment I am not accus- 
 tomed to. Oh, what do I say.^ Not accus- 
 tomed to it ! Of course I am accustomed to be 
 neglected by everybody. A brat of a cliild 
 that never ailed anything in its life is to be 
 watched over, while I, a dying man, must take 
 my chance. I have put up with it for years, 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 .AIADAM. 
 
 always hoping that at last But the worm 
 
 will turn, you know ; the most patient will 
 break down. If I am to wait night after night 
 for the one amusement, the one little pleasure 
 
 such as it is- Night after night ! I appeal 
 
 to you, doctor, whether Mrs. Trevanion has 
 been ready once in the last fortnight. The 
 only thing that I ask of her — the sole paltry 
 little complaisance ! ' 
 
 He spoke very quickly, allowing no possi- 
 bility of interruption, till his voice, if we may 
 use such a word, overran itself and died away 
 for want of breath. 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said the doctor, taking up the 
 cards, ' we are just enough for our rubber ; and 
 as I have often remarked, though I bow to the 
 superiority of the ladies in most things, whist 
 in my opinion is altogether a masculine game. 
 Will you cut for the deal ? ' 
 
 But by this time Mr. Trevanion had re- 
 covered his breath. ' It is what I will not put 
 up with,' he said ; ' everybody in this house 
 relies upon my good nature. I am always the 
 soiiffre-douleur. When a man is too easy he is 
 taken advantage of on all hands. Where is 
 your mother ? Oh, I mean your step-mother. 
 Eosalind ; her blood is not in your veins, thank
 
 MADAif. 19 
 
 heaven ! You are a good child ; I have uo 
 reason to find fault with you. Where is she P 
 The nursery ? I don't believe anything about 
 the nursery. She is \\dth some of her low 
 friends ; yes, she has low friends. Hold your 
 tongue, John ; am I or am I not the person 
 that knows best about my own wife ? Where 
 is your mistress? Where is Madam? Dont 
 stand there looking like a stuck pig, but 
 speak ! ' 
 
 This was addressed to an unlucky footman 
 who had come in pro who g on one of the 
 anonymous errands of domestic service — to see 
 if the fire wanted looking to — if there were any 
 coffee cups unremoved — perhaps on a mission 
 of curiosity too. Mr. Trevanion was the terror 
 of the house. The man turned pale and lost 
 his self-command. ' I — I don't know, sir. I — 
 I think, sir, as Madam — I — I'll send Air. Dor- 
 rington, sir,' the unfortunate said. 
 
 John Trevanion gave his niece an impera- 
 tive look, saying low, ' Go and tell her.' Eosa- 
 lind rose trembling and put down her work. 
 The footman had fled, and young Hamerton, 
 hurrying to open the door to her (which was 
 never shut) got in her w^ay and brought upon 
 himself a glance of wrath which made him 
 
 c 2
 
 20 MADAM. 
 
 tremble. He retreated with a cliill running 
 through him, wondering if the Trevanion tem- 
 per was in her too, while the master of the 
 house resumed. However w^ell understood such 
 ex[)losions of family disturbance may be, they 
 are alwaj^s embarrassing and uncomfortable to 
 visitors, and young Hamerton was not used to 
 them and did not know what to make of him- 
 self. He withdrew^ to the darker end of the 
 room, where it opened into a very dimly lighted 
 conservatory, while the doctor shuffled the 
 cards, letting them drop audibly through his 
 fingers, and now and then attempting to divert, 
 the flood of rising rage by a remark. ' Bless 
 me,' he said, ' I wish 1 had been deahng in 
 earnest ; what a bonnie thiug for a trump 
 card ! ' and, ' A little further from the fire, 
 Mr. Trevanion, you are getting over-heated ; 
 come, sir, the young fellow will take a hand to 
 begin with, and after the first round another 
 player can cut in.' These running interrup- 
 tions, however, were of httle service ; Mr. 
 Trevanion's admirable good-nature which was 
 always imposed upon ; his long-suffering which 
 everybody knew" ; the advantage the household 
 took of him ; the special sins of his wife for 
 whom he had done everything— ' everything ! '
 
 MADAM. 21 
 
 lie cried ; ' I took her without a penny or a 
 friend, and this is how she repays me,' aflTorded 
 endless scope. It was nothing to him in 
 his passion that he disclosed what had been 
 the secrets of his life ; and, indeed, by this 
 time, after the perpetual self-revelation of these 
 fits of passion there were few secrets left to 
 keep. His ivory countenance reddened, his 
 thin hands gesticulated, he leaned forward in 
 his chair, drawing up the sharp angles of his 
 knees, as he harangued about himself and his 
 virtues and "svrongs. His brother stood and 
 listened, gazing blankly before him as if he 
 heard nothing. The doctor sat behind, drop- 
 ping the cards from one hand to another with 
 a httle rusthng sound, and interposing little 
 sentences of soothing and gentle remonstrance, 
 while the young man, ashamed to be thus forced 
 into the confidence of the family, edged step 
 by step fiu*ther away into the conservatory till 
 he got to the end, where was nothing but a 
 transparent wall of glass between him and the 
 agitations of the stormy night. 
 
 Eosalind stole out into the hall ^vith a 
 beating heart. Her father's sharp voice still 
 echoed in her ears, and she had an angry and 
 ashamed consciousness that the footman who
 
 22 MADAM. 
 
 liad hurried from tlie room before her, and 
 ])erhaps other servants, excited by the crisis, 
 were watching her and commenting upon the 
 indecision with which she stood, not knowing 
 what to do. ' Go and tell her.' How easy it 
 was to say so ! Oh, if she but knew where to 
 go, how to find her, how to save her not only 
 from domestic strife but from the gnawing 
 worm of suspicion and doubt which Eosalind 
 felt in her own heart ! What was she to do ? 
 Should she go upstairs again and look through 
 all the rooms, though she knew it would be in ' 
 vain? To disarm her father's rage, to smooth 
 over this moment of misery and put things back 
 on their old footing, the girl would have done 
 anything ; but as the moments passed she be- 
 came more and more aware that this was not 
 nearly all that was wanted, that even she her- 
 self, loving Mrs. Trevanion with all her heart, 
 required more. Her judgment cried out for 
 more. She wanted explanation ; a reason for 
 tliese strange disappearances. Why should she 
 choose that time of all others when her absence 
 must be so much remarked ; and where, oh, 
 where did she go ? Eosalind stood with a sort 
 of stupefied sense of incapacity in the hall. She 
 would not go back. She could not pretend to
 
 'x MADA^r. 23 
 
 make a search which she knew to be useless. 
 She could not rush to the door again and watch 
 there, with the risk of being followed and found 
 at that post, and thus betray her suspicion that 
 her mother was out of the house. She went 
 and stood by one of the pillars and leant against 
 it, clasping her hands upon her heart and trying 
 to calm herself and to find some expedient. 
 Could she say that little Jack was ill, that some- 
 thing had happened ? in the confusion of her 
 mind she almost lost the boundary between 
 falsehood and truth ; but then the doctor woidd 
 be sent to see what was the matter, and every- 
 thing would be worse instead of better. She stood 
 thus against the pillar and did not move, trying 
 to think, in a whnd of painful imaginations and 
 self-questionings, feeling every moment an hour. 
 Oh, if she could but take it upon herself, and 
 bear the weight, whatever it might be ; but she 
 was helpless and could do nothing save wait 
 there, hidden, trembling, full of misery, till 
 something should happen to set her free. 
 
 Young Hamerton in the conservatory natur- 
 ally had none of these fears. He thought that 
 old Trevanion was (as indeed everybody knew) 
 an old tyrant, a selfish, ill-tempered egoist, 
 caring for nothing but his own indulgences.
 
 24 MADAM. 
 
 How he did treat that poor woman, to be sure ! 
 a woman far too good for him whether it was 
 true or not that he had married her without a 
 penny. He remembered vaguely that he had 
 never heard who Madam Trevanion was before 
 her marriage. But what of 'that? He kneAv 
 what she was : a woman still full of grace and 
 charm, though she was no longer in her first 
 youth. And what a life that old curmudgeon, 
 that selfish old skeleton, with all his fantastical 
 complaints, led her ! When a young man has 
 the sort of chivalrous admiration for an elder 
 woman which Eoland Ham er ton felt for the 
 mistress of this house, he becomes sharp to see 
 tlie curious subjection, the cruelty of circum- 
 stances, the domestic oppressions which encircle 
 so many. And Madam Trevanion was more 
 badly off, more deeply tried, than any other 
 woman, far or near. She was full of spirit and 
 intellisfence, and interest in the his/her matters 
 of life ; yet she was bound to this fretful master, 
 who would not let her out of his sight, Avho 
 cared for nothing better than a Society news- 
 paper, and who demanded absolute devotion, 
 and' file submission of all his wife's wishes and 
 ' faculties to his. Poor lady ! no wonder if she 
 Vv^ere glad to escape now and then for a moment,
 
 MADAM. . 25 
 
 to get out of hearing of his sharp voice whicli 
 went through your ears hke a skewer. 
 
 While these thoughts went through young 
 Ilamerton's mind he had gradually made his 
 way through the conservatory, in which there 
 was but one dim lamp burning, to the further 
 part wliich projected out some way with a 
 rounded end into the lawn which immediately 
 surrounded the house. He was much startled, 
 as he looked cautiously forth, without being 
 aware that he was looking, to see something 
 moving, like a repetition of the waving branches 
 and clouds above close to him upon the edge of 
 a path which led through the park. At first it 
 was but movement and no more, indistinguish- 
 able among the shadows. But he was excited 
 by what he had been hearing, and his attention 
 was aroused. After a time he could make out 
 two figures more or less distinct, a man he 
 thought and a woman, but both so dark that it 
 was only when by moments they appeared out 
 of the tree-shadows with which they w^ere con- 
 fused, against the horhter colour of the gravel, 
 that he could make them out. They parted 
 while he looked on ; the man disappeared 
 among the trees ; the other, he could see her 
 against the faint hghtness of the distance, stood
 
 2'6 MADAM. 
 
 looking after the retreating figure : and then 
 turned and came towards the house. Young 
 Hamerton's heart leaped up in his breast. 
 What did it mean ? Did he recognise the pose 
 of the figure, the carriage of the head, the fine 
 movement, so dignified yet so free ? He seized 
 hold on himself, so to speak, and put a violent 
 stop to his own thoughts. She ! madness ! as 
 soon would he suppose that the Queen could 
 do wrong. It must be her maid, perhaps some 
 woman who had got the trick of her walk and 
 
 air through constant association : but she 
 
 Just then, while Hamerton retired some- 
 what sick at heart, and seated himself near the 
 door of the conservatory to recover, cursing 
 as he did so the sharp scolding tones of Mr. 
 Ti-evanion going on with his grievances, Eosa- 
 lind, standing against the pillar, was startled 
 by something like a step or faint stir outside, 
 and then the sound, which would have been 
 inaudible to faculties less keen and highly strung, 
 of the handle of the glass door. It was turned 
 almost noiselessly and someone came in. Some- 
 one. Whom ? With a shiver which convulsed 
 her, Eosahnd watched : this dark figure might 
 be anyone — her mother's maid perhaps, even 
 Eussell, gone out to pry and spy as was her
 
 MADAM. 2 1 
 
 way. Eosalind had to clutcli the pillar fast as 
 she watched from behind while the newcomer 
 took a shawl from her head, and, sighing, ar- 
 ranged ^vith her hands her headdress and hair. 
 Whatever had happened to her she was not 
 happy. She sighed as she set in order the lace 
 upon her head. Alas ! the sight of that lace 
 was enough, the dim light was enough : no one 
 else in the house moved liked that. It was 
 the mother, the wife, the mistress of Highcourt, 
 Madam Trevanion, whom all the country looked 
 up to for miles and miles around. Eosalind 
 could not speak. She detached her arms from 
 the pillar and followed like a white ghost as 
 her step- mother moved towards the drawing- 
 room. In the night and dark, in the stormy 
 wind amid all those black trees, where had she 
 been?
 
 28 MADAM 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' I MARRIED her without a penny,' Mr. Trevanion 
 was saymg. ' I was a fool for my pains. If 
 you think you will purchase attention and sub- 
 mission in that way you are making a con- 
 founded mistake. Set a beggar on horseback, 
 that's how it ends. A duke's daughter couldn't 
 stand more by her own way ; no, nor look more 
 like a lady,' he added with a sort of pride in 
 his property ; ' that must be allowed her. I 
 married her without a penny ; and this is how 
 she serves me. If she had brought a duchy in 
 her apron, or the best blood in England hke 
 Rosalind's mother, my first poor wife, whom I 
 regret every day of my life — 0-h-h! — so you 
 have condescended, Madam, to come at last.' 
 
 She was a tall woman, with a figure full of 
 dignity and grace. If it was true that nobody 
 knew who she was, it was at least true also, as 
 even her husband allowed, that she might have 
 been a princess so far as her bearing and man- 
 ners went. She was dressed in soft black satin
 
 MADAM. 29 
 
 which did not rustle or assert itself, but huns 
 in long sweeping folds, here and there broken 
 in outline by feathery touches of lace. Her 
 dark hair was still perfect in colour and texture. 
 Indeed, she was still under forty, and the prime 
 of her beauty scarcely impaired. There was a 
 httle iStful colour on her cheek, though she was 
 usually pale, and her eyes had a kind of feverish 
 suspicious brightness like sentinels on the watch 
 for danger signals. Yet she came in without 
 hurry, with a smile from one to another of the 
 group of gentlemen, none of whom showed, 
 whatever they may have felt, any emotion. 
 John Trevanion, stjll blank and quiet against 
 the firelight ; the doctor, though he lifted his 
 eyes momentarily, still dropping through his 
 hands, back and forwards, the slidincr smooth 
 surfaces of the cards. From the dimness in the 
 background Hamerton's young face shone out 
 with a sort of Medusa look of horror and pain, but 
 he vras so far out of the group that he attracted 
 no notice. Mrs. Trevanion made no immediate 
 reply to her husband. She advanced into the 
 room, Eosahnd following her like a shadow. 
 • I am sorry,' she said calmly, ' to be late : have 
 you not begun your rubber? 1 knew there 
 were enouirh without me.'
 
 30 MADAM. 
 
 * There's never enough without you,' her 
 husband answered roughly ; ' you know that 
 as well as I do. If there were twice 
 enough, what has that to do with it? You 
 know my play, which is just the one thing you 
 do know. If a man can't have his wife to 
 make up his game, what is the use of a wife at 
 all? And this is not the first time. Madam ; 
 by Jove not the first time by a dozen. Can't 
 you take another time for your nap, or your 
 nursery, or whatever it is ? I don't believe 
 a word of the nursery. It is something you 
 don't choose to have known, it is some of your 
 low ' 
 
 ' Eosalind, your father has no footstool,' 
 said Mrs. Trevanion. She maintained her calm 
 unmoved. ' There are some fresh cards, doctor, 
 in the little cabinet.' 
 
 ' And how the devil,' cried the invalid in 
 sharp tones, ' can I have my footstool, or clean 
 cards, or anything I want when you are away 
 • — systematically away ? I believe you do it 
 on purpose to set up a right — to put me out in 
 every way, that goes without saying, that 
 everybody knows, is the object of your life.' 
 
 Still she did not utter a word of apology, 
 but stooped and found the footstool, which she 

 
 MADAM. 31 
 
 placed at her husband's feet. ' This is the one 
 that suits you best,' she said. ' Come, John, if 
 I am the culprit, let us lose no more time.' 
 
 Mr. Trevanion kicked the footstool away. 
 ' D'ye think I am gonig to be smoothed down 
 so easily ? ' he cried. ' Oh, yes, as soon as 
 Madam pleases, that is the time for everythinof. 
 I shall not play. You can amuse yourselves 
 if you please, gentlemen, at Mrs. Trevanion's 
 leisure, when she can find time to pay a little 
 attention to her guests. Give me those news- 
 papers, Eosalind. Oh, play, play ! by all means 
 play ! don't let me interrupt your amusement. 
 A httle more neglect, what does that matter ? 
 
 I hope I am used to Heaven above ! they 
 
 are not cut up. What is that rascal Dorrington 
 about? What is the use of a pack of idle 
 servants ? never looked after as they ought to 
 be ; encouraged, indeed, to neglect and ill-use 
 the master that feeds them. What can you 
 expect? With a mistress who is shut up half 
 
 her time, or out of the way, or What's 
 
 that? what's that?' 
 
 It was a singular thing enough, and this 
 sudden exclamation called all eyes to it. Mrs. 
 Trevanion, who had risen when her husband 
 kicked his footstool in her face, and turnino-
 
 32 MAPAM. 
 
 round had taken a few steps across the room, 
 stopped with a slight start, which perhaps 
 betrayed some alarm in her, and looked back. 
 The train of her dress was sweeping over the 
 hearthrug, and there in the full light, twisted 
 into her lace, and clinging to her dress, was a 
 long, straggling, thorny branch, all wet with 
 the damp of night. Involuntarily they were all 
 gazing — John Trevanion looking down gravely 
 at this strange piece of evidence which was close 
 to his feet ; the doctor, with the cards in his 
 hand, half risen from his seat stooping across 
 the table to see ; while Eosalind throwing her- 
 self down had already begun to detach it with 
 hands that trembled. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma I ' cried the girl with a laugh 
 which sounded wild, 'how careless, how horrid 
 of Jane ! Here is a thorn that caught in your 
 dress the last time you wore it ; and she has 
 folded it up in your train, and never noticed. 
 Papa is right, the servants are ' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, Eose,' said Mr. Treva- 
 nion, with an angry chuckle of satisfaction ; 
 ' let alone ! So, Madam, this is why we have 
 to wait for everything ; this is why the place is 
 left to itself; and I — I — the master and owner 
 neglected. Good heavens above ! while the
 
 lady of the house wanders in tlie woods in a 
 November night. With whom, Madam ? With 
 whom ? ' he raised himseif hke a skeleton, his 
 fiery eyes blazing out of their sockets. ' With 
 whom, I ask you ? Here, gentlemen, you are 
 witnesses ; this is more serious than I thought. 
 I knew my wishes were disregarded ; that my 
 convenience was set at naught ; that the very 
 comforts that are essential to my life were 
 neglected ; but I did not think I was betrayed. 
 With whom. Madam ? Answer ! I demand his 
 name.' 
 
 ' Eeginald,' said John Trevanion, ' for God's 
 sake don't let us have another scene. You 
 may think what you please, but we know all 
 that is nonsense. Xegiected ! Why she makes 
 herself your slave. If the other is as true as 
 that! Doctor, can't you put a stop to it? 
 He'll kill himself — and her.' 
 
 ' Her ! oh, she's strong enough,' cried the 
 invalid. * I have had my suspicions before, but 
 I have never uttered them. Ah, Madam ! you 
 thought you were too clever for me. A sick 
 man, unable to stir out of the house, the very 
 person of course to be deceived. But the sick 
 man has his defenders. Providence is on his 
 side. You throw dust in the eyes of these 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MADAM. 
 
 men : l)ut I know you ; I know what I took 
 you from : I've known all along what you 
 were capable of. Who was it ? Heaven above ! 
 clown, clown on your knees, and tell me his 
 name.' 
 
 Mrs, Trevanion was perfectly calm, too 
 calm, perhaps, for the unconsciousness of in- 
 nocence ; and she was also deadly pale. ' So 
 far as the evidence goes,' she said quietly, ' I 
 do not deny it. It has not been folded up in 
 my train, my kind Eosalind. I have been out 
 of doors ; though the night, as you see, is not 
 tempting ; and what then ? ' 
 
 She turned round upon them with a faint 
 smile, and took the branch out of Eosalind's 
 hand. ' You see it is all wet,' she said, ' there 
 is no deception in it. I have been out in the 
 park, on the edge of the woods. Look, I did 
 not stop even to change my shoes, they are 
 wet too. And what then ? ' 
 
 ' One thing,' cried the doctor, ' that you 
 must change them directly, before another 
 word is said. This comes in my department, 
 at least. We don't want to have you laid up 
 with congestion of the lungs. Miss Eosalind, 
 take your mamma away, and make her, as we 
 say in Scotland, change her feet.'
 
 MADAM. 35 
 
 ' Let her go altogether, if she pleases,' said 
 the invalid ; ' I want to see no more of her. In 
 the park, in the woods — do you hear her, 
 gentlemen ? What does a woman want in the 
 woods in a winter night ? Let her have con- 
 ofestion of the lunsfs, it will save discrrace to the 
 family. For, mark my words, I will follow 
 this out. I will trace it to the foujidation. 
 Night after night she has done it. Oh, you 
 think I don't know ? She has done it again 
 and again. She has been shameless ; she has 
 
 outraged the very house where Do you 
 
 hear, woman? Who is it? My God ! a groom, 
 or some low fellow ' 
 
 The doctor grasped his arm with a hand 
 that thrilled with inchgnation as well as profes- 
 sional zeal, while John Trevanion started for- 
 ward with a sudden flush and menace. 
 
 ' If you don't respect your wife, for God's 
 sake think of the girl — your own child I If it 
 were not for their sakes I should not spend 
 another nicrht under this roof ' 
 
 ' Spend your night where you please,' said 
 the infuriated husband, strugghng against the 
 doctor's attempt to draw him back into his 
 chair. ' If I respect her ? No, I don't respect 
 her. I respect nobody that ill-uses me. Get 
 
 D 2
 
 36 MADAM. 
 
 out of the way, Eosalind ! I tell you I'll turn 
 out that woman. I'll disgrace her. I'll show 
 what she's made of. She's thrown dust in all 
 your eyes, but never in mine. No, Madam, 
 never in mine ; you've forgotten, I suppose, 
 Avhat you were when I took you and married 
 you like a fool — but I've never forgotten : and 
 now to break out at your age ? Who do you 
 suppose can care for you at your age ? It is 
 for what he can get, the villain, that he comes 
 over an old hag like you. Oh, women, women ! 
 that's what women are. Turn out on a winter's 
 night to philander in the woods with someone, 
 some ' 
 
 He stopped, incapable of more, and fell 
 back in his chair, and glared and foamed in- 
 sults with his bloodless lips, which he had not 
 breath to speak. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion stood perfectly still while 
 all this was going on. Her face showed by its 
 sudden contraction, when the grosser accusa- 
 tions told, but otherwise she made no move- 
 ment. She held the long dangling branch in 
 her hand, and looked at it with a sort of half 
 smile. It was so small a matter to produce so 
 much — and yet it was not a small matter. 
 Was it the hand of fate ? Was it Providence,
 
 MADAM. 37 
 
 as be said, that was on liis side ? But she did 
 not say another word in self-defence It was 
 e\^dent that it was her habit to stand thus, and 
 let the storm beat. Her calm was the resicrna- 
 tion of long usage, the sense that it was beyond 
 remedy, that the only thing she could do was 
 to endure. And yet the accusations of this 
 eveninor were new, and there was somethins 
 new in the contemplative way in which she 
 regarded this piece of evi-lence wliich had con- 
 victed her. Hitherto the worst accusations 
 that had rained upon her had been without 
 evidence, without possibiHty — and everybody 
 had been aware that it was so. Xow there 
 was something new. When she had borne 
 vituperation almost as violent for her neglect, 
 for her indifference, sometimes for her cruelty, 
 the wrong had been too clear for any doubt. 
 But now : never before had there even been 
 anything to explain. But the bramble was a 
 ithing that demanded explanation. Even John 
 Trevanion, the just and kind, had shown a 
 gleam of surprise when he caught sight of it. 
 The good doctor, who was entirely on her side, 
 had given her a startled look. Eosalind, her 
 child, had put forth a hesitating plea — a little 
 lie for her. All this went to her heart with a
 
 38 MADAM. 
 
 wringing of pain, as if her very heart had been 
 crushed with some sudden pressure. But the 
 habit of endurance was unbroken even by these 
 secret and novel pangs. She did not even 
 meet the eyes directed to her with any attempt 
 at self-defence. But yet the position was 
 novel ; and standing still in her old panoply 
 of patience, she felt it to be so, and that former 
 expedients were inadequate to the occasion. 
 For the first time it would have better become 
 her to speak. But what? She had nothing 
 to say. 
 
 The scene ended as such scenes almost in- 
 variably ended here — in an attack of those 
 spasms which were wearing Mr. Trevanion's 
 life away. The first symptoms changed in 
 a moment the aspect of his wife. She put 
 down the guilty bramble and betook herself 
 at once to her oft-repeated, well-understood 
 duty. The room was cleared of all the spec- 
 tators, even Eosalind was sent away. It was ^ 
 an experience with which the house was well 
 acquainted. Mrs. Trevanion's maid came noise- 
 lessly and swift at the sound of a bell, with 
 everything that was needed ; and the wife, so 
 angrily vituperated and insulted, became in a 
 moment the devoted nurse with nothing in her
 
 mind save the care of the patient who lay 
 helj)less in her hands. The doctor sat by with 
 his finger on the fluttering pulse — while she, 
 now fanning, now bathing his forehead, follow- 
 ing every variation and indication of the attack, 
 fulfilled her arduous duties. It did not seem to 
 cross her mind that anything had passed which 
 could slacken her vigilance or make her reluc- 
 tant to fulfil those all-absorbing duties ; neither 
 when the patient began to moan did there 
 seem any consciousness in him that the circum- 
 stances were anyhow changed. He began to 
 scold in broken terms almost before he had 
 recovered consciousness, demanding to know 
 why he was there, what they were doing to 
 him, what was the occasion of the appliances 
 they had been using. ' I'm all right,' he stam- 
 mered, before he could speak, pushing away the 
 fan she was using. ' You want to kill me. Don't 
 let her kill me, doctor ; take that confounded 
 thing away. I'm — I'm— all right ; I — I want 
 to get to bed. You are keeping me out of bed 
 
 on purpose to kill me ! ' he cried with a 
 
 new outburst. ' That is all right ; he'll do 
 now,' said the doctor cheerfully. '"Wait a 
 
 moment, and we'll get you to bed ' The 
 
 peaceful room had changed in the most curious
 
 40 MADAM. 
 
 Avay while all these rapid changes had gone on. 
 The very home of tranquillity at first, then a 
 stage of dramatic incident and passion, now a 
 scene in which feeble life was struggling with 
 the grip of death at its throat. Presently all 
 this commotion and movement was over, and 
 the palpitations of human existence swept away, 
 leaving, indeed, a little disorder in the sur- 
 roundings ; a cushion thrown about, a corner 
 of the carpet turned up, a tray with water- 
 bottles and essences on the table : but nothing 
 more to mark the struggle, the conflicts which 
 had been, the suffering and misery. Yes ; one 
 thing more : the long trail of bramble on 
 another table, which was the most fatal symbol 
 of all. 
 
 When everything was quiet young Hamer- 
 ton, with a pale face, came out of the conserva- 
 tory. He had again retreated there when Mrs. 
 Trevanion came in, and the husband had begun 
 to rage. It pained him to be a party to it ; to 
 listen to all the abuse poured upon her was 
 intolerable. But what was more intolerable 
 still was to remember what he had seen. That 
 woman, standing so pale and calm, replying 
 nothing, bearing every insult with a nobleness 
 which w^ould have become a saint. But oh,
 
 UADXM.. 41 
 
 heavens ! was it her he had seen — her — under 
 shelter of the night? The young man was 
 generous and innocent, and his heart was sick 
 with this miserable knowledge. He was in her 
 secret. God help her ! Surely she had excuse 
 enough ; but what is to become of life or 
 womanhood when such a woman requires an 
 excuse at all ?
 
 42 MADAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The liall was dimly lighted, the fire dying out 
 in the great fireplace, everything shadowy, cold, 
 without cheer or comfort. Mr. Trevanion had 
 been conveyed to his room between the doctor 
 and his valet, his wife following as usual, in the 
 same order and fashion as was habitual, without 
 any appearance of change. Eosalind, who was 
 buried in a great chair, nothing visible but the 
 whiteness of her dress in the imperfect light, and 
 John Trevanion, who stood before the fire there, 
 as he had done in the drawing-room, with his 
 head a little bent, and an air of great serious- 
 ness and concern, watched the little procession 
 without a word as it went across the hall. 
 These attacks were too habitual to cause much 
 alarm ; and the outburst of passion which pre- 
 ceded was, unfortunately, common enough also. 
 The house was not a happy house in wliich this 
 volcano was ready to burst forth at any moment, 
 and the usual family subterfuges to conceal the
 
 MADAM. 43 
 
 family skeleton had become of late years quite 
 impossible, as increasing weakness and self- 
 indulgence bad removed all restraints of self- 
 control from the master of the house. They 
 were all prepared for the outbreak at any 
 moment, no matter who was present. But yet 
 there were things involved which conveyed a 
 special sting to-night. When the little train 
 had passed, the two spectators in the hall re- 
 mained for some time quite silent, with a 
 heaviness and oppression upon them which, 
 perhaps, the depressing circumstances around, 
 the want of light, and warmth, and brightness 
 increased. They did not, as on ordinary occa- 
 sions, return to the drawing-room. For some 
 time they said nothing to each other. By 
 intervals a servant flitted across the hall, from 
 one room to another, or the opening of a door 
 roused these watchers for a moment ; but pre- 
 sently everything fell back into stillness and the 
 chill of the oratherins nicfht. 
 
 ' Eosalind, I think you should go to bed '' 
 
 'Oh, Uncle John, how can I go to bed? 
 How can anyone in this house rest or sleep ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, I admit that the circumstauces 
 are not very cheerful. Still you are more or 
 less accustomed to them ; and we shall sleep all
 
 44 MADAM. 
 
 the same, no doubt, just as we should sleep if 
 we were all to be executed to morrow.' 
 
 ' Should we ? — but not if someone else, 
 someone we loved — was to be — executed, as 
 you say.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that makes a little difference : 
 while the condemned man sleeps, I suppose his 
 mother or his sister, poor wretches ! are wakeful 
 enough. But there is nothing of that kind in 
 our way, my little Eose. Come, it is no worse 
 than usual ; go to bed.' 
 
 ' It is worse than usual. There has never 
 before— oh ! ' the girl cried, clasping her hands 
 together with a vehement gesture. Her misery 
 was too much for her ; and then another senti- 
 ment came in and closed her mouth. Uncle John 
 was very tender and kind, but was he not on 
 the other side f 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, gently, * I think it will 
 be best not to discuss the question. If there is 
 something new in it, it will develop soon enough. 
 God forbid ! I am little disposed, Eosalind, to 
 think that there is anything new.' 
 
 She did not make any reply. Her heart 
 was sore with doubt and suspicion ; the more 
 strange these sentiments all the more do they 
 scorch and sting. In the whirl which they
 
 MADAM. 45 
 
 introduced into her mind she had been trying 
 in vain to get any ground to stand upon. 
 There might have been explanations : but then 
 how easy to give them, and settle the question. 
 It is terrible in youth to be thrown into such a 
 conflict of mind, and all the more to one who 
 has never been used to think out anything 
 alone, who has shared with another every 
 thought that arose in her, and received on 
 everything the interchanged ideas of a mind 
 more experienced, wiser than her own. She 
 was thus suddenly cut off from her anchors, and 
 felt herself drifting on wild currents unknown 
 to her, giddy, as if buffeted by wind and tide — 
 though seated there within the steadfast walls 
 of an old house which had gone through all 
 extremities of human emotion, and never 
 quivered through hundreds of troublous years. 
 ' I think,' said John Trevanion, after a 
 pause, ' that it would be good for you to have a 
 little change. Home, of course, is the best 
 place for a girl. Still it is a great strain upon 
 young nerves. I wonder we none of us have 
 ever thought of it before. Your Aunt Sophy 
 would be glad to have you, and I could take 
 you there on my way. I really think, Eosa- 
 lind, this would be the best thing you could do.
 
 46 MADAM. 
 
 Winter is closing in, and in present circum- 
 stances it is almost impossible to have visitors 
 at Higlicourt. Even young Hamerton, how 
 much he is in the way ; though he is next to 
 nobody, a young fellow. Come ! you must not 
 stay here to wear your nerves to fiddlestrings. 
 I must take you away.' 
 
 She looked up at him with an earnest 
 glance which he was very conscious of, but did 
 not choose to meet. ' Why at this moment 
 above all others ? ' she said. 
 
 'Why? — that goes without saying, Eosa- 
 lind. Your father, to my mind, has never been 
 so bad ; and your — I mean Madam ' 
 
 ' You mean my mother. Uncle John. Well ! 
 is she not my mother ? I have never known 
 any other. Poor dear little mamma was 
 younger than I am. I never knew her. She 
 is an angel in heaven, and she cannot be jealous 
 of anyone on earth. So you think that 
 because papa has never been so ill, and my 
 mother never had so much to bear, it would be 
 the right thing for me, the eldest, the one that 
 can be of most use, to go away ? ' 
 
 ' She has her own children, Eosalind.' 
 
 ' Yes, to be sure. Eex, who is at school, 
 and knows about as much of what she needs as
 
 MADAM. 47 
 
 the dogs do ; and little Sophy, who is barely 
 nine. You must think very little of Eosalind, 
 unde, if you think these children can make up 
 for me.' 
 
 ' I think a great deal of Eosalind ; but we 
 must be reasonable. T thought a woman's own 
 children, however Uttle worth they may be in 
 themselves, were more to her than anyone 
 else's. Perhaps I am wrong, but that's in all 
 the copy-books.' 
 
 ' You want to make me believe,' said Eosa- 
 lind, with passion, ' that I am nobody's child, 
 that I have no right to love or any home in all 
 the world ! ' 
 
 ' My dear ! this is madness, Eose. There is 
 your father : and I hope even I count for 
 something ; you are the only child I shall ever 
 love, xlnd your Aunt Sophy, for whom, in fact, 
 I am pleading, gives you a sort of adoration.' 
 
 She got up hastily out of the great gloomy 
 house of a chair and came into the dim centre 
 of hght in which he stood, and clasped his arm 
 with her hands. ' Uncle John,' she said, speak- 
 ing very fast and almost inarticulately, ' I am 
 very fond of you. You have always been so 
 good and kind ; but I am her and she is me. 
 Don't you understand? I have always been
 
 48 MADAM. 
 
 with her since I was a child. Nobody but me 
 has seen her cry and break down. I know her 
 all through and through. I think her thoughts, 
 not my own. There are no secrets between us. 
 She does not require even to speak, I know 
 what she means without that. There are no 
 secrets between her and me ' 
 
 ' No secrets,' he said ; ' no secrets ! Eosa- 
 lind, are you so very sure of that — now ? ' 
 
 Her hands dropped from his arm : she went 
 back and hid herself, as if trying to escape 
 from him and herself in the depths of the great 
 chair : and then there burst from her bosom, in 
 spite of her, a sob — suppressed, restrained, yet 
 irrestrainable, the heaving of a bosom filled 
 to overflowing with unaccustomed misery and 
 pain. 
 
 John Trevanion did not take advantage of 
 this piteous involuntary confession. He paused 
 a little, being himself somewhat overcome. 
 ' My dear little girl,' he said at last, ' I am 
 talking of no terrible separation. People who 
 are the most devoted to each other, lovers 
 even, have to quit each other occasionally, and 
 pay a httle attention to other ties. Come ! 
 you need not take this so tragically. Sophy is 
 always longing for you. Your father's sister,
 
 MADAM. 49 
 
 and a woman alone in the world ; don't you 
 think she has a claim too ? ' 
 
 Eosalind had got herself in check again 
 while he was speaking. ' You mean a great 
 deal more than that,' she said. 
 
 Once more he was silent. He knew very 
 well that he meant a great deal more than that. 
 He meant that his niece should be taken away 
 from the woman who was not her mother, a 
 woman of whom he himself had no manner of 
 doubt, yet who, perhaps — how could anyone 
 tell ? — was getting weary of her thankless task, 
 and looking forward to the freedom to come. 
 John Trevanion's mind was not much more at 
 rest than that of Eosalind. He had never been 
 supposed to be a partisan of his brother's wife, 
 but perhaps his abstention from all enthusiasm 
 on this subject was out of too much, not too 
 little, feeling. He had been prejudiced against 
 her at hrst ; but his very prejudice had pro- 
 duced a warm revulsion of feehng in her 
 favour, when he saw how she maintained her 
 soul, as she went over the worse than red-hot 
 ploughshares of her long ordeal. It would 
 have injured, not helped her with her husband, 
 had he taken her part ; and therefore he had 
 refrained with so much steadiness and gravity, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 MADAM. 
 
 that to Eosalind he had always counted as on 
 the other side. But in his heart he had never 
 been otherwise than on the side of the brave 
 woman who, whether her motives had been 
 good or bad in accepting that place, had never- 
 theless been the most heroic of wives, the 
 tenderest of mothers. It gave him a tender 
 pleasure to be challenged and defied by the 
 generous impetuosity of Eosahnd, all in arms 
 for the mother of her soul. But — there was a 
 but, terrible though it was to acknowledge it — 
 he had recognised, as soon as he arrived on 
 this visit, before any indication of suspicion 
 liad been given, that there was some subtle 
 change in Madam Trevanion — something fur- 
 tive in her eye, a watchfulness, a standing on 
 her guard, which had never been there before. 
 It revolted and horrified him to doubt liis 
 sister-in-law ; he declared to himself with 
 anxious earnestness that he did not, never 
 would or could doubt her ; and yet, in the 
 same breath, with that terrible indulgence 
 which comes with experience, began in an 
 Tmdercurrent of thought to represent to him- 
 self her terrible provocations, the excuses she 
 would have, the temptations to which she 
 might be subject. A man gets his imagination
 
 MADAM. 51 
 
 polluted by the world eveu when he least 
 wishes it. In the upper current of his soul 
 he believed in her with faith unbounded ; but 
 underneath was a little warping eddy, a slimy 
 underdraught which brought up silently the 
 apologies, the reasons, the excuses for her. 
 And if, by any possibility, it should be so, then 
 was it not essential that Rosalind, too pure to 
 imagine, too young to know any evil or what 
 it meant, or how it could be, should be with- 
 drawn P But he was no more happy than 
 Rosalind was, in the conflict of painfid 
 thoughts. 
 
 ' Yes ; I mean more than that,' he resumed, 
 after an interval. ' I mean that this house, at 
 present, is not a comfortable place. You must 
 see now that even you cannot help Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion much in what she has to go through. 
 I feel myself entirely de trop. No sympathy I 
 could show her would counterbalance the pain 
 she must feel in ha\ing always present another 
 witness of your father's abuse ' 
 
 ' Sympathy ! ' said Rosalind, with surprise. 
 ' I never knew you had any sympathy. I 
 have always considered you as on tlie other 
 side.' 
 
 ' Does she think so ? ' he a>ked quickly, 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 owiVERsmr of iiirNoi.-
 
 52 MADAVf. 
 
 with a sharp sound of pain in his voice ; then 
 recollected himself in another moment. ' Ah, 
 well,' he said, ' that's natural, I suppose ; the 
 husband's family are on his side — yes, yes, no 
 doubt she has thought so : the more right am 
 I in my feeling that my presence just now must 
 be very distasteful. And even you, Eosahnd ; 
 think what she must feel to have all that dirt 
 thrown at her in your presence. Do you think 
 the privilege of having a good cry, as you say, 
 when you are alone together, makes up to her 
 for the knowledge that you are hearing every 
 sort of accusation hurled at her head? I 
 beheve in my heart,' he added hurriedly, with 
 a fictitious fervour, 'that it would be the 
 greatest rehef possible to her to have the house 
 to herself, and see us all, you included, go 
 away.' 
 
 Eosalind did not make any reply. She 
 gazed at him from her dark corner with dilated 
 eyes, but he did not see the trouble of her 
 look, nor divine the sudden stimulus his words 
 had given to the whirl of her miserable 
 thoughts. She said to herself that her mother 
 would know, whoever doubted her, that Eosa- 
 lind never would doubt ; and at the same time 
 there came a wondering horror of a question
 
 MADAM. 53 
 
 whether indeed her niother would be glad to 
 be rid of her, to have her out of the way, to 
 keep her at least unconscious of the other 
 thing, the secret, perhaps the wTong, that was 
 taking place in those dark evening hours ? 
 Might it be, as Uncle John said, better to fly, 
 to turn her back upon any revelation, to refuse 
 to know what it was ? The anguish of this con- 
 flict of thought tore her unaccustomed heart in 
 twain. And then she tried to realise what the 
 house would be without her, with that pro- 
 found yet perfectly innocent self-importance of 
 youth which is at once so futile and so touch- 
 ing. So sometimes a young creature dying 
 will imagine with far more poignant regret 
 than for any suffering of her own, the blank of 
 the empty room, the empty chair, the melan- 
 choly vacancy in the house, when she or he has 
 gone hence and is no more. Eosalind saw the 
 great house vacant of herself with a feeling 
 that was almost more than she could bear. 
 When her mother came out of the sick room, 
 to whom would she go for the repose, the 
 soothing of perfect sympathy — upon whom 
 would she lean when her burden was more 
 than she could bear? When Sophy's lessons 
 were over, where would the child go ? Who
 
 54 MADAM. 
 
 would write to Eex, and keep upon the school- 
 boy the essential bond of home ? Who would 
 play with the babies in the nursery when their 
 mother was too much occupied to see them ? 
 Mamma would have nobody but Eussell, who 
 hated her, and her own maid Jane, who was 
 like her shadow, and all the indifferent servants 
 who cared about little but their own comfort. 
 As she represented all these details of the 
 picture to herself, she burst forth all at once 
 into the silence with a vehement ' No, no ! ' 
 John Trevanion had fallen into thought, and 
 the sound of her voice made him start. ' No, 
 no ! ' she cried, ' do you think. Uncle John, I 
 am of so little use ? Ever body, even papa, 
 would want me. Sometimes he will bid me 
 sit down, that I am something to look at, 
 something not quite so aggravating as all the 
 rest. Is not that something for one's father to 
 say? And what would the children do with- 
 out me, and Duckworth who cannot always see 
 mamma about the dinner ? No, no, I am of 
 use here, and it is my place. Another time I 
 can go to Aunt Sophy — later on, when papa is 
 — better — when things are going smoothly,' 
 she said with a quiver in her voice, holding
 
 MADAM. bo 
 
 back. And just then the distant door of Mr. 
 Trevanion's room opened and closed, and the 
 doctor appeared, holding back the heavy cur- 
 tains that screened aT\'ay every draught from 
 the outer world.
 
 56 MADAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 ' Well,' said Dr. Beaton, rubbing his hands as 
 he came forward, 'at last we are tolerably 
 comfortable. I have got him to bed without 
 much more difficulty than usual, and I hope 
 he will have a good night. But how cold it is 
 here ! I suppose, however careful you may 
 be, it is impossible to keep draughts out of an 
 apartment that communicates with the open 
 air. If you will take my advice, Miss Eosa- 
 lind, you will get to your warm room, and to 
 bed, whilst your uncle and I adjourn to the 
 smoking-room where there are creature com- 
 forts ' 
 
 The doctor was always cheerful. He 
 laughed as if all the incidents of the eveniog 
 had been the most pleasant in the world. 
 
 ' Is papa better, doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Is Mrs: Trev anion with my brother ? ' 
 
 These two qiiestions were asked together. 
 The doctor answered them both with a ' Yes —
 
 MADAM. 57 
 
 yes — where would she be but with him ? My 
 dear sir, you are a visitor, you are not used to 
 our ways. All that is just nothing. He can- 
 not do w^ithout her. We know better, Miss 
 Eosalind ; we take it all very easy. Come, 
 come, there is nothing to be disturbed about. 
 I will have you on my hands if you don't 
 mind. My dear young lady, go to bed.' 
 
 ' I have been proposing that she should go 
 to her aunt for a week or two for a little 
 chancre.' 
 
 ' The very best thing she could do. This 
 is the w^orst time of the year for Highcourt. 
 So much vegetation is bad in November. Yes 
 — change by all means. But not,' said the 
 doctor, with a little change of countenance, 
 ' too long, and not too far away.' 
 
 ' Do you think,' said Eosahnd, ' that mamma 
 will not want me to-nioht ? — then I will cro as 
 you say. But if you think there is any chance 
 that she wdll want me ' 
 
 ' She w^ill not leave the patient again. Good 
 night, Miss Eosalind, sleep sound and get back 
 your roses — or shall I send you something to 
 make you sleep ? No ? Well, youth will do 
 it, which is best.' 
 
 She took her candle, and went wearily up
 
 58 MADAM. 
 
 the great staircase, pausing, a white figure in 
 the gloom, to wave her hand to Uncle John 
 before she disappeared in the gallery above. 
 The two men stood and watched her without a 
 word. A tender reverence and pity for her 
 youth was in both their minds. There was 
 almost an oppression of self-restraint upon them 
 till she was out of sight and hearing. Then 
 John Trevanion turned to his companion : — 
 
 ' I gather by what you say, that you think 
 my brother worse to-night.' 
 
 ' Not worse to-night : but only going the 
 downhill road, and now and then at his own 
 will and pleasure putting on a spurt. The 
 nearer you get to the bottom the greater is the 
 velocity. Sometimes the rate is terrifying at 
 the last.' 
 
 ' And you think, accordingly, that if she 
 goes away it must not be too far ; she must be 
 within reach of a hasty summons ? ' 
 
 Dr. Beaton nodded his head several times 
 in succession. ' I may be mistaken,' he said, 
 ' there is a vitality that fairly surprises me : 
 but that is in any other case what I should 
 say.' 
 
 'Have these outbursts of temper much to 
 do with it? Are they accelerating the end ?
 
 MADAM. 59 
 
 ' That's the most puzzUng question you 
 could ask. How is a poor medical man, 
 snatchmg his bit of knowledge as he can find 
 it, to say yea or nay ? Oh yes, they have to 
 do with it ; everything has to do with it either 
 as cause or effect P If it were not perhaps for 
 the temper, there would be less danger with 
 the heart, and if it were not for the weak heart, 
 there would be less temper. Do ye see ? Body 
 and soul are so jumbled together, it is ill to 
 .tell which is which. But between them the 
 chances grow less and less. And you will see, 
 by to-night's experience, it's not very easy to 
 put on the drag.' 
 
 ' And yet Mrs. Trevanion is nursing him, 
 you say, as if nothing had happened.' 
 
 The doctor gave a strange laugh. ' A sick 
 man is a queer study,' he said, ' and especially 
 an excitable person with no self-control and all 
 nerves and temper, Hke — if you T\dll excuse me 
 for saying so — your brother. Xow that he 
 needs her he is very capable of putting all this 
 behind him, He will just ignore it, and cast 
 himself upon her for everything, till he thinks 
 he can do without her again. Ah ! it is quite 
 a wonderful mystery, the mind of a sick and 
 selfish man.'
 
 60 MADAM. 
 
 'I was thinking rather of her,' said John 
 Trevanion. 
 
 'Oh! her?' said the doctor, waving his 
 hand ; ' that's simple. Tliere's nothing com- 
 plicated in that. She is the first to accept that 
 grand reason as conclusive, just that he has 
 need of her. There's a wonderful philosophy 
 in some women. When they come to a 
 certain pitch they will bear anything And 
 she is one of that kind. Slie will put it out of 
 her mind as I would put a smouldering bomb- 
 shell out of this hall. At least,' said the doctor, 
 with that laugh which was so inappropriate, ' I 
 hope I would do it, T hope I would not just run 
 away. The thing with women is that they 
 cannot run away.' 
 
 'These are strange subjects to discuss with 
 — pardon me, a stranger ; but you are not a 
 stranger, they can have no secrets from you. 
 Doctor, tell me, is the scene to-night a usual 
 one ? Was there nothing particular in it ? ' 
 
 John Trevanion fixed very serious eyes — 
 eyes that held the person they looked on fast, 
 and would permit no escape— on the doctor's 
 face. The other shifted about uneasily from 
 one foot to the other, and did his utmost to 
 avoid that penetrating look.
 
 MADAM. 61 
 
 * Oh, usual enough, usual enough ; but there 
 might be certain special circumstances,' he said. 
 
 ' You mean that Mrs. Trevanion ' 
 
 ' Well, if you will take my opinion, she had 
 probably been to see the coachman's wife who 
 is far fi'om well, poor body ; I should say that 
 was it. It is across a bit of the park, far enough 
 to account for everything.' 
 
 ' But why then not give so simple a 
 reason ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! there you beat me : how can I tell ? 
 The way in which a thing presents itself to a 
 woman's mind is not like what would occur to 
 you and me.' 
 
 ' Is the coachman's wife so great a favourite ? 
 Has she been ill long, and is it necessary to go 
 to see her every night ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Trevanion,' said the doctor, ' you are 
 well acquainted with the nature of evidence. 
 I cannot answer all these questions. There is 
 no one near Highcourt, as you are aware, that 
 does not look up to Madam ; a visit from her is 
 better than physic. She has little time, poor 
 lady, for such kindness. With all that's exacted 
 from her, I cannot tell for my part what other 
 moment she can call her own.' 
 
 John Trevanion would not permit the
 
 62 MADAM. 
 
 doctor to escape. He held him still with his 
 keen eyes. ' Doctor,' he said, ' I think I am 
 as much concerned as you are to prove her in 
 the right, whatever happens : but it seems to 
 me you are a special j)leader — making your 
 theory to fit the circumstances, ingenious rather 
 than certain.' 
 
 'Mr. John Trevanion,' said the doctor, 
 solemnly, ' there is one thing I am certain of, 
 that yon poor lady by your brother's bedside is 
 a good woman, and that the life he leads her is 
 just a hell on earth.' 
 
 After this there w^as a pause. The two 
 men stood no longer looking at each other : 
 they escaped from the scrutiny of each other, 
 which they had hitherto kept up, both some- 
 what agitated and shaken in the solicitude and 
 trouble of the house. 
 
 ' I believe all that,' said John Trevanion at 
 
 last. 'I believe every word. Still But 
 
 yet ' 
 
 Dr. Beaton made no reply. Perhaps these 
 monosyllables were echoing through his brain 
 too. He had know^n her for years, and formed 
 Ids opinion of her on the foundation of long 
 and intimate knowledge. But still — and yet : 
 could a few^ weeks, a few days, undo the ex-
 
 MADAM. 63 
 
 perience of years ? It was no crime to walk 
 across the park at night, in the brief interval 
 which the gentlemen spent over then- wine 
 after dinner. Why shonld not Madam Tre- 
 vanion take the air at that hour if she pleased ? 
 Still he made no answer to that breath of 
 doubt. 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the 
 servants who came to close doors and windows, 
 and perform the general shutting up for the 
 night. Xeither of the gentlemen was sorry for 
 this interruption. They separated to make 
 that inevitable change in tlieir dress which the 
 smoking-room demands, with a certain satisfac- 
 tion in getting rid of the subject, if even for a 
 moment. But when Dr. Beaton reached, 
 til rough the dim passages from which all life 
 had retired, that one centre of light and fellow- 
 ship, the sight of young Hamerton in his 
 evening coat, with a very pale and disturbed 
 countenance, brought back to him the subject 
 lie had been so glad to drop. Hamerton had 
 forgotten his dress-coat, and even that smoking 
 suit which was the joy of his heart. He had 
 been a prisoner in the drawing-room, or rather 
 in the conservatory, while that terrible scene 
 went on. Never in his harmless life had he
 
 64 MADAM. 
 
 touched the borders of tragedy before, and he 
 was entirely unmanned. The doctor found 
 him sitting nervously on the edge of a chair, 
 peering into the fire, his face haggard, his eyes 
 vacant and bloodshot. ' I say, doctor,' he said, 
 making a grasp at his arm, 'I want to tell you; 
 I was in there all the time. What could I do ? 
 I couldn't get out with the others. I had been 
 
 in the conservatory before — and I saw 
 
 Good gracious, you don't think I wanted to 
 see ! I thought it was better to keep quiet 
 than to show that I had been there all the 
 time.' 
 
 ' You ought to have gone away with the 
 others,' said the doctor, ' but there is no great 
 harm done ; except to your nerves ; you look 
 quite shaken. He was very bad. When a man 
 lets himself go on every occasion, and does and 
 says exactly what he has a mind to, that's what 
 it ends in at the last. It is perhaps as well 
 that a young felloAv like you should know.' 
 
 ' Oh, hang it,' said young Hamerton, ' that 
 is not the worst. I never was fond of old Tre- 
 vanion. It don't matter so much about him.' 
 
 ' You mean that to hear a man bullying his 
 wife like that makes you wish to kill him, eh ? 
 Well, that's a virtuous sentiment : but she's
 
 MADAM. 65 
 
 been long used to it. Let us hope she is like 
 the eels and doesn't mind ' 
 
 ' It's not that,' said the youth again. John 
 Trevanion was in no hurry to appear, and the 
 young man's secret scorched him. He looked 
 round suspiciously to make sure there was no 
 one within sight or hearing. ' Doctor,' he said, 
 ' you are Madam's friend. You take her side ? ' 
 
 Dr. Beaton, who was a man of experi- 
 ence, looked at the agitation of his companion 
 with a good deal of curiosity and some alarm. 
 ' If she has a side, yes, to the last of my 
 strength.' 
 
 ' Then I don't mind telling you. ^^^len he 
 began to swear What an old brute he is ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ? — when he began to swear ' 
 
 ' I thought they mightn't like it, don't you 
 know ? Were old friends at home, but still I 
 have never been very much at Highcourt ; so 
 I thought they mightn't like to have me there. 
 And I thought I'd just slip out of the way into 
 the conservatory, never thinking how I was to 
 get back. I went right in to the end part 
 where there was no light. You can see out into 
 the park. I never thought of that. I was not 
 thinking anything : when I saw ' 
 
 ' Get it out, for heaven's sake ! You had no 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 MADAM. 
 
 right to be there. What did you see ? Some 
 of the maids about ' 
 
 ' Doctor, I must get it off my mind. I saw 
 Madam Trevanion parting with — a man. I 
 can't help it, I must get it out. I saw her as 
 plainly as I see you.' 
 
 The doctor was very much disturbed and 
 pale, but he burst into a laugh. ' In a dark 
 night like this ! You saw her maid, I don't 
 doubt, or a kitchen girl with her sweetheart. 
 At night all the cats are grey. And you think 
 it is a fine thing to tell a cock and a bull story 
 like this — you, a visitor in the house ? ' 
 
 'Doctor, you do me a great deal of in- 
 justice.' The young man's heart heaved with 
 agitation and pain. 'Don't you see it is be- 
 cause I feel I was a sort of eavesdropper against 
 my will, that I must tell you ? Do you think 
 Madam Trevanion could be mistaken for a 
 maid ? I saw her — part from him and come 
 straight up to the house — and then in another 
 moment she came into the room, and I — I saw 
 all that happened there.' 
 
 ' For an unwilhng witness, Mr. Hamerton, 
 you seem to have seen a great deal,' said the 
 doctor, with a gleam of fury in his eyes. 
 
 ' So I was — unwilling, most unwilling : you
 
 MADAM 67 
 
 said yourself my uerves -^vere shaken. I'd 
 rather than a thousand pounds I hadn't seen 
 her. But what am I to do ? If there was any 
 trial or anything would they call me as a wit- 
 ness ? That's what I want to ask. In that 
 case I'll go off to America or Japan or some- 
 where. They shan't get a word against her out 
 of me.' 
 
 The moral shock wliich Dr. Beaton had 
 received was great, and yet he scarcely felt it 
 to be a surprise. He sat for some moments 
 in silence, pondering how to reply. The end 
 of his consideration was that he turned round 
 upon the inquirer with a laugh. ' A trial,' he 
 said, ' about what ? Because Mr. Trevanion is 
 nasty to his wife, and says things to her a man 
 should be ashamed to say? \Yomen can't try 
 their husbands for being brutes, more's the 
 pity, and she is used to it : or because (if it 
 was her at all) she spoke to somebody she met 
 — a groom most likely — and gave him his 
 orders ? No, no, my young friend, there will 
 be no trial. But for all that,' he added some- 
 what fiercely, ' I would advise you to hold 
 your tongue on the subject now that you have 
 relieved your mind. The Trevanions are kittle 
 customers when their blood's up. I would 
 
 F 2
 
 68 MADAM. 
 
 hold my tongue for the future if I were 
 you.' 
 
 And then John Trevanion came in, cloudy 
 and thoughtful, in his smoking coat, with a 
 candle in his hand.
 
 MADAM. G9 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 Eegixald Trevaniox of Highcoiirt had made 
 at thirty a marriage which was altogether suit- 
 able, and everything that the marriage of a 
 young Squire of good family and considerable 
 wealth ought to be, with a young lady from 
 a neighbouring county with a pretty face and a 
 pretty fortune, and connections of the most un- 
 exceptionable kind. He was not liimself an 
 amiable person even as a young man, but no 
 one had ever asserted that his temper or his 
 selfishness or his uneasy ways had contributed 
 to bring about the catastrophe which soon 
 overwhelmed the young household. A few 
 years passed with certain futile attempts at an 
 heir which came to nothing : and it was thought 
 that the disappointment in respect to Eosalind, 
 who obstinately insisted upon turning out a 
 girl, notwithstanding her poor young mother's 
 remorseful distress and her father's refusal to 
 believe that Providence could have played him
 
 70 MADAM. 
 
 SO cruel a trick, had something to do with the 
 gradual fading away of young Madam Treva- 
 nion. She died when Eosahnd was but a few 
 weeks old, and her husband, whom all the 
 neighbourhood credited with a broken heart, 
 disappeared shortly after into that vague world 
 known in a country district as ' Abroad ' ; 
 where heahng, it is to be supposed, or at least 
 forgetfulness, is to be found for every sorrow. 
 Nothing was known of him for a year or two. 
 His brother, John Trevanion, was then a youth 
 at college, and as Highcourt was shut up during 
 its master's absence, disposed of his vacation 
 among other branches of the family and never 
 appeared ; while Sophy, the only sister, who 
 had married long before, was also lost to the 
 district. And thus all means of following the 
 widower in his wanderings were lost to his 
 neighbours When Mr. Trevanion returned 
 three years after his first wife's death, the first 
 intimation that he had married again was the 
 appearance of the second Madam Trevanion by 
 his side in the carriage. The servants, indeed, 
 had been prepared by a letter, received just in 
 time to enable them to open hurriedly the shut 
 up rooms, and make ready for a lady; but 
 that was all. Of course, as everybody allowed^
 
 MADAM. 71 
 
 there was nothing surprising in the fact. It is 
 to be expected that a young widower, especially 
 if heart-broken, will marry again ; the only 
 curious thing was that no public intimation of 
 the event should liave preceded the arrival of 
 the pair. There had been nothing in the 
 papers, no intimation : ' At the British Em- 
 bassy ,' no hint that an English gentleman 
 
 from one of the Midland counties was about to 
 bring home a charming wife. And as a matter 
 of fact, nobody had been able to make out who 
 Mrs. Trevanion was. Her husband and she 
 had met abroad. That was all that was ever 
 known. For a tnne the researches of the 
 parties interested were very active, and all sorts 
 of leading questions Avere put to the new wife. 
 But she was of force superior to the country 
 ladies, and baffled them all. And the calm of 
 ordinary existence closed over Higfhcourt, and 
 the questions in course of time were forgot. 
 Madam Trevanion was not at all of the class of 
 her predecessor. She was not pretty like that 
 gentle creature. Even those who admired her 
 least owned that she was striking, and many 
 thought her handsome, and some beautiful. 
 She was tall ; her hair and her eyes were 
 dark ; she had the wonderful grace of bearing
 
 72 MADAM. 
 
 and movement wliich is associated with the high- 
 est class, but no more belongs to it exclusively 
 than any other grace or gift. Between Madam 
 Trevanion and the Duchess of Newbury, who 
 was herself a duke's daughter, and one of the 
 greatest ladies in England, no chance spectator 
 would have hesitated for a moment as to which 
 was the highest; and yet nobody knew who 
 she was. It was thought by some persons that 
 she showed at first a certain hesitation about 
 common details of hfe which proved that she 
 had not been born in the purple. But if so all 
 that w^as over before she had been a year at 
 Highcourt, and her manner's were pronounced 
 by the best judges to be perfect. She was not 
 shy of society as a novice would have been, 
 nor was her husband diffident in taking her 
 about, as a proud man who has married 
 beneath him so generally is. They accepted 
 all their invitations like people who were per- 
 fectly assured of their own standing, and they 
 saw more company at Highcourt than that 
 venerable mansion had seen before for genera- 
 tions. And there was nothing to which society 
 could take exception in the new wife. She had 
 little Eosahnd brought home at once, and was 
 henceforth as devoted as any young mother
 
 MADAM. 73 
 
 could be to the lovely little plaything of a three 
 years old child. Then she did her duty by the 
 family as it becomes a wife to do. The first 
 was a son, as fine a boy as was ever born to a 
 good estate, a Trevanion all over, though he 
 had his mother's eyes — a boy that never ailed 
 anything, as robust as a young hon. Five or 
 six others followed, of whom two died ; but 
 these were ordinary incidents of life which 
 establish a family in the esteem and sympathy 
 of its neighbours. The Trevanions had fulfilled 
 all that was needed to be entirely and fully 
 received into the regard of the county when 
 they ' buried,' as people say, their two children. 
 Four remained, the first-born, young Eeginald 
 and his next sister, who were at the beginning 
 of this history fourteen and nine respectively, 
 and the two little ones of five and seven, who 
 were also, to fulfil all .requirements, girl and 
 boy. 
 
 But of all these Eosalind had remained, 
 if that may be said of a step-child when a 
 woman has a family of her own, the favourite, 
 the mother's constant companion, everything 
 that an eldest girl could be. Neither the one 
 nor the other ever betrayed a consciousness that 
 they were not mother and daughter. Mr.
 
 74 MADAM. 
 
 Trevanion himself, when in his capricious, irri- 
 table way he permitted any fondness to appear, 
 preferred Eeginald, who was his heir and per- 
 sonal representative. But Eosalind was always 
 by her mother's side. But for Eussell, the 
 nurse, and one or two other injudicious persons, 
 she would probably never have found out that 
 Madam w^as not her mother ; but the discovery 
 had done good rather than harm, by inspiring 
 the natural affection with a passionate indi- 
 vidual attachment in which there were all those 
 elements of choice and independent election 
 which are the charm of friendship. Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion was Eosalind's example, her heroine, the 
 perfect type of woman to her eyes. And, 
 indeed, she was a woman who impressed the 
 general mind with something of this character. 
 There are many good women who do not do so, 
 who look commonplace enough in their life, 
 and are only known in their full excellence from 
 some revelation afterwards of heroism unknown. 
 But Mrs. Trevanion carried her diploma in her 
 eyes. The tenderness in them was like sun- 
 shine to everybody about her who was in 
 trouble. She never was harsh, never intolerant, 
 judged nobody — which in a woman so full of 
 feeling and with so high a standard of moral
 
 MADAM. 75 
 
 excellence was extraordinary. This was what 
 gave so great a charm to her manners. A well- 
 bred woman, even of an inferior type, will not 
 allow a humble member of society to feel him- 
 self or herself de trop ; but there are many 
 ways of doing this, and the ostentatious way 
 of showing exaggerated attention to an unlucky 
 stranger is as painful to a delicate mind as 
 neglect. But this was a danger which Mrs. 
 Trevanion avoided. No one could tell what 
 the rank was of the o'uests in her drawinoj-room, 
 whether it was the duchess or the governess 
 that was receiving her attentions. They were all 
 alike gentlewomen in this gracious house. The 
 poor, who are always the hardest judges of a 
 new claimant of their favour, and who in this 
 case were much set on finding out that a 
 woman wdio came from ' Abroad ' could be no 
 lady, gave in more reluctantly, yet yielded too 
 like their betters — with the exception of Eussell 
 and the family in the village to which she be- 
 longed. These were the only enemies, so far 
 as anyone was aware, whom Madam possessed, 
 and they were enemies of a visionary kind, in 
 no open hostihty, receiving her favours like the 
 rest, and kept in check by the general state of 
 public opinion. Still if there was anything to
 
 76 MADAM. 
 
 be found out about the lady of Highcourt these 
 were the only hostile bystanders desirous of the 
 opportunity of doing her harm. 
 
 But everything had fallen into perfect peace 
 outside the house for years. Now and then, at 
 long intervals, it might indeed be remarked in 
 the course of a genealogical conversation such 
 as many people, love, that it was not known 
 who Mrs. Trevanion the second had been. 
 ' His first wife was a Miss Warren, one of the 
 Warrens of Warrenpoint. The present one — 
 well, I don't know who she was ; they married 
 abroad.' But that was all that now was ever 
 said. It would be added probably that she was 
 very handsome, or very nice, or quite comme 
 il faut^ and so her defect of parentage 
 was condoned. Everything was harmonious, 
 friendly, and comfortable outside. The county 
 could not resist her fine manners, her looks, 
 her quiet assumption of the place that belonged 
 to her. But within doors Mrs. Trevanion soon 
 came to know that no very peaceful life was to 
 be expected. There were people who said 
 that she had not the look of a happy woman 
 even when she first came home. In repose 
 her face was rather sad than otherwise at all 
 times. Mr. Trevanion was still in the hot fit of
 
 a bride crroom's enthusiasm when he broucrht 
 her home, but even then he was the most 
 troublesome, the most exacting, the most 
 fidgety of bridegrooms. Her patience with all 
 his demands was boundless. She would change 
 her dress half a dozen times in an evenincr 
 to please him. She would start off with him 
 on a sudden wild expedition at half an hours 
 notice, without a word or even look of 
 annoyance. And when the exuberance of love 
 wore off, and the exactions continued, with no 
 longer caresses and sweet words, but blame 
 and reproach and that continual fault-finding 
 which it is so hard to put up with amiably, 
 Mrs. Trevanion stiU endured everything, con- 
 sented to everything, with a patience that 
 would not be shaken. It was now nearly 
 ten years since the heart disease which had 
 brought him nearly to death's door first 
 showed itself. He had rheumatic fever, and 
 then afterwards, as is so usual, this terrible 
 legacy which that complaint leaves behind 
 it. From that moment, of course, the patience 
 which had been so sweetly exercised before 
 became a rehgious duty. It was known in 
 the house that nothing must cross, or agitate, 
 or annoy Mr. Trevanion. But, indeed, it was
 
 78 MADAM. 
 
 not necessary that anything should annoy 
 him; he was his own chief annoyance, his 
 own agitator. He would flame up in sudden 
 wrath at nothing at all, and turn the house 
 upside down, and send everybody but his 
 wife flying, with vituperations which scarcely 
 the basest criminal could have deserved. And 
 his wife, who never abandoned him, became 
 the chief object of these passionate assaults. 
 He accused her of every imaginable fault. 
 He began to talk of all she owed him, to 
 declare that he married her when she had 
 nothing, that he had taken her out of the 
 depths, that she owed everything to him; he 
 denounced her as ungrateful, base, trying to 
 injure his health under pretence of nursing 
 him, that she might get the power into her 
 own hands. But she would find out her 
 mistake, he said ; she would learn, when he 
 was gone, the difference between having a 
 husband to protect her and nobody. To all 
 these wild accusations and comments the httle 
 circle round Mrs. Trevanion had become 
 familiar and indifferent. ' Pegging away at 
 Madam, as usual,' Mr. Dorrington, the butler, 
 said. ' Lord, I'd let him peg ! I'd leave him 
 to himself and see how he hkes it,' replied
 
 MADAM. 79 
 
 the cook aud housekeeper. Xo one had put 
 the shghtest faith in the objurgations of the 
 master. To Eosahnd they were the mere 
 extravagances of that mad temper which she 
 had been acquainted with all her hfe. What 
 her father said about his wife was about as 
 reasonable as his outburst of certainty that 
 England was going to the devil when the 
 village boys broke down one of the young 
 trees. She did not judge papa for such a 
 statement. She cried a little at his vehemence, 
 which did himself so much harm, and laughed 
 a httle secretly with a heavy sense of guilt 
 at his extravao^ance and exacro-erations. Poor 
 papa! it was not his fault, it was because he 
 was so ill. He was too weak and ailing to 
 be able to restrain himself as other people 
 did. But he did not mean it — how could he 
 mean it? To say that mamma wanted to 
 break his neck if she did not put his pillow 
 as he liked it, to accuse her of a systematic 
 attempt to starve him if his luncheon was 
 two minutes late or his soup not exactly to 
 his taste — all that was folly. And no doubt 
 it was also folly, all that about raising her 
 from nothing and taking her without a penny. 
 Eosalind, though very much disturbed when
 
 80 MADAM. 
 
 she was present at one of these scenes, yet 
 permitted herself to laugh at it when it was 
 over or she had got away. Poor papa ! and 
 then when he had raged himself into a lit of 
 these heart spasms he was so ill ; how sad 
 to see him siifFering so terribly, gasping for 
 breath ! Poor papa ! to think that he did so 
 much to bring it on himself was only a pity 
 the more. 
 
 Tlius things had gone on for years. When 
 Dr. Beaton came to live in the house there had 
 been a temporary amendment. The presence 
 of a stranger, perhaps, had been a check upon 
 the patient ; and perhaps the novelty of a con- 
 tinual and thoroughly instructed watcher — who 
 knew how to follow the symptoms of the 
 malady, and foresaw an outburst before it 
 came — did something for him ; and certainly 
 there had been an amendment. But by-and- 
 by, familiarity did away with these advantages. 
 Dr. Beaton exhausted all the resources of his 
 science, and Mr. Trevanion ceased to be upon 
 his guard with a man whom he saw every day. 
 Thus the house lived in a forced submission to 
 the feverish vagaries of its head ; and he him- 
 self sat and railed at everybody, pleased with 
 nothing, claiming every thought and every
 
 MADAM. 81 
 
 hour, but never contented with the service done 
 him. And greater and greater became the 
 force of his grievances against his wife and his 
 sense of having done everything for her ; how 
 he had stood by her w^hen nobody else would 
 look at her, how he had lifted her out of some 
 vague humiliation and abandonment, how she 
 owed him everything, yet treated him with 
 brutal carelessness, and sought his death, were 
 the most favourite accusations on his lips. Mrs. 
 Trevanion listened wdth a countenance that 
 rarely showed any traces of emotion. She had 
 shrunk a little at first from these painful accu- 
 sations ; but soon had come to listen to them 
 with absolute calm. She had borne them like 
 a saint, like a philosopher ; and yet within the 
 last month everybody saw there had been a 
 change. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 82 MADAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 When Mrs. Trevanion came to Highcourt, she 
 brought with her a maid who had, during all 
 the sixteen years of her married hfe, remained 
 with her wnthout the shghtest breach of fidehty 
 or devotion. Jane was, the household thought, 
 somewhat like her mistress, a resemblance in 
 all likelihood founded upon the constant at- 
 tendance of the one upon the other, and the 
 absorbing admiration, rising almost to a kind of 
 worship, with which Jane regarded her lady. 
 After all, it was only in figure and movement, 
 not in face, that the resemblance existed. Jane 
 was tall like Mrs. Trevanion. She had caught 
 something of that fine poise of the head, some- 
 thing of the grace which distinguished her 
 mistress ; but whereas Mrs. Trevanion was 
 beautiful, Jane was a plain woman, with some- 
 what small eyes, a wide mouth, and features 
 that were not worth considering. She was of 
 a constant paleness and she was marked with
 
 MADAM. 83 
 
 small-pox, neither of which are embellishing. 
 Still, if yon happened to walk behind her along- 
 one of the long passages, dressed in one of 
 Madam's old gOAvns, it was qnite possible that 
 you might take her for Madam. And Jane 
 was not a common lady's maid. She was 
 entirely devoted to her mistress, not only to 
 her service but to her person, living hke her 
 shadow — ahvays in her rooms, always with her, 
 sharing in everything she did, even in the 
 nursing of Mr. Trevanion, who tolerated her 
 presence as he tolerated that of no one else. 
 Jane sat indeed with the upper servants at their 
 luxurious and comfortable table, but she did 
 not live with them. She had nothing to do with 
 their amusements, their constant commentary 
 upon the family. One or two butlers in suc- 
 cession — for before Mr, Trevanion gave up all 
 active interference in the house there had l)een 
 a great many changes in butlers — had done 
 then- best to make themselves agreeable to 
 Jane ; but though she w^as always civil, she 
 was cold, they said, as any fish, and no progress 
 was possible. Mrs. Jennings, the cook and 
 housekeeper, instinctively mistrusted the quiet 
 woman. She was a deal too much with her 
 lady, that astute person said. That was desert- 
 
 r. '2
 
 84 MADAM. 
 
 ng her own side : for do not the masters form 
 one faction and the servants another ? The 
 struggle of hfe may be conducted on more or 
 less honourable terms, but still a servant who 
 does not belong to his own sphere is unnatural, 
 just as a master is who throws himself into the 
 atmosphere of the servants' hall. The domes- 
 tics felt sure that such a particular union 
 between the mistress and the maid could not 
 exist in the ordinary course of affaiT's, and that 
 it must mean something which was not alto- 
 gether right. Jane never came, save for her 
 meals, to the housekeeper's room. She was 
 always upstairs, in case, she said, that she 
 should be wanted. Why should she be wanted 
 more than any other person in her position.^ 
 When now and then Mrs. Trevanion, wearied 
 out with watching and suffering, hurried to her 
 room to rest, or to bathe her aching forehead, 
 or perhaps even to lighten the oppression of 
 her heart by a few tears, Jane was always there 
 to soothe, and tend, and sympathise. The 
 other servants knew as well as Jane how much 
 Madam had to put up with, but yet they 
 thought it very pecuhar that a servant should 
 be so much in her mistress's confidence. There 
 was a mystery in it. It had been suspected at
 
 AUDAM. bo 
 
 first that Jane was a poor relation of Madam's : 
 and the others expected jealoasiy ^vhen this 
 woman should be set over their heads, and 
 themselves humiliated under her sway. But 
 this never took place, and the household 
 changed as most households change, and one 
 set of maids and men succeeded each other 
 without any change in Jane. There remained 
 a tradition in the house that she was a sort of 
 traitor in the camp, a servant who was not of 
 her own faction, but on the master's side ; but 
 this was all that siu-vived of the original preju- 
 dice, and no one now expected to be put under 
 the domination of Jane, or regarded her with 
 the angry suspicion of the beginning, or sup- 
 posed her to be Madam's relation. Jane, like 
 Madam, had become an institution, and the 
 present generation of servants did not inquire 
 too closely into matters of history. 
 
 This was true of all save one. But there 
 was one person in the house who was as much 
 an institution as Jane, or even as Jane's mis- 
 tress, with whom nobody interfered, and whom 
 it was impossible to think of as dethroned or 
 put aside from her supreme place. Eussell was 
 in the nursery what Madam herself was in 
 Hio'hcourt. In that hmited but influential
 
 SQ MADAM. 
 
 domain she was the mistress and feared no- 
 body. She had been the chosen of the first 
 Mrs. Trevanion, and the nurse of Eosahnd, with 
 whom she had gone to her Aunt Sophy's during 
 Mr. Trevanion's widowhood, and in charge of 
 whom she had returned to Highcourt when he 
 married. Eussell knew very well that the 
 estates were entailed and that Eosalind could 
 not be the heir, but yet she resented the second 
 marriage as if it had been a wrong done at 
 once to herself and her charge. If Jane was 
 of Madam's faction, Eussell was of a faction 
 most strenuously and sternly antagonistic to 
 Madam. The prejudice which had risen up 
 against the lady who came from abroad, and 
 whom nobody knew, and which had died away 
 in the course of time, lived and survived in 
 tliis woman with all the force of the first day. 
 She had been on the watch all these years to 
 find out something to the discredit of her 
 mistress, and no doubt the sentiment had been 
 strengthened by the existence of Jane, who 
 was a sort of rival power in her own sphere, 
 and lessened her own importance by being as 
 considerable a person as herself. Eussell had 
 watched these two women with a hostile vigi- 
 lance which never slackened. She was in her
 
 own department the most admirable and trust- 
 worthy of servants, and when she received 
 Mrs. Trevanion's babies into her charge, carried 
 nothing of her prejudice against their mother 
 into her treatment of them. If not as dear to 
 her as her first charge, Eosahnd, they were still 
 her children, Trevanions, quite separated in her 
 mind from the idea of their mother. Perhaps 
 the influence of Eussell accounted for certain 
 small griefs which Madam had to bear as one 
 of the consequences of her constant attendance 
 on her husband, the indifference to her of her 
 little children in their earlier years. But she 
 said to herself with a wonderful philosophy 
 that she could expect no less ; that absorbed as 
 she was in her husband's sick room all day, it 
 was not to be expected that the chance mo- 
 ments she could give to the nursery would 
 secure the easily diverted regard of the babies 
 to whom their nurse was the principal figure 
 in earth and heaven. And that nurse was so 
 good, so careful, so devoted, that it would have 
 been selfishness indeed to have deprived the 
 children of her care because of a personal 
 grievance of this kind. ' Why should Eussell 
 dislike me so much ? ' she would say sometimes 
 to Eosahnd, who tried to deny the charge, and
 
 88 MADAM. 
 
 Jane who shook her head and could not ex- 
 plain. ' Oh, dear mamma, it is only her temper. 
 She does not mean it,' Eosalind would say. 
 And Madam, who had so much to suffer from 
 temper in another quarter, did not reject the 
 explanation. 'Temper explains a great many 
 things,' she said, ' but even that does not quite 
 explain. She is so good to the children, and 
 hates their mother. I feel I have a foe in the 
 house so long as she is here.' Eosalind had a cer- 
 tain love for her nurse, notwithstanding her dis- 
 approval of her, and she looked up with some 
 alarm. ' Do you mean to send her away ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Eosalind,' said Jane, ' my lady is 
 right. It is a foe and nothing less, a real 
 enemy she has in that woman; if she would 
 send Eussell away I'd be very glad for one.' 
 
 ' You need not fear, my love,' Madam said. 
 'Hush, Jane, if she is my foe, you are my 
 partisan. I will never send Eussell away, 
 Eosalind; but when the children are grown 
 up, if I live to see it, or if she would be sa 
 kind as to marry, and go off in a happy 
 way, or even if when you are married she 
 preferred to go with you — I think I should 
 draw my breath more freely. It is painful to 
 be under a hostile eye.'
 
 MADAM. 89 
 
 ' The nurse's eye, mamma, and you the 
 mistress of the house ! ' 
 
 'It does not matter, my dear. I have 
 always had a sympathy for Haman, who could 
 not enjoy his grandeur for thinking of that Jew 
 in the gate that was always looking at him so 
 cynically. It gets unendurable sometimes. 
 You must have a very high opinion of your- 
 self to get over the low view taken of you by 
 that sceptic sitting in the gate. But now I 
 must to your fether,' Mrs. Trevanion said. She 
 had come upstairs with a headache, and had 
 sat down by the open window to get a httle 
 air, though the ah* was intensely cold and 
 damp. It was a refreshment, after the close- 
 ness of the room in which the invalid sat with 
 an unvarying temperature and every draught 
 shut out. Eosalind stood behind her mother's 
 chair with her hands upon Mrs. Trevanion's 
 shoulders, and the tired woman leant back upon 
 the girl's young bosom so full of life. ' But 
 you will catch cold at the window, my Eose ! 
 No, it does me good, I want a little air, but it 
 is too cold for you. And now I must go back 
 to your father,' she said, rising. She stooped 
 and kissed the cheek of the girl she loved, and 
 went away with a smile to her martyrdom.
 
 90 MADAM. 
 
 These moments of withdrawal from her heavy- 
 duties were the consolations of her life. 
 
 ' Miss EosaUnd,' said Jane, ' that you should 
 love your old nurse I don't say a word against 
 it — but if ever there is a time when a blow can 
 be struck at my lady that woman will do it. 
 She will never let the little ones be here when 
 their mamma can see them. They're having 
 their sleep, or they're out walking, or they're 
 at their lessons; and Miss Sophy the same. 
 And if ever she can do us an ill turn ' 
 
 ' How could she do you an ill turn ? That 
 is, Jane, I beg your pardon, she might perhaps 
 be nasty to you — but, mamma ! What blow, 
 as you call it, can be struck at mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, how can I tell ? ' said Jane ; ' I never 
 was clever ; there's things happening every 
 day that no one can foresee ; and when a 
 woman is always watching to spy out any 
 crevice you never can tell. Miss Eosalind, in 
 this world of trouble, what may happen un- 
 foreseen.' 
 
 This speech made no great impression on 
 Eosalind's mind at the time, but it recurred to 
 her after, and gave her more trouble than any 
 wickedness of Eussell's had power to do. In 
 the meantime, leaving Jane, she went to the
 
 MADAM. 91 
 
 nursery, and with the pre-occiipation of youth 
 carried with her the same subject, heedless and 
 unthinking what conchisions Ptussell, ^hose 
 facukies were always alert on this question, 
 might draw. 
 
 ' Eussell,' she said after a moment, ' why are 
 you always so disagreeable to mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Eosahnd, I do hate to hear you call 
 her mamma. Why don't you say my step- 
 mother, as any other young lady would in your 
 place ? ' 
 
 ' Because she is not my step-mother,' said 
 the girl, with a slight stamp on the floor. ' Just 
 look at little Johnny, taking in all you say mih 
 his big eyes. She is all the mother I have ever 
 known, and I love her better than anyone in 
 the world.' 
 
 ' And just for that I can't bear it,' cried the 
 woman. ' What wpuld your own dear mamma 
 say?' 
 
 ' If she were as jealous and ill-tempered as 
 you I should not mind what she said,' said the 
 girl. ' Don't tliink, if you continue like this, 
 you will ever have any sympathy from me.' 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Eosalind, what you are saying is 
 as bad as swearing ; worse, it's blasphemy ; 
 and the time will come when you'll remember
 
 92 MADAM. 
 
 and be sorry. No, though you think I'm a 
 brute, I shan't say anything before the children. 
 But the time will come ' 
 
 ' What a pity you are not on the stage, 
 Eussell ! You would make a fine Meg Merrihes, 
 or something of that kind ; the old woman that 
 is always cursing somebody and prophesying 
 trouble. That is just what you are suited for. 
 I will come and see you your first night.' 
 
 ' Me ! on the stage ! ' cried Eussell, with a 
 sense of outraged dignity which words cannot 
 express. Such an insult had never been offered 
 to her before. Eosalind went out of the room 
 quickly, angry but laughing when she had given 
 this blow. She wanted to administer a stinging 
 chastisement, and she had done so. Her own 
 cleverness in discovering what would hit hardest 
 pleased her. She began to sing, out of wrath- 
 ful indignation and pleasure, as she went 
 downstairs. 
 
 ' Me ! on the stage ! ' Eussell repeated to 
 herself. A respectable upper servant in a great 
 house could not have had a more degrading 
 susrc^estion made to her. She could have cried 
 
 DO 
 
 as she sat there gnashing her teeth. And this 
 too was all on account of Madam, the strange 
 woman who had taken her first mistress's place
 
 MAD.Of. 93 
 
 even in the heart of her own child. Perhaps 
 if EosaUnd had treated her step-mother as a 
 step-mother ought to be treated, Eussell would 
 have been less antagonistic ; but ]\Irs. Trevanion 
 altogether was obnoxious to her. She had 
 come from abroad ; she had brought her own 
 maid with her, who w^as entirely unsociable and 
 never told anything, who was a stranger, a 
 foreigner perhaps, for anything that was known 
 of her, and yet w^as Eussell's equal or more by 
 light of Madam's favour, though Eussell had 
 been in the house for years. What subtle 
 antipathy there might be besides these tangible 
 reasons for hating them, Eussell did not know. 
 She only knew that from the first moment she 
 had set eyes upon her master's new ^vife she 
 had detested her. There was something about 
 her that was not like other women. There 
 must be a secret. When had it ever been 
 known that a maid gave up ever3'thing, the 
 chat, the game at cards, the summer stroll in 
 the park, even the elegant civilities of a hand- 
 some butler, for the love of her mistress ? It 
 was unnatural ; no one had ever heard of such 
 a thing. What could it be but a secret between 
 these women which held them together, which 
 it was their interest to conceal from the world ?
 
 94 MADAM. 
 
 But the time would come, Kussell said to her- 
 self. If she watched night and day she should 
 find it out ; if she waited for years and years 
 the time and opportunity would come at 
 last.
 
 MADAM. 95 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 This conversation, or series of conversations, 
 took place shortly before the time at which 
 this history begins, and it was very soon 
 after that the strange course of circumstances 
 commenced which was of so much importance 
 in the future life of the Trevanions of High- 
 court. When the precise moment was at 
 which the attention of Eosalind was roused 
 and her curiosity excited, she herself could 
 not have told. It was not until Madam 
 Trevanion had fallen for some time into the 
 singular habit of disappearing after dinner, 
 nobody knew where. It had been very 
 usual with her to run up to the nursery 
 when she left the dining-room, to see if the 
 children were asleep. Mr. Trevanion, when 
 he was at all well, liked to sit, if not over 
 his wine, for he was abstemious by force of 
 necessity, yet at the table, talking with whom- 
 soever might be his guest. Though his life
 
 96 MADAM. 
 
 was so little adapted to the habits of hospitality, 
 he liked to have someone with whom he could 
 sit and talk after dinner, and who would make 
 up his rubl)er when he went into the drawing- 
 room. He had been tolerably well, for him, 
 during the autumn, and there had been a 
 succession of three days' visitors, all men, 
 succeeding each other, and all chosen on 
 purpose to serve Mr. Trevanion's after-dinner 
 talk and his evening rubber. And it was a 
 moment in which the women of the household 
 felt themselves free. As for Eosalind, she 
 would establish herself between the lamp and 
 the fire and read a novel, which was one of 
 her favourite pastimes ; while Mrs. Trevanion, 
 relieved from the constant strain of attendance, 
 would run upstairs, ' to look at the children,' 
 as she said. Perhaps she did not always look 
 long at the children, but this served as the 
 pretext for a moment of much needed rest. 
 Eosalind had vaguely perceived a sort of 
 excitement about her for some time — a furtive 
 look, an anxiety to get away from the table as 
 early as possible. While she sat there she 
 would change colour, as was not at all her 
 habit, for ordinarily she was pale. Now 
 flushes and pallor contended with each other.
 
 AIADAM. 97 
 
 When she spoke there was a little catch as of 
 haste and breathlessness in her voice, and when 
 she made the usual httle sic^nal to Eosalind her 
 hand would tremble, and the smile was very 
 uncertain on her hp. Xor did she stop to say 
 anytliing, but hiurried upstairs like one who has 
 not a moment to lose. And it happened on 
 several occasions that Mr. Trevanion and the 
 guest and the doctor were in the drawing-room, 
 however long they sat, before Madam had 
 returned. For some time Eosalind took no 
 notice of this. She did not indeed remark it. 
 It had never occurred to her to watch or to 
 inspect her step-mother's conduct. Hitherto 
 she had been convinced that it was right always. 
 She read her novel in her fireside corner, and 
 never discovered that there was any break in 
 the usual routine. When the first painful hght 
 burst upon her she could not tell. It was first 
 a word from Eussell, then the sight of Jane 
 gazing out very anxiously upon the night, when 
 it rained, from a large staircase window, and 
 then the aspect of afiau-s altogether. Mr. 
 Trevanion began to remark very querulously 
 on his wife's absence. Where was she ? What 
 did she mean by always being out of the way 
 just when he wanted her ? and much more of 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MADAM. 
 
 the same kind. And when Madam came in 
 she looked flushed and hurried, and brought 
 with her a whole atmosphere of fresh out- door 
 air from the fresh and somewhat chilly night. 
 It was the fragrance and sensation of this fresh 
 air which roused Eosalind the most. It 
 startled her with a sense of sometliing that was 
 new, something that she did not understand. 
 The thought occurred to her next morning 
 when she first opened her eyes, the first thing 
 that came into her mind. That sudden gust 
 of fresh air, how did it come ? It was not from 
 the nursery that one could bring an atmosphere 
 like that. 
 
 And thus other days and other evenings 
 passed. There was something new altogether 
 in Mrs. Trevanion's face, a sort of awakening, 
 but not to happiness. When they drove out 
 she was very silent, and her eyes were watchful 
 as though looking for something. They went 
 far before the carriage, before the rapid horses, 
 with a watchful look. For whom could she 
 be looking? Eosalind ventured one day to 
 put the question. 'For whom — could I be 
 looking? I am looking for — no one,' Mrs. 
 Trevanion said, with a sudden rush of colour 
 to her face ; and whereas she had been leaning
 
 MADAM. 99 
 
 forward in the carriage, she suddenly leaned 
 back and took no more notice, scarcely speak- 
 ing again till they returned home. Such 
 caprice was not like Madam. She did every- 
 thing as usual, fulfilled all her duties, paid her 
 calls, and was quite as lively and interested as 
 usual in the neighbours whom she visited, 
 entering into their talk almost more than was 
 her habit. But when she returned to the 
 society of her own family she was not as usual. 
 Sometimes there was a pathetic tone in her 
 voice, and she would excuse herself in a way 
 which brought the tears to Eosalind's eyes. 
 
 ' My dear,' she would say, ' I fear I am bad 
 company at present. I have a great deal to 
 think of.' 
 
 ' You are always the best of company,' 
 Eosalind would say, in the enthusiasm of her 
 affection, and Mrs. Trevanion looked at her 
 with a tender gratitude which broke the girl'e 
 heart. 
 
 ' When I want people to hear the best that 
 can be said of me I will send them to you. 
 Eosahnd,' she said. ' Oh, what a blessing of 
 God that you should be the one to think most 
 v/ell of me ! God send it may always be so ! ' 
 she added, with a voice full of feeling so deep 
 
 H 2
 
 100 MADAM. 
 
 aud anxious that the girl did not know what to 
 think. 
 
 ' How can you speak so, mamma ? Think 
 well ! Why, you are my mother ; there is no- 
 body but you,' she said. 
 
 ' Do you know. Eosalind,' said Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion, ' that the children who are my very 
 own will not take me for granted, like you ? ' 
 
 'And am not I your very own? Whom 
 have I but you ? ' Eosalind said. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion turned and kissed her, 
 though it was in the pubhc road. Eosalind felt 
 that her cheek was wet. What was the mean- 
 ing of it ? They had always been mother and 
 daughter in the fullest sense of the word, uncon- 
 sciously, without any remark, the one claiming 
 nothing, the other not saying a word of her 
 devotion. It was already a painful novelty 
 that it should be mentioned between them how 
 much they loved each other, for natural love 
 like this has no need of words. 
 
 And then sometimes Madam would be 
 severe. 
 
 ' Mamma,' said little Sophy on one of these 
 drives, ' there is somebody new living in the 
 village — a gentleman — well, perhaps not a 
 gentleman. Eussell says nobody knows who he
 
 MADAM. 101 
 
 is. And he gets up in the middle of the day, 
 and goes out at night.' 
 
 ' I should not think it could be any concern 
 of yours who was Hving in the village,' ]\rrs. 
 Trevanion said, far more hastily and hotly than 
 her wont. 
 
 ' Oh, but mamma, it is so seldom anyone 
 comes ; and he lives at the Eed Lion ; and it is 
 too late for sketching, so he can't be an artist ; 
 and, mamma, Paissell says ' 
 
 ' I will not have Eussell fill your head with 
 the gossip of the village,' said Madam with a 
 flush of anger. ' You are too much disposed to 
 talk about your neighbours. Tell Eussell I 
 desire you to have nothing to do with the 
 village news ' 
 
 ' Oh, but mamma, it isn't village news, it's 
 a stranger. Everybody wants to find out about 
 a stranger ; and he is so ' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion gave a slight stamp of im- 
 patience and anger. ' You have still less to do 
 with strangers. Let me hear no more about 
 this,' she said. She did not recover the thrill 
 
 of irritation duringf the whole course of the 
 
 I— 
 
 drive. Sophy, who was unused to such vehe- 
 mence, retired into sulkiness and tears, while 
 Eosalind, wounded a httle to see that her mother
 
 102 MADAM. 
 
 was fallible, looked on, surprised. She who 
 was never put out ! And then again Madam 
 Trevanion came down from her eminence, and 
 made a sort of excuse which troubled her young 
 adorer almost more than the fact. ' I am afraid 
 I am growing irritable. I have so much to 
 think of,' she said. 
 
 What was it she had to think of now above 
 other times ? Mr. Trevanion, for him, was 
 well. They had people staying in the house 
 who amused him ; and John Trevanion was 
 coming. Uncle John, whom everybody liked. 
 And the children were all well ; and nothing 
 wrong, so far as anyone was aware, in the busi- 
 ness matters which Mrs. Trevanion bore the 
 weight of to serve her husband ; the farms were 
 all let, there was nothing out of gear anywhere. 
 What had she to think of.^ Eosalind was 
 greatly, painfully puzzled by this repeated 
 statement. And by degrees her perplexity 
 grew. It got into the air, and seemed to infect 
 all the members of the household. The servants 
 acquired a watchful air. The footman who 
 came in to take away the teacups looked 
 terribly conscious that Madam was late. There 
 was a general watchfulness about. You could 
 not cross the hall or go upstairs, or go through
 
 MADAM. 103 
 
 a corridor from one part of the house to 
 another, without meeting a servant who would 
 murmur an apology, as if his or her appearance 
 was an accident, but who were all far 
 too wide-awake and on the alert to have 
 come there accidentally. Anxiety of this kind, 
 or even curiosity is cumulative, and com- 
 municates itself imperceptibly with greater 
 and greater force as it goes on. And in the 
 midst of the general drama a curious side-scene 
 was going on always between the two great 
 antagonists in the household — Eussell and Jane. 
 They kept up a watch, each on her side. The 
 one could not open her door or appear upon 
 the upper stairs without a corresponding click 
 of the door of the other ; a stealthy inspection 
 behind a pillar, or out of a corner, to see what 
 was going on ; and both of them had expedi- 
 tions of their own which would not bear ex- 
 planation, both in the house and without. In 
 this point Jane had a great advantage over her 
 adversary. She could go out almost when she 
 pleased, while Eussell was restrained by the 
 children, whom she could not leave. Bu-^ 
 Eussell had other privileges that made up for 
 this. She had nursery-maids under her orders ; 
 she had spies about in all sorts of places ; her
 
 104 MADAM. 
 
 relations lived in the village. Every piece of 
 news, every guess and suspicion, was brought 
 to her. And she had a great faculty for joining 
 her bits of information together. By-and-by 
 Eussell began to wear a triumphant look, and 
 Jane a jaded and worn one ; they betrayed in 
 their faces the fact that whatever their secret 
 struggle was, one was getting the better of the 
 other. Jane gave Eosalind pathetic looks, as 
 if asking whether she might confide in her, 
 while Eussell uttered hints and innuendoes, 
 ending, indeed, as has been seen, in intimations 
 more positive. When she spoke so to Eosalind 
 it may be supposed that she was not silent to 
 the rest of the house ; or that she failed, with 
 the boldness of her kind, to set forth and 
 explain the motives of her mistress. For some 
 time before the incident of the bramble, every-' 
 one in the house had come to be fully aware 
 that Madam went out every evening, however 
 cold, wet, and miserable it might be. John 
 Trevanion acquired the knowledge he could not 
 tell how ; he thought it was from that atmos- 
 phere of fresh air which unawares she brought 
 with her on those occasions when she was late, 
 when the gentlemen had reached the drawing- 
 room before she came in. This was not always
 
 MADAM. ] 05 
 
 the case. Sometimes they found her there, 
 seated in her usual place, calm enough, save for 
 a searching disquiet in her eyes, which seemed 
 to meet them as they came in, asking what they 
 divined or knew. They all knew— that is to 
 say, all but Mr. Trevanion himself, whose 
 vituperations required no particular occasion, 
 and ran on much the same whatever happened, 
 and the temporary three days' guest, who at 
 the special moment referred to was young 
 Hamerton. Sometimes incidents would occur 
 which had no evident bearing upon this curious 
 secret which everybody knew, but yet never- 
 theless disturbed the brooding air with a possi- 
 bility of explosion. On one occasion little 
 Sophy was the occasion of a thiill in this 
 electrical atmosphere which nobody quite un- 
 derstood. The child had come in to dessert, 
 and was standing by her father's side, consuming 
 all the sweetmeats she could get. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' Sophy said suddenly and 
 loudly, addressing her mother across the table ; 
 ' you know that gentleman at the Eed Lion I 
 told you about ? ' 
 
 ' What gentleman at the Eed Lion ? ' said 
 her father, who had a keen ear for gossip. 
 
 ' Do not encourage her, Eegiuald,' said
 
 106 MADAM. 
 
 Madam from the other end of the table ; ' I 
 cannot let her bring the village stories here.' 
 
 ' Let us hear about the gentleman from the 
 Eed Lion,' he said ; ' perhaps it is something 
 amusing. I never am allowed to hear what is 
 going on. Come, Sophy, what's about him? 
 We all want to know.' 
 
 ' Oh, but mamma will be so cross if I tell 
 you ! She will not let me say a word. When 
 I told her before she stamped her foot ' 
 
 ' Ha, Madam ! ' said the husband, ' we've 
 caught you. I thought you were one that 
 never lost your temper. But Sophy knows 
 better. Come, what of this gentleman ' 
 
 ' I think, Eosalind, we had better go,' said 
 Mrs. Trevanion, rising. ' I do not wish the 
 child to bring tales out of the village. Sophy ! ' 
 The mother looked at her with eyes of com- 
 mand. But the little girl felt herself the heroine 
 of the occasion, and perfectly secure, held in her 
 father's arm. 
 
 ' Oh, it is only that nobody knows him ! ' 
 she said in her shrill little voice ; ' and he gets 
 up in the middle of the day, and never goes out 
 till night. Eussell knows all about him. Eussell 
 says he is here for no good. He is like a man 
 in a story book, with such big eyes. Oh !
 
 MADAM. 107 
 
 Eussell says she would know him anywhere, 
 
 and I think so should I ' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion stood listening till all was 
 said. Her face was perfectly without colour, 
 her eyes blazing upon the mahcious child with 
 a strange passion. What she was doing was 
 the most foolish thing a woman could do. Her 
 linger succeeded by so strange a calm, the 
 intense seriousness witli which she regarded 
 what after all was nothing more than a childish 
 disobedience, gave the most exaggerated im- 
 portance to the incident. Why should she take 
 it so seriously, everybody asked ? What was 
 it to her ? And who could hinder the people 
 who were looking on, and knew that Madam 
 was herself involved in something inexplainable, 
 somethmg entirely new to all her habits, from 
 receiving this new actor into their minds as some- 
 how connected with it, somehow appropriated 
 by her ? When the child stopped, her mother 
 interfered again with the same exaggeration of 
 feeling, her very voice thrilhng the tranquillity 
 of the room as she called Sophy to follow her. 
 ' Don't beat her,' Mr. Trevanion called out with 
 a chuckhng laugh. ' Sophy, if they whip you, 
 come back to me. Nobody shall whip you for 
 answering your father. Come and tell me all
 
 108 MADAM. 
 
 you hear about the gentleman, and never mind 
 what Madam may say.' 
 
 Sophy was frightened, however, there could 
 be no doubt, as she followed her mother. She 
 began to cry as she crept through the hall. 
 Mrs. Trevanion held her head high ; there was 
 a red spot on each of her cheeks. She paused 
 for a moment and looked at Eosalind, as if she 
 would have spoken ; then hurried away, taking 
 no notice of the half alarmed, half remorseful 
 child, who stood and gazed after her, at once 
 relieved and disappointed. ' Am I to get off? ' 
 Sophy whispered, pulling at Eosahnd's .dress. 
 And then she burst into a sudden wail of cry- 
 ing : ' Oh, Eosalind, mamma has never said 
 good-night ! ' 
 
 'You do not deserve it, after having dis- 
 obeyed her,' said Eosalind. And with her 
 young mind all confused and miserable, she 
 went to the drawing-room to her favourite seat 
 between the fire and the lamp ; but though 
 her novel was very interesting she did not read 
 it that night.
 
 MADAM. 109 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Next clay, as they drove out in the usual after- 
 noon hour while Mr. Trevanion took his nap 
 after luncheon, a httle incident happened which 
 was nothing, yet gave Eosalind, who was alone 
 with her step-mother in the carriage, a curious 
 sensation. A little way out of the village, on 
 the side of the road, she suddenly perceived 
 a man standing, apparently waiting till they 
 should pass. Madam had been very silent 
 ever since they left home, so much more silent 
 than it was her habit to be, that Eosahnd 
 feared she had done something to incur Mrs. 
 Trevanion's displeasure. Instead of the ani- 
 mated conversations they used to have, and the 
 close consultations that were habitual between 
 them, they sat by each other silent, scarcely 
 exchangiDg a word in a mile. Eosalind was 
 not herself a great talker, but when she was 
 with this other and better self, she flowed forth 
 in lively observation and remark,' which was
 
 110 MADAM. 
 
 not talk, but the involuntary natural utterance 
 which came as easily as her breath. This day, 
 hov^ever, she had very little to say, and Madam 
 nothing. They leant back, each in her corner, 
 with a blank between them, which Eosahnd 
 now and then tried to break with a wistful 
 question as to whether mamma was cold, 
 whether she did not find the air too keen, if 
 she would like the carriage closed, &c., receiv- 
 ing a smile and a brief reply, but no more. 
 They had fallen into silence almost absolute as 
 they passed through the village, and it was 
 when they emerged once more into the still 
 country road that the incident which has been 
 referred to took place. Some time before they 
 came up to him, Eosalind remarked the man 
 standing under one of the hedgerow trees, 
 close against it, looking towards them, as if 
 waiting for the carriage to pass. Though she 
 was not eager for the tales of the village like 
 Sophy, Eosalind had a country girl's easily 
 roused curiosity in respect to a stranger. She 
 knew at once by the outline of him, before she 
 could make out even what class he belonged 
 to, that this was someone she had never seen 
 before. As the carriage approached rapidly 
 she grew more and more certain. He
 
 MADA^I. Ill 
 
 was a young man, a gentleman — at least 
 his dress and attitude were like those of a 
 gentleman ; he was slim and straight, not hke 
 the country louts. As he tiu-ned his head 
 towards the carriage, Eosalind thought she had 
 never seen a more remarkable face. He was 
 very pale ; his features were large and fine, 
 and his pallor and thinness were made more 
 conspicuous by a pair of very large, dreamy, 
 uncertain dark eyes. These eyes were looking 
 so intently towards the carriage that Eosalind 
 had almost made up her mind that there was 
 to be some demand upon their sympathy, some 
 petition or appeal. She could not help being 
 stirred with all the impetuosity of her nature, 
 frank and warmhearted and generous, towards 
 this poor gentleman. He looked as if he had 
 been ill, as if he meant to throw himself upon 
 
 their bounty, as if The horses sped on 
 
 with easy speed as she sat up in the carriage 
 and prepared herself for whatever might hap- 
 pen. It is needless to say that nothing hap- 
 pened as far as the bystander was concerned. 
 He looked intently at them, but did no more. 
 Eosalind was so absorbed in a newly awakened 
 interest that she thought of nothing else, till 
 suddenly turning round to her companion she
 
 112 MADAM. 
 
 met — not her step-mother's sympathetic coun- 
 tenance, but the blackness of a veil in which 
 Mrs. Trevanion had suddenly enveloped her- 
 self. 'That must surely be the gentleman 
 Sophy was talking of,' she said. Madam gave 
 a slight shiver in her furs. ' It is very cold,' 
 she said ; ' it has grown much colder since we 
 came out.' 
 
 ' Shall I tell Eobert to close the carriage, 
 mother ? ' 
 
 'Oh, no, it is unnecessary. You can tell 
 him to go home by the Wildwood gate. I 
 should not have come out if I had known it 
 was so cold.' 
 
 ' I hope you have not taken cold, mamma. 
 To me the air seems quite soft. I suppose,' 
 Eosalind said, in that occasional obtuseness 
 which belongs to innocence, 'you did not 
 notice, as you put down your veil just then, 
 that gentleman on the road ? I think he must 
 be the gentleman Sophy talked about — very 
 pale, with large eyes. I think he must have 
 been ill. I feel quite interested in him, too.' 
 
 ' No, I did not observe ' 
 
 ' I wish you had noticed him, mamma. I 
 should know him again anywhere ; it is quite 
 a remarkable face. What can he' want in
 
 MADAM. 113 
 
 the village ? I think you should make the 
 doctor call, or send papa's card. If he should 
 be ill '' 
 
 ' Eosalind, you know how much I dislike 
 village gossip. A stranger in the inn can be 
 nothing to us. There is Dr. Smith if he wants 
 anything,' said Madam, hurriedly, almost under 
 her breath. And she shivered again, and drew 
 her furred mantle more closely round her. 
 Though it was November the air was soft and 
 scarcely cold at all, Eosalind thought in her 
 young hardiness ; but then Mrs. Trevanion, 
 shut up so much in an overheated room, natur- 
 ally was more sensitive to cold. 
 
 This was in the afternoon ; and on the 
 same evening there occurred the incident of 
 the bramble, and all the misery that followed, 
 concluding in Mr. Trevanion's attack, and the 
 sudden gloom and terror thrown upon the 
 house. Eosalind had no recollection of so 
 triflinor a matter in the excitement and trouble 
 that followed. She saw her step -mother again 
 only in the grey of the winter morning, when 
 waking suddenly, with that sense of someone 
 watching her which penetrates the profoundest 
 sleep, she found Mrs. Trevanion seated by her 
 bedside, extremely pale, with dark lines under 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MADAM. 
 
 her eyes, and the air of exhaustion which is 
 given by a sleepless night. 
 
 ' I came to tell you, dear, that your father, 
 at last, is getting a little sleep,' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma But you have had no 
 
 sleep — you have been up all night ! ' 
 
 'That does not much matter. I came to 
 say also, Eosalind, that I fear my being so late 
 last night and his impatience had a great deal 
 to do with bringing on the attack. It might 
 be almost considered my fault.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! we all know,' cried Eosalind, 
 inexpressibly touched by the air with which 
 she spoke, ' how much you have had to bear.' 
 
 'No more than what was my duty. A 
 woman when she marries accepts all the results. 
 She may not know what there will be to bear, 
 but whatever it is it is all involved in the en- 
 gagement. She has no right to shrink ' 
 
 There was a gravity, almost solemnity, in 
 Madam's voice and look which awed the girl. 
 She seemed to be making a sort of formal and 
 serious explanation. Eosalind had seen her 
 give way under her husband's cruelty and 
 exactions. She had seen her throw herself 
 upon the bed and weep, though there had 
 never been a complaint in words to blame the
 
 MAD.UI. 115 
 
 father to the child. This was one point in 
 which, and in which alone, the fact that Eosa- 
 lind was his daughter, and not hers, had been 
 apparent. Now there was no accusation, but 
 something like a statement formal and solemn, 
 which was explained by the exhaustion and 
 calm as of despair that was in her face. 
 
 ' That has been my feehng all through,' she 
 said. ' I wish you to understand it, Eosahnd. 
 If Eeginald were at home — well, he is a boy, 
 and I could not explain to him as I can to you. 
 I want you to understand me ; I have had 
 more to bear, a great deal more, than I ex- 
 pected. But I have always said to myself it 
 was in the day's work. You may perhaps be 
 tempted to think, looking back, that I have 
 had, even though he has been so dependent 
 upon me, an irritating influence. Sometimes I 
 have myself thought so, and that someone 
 
 else But if you will put one thing to 
 
 another,' she added, going on in the passionless 
 melancholy argument, ' you will perceive that 
 the advantage to him of my knowledge of all 
 his ways counter-balances any harm that might 
 arise from that ; and then there is always the 
 doubt whether anyone else would not have 
 been equally irritating after a time.' 
 
 I 2
 
 116 MADAM. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' cried Eosalind, who had raised 
 herself in her bed and was gazing anxiously 
 into the pale and worn out face which was 
 turned half away from her, not looking at 
 her ; ' mother ! why do you say all this to 
 me? Do I want you to explain yourself, I 
 who know that you have been the best, the 
 kindest ' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion did not look at her, but 
 put up her hand to stop this interruption. 
 
 ' I am saying this because I think your 
 father is very ill, Eosalind.' 
 
 ' Worse, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' I have myself thought that he was growing 
 much weaker. We flattered ourselves, you 
 know, that to be so long without an attack 
 was a great gain ; but I have felt he was grow- 
 ing weaker, and I see now that Dr. Beaton 
 agrees with me. And to have been the means 
 of bringing on this seizure when he was so 
 little able to bear it ' 
 
 'Oh, mamma! how can you suppose that 
 anyone would ever blame ' 
 
 ' I am my own judge, Eosalind. No, you 
 would not blame me, not now at least, when 
 you are entirely under my influence. I think, 
 however, that had it not been this it would
 
 MADAM. 117 
 
 have been something else. Any trifling matter 
 would have been enough. Nothing that we 
 could have done would have staved it off much 
 longer. That is my conviction. I have worked 
 out the question, oh, a hundred times within 
 myself. Would it be better to go away, and 
 
 acknowledge that I could not I was 
 
 doing as much harm as good ' 
 
 Eosalind here seized upon Mrs. Trev anion's 
 arm, clasping it with her hands, wdth a cry of 
 ' Go away ! leave us, mother ! ' in absolute 
 astonishment and dismay. 
 
 ' And so withdraw the irritation. But then 
 w^ith the irritation I should have deprived him 
 of a great deal of help. And there was always 
 the certainty that no other could do so much, 
 and that any other woidd soon become an 
 irritation too. I have arojued the whole thing 
 out again and again. And I think I am right, 
 Eosahnd. No one else could have been at his 
 disposal night and day like his wife. And if 
 no one but his wife could have annoyed him 
 so much, the one must be taken with the 
 other.' 
 
 ' You frighten me, mamma ; is it so very 
 serious ? And you have done nothing — no- 
 thing ? '
 
 118 MADAM. 
 
 Here Mrs. Trevanion for the first time 
 turned and looked into Eosalind's face. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said. There was a faint smile 
 upon her lips, so faint that it deepened rather 
 than lightened the gravity of her look. She 
 shook her head and looked tenderly at Eosa- 
 lind with this smile. ' Ah, my dear,' she said, 
 ' you would willingly make the best of it ; but 
 I have done something. Not, indeed, what he 
 thinks, what perhaps other people think, but 
 
 something I ought not to have done ' A 
 
 deep sigh followed, a long breath drawn from 
 the inmost recesses of her breast to relieve 
 some pain or pressure there. ' Something,' she 
 continued, ' that I cannot help, that, alas ! I 
 don't want to do ; although I think it is my 
 duty, too.' 
 
 And then she was silent, sitting absorbed in 
 her own thoughts by Eosalind's bed. The 
 chilly winter morning had come in fully as she 
 talked, till now the room was full of cold day- 
 light, ungenial, unkindly, with no pleasure in 
 it. Eosalind in her eager youth, impatient of 
 trouble, and feeling that something must be 
 done or said to make an end of all misery, that 
 it was not possible there could be no remedy, 
 held her mother's hand between hers, and cried
 
 MADAM. 119 
 
 and kissed it and asked a hundred questions. 
 But Madam sat scarcely moving, her mind 
 absorbed in a labyrinth from which she saw 
 no way of escape. There seemed no remedy 
 either for the ills that were apparent or those 
 which nobody knew. 
 
 ' You ought at least to be resting,' the girl 
 said at last ; ' you ought to get a little sleep. I 
 will get up and go to his room and bring you 
 word if he stirs.' 
 
 ' He ^vill not stir for some time. Xo, I am 
 not going to bed. After I have bathed my 
 face Jane will get me a cup of tea and I shall 
 go down again. Xo, I could not sleep. I am 
 
 better within call, so that if he wants me 
 
 But I could not resist the temptation of coming 
 in to speak to you, Eosalind. I don't know 
 why — just an impulse. We ought not to do 
 things by impulse, you know, but alas ! some 
 of us always do. You will remember, how- 
 ever, if necessary. Somehow,' she said, with a 
 pathetic smile, her lips quivering as she turned 
 to the girl's eager embrace, ' you seem more 
 my own child, Eosalind, more my champion, 
 my defender, than those who are more mine.' 
 
 ' Nothing can be more yours, mother, all 
 the more that we chose each other, \Ye were
 
 120 MADAM. 
 
 not merely compelled to be mother and 
 child.' 
 
 ' Perhaps there is something in that/ said 
 Mrs. Trevanion. 
 
 'And the others are so yomig;. only I of 
 all your children am old enough to understand 
 you,' cried Eosalind, throwing herself into her 
 step-mother's arms. Tliey held each other for 
 a moment closely in that embrace which is 
 above words, which is the supreme expression 
 of human emotion and sympathy, resorted to 
 when all words fail, and yet which explains 
 nothing, which leaves the one as far as ever 
 from understanding the other, from divining 
 what is behind the veil of individuality w^hich 
 separates husband from wife and mother from 
 child. Then Mrs. Trevanion rose and put 
 Eosalind softly back upon her pillow and 
 covered her up w^ith maternal care as if she 
 had been a child. ' I must not have you catch 
 cold,' she said, with a smile which was her usual 
 motherly smile with no deeper meaning in it. 
 ' Now go to sleep, my love, for another hour.' 
 
 In her own room Madam exchanged a few 
 words with Jane, who had also been up all 
 night, and who was waiting for her with the 
 tea which is a tired watcher's solace. ' You
 
 ilADAM. 121 
 
 must do all for me to-day, Jane,' she said ; ' I 
 cannot leave Mr. Trevanion ; I will not, which 
 is more. I have been, alas ! partly the means 
 of bringing on this attack.' 
 
 ' Oh, Madam, how many attacks have there 
 been before without any cause ! ' 
 
 ' That is a little consolation to me ; still it 
 is my fault. Tell him how unsafe it is to be 
 here, how curious the village people are, and 
 that I implore him for my sake, if he thinks 
 anything of that, and for God's sake, to go 
 away. What can we do more ? Tell him 
 what we have both told him a hundred times, 
 Jane ! ' 
 
 ' I Avill do what I can, Madam ; but he 
 pays no attention to me, as you know.' 
 
 ' Nor to anyone,' said Madam, with a sigh. 
 ' I have thought sometimes of teUincjj Dr. 
 Beaton everytlung ; he is a kind man, he would 
 know how to forgive. But alas ! how could I 
 tell if it would do good or harm ? ' 
 
 • Harm ! only harm ! He would never 
 endure it,' the other said. 
 
 Again Mrs. Trevanion sighed ; how deep, 
 deep down was the oppression which those 
 long breaths attempted to reheve. ' Oh,' she 
 said, 'how happy they are that never stray
 
 122 MADAM. 
 
 beyond the limits of nature! Would not 
 poverty, hard work, any privation have been 
 better for all of us ? ' 
 
 ^ Sixteen years ago, Madam,' Jane said.
 
 AUDA^r. 123 
 
 GHAPTEE X. 
 
 Mr. Trevaxiox's attack wore off by degrees, 
 and by-and-by he resumed his old habits, 
 appearing once more at dinner, talking as of 
 old after that meal, coming into the drawing- 
 room for his rubber afterwards. Everything 
 returned into the usual routine. But there were 
 a few divergences from the former habits of ihe 
 house. The invalid was never visible except 
 in the evening, and there was a gradual in- 
 crease of precaution, a gradual hmitation of 
 what he was permitted or attempted to do, 
 which denoted advancing weakness. John 
 Trevanion remained, which was another sign. 
 He had made all his arraugements to go, and 
 then after a conversation Ts^ith the doctor de- 
 parted from them suddenly, and announced 
 that if it did not interfere with any of Madam's 
 arrangements he would stay till Christmas, 
 none of his engagements being pressing. Other 
 guests came rarely, and only when the invahd
 
 124 MADAM. 
 
 burst forth into a plaint that he never saw 
 anyone, that the sight of the same faces day by 
 clay was enough to kill a man. ' And every 
 one longer than the other,' he cried. ' There 
 is John hke a death's head, and the doctor hke 
 a grinning waxwork, and Madam — why she is 
 the worst of all. Since I interfered with her 
 little amusements, going out in the dark like 
 one of her own housemaids, by Jove, Madam has 
 been like a whipped child. She that had 
 always an argument ready, she has taken up 
 the submissive role at last. It's a new develop- 
 ment. Eh ? don't you think so P Did you 
 ever see Madam in the role of Griselda before ? 
 I never did, I can tell you. It is a change ! 
 It won't last long, you think, John ? Well, let 
 us get the good of it while we can. It is 
 something quite novel to me.' 
 
 ' I said nothing on the subject,' said John, 
 * and indeed I think it would be better taste to 
 avoid personal observations.' 
 
 ' Especially in the presence of the person, 
 eh ? That's not my way. I say the worst I 
 have to say to your face, so you need not fear 
 what is said behind your back — Madam knows 
 it. She is so honest ; she likes honesty. A 
 woman that has set herself to thwart and cross
 
 MADAM. 125 
 
 her husband for how many — sixteen years, she 
 can't be in much doubt as to his opinion of her, 
 eh ? What ! will nothing make you speak ? ' 
 
 ' It is time for this tonic, Eeginald. Dr. 
 Beaton is very anxious that you should not 
 neglect it.' 
 
 ' Is that all you have got to say ? That is 
 brilhant, certainly ; quinine, when I want a 
 little amusement. Bitter things are better than 
 sweet, I suppose you think. In that case I 
 should be a robust fox-hunter instead of an 
 invahd, as I am — for I have had httle else all 
 my hfe.' 
 
 ' I think you have done pretty well in your 
 Hfe, Eeginald. What you have wanted you 
 have got. That does not happen to all of 
 us. Except health, which is a great deduction 
 of course.' 
 
 ' What I have wanted ! I wanted an heir 
 and a family like other men, and I got a poor 
 little wife who died at nineteen, and a useless 
 slip of a girl. Then my second venture — 
 perhaps you think my second venture was very 
 successful — a fine robust wife, and a mis- 
 chievous brat like Eex, always in scrapes at 
 school, besides that httle spiteful minx Sophy, 
 who would spite her own mother if she could,
 
 126 MADAM. 
 
 and the two imps in the nursery. What good 
 are they to me ? The boy will succeed me, of 
 course, and keep you out. I had quite as lief 
 you had it, John. You are my own brother 
 after all, and that boy is more his mother's 
 than mine. He has those eyes of hers. Lord ! 
 what a fool a young fellow is ! To imagine I 
 should have given up so much when I ought 
 to have known better, and taken so many 
 burdens on my shoulders for the sake of a pair 
 of fine eyes. They are fine eyes still, but I 
 know the meaning of them now.' 
 
 ' This is simply brutal, Eeginald,' said his 
 brother in high indignation. He got up to go 
 away, but a sign from Mrs. Trevanion, behind 
 her husband's back, made him pause. 
 
 ' Brutal, is it ? which means true. Give me 
 some of that eau-de-Cologne. Can't you be 
 quick about it.^ You take half an hour to 
 cross the room. I've always meant to tell you 
 about that second marriage of mine. I was a 
 
 fool, and she was Shall I tell him all 
 
 about it, Madam? — when we met, and how 
 you led me on. By Jove I I have a great 
 mind to publish the whole business, and let 
 everybody know who you are and what you 
 are — or rather were when I married you.'
 
 MADAM. 127 
 
 ' I wish you would do so, Eeginald. The 
 mystery has never been my doing. It would 
 be for my happiness if you would tell John.' 
 
 The sick man looked round upon her with 
 a chuckHng malice. ' She would like to expose 
 herself in order to punish me,' he said. ' But 
 I shan't do it ; you may dismiss that from your 
 mmd. I dont wish the country to know that 
 
 my wife was ' Then he ended with a 
 
 laugh which was so insulting that John Treva- 
 nion involuntarily clenched his fist and made a 
 step forward ; then recollected himself, and fell 
 back with a suppressed exclamation. 
 
 ' It is quite natural you should take her 
 part, Jack. She's a fine woman still of her 
 years, though a good bit older than you 
 would think. How old were you. Madam, 
 when I married you? Oh, old enough for 
 a great deal to have happened — eight-and- 
 twenty or thereabouts — ^just on the edge of 
 being passee then, the more fool I ! Jove ! 
 what a fool I was, thi'usting my head into 
 the bag. I don't excuse myself. I posed 
 myself in those days as a fellow that had 
 seen life, and wasn't to be taken in. But 
 you were too many for me. Xever trust to 
 a woman, John, especially a woman that has
 
 128 MADAM. 
 
 a history and that sort of thing. You are 
 never up to their tricks. However knowing 
 you may be, take my word for it, they know 
 a thing or two more than you.' 
 
 ' If you mean to do nothing but insult your 
 wife, Eeginald ' 
 
 'John, for heaven's sake ! What does it 
 matter ? You will think no worse of me for 
 what he says, and no better. Let him talk ! ' 
 cried Madam, under her breath. 
 
 ' What is she saying to you — that I am 
 getting weak in my mind and don't know what 
 I am saying ? Ah ! that's clever. I have 
 always expected something of the sort. Look 
 here, Madam ! sit down at once and write to 
 Charley Blake, do you hear ? Charley — not the 
 old fellow. Ask him to come here from 
 Saturday to Monday. I want to have a talk 
 with him. You are not fond of Charley Blake. 
 And tell him to bring all his tools with him. 
 He will know' — with a significant laugh — 'what 
 I mean.' 
 
 She went to the writing table without a 
 word, and wrote the note. ' Will you look at 
 it, Eeginald, to see if it is what you wish.' 
 
 The patient snarled at her with his laugh. 
 ' I can trust you,' he said, ' and you shall see 
 when Blake comes.'
 
 MADAM. 129 
 
 ' What do you want with Blake, Eeginald ? 
 Why should you trouble yourself with busiiie.^s 
 in your present state of health ? You must 
 have done all that is necessary long ago. I 
 wish you would keep quiet and give yourself a 
 chance.' 
 
 ' A chance ! that's Beaton's opinion, I 
 suppose — that I have no more than a chance. 
 That's why you all gather round me like a set 
 of crows, ready to pounce upon the carcase. 
 And Madam, Madam here, can scarcely hold 
 herself in, thinking how soon she will be free.' 
 He pushed back his chair, and gazed from one 
 to another Avith fiery eyes which seemed ready 
 to burst from their sockets. ' A chance ! that's 
 all I've got, is it ? You needn't wait for it, 
 John ; there's not a penny for you.' 
 
 ' Eeginald, what the doctor says is that 
 you must be calm, that nothing must be done 
 to bring on those spasms that shake you so. 
 Xever mind what John says ; he does not 
 know.' 
 
 ' Oh, you ! ' cried the sick man ; ' you — 
 you've motive enough. It's fieedom to you. 
 I don't tell you to scheme for it, I know that's 
 past praying for. Nobody can doubt it's 
 worth your while — a good settlement, and 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MADAM. 
 
 freedom to dance on my grave as soon as you 
 like, as soon as you have got me into it. But 
 John has got no motive,' he said again, with a 
 sort of garrulous pathos ; ' he'll gain nothing. 
 He'll rather lose something perhaps, for he 
 couldn't have the run of the house if it were 
 yours, as he has done all his life. Yours ! ' the 
 sick man added, with concentrated wrath and 
 scorn : ' it shall never be yours ; I shall see to 
 that. Where is the note to Charley — Charley 
 Blake .^ John, take charge of it for me; see 
 that it's put in the post. She has the bag in 
 her hands, and how can I tell whether she will 
 let it go ? She was a great deal too ready to 
 write it, eh ? don't you think, kno^ving it was 
 against herself? ' 
 
 After this cheerful morning's talk, which was 
 the ordinary kind of conversation that went on 
 in Mr. Trevanion's room, from which John 
 ,Trevanion could escape and did very shortly, 
 but Madam could not and did not, the heavy 
 day went on, little varied. Mrs. Trevanion 
 appeared at lunch with a sufficiently tranquil 
 countenance, and entered into the ordinary 
 talk of a family party with a composure or 
 philosophy which was a daily miracle to the 
 rest. She checked little Sophy's impertinences
 
 MADAM. 131 
 
 ar.d attended to the small pair of young ones 
 like a mother embarrassed with no cares less 
 ignoble. There was an air of great gravity 
 about her, but not more than the critical con- 
 dition of her husband's health made natural. 
 And the Vicar, who came in to lunch to ask 
 after the Squire, saw nothing in Madam's 
 manner that was not most natural and seemly. 
 He told his wife afterwards that she took it 
 beautifully ; ' very serious, you know, very 
 anxious, but resigned and calm.' Mrs. Vicar 
 was of opinion that were she Mrs. Trevanion 
 she would be more than resigned, for everv- 
 body knew that Madam had ' a great deal to 
 put up with.' But from her own aspect no one 
 could have told the continual flood of insult to 
 which she was exposed, the secret anxiety that 
 was gnawing at her heart. In the evening 
 before dinner she met her brother-in-law by 
 accident before the great fireplace in the hall. 
 She Avas sitting there, thrown down in one of 
 the deep chairs, like a worn out creature. It 
 was rare to see her there, though it was the 
 common resort of the household, and so much, 
 in spite of himself, had John Trevanion been 
 moved by the sense of mystery about, and by 
 his brother's vituperations, that his first glance 
 
 K 2
 
 132 MADAM. 
 
 was one of suspicion. But his approach took 
 lier by surprise. Her face was hidden in her 
 hands, and there was an air of abandon in her 
 attitude and figure as if she had thrown herself, 
 like a wounded animal, before the fire. She 
 uncovered her face, and, he thought, furtively, 
 hastily dried her eyes as she turned to see who 
 was coming. Pity was strong in his heart, not- 
 withstanding his suspicion. He came forward 
 and looked down upon her kindly. ' I am very 
 glad,' he said, ' to see that you are able to get a 
 moment to yourself.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' Eeginald seems more com- 
 fortable to-night,' 
 
 ' Grace,' said John Trevanion, ' it is beyond 
 human patience. You ought not to have all 
 this to bear.' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing is beyond human patience,' 
 she said, looking up at him suddenly with a 
 smile. ' Never mind, I can bear it very w^ell. 
 After all, there is no novelty in it to wound me. 
 I have been bearing the same sort of thing for 
 many years.' 
 
 ' And you have borne it without a murmur. 
 You are a very wonderful woman, or ' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? Do you think me a 
 bad one ? It would not be wonderful after all
 
 MADAM. 133 
 
 you have heard. But I am not a bad woman, 
 John. I am not without blame ; Avho is ? But 
 I am not wliat lie says. This is mere weakne-s 
 to defend myself; but when one has been 
 beaten down all day long by one perpetual 
 
 flood like a hailstorm What was that ? I 
 
 thought I heard Eeginald's voice.' 
 
 ' It was nothing ; some of the servants. I 
 am very sorry for you, Grace. If anything can 
 be done to ease you ' 
 
 ' Nothing can be done. I think talking does 
 hira good : and what is the use of a man's wife 
 if not to hear everything he has to say ? It 
 diverts the evil from others, and I hope from 
 himself too. Yes, I do think so ; it is an un- 
 pleasant way of working it out, and yet I thmk 
 like the modes they adopt in surgery sometimes, 
 it relieves the system. So let him say,' she 
 went on, with a sigh. ' It will be hard, though, 
 if I am to lose the support of your good opinion, 
 John.' 
 
 To this he made no direct answer, but asked 
 hurriedly, ' What do you suppose he wants 
 with Charley Bl.^ke ? Charley specially not his 
 father, whom I have moie f^iith in ? ' 
 
 ' Something about his will, I suppose. Oh, 
 perhaps not anything of consequence. He tries
 
 134 MADAM. 
 
 to scare me, threatening something — but it is 
 not for that that I am afraid.' 
 
 ' We shall be able to d« you justice in that 
 point. Of what are you afraid ? ' 
 
 She rose with a sudden impulse and stood 
 by him in the firelight, almost as tall as he, and 
 with a certain force of indignation in her which 
 gave her an air of command and almost gran- 
 deur beside the man who suspected and hesi- 
 tated. ' Nothing ! ' she said, as if she flung all 
 apprehension from her. John, whose heart had 
 been turned from her, felt himself melting 
 against his will. She repeated after a time, 
 more gently, ' I know that if passion can suggest 
 anything it will be done. And he will not have 
 
 time to reconsider, to let his better nature ' 
 
 (here she paused, and in spite of herself a faint 
 smile, in which there was some bitterness, 
 passed over her face) ' his better nature speak,' 
 she said slowly ; ' therefore I am prepared for 
 everything and fear nothing.' 
 
 ' This sounds not like courage, but despair.' 
 
 ' And so it is. Is it wonderful that it should 
 be despair rather than courage after all these 
 years ? I am sure there is someching wrong. 
 Listen; don't you hear it.^ That is certainly 
 Eeginald's voice.'
 
 MADAM. 135 
 
 ' Xo, no, YOU are excited. What could it 
 be? He wants something, perhaps, and he 
 always calls loudly for whatever he wants. It 
 is seldom I can see you for a moment. I want 
 to tell you that I will see Blake and find out 
 from him ' 
 
 ' I must go to Eeginald, John.' 
 
 She was mterrupted before she had crossed 
 the hall by the sudden appearance of Piussell, 
 who pushed through the curtain which hung 
 over the passage leading to Mr. Trevanion's 
 room, muffling herself in it in her awkward- 
 ness. The woman was scared and trembling. 
 ' Where's Madam, Madam ? ' she said. ' She's 
 wanted ; oh, she's wanted badly ! He',? got a 
 fit again.' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion flew past the trembling 
 woman like a shadow. ' It is your doing,' slie 
 said, with a voice that rung into Piussell's heart. 
 The intruder WhS entirely unhmged. ' I never 
 saw him in one before. It's dreadful ; oh, it's 
 dreadful ! Doctor ! doctor ! oh, where's the 
 doctor.^' she cried, losing all command of her- 
 self, and shrieking forth the name in a way 
 which startled the house. The servants came 
 running from all sides ; the children, terror- 
 stricken, lialf by the cry, half by the sound of
 
 13G MADAM. 
 
 Eussell's voice, so familiar to them, appeared, a 
 succession of little wistful faces, upon the stair, 
 while the doctor himself pushed through, startled, 
 but with all his wits about him. ' How has it 
 happened ? You've been carrying your ill- 
 tempered chatter to him. I'll have you tried 
 for manslaughter,' the doctor said.
 
 MADAM. 1^7 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 EosALiXD Trevaxiox was a girl who had cever 
 had a lover — at least such was her own con- 
 viction. She even resented the fact a httle, 
 thinking it wonderful that when all tlie girls in 
 novels possessed such interests she had none. 
 To attain to the mature age of eighteen, in a 
 wealthy and well known house where there 
 were many visitors, and where she had all the 
 advantages that a good position can give, ^vith- 
 out ever having received that sign of approba- 
 tion which is conveyed by a declaration of love, 
 was very strange in the point of view of fiction. 
 And as she had few friends of her own age at 
 hand to consult with, and an absorbing attach- 
 ment and friendship for an older woman to fill 
 up the void, novels were her chief informants 
 as to the ordinary events of youthful life. It is 
 an unfortunate peculiarity of these works that 
 their almost exclusive devotion to one subject 
 is too likely to confuse the ideas of young
 
 138 MADAM. 
 
 women in this particular. In old-fashioned 
 English fiction, and in the latest American 
 variety of the art, no girl who respected herself 
 could be satisfied with less than half a dozen 
 proposals : which is a circumstance likely to 
 rouse painful questionings in the hearts of our 
 young contemporaries. Here was a girl not 
 unconscious that she was what is generally 
 known as ' a nice girl,' with everything 
 favourable in her circumstances : and yet she 
 had not as yet either accepted or refused any- 
 body ! It was curious. Young Hamerton, 
 who had been staying at Highcourt at the un- 
 comfortable moment already described, was 
 indeed prone to seek her society, and unfolded 
 himself rashly to her in talk with that inde- 
 scribable fatuity which young men occasionally 
 show in presence of girls, moved perhaps by the 
 too great readiness of the kind to laugh at their 
 jokes and accept their lead. Eosalind, pro- 
 tected by her knowledge of minds more 
 mature, looked upon Hamerton with a kind of 
 admiring horror, to think how wonderful it was 
 that a man should be a man, and superior to 
 all women, and have an education such as 
 women of ambition admired and envied, and 
 yet be such a . She did not say fool,
 
 MADAM. 139 
 
 bjing very courteous anc' unused to strong 
 
 language. Slie only said such a ; and 
 
 naturally could no more take him into con- 
 sideration as a lover than if he had been one of 
 the footmen. It was not beyond her conscious- 
 ness either perhaps that Charley Blake, the son 
 and partner of the family lawyer, whom 
 business often brought to Highcourt, contem- 
 plated her often with his bold black eyes in a 
 marked and unmistakable way. But that was 
 a piece of presumption which Miss Ti-evanion 
 thought of as a princess royal might regard the 
 sighs of a courtier. Eosahnd had the eclectic 
 and varying political views held by young 
 women of intelligence in the present time. 
 k^he smiled at the old Toryism about her. She 
 chose her men and her measures from both 
 parties, and gave her favourites a hot but 
 somewhat fluctuating support. She felt very 
 sure that of all things in the world she was not 
 an aristocrat, endeavouring to shut the gates of 
 any exclusive world against success (which she 
 called genius) : therefore it could not be this 
 thoroughly old-world feeling which prompted 
 her disdain of Charley Blake. She was of 
 opinion that a poor man of genius struggling 
 upward towards fame was the sublimest bight
 
 1 40 MADAM. 
 
 Oil earth, and that to help in such a struggle 
 was a tar finer thing for a woman to do than 
 to marry a duke or a prince. But no such 
 person had ever come in her way, nor anyone 
 else so gifted, so dehghtful, so brilliant and so 
 tender as to merit the name of a lover She 
 was a little surprised, but referred the question 
 to statistics, and said to herself that because of 
 the surplus of women those sort of things did 
 not happen nowadays : though indeed this was 
 a theory somewhat invahdated by the fact that 
 most of the young ladies in the county were 
 married or about to be so. The position 
 altogether did not convey any sense of humiha- 
 tion to Eosalind. It gave her rather a sense 
 of superiority, as of one who lifts her head in 
 native worth superior to the poor appreciation 
 of the crowd. How the sense of being over- 
 looked should carry with it this sense of supe- 
 riority is for the philosopher to say. 
 
 These thoughts belonged to the lighter and 
 happier portion of her life, and Ave re at present 
 subdued by very sombre reflections. When 
 she walked out in the morning after these 
 events there was, however, a certain sense of 
 emancipation in her mind. Her father had 
 again been very ill — so ill that during the
 
 MADAM. 141 
 
 whole night the house had been on the alert, 
 and scarcely anyone had ventured to go to bed. 
 Eosalind had spent half the night in the hall 
 with her uncle, expecting every moment a 
 summons to the sick-room, to what everybody 
 believed to be the deathbed of tlie sufferer ; 
 and there had crept through the house a 
 whisper, how originating no one could tell, 
 that it was after an interview with Eussell that 
 the fit had come on, and that she had cairled 
 him some information about ^ladam which had 
 almost killed him. Xobody had any doubt 
 that it was to Madam that Eusseil's report re- 
 ferred, and there were many wonderings and 
 questions in the background, where the servants 
 congiTgated, as to what it was. That Madam 
 went out of nights ; that she met someone in 
 the park, and there had long and agitated 
 interviews ; tliat Jane knew all about it, more 
 than anyone, and could ruin her mistress if she 
 chose to speak : but that Eussell too had found 
 out a deal, and that it had come to master's 
 ears through her ; and full time it did, for who 
 ever heard of goings on like this in a gentle- 
 man's house ? This is Avhat was said among 
 the servants. In superior regions nothing was 
 said at all. Eosalind and her uncle kept to-
 
 142 MADAM. 
 
 gether, as getting a vague comfort in the uni- 
 versal dreariness from being together. Now 
 and then John Trevanion stole to the door of 
 his brother's room, which stood open to give all 
 the air possible, to see or hear how things were 
 going. One time when he did so his face was 
 working^ with emotion. 
 
 ' Eosalind/ he said, in the whisper which 
 they spoke in, though had they spoken as 
 loudly as their voices would permit no sound 
 could have reached the sick-room ; ' Eosalind, 
 I think that woman is subhme. She knows 
 that the first thing he will do will be to harm 
 and shame her, and yet there she is, doing 
 everything for him. I don't know if she is a 
 sinner or not, but she is subhme ' 
 
 ' Who are you speaking of as that woman ? 
 — of MY MOTHER, Unclc John ? ' cried Eosalind, 
 expanding and growing out of her soft girlhood 
 into a sort of indignant guardian angel. He 
 shook his head impatiently and sat down ; and 
 nothing more was said between them till the 
 middle of the night, when Dr. Beaton coming 
 in told them the worst was over, and for the 
 moment the sick man would 'pull through.' 
 ' But I'll have that nurse in confinement. I'll 
 send her to the asylum. It is just man-
 
 MADAM. 143 
 
 slaughter,' he said. Eussell, very pale and 
 frightened, was at her door when EosaUnd went 
 upstairs. 
 
 ' The doctor says he will have you tried for 
 manslaughter,' Eosahnd said as she passed her. 
 ' No, I will not say good-night. You have all 
 but killed papa.' 
 
 * It is not I that have killed him,' said 
 Eussell ; ' it's those that do what they didn't 
 ought to.' 
 
 Eosalind in her excitement stamped her 
 foot upon the floor. 
 
 ' He says you shall be sent to the asj'lum ; 
 and I say you shall be sent away from here. 
 You are a bad woman. Perha])s njw you will 
 kill the children to complete yoiu' work. We 
 are none of us safe so long as you are here.' 
 
 At this Eussell gave a bitter cry and threw 
 up her hands to heaven. 
 
 ' The children,' she cried, ' that I love like 
 my own — that I would give my heart's blood 
 for — not safe ! Oh, Miss Eosalind ! God for- 
 give you I — you that I have loved the best of 
 all ! ' 
 
 ' How should I forgive you ? ' cried Eosalind, 
 relentless. ' I will never forgive you. Hate 
 me if you please, but never dare to say you
 
 144 MADAM. 
 
 love me. Love ! — you don't know what it is. 
 You should go away to-night if it were I who 
 had the power and not mamma.' 
 
 ' She has the power yet. She will not have 
 it long,' the woman cried in her terror and 
 passion. And she shut herself up in her room, 
 which communicated with the children's, and 
 flung herself on the floor in a panic which was 
 perhaps as tragical as any of the other sen- 
 sations of this confused and miserable house. 
 
 And yet when Eosalind went out next 
 morning she was able to withdraw herself, in 
 a way inconceivable to anyone who has not 
 been young and full of imaginations, from the 
 miseries and terrors of the night. Mr. Tre- 
 vanion was much exhausted but living, and in 
 his worn-out, feeble state, required constant 
 care and nursing, without being well enough 
 to repay that nursing with abuse as was his 
 wont. Eosalind, with no one to turn to for 
 companionship, went out and escaped. She 
 cTot clear of that small yet so important world, 
 tincrling with emotion, with death and life in 
 the balance, and everything that is most pain- 
 ful in life — and escaped altogether, as if she 
 liad possessed those wings of a dove for which 
 we all lon^J", into another large and free and
 
 MADAM. 145 
 
 open world, in which there was a wide dehght- 
 ful air which blew in her face, and every kind 
 of curiosity, and interest, and hope. How it 
 was she fell to thinking of the curious fact that 
 she had not, and had never had a lover, at such 
 a moment, who can tell ? Perhaps because it 
 occurred to her at first that it would be well 
 to have something, somebody, to escape to 
 and take comfort in, when she was so full of 
 trouble, without knowing that the wide atmo- 
 sphere and fiTsh sky, and bare trees that 
 discharged whenever the breath of the wind 
 touched them a sharp little shower of rain- 
 drops, were enough at her age to woo her out 
 of the misery which was not altogether per- 
 sonal, though she was so wound up in the lives 
 of all the sufferers. She escaped. Thatthouo-ht 
 about the lover, which was intended to be 
 pathetic, beguiled her into a faint laugh under 
 her breath ; for indeed it was amusing, if even 
 only ruefully amusing, to be so unlike the rest 
 of the young world. That opened to her, as it 
 were, the gate ; and then her imagination ran 
 on, like the lawless sweet young rover it was, 
 to all kinds of things amusing and wonderful. 
 Those whose life is all to come, what a play- 
 ground they have to fly into when the outside 
 VOL. I. L
 
 116 MADAM. 
 
 is unharmonious ! how to fill up all those years ; 
 what to do m the time that is endless, that will 
 never be done ; how to meet those strange 
 events, those new persons, those delights and 
 wonders that are all waiting round the next 
 and the next corner ! If she had thought of it 
 she would have been ashamed of herself for 
 this very amusement, but fortunately she did 
 not think of it, and so let herself go like the 
 child she was. She took her intended walk 
 through the park, and then, as the morning 
 was bright, after lingering at the gate a little 
 went out into the road, and turned to the 
 village without any particular intention, be- 
 cause it was near and the red roofs shone in 
 the light. It was a fresh bright morning, such 
 as sometimes breaks the dulness of November. 
 The sky was as blue as summer, with wander- 
 ing white cloudlets, and not a sign of any 
 harm, though there had been torrents of rain 
 the night before. Indeed, no doubt it was 
 the pouring down of those torrents which had 
 cleared away the tinge of darkness from the 
 clouds, which were as innocent and filmy and 
 light as if it had been June. Everything w^as 
 glistening and gleaming with wet, but that only 
 made the country more bright, and as Eosalind
 
 MADAM. 147 
 
 looked along the road the sight of the red 
 village with its smoke rising ethereal into air 
 so pure that it was a happiness to gaze into its 
 limpid invisible deptlis, or rather heights, end- 
 ing in heavens, was enough to cheer any young 
 soul. She went on, with a little sense of ad- 
 venture, for though she often went to the vil- 
 lage it was rare to this girl to have the privilege 
 of being absolutely alone. The fresh air, the 
 glistening hedgerows, the village roofs, in all the 
 shining of the sunshine, pleased her so much 
 that she did not see till she was close to it a 
 break in the road, where the water which had 
 submerged the low fields on either side had 
 broken across the higher ground, finding a sort 
 of channel in a shs^ht hollow of the road. The 
 sight of a labourer plashing through it, with 
 but little thought, though it came up to the top 
 of his rough boots, arrested Eosalind all at 
 once. What was she to do? Her boots, thoucrh 
 with the amount of high heel which only a 
 most independent mind can escape from, were 
 clearly quite unequal to this crossing. She 
 could not but laugh to herself at the small 
 matter which stopped her progress, and stood 
 on the edge of it measuring the distance with 
 her eye and calculating probabilities with a 
 
 L 2
 
 148 MADAM. 
 
 smiling i^ice, amused by the difficulty. While 
 she stood thus she heard a voice behind her 
 calling to the labourer in front. 'Hi ! ' some 
 one said ; ' hallo, you there ! help me to hft 
 this log over the water, that the lady may 
 cross.' The person appealed lo turned round, 
 and so did Eosalind. And then she felt that 
 here was indeed an adventure. Behind her, 
 stooping over some large logs of wood on the 
 side of the pathway, was the man who had 
 looked so intently at the carriage the other 
 day when she passed with her step-mother. 
 Before she saw his face she was sure, with a 
 little jump of her hrart, that it was the same 
 man. He was dressed in dark tweed clothes, 
 somewhat rough, which might have been the 
 garb of a gentleman or of a gamekeeper, and 
 did not fit him well, which was more like the 
 latter than the former. She could see as he 
 stooped, his cheek and throat reddened as with 
 the unusual exertion. 
 
 *0h, please do not take the trouble,' she 
 cried ; ' it is of no consequence. I have no- 
 thing to do in the village.' 
 
 ' It is no trouble,' he said ; and in a minute 
 or two the logs wxre rolled across the side 
 path so that she could pass. The man who
 
 MADAM. 149 
 
 had been called upon to help was one of the 
 farm labourers whom she knew. She thanked 
 him cheerfully by name, and turned to the 
 stranger, w^ho stood with his hat off, his pale 
 face, which she remembered to have been so 
 pale that she thought him ill, now covered 
 with a brilliant flush which made his eyes 
 shine. Eosalind was startled by the beauty of 
 the face, but it was not hke that of the men 
 she was accustomed to see. Something femi- 
 nine, something delicate and weak was in it. 
 
 ' You are very kind to take so much trouble ; 
 but I am afraid you have over-exerted your- 
 self,' she cried. 
 
 This made the young man blush more 
 deeply still. 
 
 ' I am not very strong,' he said half in 
 dignantly, ' but not so weak as that.' There 
 was a tone of petulance in the reply ; and then 
 he added, ' Whatever trouble it might be is 
 more than repaid,' with a somewhat elaborate 
 bow. 
 
 What did it mean ? The face was refined 
 and full of expression, but then probably he was 
 not a gentleman, Eosalind thought, and did 
 not understand. She said hurriedly again, ' I 
 am very much obliged to you,' and went on,
 
 150 MAPAM. 
 
 a little troubled by the event. She heard him 
 make a few steps after her. Was he going to 
 follow ? In her surprise it was almost on her 
 lips to call back William from the farm. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said the stranger, ' but 
 may I take the liberty of asking how is Mr. 
 Trevanion ? I heard he was worse last night.' 
 
 Eosahnd turned round, half reassured. 
 
 ' Oh, do you know papa ? ' she said ' He 
 has been very ill all night, but he is better, 
 though terribly exhausted. He has had some 
 sleep this morning.' 
 
 She was elevated upon the log, which she 
 had begun to cross, and thus looked down 
 upon the stranger. If he knew her father, 
 that made all the difference ; and surely the 
 face was one with which she was not un- 
 famihar. 
 
 ' I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one 
 hears of him constantly in the village. I am 
 glad he is better.' 
 
 He hesitated as if he too was about to 
 mount the log. 
 
 'Oh, thank you,' said Eosalind, hurrying 
 on.
 
 MADAM. 151 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' To whom were you talking, Eosaliiicl ? ' 
 
 ' To — nobody, Uncle John ! ' she said in her 
 surprise at the sudden question which came 
 over her shoulder, and turning round waited 
 till he joined her. She had changed her mind 
 and come back after she had crossed the water 
 upon the impromptu bridge, with a half appre- 
 liension that her new acquaintance intended to 
 accompany her to the village, and ha--^, to tell 
 the truth, walked rather quickly to the park 
 gates. 
 
 ' But I met the man — a young fellow — 
 whose appearance I don't know.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know who it was either ; a 
 gentleman ; at least I suppose he was a gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 ' And yet you doubt. What cause had you 
 to doubt P 
 
 ' Well, Uncle John, his voice was nice
 
 152 MADAM. 
 
 enough, and what he said. The only thing 
 was, he paid me a sort of a — comphment.' 
 
 ' What was that ? ' said John Trevanion 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' said Eosahnd inconsistently. 
 ' When I said I was sorry he had taken the 
 trouble, he said, " Oh, if it was any trouble it 
 was repaid." Nothing at all ! Only a gentle- 
 man would not have said that to a girl who 
 was — alone.' 
 
 ' That is true ; but it was not v6ry much 
 after all. Fashions change. A few generations 
 ago it would have been the rioht thins^.' Then 
 
 O CD <0 
 
 he dropped the subject as a matter without im- 
 portance, and drew his niece's arm within his 
 own. ' Eosie,' he said, ' T am afraid we shall 
 have to face the future, you and I. What are 
 we to do ? ' 
 
 ' Are things so very bad, Uncle John ? ' dhe 
 cried, and the tears came welling up into her 
 eyes as she raised them to his face. 
 
 ' Very bad, I fear. This last attack has done 
 him a great deal of harm, more than any of the 
 others ; perhaps because, as the doctor says, the 
 pace is quicker as he gets near the end, perhaps 
 because he is still as angry as ever, though 
 he is not able to give it vent. I wonder
 
 MADA^f. 153 
 
 if such fury may not have some adequate 
 cause.' 
 
 'Oh, Uncle John I ' Rosahnd cried; she 
 clasped her hands upon his arm, looking up at 
 him throus^h her tears. He knew what was the 
 meaning in her tone, though it was a meaning 
 very hard to put into words. A cliild cannot 
 say of her father when he is dying that his fury 
 has often been without any adequate cause. 
 
 ' I know,' he said, ' and I acknowledge that 
 no one could have a more devoted nurse. But 
 Avhether there have not been concealments, clan- 
 destine acts, things he has a right to find fault 
 with ' 
 
 ' Even I,' said Rosalind hastily, ' and I have 
 nothing to hide — even I liave had to make 
 secrets from papa.' 
 
 ' That is the penalty, of course, of a temper 
 so passionate. But she should not have let you 
 do so, Eosahnd.' 
 
 ' It was not she. You think everything is 
 her fault ; oh, how mistaken you are ! My 
 mother and I,' cried the girl impetuously, ' have 
 no seciets from each other.' 
 
 Jolm Trevanion looked into the young 
 ingenuous countenance with anxiety. ' Then, 
 Rosalind,' he said, ' where is it that she ^oes ?
 
 154 MADAM. 
 
 Why does she go out at that hour of all othei's, 
 in the darkP Wliom does she meet? If you 
 know all this, I think there cannot be another 
 word to say : for nothing that is not innocent 
 would be entrusted to you.' 
 
 Rosalind was silent. She ceased to look at 
 him, and even withdrew her clasping hands 
 from his arm. 
 
 ' You have nothing to sa}^ ? There it is : 
 she has no secrets from you, and yet you can 
 throw no hght on this one secret. I have 
 always had a great admiration and respect for 
 your step-mother, Rosalind.' 
 
 ' I wish you would not call her my step- 
 mother ! It hurts me. What other mother 
 have I ever known ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, your love for her is a defence in 
 itself. But, Rosalind, forgive me, there is some 
 complication here. If she wdll not explain, 
 what are we to do? A mystery is always a 
 sign of something wrong ; at least it must be 
 taken for something wrong if it remains un- 
 explained. I am, I hope, without passion or 
 prejudice. She might have confided in me ' 
 
 ' If there was anything to confide,' Rosalind 
 said under her breath. But he went on. 
 
 'And now your father has sent for his
 
 MADAM. 155 
 
 lawyer — to do something, to change something, 
 I can't tell what he means to do, but it will be 
 trouble in any case. And you, Eosahnd — I 
 said so before, you — must not stay here.' 
 
 ' If you mean that I am to leave my mother, 
 Uncle John ! ' 
 
 ' Hush ! not your mother. My dear, you 
 must allow others to judge for you here. Had 
 you been her child it would have been different: 
 but we must take thou^rht for vour best interests. 
 Who is that drivmgr in at the o'ate ? AVhv, it is 
 Blake already. I wonder if a second summons 
 has been sent. He was not expected till to- 
 morrow. Tliis looks worse and worse, Eosahnd.' 
 
 ' Uncle John, if you will let me, I will run 
 in another way. 1 — don't wish to meet Mr. 
 Blake.' 
 
 'Hallo, Eosalind ! you don't mean to say 
 
 that Charley Blake has ever presumed 
 
 Ah ! this comes of not having a mother's care.' 
 
 ' It is nothing of the kind,' she cried, draw- 
 ing her hand violently from his arm, ' He 
 
 hates her because she never would Oh, 
 
 how can you be so cruel, so prejudiced, so 
 unjust?' In her vehemence Eosalind pushed 
 liim away from her with a force which made 
 his steady, middle-aged figure almost swerve, and
 
 15G MADAM. 
 
 darted across the park away from him just in 
 time to make it evident to Mr. Blake, driving 
 his dog-cart quickly to make up to the group 
 in advance, that it was to avoid him Miss 
 Trevanion had fled. 
 
 ' How is he ? ' was the eager question he 
 put as he came up to John Trevanion. ' I hope 
 I am not too late.' 
 
 ' For what ? If it is my brother you mean, 
 I hear he is a little better,' said John coldly. 
 
 ' Then I suppose it is only one of his attacks,' 
 the new comer said with a slight tone of disap- 
 pointment ; not that he had any interest in the 
 death of Mr. Trevanion, but that the fall from 
 the excitement of a great crisis to the level of 
 the ordinary is always disagreeable. ' I thought 
 from the tele^Tam this mornino^ there was no 
 time to lose.' 
 
 ' Who sent you the telegram this morning ? ' 
 
 'Madam Trevanion, of course,' said the 
 young man. 
 
 This reply took Johu Trevanion so much by 
 surprise that he went on without a word. 
 
 Slie knew very well what Blake's visit por- 
 tended to herself. But what a strange philo- 
 sophical stoic was this woinan, who did not 
 hesitate herself to summon, to hasten, lest he
 
 MADAM. 157 
 
 should lose the moment in winch she could still 
 be injured, the executioner of her fate. A sort 
 of awe came over John. He began to blame 
 himself for his miserable doubts of such a woman. 
 There was something in this silent impassioned 
 performance of everything demanded from her 
 that impressed the imagination. After a few 
 minutes' slow pacing along, restraining his 
 horse, Blake threw the reins to his groom, and 
 jumping down, walked on by John Trevanion's 
 side. 
 
 ' I suppose there is no such alarming hurry, 
 then,' he said. ' Of course you know what's 
 up now ? ' 
 
 ' If you mean what are my brother's inten- 
 tions, I know nothing about them,' John said. 
 
 ' Xo more do I. I can't think what he's 
 got in his mind ; though we have been very 
 confidential over it all.' ]\Ir. Blake the elder 
 was an old-fashioned and polite old gentleman, 
 but his son belonged to another world, and 
 pushed his way by means of a good deal of 
 assurance and no regard to anyone's feehngs. 
 ' It would be a great assistance to me,' he said, 
 ' if he's going to tamper with that will again, to 
 know how the land lies. What is wrong ? There 
 must have been, by all I henr, a great fiare-up.'
 
 158 MADAM. 
 
 ' Will you remember, Blake, that you are 
 speaking of my brother's affairs ? We are not 
 in the habit of having flares-up here.' 
 
 ' I mean no offence,' said the other. ' It's 
 a lie, then, that is Hying about the country ? ' 
 
 ' What is flying about the country ? If it 
 is about a flare-up you may be sure it is a lie.' 
 
 ' I don't stand upon the word,' said Blake. 
 'I thought I might speak frankly to you. 
 Kumours are flying everywhere — that Mr. Tre- 
 vanion is out of one fit into another — dying of 
 it — and that Madam ' 
 
 ' What of Madam ? ' said John Trevanion 
 firmly. 
 
 ' I have myself the greatest respect for Mrs. 
 Trevanion,' said the lawyer, making a sudden 
 pause. 
 
 ' You would be a bold man if you expressed 
 any other sentiment here ; but rumour has not 
 the same reverential and perfectly just feeling, 
 I suppose. What has it ventured to say of my 
 sister ? ' 
 
 John Trevanion, with all his gravity, was 
 very impulsive ; and the sense that her secret, 
 whatever it was, had been betrayed, bound him 
 at once to her defence. He had probably never 
 called her his sister before.
 
 MADAM. 159 
 
 ' Of course it is all talk,' said Blake. ' I 
 dare say the story means nothing ; but know- 
 ing as I do so much about the state of afiairs 
 generally — a lawyer, you know, like a doctor, 
 and people used to say a clergyman ' 
 
 ' Is bound to hold his tongue, is he not ? ' 
 John Trevanion said. 
 
 ' Oh, as for that, a member of the family is 
 not like a stranger. I took it for granted you 
 would naturally be on the injured husband's side.' 
 
 ' Mr. Blake,' said John, ' you make assump- 
 tions which would be intolerable even to a 
 stranger, and to a brother and friend, imder- 
 standing the whole matter, I hope, a little better 
 than you do, they are not less so, but more. 
 Look here ; a lawyer has this advantage, that 
 he is sometimes able to calm the disordered 
 fancy of a sick man, and put thmgs in a better 
 light. Take care what you do. Don't let the 
 last act of his life be an injustice if you can 
 help it. Your father, if your father were 
 here ' 
 
 ' Would inspire ]\Ir. John Trevanion with 
 more confidence,' said the other with a sup- 
 pressed snetir. ' It is unfortunate, but that is 
 not your brother's opinion. He has preferred 
 the younger man, as some do.'
 
 160 MADAM. 
 
 ' I hope you will justify his choice,' said 
 John Trevaiiion gravely. 'It is a great re- 
 sponsibility. To make serious changes in a 
 moment of passion is always dangerous — and 
 remember, my brother will in all probability 
 have no time to repent.' 
 
 ' The responsibility will be Mr. Trevanion's, 
 not mine,' said Blake. ' You should w^arn him, 
 not me. His brother must have more constant 
 access to him than even his family lawyer, and 
 is in a better position. I am here to execute 
 his wishes ; that is all that I have to do with it.' 
 John Trevanion bowed without a word. It 
 was true enough. The elder Blake would per- 
 haps have been of still less use in stemming the 
 passionate tide of the sick man's fury, but at 
 least he would have struggled against it. They 
 walked up to the house almost without ex- 
 changing another word. In the hall they were 
 met by Madam Trevanion, upon whom the 
 constant watching had begun to tell. Her eyes 
 were red, and there were deep hues under 
 them. All the hues of her face were drawn 
 and haggard. She met the new comer with an 
 anxious welcome, as if he had been a messenger 
 of GOod and not of evil. 
 
 I am very glad you have come, Mr. Blake. 

 
 MADAM. 161 
 
 Thank you for being so prompt. My husband, 
 perhaps, after he has seen you, will be calmer 
 and able to rest. Will you come to his room at 
 once ? ' 
 
 If he had been about to secure her a fortune 
 she could not have been more anxious to intro- 
 duce him. She came back to the hall after she 
 had led him to Mr. Trevanion's room. 
 
 ' I am restless,' she said ; ' I cannot be still. 
 Do you know, for the first time he has sent me 
 away ? He will not have me with him. Before, 
 whatever he might have against me was forgotten 
 when he needed me. God grant that this inter- 
 view he is so anxious for may compose him and 
 put things on their old footing.' 
 
 Perhaps it was only her agitation and dis- 
 tress, but as she spoke the tears came and 
 choked her voice. John Trevanion came up 
 to her, and laying his hands upon her shoulders 
 gazed into her face. 
 
 'Grace,' he said, ' is it possible that you can 
 be sincere ? ' 
 
 ' Sincere ! ' she cried, looking at him with 
 a strange incomprehension. She had no room 
 in her mind for metaphysical questions, and she 
 was impatient of them at such a crisis of fate. 
 
 'Yes, sincere. You know that man has 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 MADAM. 
 
 come for some evil purpose. Whatever tbey 
 say or do together it will be to your hurt, you 
 know ; and yet you hasten his coming — and tell 
 him you are glad when he arrives ' 
 
 ' And you think it must be false ? No, it 
 is not false, John,' she said with a faint smile. 
 ' So long as he does it and gets it off his mind, 
 what is it to me ? Do you know that he is 
 perhaps dying ? I have nursed him and been 
 the only one that he would have near him for 
 years. Do you think I care what happens 
 after ? But I cannot bear to be put out of my 
 own place now.' 
 
 ' Your own place ! to bear all his caprices 
 and abuse ! ' 
 
 ' My own place, by my husband's bedside,' 
 she said with tears. 'When he has done what- 
 ever he wants to do his mind will be relieved. 
 And I can do more for him than anyone. He 
 diortens his own life when he sends me away.'
 
 MADAM. 163 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 The house was in a curious commotion upstairs. 
 The nursery apartments were at the end of a 
 passage, but on the same level with those of 
 Mrs. Trevanion, in which Jane, Madam's at- 
 tendant and anxious maid, was watching — 
 coming out now and then to listen, or standing 
 within the shelter of the half-closed door. Mrs. 
 Trevanion's room opened into the gallery to 
 which the great staircase led, and from which 
 you could look down into the hall. The nursery 
 was at the end of a long passage, and when the 
 door was open, commanded also a view of the 
 gallery. There many an evening when there 
 was fine company at Highcourt had tlie children 
 pressed to see the beautiful ladies coming out 
 in their jewels and finery, dressed for dinner. 
 The spectacle now was not so imposing, but 
 Russell, seated near the door, watched it with 
 concentrated interest. She was waitincf too tu 
 see what would happen, with excitement in-
 
 161 MADAM, 
 
 describable and some terror and sense of guilt. 
 Sometimes Jane would do nothing more than 
 open her mistress's door, and wait within for 
 any sound or sight that might be possible. 
 Sometimes she would step out with a furtive 
 noiseless step upon the gallery, and cast a quick 
 look round and below into the hall, then return 
 again noiselessly. Eussell watched all these evi- 
 dences of an anxiety as intense as her own with 
 a sense of relief and encouragement. Jane was 
 as eager as she was, watching over her mistress. 
 Why was she thus watching ? If Madam had 
 been blameless, was it likely that anyone would 
 be on the alert like this ? Eussell herself was 
 very sure of her facts. She had collected them 
 with the care which hatred takes to verify its 
 accusations ; and yet cold doubts would trouble 
 her, and she was relieved to see her opponent, 
 the devoted adherent of the woman whose well- 
 being was at stake, in a state of so much per- 
 turbation and anxiety. It was another proof, 
 more potent than any of the rest. The passage 
 Avhich led to Russell's domain was badly lighted, 
 and she could not be seen as she sat there at her 
 post like a spy. She watched with an intense 
 passion which concentrated all her thoughts. 
 When she heard the faint little jar of the door
 
 MADAM. 165 
 
 she brightened involuntarily. The figure of Jane 
 — slim, dark, noiseless — standing out upon the 
 gallery was comfort to her very soul. The 
 children were playing near. Sophy, perched 
 up at the table, was cutting out pictures from 
 a number of illustrated papers and pasting them 
 into a book, an occupation which absorbed her. 
 The two younger children were on the floor, 
 where they went on wath their play, babbhng 
 to each other, conscious of nothing else. It had 
 begun to rain, and they were kept indoors per- 
 force. A more peaceful scene could not be. 
 The fire, surrounded by the high nursery fender, 
 burned AMirmly and brightly. In the back- 
 ground, at a window wliich looked out upon 
 the park, the nursery-maid — a still figure, like 
 a piece of stiU life but for the measured move- 
 ment of her hand — sat sewing. The httle ones 
 interchanged their eager little volleys of talk. 
 They were ' pretending to be ' some of the actors 
 in the bigger drama of life that w^ent on over 
 their heads. But their little performance was 
 only Comedy, and it was Tragedy incarnate, 
 with hands trembhng too much to knit the 
 little sock which she held, w^th dry lips parted 
 with excitement, eyes feverish and shining, and 
 an impassioned sense of power, of panic, and of
 
 166 MADAM. 
 
 guilt, that sat close to them in her cap and apron 
 at the open door. 
 
 When Eosahnd's figure flitted across the 
 vacant scene, which was like the stage of a 
 theatre to Eussell, her first impulse was to 
 start up and secure this visitor from the still 
 more important field of battle below, so as to 
 procure the last intelligence how things were 
 going ; and it was with a deepened sense of 
 hostility, despite, and excitement that she now 
 saw her approached by the rival watcher. Jane 
 arrested the young lady on her way to her room, 
 and they had an anxious conversation, during 
 which first one and then both approached the 
 railing of the gallery and looked over. It was 
 all that the woman could do to restrain herself. 
 What were they looking at ? What was going 
 on? It is seldom that any ordinary human 
 creature has the consciousness of having set 
 such tremendous forces in motion. It might 
 involve ruin to her mistress, death to her master. 
 The children whom she loved might be orphaned 
 by her hand. But she was not conscious of any- 
 thing deeper than a latent, and not painful 
 though exciting, thrill of guilt, and she was 
 very conscious of the exultation of feeling her- 
 self an important party in all that was going on.
 
 MADAM. 167 
 
 What had she done? Nothing but her duty. 
 She had warned a man who was being deceived ; 
 she had exposed a woman who had always kept 
 so fair an appearance, but whom she, more clear- 
 sighted than anyone, had suspected from the 
 first. Was she not right in every point, doing 
 her duty to Mr. Trevanion and the house that 
 had sheltered her so long.^ Was not she 
 indeed the benefactor of the house, preserving 
 it from shame and injury? So she said to her- 
 self, justifying her own actions with an excite- 
 ment which betrayed a doubt ; and in the 
 meantime awaiting the result with passionate 
 eagerness, incapable of a thought that did not 
 turn round this centre. What was to happen ? 
 Was there an earthquake — a terrible explosion 
 about to burst forth ? The stillness was ominous 
 and dreadful to the watching woman who had 
 put all these powers in motion. She feared yet 
 longed for the first sound of the coming outburst ; 
 and yet all the while had a savage exultation, in 
 her heart in the thought of having been able to 
 bring the whole world about her to such a crisis 
 of fate. . 
 
 Jane in the meantime had stopped Eosalind, 
 who was breathless with her run across the park 
 The woman was much agitated and trembling.
 
 168 MADAM. 
 
 ' Miss Eosalind,' she said, with pale lips, ' is there 
 something wrong ? I see Madam in the hall ; 
 she is not with master, and he so ill. Oh ! what 
 is wrong — what is wrong ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, Jane ; nothing, I hope. Papa 
 is perhaps asleep, and there is someone — Mr. 
 Blake — come to see him. My mother is waiting 
 till he is gone.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is perhaps why she is there,' said 
 Jane with relief; then she caught the girl 
 timidly by the arm. 'You will forgive me, 
 Miss Eosalind ; she has enemies — there are some 
 who would leave nothing undone to harm her.' 
 
 ' To harm mamma ! ' said Eosalind, holding 
 her head high ; ' you forget yourself, Jane. 
 Who would harm her in this house ? ' 
 
 Jane gave the girl a look which was full of 
 gratitude, yet of miserable apprehension. ' You 
 will always be true to her. Miss Eosalind,' she 
 said ; ' and oh, you have reason ! for she has 
 been a good mother to you.' 
 
 Eosalind looked at the woman somewhat 
 sternly, for she was proud in her way. ' If I 
 did not know how fond you are of mamma,' 
 she said, 'I should be angry. Does anyone 
 ever talk so of mother and daughter ? That is 
 all a matter of course. Both that she is the best
 
 MADAM. 169 
 
 mother in the world, and that I am part of 
 herself.' 
 
 Upon this Jane did what an Englishwoman 
 is very slow to do. She got hold of Eosahnd's 
 hand, and made a struggle to kiss it, with tears. 
 ' Oh, Miss Eosahnd, God bless you ! I'd rather 
 hear that than have a fortune left me,' she cried. 
 ' And my poor lady will want it all ; she will 
 want it all ! ' 
 
 ' Don't be silly, Jane. My mother wants 
 nothing but that we should have a little sense. 
 What can anyone do against her, unless it is you 
 and the rest annoying her by foolish anxiety 
 about nothing. Indeed, papa is very ill, and 
 there is reason enough to be anxious,' the girl 
 added, after a pause. 
 
 In the meantime Madam Trevanion sat 
 alone in the hall below. She received Blake, 
 when he arrived, as we have seen, and she had 
 a brief conversation with her brother-in-law 
 which agitated her a little. But when he left 
 her, himself much acfitated and not knowin^r 
 what to think, she sat down again and waited, 
 alone and unoccupied ; a thing that scarcely 
 ever in her full life happened to her. She, too, 
 felt the stillness before the tempest. It repeated 
 itself in her mind in a strange fatal calm, a sort
 
 170 MADAM. 
 
 of cessation of all emotion. She bad said to 
 John Trevanion that she did not care what 
 came after. And she did not ; yet the sense 
 that something was being done which would 
 seriously affect her future life, even though she 
 was not susceptible of much feeling on the 
 subject, made the moment impressive. Calm 
 and strong, indeed, must the nerves be of one 
 who can wait outside the closed door of a room 
 in which her fate is being decided without a 
 thrill. But a sort of false tranquillity — or was 
 it perhaps the calmest of all moods, the stillness 
 of despair ? — came on her as she waited. There 
 is a despair which is passion and raves ; but 
 there is a different kind of despair, not called 
 forth by any great practical danger, but by a 
 sense of the impossibilities of life, the power- 
 lessness of human thought or action, which is 
 very still and says little. The Byronic despera- 
 tion is very different from that which comes 
 into the heart of a woman when she stands still 
 amid the irreconcilable forces of existence, and 
 feels herself helpless amid contending wills, cir- 
 cumstances, powers, which she can neither har- 
 monise nor overcome. The situation in which 
 she stood was impossible. She saw no way out 
 of it. The sharp sting of her present useless-
 
 MADAM, 171 
 
 ness, and the sense that she had been for the 
 first time turned away from her husband's bed- 
 side, had given a momentary poignancy to her 
 emotions which roused her, but as that died 
 away she sat and looked her position in the 
 face with a calm that was appalling. This was 
 what she had come to at the end of seventeen 
 years — that her position was impossible. She 
 did not know how to turn or what step to take. 
 On either side of her was a mind that did not 
 comprehend and a heart that did not feel for 
 her. She could neither touch nor convince the 
 beings upon whom her very existence depended. 
 Andromeda, waiting for the monster to devour 
 her, had at least the danger approaching but 
 from one quarter, and on the other, always the 
 possibility of a Perseus in shining armour to 
 cleave the skies. But Madam had on either 
 side of her an insatiable Fate — and no help, 
 she thought, on earth or in heaven. Eor there 
 comes a moment in the experience of all who 
 have felt very deeply, when heaven, too, seems to 
 fail. Praying long with no visible reply drains 
 out the heart. There seems nothing more left 
 to say even to God, no new argument to 
 employ with Him who all the while knows 
 better than He can be told. And there she
 
 172 MADAM. 
 
 was, still, silent in her soul as well as with her 
 lips, waiting, with almost a seose of ease in the 
 thought that there was nothing more to be 
 done, not even a prayer to be said, her heart, 
 her thoughts, her wishes, all standing arrested 
 as before an impenetrable wall which stopped 
 all effort. And how still the house was ! All 
 the doors closed, the sounds of the household 
 lost in the distance of long passages and shut 
 doors and curtains ; nothing to disturb the still- 
 ness before the tempest should burst. She was 
 not aware of the anxious looks of her maid 
 now and then peering over the balustrade of 
 the gallery above, for Jane's furtive footstep 
 made no sound upon the thick carpet. Through 
 the glass door she saw the clear blue of the 
 sky, radiant in the wintry sunshine, but still, as 
 wintry brightness is, without the flickers of 
 light and shadow. And thus the morning 
 hours went on. 
 
 A long time, it seemed a lifetime, passed 
 before her repose was disturbed. It had grad- 
 ually got to be like an habitual state, and she 
 was startled to be called back from it. The 
 heavy curtain was hfted, and first Mr. Blake, 
 then Dr. Beaton, came forth. The first looked 
 extremely grave and disturbed, as he came out
 
 MADAM. 173 
 
 with a case of papers which he had brought 
 with him in his hand. He looked at Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion with a curious deprecating air, like that 
 of a man who has injured another unwillingly. 
 They had never been friends, and Madam had 
 shown her sentiments very distinctly as to those 
 overtures of admiration which the young lawyer 
 had taken upon himself to make to Eosalind. 
 The politeness he showed to her on ordinary 
 occasions was the politeness of hostihty. But 
 now he looked at her alarmed, as if he could 
 not support her glance, and would fain have 
 avoided the sight of her altogether. Dr. 
 Beaton, on the other hand, came forward 
 briskly. 
 
 ' T have just been called in to our patient,' 
 he said, ' and you are very much wanted, Mrs. 
 Trevanion.' 
 
 ' Does he want me ? ' she said. 
 
 ' I think so — certainly. You are necessaiy 
 to him : I understand your delicacy in being 
 absent while Mr. Blake ' 
 
 ' Do not deceive yourself, doctor ; it was 
 not my delicacy.' 
 
 ' Come, please ! ' said the doctor, almost 
 impatiently ; ' come at once.' 
 
 Blake stood looking after them till both dis-
 
 174 MADAM. 
 
 appeared behind the curtains, then drew a long 
 breath, as if relieved by her departure. ' I 
 wonder if she has any suspicion,' he said to 
 himself. Then he made a long pause and 
 walked about the hall, and considered the 
 pictures with the eye of a man who might have 
 to look over the inventory of them for sale. 
 Then he added to himself, ' What an old devil ! ' 
 half aloud. Of whom it was that he uttered 
 this sentiment no one could tell, but it came 
 from the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Madam did not leave the sick chamber as^ain 
 that day. She did not appear at luncheon, for 
 which perhaps the rest were thankful, as she 
 was herself. How to look her in the face, with 
 this mingled doubt of her and respect for her, 
 nobody knew. Eosalind alone was disappointed. 
 The doctor took everything into his own hands. 
 He was now the master of the situation, and 
 ruled everybody. ' She is the best woman I 
 ever knew,' he said, with fervour. ' I would 
 rather trust her with a case than any Sister in 
 the land. I said to her that I thought she 
 would do better to stay. Mr. Trevanion was 
 very glad to get her back.'
 
 MADA.M. 175 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 As so often happens ^Yhen all is prepared and 
 ready for the catastrophe, the stroke of fate 
 was averted. That night proved better than 
 the last, and then there passed two or three 
 quiet days. It was even possible, the doctor 
 thought, that the alarm might be a false one, 
 and the patient go on, if tranquil and undis- 
 turbed, until, in the course of nature, another 
 crisis prepared itself or external commotion 
 accelerated nature. He had received his wife 
 back after a few hours' banishment with a sort 
 of chuckling satisfaction, and though even his 
 reduced and enfeebled state did not make him. 
 incapable of offence, the insulting remarks he 
 addressed to her were no more than his ordi- 
 nary method. Madam said nothing of them ; 
 she seemed, strangely enough, glad to return to 
 her martyrdom. It was better, it appeared, 
 than the sensation of being sent away. She 
 was with him, without rest or intermission, the
 
 176 MADAM. 
 
 whole day and a great portion of the night. 
 The two or three hours allowed her for repose 
 were in the middle of the night, and she never 
 stirred abroad nor tasted the fresh air through 
 this period of confinement. The drives which 
 had been her daily refreshment were stopped, 
 along with every other possibility of freedom. 
 In the meantime there appeared something like 
 a fresh development of confidence and depend- 
 ence upon her which wrung the heart of the 
 enemy in her stronghold, and made Eussell 
 think her work had been all in vain. Mr. 
 Trevanion could not, it was said, bear his wife 
 out of his sight. 
 
 It is a mistake when a dying person thus 
 keeps all his world waiting. The sympathetic 
 faculties are worn out. The household in 
 general felt a slight sensation of resentment 
 towards the sick man who had cheated them 
 into so much interest. It was not as if he had 
 been a man whom his dependants loved, and 
 he had defrauded them of that profound and 
 serious interest with which the last steps of any 
 human creature — unless in a hospital or other 
 agglomeration of hum.anity, where individual 
 characteristics are abolished — are accompanied. 
 The servants, who had with a httle awe attended
 
 MADAM. 1 
 
 ( / 
 
 the coming of death, were half disappointed, 
 half disgusted by the delay. Even John Tre- 
 vanion, who had made up his mind very 
 seriously and somewhat against his own convic- 
 tions to wait ' till all was over,' had a sensation 
 of ' annoyance : he might go on for weeks, 
 perhaps for months, all the winter — ' thank 
 God,' they said mechanically ; but John could 
 not help thinking how inconvenient it would be 
 to come back — to hang on all the winter, never 
 able to go anpvhere. It would have been so 
 much more considerate to get it over at once, 
 but Eeginald was never one who considered 
 other people's convenience. Dr. Beaton, who 
 had no desire to leave Highcourt, and who 
 besides had a doctor's satisfaction in a successful 
 fight with disease, took it much more pleasantly. 
 He rubbed his hands and expressed his hopes 
 of ' pulling ' his patient through with much 
 unnecessary cordiality. ' Let us but stave off 
 all trouble till spring, and there is no saying 
 what may happen,' he said jauntily. ' The 
 summer will be all in his favour, and before 
 next winter we may get him away.' The 
 younger members of the family took this for 
 trranted. Eeorinald, w^ho had been sent for 
 from school, begged his mother another time to 
 VOL. I. K
 
 178 MADAM. 
 
 be sure there was some real need for it before 
 summoning a fellow home in the middle of the 
 half ; and Eosalind entirely recovered her 
 spirits. The cloud that had hung over the 
 house seemed about to melt away. Nobody 
 was aware of the agitating conferences which 
 Jane held with her mistress in the few moments 
 when they saw each other ; or the miserable 
 anxiety which contended in Madam's mind with 
 her evident and necessary duties. She had 
 buried her troubles too long in her own bosom 
 to exhibit them now. And thus the days 
 passed slowly away ; the patient had not yet 
 been allowed to leave his bed, and indeed was in 
 a state of alarming feebleness, but that was all. 
 
 Eosalind was left very much to herself 
 during these days. She had now no longer 
 anyone to go out with. Sometimes, indeed, 
 her uncle would propose a walk, but that, at the 
 most, occupied but a small part of the day, and 
 all her usual occupations had been suspended 
 in the general excitement. She took to wan- 
 dering about the park, where she could stray 
 alone as much as pleased her, fearing no in- 
 trusion. A week or ten days after the visit 
 of Mr. Blake, she was walking near the lake 
 which was the pride of Highcourt. In summer
 
 M.U)AM. 179 
 
 the banks of this piece of water were a mass of 
 flowering shrubs, and on the httle artificial 
 island in the middle was a little equally artificial 
 cottage, the creation of Eosalind's grandmother, 
 where still the children in summer would often 
 go to have tea. One or two boats lay at a little 
 landing-place for the purpose of transporting 
 visitors, and it was one of the pleasures of the 
 neighbourhood, when the family were absent, 
 to visit the Bijou, as it was called. At one end 
 of the little lake was a road leading from the 
 village, to which the pubhc of the place had 
 a right. It was perhaps out of weariness with 
 the monotony of her lonely walks that Eosalind 
 directed her steps that way on an afternoon 
 when all was cold and clear, an orange-red 
 sunset preparing in the west, and indications of 
 ft'ost in the air. The lake caught the reflection 
 of the sunset blaze and all was barred with 
 crimson and gold, with the steely blue of its 
 surface coming in around and intensifying every 
 tint. Eosalind walked slowly round the margin 
 of the water, and thought of the happy after- 
 noons when the children and their mother had 
 been rowed across, she herself and Eex taking 
 the control of the boat. The water looked 
 tempting with its bars of colour, and the httle 
 
 s 2
 
 180 MADAM. 
 
 red roof of the Bijou blazed in the slanting 
 light. She played with the boats at the landing- 
 place, pushing one into the water with a half 
 fancy to push forth into the lake, until it had 
 got almost too far off' to be pulled back again, 
 and gave her some trouble, standing on the 
 edge of the tiny pier with an oar in her hand, 
 to bring it back to its little anchorage. She 
 was standing thus, her figure relieved against 
 the still shining surface of the water, when 
 she heard a footstep behind her, and think- 
 ing it the man who had charge of the cottage 
 and the boats, called to him without turning 
 roimd, ' Come here, Dunmore ; I have loosed 
 this boat and I can't get it back ' 
 
 The footstep advanced with a 'certain hesi- 
 tation. Then an unfamiliar voice said, ' I am 
 not Dunmore — but if you will allow me to help 
 you ' 
 
 She started and turned round. It was the 
 same stranger whom she had already twice seen 
 on the road. ' Oh ! pray don't let me trouble 
 you. Dunmore will be here directly,' she 
 said. 
 
 This did not, however, prevent the young 
 man from rendering the necessary assistance. 
 He got into one of the nearer boats, and stretch-
 
 MADAM. ISl 
 
 ing out from the bow of it, secured the stray 
 pinnace. It was not a dangerous act, nor 
 even one that gave the passer-by much trouble, 
 but Eosahnd, partly out of a sense that she had 
 been ungracious, partly perhaps — who can tell? 
 — out of the utter monotony of all around her, 
 thanked him with eagerness. ' I am sorry to 
 give you trouble,' she said again. 
 
 ' It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.' Was he 
 going to be so sensible, so judicious, as to go 
 away after this ? He seemed to intend so. He 
 put on his hat after bowing to her, and turned 
 away, but then there seemed to be an after- 
 thought which struck him. He turned back 
 again, took off his hat, and said : ' I beg your 
 pardon, but may I ask for Mr. Trevanion ? The 
 village news is so uncertain.' 
 
 ' My father is stiU very ill,' said Eosalind, 
 * but it is thought there is now some hope.' 
 
 ' That is good news indeed,' the stranger said. 
 Certainly he had a most interesting face. It 
 could not be possible that a man with such a 
 countenance was ' not a gentleman,' that most 
 damning of ail sentences. His face was refined 
 and delicate ; his eyes large, liquid, full of 
 meaning, which was increased by the air of 
 weakness which made them larger and brighter
 
 182 MADAM. 
 
 than eyes in ordinary circumstances. And 
 certainly it was kind of him to be glad. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you told me before, you knew my 
 father,' Eosalind said. 
 
 ' I cannot claim to know Mr. Trevanion ; 
 but I do know a member of the family very 
 well, and I have heard of him all my life.' 
 
 Eosalind was no more afraid of a young 
 man than of an old woman, and she thought 
 she had been unjust to this stranger, who after 
 all, notwithstanding his rough dress, had no- 
 thing about him to find fault with. She said : 
 ' Yes ; perhaps my Uncle John ? In any case 
 I am much obliged to you, both for helping me 
 and for your interest in papa.' 
 
 ' May I sometimes ask how he is? The 
 villagers are so vague.' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' said Eosalind ; ' they have 
 a bulletin at the Lodge, or if you care to come 
 so far as Highcourt, you will always have the 
 last report.' 
 
 ' You are very kind ; I will not come to 
 the house. But I know that you often walk 
 in the park. If I may ask you when we — 
 chance to meet ? ' 
 
 This suggestion startled Eosahnd. It awoke 
 in her again that vague alarm— not, perhaps.
 
 MADAM. 183 
 
 a gentleman. But when she looked at the 
 eyes which were searching hers with so sensi- 
 tive a perception of every shade of expression, 
 she became confused and did not know what 
 to think. He was so quickly sensible of every 
 change, that he saw he had taken a wrong 
 step. He ought to have gone further, and 
 perceived what the wrong step was, but she 
 thought he was puzzled and did not discover 
 this instinctively as a gentleman would have 
 done. She withdrew a step or two involun- 
 tarily. ' Oh, no,' she said with gentle dignity, 
 ' I do not always walk the same way ; but you 
 may be sure of seeing the bulletin at the 
 Lodge.' And with this she made him a curtsey 
 and walked away, not hurrying to show any 
 alarm, but taking a path which was quite out 
 of the way of the public, and where he could 
 not follow. EosaHnd felt a httle thrill of agita- 
 tion in her as she went home. Who could he 
 be, and what did he do here, and why did he 
 throw himself in her way ? If she had been a girl 
 of a vulgarly romantic imagination, she would no 
 doubt have jumped at the idea of a secret adora- 
 tion which had brought him to the poor little 
 village for her sake, for the chance of a passing 
 encounter. But Eosahnd was not of this turn
 
 184 MADAM. 
 
 of imagination, and that undefined doubt which 
 wavered in her mind did a great deal to damp 
 the wings of any such fancy. What he had 
 said was almost equal to asking her to meet 
 him in the park. She blushed all over at the 
 thought — at the curious impossibility of it, the 
 want of knowledge. It did not seem an insult 
 to her, but such an incomprehensible igno- 
 rance in him that she was ashamed of it ; that 
 he should have been capable of such a mistake. 
 ]^ot a gentleman ! Oh, surely, he could never, 
 
 never And yet the testimony of those fine 
 
 refined features — the mouth so delicate and 
 sensitive, the eyes so eloquent — was of such a 
 difierent kind. And was it Uncle John he knew ? 
 But Uncle John had passed him on the road 
 and had not known him. It was very strange 
 altogether. She could not banish the beautiful 
 pleading eyes out of her mind. How they 
 looked at her ! They were almost a child's 
 eyes in their uncertainty and wistfulness, read- 
 ing her face to see how far to go. And alto- 
 gether he had the air of extreme youth, almost 
 as young as herself, which of course in a man 
 is boyhood. For what is a man of twenty? 
 ten years and more younger and less expe- 
 rienced than a woman of that sober age. There
 
 MADAM. 185 
 
 was a sort of yearning of pity in her heart to- 
 wards him, just tempered by that doubt. Poor 
 boy ! how badly he must have been brought up 
 — how sadly ignorant not to know that a gen- 
 tleman And then she began to remem- 
 ber Lord Lytton's novels, some of which she 
 had read. There would have been nothing out 
 of place in them had such a youth so addressed 
 a lady. He was indeed not at all unlike a 
 young man in Lord Lytton. He interested her 
 very much, and filled her mind as she went 
 lightly home. Who could he be, and why 
 so anxious about her father's health ? — or was 
 that merely a reason for addressing her — a way, 
 perhaps he thought, of securing her acquaint- 
 ance, making up some sort of private understand- 
 ing between them ? Had not Eosalind heard 
 somewhere that a boy was apt to select a much 
 older woman as the object of his first admira- 
 tion ? Perhaps that might furnish an explana- 
 tion for it, for he must be very young, not more 
 than a boy. 
 
 When she got home her first step into the 
 house was enough to drive every thought of 
 this description out of her mind. She was 
 aware of the change before she could ask — 
 before she saw even a servant of whom to
 
 186 MADAM. 
 
 inquire. The hall, all the rooms, were vacant. 
 She could find nobody, until coming back after 
 an ineffectual search, she met Jane coming 
 away from the sick-room, carrying various 
 things that had been used there. Jane shook 
 her head in answer to Eosalind's question. 
 ' Oh, very bad again — worse than ever. No 
 one can tell what has brought it on. Another 
 attack, worse than any he has had. I think, 
 Miss Eosalind,' Jane said, drawing close with a 
 tremulous shrill whisper, ' it was that dreadful 
 woman that had got in again the moment my 
 poor lady's back was turned.' 
 
 ' What dreadful woman ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Eussell,' Miss Eosalind. ' My poor lady 
 came out of the room for five minutes — I don't 
 think it was five minutes. She was faint with 
 fatigue ; and all at once we heard a cry. Oh, 
 it was not master, it was that woman. There 
 she was, lying at the room door in hysterics, or 
 whatever you call them. And the spasms came 
 on again directly. I pushed her out of my 
 lady's way: she may be lying there yet, for 
 anything I know. This time he will never get 
 better. Miss Eosalind,' Jane said. 
 
 ' Oh, do not say so — do not say so,' the girl 
 cried. He had not been a kind father nor a
 
 MADAM. 187 
 
 generous master. But such was the awe of it, 
 and the quivering sympathy of human nature, 
 that even the woman w^ept as Eosalind threw 
 herself upon her shoulder. The house was full 
 of the atmosphere of death.
 
 188 MADAM, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 EussELL meant no harm to her master. In the 
 curious confusion which one passionate feeling 
 brings into an undisciplined mind, she had even 
 something that might be called affection for Mr. 
 Trevanion as the victim of the woman she 
 hated. Something that she called regard for 
 him was the justification in her own mind of 
 her furious antipathy to his wife. And after 
 all her excitement and suspense, to be com- 
 pelled to witness what seemed to her the 
 triumph of Madam, the quieting down of all 
 suspicions, and her return, as more than ever 
 indispensable, to the bedside of her husband, 
 drove the woman almost to madness. How 
 she lived through the week and executed her 
 various duties, as in ordinary times, she did not 
 know. The children suffered more or less, but 
 not so much as might be supposed. For to 
 Russell's perverted perception the children were 
 hers more than their mother's, and she loved
 
 MADAM. 189 
 
 them in her way, while she hated Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion. Indeed, the absorption of Madam in 
 the sick-room left them very much in Eussell's 
 influence, and on the surface more evidently 
 attached to her than to the mother of whom 
 they saw so little. If they suffered from the 
 excitement that disturbed her temper as well 
 as other things, it was in a very modified 
 degree, and they were indulged and caressed 
 by moments, as much as they were hustled and 
 scolded at others. The nursery-maids, indeed, 
 found Eussell unbearable, and communicated 
 to each other their intention to complain as 
 soon as Madam could be supposed able to listen 
 to them ; if not, to give notice at once. But 
 they did not tell for very much in the house, 
 and the nurse concealed successfully enough 
 from all but them the devouring excitement 
 which was in her. It was the afternoon hour, 
 when nature is at its lowest, and when excite- 
 ment and suspense are least supportable, that 
 Eussell found her next opportunity. She had 
 gone downstairs, seeking she knew not what — 
 looking for something new — a little relief to 
 the strain of suspense, when she suddenly saw 
 the door of the sick-room open and Mrs. 
 Trevanion come out. She did not stop to ask
 
 190 MADAM. 
 
 herself what she was to gain by risking an out- 
 break of fury from her master, and of blame 
 and reproach from every side, by intruding 
 upon the invalid. The temptation was too 
 strong to be resisted. She opened the door 
 without leaving herself time to think, and 
 went in. 
 
 Then terror seized her. Mr. Trevanion 
 was propped up in his bed, a pair of fiery 
 twinkling eyes, full of the suspicion and curio- 
 sity that were natural to him, peering out of 
 the skeleton head, which was ghastly with ill- 
 ness and emaciation. Nothing escaped the 
 fierce vitality of those eyes. He saw the move- 
 ment of the door, the sudden apparition of the 
 excited face, at first so eager and curious, then 
 blanched with terror. He was himself com- 
 paratively at ease, in a moment of vacancy 
 in which there was neither present suffering 
 enough to occupy him, nor anything else to 
 amuse his restless soul. ' Hallo ! ' he cried, as 
 soon as he saw her ; ' come in — come in. You 
 have got something more to tell me ? Faithful 
 woman — faithful to your master. Come in ; 
 there is just time before Madam comes back to 
 hear what you have to say.' 
 
 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the valet,
 
 MADAM. 101 
 
 who had taken Madam's place, ' but the 
 doctor's orders is ' 
 
 ' What do I care for the doctor's orders ? 
 Get out of the way and let Eussell in. Here, 
 woman, you have got news for me. A faithful 
 servant, who won't conceal from her master 
 what he ought to know. Out, Jenkins, and let 
 the woman come in.' 
 
 He raised himself up higher in his bed ; the 
 keen angles of his knees seemed to rise to his 
 chin. He waved impatiently his skeleton 
 hands. The valet made wild signs at the in- 
 truder. 'Can't you go away? Youll kill 
 him ! ' he cried in a hoarse whisper. ' Come 
 in — come in ! ' shrieked the skeleton in the bed, 
 in aU the excitement of opposition. Then it 
 was that Eussell, terrified, helpless, distracted, 
 gave that cry which echoed through all the 
 house, and brought Dr. Beaton rushing from 
 one side and Mrs. Trevanion from the other. 
 The woman had fallen at the door of the room 
 in hysterics, as Jane said, a seizure for which 
 all the attendants, absorbed in a more im- 
 mediate danger, felt the highest contempt. 
 She was pushed out of the way, to be suc- 
 coured by the maids, who had been brought by 
 the cry into the adjacent passage, in high ex-
 
 192 MADAM. 
 
 citement to know what was going on. But 
 Eussell could not throw any light upon what 
 had happened even when she came to herself. 
 She could only sob and cry, with starts of 
 nervous panic. She had done nothing, and 
 yet what had she done ? She had not said a 
 word to him, and yet It was soon under- 
 stood throughout all the house that Mr. Tre- 
 vanion had another of his attacks, and that Dr. 
 Beaton did not think he could ever rally again. 
 The room where the patient lay was very 
 laro-e and open. It had once been the billiard- 
 room of the house, and had been prepared for 
 him when it was found no longer expedient 
 that he should go up and down even the easy, 
 luxuriously carpeted stairs of Highcourt. There 
 was one large window filhng almost one side of 
 the room, without curtains or even bhnd, and 
 which was now thrown open to admit the air 
 fully. The door too was open, and the draught 
 of fresh cold wintry air blowing through made 
 it more like a hillside than a room in a 
 sheltered house. Notwithstanding this, Mrs. 
 Trevanion stood by the bed, waving a large 
 fan, to get more air into the panting and strug- 
 gling lungs. On the other side of the bed the 
 doctor stood with the bony wrist of the patient
 
 MADAM. 193 
 
 iu his warm living grasp. It seemed to be 
 Death in person with whom these anxious 
 miuistrants were struggling rather than a dying 
 man. Other figures flitted about in the back- 
 gi*ound, Jane bringing with noiseless under- 
 standing, according to the signs the doctor 
 made to her, the things he wanted, now a 
 spoonful of stimulant, now water to moisten his 
 li]is. Dead silence reigned in the room ; the 
 wind blew through, fluttering a bit of paper on 
 the table ; the slight beat of the fan kept a 
 vibration in the air. Into this terrible scene 
 Rosalind stole trembling, and after her her 
 uncle ; they shivered with the chill blast Avhich 
 swept over the others unnoticed, and still more 
 with the sight of the gasping and struggle. 
 Eosalind, unused to suffering, hid her face in 
 her hands. She could do nothing. Jane, who 
 knew what was wanted, was of more use than 
 she. She stood timidly at the foot of the bed, 
 now looking up for a moment at what she 
 could see of her dying father, now at the figure 
 of his wife against the light, never intermitting 
 for a moment her dreadful monotonous exer- 
 cise. Mr. Trevanion was seated almost upright 
 in the midst of his pillows, labouring in that 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 MADAM. 
 
 last terrible struggle for breath, for death, not 
 for life. 
 
 He had cried out at first in broken gasps 
 for the woman — the woman ! ' She's got 
 something — to tell me. Something more — to 
 tell me. I'll hear it— I'll he-ar it— I'll know 
 — everything ! ' he now shrieked, waving his 
 skeleton arms to keep them away, and strug- 
 gling to rise. But these efibrts soon gave way to 
 the helplessness of nature. His cries soon sank 
 into a hoarse moaning, his struggles to an oc- 
 casional wave with his arms towards the door, 
 and appeal with his eyes to the doctor who 
 stood over him inexorable. Every agitating 
 movement had dropped before Eosalind came 
 in, into the one grand effort for breath. That 
 was all that was left him in this world to 
 struggle for. A man of so many passions, who 
 had got everything he had set his heart on in 
 life : a little breath now, which the November 
 breeze, the winnowing of the air by the great 
 fan, every aid that could be used, could not 
 bring to his panting lungs. Who can describe 
 the moment when nurses and watchers, and 
 children and lovers stand thus awed and silent, 
 seeing the struggle turn into a fight for death — 
 not against it: feeling their own hearts turn.
 
 MADA^f. 195 
 
 and their prayers, to that which hitherto they 
 have been resisting with all that love and skill 
 and patience can do ? Xature is strong at such 
 a time. Few remember that the central figure 
 has been an unkind husband, a careless father ; 
 they remember only that he is going away from 
 them into darkness unfathomable, which they 
 can never penetrate till they follow ; that he is 
 theirs, but soon will be theirs no more. 
 
 Then there occurred a little pause ; for the 
 first moment Dr. Beaton, with a lifted finger 
 and eyes suddenly turned upon the others, was 
 about to say, ' All is over,' when a faintly 
 renewed throb of the dying pulse under hi< 
 finger contradicted him. There was a dead 
 calm for a few moments, and then a faint rally. 
 The feverish eager eyes, starting out of their 
 sockets, seemed to calm, and glance with some- 
 thing like a dim perception at John Trevanion 
 and Eosahnd, who approached. Eosalind, 
 entirely overcome by emotion and the terrible 
 excitement of witnessing such an event, dropped 
 down on her knees by the bedside, where with 
 a slight flickering of the eyelids her father's 
 look seemed to follow her. But in the act that 
 look was arrested by the form of his wile, 
 standing always in the same position, waving 
 
 2
 
 196 MADAM. 
 
 the fan, sending wafts of air to him, the last 
 and only thing he now wanted. His eyes 
 steadied then with a certain meaning in them 
 — a last gleam which gradually strengthened. 
 He looked at her fixedly, with what in a person 
 less exhausted would have been a wave of the 
 hand towards her. Then there was a faint 
 movement of the lips. ' John ! ' was it perhaps ? 
 or ' Look ! ' Then the words became more 
 audible. ' She's — good nurse — faithful — Air ? 
 
 — stands — hours — but ' Then the look 
 
 softened a little, the voice grew stronger : ' I'm 
 
 — almost — sorry ' it said. 
 
 For what — for what ? In the intense still- 
 ness every feeble syllable was heard. Only a 
 minute or two more was left to make amends 
 for the cruelty of a life. The spectators held 
 their breath. As for the wife, whose life 
 perhaps hung upon these syllables as much as 
 his did, she never moved or spoke, but went on 
 fanning, fanning, supplying to him these last 
 billows of air for which he laboured. Sud- 
 denly a change came over the dying face, the 
 eyes with all their old eagerness turned to the 
 doctor, asking pitifully — was it for help in the 
 last miserable strain of nature, this terrible 
 effort to die ?
 
 MADAM. 197 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion seemed turned into stone. 
 She stood and fanned after all need was over, 
 solemnly winnowing the cold, cold penetrating 
 air, which was touched with the additional chill 
 of night, in waves towards the still hps which 
 had done with that medium of life. To see her 
 standing there, as if she had fainted or become un- 
 conscious, yet stood at her post still exercising that 
 strange mechanical office, was the most terrible 
 of all. The doctor came round and took her 
 by the arm, and took the fan out of her hand. 
 
 ' There's no more need for that,' he cried 
 in a broken voice ; ' no more need. Let us 
 hope he is gone to fuller air than ours.' 
 
 She was so strained and stupefied that she 
 scarcely seemed to understand this. ' Hush!' 
 she said, pulling it from his hand^ ' I tell you 
 it does him good.' She had recovered the fan 
 again and begun to put it in motion, when her 
 eyes suddenly opened wide and fixed upon the 
 dead face. She looked round upon them all 
 with a great solemnity, yet surprise. ' My 
 husband is dead ! ' she said. 
 
 ' Grace,' said John Trevanion, ' come away. 
 You have done everything up to the last 
 moment. Come now, and rest for the sake of 
 the living. He needs you no more.'
 
 198 MADAM. 
 
 He was himself very much moved. That 
 which had been so long looked for, so often 
 delayed, came now with all the force of a sur- 
 prise. Eosahnd in an agony of tears, with her 
 face hidden in the coverlid ; Madam standing 
 there, tearless, solemn, with alas I he feared, still 
 worse before her than anything she divined ; 
 the young fatherless children outside, the boy 
 at school, the troubles to be gone through, all 
 rushed upon John Trevanion as he stood there. 
 In a moment he who had been the object of all 
 thought had abdicated or been dethroned, and 
 even his brother thought of him no more. ' For 
 the sake of the living,' he repeated, taking his 
 sister-in-law by the arm. The touch of her was 
 like death ; she was cold, frozen where she 
 stood — penetrated by the wintry chill and by 
 the passing of that chiller presence which had 
 gone by her — but she did not resist. She suf- 
 fered him to lead her away. She sank into a 
 chair in the hall, as if she had no longer any 
 power of her own. There slie sat for a little 
 while unmoving, and then cried out suddenly, 
 • For the living ! — for which of the living ? It 
 would be better for the living if you would 
 bury me with him, he and I in one grave.' 
 
 Her voice was almost harsh in this sudden
 
 MADAM. 199 
 
 cry. What was it ? A lie, or the trutli 
 That a woman wlio had been so outraged and 
 tormented should wish to be buried with her 
 husband seemed to John Trevanion a thing im- 
 possible : and yet there was no falsehood in her 
 face. He did not know what to think or say. 
 After a moment he went away and left her alone 
 with her — what? — her grief, her widowhood, 
 her mourning — or was it only a physical frame 
 that could bear no more, the failure of nature 
 altocrether exhausted and worn out ?
 
 200 MADAM, 
 
 CHAPTEE XVT. 
 
 * The mother might have managed better, Eosie, 
 — why wasn't I sent for? I'm the eldest and 
 tlie heir, and I onght to have been here. Poor 
 old papa — he would miss me, I know. He was 
 fond of me because I was the biggest. He 
 used to tell me things. I ought to have been 
 seat for. Why didn't she send for me, Eosa- 
 lind ? ' 
 
 ' I have told you before, Eex. We did not 
 know. When I went out in the afternoon he 
 was better and all going well ; and when I came 
 back — I had only been in the park — he was 
 dying. Oh, you should be rather glad you were 
 not there. He took no notice of anyone, and 
 Death is terrible. I never nnder stood what it 
 WilS ' 
 
 Eeginald was silent for a little. He was 
 svilficiently awestricken evpu now by the sensa- 
 tion of the closed shutters and darkened house. 
 ' That may be,' he said, in a softened voice, ' but
 
 MADAM. 201 
 
 though you did not know, she would know, 
 Eosie. Do you think she wanted me not to be 
 there ? Paissell says ' 
 
 'Don't speak to rae of that woman, Eex. 
 She killed my father ' 
 
 ' Oh, come, Eosie, don't talk nonsense, you 
 know. How could she kill him ? She wanted 
 to tell him something that apparently he ought 
 to have known. It was that that killed him,* 
 said the boy, with decision. 
 
 They were sitting together in one of the 
 dark rooms : Eeginald in the restless state of 
 querulous and petulant uuhappiness into which 
 enforced seclusion, darkness, and the cessation of 
 all active occupation, warp natural sorrow in 
 the mind of a young creature full of life and 
 movement ; Eosahnd in the partially soothed 
 exhaustion of strong but simple natural feeling. 
 When she spoke of her father the tears came ; 
 but yet already this great event was over and 
 her mind was besieged, by moments, with 
 thoughts of the new life to come. There were 
 many things to think of. Would everything go 
 on as before under the familiar roof, or would 
 there be some change ? And as for herself, what 
 was to be done with her ? Would they try to 
 take her irom the side of her mother and send
 
 202 MADAM. 
 
 her away among strangers? Mrs. Trevanion 
 had retired after her husband's death to take 
 the rest she wanted so much. For twenty-four 
 hours no one had seen her, and Jane had not 
 allowed even Eosalind to disturb the perfect 
 quiet. Since then she had appeared again, but 
 very silent and self-absorbed. She was not less 
 affectionate to Eosalind, but seemed further 
 away from her, as if something great and ter- 
 rible divided them. When even the children 
 were taken to their mother they were frightened 
 and chilled by the dark room and the cap which 
 she had put on over her beautiful hair, and 
 were glad when the visit was over and they 
 could escape to their nursery, where there was 
 light, and many things to play with. Some- 
 times children are the most sympathetic of all 
 hving creatures ; but when it is not so, they can 
 be the most hard-hearted. In this case they 
 were impatient of the quiet, and for a long time 
 past had been httle accustomed to be with their 
 mother. When she took the two little ones 
 into her arms, they resigned themelves with 
 looks half of fright at each other, but were very 
 glad, after they had hugged her, to slip down 
 and steal away. Sophy, who was too old for 
 that, paced about and turned over everything.
 
 MADAM. 203 
 
 ' Are those what are called widow's caps, 
 mamma ? Shall you always wear them all your 
 life, like old widow Harvey, or will it only be 
 just for a little while?' In this way Sophy 
 made herself a comfort to her mother. The 
 poor lady would turn her face to the wall and 
 weep, when they hurried away, pleased to get 
 free of her. And when Eeginald came home, 
 he had, after the first burst of childish tears, 
 taken somethins; of the hioii tone of the head 
 of the house, resentful of not having been called 
 in time, and disposed to resist the authority of 
 Uncle John, who was only a younger brother. 
 Madam had not got much comfort from her 
 children, and between her and Eosalind there 
 w^as a distance which wrung the girl's heart, but 
 which she did not know how to surmount. 
 
 ' Don't you know,' Eeginald said, ' that there 
 was something that Eussell had to tell him? 
 She will not tell me what it w^as ; but if it was 
 her duty to tell him, how could it be her 
 fault?' 
 
 ' As soon as mamma is w^ell enough to think 
 of anything, Eussell must go away.' 
 
 ' You are so prejudiced, Eosalind. It does 
 not matter to me ; it is a long time since I 
 had anything to do with her,' said the boy
 
 204 MADAM. 
 
 who was so conscious of being the heir. ' But 
 for the sake of the httle oues I shall object to 
 that.' 
 
 ' You ! ' cried Eosaliiid, with amazement. 
 
 ' You must remember,' said the boy, ' that 
 things are changed now. The mother of course 
 will have it all in her hands (I suppose) for a 
 time. But it is I who am the head. And when 
 she knows that I object ' 
 
 ' Eeginald,' his sister cried ; ' oh, how dare 
 you speak so ? What have you to do with it ? 
 — a boy at school.' 
 
 A flush came over his face. He was half 
 ashamed of himself, yet uplifted by his new 
 honours. ' I may be at school — and not — very 
 old ; but I am Trevanion of Highcourt now. I 
 am the head of the family, whatever Uncle John 
 may say.' 
 
 Eosalind looked at her young brother for 
 some time without saying anything, with an air 
 of surprise. She said at last with a sigh, ' You 
 are very disappointing, Eex. I think most 
 people are. One looks for something so differ- 
 ent. I thought you would be sorry for mamma 
 and think of her above everything, but it is of 
 yourself you are thinking. Trevanion of High- 
 court ! I thought people had the decency to
 
 MADAM. 205 
 
 wait at least until Papa is in the house stiil,' 
 
 she added, with an overflow of tears. 
 
 At this Eeginald, who was not without heart, 
 felt a sudden constriction in his throat, and his 
 eyes filled too. ' I didn't mean,' he said, falter- 
 ing, ' to forget papa.' Then after a pause, he 
 added, ' Mamma, after all, won't be so very 
 much cut up, Eosie. He — bullied her awfully. 
 I wouldn't say a word, but he did, you know. 
 And so I thought perhaps she might get over 
 it — easier ' 
 
 To this argument what could Eosalind reply? 
 It was not a moment to say it, yet it was true. 
 She was confused between the claims of veracity 
 and that most natural superstition of the heart 
 which is wounded by any censure of the dead. 
 She cried a little ; she could not make any reply. 
 Mrs. Trevanion did not show any sign of taking 
 it easily. The occupation of her life was gone. 
 That w^hich had filled all her time and thoughts 
 had been removed entirely from her. If love 
 had survived in her through all that selfishness 
 and cruelty could do to destroy it, such miracles 
 have been known. At all events the change 
 was one to which it was hard to adapt her- 
 self, and the difiiculty, the pain, the disrup- 
 tion of all her habits, even perhaps the unaccus
 
 206 MADAM. 
 
 tomed thrill of freedom, had such a confusincr 
 
 o 
 
 and painful effect upon her as produced all the 
 appearances of grief. This was what Eosalind 
 felt, wondering within herself whether, after all 
 she had borne, her mother would in reality ' get 
 over it easier,' as Keginald said, a suggestion 
 which plunged her into fresh fields of unaccus- 
 tomed thought when Eeginald left her to make 
 a half-clandestine visit to the stables ; for neither 
 grief nor decorum could quench in the boy's 
 heart the natural need of something to do. 
 Eosalind longed to go and throw herself at her 
 mother's feet, and claim her old place as closest 
 counsellor and confidant. But then she paused, 
 feeling that there was a natural barrier between 
 them. If it should prove true that her father's 
 death was a relief to his oppressed and insulted 
 wife, that was a secret which never, never could 
 be breathed in Eosahnd's ear. It seemed to the 
 girl in the absoluteness of her youth as if this 
 must always stand between them, a bar to their 
 intercourse which once had no barrier.-^, no sub- 
 jects that might not be freely discussed. When 
 she came to think of it, she remembered that 
 her father never had been touched upon as a 
 subject of discussion between them ; but that 
 indeed was only natural. For Eosalind had
 
 MADAM. 207 
 
 known no other phase of fatherhood, and had 
 grown up to beheve that this was the natural 
 development. When men were strong and well, 
 no doubt they were more genial ; but sick and 
 suffering, what so natural as that wives and 
 daughters, and more specially wives, should be 
 subject to all their caprices? These were the 
 conditions under which life had appeared to her 
 from her earliest consciousness, and she had 
 never learned to criticise them. She had been 
 indignant at times and taken violently Mrs. 
 Trevanion's side ; but with the principle of the 
 life Eosahnd had never quarrelled. She had 
 known nothing else. Now, however, in the light 
 of these revelations, and the penetration of ordi- 
 nary light into the conditions of her own exist- 
 ence, she had begun to understand better. But 
 the awakening had been very painful. Life 
 itself had stopped short and its thread was 
 broken. She could not tell in what w^ay it w^as 
 to be pieced together again. 
 
 Nothing could be more profoundly serious 
 than the aspect of Uncle John as he went and 
 came. It is not cheerful work at any time to 
 make all the dismal arrangements, to provide 
 for the clearing away of a life with all its re- 
 mains, and make room for the nev; on the
 
 208 MADAM. 
 
 top of tlie old. But something more than this 
 was in John Trevanion's face. He was one of 
 the executors of his brother's will ; he and old 
 Mr. Blake, the lawyer, who had come over to 
 Highcourt, had held what seemed a very agi- 
 tating consuhation in the hbrary, from which the 
 old lawyer came forth ' looking as if he had 
 been crying,' Sophy had reported to her sister. 
 ' Do gentlemen ever cry ? ' that inquisitive young 
 person had added. Mr. Blake would see none 
 of the family, would not take luncheon, or pause 
 for a moment after he had completed his busi- 
 ness, but kept his dog- cart standing at the door, 
 and hurried off as soon as ever the conference was 
 over, which seemed to make John Trevanion's 
 countenance still more solemn. As Eeginakl 
 went out. Uncle John came into the room in 
 which Eosalind was sitting. There was about 
 him, too, a little querulousness, produced by the 
 darkened windows and the atmosphere of the 
 shut-up house. 
 
 ' Where is that boy ? ' he said, with a little 
 impatience. ' Couldn't you keep him with you 
 for once in a way, Eosalind ? There is no 
 keeping him still or out of mischief. I did 
 hope that you could have exercised a little in- 
 fluence over him — at this moment, at least.'
 
 MADAM. 209 
 
 'I wish I knew what to do, Uncle John. 
 Unless I amuse him I cannot do anything ; and 
 how am I to amuse him just now ? ' 
 
 '" My dear,' said Uncle John, in the causeless 
 irritation of the moment, ' a woman must learn 
 to do that whether it is possible or not. Better 
 that you sliould exert yom^self a little than that 
 he should drift among the grooms, and amuse 
 himself in that way. If tliis was a time to 
 philosophise, I might say that's why women in 
 general have such hard lives, for we always 
 expect the girls to keep the boys out of mis- 
 chief, without asking how they are to do it.' 
 When he had said this, he came and threw 
 himself down wearily in a chair close to the 
 little table at which Eosahnd was sitting. 
 ' Eosie,' he said, in a changed voice, ' we have 
 got a terrible business before us. I don't know 
 how we are to get out of it. My heart fails 
 me when I think ' 
 
 Here his voice stopped, and he threw him- 
 self forward upon the table, leaning his elbow 
 on it, and covering his face with his hand. 
 
 ' You mean — Wednesday, Uncle John .^ ' 
 She put out her hand and shd it into his which 
 rested on the table, or rather placed it, small 
 and white, upon the brown clenched hand, wiih 
 
 VOL. ?. p
 
 210 MADAM. 
 
 the veins standing out upon it, with which he 
 had almost struck the table. Wednesday was 
 the day appointed for the funeral, to which, as 
 a matter of course, half the county was coming. 
 She pressed her uncle's hand softly with hers. 
 There was a faint movement of surprise in her 
 mind that lie, so strong, so capable of every- 
 thing that had to be done, should feel it so. 
 
 He gave a groan. ' Of what comes after,' 
 he said. ' I can't tell you w^hat a terrible thing 
 we have to do. God help that poor woman. 
 God forgive her if she has done wrong, for she 
 has a cruel punishment to bear.' 
 
 'Mamma?' cried Eosalind, with blanched 
 lips. 
 
 He made no distinct reply, but sat there 
 silent, with a sort of despair in the pose of 
 every limb. ' God knows what we are all to 
 do,' he said, ' for it will affect us all. You, 
 poor child ; you will have to judge for yourself. 
 I don't mean to say or suggest anything. You 
 will have to show what mettle is in you, Eosa- 
 lind ; you as well as the rest.' 
 
 ' What is this terrible thing ? ' said Eosalind. 
 'Oh, Uncle John, can't you tell me? You 
 make me wretched ; I fancy I don't know 
 what.'
 
 MADAM. 211 
 
 rlohn Trevanioii raised iiiaiself from the 
 table. His face was quite colourless. ' Xotbing 
 that you can fear will be so bad as the reality,' 
 he said, ' I ca«not tell you now. It would be 
 wTong to say anything till she knows ; but I am 
 as weak as a child, Eosie, I w^ant your hand 
 to help me ; poor little thing, there is not much 
 strength in it. That hour with old Blake thi- 
 morninor has been too much both for him and 
 
 me. 
 
 ' Is it somethinfj in the v/ill ? ' cried Pio.^a- 
 
 lind, almost in a whisper. He gave a httle nod 
 of absent ; and got up and began to pace about 
 the room, as if he had lost poAver to control 
 himself. 
 
 ' Charley Blake will not show. He is 
 ashamed of his share in it ; but I suppose he 
 could do nothing. It has made him ill, the 
 father says. There's something — in Dante, is 
 it ? — about men being possessed by an evil 
 spirit after their real soul is gone. I wonder if 
 that is true. It would almost be a sort of relief 
 to beheve ' 
 
 ' Uncle John, you are not speaking of my 
 father ? ' 
 
 ' Don't ask any questions, Eosalind. Haven't 
 I told you I can't answer you ? The fact is, I 
 
 P '2
 
 212 MADAM. 
 
 am distracted with one thing and another, all 
 the business coming upon me, and I can't tell 
 what I am saying. Where is that boy ? ' 
 
 ' I think lie has gone to the stables, Uncle 
 John. It is hard upon him, being always used 
 to the open air. He doesn't know what to do. 
 There is nothing to amuse him.' 
 
 ' Oh, to be sure, it is necessary that his 
 young lordship should be amused,' cried John, 
 with something like a snarl of disgust. ' Can't 
 you manage to keep him in the house at least, 
 with your feminine influence that we hear so 
 much of .^ Better anywhere than among those 
 grooms, hearing tales perhaps — Eosie, forgive 
 me,' he cried, coming up to her suddenly, 
 stooping over her and kissing her, ' if I snap 
 and snarl even at you, my dear ; but I am 
 altogether distracted, and don't know what I 
 am saying or doing. Only, for God's sake, 
 dance or sing, or play cards, or anything, it 
 does not matter what you do — it will be a pious 
 office ; only keep him indoors, where he will 
 hear no gossip ; that would be the last aggrava- 
 tion — or go and take him out for a walk, it 
 will be better for you both to get into the 
 fresh air.'
 
 ilADAM. 213 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 Thus a whole week of darkness and depression 
 passtid away. 
 
 Mr. Trevanion was a ^reat personage in the 
 county. It was fit that all honour should be 
 done him. All the greatest persons in the 
 neighbourhood had to be convened to conduct 
 him in due state to his other dwelling among 
 the marbles of the mausoleum which his fathers 
 had built. It had been necessary to arrange a 
 day that would suit everybody, so that nothing 
 should be subtracted from this concluding 
 grandeur ; and accordingly Highcourt remained, 
 so to speak, in its suit of sables, with blinds 
 drawn down and shutters closed as if darkness 
 had veiled this part of the earth. And indeed, 
 as it was the end of November, the face of the 
 sky was dim with clouds, and heavy mists 
 gathered over the trees, adding a deeper gloom 
 to the shut-up house within. Life seemed to 
 be congealed in the silent rooms, except when
 
 214 MADAM. 
 
 broken by such an outburst of impassioned 
 feeling as that which John Trevanion had be- 
 trayed to Eosahnd. Perhaps this reheved him 
 a httle, but it put a burden of vague misery 
 upon her which her youth was quite unequal 
 to bear. She awaited the funeral with feverish 
 excitement, and a terror to which she could 
 give no form. 
 
 The servants in a house are the only gainers 
 on such an occasion : they derive a kind of 
 pleasure from such a crisis of family fate. 
 Blinds are not necessarily drawn down in the 
 housekeeper's room, and the servants' hall is 
 exempt from those heavier decorums which add 
 a gloom abovestairs ; and there is a great deal to 
 talk about in the tragedy that is past and in 
 the new arrangements that are to come, while 
 all the details of a grand funeral give more 
 gratification to the humbler members of the 
 family, whose hearts are little affected, than 
 they can be expected to do to those more im- 
 mediately concerned. There was a stir of 
 sombre pleasure throughout the house in pre- 
 paration for the great ceremony which was 
 being talked of over all the county : though 
 Dorrington and his subordinates bore counte- 
 nances more solemn than it is possible to por-
 
 MAD.iM. 215 
 
 tray, even that solemnity was part of the gloomy 
 festival, and the current of life below was 
 quickened by the many comers and goers 
 whose office it was to provide everything that 
 could show ' respect ' to the dead. Undertakers 
 are not cheerful persons to think of, but they 
 brought with them a great deal of commotion 
 which was far from disagreeable, much eating 
 and drinking and additional activity everywhere. 
 New mourning hveries, dresses for the maids, 
 a flutter of newne-is and general acquisition 
 lightened the bustle that was attendant upon 
 the greater event. Why should some score of 
 people mourn because one man of bad temper, 
 seen perhaps once or twice a day by the 
 majority, by some never seen at all, had been 
 removed from the midst of them ? It was not 
 possible ; and as everything that is out of the 
 way is more or less a pleasure to unembarrassed 
 minds, there was a thrill of subdued satisfaction, 
 excitement, and general complacency, forming 
 an unfit yet not unnatural background to the 
 gloom and anxiety above. The family as- 
 sembled at their sombre meals, where there 
 was little conversation kept up, and then dis- 
 persed to their rooms, to such occupations as 
 they could find, conversation seeming impos-
 
 216 MADAM. 
 
 sible. In any case a party at table must either 
 be cheerful — which could not be looked for — 
 or be silent, for such conversation as is natural 
 while still the father lies dead in the house is 
 not to be maintained by a mixed company 
 around a common meal. 
 
 The doctor, who of course was one of the 
 party, did his best to introduce a little variety 
 into the monotonous meetings, but John Tre- 
 vanion's sombre countenance at the foot of the 
 table was enough to have silenced any man, 
 even had not the silence of Mrs. Trevanion and 
 the tendency of Eosalind to sudden tears, been 
 enouf^h to keep him in check. Dr. Beaton, 
 however, w^as Eeginald's only comfort. They 
 kept up a running talk, which perhaps even to 
 the others was grateful as covering the general 
 gloom. Eeginald had been much subdued by 
 hearino" that he was to return to school as soon 
 as the funeral was over. He had found very 
 little sympathy with his claims anywhere, and 
 he was very glad to fall back upon the doctor. 
 Indeed if Highcourt was to be so dull as this, 
 Eex could not but think school w^as far better. 
 Of course I never meant,' he said to his sister, 
 ' to give up school — a fellow can't do that. It 
 looks as if he had been sent away. And now
 
 MADAM. 217 
 
 there's those tiresome examinations for every- 
 thing, even the Guards.' 
 
 ' We shall be very dull for a long time,' 
 said Rosalind. ' How could it be possible other- 
 wise? But you will cheer us up when you 
 come home for the holidays ; and oh, Eex, you 
 must always stand by mamma ! ' 
 
 ' By mamma ! ' Eex said with some surprise. 
 ' Why she will be very well off — uetter off than 
 any of us.' He liad not any chivalrous feeling 
 about his mother. Such a feeling we all think 
 should spring up spontaneously in a boy's 
 bosom, especially if he has seen his mother ill- 
 used and oppressed ; but as a matter of fact 
 this assumption is by no means to be depended 
 on. A boy is at least as likely to copy a father 
 who rails against women, and against the one 
 woman in particular Avho is his wife, as to follow 
 a vague general rule, which he has never seen 
 put in practice, of respect and tender reverence 
 for w^oman. Eeginald had known his mother 
 as the doer of everything, the endurer of every- 
 thing. He had never heard that she had any 
 weakness to be considered, and had never con- 
 templated the idea that she should be put upon 
 a pedestal and worshipped ; and if he did not 
 hit by iubight of nature upon some happy
 
 218 MADAM. 
 
 medium between the two, it was not perhaps his 
 fault. In the meantime, at all events, no sen- 
 timent on the subject inspired his boyish bosom. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion, as these days went on, 
 resumed gradually her former habits, so far as 
 was possible in view of the fact that all her 
 married life had been devoted to her husband's 
 service, and that she had dropped one by one 
 every pursuit that separated her from him. The 
 day before the funeral she came into the little 
 morning room in which Eosalind was sitting, 
 and drew a chair to the fire. ' I had almost 
 forgotten the existence of this room,' she said. 
 ' So many things have dropped away from me. 
 I forget what I used to do. What used I to 
 do, Eosalind, before ' 
 
 She looked up with a pitiful smile. And 
 indeed it seemed to both of them as if they had 
 not sat quietly together, undisturbed, for years. 
 
 ' You have always done — everything for 
 everybody — as long as I can remember,' said 
 Eosalind, with tender enthusiasm. 
 
 She shook her head. ' I don't think it has 
 come to much use. I have been thinking over 
 my life, over and over, these few days. It has 
 not been very successful, Eosalind. Something 
 has always spoiled my best efforts. I wonder
 
 MADAM. 219 
 
 if other people feel the same ? Not you, my 
 dear, you know nothing about it : you must 
 not answer with your protestations. Looking 
 back, I can see how it has always failed some- 
 how. It is a curious thing to stand still, so 
 living as I am, and look back upon my life, and 
 sum it up as if it were past.' 
 
 ' It is because a chapter of it is past,' said 
 Eosalind. ' Oh, mamma, I do not wonder I 
 And you have stood at your post till the last 
 moment ; no wonder you feel as if everything 
 were over.' 
 
 ' Yes, I stood at my post : but perhaps 
 another kind of woman would have soothed 
 him when I irritated him. Your father — was 
 not kind to me, Eosalind ' 
 
 The girl rose and put her arms round Mrs. 
 Trevanion's neck and kissed her. ' No mother,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' He was not kind. And yet, now that he 
 has gone out of my life, I feel as if nothing was 
 left. People will think me a hypocrite. They 
 will say I am glad to be free. But it is not so, 
 Eosalind, remember : man and wife, even when 
 they wound each other every day, cannot be 
 nothing to each other. My occupation is gone 
 — I feel like a wreck cast upon the shore.'
 
 220 MADAM. 
 
 ' Mother ! liow can 3^011 say that when we 
 are all here, your children, who can do nothing 
 without you ? ' 
 
 ' My children — which children? ' she said 
 with a wildness in her eyes as if she did not 
 know what she was saying ; and then she 
 returned to her metaphor like one thinking 
 aloud ; ' like a wreck — that perhaps a fierce 
 high sea may seize again, a high tide, and drag 
 out upon the waves once more. I wonder if I 
 could beat and buffet those waves again as I 
 used to do, and fight for my life ' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, how could that ever be ? — 
 there is no sea here.' 
 
 ' No, no sea — one gets figurative when one 
 is in great trouble — what your father used to 
 call theatrical, Eosalind. He said very sharp 
 things — o]i, things that cut like a knife. But 
 I was not without fault any more than he ; there 
 is one matter in which I have not kept faith 
 with him. I should like to tell you, to see 
 what you think. 1 did not quite keep faith with 
 him. I made him a promise, and — 1 did not 
 keep it. He had some reason, though he did 
 not know it, in all the angry things he said.' 
 
 Eosalind did not know what to reply ; her 
 heart beat high with expectation. She took
 
 MADAM. 221 
 
 her step-mother's hand between hers, and waited, 
 her very ears tinglhig, for the next word. 
 
 ' I have had no success in that,' Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion said, in the same dreary way, ' in that 
 no more than the rest. I have not done well 
 with anything ; except,' she said, looking up 
 with a faint smile and brightening of her coun- 
 tenance, ' you, Eosalind, my own dear, who 
 are none of mine.' 
 
 ' I am all of yours , mother,' cried the girl ; 
 ' don't disown me, for I shall always claim you 
 — always. You are all the mother I have ever 
 known.' 
 
 Then they held each other close for a mo- 
 ment, clinging to each other. Could grief have 
 appeared more natural ? the wife and daughter, 
 in their deep mourning, comforting each other, 
 taking a little courage from their union : yet 
 how many strange unknown elements were 
 involved. But Mrs. Trevanion said no more 
 of the confidence she had seamed on the point 
 of giving. She rose shortly after and went 
 away, saying she was restless and could not do 
 anything or even stay still in one place. ' I 
 walk about my room and frighten Jane, but 
 that is all I can do. 
 
 * Stay here, mamma, with me, and walk
 
 222 MADAM. 
 
 about, or do what you please. I understand 
 you better than Jane.' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion shook her head, but 
 whether it was to contradict that last assertion 
 or merely because she could not remain, it was 
 impossible to say. ' To-morrow,' she said, 
 ' will be the end, and, perhaps, the beginning. 
 I feel as if all would be over to-morrow. After 
 that, Eosalind ' 
 
 She W'Cnt away vvdth the w^ords on her lips. 
 ' After to-morrow.' And to Eosalind, too, it 
 seemed as if her powers of endurance were 
 nearly ended, and to-morrow would fill up the 
 sum. But then, what was that further myste- 
 rious trouble which Uncle John feared ? 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion appeared again to dinner, 
 which was a very brief meal, but retired imme- 
 diately ; and the house was full of preparation 
 for to-morrow — every one having or seeming 
 to have something to do. Eosalind was left 
 alone. She could not go and sit in the great 
 vacant drawling-room, all dimly lighted, and 
 looking as if some party of the dead might be 
 gathered about the vacant hearth, or in the 
 hall, where now and then some one of the busy 
 nameless train of to-morrow's ceremony would 
 steal past. And it was too early to go to bed.
 
 MADAM. 223 
 
 She wrapt herself in a great shawl, and opening 
 the glass door stole out into the nio^ht. The 
 sweeping of the chill night air, the rustle of the 
 trees, the stars twinkUng overhead, gave more 
 companionship than the silence and gloom 
 within. She stood outside on the broad steps 
 leaning against one of the pillars, till she got 
 chilled through and through, and began to 
 think, with a kind of pleasure, of the glow of 
 the fire. 
 
 But as she turned to go in, a great and 
 terrible shock awaited her. She had just come 
 away from the pillar which altogether ob- 
 literated her shght dark figure in its shadow 
 and gave her a sort of invisibility, when the 
 glass door opened at a touch, and someone 
 else came out. They met face to face in the 
 darkness. Eosalind uttered a stifled cry ; the 
 other only by a pant of quickened breathing 
 acknowledged the alarm. She was gliding 
 past ^oiselessly, when Eosalind, with sudden 
 courage, caught her by the cloak in which she 
 was wrapped ixom head to foot. ' Oh, not to- 
 night ! oh, not, to-night ! ' she said, mth a voice 
 of anguish ; ' for God's sake, mother, mother, 
 not to night ! ' 
 
 There was a pause, and no reply but the
 
 224 MADAM. 
 
 quick breathing, as if the passer by had some 
 hope of concealing herself. But then Madam 
 spoke in a low hurried tone. ' I must go ; I 
 must ! but not for any pleasure of mine ! 
 
 Eosalind clung to her cloak with a kind of 
 desperation. ' Another time,' she said, ' but not, 
 oh, not to-night.' 
 
 ' Let me go. God bless my dear. I cannot 
 help it. I do only what I must. Eosalind, 
 let me go,' she said. 
 
 And next moment the dark figure glided 
 swiftly, mysteriously among the bushes to- 
 wards the park. Eosalind came in with de- 
 spair in her heart. It seemed to her that 
 nothing more was left to expect or hope for. 
 Her mother, the mistress of this sad house, the 
 wife of the dead who still lay there awaiting 
 his burial. At no other moment perhaps 
 would the discovery have come upon her with 
 such a pang ; and yet at any moment what 
 could it be but misery ? Jane was watching 
 furtively on the stairs to see that her mistress's 
 exit had been unnoticed, She was in the 
 
 secret, the confidant, the But Eosalind's 
 
 young soul knew no words ; her heart seemed 
 to die within her. She could do or hope no 
 more.
 
 MADAM. 225 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIl. 
 
 All was dark ; the stars twinkling ineffectually 
 in the sky, so far off, hke spectators merely, or 
 distant sentinels, not helpers ; the trees in all 
 their winter nakedness rustling overhead, in- 
 terrupting the vision of these watchers ; the 
 grass, soaked with rain and the heavy breath 
 of winter, shpping below the hurrying feet. 
 There w^as no sound, but only a sense of move- 
 ment in the night as she passed. The most 
 eager gaze could scarcely have made out what 
 it was — a shadow, the flitting of a cloud, a 
 thrill of motion among the dark shrubs and 
 bushes, as if a faint breeze had got up suddenly 
 and was blowing by. At that hour there was 
 very little chance of meeting anybody in those 
 damp and melancholy glades, but the passenger 
 avoided all open spaces until she had got to 
 some distance from the house. Even then as 
 she hurried across her muffled figure was quite 
 unrecognisable. It was enough to raise a 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 MADAM. 
 
 popular belief that the park was haunted, but 
 no more. She went on till she came to a thick 
 copse about half-way between the house and 
 the village. Then another figure made a step 
 out of the thick cover to receive her, and the 
 two together withdrew entirely into its shade. 
 
 What was said there, what passed, no one, 
 even though skirting the copse closely, could 
 have told. The whisperers, hidden in its shade, 
 were not without an alarm from time to time : 
 for the path to the village was not far off, and 
 sometimes a messenger from the house would 
 pass at a distance whistling to keep his courage 
 up, or talking loudly if there were two, for the 
 place was supposed to be ghostly. On this 
 occasion the faint movement among the bare 
 branches would stop, and all be as still as death. 
 Then a faint thrill of sound, of human breath- 
 ing returned. The conversation was rapid. 
 ' At last ! ' the other said ; ' do you know I 
 have waited here for hours these last nights ? ' 
 
 ' You knew it was impossible. How could I 
 leave the house in such circumstances ? Even 
 now I have outraged decency by coming. I 
 have gone against nature ' 
 
 ' Not for the first time,' was the answer, 
 with a faint laugh.
 
 MADAM. Tli 
 
 '" K so, you should be the last to reproach 
 me — for it was for you.' 
 
 ' Ah, for me ! that is one way of putting it. 
 Like all those spurious sacrifices if one examined 
 
 a little deeper You have had the best of 
 
 it anyhow.' 
 
 ' All this,' she said with a tone of despair, 
 ' has been said so often before. It was not for 
 this you insisted on my coming. What is it ? 
 Tell me quickly, and let me go before I am 
 found out. Found out ! I am foimd out' 
 already. I dare not ask myself what they 
 think.' 
 
 ' Whatever they think you may be sure it 
 is not the truth. Xobody could guess at the 
 truth. It is too unnatural, that I should be 
 lurking here in wretchedness, and you ' 
 
 ' Eut you are comfortable,' she said quickly. 
 ' Jane told me ' 
 
 ' Comfortable according to Jane's ideas, 
 which are different from mine. What I want 
 is to know what you are going to do ; wliat is 
 to become of me? Will you do me justice 
 now, at last ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Edmund, what justice have you made 
 possible ? What can I do but implore you to 
 go ? Are not you in danger every day ? ' 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 MADAM. 
 
 ' Less here than anywhere ; though I un- 
 derstand there have been inquiries made ; the 
 constable in the village shows a degree of 
 interest ' 
 
 'Edmund,' she cried, seizing him by the 
 arm, ' for God's sake, go.' 
 
 ' And not bring shame upon you, Madam ? 
 Why should I mind ? If I have gone wrong, 
 whose fault is it ? You must take that respon- 
 sibility one time or other. And now that you 
 are free ' 
 
 ' I cannot defy the law,' she said with a 
 miserable moan. ' I can't deliver you from 
 what you have done. God knows, though it 
 had been to choose between you and every- 
 thing else, I would have done you justice, as 
 you say, as soon as it was possible. But to 
 what use now ? It w^ould only direct attention 
 
 to you — bring the ' She shuddered, and 
 
 said no more. 
 
 ' The police, you mean,' he replied with a 
 careless laugh. ' And no great harm either, 
 except to you ; for of course all my antecedents 
 would be published. But there are such 
 things as disguises, and I am clever at a 
 make-up. You might receive me, and no one 
 would be the wiser. The cost of a new outfit,.
 
 MADA3I. 229 
 
 a new name — you might choose me a nice one. 
 Of all places in the world, a gentleman's house 
 in the country is the last where they would 
 look for me. And then if there was any 
 danger you could swear I was ' 
 
 ' Oh, Edmund, Edmund, spare me ! I 
 cannot do this — to live in a deception under 
 my children's eyes.' 
 
 ' Your children's eyes ! ' he said, and 
 laughed. The keen derision of his tone went 
 to her very heart. 
 
 ' I am used to hear everything said to me 
 that can be said to a woman,' she said quickly, 
 ' and if there was anything wanting you make 
 it u]). I have had full measure, heaped up and 
 running over. But there is no time for argu- 
 ment now. All that might have been possible 
 in other circumstances ; now there is no safety 
 for you but in getting away. You know this, 
 surely, as well as I do. The anxiety you have 
 kept me in it is impossible to tell. I have been 
 calmer since he is s^one : it matters less. But 
 for your own sake ' 
 
 The other voice said, with a change of tone, 
 ' I am lost anyhow. I shall do nothing for my 
 own sake ' 
 
 • Oh, Edmund, Edmund, do not break my
 
 230 MADAM. 
 
 heart — at your age ! If you will only set your 
 mind to better ways, everything can be put 
 right again. As soon as I know you are safe I 
 will take it all in hand. I have not been able 
 hitherto, and now I am afraid to direct obser- 
 vation upon you. But only go away ; let me 
 know you are safe : and you have my promise 
 I will pay anything, whatever they ask.' 
 
 ' Misprision of felony ! They won't do that ; 
 they know better. If there is any paying,' he 
 said, with his careless laugh, ' it had much 
 better be to me.' 
 
 ' You shall be provided,' she said breath- 
 lessly, ' if you w^ill only thmk of your own safety 
 and go away.' 
 
 * Are you sure, then, of having come into 
 your fortune ? Has the old fellow shown so 
 much confidence in you ? All the better for 
 me. Your generosity in that way will always 
 be fully appreciated. But I would not trouble 
 about Liverpool ; they're used to such losses. 
 It does them no harm, only makes up for the 
 salaries they ought to pay their clerks and 
 don't.' 
 
 ' Don't speak so lightly, Edmund. You 
 cannot feel it. To make up to those you have 
 — injured '
 
 MADAM. 231 
 
 'Eobbed, if you like, but not injured. 
 That's? quite another matter. I don't care a 
 straw for this part of the business. But money,' 
 he said, ' money is always welcome here.' 
 
 A sigh which was almost a moan forced it- 
 self from her breast. ' You shall have what 
 you want,' she said. ' But, Edmund, for God's 
 sake, if you care either for yourself or me, go 
 away.' 
 
 ' You would do a great deal better to intro- 
 duce me here. It would be safer than Spain. 
 And leave it to me to make my way. A good 
 name — you can take one out of the first 
 novel that turns up — and a few good suits of 
 clothes. I might be a long-lost relative come 
 to console you in your distress. That would 
 suit me admirably. I much prefer it to going 
 away. You should see how well 1 would fill 
 the post of comforter ' 
 
 ' Don't ! ' she cried ; ' don't ! ' holding out 
 her hands in an appeal for mercy. 
 
 ' Why ? ' he said, ' it is far the most feasible 
 way, and the safest, if you would but think. 
 Who would look for an absconded clerk at 
 Highcourt, m the midst of family mourning 
 and all the rest of it ? And I have views of 
 my own Come, think it over. In former
 
 232 MADAM. 
 
 times I allow it would have been impossible, 
 but now you are free.' 
 
 ' I will not,' she said, suddenly raising her 
 head. • I have done much, but there are some 
 things that are too much. Understand me, I 
 will not. In no conceivable circumstances, 
 whatever may happen. Eather will I leave 
 you to your fate.' 
 
 ' What ! ' he said, ' and bring shame and 
 ruin on yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I do not care. I am desperate. Much, 
 ]nuch would I do to make up for my neglect 
 of you, if you can call it neglect ; but not this. 
 Listen ! I will not do it. It is not to be men- 
 tioned again. I will make any sacrifice, ex- 
 cept of truth — except of truth ! ' 
 
 ' Of truth ! ' he said, with a sneer ; but 
 then was silent, evidently convinced by her 
 tone. He added, after a time, ' It is all your 
 fault. What was to be expected ? I have 
 never had a chance. It is just that you should 
 bear the brunt, for it is your fault.' 
 
 ' I acknowledge it,' she said ; ' I have failed 
 in everything ; and whatever I can do to atone 
 I will do it. Edmund, oh listen ! Go away. 
 You are not safe here. You risk everything, 
 even my power to help you. You must go,
 
 MADAM. 233 
 
 you must go,' she added, seizing him firmly by 
 the arm iu her vehemence ; ' there is no alter- 
 native. You shall have money, but go, go I 
 Promise me that you will go.' 
 
 ' If you use force ' he said, freeing him- 
 self roughly from her grasp. 
 
 ' Force ? what force have I against you ? 
 It is you who force me to come here and 
 risk everything. If I am discovered, God help 
 me, on the eve of my husband's funeral, how 
 am I to have the means of doing anything for 
 you ? You will understand that. Y^ou shall 
 have the money ; but promise me to go.' 
 
 ' You are very vehement,' he said. Then, 
 after another pause, ' That is strong, I allow. 
 Bring me the money to-morrow night, and we 
 shall see.' 
 
 ' I will send Jane.' 
 
 ' I don't want Jane. Bring it yourself, or 
 there is not. another word to be said.' 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion got back, as she thought, 
 unseen to the house. There was nobody in the 
 hall when she opened noiselessly the glass 
 door, and flung down the cloak she had worn 
 among the wraps that were always there. She 
 went upstairs with her usual stately step ; but 
 when she had safely reached the shelter of her
 
 234 MADAM. 
 
 own room, she fell into the arms of the anxious 
 Jane, who had been waiting in miserable sus- 
 pense, fearing discovery in every sound. She 
 did not faint. Nerves strong and highly braced 
 to all conclusions, and a brain yet more vigorous, 
 still kept her vitality unimpaired, and no mer- 
 ciful cloud came over her mind to soften what 
 she had to bear : there are some to whom 
 unconsciousness is a thing never accorded — 
 scarcely even in sleep. But for a moment she 
 lay upon the shoulder of her faithful servant, 
 getting some strength from the contact of heart 
 with heart. Jane knew everything ; she re- 
 quired no explanation. She held her mistress 
 close, supporting her in arms that had never 
 foiled her, giving the strength of two to the one 
 who was in deadly peril. After a time Mrs. 
 Trevanion roused herself. She sat down shiver- 
 ing in the chair which Jane placed for her be- 
 fore the fire. Warmth has a soothing effect 
 upon misery. There was a sort of restoration 
 in it and possibility of cahii. She told all that 
 had passed to the faithful woman who had 
 stood by her in all the passages of her life 
 — her confidant, her go-between : other and 
 worse names, if worse can be, had been ere 
 now expended upon Jane.
 
 MADAM. 235 
 
 ' Once more,' Madam said, with a long sigh, 
 ' once more ; and then it is to be over, or so 
 he says at least. On the night of my husband's 
 
 funeral day; on the night before AVhat 
 
 could anyone think of me, if it were known ? 
 And how^ can I tell that it is not known ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear Madam, let us hope for the best,' 
 said Jane. ' Besides, who has any right to find 
 fault now? Whatever you choose to do, you 
 have a right to do it. The only one that had 
 any right to complain ' 
 
 'And the only one,' said Mrs. Trevanion, 
 mth sudden energy, ' who had no right to com- 
 plain.' Then she sank back again into her chair. 
 ' I care nothing for other people,' she said ; ' it 
 is myself. I feel the misery of it in myself. 
 This night, of all others, to expose myself — and 
 to-morrow\ I think my punishment is more 
 than any w^oman should have to bear.' 
 
 ' Oh, Madam, do not think of it as a punish- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' As what, then — a duty? But one imphes 
 the other. God help us. If 1 could but hope 
 that after this all w^ould be over, at least for the 
 time. I have always been afraid of to-morrow ; 
 I cannot tell why. Not because of the grave 
 and the ceremony : but with a kind of dread as
 
 236 MADAM. 
 
 if there was something in it unforeseen, some- 
 thing new. Perhaps it is this last meeting which 
 has been weighing upon me — this last meeting, 
 which will be a parting, too, perhaps for 
 ever ' 
 
 She paused for a moment, and then burst 
 forth into tears. ' I ought to be thankful. That 
 i's the only thing to be desired. But when I 
 think of all that might have been, and of what 
 is — of my life all gone between the one who 
 has been my tyrant, and the other — the other 
 against whom I have sinned. And that one has 
 died in anger, and the other — oh, the other ! ' 
 
 It was to Jane's faithful bosom that she 
 tamed again to stifle the sobs which would not 
 be restrained. Jane stood supporting her, 
 weeping silently, patting with pathetic help- 
 lessness her mistress's shoulder. ' Oh, Madam,' 
 she said, ' who can tell ? his heart may be 
 touched at the last.'
 
 MADAM. 23 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Next cla}^ there was a great concourse of peo])le 
 at Highcourt, disturbing the echoes which had 
 lain so silent during that week of gloom, 
 Carriages with the finest blazons, quartered 
 and coroneted, men of the greatest importance, 
 peers, and those commoners who hold their heads 
 higher than any recent peers, M.P.'s, the lord 
 lieutenant and his deputy, everything that was 
 noted and eminent in those parts. The pro- 
 ces>ion was endless, sweeping through the park 
 towards the fine old thirteenth-century church, 
 which made the village notable, and in which 
 the Trevanion chantry, though a century later 
 in date, was the finest part ; though the dark 
 opening in the vault, canopied over with fine 
 sculptured work, and all that pious art could 
 do to make the last resting-place beautiful, 
 opened, black as any common grave, for the 
 passage of the departed. There was an un- 
 usual band of clergy gathered in their white
 
 238 MADAM. 
 
 robes to do honour to the man who had given 
 half of them their livings, and all the villagers, 
 and various visitors from the neighbouring town, 
 shopkeepers who had rejoiced in his patronage, 
 and small gentry to whom Madam had given 
 brevet rank by occasional notice. Before the 
 procession approached, a little group of ladies, 
 in crape from head to foot and closely veiled, 
 were led in by the curate reverently through 
 a side door. A murmur ran through the 
 gathering crowd that it was Madam herself 
 who walked first, with her head bowed, not 
 seeing or desiring the curate's anxiously offered 
 arm. The village had heard a rumour of trouble 
 at the great house, and something about Madam, 
 which had made the elders shake their heads, 
 and remind each other that she was a foreigner 
 aud not of these parts, which accounted for any- 
 thing that might be wrong ; while the strangers 
 who had also heard that there was a something, 
 craned their necks to see her through the old 
 ironwork of the chancel screen, behind which 
 the ladies were introduced. Many people paused 
 in the midst of the service, and dropped their 
 prayer-books to gaze again, and wonder what 
 she was thinking now, if slie had indeed, as 
 people said, been guilty. How must she feel
 
 MADAM. 239 
 
 when she heard the deep tones of the priest, 
 and the organ peahng out its Amens. ' Blessed 
 are the dead that die in the Lord.' Had he 
 forgiven her before he died ? Was she broken 
 down with remorse and shame, or was she 
 rejoicing in her heart, behind her crape veil, 
 in her freedom? It must not be supposed, 
 because of this general curiosity, that Madam 
 Trevanion had lost her place in the world, or 
 would not have the cards of the county showered 
 upon her with inquiries after her health from all 
 quarters ; but only that there was ' a something ' 
 which gave piquancy, such as does not usually 
 belong to such a melancholy ceremonial, to the 
 great function of the day. The most of the 
 audience, in fact, sympathised entirely with 
 Madam, and made remarks as to the character 
 of the man so imposingly ushered into the realm 
 of the dead, which did not fit in w^ell with the 
 funeral service. There were many who scoffed 
 at the hymn which was sung by the choirs of the 
 adjacent parishes, all in the late Mr. Trevanion's 
 gift, and which was very, perhaps unduly, 
 favourable to the ' dear saint ' thus tenderly 
 dismissed. He had not been a dear saint ; per- 
 haps, in such a case, the well-known deprecation 
 of trop de zele is specially appropriate. It made
 
 240 MADAM. 
 
 tlie scoffer blaspheme to hear so many beautiful 
 qualities attributed to Mr. Trevanion. But per- 
 haps it is best to err on the side of kindness. 
 It was, at all events, a grand funeral. No man 
 could have desired more. 
 
 The third lady who accompanied Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion and her daughter was the Aunt Sophy 
 to whom there had been some question of send- 
 ing Eosalind. She was the only surviving 
 sister of Mr. Trevanion, Mrs. Lennox, a wealthy 
 widow, without any children, to whom the 
 Highcourt family were especially dear. She 
 was the softest and most good-natured person 
 who had ever borne the name of Trevanion. 
 It was supposed to be from her mother, whom 
 the Trevanions in general had worried into 
 her grave at a very early age, that Aunt Sophy 
 got a character so unlike the rest of the family. 
 But worrying had not been successful in the 
 daughter's case ; or perhaps it was her early 
 escape by her marriage that saved her. She 
 was so apt to agree with the last person 
 who spoke, that her opinion was not prized as 
 it might have been by her connections gene- 
 rally ; but everybody was confident in her 
 kindness. She had arrived only the morning 
 of the funeral, havhisr come from the sick-bed
 
 MAD.Of. 241 
 
 of a friend whom she was nursing, and to 
 whom she considered it very necessary that 
 she should get back ; but it was quite possible 
 that, being persuaded her sister-in-law or Eosa- 
 lind had more need of her, she might remain 
 at Highcourt, notwithstanding that it was so 
 indispensable that she should leave that after- 
 noon, for the rest of the year. 
 
 The shutters had been all opened, the 
 bhnds raised, the windows let in the hght, 
 the great doors stood wide when they came 
 back. The house was no longer the house 
 of the dead, but the house of the living. In 
 Mr. Trevanion's room, that chamber of state, 
 the curtains were all pulled down already, the 
 furniture turned topsy-turvy, the housemaids 
 in possession. In proportion as the solemnity 
 of the former mood had been, so was the 
 anxiety now to clear away everything that 
 belonged to death. The children in their 
 black frocks came to meet their mother, half 
 reluctant, half eager. The incident of papa's 
 death was worn out to them long ago, and 
 they were anxious to be released, and to see 
 something new. Here Aunt Sophy was of the 
 greatest assistance. She cried over them, and 
 smiled, and admired their new dresses, and 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 MADAM. 
 
 cried again, and bade them be good and not 
 spoil their clothes, and be a comfort to their 
 dear mamma. The ladies kept together in the 
 little morning room till everybody was gone. 
 It was very quiet there, out of the bustle ; and 
 they had been told that there was no need for 
 their presence in the library where the gentle- 
 men were, John Trevanion with the Messrs. 
 Blake. There was no need, indeed, for any 
 formal reading of the will. There could be 
 little uncertainty about a man's will whose 
 estates were entailed, and who had a young 
 family to provide for. Nobody had any doubt 
 that he would deal justly with his children, 
 and the will was quite safe in the hands of the 
 executors. Kefreshments were taken to them 
 in the library, and the ladies shared the chil- 
 dren's simple dinner. It was all very serious, 
 very quiet, but there could be no doubt that 
 the weight and oppression were partially with- 
 drawn. 
 
 The short afternoon had begun to darken, 
 and Aunt Sophy had already asked if it were 
 not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the 
 butler, knocked at the door, and with a very 
 solemn countenance delivered ' Mr. John Tre- 
 vanion's comphments, and would Madam be
 
 MADAM. 243 
 
 SO good as to step into the library for a few 
 minutes ? ' 
 
 The few minutes were Dorrinfrton's ad- 
 dition. The look of the gentlemen seated at 
 the table close together like criminals awaiting 
 execution, and fearing that every moment 
 would bring the headsman, had alarmed Dor- 
 rington. He was favourable to his mistress 
 on the whole ; and he thou^rht this summons 
 meant something. So unconsciously he softened 
 his message. A few minutes had a reassuring 
 sound. They all looked up at him as the mes- 
 sage was given. 
 
 ' They will want to consult you about 
 something,' said Aunt Sophy ; ' you have man- 
 aged everything for so long. He said only a 
 few minutes. Make haste, dear, and we will 
 wait for you for tea.' 
 
 ' Shall I go with you, mamma ? ' said Eosa- 
 lind, rising and following to the door. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. 
 ' Wliy should I be so foohsh ? ' she said with a 
 faint smile. ' I would say yes, come ; but that 
 it is too silly.' 
 
 ' I will come, mamma.' 
 
 ' No ; it is absolute folly. As if I were a 
 novice ! Make your aunt comfortable, dear, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 MADAM. 
 
 and don't let her wait for me.' She was goin^ 
 away, when something in Eosahnd's face at- 
 tracted her notice. The girl's eyes were intent 
 upon her with a pity and terror in them that 
 was indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a 
 step back again and kissed her. 'You must 
 not be frightened, Eosalind. There can be 
 nothing bad enough for that ; but don't let 
 your aunt wait,' she said ; and closing the 
 door quickly behind her she left the peace- 
 ful protection of the women with whom she 
 was safe, and went to meet her fate. 
 
 The library was naturally a dark room, 
 heavy with books, with solemn curtains and 
 sad- coloured furniture. The three large win- 
 dows were like shaded lines of vertical light 
 in the breadth of the gloom. On the table 
 some candles had been hghted, and flared with 
 a sort of wild waving when the door was 
 opened. Lighted up by them, against the 
 dark background, were the pale faces of John 
 Trevanion and old Mr. Blake. Both had a 
 look of agitation and even alarm, as if they 
 were afraid of her. Behind them, only half- 
 visible, was the doctor, leaning against a corner 
 of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his 
 iiand. John Trevanion rose without a word,
 
 MADAM. 245 
 
 and placed a chair for his sister-in-law close to 
 where they sat. He drew nearer to his col- 
 league when he sat down again, as if for pro- 
 tection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most 
 respectable unheroic person, with his counte- 
 nance like ashes, and looking as if he had seen 
 a ghost, was very little qualified to give. 
 
 'My dear Grace,' said John, clearing his 
 voice, which trembled, ' we have taken the 
 liberty to ask you to come here, instead of 
 going to you.' 
 
 ' I am very glad to come if you want me, 
 John,' she said simply, with a frankness and 
 ease which confused them more and more. 
 
 ' Because,' he went on, clearing his throat 
 again, endeavouring to control his voice, ' be- 
 cause we have something — very painful to 
 say.' 
 
 ' Very painful ; more painful than anything 
 I ever had to do with in all my life,' Mr. Blake 
 added, in a husky voice. 
 
 She looked from one to another, questioning 
 their faces, though neither of them would meet 
 her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed 
 from Mrs. Trevanion's mind. The presentiment 
 that had hung so heavily about her had blown 
 away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the
 
 246 MADAM. 
 
 innocent company of Sophy, with Eosalind by 
 her, tlie darkness had seemed to roll together 
 and pass away. But when she looked from 
 one of these men to the other, it came back 
 and enveloped her like a shroud. She said 
 ' Yes ? ' quickly, her breath falling, and looked 
 at them, who could not meet her eyes. 
 
 ' It is so,' said John. ' We must not mince 
 our w^ords. Whatever may have passed be- 
 tween you two, wdiatever he may have heard 
 or found out, we can say nothing less than that 
 it is most unjust and cruel.' 
 
 ' Savage, barbarous ! I should never have 
 thought it. I should have refused to do it,' 
 his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice. 
 
 ' But we have no alternative. We must 
 carry his wall out, and we are bound to let you 
 know without delay.' 
 
 • This delay is already too much,' she said 
 hurriedly. 'Is it something in my husband's 
 will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at 
 once.' 
 
 'God know^s we are not trying to frighten 
 you. Nothing so terrible could occur to your 
 mind or anyone's, Grace,' said John Trevanion, 
 with a nervous quivering of his voice. ' The 
 executioner used to ask pardon of those he was
 
 MADAM. 247 
 
 about to I think I am going to give you 
 
 your sentence of death.' 
 
 ' Then I give you — my pardon — freely. 
 What is it? Do not torture me any longer,' 
 she said. 
 
 He thrust awav his chair from the table, 
 and covered his face with his hands. ' Tell 
 her, Blake ; I cannot,' he cried. 
 
 Then there ensued a silence like death. 
 Xo one seemed to breathe : when suddenly 
 the high-pitched shrill voice of the old lawyer 
 came out like something visible, mingled with 
 the flaring of the candles and the darkness all 
 around. 
 
 ' I will spare you the legal language,' said 
 Mr. Blake. ' It is this. The children are all 
 provided for, as is natural and fit, but with 
 this proviso — that their mother shall be at 
 once and entirely separated fi'om them. If 
 Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes 
 anyone of them to be mth her, they are 
 totally disinherited, and their money is left to 
 various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. 
 Trevanion must leave them at once, and give 
 up all communication with them, or they lose 
 everything. That is in brief what we have 
 to say.'
 
 248 MADAM. 
 
 She sat listening without changing her posi- 
 tion, with a dimness of confusion and amaze 
 coming over her clear gaze. The intimation was 
 so bewildering, so astounding, that her faculties 
 failed to grasp it. Then she said : ' To leave 
 them — my children ? To be separated from 
 my children ? ' with a shrill tone of inquiry, 
 rising into a sort of breathless cry. 
 
 John Trevanion took his hands from his face, 
 and looked at her with a look which brought 
 more certainty than words. The old lawyer 
 clasped his hands upon the papers before him, 
 without lifting his eyes, and mournfully nodded 
 again and again his grey head. But she waited 
 for an answer. She could not let herself be- 
 lieve it. ' It is not that ? My head is going 
 round. I don't understand the meaning of 
 words. It is not that ? ' 
 
 And then she rose up suddenly to her feet, 
 clasping her hands together, and cried out, 
 ' My God ! ' The men rose too, as with one 
 impulse ; and John Trevanion called out loudly 
 to the doctor, who hurried to her. She put 
 them away with a motion of her hands. ' The 
 doctor ? What can the doctor do for me ? ' 
 she cried with the scorn of despair. ' Go, go, 
 go ! I need no support.' The men had come
 
 MADAM 249 
 
 close to her on either side, with that confused 
 idea that the victim must faint or fall, or sustain 
 some physical convulsion, which men naturally 
 entertain in respect to a w^oman. She made a 
 motion, as if to keep them away, with her arms, 
 and stood there m the midst, her pale face with 
 the white surroundings of her distinctive dress, 
 clearly defined against the other dusk and 
 troubled countenances. They thought the 
 moments of suspense endless, but to her they 
 were imperceptible. Not all the wisest counsel- 
 lors in the world could have helped her in that 
 effort of desperation which her lonely soul was 
 making to understand. There was so much 
 that no one knew but herself. Her mind went 
 through all the details of a history unthought 
 of. She had to put together and follow^ the 
 tliread of events, and gather up a hundred 
 indications which now came all flashing about 
 her like marsh-lights, leading her swift thoughts 
 here and there, through the hitherto undivined 
 workings of her husband's mind, and ripening 
 of fate. Thus it was that she came slowly to 
 perceive what it meant, and all that it meant, 
 which nature even when perceiving the sense of 
 the words had refused to believe. When she 
 sf oke they all started with a sort of panic and
 
 250 MADAM. 
 
 individual alarm, as if something might be 
 coming which would be too terrible to listen to. 
 But what she said had a strange composure, 
 which was a relief, yet almost a horror to them. 
 ' Will you tell me,' she asked, ' exactly what it 
 is, again ? ' 
 
 Old Mr. Blake sat down again at the table, 
 fumbled for his spectacles, unfolded his papers. 
 Meanwhile she stood and waited with the others 
 behind her, and listened without moving while 
 he read, this time in its legal phraseology, the 
 terrible sentence. She drew a long breath 
 when it was over. This time there was no 
 amaze or confusion. The words were like fire 
 in her brain. 
 
 ' Now I begin to understand. I suppose,' 
 she said, ' that there is nothing but public 
 resistance, and perhaps bringing it before a 
 court of law, that could annul that? Oh, do 
 not fear. I will not try ; but is that the only 
 way? ' 
 
 The old lawyer shook his head. ' Not even 
 that. He had the right : and though he has 
 used it as no man should have used it, still it is 
 done, and cannot be undone.' 
 
 'Then there is no help for me,' she said. 
 She was perfectly quiet, without a tear, or sob.
 
 MADAM. 251 
 
 or struggle. ' No help for me/ she repeated, 
 with a wan little smile about her mouth. 
 ' After seventeen years ! He had the right, do 
 you say ? Oh, how strange a right ! when I 
 have been his wife for seventeen years.' Then 
 she added, ' Is it stipulated when I am to go ? 
 Is there any time given to prepare ? And have 
 you told my boy ? ' 
 
 ' Not a word has been said, Grace — to no 
 one,' John Trevanion said. 
 
 ' Ah, I did not think of that. What is he 
 to be told ? A boy of that age. He will think 
 
 his mother is John, God help me ! What 
 
 wull you say to my boy ? ' 
 
 ' God help us all,' cried the strong man, 
 entirely overcome. ' Grace, I do not know.' 
 
 ' The others are too young,' she said ; • and 
 Eosalind. Eosahnd will trust me ; but Eex — 
 it will be better to tell him the simple truth, 
 that it is his father's will — and perhaps wlien 
 he is a man he will understand.' She said 
 this wdth a steady voice, like some queen 
 making her last dispositions in full health and 
 force before her execution — hving yet dying. 
 Then there ensued another silence, w^iich no 
 one ventured to break, during which the doomed 
 woman went back into her separate world of
 
 252 MADAM. 
 
 thought. She recovered herself after a mo- 
 ment, and looking round, with once more that 
 faint smile, asked, ' Is there anything else I 
 ought to hear ? ' 
 
 'There is this, Mrs. Trevanion,' said old 
 
 Blake. ' One thing is just among so much 
 
 What was settled on you is untouched. You 
 have a right to ' 
 
 She threw her head high with an indignant 
 motion, and turned away ; but after she had 
 made a few steps towards the door, paused 
 and came back. ' Look,' she said, ' you gentle- 
 men ; here is something that is beyond you, 
 which a woman has to bear. I must accept 
 this humihation, too. I cannot dig, and to beg 
 I am ashamed.' She looked at them with a 
 bitter dew in her eyes, not tears. ' I must take 
 his money and be thankful. God help me ! ' 
 she said.
 
 MADAM. 253 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 Mks. Trevaniox appeared at dinner as usual, 
 coming into the drawing-room at the last 
 moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, 
 who stared and started as if at a ghost as she 
 came in, their concealed alarm and astonish- 
 ment forming a strange contrast to the abso- 
 lute calm of Mi^s. Lennox, the slight, boyish 
 impatience of Eeginald at being kept waiting 
 for dinner, and the evident rehef of Eosalind, 
 who had been questioning them all with anxious 
 eyes. Madam was very pale ; but she smiled 
 and made a brief apology. She took old ^Lv. 
 Blake's arm to go hi to dinner, who, though he 
 was a man who had seen a great deal in his 
 hfe, shook ' hke as a leaf,' he said afterwards ; 
 but her arm was as steady as a rock, and sup- 
 ported him. The doctor said to her under his 
 breath as they sat down, ' You are doing too 
 much. Eem ember, endurance is not bound- 
 less.' 'Is it not?' she said aloud, looking at
 
 254 MADAM.. 
 
 him with a smile. He was a man of composed 
 and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that 
 day. The dinner was indeed a farce for most 
 of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though 
 with a shake of her head, and a sighing remark 
 now and then, took full advantage of her meal, 
 and Eeginald cleared off everything that was 
 set before him with the facihty of his age ; but 
 the others made such attempts as they could 
 to deceive the calm but keen penetration of 
 Dorrington, who saw through all their pre- 
 tences, and having served many meals in many 
 houses after a funeral, knew that ' something ' 
 must be ' up,' more than Mr. Trevanion's death, 
 to account for the absence of appetite. There 
 was not much conversation either. Aunt 
 Sophy, indeed, to the relief of everyone, took 
 the position of spokeswoman. ' I would not 
 have troubled to come downstairs this evening, 
 Grace,' she said. ' You always did too much. 
 I am sure all the watching and nursing you 
 have had would have killed ten ordinary 
 people ; but she never spared herself, did she, 
 doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You 
 must feel that you neglected nothing, and that 
 everything that could be thought of was done 
 — everything ! I am sure you and I, John,
 
 MADAM. 25.J 
 
 can bear witness to that, that a more devoted 
 nurse no man ever had. Poor Keginald,' she 
 added, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, 
 ' if he did not always seem so grateful as he 
 ought, you ma}- be sure, dear, it was his illness 
 that was to blame, not his heart.' Xo one 
 dared to make any reply to tliis, till Madam 
 herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding 
 distinct through a hushed atmosphere of atten- 
 tion, ' All that is over and forgotten ; there is 
 no blame.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' said innocent Sophy ; ' that 
 is a most natural and beautiful sentiment for 
 you. But John and I can never forget how 
 patient you were. A king could not have been 
 better taken care of.' 
 
 ' Everybody,' said the doctor, with fervour, 
 ' knows that. I have never known such 
 nursing ; ' and in the satisfaction of saying this 
 he managed to dispose of the chicken on hi.^ 
 plate. His very consumption of it was to 
 Madam's credit. He could not have swallowed 
 a morsel, but for having had the opportunity 
 for this ascription of praise, 
 
 ' And if I were you,' said Mrs. Lennox, ' I 
 would not worry myself about taking up every- 
 thing so soon again. I am sure you must
 
 256 MADAM. 
 
 want a thorough rest. I wish, indeed, you 
 would just make up your mind to come home 
 with me, for a change would do you good. I 
 said to poor dear Maria Heathcote, when I 
 left her this morning, '' My dear, you may 
 expect me confidently to-night ; unless my poor 
 dear sister-in-law wants me. But dear Grace 
 has, of course, the first claim upon me," I said. 
 And if I were you I would not try my strength 
 too much. You should have stayed in your 
 room to-night, and have had a tray with some- 
 thing hght and trifling. You don't eat a 
 morsel,' Aunt Sophy said, with true regret. 
 * And Rosalind and I would have come upstairs 
 and sat with you. I have more experience 
 than you have in trouble,' added the good 
 lady with a sigh (who, indeed, ' had buried two 
 dear husbands,' as she said), ' and that has 
 always been my experience. You must not do 
 too much at first. To-morrow is always a new 
 day.' 
 
 ' To-morrow,' Mrs. Trevanion said, ' there 
 will be many things to think of.' She lingered 
 on the word a little, with a tremulousness 
 w^hich all the men felt as if it had been a knife 
 going into their hearts. Her voice got more 
 steady as she went on. ' You must go back to
 
 MADAM. 257 
 
 school on Monday, Eex,' she said ; * that will be 
 best. You must not lose any time now, but be 
 a man as soon as you can, for all our sakes.' 
 
 'Oh, as for being a man,' said Eeginald, 
 'that doesn't just depend on age, mother. 
 My tutor would rather have me for his captain 
 than Smith, who is nineteen. He said so. It 
 depends upon a fellow's character.' 
 
 ' That is what I think too,' she said, with a 
 smile upon her boy. ' And, Sophy, if you will 
 take Eosalind and your godchild instead of 
 me, I think it will do them good. I — you may 
 suppose I have a great many things to think 
 of.' 
 
 ' Leave them, dear, till you are stronger, 
 that is my advice ; and I know more about 
 trouble than you do,' Mrs. Lennox said. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion gave a glance around her. 
 There was a faint smile upon her face. The 
 three gentlemen sitting by did not know even 
 that she looked at them, but they felt each hke 
 a culprit, guilty and responsible^ Her eyes 
 seemed to appeal speechlessly to earth and 
 heaven, yet with an almost humorous con- 
 sciousness of good Mrs. Lennox's superiority in 
 experience. ' I should hke Rosahnd and Soph}' 
 to go with you for a change,' she said quietly. 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 MADAM. 
 
 ' The little ones will be best at home. Eussell 
 is not good for Sophy, Eosalind ; but for the 
 little ones it does not matter so much. She is 
 very kind and careful of them. That covers a 
 multitude of sins. I think, for their sakes, she 
 may stay.' 
 
 'I would not keep her, mamma. She is 
 dangerous ; she is wicked.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by that, Kose ? Eussell ! 
 I should as soon think of mamma going as of 
 Eussell going,' cried Eex. ' She says mamma 
 hates her, but I say ' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Mrs. Trevanion, ' that you 
 do not find yourself above nursery gossip, Eex, 
 at your age. Never mind, it is a matter to be 
 talked of afterwards. You are not going away 
 immediately, John ? ' 
 
 ' Not as long as ' He paused and looked 
 
 at her wistfully, with eyes that said a thousand 
 things. ' As long as I can be of use,' he said. 
 
 ' As long as I think I know what 
 
 you mean,' Mrs. Trevanion said. 
 
 The conversation was full of these sous- 
 entendus. Except Mrs. Lennox and Eex, there 
 was a sense of mystery and uncertainty in all 
 the party. Eosalind followed every speaker 
 with her eyes, inquiring what they could mean.
 
 MADAM. 259 
 
 Mrs. Trevanioii was the most composed of the 
 company, though meanings were found after- 
 wards in every word she said. The servants 
 had gone from the room while the latter part 
 of tliis conversation went on. After a little 
 while she rose, and all of them with her. She 
 called Eeginald, who followed reluctantly, feel- 
 ing that he was much too important a person to 
 retire with the ladies. As she went out, lean- 
 ing upon his arm, she waved her hand to the 
 other gentlemen. ' Good-night,' she said. ' I 
 don't think I am equal to the drawing-room 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' What do you want with me, mother ? It 
 isn't right, it isn't, indeed, to call me away like 
 a child. I'm not a child ; and I ought to be 
 there to hear what they are going to settle. 
 Don't you see, mamma, it's my concern ? ' 
 
 ' You can go back presently, Eex ; yes, my 
 boy, it is your concern. I want you to think 
 so, dear. And the little ones are your con- 
 cern. Being the head of a house means a 
 great deal. It means thinking of everything, 
 taking care of the brothers and sisters, not only 
 being a person of importance, Eex ' 
 
 ' I know, I know. If this is all you wanted 
 
 to say ' 
 
 s 2
 
 260 MADAM. 
 
 ' Almost all. That you must think of your 
 duties, dear. It is unfortunate for you, oh, 
 very unfortunate, to be left so young : but your 
 Uncle John will be your true friend.* 
 
 'Well, that don't matter much. Oh, I 
 dare say he will be good enough. Then 
 you know, mammy,' said the boy condescend- 
 ingly, giving her a hurried kiss, and eager 
 to get away, 'when there's anything very 
 hard I can come and talk it over with 
 you.' 
 
 She did not make any reply, but kissed 
 him, holding his reluctant form close to her. 
 He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted 
 to be back among the men. ' One moment,' 
 she said. ' Promise me you will be very good 
 ^o the little ones, Eex.' 
 
 ' Why, of course, mother,' said the boy ; 
 ' you didn't think I would beat them, did you ? 
 jrood-night.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, my own boy.' He had darted 
 from her almost before she could withdraw her 
 irm. She paused a moment to draw breath, 
 \nd then followed to the door of the drawing- 
 •^oom where the other ladies were gone. ' I 
 -hink, Sophy,' she said, 'I will take your 
 idvice and go to my room : and you must
 
 MADAM. 261 
 
 arrange witli Eosalind to take her home with 
 you, and Sophy too.' 
 
 ' That I will, with all my heart ; and I don't 
 despair of getthig you to come. Good-night, 
 dear. Should you like me to come and sit ^vith 
 you a little when you have got to bed ? ' 
 
 ' Not to-night,' said Mrs. Trevanion. ' I am 
 tired out. Good-night, Eosalind. God bless 
 you, my darling.' She held the girl in her 
 arms, and drev/ her towards the door. ' I can 
 give you no explanation about last night, and 
 you will hear other things. Think of me as 
 kindly as you can, my own, that are none of 
 mine,' she said, bending over her with her eyes 
 full of tears. 
 
 ' Mother,' said the girl, flinging herself into 
 jVIrs. Trevanion's arms with enthusiasm, 'you 
 can do no wrong.' 
 
 ' God bless you, my own dear.' 
 
 This parting seemed sufficiently justified by 
 the circumstances. The funeral day ! Could it 
 be otherwise than that their nerves were highly 
 strung, and words of love and mutual support, 
 which might have seemed exaggerated at other 
 times, should now have seemed natural ? Eosa- 
 lind, with her heart bursting, went back to her 
 aunt's side, and sat down and listened to her
 
 262 MADAM. 
 
 placid talk. She would rather have been with 
 her suffering mother, but for that worn-out 
 woman there was nothing so good as rest. 
 
 Mrs. Trevanion went back to tlie nursery, 
 where her little children were fast asleep in 
 tlieir cots, and Sophy preparing for bed. Sophy 
 was still grumbling over the fact that she had 
 not been allowed to go down to dessert, ' Why 
 shouldn't I go down ? ' she cried, sitting on the 
 floor, taking off her shoes. ' Oh, here's mamma ! 
 What difference could it have made ? Grown- 
 up people are nasty and cruel. I should not 
 have done any harm going downstairs. Eeggie 
 is dining downstairs. He is always the one 
 that is petted, because he is a boy, though he 
 is only five years older than me.' 
 
 ' Hush, Miss Sophy. It was your mamma's 
 doing, and mammas are always right.' 
 
 ' You don't think so, Eussell. Oh, I don't 
 want to kiss you, mamma. It was so unkind, 
 and Eeggie going on Monday ; and I have not 
 been down to dessert — not for a week.' 
 
 ' But I must kiss you, Sophy,' the mother 
 said. 'You are going away with your aunt 
 and Eosalind, on a visit. Is not that better 
 than coming down to dessert ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' The child jumped up with 
 one shoe on, and threw herself against her
 
 MADAM. 263 
 
 mother's breast, 'Oh, I am so glad. Aunt 
 Sophy lets us do whatever we please.' Slie 
 gave a careless kiss in response to ^Mrs. Tre- 
 vanion's embrace. ' I should like to stay there 
 for ever,' Sophy said. 
 
 There was a smile on the mother's face as 
 she withdrew it, as there had been a smile of 
 strange wonder and wistfulness when she took 
 leave of Eex. The little ones were asleep. She 
 went and stood for a moment between the two 
 white cots. Then all was done. And the hour 
 had come to which, ^dthout knowing what 
 awaited her, she had looked with so much 
 terror on the previous night. 
 
 A dark night, with sudden blasts of rain, 
 and a sio-hinof wind which moaned about the 
 house, and gave notes of warning of the dreary 
 wintry weather to come. As Mrs. Lennox and 
 Eosalind sat silent over the fire, there suddenly 
 seemed to come in and pervade the luxurious 
 house a blast, as if the night had entered bodily, 
 a great draught of fresh, cold, odorous, rainy 
 air, charged with the breath of the wet fields 
 and earth. And then there was the muSled 
 sound as of a closed door. ' What is that ? ' 
 said Aunt Sophy, pricking up her ears. ' It 
 cannot be visitors come so late, and on such a 
 day as this.'
 
 264 MADAM. 
 
 ' It sounds like someone o-oino- out,' Eosa- 
 lincl said, with a shiver, thinking on what she 
 had seen last night. ' Perhaps,' she added 
 eagerly, after a moment, with a great sense of 
 relief, ' Mr. Blake going away.' 
 
 ' It will be that, of course, though I did not 
 hear wheels ; and what a dismal night for his 
 drive, poor old gentleman. That wind always 
 makes me wretched. It moans and groans like 
 a human creature. But it is very odd, Eosa- 
 lind, that we did not hear any wheels.' 
 
 ' The wind drowns other sounds,' Eosalind 
 said. 
 
 ' That must be so, I suppose. Still, I hope 
 he doesn't think of walking, Eosalind ; an old 
 man of that age.' 
 
 And then once more all fell into silence in 
 the great luxurious house. Outside the wind 
 blew in the faces of the wayfarers. The rain 
 drenched them in sudden gusts, the paths were 
 slippery and wet, the trees discharged sharp 
 volleys of collected rain as the blasts blew. To 
 struggle across the park was no easy matter in 
 the face of the blinding sleet and capricious 
 wind : and you could not hear your voice 
 under the trees for the din that was going on 
 overhead.
 
 MADAM. 2 Go 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 EosALl^^) spent a very restless night. She could 
 not sleep, and the rain coming down in torrents 
 irritated her Avith its ceaseless pattering, She 
 thought, she could not tell why, of the poor 
 people who were out in it — travellers, wayfarers, 
 poor vagrants, such as she had seen about the 
 country roads. What would the miserable 
 creatures do in such a dismal night ? As she 
 lay awake in the darkness she pictured them to 
 herself, drenched and cold, dragging along the 
 muddy ways. Xo one in whom she was inte- 
 rested was likely to be reduced to such misery, 
 but she thought of them, she could not tell 
 why. She had knocked at Mrs. Trevanion's 
 door as she came upstairs, longing to go in to 
 say another word, to give her a kiss in her 
 weariness. Eosalind had an ache and terrible 
 question in her heart which she had never been 
 able to get rid of, notwithstanding the closeness 
 of the intercourse on the funeral day and the
 
 266 MADAM. 
 
 exuberant profession of faith to which she had 
 given vent: ^You can do no wrong.' Her 
 heart had cried out this protestation of faith, 
 but in her mind there had been a terrible 
 drawing back, Kke that of the wave which has 
 dashed briUiantly upon a stony beach only to 
 groan and turn back again, carrying everything 
 with it. Through all this sleepless night she 
 lay balloted between these two sensations — the 
 enthusiasm and the doubt. Her mother! It 
 seemed a sort of blasphemy to judge or question 
 that highest of all human authorities — that type 
 and impersonation of all that was best. And 
 yet it would force itself upon her, in spite of all 
 her holding back. Where was she going that 
 night ? Supposing the former events nothing, 
 what, oh what, was the new-made widow going 
 to do on the eve of her husband's funeral out in 
 the park, all disguised and concealed in the 
 dusk? The more Eosalind denied her doubts 
 expression the more bitterly did that picture 
 force itself upon her — the veiled muffled figure, 
 the watching accomplice, and the door so 
 stealthily opened. Without practice and know- 
 ledge and experience, who could have done all 
 that? If Eosalind herself wanted to steal out 
 quietly, a hundred hindrances started up in her
 
 MADAM. 267 
 
 way. K she tried anything of the kind she 
 knew very well that every individual whom slie 
 wished to avoid would meet her and find her 
 out. It is so with the innocent, but with those 
 who are used to concealment, not so. These 
 were the things that said themselves in her 
 mind without any consent of hers as she 
 laboured through the night. And when the 
 first faint sounds of waking began to be audible, 
 a distant door opening, an indication that some 
 one was stirring, Eosahnd got up too, unable to 
 bear it any longer. She sprang out of bed and 
 wrapped herself in her dressing-gown, resolved 
 to go to her mother's room and disperse all 
 those ghosts of night. How often had she run 
 there in childish troubles and shaken them off! 
 That last court of appeal had never been closed 
 to her. A kiss, a touch of the soft hand upon 
 her head, a comforting word, had charmed away 
 every spectre again and again. Perhaps Eosa- 
 lind thought she would have the courage to 
 speak all out, perhaps to have her doubts set at 
 rest for ever ; but even if she had not courage 
 for that, the mere sight of Mrs. Trevanion was 
 enough to dispel all prejudices, to make an end 
 of all doubts. It was quite dark in the passages 
 as she flitted across the large opening of the
 
 268 M4DAM. 
 
 stairs. Downstairs in the great hall there was a 
 spark of hght, where a housemaid, kneeling 
 within the great chimney, was lighting the fire. 
 There was a certain relief even in this, in the 
 feeling of a new day and life begun again. 
 Eosalind glided like a ghost in her warm 
 dressing-gown to Mrs. Trevanion's door. She 
 knocked softly, but there was no reply. Little 
 wonder at this hour of the morning ; no doubt 
 the mother was asleep. Eosalind opened the 
 door. 
 
 There is a kind of horror of which it is 
 difficult to give any description in the sensations 
 of one who goes into a room expecting to find 
 a sleeper in the safety and calm of natural 
 repose, and finds it empty, cold, and vacant. 
 The shock is extraordinary. The certainty that 
 the inhabitant must be there is so profound, and 
 in a moment is replaced by an uncertainty which 
 nothing can equal — a wild dread that fears it 
 knows not what, but always the worst that can 
 be feared. Eosalind went in with the soft yet 
 confident step of a child, who knows that the 
 mother will wake at a touch, almost at a look, 
 and turn with a smile and a kiss to Hsten, 
 whatever the story that is brought to her may 
 be. Fuller confidence never was. She did not
 
 MADAM. 269 
 
 even look before going straight to the bedside. 
 She had indeed knek down there before she 
 found out. Then she sprang to her feet again 
 with the cry of one who has touched death 
 unawares. It was hke death to her, the touch 
 of the cold, smooth linen, all folded as it had 
 been in preparation for the inmate — who was 
 to sleep there no more. She looked round the 
 room as if askiug an answer from every corner. 
 ' Mother, where are you ? Mother ! Where 
 are you, mother ? ' she cried with a wild voice 
 of astonishment and dismay. 
 
 There was no light in the room ; a faint 
 paleness to show the window, a silence that was 
 terrible, an atmosphere as of death itself. 
 Eosahnd flew half frantic into the di'essing-room 
 adjoining, which for some time past had been 
 occupied by Jane. There a night-hght which 
 had been left burning flickered feebly on the 
 point of extinction. The faint light showed the 
 same vacancy — the bed spread in cold order, 
 everything empty, still. Eosalind felt her senses 
 giving way. Her impulse was to rush out 
 through the house, caUing, asking. Where were 
 they ? Death seemed to be in the place — death 
 more mysterious and more terrible than that 
 with which she had been made famihar. After
 
 270 MADAM. 
 
 a pause she left the room and hurried breathless 
 to that occupied by her uncle. How different 
 there was the atmosphere, charged with human 
 breath, warm with occupation. She burst in, 
 too terrified for thought. 
 
 ' Uncle John ! ' she cried, ' Uncle John ! ' 
 taking him by the shoulder. 
 
 It was not easy to wake him out of his deep 
 sleep. At last he sat up in his bed half awake, 
 and looked at her with consternation. 
 
 ' Eosalind ! what is the matter ? ' he cried. 
 
 ' Mamma is not in her room — where is she, 
 where is she ? ' the girl demanded, standing over 
 him like a ghost in the dark. 
 
 ' Your mother is not ? I — I suppose 
 
 she's tired, like all the rest of us,' he said, with 
 a sleepy desire to escape this premature 
 awakening. ' Why, it's dark still, Eosalind. 
 Go back to bed, my dear ? Your mother ' 
 
 ' Listen, Uncle John. Mamma is not in 
 her room. No one has slept there to-night ; it 
 is all empty ; my mother — is gone, is gone ! 
 Where has she gone ? ' the girl cried wildly. 
 ' She has not been there all night.' 
 
 ' Good God ! ' John Trevanion cried. He 
 was entirely roused now. ' Eosalind, you must 
 be making some mistake.'
 
 MADAM. 271 
 
 ' There is no mistake. I thought perhaps 
 you might know something. No one has slept 
 there to-night. Oh, Uncle John, Uncle John, 
 where is my mother ? Let us go and find her 
 before everybody knows.' 
 
 ' Eosalind, leave me, and I will get up. I 
 can tell you nothing — yes, I can tell you some- 
 thing ; but I never thought it would be like 
 this. It is your father who has sent her away.' 
 
 ' Papa ! ' the girl cried ; ' oh, Uncle John, 
 stop before you have taken everything away 
 from me: neither father nor mother! — you take 
 everything from me ! ' she said, with a cry of 
 despair. 
 
 ' Go away,' he said, ' and get dressed, Eosa- 
 hnd, and then we can see whether there is 
 anything to be done.' 
 
 An hour later they stood together by the 
 half-kindled fire in the hall. John Trevanion 
 had gone through the empty rooms with his 
 niece, who was distracted, not knowing what 
 she did. By this time a pale and grey day- 
 light, which looked hke cold and misery made 
 visible, had diffused itself through the great 
 house. That chill visibleness, showing all the 
 arrangements of the room prepared for rest and 
 slumber, where nobody had slept, had some-
 
 272 MADAM. 
 
 thing terrible in it that struck them both with 
 awe. There was no letter, no sign to be found 
 of leave-taking. When they opened the ward- 
 robe and drawers, a few dresses and necessaries 
 were found to be gone, and it appeared that 
 Jane had sent two small boxes to the village, 
 which she had represented to be old clothes, 
 * coloured things,' for which her mistress would 
 now have no need. It was to Eosalind like a 
 blow in the dark, a buffet from some ghostly 
 hand, additional to her other pain, when she 
 found it was these ' coloured things ' and not 
 the prepared newly-made mourning which her 
 step-mother had taken with her. This seemed 
 a cutting off from them, an entire abandonment, 
 which made her misery deeper ; but naturally 
 John Trevanion did not think of that. He told 
 her the story of the will while they stood 
 together in the hall. But he could think of 
 nothing to do, nor could he give any hope that 
 this terrible event was a thing to be undone or 
 concealed. 'It must have happened,' he said, 
 ' sooner or later ; and though it is a shock — a 
 
 great shock ' 
 
 ' Oh, Uncle John, it is — there was never 
 anything so terrible. How can you use ordinary 
 words .^ A shock! If the wind had blown
 
 MADAM. 2 t Yy 
 
 down a tree it would be a shock. Don't you 
 see, it is the house that has been blown down ? 
 we have nothing, nothing to shelter us, we 
 children. My mother and my father ! We are 
 orphans, and far, far worse than orphans. We 
 have nothinof left but shame — nothinor but 
 shame ! ' 
 
 ' Eosahnd, it is worse for the others than 
 for you. You at least are clear of it; she is not 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' She is all the mother I have ever known,' 
 Hosahnd cried for the hundredth time. 'And,' 
 she added, with quivering lips, 'I am the 
 daughter of the man who on his death-bed has 
 brought shame upon his own, and disgraced 
 the wife that was like an angel to him. If the 
 other could be got over, that can never be got 
 over. He did it, and he cannot undo it. And 
 she is wicked too. She should not have yielded 
 like that ; she should have resisted — she should 
 have refused ; she should not have gone away.' 
 
 ' Had she done so it would have been our 
 duty to insist upon it,' said John Trevanion, 
 sadly. ' We had no alternative. You will find 
 when you think it over that this sudden going 
 is for the best.' 
 
 ' Oh, that is so easy to say when it is not 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 MADAM. 
 
 your heart that is wrung, but someone else's ; 
 and how can it ever be,' cried Eosahnd, with a 
 dismal logic which many have employed before 
 her, ' that what is all wrong from beginning to 
 end can be for the best ? ' 
 
 This was the beginning of a day more 
 miserable than words can describe. They made 
 no attempt to conceal the calamity ; it was im- 
 possible to conceal it. The first astounded and 
 terror-stricken housemaid who entered the room 
 spread it over the house like wildfire. Madam 
 had gone away. Madam had not slept in her 
 bed all night. When Eosalind, who could not 
 rest, made one of her many aimless journeys 
 upstairs, she heard a wail from the nurseries, 
 and Eussell, rushing out suddenly, confronted 
 her. The woman was pale with excitement ; 
 and there was a mixture of compunction and 
 triumph and horror in her eyes. 
 
 ' What does this mean. Miss Eosalind ? 
 Tell me, for God's sake ! ' she cried. 
 
 It did Eosalind a little good in her misery 
 to find herself in front of an actor in this 
 catastrophe — one who was guilty and could be 
 made to suffer. 'It means,' she cried, with 
 sudden rage, ' that you must leave my mother's 
 children at once — this very moment ! My uncle
 
 MADAM. 275 
 
 will give you your wages, whatever you want, 
 but you shall not stay here, not an hour.' 
 
 ' My wages ! ' the woman cried, with a sort 
 of scream ; ' do I care for wages ? Leave my 
 babies, as I have brought up? Oh, never, 
 never ! You may say what you please, you that 
 were always unnatural, that held for her instead 
 of your own flesh and blood. You are cruel, 
 cruel ; but I won't stand it — I won't. There's 
 more to be consulted. Miss Eosalind, than you.' 
 
 ' I would be more cruel if I could — I would 
 strike you,' cried the impassioned girl, clench- 
 ing her small hands, ' if it were not a shame for 
 a lady to do it — you, who have taken my 
 mother from me and made me hate and despise 
 my own father, oh, God forgive me ! And it is 
 your doing, you miserable woman. Let me 
 never see you again. To see you is like death 
 to me. Go away — go away ! ' 
 
 ' And yet I was better than a mother to 
 you once,' said Eussell, who had cried out and 
 put her hand to her heart as if she had received 
 a blow. Her heart was tender to her niu-shng, 
 though pitiless otherwise. ' I saved your life,' 
 she cried, beginning to weep ; 'I took you when 
 your true mother died. You would have loved 
 me but for that woman — that '
 
 276 MADAM. 
 
 Eosalind stamped her foot passionately upon 
 the floor ; she was transported by misery and 
 wrath. ' Do not dare to speak to me ! Go 
 away — go out of the house. Uncle John,' she 
 cried, hurrying to the balustrade and looking 
 down into the hall where he stood, too wretched 
 to observe what was going on, ' will you come 
 and turn this woman away ? ' 
 
 He came slowly upstairs at this call, with 
 his hands in his pockets, every line of his figure 
 expressing despondency and dismay. It was 
 only when he came in sight of Eussell, flushed, 
 crying, and injured, yet defiant too, that he 
 understood what Eosalind meant by the appeal. 
 
 ' Yes, it will be well that you should go,' he 
 said. ' You have made mischief that never can 
 be mended. No one in this house will ever 
 forgive you. The best thing you can do is to 
 
 go- 
 
 ' The mischief was not my making,' cried 
 Eussell. ' It's not them that tells but them that 
 <Joes wroncf that are to blame. And the 
 children — there's the children to think of — who 
 will take care of them like me ? I'd die sooner 
 than leave the children. They're the same as 
 my flesh and blood. They have been in my 
 hands since ever thev were born,' the woman
 
 MADAM. 277 
 
 cried with passion. 'Oh, ]\Ir. Trevanion, you 
 that have always been known for a kind gentle- 
 man, let me stay w4th the children! Their 
 mother, she can desert them, but I can't ; it 
 will break my heart.' 
 
 ' You had better go,' said John Trevanion, 
 with lowering brows. At this moment Eeginald 
 appeared on the scene from another direction, 
 pulling on his jacket in great hurry and excite- 
 ment. ' What does it all mean?' the boy cried, 
 full of agitation. ' Oh, if it's only Eussell ! 
 
 They told me some story about ^^^hy ai'^ 
 
 you bullying Eussell, Uncle John ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Eeginald, you'll speak for me. 
 You are my own boy, and you are the real 
 master. Don't let them break my heart,' cried 
 Eussell, holding out her imploring hands. 
 
 'Oh, if it's only Eussell,' the boy cried, 
 relieved ; ' but they said — they told me ' 
 
 Another door opened as he spoke, and Aunt 
 Sophy, dishevelled, the grey locks faUing about 
 her shoulders, a dressing-gown huddled about 
 her ample figure, appeared suddenly. ' For 
 God's sake, speak low^ ! What does it all 
 mean? Don't expose everything to the servants, 
 whatever it is,' she cried.
 
 278 MADAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 Presently they all assembled in the hall — a 
 miserable party. The door of the breakfast- 
 room stood open, but no one went near it. 
 They stood in a knot, all huddled together, 
 speaking almost in whispers. Considering that 
 everybody in the house now knew that Madam 
 had never been in bed at all, that she must have 
 left Highcourt secretly in the middle of the 
 night, no precaution could have been more 
 foohsh. But Mrs. Lennox had not realised this ; 
 and her anxiety to silence scandal was extreme. 
 She stood quite close to her brother, questioning 
 him. 'But what do you mean? How could 
 Eeginald do it? What did he imagine? And, 
 oh ! couldn't you put a stop to it, for the sake of 
 the family, John ? ' 
 
 Young Eeginald stood on the other side, 
 confused between anger and ignorance, in- 
 capacity to understand and a desire to blame 
 someone, ' What does she mean by it ? ' he
 
 MADAM. 279 
 
 said. ' ^Vhat did father mean by it ? Was it 
 just to make us all as wretched as possible — as 
 if things weren't bad enough before ? ' It Avas 
 impossible to convey to either of them any real 
 understanding of the case. ' But how could he 
 part the children from their mother ? ' said 
 Aunt Sophy. 'She is their mother, their 
 mother ; not their step-mother. You forget, 
 John ; she's Eosalind's step-mother. Eosalind 
 might have been made my ward ; that would 
 have been natural ; but the others are her own. 
 How could he separate her from her own. 
 She ought not to have left them? Oh, how 
 could she leave them ? ' the bewildered woman 
 cried. 
 
 ' If she had not done it the children would 
 have been destitute, Sophy. It was my business 
 to make her do it, unless she had been willing 
 to ruin the children.' 
 
 ' Xoi me,' cried Eeginald loudly. ' He 
 could not have taken anything from me. She 
 might have stuck to me, and I should have taken 
 care of her. What had she to be frightened 
 about? I suppose,' he added after a pause, 
 ' there would have been plenty — to keep all the 
 children too ' 
 
 ' Highcourt is not such a very large estate,
 
 280 MADAM 
 
 Eex. Lowdean and the rest are unentailed* 
 You would have been much impoverished too.' 
 ' Oh ! ' Eeginald cried with an angry frown; 
 but then he turned to another side of the 
 question and continued vehemently, 'jWhy on 
 earth, when she knew papa was so cranky and 
 had it all in his power, why did she aggravate 
 him? I think they must all have been mad 
 together, and just tried how to spite us most ! ' 
 cried the boy with a rush of passionate tears to 
 his eyes. The house was miserable altogether. 
 He wanted his breakfast, and he had no heart 
 to eat it. He could not bear the solemn spying 
 of the servants. Dorrington, in particular, 
 would come to the door of the breakfast-room 
 and look in with an expression of mysterious 
 sympathy for which Eeginald would have liked 
 to kill him. ' I wish I had never come away 
 from school at all. I wish I was not going 
 back. I wish I were anywhere out of this,' he 
 cried. But he did not suggest again that his 
 mother should have 'stuck to' him. He wanted 
 to know why somebody did not interfere ; why 
 this thing and the other was permitted to be 
 done. ' Someone could have stopped it if they 
 had tried,' Eeginald said ; and that was Aunt 
 Sophy's opinion too.
 
 MADAM. 281 
 
 The conclusion of ail was that Mrs. Lennox 
 left Highcoiirt with the children and Eosalind as 
 soon as their preparations could be made, by- 
 way of covering as well as possible the extra- 
 ordinary revolution in the house. It was the 
 only expedient any of these distracted people 
 could think of to throw a Httle illusion over 
 Mrs. Trevanion's abrupt departure. Of course 
 they were all aware everything must be known. 
 What is there that is not known? And to 
 think that a large houseful of servants would 
 keep silent on such a piece of family history 
 was past all expectation. 'No doubt it was al- 
 ready known through the village and spreading 
 over the neighbourhood. ' Madam ' had been 
 caught meeting some man in the park when 
 her husband was ill, poor gentleman ! And 
 now, the very day of the funeral, she was off 
 with the fellow, and left all her children and 
 everything turned upside down. The older 
 people all knew exactly what would be said, 
 and they knew that public opinion would think 
 the worst, that no explanations would be 
 allowed, that the vulgarest, grossest interpre- 
 tations would be so much easier than anything 
 else, so ready, so indisputable. She had gone 
 away with her lover. ]\irs. Lennox herself
 
 282 MADAM. 
 
 could not help tliinking so in the depths of her 
 mind, though on the surface she entertained 
 other vague and less assured ideas. What else 
 could explain it ? Everybody knew the force 
 of passion, the way in which women will 
 forsake everything, even their children, even 
 their homes — that was comprehensible, though 
 so dreadful. But nothing else was compre- 
 hensible. Aunt Sophy, in the depth of her 
 heart, though she was herself an innocent 
 woman, was not sure that John was not invent- 
 ing, to shield his sister-in-law, that incredible 
 statement about the will. She felt that she 
 herself would say anything for the same 
 purpose — she would not mind what it was — any- 
 thing rather than that Grace, a woman they had 
 all thought so much of, had ' gone wrong ' in 
 such a dreadful way. Nevertheless it was far 
 more comprehensible that she had ' gone 
 wrong ' than any other explanation could be. 
 Though she had been a woman upon whom no 
 breath of scandal had ever come, a woman who 
 overawed evil speakers, and was above all 
 possibility of reproach, yet it was always 
 possible that she might have ' gone wrong.' 
 Against such hazards there could be no defence. 
 But Mrs. Lennox was very willing to do any-
 
 MADAM. 283 
 
 tiling to cover up the family trouble. She even 
 went the length of speaking somewhat loudly 
 to her own maid, in the hearing of some of the 
 servants of the house, about Mrs. Trevanion's 
 ' early start.' ' We shall catch her up on the 
 way,' Mrs. Lennox said. ' I don't wonder, do 
 you, Morris, that she went by that early train ? 
 Poor dear! I remember when I lost my first 
 dear husband I couldn't bear the sight of the 
 house and the churchyard where he was lying. 
 But we shall catch her up,' the kind-hearted 
 hypocrite said, drying her eyes. As if the 
 housemaids were to be taken in so easily ! as if 
 they did not know far more than Mrs. Lennox 
 did, who thus lent herself to a falsehood ! 
 When the children came down, dressed in their 
 black frocks, with eyes wide open and full of 
 eager curiosity, Mrs. Lennox was daunted by 
 the cynical air with which Sophy, her namesake 
 and godchild, regarded her. ' You needn't say 
 anything to me about catching up mamma, for 
 I know better,' the child said vindictively. 
 ' She likes somebody else better than us, and 
 she has just gone aAvay.' 
 
 ' Rosahnd,' Mrs. Lennox cried in dismay, 
 ' I hope that woman is not coming with us, that 
 horrible woman that puts such things into the
 
 284 MADAM. 
 
 children's heads. I hope you have sent Eussell 
 away.' 
 
 But when the little ones were all packed in 
 the carriage with their aunt, who could not 
 endure to see anyone cry, there was a burst of 
 simultaneous weeping. ' I neber love nobody 
 but Nana. I do to nobody but Nana,' little 
 Johnny shouted. His httle sister said nothing, 
 but her small mouth quivered, and the piteous 
 aspect of her face struggling against a passion 
 of restrained grief, was the most painful of all. 
 Sophy, however, continued defiant. ' You may 
 send her away, but me and Eeginald will have 
 her back again,' she said. Aunt Sophy could 
 scarcely have been more frightened had she 
 taken a collection of bomb-shells with her into 
 the carriage. The absence of mamma was 
 little to the children, who had been so much 
 separated from her by their father's long illness ; 
 but Eussell, the ' Nana ' of their baby affections, 
 had a closer hold. 
 
 With these rebellious companions, and with 
 all the misery of the family tragedy over- 
 shadowing her, Eosahnd made the journey 
 more sadly than any of the party. At times it 
 seemed impossible for her to beheve that all 
 the miseries that had happened were real. Was
 
 MADAM. 285 
 
 it not rather a dream from which she might 
 awaken, and find everything as of old ? To 
 think that she should be leaving her home, 
 feeling almost a fugitive, hastily, furtively, in 
 order to cover the flight of one who had been 
 her type of excellence all her life : to think that 
 father and mother were both gone from her — 
 gone out of her existence, painfully, miserably ; 
 not to be dwelt upon with tender grief such as 
 others had the privilege of enduring, but with 
 bitter anguish and shame. The wail of the 
 children as they grew tired with the journey, 
 the necessity of taking the responsibility of them 
 upon herself, hushing the cries of the httle ones 
 for ' Nana,' silencing Sophy who was disposed 
 to be impertinent, keeping the weight of the 
 party from the too susceptible shoulders of the 
 aunt, made a comphcation and interruption of 
 her thoughts which Eosalind was too inex- 
 perienced to feel as an alleviation, and which 
 made a fantastic mixture of tragedy and bur- 
 lesque in her mind. She had to think of the 
 small matters of the journey, and to satisfy 
 Aunt Sophy's fears as to the impossibility of 
 getting the other train at the junction, and the 
 risk of losing the luggage, and to persuade her 
 that Johnny's restlessness, his refusal to be
 
 286 MADAM. 
 
 comforted by the anxious nursery-maid, and 
 wailing appeals for Eussell, would wear off by- 
 and-by as baby-heartbreaks do. ' But I have 
 known a child fret itself to death,' Mrs. Lennox 
 cried. ' I have heard of instances in which 
 they would not be comforted, Eosalind ; and 
 what should we do if the child was to pine, and 
 perhaps to die ? ' Eosalind, so young, so little 
 experienced, was overwhelmed by this sugges- 
 tion. She took Johnny upon her own lap, and 
 attempted to soothe him, with a sense that she 
 might turn out a kind of murderer if the child 
 did not mend. It was consolatory to feel that, 
 warmly wrapped and supported against her 
 young bosom, Johnny got sleepy, and moaned 
 himself into oblivion of his troubles. But this 
 was not so pleasant when they came to the 
 junction, and Eosalind had to stumble out of 
 the carriage somehow, and hurry to the wait- 
 ing train with poor little Johnny's long legs 
 thrust out from her draperies. It was at this 
 moment, as she got out, that she saw a face 
 in the crowd which gave her a singular thrill 
 in the midst of her trouble. The wintry after- 
 noon was falling into darkness, the vast noisy 
 place was swarming with life and tumult. She 
 had to walk a little slower than the rest on
 
 MADAM. 2 ST 
 
 account of her burden, which she did not ven- 
 ture to give into other arms, in ca^e the child 
 should wake. It was the face of the young man 
 whom she had met in the park — the stranger, so 
 unhke anybody else, about whom she had been 
 so uncomfortably uncertain whether he was not 
 
 But what did that matter? If he had 
 
 been a prince of the blood or the lowest adven- 
 turer, what was it to Eosalind ? Her mind was 
 fuU of other things, and no man in the world 
 had a right to waylay her, to follow her, to 
 trace her movements. It made her hot and red 
 with personal feeHng in the midst of all the 
 trouble that surrounded her. He had no 
 right — no right ; and yet the noblest lover who 
 ever haunted his lady's window to see her 
 shadow on the blind had no right ; and perhaps, 
 if put into vulgar words, Eomeo had no right 
 to scale that wall, and Juliet on her balcony 
 was a forward young woman. There are 
 things which are not to be defended by any 
 rule, which youth excuses, nay, justifies, and to 
 see a pair of sympathetic eyes directed towards 
 her through the crowd — eyes that found her 
 out amid all that multitude, touched Eosalind's 
 heart. Somehow they made her trouble, and 
 even the weight of her little brother, who was
 
 288 MADAM. 
 
 heavy, more easy to bear. She was weak and 
 worn out, and this it was perhaps which made 
 her so easily moved. But the startled sensation 
 with which she heard a voice at her side, some- 
 what too low and too close, saying, ' Will you 
 let me carry the child for you. Miss Trevanion?' 
 whirled the softer sensation away into eddies of 
 suspicion and dark thrills of alarm and doubt. 
 ' Oh, no, no !' she cried, instinctively hu"- ing 
 on. 
 
 ' I ask nothing but to reheve you,' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, thanks ! I am much obliged to you, 
 but it is impossible. It would wake him,' she 
 said hurriedly, not looking up. 
 
 ' You think me presumptuous. Miss Tre- 
 vanion, and so I am ; but it is terrible to see 
 you so burdened and not be able to help.' 
 
 This made her burden so much the more 
 that Eosalind quickened her steps, and stumbled 
 and almost fell. ' Oh, please,' she said, ' go 
 away. You may mean to be kind. Oh, please 
 go away.' 
 
 The nursery-maid, who came back at Mrs. 
 Lennox's orders to help Eosalind, saw nothing 
 particular to remark, except that the young 
 lady was flushed and disturbed. But to hurry 
 along a crowded platform with a child in your
 
 MADAM. 289 
 
 arms was enoiish to account for that. Tlie 
 maid could very well appreciate such a draw- 
 back to movement. She succeeded, with the 
 skill of her profession, in taking the child into 
 her own arms, and repeated Mrs. Lennox's 
 entreaties to make haste. But Eosalind re- 
 quired no solicitation in this respect. She 
 made a dart forward, and was in the carriage 
 Tfi^f "noment, where she threw herself into a 
 seat and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 ' I knew it would be too much for you,' 
 said Aunt Sophy, soothingly. ' Oh, Thirza is 
 used to it. I pity nurses with all my heart ; 
 but they are used to it. But you, my poor 
 darling, in such a crowd ! Did you think w^e 
 should miss the train ? I know what that is — ■ 
 to hurry along, and yet be sure you will miss 
 it. Here, Thirza, here : we are all right : and 
 after all there is plenty of time.' After a 
 pause Aunt Sophy said, ' I wonder who that is 
 looking so intently into this carriage. Such a 
 remarkable face ; but I hope he does not mean 
 to get in here ; we are quite full here. Eosa- 
 lind, you look like nothing at all in that corner 
 in your black dress. He wdll think the seat is 
 vacant and come in if you don't make a little 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 MADAM. 
 
 more appearance : Eosalind — good gracious, I 
 believe she has fainted ! ' 
 
 ' No, Aunt Sophy.' Eosahnd raised her 
 head and uncovered her pale face. She knew 
 tliat she should see that intruder looking at 
 her. He seemed to be examining the carriages, 
 looking for a place, and as she took her hands 
 from her face their eyes met. There was that 
 unconscious communication between them whJflT 
 betrays those who recognise each other whether 
 they make any sign or not. Aunt Sophy gave 
 a wondering cry. 
 
 ' Why, you know him ! and yet he does not 
 take his hat off. Who is it, Eosalind ? ' 
 
 ' I have seen him — in the village ' 
 
 'Oh, I know,' cried little Sophy, pushing- 
 forward. ' It is the gentleman. I have seen 
 him often. He lived at the Eed Lion. Don't 
 you remember, Eosalind, the gentleman that 
 mamma wouldn't let me ' 
 
 ' Oh, Sophy, be quiet ! ' cried the girl. 
 What poignant memories awoke with the 
 words ! 
 
 ' But how strange he looks,' cried Sophy. 
 ' His hat down over his eyes, and I believe he 
 has got a beard or something ' 
 
 ' You must not run on like that. I dare sa v
 
 Madam. 291 
 
 it is quite a different person,' said Aun^ Sophy. 
 ' What made me notice him is that he has eyes 
 exactly hke httle Johnny's eyes.' 
 
 It was one of Aunt Sophy's weaknesses that 
 she was always finding out likenesses ; but 
 Eosahnd's mind was disturbed by another form 
 of her original difficulty about the stranger. It 
 might be foigiven him that he hung about her 
 path, and even followed at a distance. It was 
 excusable that he should ask if he could help 
 her with the child ; but having thus ventured 
 to accost her, and having established a sort of 
 acquaintance by being useful to her, why, when 
 tlieir eyes met, did he make no sign of recogni- 
 tion ? Xo, he could not be a gentleman ! 
 Then Eosalind awoke with horror to find that 
 on the very first day after all the calamities 
 that had befallen her fomilv she was able to 
 discuss such a question with herself. 
 
 £XD OF THE FIRST VOLUME 
 
 LON'DOy : PRINTED IlY 
 
 6POTT1SWOO;>F ASD CO., XEW-STUEET S^^UAEE 
 
 AXD PAELLUIE>T STEEET
 
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