Husband and Wife. A novel, etc

Front matter

VOL. II a A NOVEL. BY MARIE CONNOR, AUTHOR OF "BEAUTY'S QUEEN," "A MORGANATIC MARRIAGE," "TWO BLACK PEARLS," "SWEET MAGDALEN," etc. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO., 31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.Cl 18 88. EDINBURGH COLSTON AND COMPANV PRINTERS POPULAR NEW NOYELS. Now ready, in One Vol. , the Seventh Edition of ARMY SOCIETY ; or, Life in a Garrison Town. By John Strange Winter. Author of ' Booties' Baby.' Cloth gilt, 6s. ; also picture boards, 2S. GARRISON GOSSIP, Gathered in Blankhampton. By the same Author. Cloth gilt, ... 6d. IN THE SHIRES. By Sir Randal H. Roberts, Bart. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. THE OUTSIDER. A Sporting Novel. By Hawley Smart. New Edition. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. THE GIRL IN THE BROWN HABIT. A Sporting Novel. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. STRAIGHT AS A DIE.

By the same Author. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. BY WOMAN'S WIT. By Mrs Alexander. Author of ' The Wooing O't.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. KILLED IN THE OPEN. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Author of 'The Right Sort.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. IN A GRASS COUNTRY. By Mrs H. Lovett-Cameron. Author of ' A North Country Maid,' etc. (Sixth Edition.) Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. THE BOND OF WEDLOCK. By Mrs Campbell Praed. Author of 'Nadine.' Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. TWILIGHT TALES. By Mrs Edward Kennard. Illustrated. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. SHE CAME BETWEEN. By Mrs Alexander Fraser. Cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. F. Y. WHITE & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C.

Chapter I

UAj^E-4|N attempting to paint the character of _____ _3__! Claire Elchester, I have set myself a K_ ESi heavy task. She is no creation of *^~^»' the fancy, but a living, breathing woman. Her actions are chronicled here, but how is it possible to render faithfully the thousand wayward impulses that prompted them \ She is one of a type that — happily for humanity — is rare ; possessing many of the qualities that form the basis of womanly perfection, but ruined by the world ; wilful, capricious, unstable as the winds, alternately gentle and cruel, having no principles whatever, yet generous to extravagance, kind to the poor, and animated always by a desire to please ; proud, ambitious, capable of passionate love and equally passionate hate ; changing her mind every quarter of an hour, but inflexible of will, and in any set purpose sum as a rock.

VOL. II. A For the world as it is she had been taught to feel contempt, and in the world to come she had no belief; therefore there was nothing to debar her from gaining her ends at any cost to herself or sacrifice of others. The strong ele ments of good in her made her doubly dangerous to all with whom she came in contact during her course through life ; since, by her generous actions, she unconsciously deceived them into belie viner her other than she was. " I hear you played a charming little comedy part in the Galbraith's drawing-room yesterday afternoon," said M. Flamant, with his peculiar, thought-reading smUe. " What do you mean ? " "That you supported Mrs Galbraith while she slept. "What a delightful tableau ! I wish I had been there to see." " Who told you about it ? " " Charles Marsham — whom, by-the-bye, I had told to ask you to come over, but it appears that the scene completely bereft him of senses and memory.

He has not 3 _t learned never to be surprised at anything. So I waited and waited, and detained the bishop in expectation of your arrival, and afterwards had to tell more lies about you than I can satisfactorily account for. You are very inconsiderate, ma chere." At which she laughed, and kissed him. For, in her way, she was extremely fond of this brother, who was so sincere in his shortcomings that for her they had lost all their wickedness and become charming. She had not been really a hypocrite when she caressed Margaret. She really liked the sweet, gentle woman ; she honoured her for her purity and goodness, and, strange to say, she reverenced her because she was Edward Galbraith's wife. She had for her the same feeling that had prompted her more than once to clasp his child to her heart — just because she was his — and kiss her.

Some of my readers may deny the possibility of such a feeling existing between two women who both love the same man. If so, let them remember that there was no rivalry here — how could there be, when on one side there was marriage ? and that the diametrically opposite natures of Claire and Margaret respectively favoured the growth of this sentiment. Each saw and admired in the other the very reverse of herself. Jealousy had no existence in either of their hearts. Margaret was too pure of thought, and too full of faith in her husband, to be jealous ; and Claire, on her part, was too proud, and self confident, believing that whenever she chose to assert her rule, all other women whatsoever must sink into insignificance. Therefore the one yielded homage to the superior rank and talents of the other, and that other, in turn, honoured the perfect womanhood of Mr Galbraith's blind wife.

Scarcely had M. Flamant concluded his pung ent remarks, when Edward Galbraith himself walked up the laurel drive, and rang the bell. " I have come for Frip," he said, after the ordinary greetings. M. Flamant had quitted the room. " We begin work again to-day." Frip's mother shook her head. " I shall not let Frip trouble you any more, Mr Galbraith. I expect his governess in a few days." " You have engaged a governess for him ? " O c_ O " Yes. A Madame Margoliuth, a sort of cos mopolitan I believe, but a thoroughly accom plished and well-connected lady." He leaned back in his chair, with an angry, disappointed look. " Why did you do this, Lady Elchester ? " " Why did I do it ? " she repeated, in pre tended perplexity. " Why, Mr Galbraith, you were the first to remind me that I was neglecting my child's education."

"I know," he rejoined hurriedly; "but I wished you to let me undertake it — at least in part." "But, Mr Galbraith, consider. What right have I to make such a claim on your time and talents ? " " You do not make it. I offer it. I have grown fond of Frip. You are going to deprive me of my greatest pleasure." " Your greatest pleasure — teaching Frip ! " " Yes. And it is the only way I can repay you for your kindness to my wife." "Don't speak of that, Mr Galbraith. If vou do, I must tell you that I am fond of her, and that it is a pleasure to me to be able to help her. And how can I add to your trouble by letting you teach my child ? It would be wrong in me to do so." "Let me be the judge of that," he pleaded earnestly. "Let him come to me for an hour every day. It will not interfere with his other lessons."

" If you really wish it," she replied, smiling. She noticed that he did not now mention Theo in connection with the matter. "Lady Elchester" — he spoke gravely, as if to command her attention. She looked at him in smiling surprise, — " do you remember what we were talking about in the fields the other day ? Do you remember my tell ing you that cynicism was a false principle of life ? " " Yes." " Why will you practise it with your boy ? Why not try to understand him, and show him that you love him ? Poor little fellow, he would love you so much if you would let him. Are you angry with me for speaking so plainly . I ought not to have dared to do so, perhaps." She had walked to the window, and was standing quite still, looking into the garden. At his last words she turned and faced him, with her hands nervously clasped in front of her.

Her face had grown pale, and its pallor contrasted strikingly with the shadowing masses of her deep black hair. " I am not angry — not with you. You are right — perfectly right. But it is useless, Mr Galbraith. I do not love him. I cannot alter my nature." "But he is your child." " Yes. And as my child I shall always watch over him, and bring him up in what I think is the right way. I am proud of him, — proud of his cleverness, and I have hopes for him that I trust he will some day fulfil ; but I feel no love for him such as people talk of, — such as Margaret feels. I haven't discovered the passionate devo tion of motherhood in myself as yet," she con cluded, with a little laugh. That laugh seemed to cut through Galbraith's heart like a knife. "Are you made of stone, Lady Elchester?" he cried, almost angrily.

To his surprise, he saw the tears well up in her eyes, with one of the strange revulsions of feeling that made her so incomprehensible. " No — no ! Mr Galbraith, don't talk to me like this. It is good of you to do so, but it is too late. I thank you for the words you have just spoken. You are the first that has dared to tell me the truth, and 1 honour you for your frankness. But let me be as I am ; nothing can change me now. When I was a girl, I had all a girl's softness of heart, all a girl's hope, all a girl's faith. Men and women were like divinities to me then ; but, one by one, as I knew them, they made me despise them. I wanted not to hear, I wanted not to know. Leave me my innocence, I cried to them, and they would not hear me. They robbed me of all my dreams, and made me a woman of the world.

I am that now. I suppose it will not matter a hundred years to come. Still, I am glad that you thought me worthy even of a reproach." She came and stood beside him, looking at him pityingly. "You have your troubles, too," she said. " They are better worth consideration than my faults and failings. I wish I could prove to you in some way how sorry I am for you— and Margaret." He turned from her with a certain resolute brusqueness. " Will you send Frip to me, Lady Elchester ? I must go back now." His tone was low and unnatural. He seemed to be curbing himself, lest he should sav too much. Claire rang the bell. At that moment M. Flamant entered, and was warnily greeted by Galbraith, who kept up a pointless conversation with him, until the arrival of the child, when he took his leave, -with merely a bow to Claire.

On the way home he was thinking, thinking, thinking, with her boy's hand clasped tightly in his. He was conscious of the awakening of a feeling that Margaret had never called forth ; something earthlier, stronger, more feverish than the love she had inspired. He entered his home. It was serene and pleasant as usual, but in his mind he compared its tranquillity with the dreary silence of a dun geon. The yearning for the shadow had fallen upon him. Already it oppressed him. His wife was sitting by the dining-room window. " I am so glad you are come, dear," she said. " You have been very long." " I came as soon as I could," he answered, none too gently. Her helplessness, that should have softened, only irritated him now. She said nothing more then, for Frip's arms were round her neck, and Frip's dark curls were mingling with her fair ones, as the boy kissed her again and again, in an outburst of childish affection.

When Galbraith had reached his study, he felt remorseful. How wearily the hours must pass for her, sitting there so patiently, with her hands folded in her lap ! Sightless, motionless, silent ■ — she who had always been so bright, so light hearted, so active in her household duties ! She could not read, nor work ; she could only think ; and that, too, with a force of inward concentra tion which must be of itself as wearing as actual pain. How anxiously she must have listened for his return, perhaps looked forward to it as a relief! And he had not even kissed her. No doubt she had noticed the omission. He rose and went back to her, on pretence of summoning Frip. He found her sobbing. The boy, distressed at her grief, stood looking at her wistfulty. " Is she crying because she is blind ? " he whispered to Galbraith.

Edward went up to his wife and put his arm round her. " Margaret — love — what is it ? " She turned in her chair and clung to him, lifting her sightless eyes to where she thouo-ht his face would be. " Edward, Edward, don't you care for me now . A deep red flush dyed his face. Happily she could not see it. " Hush, dear. What makes you think such things ? Don't you know that you are all the world to me — you and Theo ? What put you in this mood . " " I don't know," she answered, her sobs growing quieter beneath the soothing influence of his calm voice. " Unless it was because you wouldn't stop and speak to me just now. Forgive me, Edward. I haven't anything to do but think of you, and the few words you say to me are all the light I have in the darkness of the day. Don't be angry with me. I won't be so fretful again.

Only — it is hard to be so lonely." Once more the tears rushed to her eyes, but she forced them bravely back, saying, with a smile, — " There ! I am going; to be good now. Go back to the study, dear, or I shall reproach myself with causing you to waste the morning. Frip has promised to read to me when he has finished his lesson ; and by that time Theo will be back. No, no — don't stay with me. I shall be unhappy if you do. Your time is more valuable than mine, and I have to make some arrangements with Eliza about Theo's dresses. You see, I am myself again now. It was only a passing mood."

Chapter II

HST^fj HAVE heard it said by a good many _____ ___ People wno ought to know, that 1__ i_S uncertainty is by no means a pleasant ■_Tu___. feeling — that, in fact, anything, even the worst possible certainty, is preferable to it. Such must have been the opinion of Charles Marsham concerning his prospects with Lady Elchester. For the state of his mind had now reached that extreme pitch of helplessness which renders immediate confession absolutely necessary. Some end must be arrived at ; the answer, whether negative or affirmative, must be sought at once. Walking back from the High Street, he reflected upon the matter for the hundredth time that day, — considered the situation from every possible point of view. His meditations had also the merit — unusual under such circumstances — of being im partial.

If his mind had any bias at all on the subject, it was a tendency to self-depreciation. He had eight hundred a-year present, and sixteen hundred prospective income, together with the old home, which he had long ago resolved to dispose of at the earliest possible opportunity, owing to his strong personal hatred for Hayes as a place of residence ; to these worldly items he gave, however, but a passing glance. It is next to impossible to be practical-minded when one is still young and ardent. Lady Elchester was in the prime of her womanhood, and apparently heartwhole. As yet, she had shown no signs of a more than friendly regard for himself, but that would come. It was too early to look for love ; if only she gave him hope — even the possibility of hope — he would be satisfied. He was not bold, neither was he timid ; he meant to ask her to marry him, just as a man should who brings to the woman he loves an honest English heart and a stainless name.

How proud he would be of her ! How he would work for her sake ! He did not quite know at what, but he felt the desire that most men feel under similar circumstances, a desire to prove themselves better or cleverer than ordinary people. Her refusal was a possibility that he did not dare to contemplate. He also indulged, very naturally, in a little aerial castle-building ; for instance, he allowed himself to suppose that he and his bride should live at Hayes Park until the young baronet attained his majority ; after which epoch they would retire to some place more suited to their taste — perhaps go abroad, since she was fond of travelling. There was nothing of presumption in these delightful prospective arrangements. They only existed in the innermost recesses of his soul. He would not have confessed their existence for worlds ; even to himself, he acknowledged it with a flush of shame.

He had not communicated his intentions to his parents ; parents are, as a rule, the very last people to receive the confidences of youth. Ma jor Marsham, being otherwise occupied, paid no attention to the strange moods wherewith his son had of late been afflicted ; but the mother did, and she questioned him on the subject. To which questions he carelessly responded, — "It's nothing, mother. Only in a place like this a fellow gets hard up sometimes for some thing to do, and that makes him melancholy. I think I shall go abroad." He had resolved that Thursday evening should see the crisis, if he could get an opportunity to speak. Thursday evening came, and with it there arrived at Hayes Park the bishop and his wife, and nearly all the gentry of the neighbourhood. Galbraith was absent. His wife could not come, and he would not leave her ; at least, that was what Lady Elchester explained to her guests.

She was exquisitely dressed, and in the highest spirits. The mere sight of her made poor Charles Marsham hopelessly silent. There was no necessity for him to talk much, since Hector Flamant was present, with his reser voir of wit, and his interminable tongue that attacked all subjects with delightful impartiality. Apparently there was nowhere he had not been, and nothing he had not seen, yet he never asserted either himself or his knowledge, and he always listened with as much interest as he talked ; consequently the superiority which in another man might have been aggravating, was in him charming. He was master of the art of telling lies perfectly, and of hearing others tell them with deferential sweetness. Herein, per haps, lay the secret of his social success. In the drawing-room, after dinner, the conver sation became animated and general.

It was the first time for years that the Park had been open, and a feeling of exhilaration prevailed on the occasion ; a new interest and importance had been given to Hayes society, of which this house would henceforth be the centre. Lady Elchester was an admirable hostess, stately and reposeful in her movements, yet with that easy vivacity which often distinguishes Frenchwomen. There was something about her — some delightful, in tangible, indescribable peculiarity of style or manner, which reminded one irresistibly of the vieille cour, and made the rooms of the old English house look like an animated page of French history. But only when the eye rested on herself alone. One glance at the rest of the company would instantly dispel the illusion. Inwardly they censured her for her levity of manner, and perhaps with justice.

Still, even in this levity there was refinement, and to a man's unprejudiced mind it had its own especial charm. Perhaps they forgave her the rest for the sake of her handsome face. She appeared in a new dignity to-night, too. Frip, dressed in brown velvet, and looking like a child Dauphin, shyly played his part as the little baronet ; and his mother assumed her motherhood with the gracefulness that marked her assumption of all parts whatsoever. She capti vated the bishop, and won the sympathies of his wife ; to the amazement of Mrs Bird, who secretly disapproved of Lady Elchester, but could not afford to say so, lest her ladyship's subscrip tions and donations should be reduced in con sequence. " Will you sing something, Claire ? " asked her brother, in the course of the evening. The request was eagerly seconded.

No one had yet heard Lady Elchester sing. She consented at once, without any hesitation, whether real or simulated. M. Flamant apparently suggested some song that did not meet with her approval, for she laughed and shook her head. What she did choose was " Le Sentier Couvert," and she sang it with a piquancy and prettiness worthy of its great originator. " What is that ? " inquired the bishop, after bestowing his share of the praise that was gener ally accorded to the singer. " A song of Madame Judic's," answered Hector Flamant. "Oh!" " Have vou ever heard her sing ? " No, the prelate had not ; but he would bear in mind M. Flamant's recommendation, and take the earliest opportunity of doing so. So the evening passed, and at eleven the first carriage drove away. Half-an-hour later, M. Flamant was courteously bidding the last guest good-night in the hall.

The last guest, as he thought. He was somewhat surprised — in a mild way — on entering the library for a cigar, to find Charles Marsham standing there, looking moodily out of the win dow. " Vraiment, mon cher — I am delighted. Are you in the humour for smoking, or nap ? " The figure at the window wheeled abruptly round. " Are they all gone ? " " I was under the impression that they were, until I discovered you." " Excuse me, Flamant. I had a very import ant reason for staying. Where is Lady El chester ? " "In the garden, I believe. She generally goes there about this time for a mouthful of night air. So you are in love with my sister, are you . I thought you English fellows were not suscep tible, but it seems otherwise. I am sorry for you, my friend. If I were you, I would — " "What?" The young fellow bent forward eagerly.

" Go home now, and the first thing to-morrow morning book a passage to one of the colonies of this much-esteemed country. At the same time, I must ask you to recollect that I have no personal interest in the matter whatever." " You said Lady Elchester was in the gar den ? " M. Flamant leisurely selected his cigar. " I did. To be accurate, you will probably find her on the lawn, between the oval geranium beds. Should you require me again, mon ami " — here he lit the cigar, — " I shall be here smoking." Marsham made a few steps in the direction of the door, but half turned back to ask, — "Do you wish me luck, Flamant.' " Cest selon," was the smiling but vague reply. "I have no objection either way. I am also a firm believer in destiny. What is to be must be. Go and see." He went ; and there, standing on the lawn, as her brother had said, he saw her.

She was doing nothing, unless thought can be con sidered an occupation. She seemed to be look ing around her, and critically, as if comparing her present with her past surroundings. Hear ing footsteps approaching, she evidently as sumed that they belonged to her brother, for she spoke without turning, and in a low tone, — " Hector, doesn't this remind you a little of that old place outside Paris where we used to go on Sunday nights, with mother ? AVhose was it ? Do you remember ? I was too young to know." Getting no answer, she turned, and saw Marsham. " You ! " she exclaimed, in surprise. "You thought I had gone with the others," he said awkwardly. It is strange that in com plex situations honest intentions usually breed awkwardness. "I did," she frankly acknowledged. "But I am very glad you have chosen to stay, never theless.

I suppose you and Hector have ar ranged to sit up half the night card-playing ? " "No. I am going home now," he replied, still more awkwardly, his courage failing him, before her calm politeness and unmistakable ignorance of the point he was aiming at. " But first I want to speak to you, — I want to ask you—" He stopped and grew crimson under her sur prised and questioning gaze. In the clear July moonlight his confusion was plainly evident, but not the faintest suspicion of its cause dawned on her. " Go on," she said, smiling, perceiving that he needed encouragement. " I can't go on." He uttered the words somehow in his desperation and humility. " Not till you tell me — not till you let me speak — - oh, Lady Elchester ! " Here he shook himself free from his agitation, flung discretion and diplomacy to the winds, and began in abrupt earnestness, — " Do you think you could ever love me, — love me enough to marry me, I mean .

" " Love you ! Marry you ! " She thought he must be dreaming. " Yes. You have made me love you — I wish I could tell you how ! But I can't. The more I feel, the less I can say. I know I'm not worthy of you — you are so clever and so good ; but I'm true-hearted, and I'd be your slave all the rest of my life if only you'd try and care for me a little. Won't you ? " She had been standing before him with her hands clasped and her eyelids drooped. At this last simple appeal, the more touching for its simplicity, she looked up. She had begun to realise that he was very much in earnest. "Charles" — at the sound of his Christian VOL. II. B name, he started. Yet he could not flatter him self that the tone in which it was spoken con veyed the least indication of love. It was tender, certainly, but its tenderness was mournful and calm, and even motherly, — " Charles, I am very sorry for all this.

The idea that you could have any regard for me in that way never occurred to me. If only I had once thought so, I should not, for your own sake, have been so friendly with you. You must forget me." " But—" " Hush. Listen. You must forget me, and if any words or actions of mine have been unconsciously the cause of the mistake, you will for give me, I know. This is for your own good. I should ruin you if I married you." " Let it be so, then ! " he cried, with the ardour of reckless young love. " I don't care what ruin comes, so that you are my wife. Lady Elchester — Claire — " "Listen to me a moment," she interrupted. " I am kinder to you than you are to yourself. What made you think so much of me as to love me and offer me your name ? You say I am clever ? That may be. You say I am good ? No, I am not good, — not good enough to accept the sacrifice of a true young heart like yours.

Believe me, I know best. I have been better to you than I have ever been to others. You are a young man, and, what is better, a young En _ish man. You have a future before you that you can make bright if you choose, and it is because I care for that future — because I am really your friend — that I tell you to forget me. You can best do that by going away. Give your devotion to some innocent girl. Let her be worthy of it, whoever she may be. I am not." " You don't mean this ? " He seemed too stunned to say anything else. " I do mean it," very gently, — " and some day, when I am far away, or dead, and experience has made you wiser, you will thank me in your heart for these words that I have spoken. And now, good-night. Give me your hand. Good-night, my friend — my friend always, if you will be so.

I am very, very sorry that you have grown to love me. And you have scarcely known me a month ! Why was it ? Tell me why." Her low voice had become suddenly eager. She wanted to know what it was in her that had attracted him, wondering if the same influence would have power over Edward Galbraith. " I can't tell you," he answered miserably, his face, that had grown very pale, flushing again at the touch of her hand. "Don't ask me — don't speak to me. I'm going home, but if you speak, I may turn back. Who am I, to think I could win such a woman as you ! Good-night — good bye. You may never see me again." He freed his hand from the sympathetic clasp of hers, and went away. The moon threw his shadow darkly across the silvered lawn, and against the white stone of the house as he passed it on his way to the gates.