Dawn. H. Rider Haggard
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“Now, if you will come into my study, we will continue our chat,” and he offered her his arm. “Here we are secure from interruption,” he said, with a ghost of a smile. “Take this chair. Now, forgive my impertinence, but I must ask you if I am to understand that you are my son’s legal wife?”
She flushed a little as she answered:
“Sir, I am. I have been careful to bring the proof; here it is;” and she took from a little hand-bag a certified copy of the register of her marriage, and gave it to him. He examined it carefully through his gold eye-glass, and handed it back.
“Perfectly in order. Hum! some eight months since, I see. May I ask why I am now for the first time favoured with a sight of this interesting document—in short, why you come down, like an angel from the clouds, and reveal yourself at the present moment?”
“I have come,” she answered, “because of these.” And she handed him two letters. “I have come to ascertain if they are true; if my husband is a doubly perjured or a basely slandered man.”
He read the two anonymous letters. With the contents of the first we are acquainted; the second merely told of the public announcement of Philip’s engagement.
“Speak,” she said, with desperate energy, the calm of her face breaking up like ice before a rush of waters. “You must know everything; tell me my fate!”
“Girl, these villanous letters are in every particular true. You have married in my son the biggest scoundrel in the county. I can only say that I grieve for you.”
She listened in silence; then rising from her chair, said, with a gesture infinitely tragic in its simplicity:
“Then it is finished; before God and man I renounce him. Listen,” she went on, turning to her father-in-law, “I loved your son, he won my heart; but, though he said he loved me, I suspected him of playing fast and loose with me, on the one hand, and with my friend, Maria Lee, on the other. So I determined to go away, and told him so. Then it was that he offered to marry me at once, if I would change my purpose. I loved him, and I consented—yes, because I loved him so, I consented to even more. I agreed to keep the marriage secret from you. You see what it has led to. I, a Von Holtzhausen, and the last of my name, stand here a byword and a scorn; my story will be found amusing at every dinner-table in the country-side, and my shame will even cling to my unborn child. This is the return he has made me for my sacrifice of self-respect, and for consenting to marry him at all; to outrage my love and make me a public mockery.”
“We have been accustomed,” broke in the old squire, his pride somewhat nettled, “to consider our own a good family to marry into. You do not seem to share that view.”
“Good; yes, there is plenty of your money for those who care for it; but, sir, as I told your son, it is not a family. He did me no honour in marrying me, though I was nothing but a German companion, with no dower but her beauty. I,”—and here she flung her head back with an air of ineffable pride—“did him the honour. My ancestors, sir, were princes, when his were plough-boys.”
“Well, well,” answered the old man, testily, “ten generations of country gentry, and the Lord only knows how many more of stout yeomen before them, is a good enough descent for us; but I like your pride, and I am glad that you spring from an ancient race. You have been shamefully treated, Hilda—is not your name Hilda?—but there are others, more free from blame than you are, who have been treated worse.”
“Ah, Maria! then she knows nothing?”
“Yes, there is Maria and myself. But never mind that. Philip will, I suppose, be back in a few hours—oh, yes! he will be back,” and his eyes glinted unpleasantly, “and what shall you do then? what course do you intend to take?”
“I intend to claim my rights, to force him to acknowledge me here where he suffered his engagement to another woman to be proclaimed, and then I intend to leave him. He has killed my respect; I will not live with him again. I can earn my living in Germany. I have done with him; but, sir, do not you be hard upon him. It is a matter between me and him. Let him not suffer on my account.”
“My dear, pray confine yourself to your own affairs, and leave me to settle mine. There shall be no harshness; nobody shall suffer more than they deserve. There, don’t break down, go and rest, for there are painful scenes before you.”
He rang the bell, and sent for the housekeeper. She came presently, a pleasant-looking woman of about thirty years of age, with a comely face and honest eyes.
“This lady, Pigott,” said the old squire, addressing her, “is Mrs. Philip Caresfoot, and you will be so kind as to treat her with all respect. Don’t open your eyes, but attend to me. For the present, you had best put her in the red room, and attend to her yourself. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, sir! I understand,” Pigott replied, curtseying. “Will you be pleased to come along with me, ma’am?”
Hilda rose and took Pigott’s arm. Excitement and fatigue had worn her out. Before she went, however, she turned, and with tears in her eyes thanked the old man for his kindness to a friendless woman.
The hard eyes grew kindly as he stooped and kissed the broad, white brow, and said in his stately way—
“My dear, as yet I have shown you nothing but the courtesy due to a lady. Should I live, I hope to bestow on you the affection I owe to a much-wronged daughter. Good-by.”
And thus they parted, little knowing where they should meet again.
“A woman I respect—well, English or German, the blood will tell”—he said as soon as the door had closed. “Poor thing—poor Maria too. The scoundrel!—ah! there it is again;” and he pressed his hand to his heart. “This business has upset me, and no wonder.”
The pang passed, and sitting down he wrote a letter that evidently embarrassed him considerably, and addressed it to Miss Lee. This he put in the post-box, and then, going to a secretaire, he unlocked it, and taking out a document he began to puzzle over it attentively.
Presently Simmons announced that Mr. Bellamy was waiting.
“Show him in at once,” said the old man briskly.
CHAPTER XI
It was some minutes past seven that evening when the lawyer left, and he had not been gone a quarter of an hour before a hired gig drove up to the door containing Philip, who had got back from town in the worst of bad tempers, and, as no conveyance was waiting for him, had been forced to post over from Roxham. Apparently his father had been expecting his arrival, for the moment the servant opened the door he appeared from his study, and addressed him in a tone that was as near to being jovial as he ever went.
“Hallo, Philip, back again, are you? Been up to town, I suppose, and driven over in the ‘George’ gig? That’s lucky; I wanted to speak to you. Come in here, there’s a good fellow, I want to speak to you.”
“Why is he so infernally genial?” reflected Philip. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes;” then aloud, “All right, father; but if it is all the same to you, I should like to get some dinner first.”
“Dinner! why, I have had none yet; I have been too busy. I shall not keep you long; we will dine together presently.”
Philip was surprised, and glanced at him suspiciously. His habits were extremely regular; why had he had no dinner?
Meanwhile his father led the way into the study, muttering below his breath—
“One more chance—his last chance.”
A wood fire was burning brightly on the hearth, for the evening was chilly, and some sherry and glasses stood