A Cardinal Sin; a story, by Hugh Conway (F. J. F.)

Chapter I. Repenting At Leisure

When Allan Bourchier told his travelling companion that the shock of his sister's clandestine marriage had nearly killed his father, he was, making allowances for the usual exaggeration of such statements, saying something very nearly the truth, although he did not know the true source of the emotion which had caused Philip Bourchier to fall like a log and for some days to lie in what AA'as called a critical state. He did not know that his wild rage at the news was even more injurious in its effects than the sorrow he felt at Josephine's conduct. He did not know VOL. II. B that his father blamed himself more than he blamed his daughter — blamed himself for not having bought the interloper's silence, even at a cost of half his income — blamed himself for having been so weak as to yield — for not having defied the man to do the worst he could do.

Like all other dangers, now it was over it did not seem so great. Philip Bourchier wondered how he could have let this fellow overreach him ; hoAv he, a clever man of the world, could have alloAved himself to be so foolish as to be made the tool of a boy, and used to destroy his nearest and dearest. He almost raved in his fury as he thought of Josephine's future in this man's hands. So clearly did he by manner and words show the excited state of his mind, that the doctor told him that unless he could calm himself his recovery would be retarded an indefinite time. As he could do nothing, either for his daughter or himself, until he got well, he Avas compelled to obey the doctor, and curb his fits of wrath and paroxysms of rage against his new son-in-law. His first act, upon recovering anything like health, was to write to Digby, and com mand him to come to London for an inter view.

His letter found Digby very happy and comfortable at Redhills. Josephine was in a sort of Arcadian dream, and spent every moment of the day in the worship of the noble being who had given her his love. He was very kind and affectionate to her. No man, however great a rascal, could help being so directly after marriage with such a dear little girl. He was really fond of her, or fancied he was, and was good enough to frame a mental wish that he should not by and-bye get tired of her, and find her atten tions and affectionate solicitude a bore. The only drawback to the girl's perfect happiness was the fact of her father's illness, which she could not help connecting in some way with her marriage. Mrs. Bourchier had written her a few hasty lines, telling her that her father had suddenly been taken unwell, and Mabel had from day to day written and apprised her as to the condition of the invalid.

Neither of the Avomen said a word either of reproach or congratulation — Mabel because requested by her mother not to do so, and Mrs. Bourchier because she was so frightened at the course events had taken, and the con sequences thereof, that she feared to move a step in the matter without her husband's con sent. So it was that many little agonies of re morse and fear played in and out of Jose phine's new-wedded bliss. But then Digby laughed them away. What wrong had they done ? They had not run away like criminals ; they had at once returned to her father's house — or that house Avhich he intended to bestoAV on Mr. Bourchier. All she had done was to consent to his wish of having a quiet wedding — a Avedding which would save the whole family from destruction, for he Avould keep his word with her to the fullest interpre tation—would retain just enough for himself and his little wife to live upon as a lady and gentleman, and confirm Mr. Bourchier and her brother, if necessary, in the possession of the remainder.

All Avould be right — chase away the fears, kiss him, and come fora stroll through the woods or a ride across country. She did as he told her, and felt comforted — he must know best. Was there ever such a dear, good, noble, handsome husband as her Digby ? One morning a note came for Digby. He was glad to receive it, being anxious to know how Mr. Bourchier intended to act ; or, as he put it to himself, " if he would take it lying down or fighting." The letter gave no infor mation on this nice point. It was a coldly worded request, or more than a request, that Mr. Digby Bourchier Avould come to town without delay, as the writer wished an inter view. Digby read it and tossed it over to his wife. Her eyes sparkled as she saw her father's handwriting. " Oh, I am glad ! He must be better, as he writes himself."

" Papa doesn't write very lovingly to his new son," said Digby. " No," said Josephine, much discontented at the tenor of the letter. " But you will go and see him ?" " Of course I shall. I'll go to-morrow." " And I may come with you ? " Digby reflected. " Do you want to go ? " " Do I want to go ! I am longing to see papa and mamma, and Mabel. Besides, I Avant some things ; I've scarcely a dress to wear. Of course, I shall go with you." " There will be an awful row, I'm afraid. Hadn't you better keep out of it ? " " No, sir; if we are to be scolded, I must take my share of it. I am as much to blame as you. But why should they scold ? Besides, I must go ; I can't be quite happy until they all forgive me." " Very AveU — we'll go to-morrow." Digby kissed her, and lit a cigar. He was moody and thoughtful for the rest of the day — looking over his weapons for the fight to morrow ; a fight which he expected would tax all his resources heavily.

The young couple arrived at Mr. Bour chier's town house in due time the next day. Mrs. Bourchier and Mabel received Josephine affectionately, but sadly ; they shook hands coldly Avith Digby, but neither said a Avord respecting the neAv relationship between them. Digby Avas asked to go to the library, where Mr Bourchier awaited him. Josephine was anxious to accompany him ; she had some idea that the fellow culprits should throw themselves on their knees, to be raised, after a fe\v words of reproach, by a mollified father, who would bless them, and fold her to his bosom. She began to grow a little frightened when her mother insisted that Digby should see Mr. Bourchier alone. He gave her a reassuring nod, and followed Mrs. Bourchier Avith a confident step to the library, the door of which she opened and let him pass in unannounced.

Bad as the impostor was, he almost felt pity as his eyes fell upon his father-in-law, and he saw him thin, worn, and looking ten years older than when the two men last met. Had he been the person he pretended to be — the son of the murdered man — and had it been his mission to take full measure of vengeance on the murderer, he could not have gone about it in a more successful way. As far as health went, Mr. Bourchier seemed a broken man ; yet there was a look of stern determination on his face, which told Digby that he meant to fight, and fight hard. It was Avhen he saw that look the young man began to fear lest he had been too clever in his plots — had spun his webs too finely and artistically — whether the thread which closed and completed the network of schemes Avould not hamper his own movements.

He stood Avaiting for Mr. Bourchier to speak. He expected a torrent of reproaches and threats. He Avas not sure but Avhat he might have to defend himself against per sonal violence. Yet, after all, he found that Mr. 'Bourchier had little to say. That gentle man fixed his eyes on his visitor with a look of scorn, bitterness, and contempt. " I intended to kill you for this," he said, without a Avord of preface ; " but I have changed my mind. Scoundrel as you are, in this matter you have been a fool. You will see it by-and-bye. All I Avant to see you about now is in respect to money matters." In spite of himself his listener was taken aback. He did not quite see Mr. Bourchier's drift respecting his folly. True, he had •counted a great deal on the love the father bore towards his daughter. " Money matters," he said ; " yes, we must arrange something now.

I am willing to — " " Your wife," said Mr. Bourchier, inter rupting him, "your Avife when she is of age will have three hundred a year of her own. The capital, I am pleased to say, is settled on herself. What are your means ? " " I am the owner of about ten thousand a year Avhen I choose to claim it." " We will leave that out of the question. What else?" " I have something over two hundred pounds in my pocket-book at present," an swered Digby, attempting bravado. " Really ! " said Mr. Bourchier, Avith a return of his old sarcasm. " For an ad venturer you are well equipped." " You insult me, Mr. Bourchier." Digby drew himself up in approved fashion. Mr. Bourchier paid no attention to the remark ,or to the attitude. " As my daughter, even if your wife, must live as much like a lady as is possible under such circumstances, I shall pay two hundred pounds every quarter-day to her credit at Coutts'.

When she comes of age I shall reduce this amount by the income which will be her OAvn. Now, be good enough to leave me." " This is absurd, Mr. Bourchier." " Be good enough to leave me. Or, stay a minute. I should mention that I shall always be willing to see my child ; but if you ap proach me, I AviU take steps to prevent such a nuisance being repeated. I shall come down to Redhills next week, and if you are not gone, I shall kick you out." Digby AA'as AA-hite AA'ith passion. " You are a rash man," he exclaimed. " I Avill ruin you ! " " I am not rash. It is as I said before — you have been too clever. You were to be bought. I AA'ould have given a fair price. You took your OAvn mode of payment. You are silenced. You can't expect any tale of yours to be credited noAV." " If I am bought and silenced," said Digby, Avith a Avicked meaning in his voice, " the price, remember, is your favourite daughter."

His words made every nerve in Mr. Bourchier's body thrill. He rose and pointed to the door. " Go," he said. " Never speak to me — never let me see your face again." Digby saw his shaft had gone home. " All right," he said, carelessly, " I'll go now ; but we shall have lots to talk about before we've done with one another." Josephine was waiting for him ; she was growing very anxious. He gave her a smile and a kiss. She blushed like a rose, for her mother and sister were in the room, and these conjugal amenities in public were a new ex perience. " Better go and see the old boy," he whispered. " I can do nothing with him — he's very cranky. I'll go out and stroll about for half an hour; then come back for you." " We're not going back to-night," cried Josephine, in dismay. " Oh yes, we are, by the 4.40.

We haven't much time to spare." As neither her mother nor Mabel objected, Josephine did as her husband suggested. It was when she saw her father that she realised what she had done. The look he gave her said as plainly as words that it was her Avork — yet it Avas not a look of anger. It was a look Avhich made her rush forward, throw herself on her knees before him, and, with her head on his shoulder, sob out en treaties for forgiveness. He stroked her bright hair tenderly. " Poor little girl — poor little Finey — I have forgiven you. No reproaches from me shall add to the bitterness of your future life. My pretty butterfly, your summer days are over." He kissed the face that nestled by his own with a kiss that told the girl he had forgiven, and loved her still. It is not necessary for a man to be a good man to love his children fondly.

That is a purely animal instinct, and, moreover, with human beings, phrenologists say, regulated by the gradations in size of a bump at the back of the head. If his manner at times was stern and even cold to them, no man in the Avorld loved his children more truly than Philip Bourchier. Digby had taken a heavy price for his silence. Happy as Josephine felt in his forgiveness, the words coupled with it alarmed her. " My future life, papa ! " she said. " Oh, it will be such a happy life, now you forgive me. Digby meant it for the best." He looked at her thoughtfully and sadly. "Poor little girl ! Tell me, Josephine, if a great trouble must come, would you rather be prepared for it, or, that it came like a thunder clap ? " His manner frightened her. " I don't know," she said. " But you must tell me what you mean — you are frightening me."

"Yes; I had better tell you. Put your arms round my neck — I am your father, and I love you." She clasped him and kissed him fondly. Oh, how worn and ill he looked ! "Josephine, I said your future would be a bitter one. Oh, my poor girl, you have married the blackest-hearted villain in Eng land!" She started up, her cheeks flaming, the tears springing to her eyes. " Oh, papa ! Hoav can you say so ! You of everybody in the world. You must know hoAV good, hoAV noble he is ; what he is going to give up for all our sakes. That was why I married him like that." "Then you don't love him?" asked her father, eagerly. "Not love him ! Who could help loving him? So good, so self-sacrificing. Oh, papa," she cried, " I thought you Avould be so glad that all would be settled. I did not think you Avould say unkind things of Digby."

" What has he sacrificed ? — Avhat is he going to give up ? " " Redhills — your estate, papa, " said Jose phine, proudly. Mr. Bourchier ground his teeth, and heaped another curse on his daughter's husband. This AA'as superfluous and useless, for had his curses carried any virtue the object of them Avould long ago have been past plotting and scheming. "Josephine," he said, very gravely, but tenderly, " I am your father, and have a right to be believed. That man has no more claim on my estate than my butler has. No matter what he tells you — what papers he shows you — it is an imposture." She Avas bewildered, stunned — what did it all mean ? She pressed her hands to her temples and began to think. Which was the true — which the false ? " But, papa," she asked, hesitatingly, " if what Digby says is not true, why did you ask him to stay Avith us, and tell us he was our cousin."

He shuddered. If she were to ask her husband that question. SomehoAv he could not believe the man would tell her the truth. It would recoil on himself, for his daughter would at once see through the scheme, and would probably leave the husband to return to the father, however great the latter's guilt might be. There was the deepest pathos in his voice as he ansAvered her. " That is my fault or my misfortune. As you love me never ask me or your husband why. Mind, Josephine, I have every reason to say that he is your cousin ; but his claim on the estate is an invention — his generosity the bait he used for you. It is because I brought him to my house that I forgive you — that I shall always be glad to see you— that when you are in trouble you may come to me. Kiss me once more and say good bye."

Whom should she believe? Her father, to Avhom she had lisped her earliest words, or her husband, who a few weeks ago was a stranger to her? Like every woman, sad as the fact is, she believed her husband. After all, a Avoman's future life is in her husband's hands, and one likes to fence with misfortune as long as possible, to keep off whilst one can the deadly thrust which takes aAvay, not life, but hope, youth, trust, love — all that is worth living for. Pity Josephine, do not blame her. She will Avant your pity. She left the library AA'eeping bitterly. From the dining-room AA'indoAV she saw her husband, AA*alking up and down the pavement, smoking, as was his usual custom. He did not smoke at any particular time or in any particular place — he simply smoked when he could. It Avas one little flaw in his behaviour which Josephine had as yet condoned.

She called him in. " We must be quick," he said. " Do you want to pack anything?" " Yes ; a few things." So Mabel and Josephine went upstairs. Mabel, Avho was quite prepared to say the most severe things to her sister AA'hen an opportunity occurred, changed her mind at the sight of the little girl's evident distress — comforted, petted, and caressed her. What censure she gave fell on Digby's shoulders, not on Josephine's. Mabel had always acted the elder sister, but to-day Josephine, with her new troubles and uncertainties, felt years her senior. Besides, she dare not tell her anything that had transpired between her father and herself at their recent interview. She could only say he had fully forgiven her, but not Digby. " I should think not," said Mabel, Avhose wrath was hot against her brother-in-law.

VOL. II. C They just caught the 4.40. Both Avere very silent driving to the station. Josephine was too unhappy to talk, and her husband had a delicate question to decide. He had by now come to the conclusion that Mr. Bourchier had been quite right. He had been too clever. The price he had been paid or had taken was inadequate. If he had been more matter of fact, and abjured anything romantic, he might ha\*e done remarkably well. He might, he believed, have sold his silence to Mr. Bourchier for, say, twenty or thirty thousand pounds, if he had been content to go in for simple extortion of money. As it was, he had Avon in the delicate game he had been playing eight hundred a year and a wife. He had overreached himself. Like all young players, a deep finesse had been an irresistible temptation — the finesse had failed.

The new trump which marriage had brought into his hand was his antagonist's love for his daughter ; but it had not scored as he thought it would. In plain words he had been defied to do his Avorst — and what Avas his worst ? He was in a weaker position than when he was dismissed with contumely after his first interview with Philip Bourchier, and he scarcely saw where the card of the value of Stokes' evidence, which changed the aspect of the game, Avas now to come from. And Josephine ? Of course he was very fond of her, as he Avas of all pretty girls who loved him — for a time. Somehow Josephine did not look so pretty at this moment. Her father had been right in calling her a butterfly. Rain does not im prove butterflies, and tears did not improve Josephine. Great, dark, tragic beauties, with cream-coloured complexions, may be more attractive than ever in their Avoe ; but little, fair, bright women should never weep.

Their skins are too thin, and the nervous sanguine complexion has a knack of reddening. Josephine, when in good spirits, and with everything pleasant in life surrounding her, was as charming a little blonde as you could meet with ; but tears did not suit her ; and on the drive to Paddington she wept copiously and vigorously. Her grief was enhanced by the fact of the newly-married couple being allowed to depart in a hansom — not being taken properly to the station in her father's carriage. It was the first taste of the bitter <_> future. Scarcely pathetical — bathetical, rather ■but ominous. Her husband noticed her changed appearance, and wondered how it was he ever thought her so beautiful. This was the hackneyed " little rift within the lute." He asked her one or two questions " What did the old fellow say to you ?

" was thefirst. She pave a little shiver. The form in Avhich he couched his inquiry struck her as being, if not atrociously A'ulgar, too familiar. " Oh, I can't tell you. Such dreadful things, Digby ; they are not true ? " The question did not imply doubt, only desire to be doubly assured. " True ! " he said, with an irritable laugh. "If they were to my detriment, you may depend they are not true. He ought to know better, for his own sake." He was silent for a while, busy with his own thoughts. He forgot his Avife's presence. " Cursed old fool ! " he hissed out, with an unmistakable emphasis. " Who ? Who, Digby ? " she said ; and as she spoke the pale, careworn, but loving face of her father rose before her. He saw the slip he had made. " The fool driving. We shall never catch the train." His explanation was adroit ; but as the cabman was a very young man, and at that moment was lashing his horse and driving like a fury in hope of earning the extra fare promised to him, it scarcely satisfied Josephine.

She dared not own her doubt, even to herself ; but she felt as one of the devotees to the Prophet of Khorassan might have felt, if an inch of the veil had slipped aside for a second, and had been so quickly replaced as to leave her uncertain whether the glimpse of horror she saw was real or imagined. He asked her some questions also as to what sort of a fellow her brother Allan was. He had not yet met him, these momentous events having occurred in term time, whilst ■22 Allan Avas in residence at Oxford. Neither had he met the younger son, Kenneth, who Avas a delicate lad, and under the care of a private tutor at Bournemouth. Allan being a subject Josephine could enlarge upon, she did so, and finished up her panegyric by pro phesying as to the friendship AA'hich Avould at once spring up betAveen two such high-minded persons as her husband and her brother ; and all the Avhile she spoke the thoughts of the former ran in this fashion — " Seems to me the old boy's breaking.

Won't I work Allan when he does succeed to the estate— that's all ! " The thought of this quite cheered him up, and he Avas very kind to his wife on the journey doAvn. They caught the last train from Sleeford, and, having telegraphed for a carriage to meet them at Brackley, reached Redhills that night. Five days afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Digby Bourchier went back to London, and, taking a small house, com menced housekeeping on their OAvn account. All this, you know, occurred some three years before Mdlle. Francesca made her suecessful debut in Lucia ; and by this time Josephine fully understood the meaning of her father's sorrowful prognostications. Her idol was mutilated, despised, and overthrown ; but the fall of it had crushed the brightness out of her, and she was now a girl in years, but a Avoman in sadness and lost illusions.

For a Avhile the tAvo went on fairly well. The young wife could deceive herself ; she would not meet the truth. As long as her husband loved or pretended to love her, she insisted upon trusting him, although her trust had to face several shocks. It was but natural that her great desire Avas to prove herself in the right, by her husband signing the renunciation of his birthright, as he grandiloquently called it. She hinted at this as delicately as she could ; then ventured to ask him outright to make the promised settle ment. First he evaded the subject ; then he told her, sternly, to mention it no more. It displeased him. Her father had treated him shamefully. It Avas his place to approach him. When that approachment took place he was ready to do all he had promised. The months went by and Mr. Bourchier made no sign.

A chilling dread crept into the girl's heart. Had she been deceived — was her father's version the true one ? If so, Avhat could she think of her husband? In a very short time the idol began to totter. Allan and Digby did not hit it off together. Her brother had been to see her several times. He was too fond of her to forsake her because she had made an imprudent marriage. The two young men met and, by common consent, disliked each other. Allan spoke his mind roundly to Mabel as to Josephine having been the victim of a specious cad — for he saw through veneer. Indeed, latterly, Digby had not taken so much trouble to show a polished surface, and some of his sayings and doings Avere, to say the least, a matter of surprise to his wor shipper. Then money troubles began. Digby was expensive in his tastes, and Josephine thought less of money than anything else.

At the end of the first year they Avere deeply in debt. He Avrote to Mr. Bourchier, and demanded money to pay his creditors. Mr. Bourchier sent the letter back torn in half. Then he insisted upon Josephine making an appeal to her father. She was kindly but sadly received ; but Mr. Bourchier was inflexible in his refusal. Perhaps she pressed him rather faint-heartedly. Her husband Avas an idol no longer — scarcely a mystery even. She felt degraded by having to make the request ; only her husband's entreaties — commands even — had induced her to sink so low. It was Avhen she returned empty-handed from her unpleasant errand that she saw once for all her husband in his true lurid light — saAv his face without even the semblance of a mask over it — saw the blackness of his heart without his attempting to soften or conceal it.

She heard the curses come from his lips — directed at her, and then the girl knew what she had done, and shud dered at the future. Her butterfly days were indeed over ! From that day he commenced a course of neglect and ill-usage — commenced and carried it out with deliberation and purpose to gain his own ends. He had now to strike Mr. Bourchier through his child; it was her safety and happiness the father must pur chase. He did not absolutely bring physical violence to bear upon her, but for a time he tried every other method by which a man may torture a Avoman Avithout infringing the law. Josephine was not altogether weak and silly ; certain characters show unexpected traits under certain circumstances. She kneAV she had been deceived and Avronged, and this knowledge enabled her to face her tormentor bravely for a time.

Then she possessed a good deal of pride — the Bourchiers all pos sessed pride — so she offered an unexpected resistance. It was not until he made her life unbearable that she sought her father's pro tection. This was what her brutal husband had counted upon. He went after her, forced his way into the house, and claimed his wife. It Avas only Mr. Bourchier's express command Avhich prevented Allan, Avho happened to be at home, from throwing him out neck and crop. The upshot of it all AA'as another inter view with Mr. Bourchier — a distinct avowal that he was ill-using his wife to wring money from her father ; a peremptory demand that she should be restored to him ; a threat that if proceedings Avere commenced in the divorce court, to put an end to his power over her, other things would be made public, even if he, Digby Bourchier, went to pieces in the general explosion.

If, on the other hand, the money he Avanted was paid, and a much larger income guaranteed for the future, he would treat his Avife kindly. Return with him she must ; so long as he was fairly dealt with she would have no more to complain of than thousands of women who live under the same roof as their husbands, but miles away from them. It Avas a sine qua non that Josephine still lived Avith him. His victim struggled, but yielded. The money was paid, and Josephine induced to return under certain conditions. It was the keenest cut of all, the bitterest part of Philip Bourchier's punishment, that he was forced for the sake of silence to urge his daughter to return to the man he hated — to the husband who had in so short a time proved beyond a doubt his utter worthlessness and villany. He made her promise that at the first sign of a revival of hostilities on the part of her husband, she would leave him and tell him to do his worst.