A Difficult Matter

Chapter I. Chapter XXII

CHAPTER I

Sir Francis Deverell, of Deverell Place, in the County of Southshire, sat motionless at his breakfast table, with his tea getting stone cold at his elbow, and his bacon and eggs untasted on the plate before him. His eyes were fixed upon an open letter which was propped up against the teapot in front of him, and so long and so intently were they fixed upon it, that it almost seemed as though he was never going to move them again. Sir Francis was a small made, very dapper little old gentleman, of between sixty and seventy ; he had a neat grey head, close-cropped grey whiskers, and clean-cut features. He was dressed with a scrupu lous exactitude that almost amounted to smartness, and his figure, which was a well-proportioned one upon a diminutive scale, was as erect and upright as that of a boy of twenty.

Hunt, who, on a larger scale, had fashioned his outer man as far as possible in imitation of his master's, stood immovably behind his chair. A Hunt was the very essence of propriety and re spectability, but having been in service at Deverell Place from his boyhood upwards, he was of opinion that there are certain respectful familiarities which a man in his position may in cases of emergency be allowed to indulge in. If there is one thing above all others that the soul of a conscientious butler may rightly be considered to abhor, it is the spoiling of good food set upon the table. Hunt watched the gradual cooling of the bacon and the tea to which he had carefully helped his master with growing distress and uneasiness. At length he could bear it no longer. He stole round the table and ventured to break in upon his medi tations by handing him the hot buttered toast ; but Sir Francis merely shook his head, and motioned the dish away with his hand.

Hunt eyed the letter which was producing in him such an unprecedented oblivion of the ordinary duties of life with indignation ; Sir Francis' correspondence was not wont to be of such an absorbing character. Hunt, who was the soul of discretion, did not allow his glance to rest curiously upon the handwriting, which was unformed and straggling, but he could not avoid perceiving that there was a very broad black edge to the paper. Then he coughed gently behind his hand. Sir Francis started, and Hunt seized his opportunity. ' If I might be allowed to say so, Sir Francis, your breakfast is growing cold.' The old gentleman drew a very long breath and then took a gulp of his lukewarm tea. ' I trust there is no bad news, Sir Francis?' in quired Hunt, deferentially. Sir Francis turned round in his arm-chair, and looked at his butler with a face of consternation. 'There is very bad news indeed, Hunt,' he said solemnly. ' I am truly sorry, sir, to hear it,' murmured Hunt, with concern. ' Mrs Walter Deverell is dead. ' That is very sad.' ' It is not in the least sad, Hunt,' replied his master sharply, 'it is a very good thing.

That is not the worst of the business by any means.' Hunt, who knew that the name of his younger son's widow had not passed Sir Francis' lips for twelve years, awaited in respectful, but not in un interested silence, for what was to come next. ' You have not, I daresay, forgotten,' resumed his master after a short pause, ' how my poor, misguided son was lured away to his destruction by a play actress — a common play actress,' he repeated, dwelling with bitter emphasis of contempt and hatred upon the words, ' for whose sake he forfeited for ever his position as my son.' Hunt knew all about it quite as well as Sir Francis did. Walter Deverell had been the family black sheep, and since the crowning iniquity of his marriage, his name and existence had been outwardly expunged from the records of the family history.

When the news of his death had come twelve years ago to Deverell Place, Sir Francis had for some hours shut himself up in his own room. Whether he had sorrowed, or whether his pride and resentment had sustained him under the loss, was known only to himself. He gave no sign of feeling to the world ; he was only a little harder, a little colder, a little greyer and older too, than before the news came — that was all. No one ever saw a tear in his eye, or was able to guess that he had sorrowed in any way for his once best loved younger son. And he had handed a letter that same day to Hunt. ' You will take that letter into Allhampton your self, Hunt, and post it for me by six o'clock,' he had said to him. And Hunt had seen that the letter was addressed to Mrs Walter Deverell. From that day to this Hunt had never heard of her.

Now he mutely bowed his head in answer to his master's preamble, wondering what was to come next. 'What you perhaps never heard of, Hunt, is that my poor boy left a child, as well as a widow.' ' Indeed, sir? ' This was certainly news to Hunt. Sir Francis tapped the letter before him with his forefinger. ' This letter is from her, Hunt ! ' ' From her, Sir Francis ? ' ' From the child, I mean, from my grand-daughter, Hermione Deverell. Did you ever hear of that name in the family before, Hunt ? ' ' It sounds outlandish-like, Sir Francis, certainly,' admitted Hunt. ' It's unchristian and heathenish, I consider,' cried the old man, irritably ; ' but what else could be ex pected from a play actress ! However, that is a small matter. Miss Hermione Deverell,' referring again to the black-bordered letter in his hand, which was all scrawled over with a large, straggling handwriting, and blotted and blurred in places as though with tears, ' Miss Hermione Deverell writes to tell me that Mrs Walter Deverell is dead, and was buried yesterday, that she has managed to pay for the funeral, but that she is now penniless ; and that by the dying desire of her mother, backed up by the advice of her friends, whoever they may be, she is coming to place herself under my protection.

She leaves Durham, where they appear to have been living, this morning, reaches St Pancras at 4.30, drives across London to catch the 5.45 train at Waterloo, and will be at Allhampton at 7.49 this evening. ' To-day, Sir Francis ? This is very sudden ! ' ' It is very sudden indeed,' said the old man, and then he pushed his chair away from the table and went and stood by the window with his back to the room, looking out at the level lawns and the gardens, and the noble double avenue of lime trees that was the glory of Deverell Place, and at the gentle slopes of the park beyond, stealing upwards towards the bare, bleak circle of downs that surrounded the green oasis of the property on every side. Perhaps, as he stood there, he saw nothing but the familiar scene that he had looked at so many thousands of times ; the green meadow lands, the yellowing autumn woods, the cattle in the meadows, the antlered deer amongst the shadowy glades, the sheep that dotted the hillsides far away — things which his eyes had rested upon daily, all his life, with a certain sense of pride in his possessions, mingled with a conviction of high responsibility — or perhaps for once, those faded old eyes saw none of these at all, but only through a mist of their own tears, a bright eager face, glowing with youth and hope and happiness — a face that for twelve long years had lain mouldering in a distant and untended grave.

His voice was less steady than usual as he said to his old butler : — ' I cannot refuse a home to my poor boy's orphan child, Hunt?' 'No, Sir Francis, certainly not,' replied the old servant with some show of feeling. 'You must send the brougham to meet the 7.49 train at Allhampton to-night, with the cart for the luggage.' ' Yes, Sir Francis.' ' The question is where are we to put Miss Deverell when she comes ? ' Already the little unknown grand-daughter with the Shakespearean name had arisen to the important position of ' Miss Deverell ' in her grandfather's mind — there was no other Miss Deverell in the family — his eldest son's children were all boys. The question seemed a ridiculous one, seeing that Deverell Place was a large and roomy mansion, and that the baronet, whose wife had died soon after Walter's birth, lived entirely alone by himself in the great empty house of his forefathers. ' Had I not better send for Mrs March ? ' suggested Hunt, to whom the subject presented no less difficulty than to his master.

Mrs March was accordingly summoned, and Hunt briefly broke the astonishing news to her outside the door. ' Suitable rooms must be prepared for Miss Deverell's reception this evening,' said the baronet, with an inflection of importance in his voice. ' Yes, Sir Francis. The west corridor would, I think, be the best. There are three very nice rooms — a bedroom, a dressing-room and a morning room. They used to be the old schoolrooms, sir. I daresay you remember?' Sir Francis had not been into the old schoolrooms for many years, but when Mrs March proceeded to explain that she could make them very comfortable and habitable by the evening, he agreed to the proposition. ' Miss Deverell must have a maid, too.' ' Will she not bring her own maid, Sir Francis ? ' ' Well, no. I hardly think so. If she did, I should not keep her.

I should prefer a fresh lady's-maid to be found for her here.' 'Certainly, Sir Francis — there's my own niece as was lady's-maid to the Ladies Conybeare, who is now out of place and seeking a new situation — I could no doubt get her here by the day after to morrow, and meanwhile I can wait upon Miss Deverell myself.' ' That will do perfectly, March, and — and if there should be any deficiency in Miss Deverell's ward robe — I believe she has been travelling about — it might require renovating.' It was curious to note how nervously the autocratic little old man made the suggestion. But Mrs March, although not so old a servant as Hunt, knew perfectly well what Miss Deverell's position had hitherto been. ' Certainly, Sir Francis,' she hastened to say, ' I quite understand ; you would wish Miss Deverell to have everything of the best, no doubt?' ' Quite so, March, of the very best.' He was at all events determined to do his duty by the girl.

That was how he put it to himself; the child had thrown herself into his arms, and he would treat her as if in very truth she was his honoured and beloved grand - daughter ; no one should say of him that he had neglected to recognise her claim upon him, or had left his son's child to starve. Her mother — that base born, in triguing creature — was dead, and could trouble him no more ; the child had turned to her father's people, and she should be welcomed. Let her only lay aside her past life of disgrace and indignity, and begin a new existence such as the daughters of the house of Deverell had ever led under the paternal roof, and all the shame of her early years should be forgotten and blotted out. Moreover, at the very bottom of his heart there was a strange flutter of curiosity and excitement.

He wanted to see her, this child of his dead boy, to trace in her young face the likeness of the son whom he had disowned, and to fill his empty life with the delight of her young presence. For he was very lonely, was this poor old baronet, in his fine old English country house. The son whom he had loved was discarded and dead, and the son who was to bear his name and reign in his place was so taken up with his fine lady wife and his public life in London, that he had but little time to bestow upon his old father in the dullness of Deverell Place. Richard Deverell and his wife, Lady Catherine, and their progeny, three smart and pert little boys, came down regularly for Christmas, causing a great deal of commotion and excitement in the house. Her ladyship brought her French maid and her pug, her boys had their tutor and their nursery governess, whilst Mr Deverell was accompanied by his valet and his private secretary.

All these people created much turmoil in the quiet life of the sober, old-fashioned household. Lady Catherine lay in bed till midday (a practice which Hunt as well as his master abhorred), the boys shouted and kicked their football along the passages, left their books and their magic lantern slides all over the chairs and sofas, or splashed the ink about on the writing - tables. As to Richard Deverell, he was always writing despatches or looking over blue-books. He was M.P. for a London con stituency, and under-secretary for the Colonial Coaling Stations Office into the bargain, so how could he be expected to devote much of his valuable time to his old father ! On the whole, Sir Francis was always very glad when the Christmas visit came to an end, and the whole company of ten souls, bag and baggage, took their departure back to town, and left him to himself again in the peaceful stagnation of his big silent rooms.

He derived no pleasure out of his son and his family, their ways were not his ways ; they were, of course, creditable and respectable in the highest degree ; he had no fault to find with their conduct or their position in the world. Richard's whole career had been an upright and honourable one ; his public life was exemplary, his private life was blameless, and by his marriage with Lord Braceby's daughter he had but added fresh advantages of money and station to the name which he bore. Sir Francis had no complaint to make of Richard, but at his secret heart he did not like him. Mr Deverell found plenty of fault when he came to Deverell Place ; he had an aggravating habit of suggesting improvements, of pointing out slovenliness and incapacity, of wondering how his father could have put up so long with such and such abuses — and he had even been known to interfere in the manage ment of the stables, and to complain of the flavour of the wine.

All this was annoying to Sir Francis ; so that he was always secretly glad when his son went away and left him in peace to his comfortable abuses and old-fashioned habits. When he thought about the unknown grand daughter who was coming to him to-day, he wondered to himself what Richard would say about it, when he came to hear of it. For certain, Richard would disapprove, and would condemn him for taking the girl in, and blame him for acting upon an impulse of charity and affection : there could be little doubt about the view Richard would take of it. But, then, Richard was in town, and the child was to arrive to night, and Sir Francis told himself that it would not be possible even for Mr Deverell, were he in his position, to act in a different fashion. And when he thought it all over, he was very glad that there had been no choice left him in the matter.

He had a good many disturbing thoughts that day as he wandered restlessly about by himself over the house and gardens, too excited to settle down to his usual occupations, and too perplexed about the future to give his mind to anything else. What was to be done with Hermione Deverell when she arrived ? How was she to be educated ? Would she require a governess or finishing masters ? He could not, moreover, rightly remember her age. He thought she would be thirteen or fourteen, but possibly she might be older — years slip away so quickly and young people grow up so rapidly. But then, supposing she were a full-blown young lady, what a vista of horrible disquietude opened out before him ! She might expect to be taken to the County Ball in December and to the Hunt Ball in January ! Would he have to take her there ?

The poor old gentleman's head went round at the bare possibility of it. And so all day long he waited for the evening with mingled feelings of dread and curiosity, with an appalling sense of a possible catastrophe, oddly mixed up with a strange yearning at his heart to see the child of his dead son.

Chapter II Our

anticipations of expected events seldom bear the slightest resemblance to the facts which actually take place. Hermione Deverell arrived in due course of time at her grandfather's house, and Sir Francis hurried down to the front door to receive her, and as she came into the large, old-fashioned hall out of the damp darkness of the autumn evening, he saw in a moment that she was not in the very least what his imagination had pictured her to be. She was a tall, slender girl with a graceful figure, a bright, clever face, and eyes that were of a lovely luminous blue. Although she was only seventeen, there was nothing of a child about her. Early contact with the rough world and its troubles had given to her manner the composure and the self-containment of a woman. As she came across the wide hall to meet her unknown grandfather with both hands outstretched towards him, Sir Francis saw with a pang of disappointment that she did not resemble his dead son in the least ; and yet at the first words she spoke, there was a something in the vibration of her voice which stirred at once his long-slumbering memories. ' Will you forgive me for coming ?

Will you give me a home ? ' she said in a quick, impulsive way. He drew her towards him and kissed her on the forehead. ' My dear, your home should have been here long ago,' he answered with a little emotion. ' Oh, no — never whilst my mother was alive ! ' she replied quickly. The answer was something of a shock to him. He did not want to talk about her mother — he wanted the very memory of that deeply offending person to be wiped out and forgotten. ' As long as mother was alive ' — she went on a little breathlessly — ' my place in the world was by her side ; in trouble and in joy I have never been parted from her, but now I have lost her — ' and her voice broke. ' Well, well,' he interrupted soothingly, as he patted the small black gloved hands he still held in his, ' you must forget all your troubles now and begin life afresh.' For a moment or two she did not answer, but a little smile stole into her face, a smile that faded sadly away, as two big tears rolled down slowly over her cheeks and dropped down like blots of flame upon the old man's thin, white hands.

They gave him a singular sensation — those tears ! How many years ago it was since a woman's tears had fallen upon his hands ! ' I know,' she said presently, looking at him stead fastly, ' that I have got to begin life anew ; it will be hard work, I daresay, but it has got to be done. But I have left a great deal of happiness behind me, grandfather, and I shall never forget my mother, the best, and truest, and dearest woman that ever lived ! ' There was a certain speech that had been brewing in the worthy baronet's mind all day : a speech to the effect that her father had sinned greatly against him in the past, but that he was willing to pardon his dead son, and be good to his daughter, if only she would forget all about the ' play actress ' and her ways and surroundings, and sever herself in thought as well as in deed from a connection that reflected nothing but disgrace upon the ancient name of Deverell.

But that speech was never uttered. There was something about Hermione which made it impossible for him to say the words. He would not have liked to own to himself that he did not dare to say them ; yet that was perhaps how it was. This little lady, with her frank eyes and fearless self-possession, was mistress of the situation. He had expected a shy and frightened child, who would be silled with awe at his great venerable house, and with humility towards himself; but Hermione — how was it?— was nothing of what he had fancied that she would be. Later on, when he found himself seated face to face to her at the small round dinner table in the midst of the vast square dining-room, where fifty people had on more than one occasion feasted with ease, Sir Francis was filled with secret amazement, as well as with admiration for his grandchild.

There was nothing in her that the most fastidious taste could find a fault with. She was simply, but adequately dressed in a black dress of some trans parent fabric, cut low at the neck. Her white and shapely throat rose like a lily above the soft black draperies, her arms were round and smooth as polished marble, whilst her tapering wrists and small pointed fingered hands, reminded him in some vague, far away fashion of those of his own mother, who had been a Mountreson with the bluest blood of England in her veins. Beneath the roseate glow of the red-shaded wax candles, Hermione's golden head with its crown of soft rolled hair made a light of itself, like sunshine, in the gloom of the vast oak-panelled room, and her clear blue eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, shone at him pleasantly across the glass and silver and hot-house flowers upon the little table be tween them.

Sir Francis felt his heart swell with pride as he looked at her. Here, he felt, was nothing to be ashamed of — nothing that need remind him of that low-born mother of hers, whose very memory he desired to expunge for ever from the earth. ' She comes of the old stock,' he thought with satisfaction. ' She will do me credit. I must marry her well — according to her position as my grand daughter ; there will be no difficulty, with that little high-bred air of hers and her pretty face ; and once married, who is to remember that her mother was Nelly Barker, the acts ess ? ' And straightway his thoughts began ranging about towards several eligible and unexceptionable mar riageable men who frequented Southshire at different periods of the year, and who might, with advantage, be invited to stay at Deverell Place. ' There is Sir Godfrey Birch, or young Vandeleur, who will come into the title when his uncle dies ; and better than either, there is the squire's nephew and heir, Charles Irvine, with his mother's fortune and the place adjoining mine ; a good-looking fellow, too, that any girl might take a fancy to, with an old family name and money, and plenty of brains into the bargain.

By George ! he's the very man ! I wonder if I could get him down next week for a day or two — he will be glad to get a holiday, and there are the pheasants to be shot, and if only Richard would come down for a couple of days and bring one or two of his own friends as well, I'll drop him a line to-night.' ' Grandfather ! ' here said the clear young voice from the other side of the table. £ Dinner was over, the peaches and grapes in the old Chelsea dishes, and the ruby wine in the heavy cut-glass decanters stood between them. Hunt and his satellite had retired, and the girl and her grand father were alone. ' Grandfather, there is something I want to tell you,' said Hermione. ' Tell me anything you like, my dear,' replied the old man, smiling at her, and then he lifted his wine glass to his lips. ' And first let me pledge you — here is health and happiness to you in the old house that was the home of your forefathers, and here is to our new life together, dear child.' Hermione returned the toast with a smile, lifting her own wine-glass to her rosy lips, whilst a suspicious moisture clouded for a moment the clear lustre of her eyes.

Then she set the glass down almost untasted by her side, and began again. ' But it is rather serious what I want to say to you. It is something I think that I ought to tell you, and that you ought to know about me, before you consent to give me a home and to treat me as your child.' Sir Francis looked at her a little uneasily. 'You — you don't want to go on the stage, I suppose ? ' he inquired, with sudden wrinkling up of all his grey old face. ' You are not stage-struck, I hope ? Haven't got what they call the " glare ofthe footlights " on the brain, I trust ? ' Hermione laughed gaily. ' Oh, no indeed ! Why, who would go on the stage if they were not obliged to ? Oh, grandfather, if you had seen, as I have, the hard work, the unceasing toil and strain ; if you had known, as I have done, the drudgery and the pain to a woman with failing health and broken spirits, who, for bare daily bread has to struggle on night after night, to put on the paint and the rouge, to wreathe her face in hollow smiles, to act all sorts of gay and lively parts with an aching head and a breaking heart — Oh ! you would not think there was much illusion left about it !

To the outside public the life may seem a gay one enough, full of excitement and change — but only those who have literally been " behind the scenes " can know how sordid and unlovely it all is ! What heartburnings and anxieties — what bitter humiliations, what cruel disappointments ! Ah, no ! what I have seen and known since my childhood of the troubles and trials that my dear mother has undergone has been enough, and more than enough, to disenchant me for ever from wishing to follow her career. She herself on her deathbed implored and entreated me never to do so. It is she who bade me come to you, who said to me, " he is a good man and he loved your father once, and for your father's sake he will be good to you," and that is why I came to you, because she told me to.' There was a moment's silence.

Hermione looked sadly before her — seeing, no doubt, the picture of that deathbed once more, and hearing still the faint tones of that beloved voice, now hushed for ever in the grave. As to Sir Francis, he cleared his throat once or twice — it was odd how husky he was ! Still, what a relief to discover that Hermione had no hankerings after her mother's most undesirable pro fession ! ' And this very important thing that you have to tell me about, my dear?' he said after a minute, ' what may it be, pray ? ' Hermione shook off her sad musings with a little gesture of apology. ' Oh,' she said, half laughing, ' it is nothing very wonderful after all ! Nothing, perhaps, that matters to anybody on earth — save to myself — only, as you are so good as to give me a home, and to let me live in your house, I think, perhaps, it is right that I should tell you at once.' ' Yes ?

Well, my love, pray tell me then.' He looked at her across the shining silver and glass, with a smile. It was some little girlish confession — some thing trivial and unimportant. She had smuggled a pet dog, or a parrot, into the house, perhaps, and she wanted leave to keep it. Sir Francis hated pets of all kinds with a deadly hatred — but still, he was not prepared to be very strict in this instance, if she would consent to keep her pets to her own rooms and not allow them to stray about the house and get in his way. And then Hermione spoke. ' It is only,' she said, very simply and quietly, ' only that I am engaged to be married.' There was a dead silence. Sir Francis stared at her blankly and speechlessly ; his pleasant smile faded, his lower jaw had fallen a little, there was horror and dismay in his widened grey eyes.