Sin for a Season

Front matter

NEW NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. WHERE TWO TIDES MEET. By HENRY F. BULLER, Author of 'Kingsmead,' ' A Bachelor's Family,' &c. '2 vols. THE ONE ALTERNATIVE. By REGINALD E. SALWEY, Author of ' The Finger of Scorn,' 'Ventured in Vain,' Æc. 2 vols. A MODERN HELEN. By ALICE M. DIEHL, Author of 'The Garden of Eden,' ' Passion'B Puppets,' 'A Woman's Whim.' &c. 2 vols VAL. A Story of the Tivy-Side. By JUDITH VANDELEUR. 2 vols. A FAIR PALMIST. By AMYOT SAGON. 1 vol. LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED li.At ft BY VERE CLAVERING AUTHOR OF 'BARCALDINE,' ETC, ETC ' To shut the world out 'neath the grass, To leave the sorrow and the pain , To lie with happy folded hands, To dream the old sweet dreams again.' IN ONE VOLUME. LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1897 All rights reserved CONTENTS.

CHAPTER pA0B I. Called to Account 1 II. Looking Backwards 12 III. John Cheriton's End 23 IV. Plain Speaking 29 V. The Fir.ST Stone . ... 39 VI. No Fool after all 47 VII. Pleasure 50 VIII. Pain 64 IX. Society Vultures 71 X. Quite an old Lady 80 XL Confidences 89 XII. A New Departure 9(3 XIII. The Pity of It 103 XIV. Redeeming the Past .... 117 XV. Aunt Lizzie suspects 126 XVI. Duty versus Diplomacy 135 XVII. I am Blanche Cheriton 145 XVIII. A Sense of Duty 150 XIX. Clouds 105 XX. On the Silent Sea . . . • .170 XXI. Opportunities 181 XXII. A Revelation 191 XXIII. So runs the World away .... CONTENT* VI CIIAPTEfi TAGL- XXIV. Good-byes 214 XXV. Unstable as Water 221 XXVI. Sarah Meek's Prescription . . . . 230 XXVII. That October Day 240 XXVIII. After the Sun has Set .... 249 XXIX. Light 259 XXX.

Husband and Wife 207 XXXI. Tea and Toast 274 XXXII. What will He say then ? . 280 XXXIII. Counting the Cost 288 XXXIV. Winifred's Plea 295 XXXV. Blanche Cheriton's Confession . . . 302 XXXVI. Waiting 312 XXXVII. A Stern Chase ...... 317 XXXVIII. Love is Sure 328 L'Envoi

Chapter I. Called To Account

It was by no means a pleasant afternoon, far from it, for there was a thick yellow fog, and a chilly, raw feeling in the air, which caused both men and women who were abroad on this December evening to hurry along the streets with out more than a passing glance at the well-lighted, gaily decked shop windows, all resplendent with ' latest novelties in their special branch of trade, with which to tempt the Christmas purchaser at this festive season of ' Christmas tide.' Hurrying up Bond Street, amid his fellows on business or pleasure bent, was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man — as far as could be judged in a passing glance — and apparently about thirty years of age. He looked neither to right nor left of him, paying no more attention to the passers-by than was sufficient to avoid a collision, and he was evidently too much absorbed in his own thoughts to heed what was going on around him.

B His face was handsome without doubt — unusually so, per haps, — but there was nothing specially striking about it, save that it was a weak face, and would have been pronounced so by any expert at character-reading without much hesitation. On this particular evening his expression was that of anxiety and indecision, and, judging from that source of in formation, his errand, whatsoever it might be, was hardly likely to be a pleasant one, or cause him much gratification when completed. Pulling his coat-collar closer round his ears, and giving an unmistakable shudder as he met the cold blast of wind which greeted him, he turned the corner into Grosvenor Street, and after continuing his way for about one hundred yards he stopped abruptly at the door of a newly-painted house, wTith large brass dolphins for knockers on the freshly varnished dark-green door ; both door and knocker reflecting the little light there was from the dimly-burning gas-lamp on the opposite side of the pavement.

Evidently familiar with the surroundings, he at once placed his fingers on the electric bell, and as soon as the door was opened he stepped across the threshold, merely observing, ' Mrs. Cheriton in, Turner ?' to the butler who had answered his ring, and to whom he was evidently no stranger. ' Yes, sir,' replied the man, obsequiously, though not altogether genially, and straightway preparing to lead the way upstairs. ' Wait a moment, Turner, I think I'll leave my coat in the hall, it is so damp ; this fog gets through everything.' ' Yes, sir, very unpleasant weather indeed ! Shall I just put it before the fire, sir ?' ' Oh, no, thank you, it will do very well if you will kindly hang it up while I am here.' This being done, the servant preceded him upstairs, pausing on the first landing for an instant, to say, ' Mrs. Cheriton is in the boudwoir, sir ;' and throwing open the door on the left of the stairs, he announced, in a subdued voice, ' Mr. Meredyth.' Following the man into the room, Herbert Meredyth found Mrs. Cheriton seated in front of a small tea-table drawn close to the fire, and as she rose to receive her visitor, she casually observed, ' How good of you to come and see me such a wretched afternoon !

Will not you have some tea ?' at the same time commencing to pour out the beverage in question. ' Thanks, if I may,' he answered ; but his voice seemed husky, and for some cause or other he was evidently not quite at his ease. While Herbert Meredyth sips his tea and plays with a square inch of toast, let us spare a moment to say a word as to the outward appearance of Blanche Clieriton. Tall, with an undeniably good figure, fair hair neatly arranged so as to make the best of a more than ordinarily well-shaped head, a face containing unusually good features, though not quite faultless ; but from which a pair of bril liant dark eyes met your gaze frankly and fearlessly, while their lustre was further enhanced by the paleness of her complexion. Mrs. Cheriton looked even paler than she in reality was, under the ordeal of the electric light, notwithb standing the fact that it was more or less toned down by shades composed of pale pink silk.

I have said that Blanche Cheriton's face was not quite faultless ; neither was it, perhaps, but it was a face once seen not to be lightly forgotten. Her mouth was a study in itself ; for firmness and resolution showed in every line of those well-curved lips, which parted only to disclose a vision of pearly white teeth that added vastly to the beauty of her face. A beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed, and with perfect taste ; a woman to admire wherever and whenever you saw her ; but, on this special occasion, looking somewhat worn and ill. She had evidently lost some of the first freshness of youth, and yet Blanche Cheriton could say with truth that she had not yet completed her twenty-eighth year. As you gazed upon Blanche Cheriton's face, you were at first sight apt to be puzzled as to what manner of face it was.

A lovely face, ah ! yes, assuredly so, but still a face that the more you scanned its lineaments the more you felt that beneath that calm smiling countenance lay hid a nature capable of intense feeling, strong passions, that if once aroused would need some quelling, and might change the whole current of her life. The large, dark eyes met yours with an unflinching gaze, but they had a tinge of sadness in them sufficient to suggest that there was something wanting in Mrs. Cheriton's life, and that she was not entirely happy ; although, when they lighted up with excitement or pleasure, that look of sadness left her, and no trace of it remained to remind you of what had been so apparent only a moment before. As for Herbert Meredyth, a few more words as to his outward appearance are possibly necessary.

He was good looking without doubt, had good eyes and a fresh, healthy complexion, wavy brown hair cut to almost military short ness, and he possessed a fairly luxuriant moustache of the same colour, which served to partially hide a mouth which was as weak in its lines as Blanche Cheriton's was the opposite. His eyes were of that shade of blue which women are supposed to admire, though lacking the beauty and expres sion of his opposite neighbour at the tea-table. He was wonderfully well set up and smart-looking, con sidering that he had never donned Her Majesty's uniform ; nevertheless, two-thirds of the people who met Herbert Meredyth for the first time mistook him for a soldier. In age, he was rather more than four years senior to Mrs. Cheriton, and by way of profession he ' studied law '; though since he had achieved the honour of being called to the ' Bar,' he had only held about half-a-dozen briefs, which possibly had brought him in about double as many guineas.

Herbert Meredyth was not lacking in brains, but he needed the necessary determination and energy to succeed in the line that he had chosen. He lived in London with his father, a widower, and he contrived to keep on fairly good terms on the whole with his somewhat crochetty parent, as long as he did not oppose his views, and this course, from long experience, Herbert Meredyth found it convenient to adopt ; for Neville Meredyth was not altogether a pleasant man at times. There was just the slightest soupqon of nervousness in the tones of Blanche Cheriton's voice as — after a rather un comfortable pause of some seconds duration — she observed gently. 'Were you surprised to hear that I wished to see you ?' ' Not at all,' he replied, quickly, though not without some slight hesitation in his voice, which seemed in a measure to rather belie his words. ' I made a point of coming directly I received your note.' True, so he had ; but it was that very note which had caused the perturbed, absent expression upon his face pre viously alluded to.

A moment later Mrs. Cheriton remarked, ' I presume you know why I sent for you ?' Her companion shifted uneasily in his chair, and, under the pretext of replacing his cup upon the tray, rose to his feet ; by so doing he contrived that his face was turned away from his hostess as he answered, after a moment's hesitation, ' Well, yes, Blanche, I suppose so ; but I meant ' Wait a minute,' she rejoined. ' Hear what I have to say before you commit yourself to any excuse or apology,' and taking no notice of the fact that for the first time since his arrival he had called her ' Blanche.' Herbert Meredyth merely shrugged his shoulders, directed his gaze into the fire, and prepared to listen ; so she con tinued : ' Of course I have noticed of late that your visits to me have been considerably less frequent than formerly, but for several weeks past I have detected a great change in you, though I said nothing.

I felt what was coming, though I tried hard to persuade myself against my better judgment — I knew that you had ceased to care for me, and had for gotten all that you owed me ; still, I . . .' ' Blanche, I declare to . . .' he broke in, hurriedly. ' Do not interrupt me,' she answered, quietly. ' First hear wThat I have to say to you ; then I am prepared to listen to whatever you may have to tell mo of your reasons, if you have any. Well, just a week ago to-day, a would-be friend of mine, but a woman I dislike more than most, took the trouble to call here, ostensibly to pay an ordinary afternoon visit, but in reality to convey to me the very pleasing intelligence — from her point of view — that you were about to be married to a Miss Graham. Well ! do you know that for once in my life I believed her.

What have you to say to Mrs. Marinden's piece of gratuitous information ?' During the whole time Mrs. Cheriton had been speaking she had kept her eyes fixed upon Herbert Meredyth's face, and neither in her voice nor in the words that fell from her lips did she show excitement or anger of any kind ; on the contrary, she spoke so calmly, that had it not been for the pallor of her face and a slight nervous twitching of her hands as they lay in her lap, it might well have been sup posed that she was only discussing the weather, or some equally unimportant topic. ' Well, Bertie,' she at length asked, ' have you nothing to say to me ?' At the sound of her pet name for him, the hot colour rushed to his very temples and as rapidly receded again, leaving his face almost as pale as her own ; then he gasped out, ' Blanche, I could not tell you ; I tried once, and indeed it is not my fault I . . .' 'When was it a man's fault that he behaved like a — a . . .' Here she hesitated to pronounce the word that rose to her lips, and broke off suddenly, merely finishing her sentence by saying, ' No, I am not going to treat you to a torrent of abuse ; do not be afraid, there shall be nothing of that kind betwixt us at this our last interview.' ' Last interview !' he murmured, appealingly. ' Yes ! the very last, in this house at all events, or with my consent,' she answered. ' I saw that that woman had spoken the truth the moment you entered the room,' she added, with a look near akin to contempt. ' Blanche, do listen to me, it is my father's doing ; I swear to you that it is.

You know how I love you, but . . .' ' But,' she repeated, scornfully, ' not well enough to forego the worldly advantages that a union with Miss Graham — as no doubt ably advocated by your father — would produce. Not well enough to cause you to remember the past, the present, or the future. O God ! have you men no loyalty in your composition V Here for the first time Blanche Cheriton seemed about to break down, but she recovered herself, and presently con tinued, in a perfectly impassive voice : ' It is I that am to blame — I, the wretched wicked fool that forgot myself, forgot the man who trusted me . . . and why ? Because you came into my life — crept little by little into my heart, till, God forgive me, I learnt to love you so, that I forgot all else : duty, honour, what you will. You see I do not mince matters, and now I have my reward.

God knows, I suppose I have deserved it, and yet . . .' Stung to the heart by her words, Herbert Meredyth sprang to his feet, and exclaimed, in a broken voice, ' It is not too late, Blanche. Forgive me, my darling, I will end that engagement at once and for ever. I — I . . .' ' Would behave like a scoundrel to the innocent girl who believes in you and trusts you ; in order to patch up the broken ties, to endeavour to recall into being the love that once existed between us, but which in calmer moments you know is dead in your heart — if heart you possess ?' Knowing the truth of every word she had uttered, Herbert Meredyth was dumb, while Blanche Cheriton once more spoke plainly and decisively, if calmly. ' It is too late — too late for you if not for me. You have extinguished every spark of love that I ever felt for you, and heaven knows I loved you well enough.

I am almost thankful that it is so. I have little excuse, perhaps — most people would say none, and possibly they would be right ; but, remember, I was forced to marry a man old enough to be my father, with whom I had not one idea or pursuit in common — I, a girl barely twenty, my husband being well over forty. He never understood the love and sympathy I yearned for. How could he ? ' After a year or two of married life, business became of far more importance to him than my happiness ; so day after day I was left to my own resources. Free to think, free to act as occasion offered, and . . . and then . . . you came into my life, with what result you know best, and the last five years can testify. If it is possible for a sinning woman to be happy, then I was happy — yes, happy ; for I loved you, and in those days you loved me.' ' God knows I did,' he murmured. ' Yes,' she replied, ' so far as that, I believe you : but it is all changed now, and I must not keep you any longer.

I ought to hate you, but I cannot, for a reason best known to yourself : a reason which to a woman renders hatred almost an impossibility ; though love may be utterly, hopelessly dead.' Before Herbert Meredyth could find words in which to answer her, there came a knock at the door, and in toddled a rosy-cheeked, fluffy-headed little boy apparently about five or six years of age, escorted by his nurse, who, seeing that Mrs. Cheriton was not alone, apologised for the intrusion, and suggested that ' she should take Master Geoffrey away and bring him down later,' to which arrangement the child, who had climbed upon his mother's knee, tearfully objected. ' Never mind, Barker,' observed Mrs. Cheriton, ' you can leave Master Geoffrey ; he will not be in my way.' The woman thereupon withdrew, but whether by accident or design she omitted to close the door after her, and owing to the velvet portiere which hung in front of it, neither Mrs. Cheriton nor her visitor noticed the omission.

Equally unnoticed by them was the click of the front door, as John Cheriton let himself into the house on his return from the City, nor did they hear his footsteps on the stone staircase, covered as it was with thick velvet-pile car pet, which effectually deadened all sound, as he made his way to his wife's boudoir for a cup of tea. He had almost reached the very threshold, when hearing voices within, and rightly judging that his wife had a visitor, he was about to retire as he came — for John Cheriton was a shy man, and cared little for the society of his wife's friends, as a rule — when he heard words through the half -closed door, unmistakably uttered by his wife, that rooted him to the spot, depriving him of all power of action had he wished it ever so. What his wife's exact words were, John Cheriton never could actually recall, strive as he afterwards did ; but he heard enough beyond possibility of doubt or error to make his heart stand still with horror, as he stood spell-bound within earshot of the speaker.

For one brief instant he resolved to rush forward and declare his presence ; but, before he could carry out his purpose, his wife's voice once more fell upon his ears as she bade her visitor — whoever he might be — ' leave her at once '; but he did not hear her final sentence, ' Till then, please God that I may never see your face again.' No ! he heard no more than her desire to be left alone, ere as one in a dream, with ashy face and trembling gait, looking twenty years older than when he ascended the stairs, he noiselessly retraced his steps — the soft velvet-pile carpet giving forth no sound — entered his own sanctum on the ground-floor, and then, having turned the key in the lock, he sank wearily into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands, completely dazed and stunned for the moment.

He was aroused from his reverie by a footstep he easily recognized as Herbert Meredyth's traversing the hall on his way out of the house — a footstep he knew far too well to ever mistake. Then, as the full significance of what he had heard, what those words addressed by his wife to Herbert Meredyth — the man he had not only liked but trusted like a. son — really meant, he gave way to his agony, and great tears slowly dropped upon the hands so tightly pressed over his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible apparition. His next sensation was hearing the loud bang of the front door as his wife's visitor left the house ; but it sounded to poor John Cheriton like the departing knell of all happiness or hope — all belief in his wife. Like a man in a dream, he slowly roused himself to action ; then, drawing a stationery-case, which stood on the writing table near to his hand, a little nearer, he selected a telegraph form, wrote a few words thereon, and carefully folding and placing it in his breast-pocket, he put on his over-coat, took his hat, and peered into the hall.

Finding no one about, he quietly opened the front door, inserted his latch-key on the outside, by which means he could noiselessly close the door ; pulled it to after him, and in a dazed, purposeless manner passed out into the fast thickening fog and gloom of the streets.

Chapter II. Looking Backwards

It was over. The dreaded interview that Herbert Mere dyth had so inwardly quailed at facing was a thing of the past, and as he emerged into the street — in spite of the thick yellow fog — he breathed a sigh of relief. Nevertheless, he was far from feeling satisfied with him self or by any means proud of his achievements, for the very way in which Blanche Cheriton had taken his desertion of her caused him to feel all the more what a pitiful crea ture he must have appeared in the eyes of the woman whom he had wronged in more ways than that one. He knew full well — for he was no fool, this Herbert Meredyth — that Blanche Cheriton had spoken no more than the plain unvarnished truth, when in answer to his attempt to throw the blame on his father, she had pointed out to him that it was his own waning affection for her, his own fickle worldly nature that he had to thank, and that his father's intervention was in reality but a mere feather in the balance.

As he picked his way along the streets on his homeward route, he had ample time to ruminate over the eventful hour he had just passed in Blanche Cheriton's company, and the more he thought of it all, the less he saw his way to satis factorily explain to John Cheriton, how it had suddenly come about that he was no longer to be numbered among his wife's friends. Besides, to increase the difficulty, honest John Cheriton had taken a liking to the young fellow on their first acquaintance, and had always made him welcome in Grosvenor Street whenever he chose to present himself. He saw little of him, it is true ; for, returning as he did from business usually as late as five — or even six o'clock on occasions — it was only perhaps on a Sunday at luncheon, or now and then at din ner, that Herbert Meredyth and John Cheriton met. ' Thank goodness,' muttered Herbert Meredyth to himself, ' I am off to Paris to-morrow morning.

I could not face Winifred, at any rate, for the present, and perhaps by the time I come back I shall find that even Blanche is more reasonable ; but what is a man to do situated as I am — worried to death day after day by lectures from my esteemed parent on my extravagances and other vices ; to say nothing of the fact being continually dinned into my ears that I am wilfully neglecting to grasp the substance, while I am wast ing time running after a shadow — the substance being Wini fred and Armley Grange, with close on seven thousand a year, and no mother-in-law to worry one.' As this last advantage to be gained by his marriage with Miss Graham crossed his thoughts, he broke into an attempt at a laugh ; but what with the fog — which was now so dense he could hardly see his way — or that he was disinclined for merriment, his laugh sounded hollow, forced, and dismal even in his own ears, and he groped his way along a trifle faster, as if he wished to leave the very echo of it behind him ; so incongruous did the sound of laughter appear to him in his present state of mind.

After narrowly escaping being run over more than once, and actually colliding with a post-pillar-box at the corner of his own street, he at last got safely back to the paternal re sidence in Bolton Place, and once within its doors he made his way straight to his own special den, without troubling himself to see if his father was in the house, or out of it. ' Fortunate thing I had promised Ned Gordon to go with him to Paris this week,' soliloquised Herbert Meredyth, as he kicked off his muddy boots and thrust his feet into a pair of well-worn slippers, — ' most fortunate, for now I can easily put off going to Armley for a fortnight. I do hope that my dear parent will not start that subject to-night at dinner, I don't feel quite up to standing it this evening.' Reaching a pipe from a rack close at hand, he filled it in an absent way, lighted it, and in the same mechanical fashion subsided into the depths of an easy-chair, from whence he blew small rings and eddying circles of smoke towards the already dirt-begrimed ceiling.

As he sat and smoked silently, his thoughts once more flew back to the days gone by ; a different expression stole over his face, and a softer light crept into the blue eyes ap parently fixed upon the dingy wall-paper of the room in which he sat, while dreaming of what had been, but what never would be again. Possibly, through and beyond that dark, discoloured wall, he saw the image of Blanche Cheriton as he had first beheld her, over six long years ago, at the Arminton Hunt Ball, in all the splendour of her girlish beauty. She was married then, 'tis true, but she looked but a girl in his eyes, he remembered, as she stood by her husband's side in that gay throng ; the star among them all, a vision of loveliness he had never forgotten, and in those days thought he never could forget. He recalled the eager look upon her face, the lovely eyes all ablaze with excitement, as she watched that revolving circle of human beings wildly gyrating to and fro, to the soul-inspiring music of ' Mon Rive.' Was she not his dream ?

Even as when Marguerite's vision appeared to Faust — so he too beheld and lost heart and head, though his compact was not made straight on end with the evil one. He could see her now in his mind's eye as she stood there, diamonds glittering in her hair and about her white throat and bosom ; her height adding dignity to her almost perfect if immature figure, and rendering her a still more striking contrast to so many amid that gay throng of splendidly dressed and pretty women ; but none to vie with her. After that, he remembered his first introduction to her, his first dance with her, how the memory of it lasted for months, and her face haunted him by day and night, his heart was filled with her image. Then once more memory jogged his elbow and reminded him of a time some two years later, when that same woman, his idol, his love, lay hovering between life and death, in deadly peril, and social laws pre vented him from evincing more than ordinary friendly inter est in her welfare, when mad with anxiety he was unable to either eat or sleep for the sickening dread that he might lose her.

Ah ! where was that old idolatry now ? where the vows and promises so glibly uttered, so easily forgotten — where ? As a child casts on one side the toy that he wearies of when it no longer amuses him with its novelty, for some more at tractive plaything, so had he cast aside that idol of his dreams, that woman for whom he would have thought no sacrifice too great a few short years ago. It is an old story possibly, and one that has been too oft repeated, and will continue to be so as long as this world lasts, maybe ; but yet there was something more than broken faith betwixt these two. They twain had forged fetters which should have bound their mutual lives too closely to be lightly severed, and yet it had parted at its weakest link — ■ that link which should have proved the strongest, namely, his loyalty and faith to her in spite of all.