The Touch of Sorrow [A novel.] By Edith Hamlet

Chapter I

' II n'y a guere de personnes qui dans le premier penchant de l'age ne fassent connoistre par oil leur corps et leur esprit doivent deTaillir.' A SUNSET in early spring is sadder than any other sunset of the year — for when the last colours are fading from the sky, and the chill of night spreads over the fields, it almost seems as if the winter were begun again, and the promise of summer a deceit. Stella felt this so strongly, that she could not make up her mind to turn round and face the evening darkness, but kept her eyes fastened on the pale green reflection in the sky above her. ' I must go home,' she said aloud, ' but I swear I won't turn round till I see some stars.' She knew the way very well, and she was in an open field, so she began slowly walking backward, stopping every now and then to look up again.

It was beginning to turn rather cold. 'Oh dear, and Aunt Maisie is coming to tea ! ' she suddenly exclaimed. She had reached the end of the field, and was leaning against the gate. ' I sha'n't move again,' she said, ' till I do see a star, it 's only a waste of time.' Stella was neither tall nor short ; a thin slight figure, very straight, with an indescrib able vigour about it, like a strong young shoot. Her face would be difficult to paint in words — a fair skin, with a faint flush in the cheeks, a small beautifully shaped mouth, of that melting red which can never be imitated, and dark blue eyes, not very large or very bright, but with a suggestion of smouldering fire under the dreami ness of their expression. Perhaps this would hardly have been noticed, were it not that her hair seemed to be aflame. ' If you called it red, you were suddenly convinced it was golden ; and if golden, that it was red,' Aunt Maisie always said when she tried to explain its effect, — and it rippled back from her forehead in dancing little waves.

After a few moments of anxious expectation, a star began to shine faintly overhead. ' Now I really will go,' said Stella ; and with a great air of determination she turned her back to the sunset. She was rewarded; for the sky being darker in the east, many stars were showing in it, and there was no blackness to fear. Stella's eyes lightened, and she started to run — it was one of her peculiarities that she loved running — and the exercise brought fresh colour to her cheeks. Her dark grey dress merged into the twilight, and when she pulled her hat off, her bright hair seemed almost like a will o' the wisp dancing down the steep hill. Stella Morecombe's home was in an old grey Elizabethan house in Surrey. It stood half way down a great slope, and looked over wide stretches of common and wood.

There had once been a moat right round the place, but that was filled up now, and only one straight portion of it left to bound a flower-garden with long grass walks and yew hedges. Stella loved this place as she yet loved nothing else ; for the child had lived a curiously solitary life, undisturbed by any deep emotions. Her mother died when she was born, and she had been brought up entirely by her governess, who only succeeded in winning from her pupil an easy tolerance in the place of affection. Mr. Morecombe also claimed little from his daughter. After the death of his wife, he shut himself up completely, and became each year more absolutely absorbed in his researches. He was a great naturalist, and on English birds was a recognised authority. He bred birds in his own aviary, making his observations on successive generations, and his pursuits rarely took him far afield.

The only time he appeared to notice Stella was when her hair declared its colour, for her mother's hair had been black, and his own locks were a dull heavy brown. Mr. Morecombe was much puzzled ; and the problem had to remain unsolved, for he could not feed Stella on strange seeds, as he did his specimen birds, in order to see if her progeny would vary the type. He had therefore left his daughter alone ; every day they met at break fast, and again at dinner, but Mr. Morecombe was never visible between these times. His hair had grown grey and his shoulders bent in the service of science ; he had reared and buried many generations of birds, and had made many discoveries ; but, as he used to say with a sigh, the ordinary span of a man's life is not long enough for a really thorough investigation of any subject Stella's governess, Fraulein Schmidt, was a good-humoured, incapable Swiss woman ; she adored her pupil, and was in a constant state of surprise at the child's quickness, always expressing her admiration with complete openness.

If Lady Hambledon, who took great interest in her niece, drove over to the Court, Stella's exercises were all got out at once. ' Elle a ecrit cela ce matin,' Fraulein would say, her small brown eyes moistening with pride, in the tone in which she might have announced a miracle. Stella always listened, but she valued Fraulein's judgment so little that these praises produced no elation, and she and her aunt used to laugh about them together afterwards. When Stella was fifteen, the poor governess suddenly realised that she herself was the pupil, and Stella the mistress : even in music, which was Fraulein's one gift, Stella had gone beyond her. When once she had completely grasped this fact, the conscientious woman, after many tears, requested an interview with Mr. More combe. With great volubility she explained to him that his daughter needed more advanced instructors, and that she felt it her duty to leave.

At this poor Fraulein broke down, and began mopping her eyes. Mr. Morecombe became very nervous ; he turned over a lot of notes rapidly, and looked at his watch. ' Really, Fraulein Schmidt,' he said at last, ' you must not think of leaving Stella. I — I — don't know what I should do about it. It doesn't matter about her education.' When Fraulein was excited she spoke Ger man, which Mr. Morecombe did not understand ; so he nodded his head, while Fraulein explained that Stella was 'merkwiirdig' and ' talentvoll,' and then finishing in broken English, she asked if she might take her pupil up to London once a week for classes and masters. ' Yes, yes,' said Mr. Morecombe, ' that will do very well ; why didn't you suggest it at the beginning. And now, Fraulein Schmidt, I 'm afraid I must get to work again.

I hope every thing is arranged.' Mr. Morecombe held out his hand, and gave her one of his rare smiles, which always pleased people, though they had but little intention in them, and were chiefly used to conceal the absence of his mind. Fraulein was overjoyed ; her conscience was at rest, and she could stay with her child. Stella enjoyed the weekly trip to London and practised her scales with new vigour. Lady Hambledon was quite satisfied, and all went smoothly for the next three years. But at the time this story opens, Stella was eighteen, and Fraulein knew that before long she would be taken off to balls and parties, and married perhaps, and then — but these thoughts had to be banished. It was quite certain, however, that Stella was to come ' out,' and Lady Hambledon had driven over that very afternoon, determined to have an explana tion with the ' ant-eater,' as she called her brother-in-law.

She was Stella's aunt, a sister of her mother's, and she considered her naturalist brother-in-law very inhuman, and resented what she called his snubby manner. These facts amply accounted for the nickname of ' ant-eater,' for Lady Ham bledon was one of those people who trust themselves to speech on the slightest connec tion of idea, or of sound, in the hope that the words may sometimes harbour a joke. She was a middle-aged woman of a comfortable size, but her round good-humoured face rather belied the undoubted eagerness of her intelli gence. She wore a fair curling fringe close down over her small grey eyes, and was always dressed in the last fashion. She did not exactly dislike her brother-in-law ; ' One can't dislike a bird's egg,' she said, 'but he hasn't any more feeling than one,' only she was determined to make him do his duty by Stella.

Stella was eighteen, she was very pretty, and she was some thing of an heiress. Lady Hambledon looked forward to her chaperonage with great interest. But as she explained to Mr. Morecombe, ' I don't in the least want her to have a regular London season — she 's much too young accord ing to my ideas ; — no, no, let me have her at the Grange whenever I have friends with me.' 'Well,' said Mr. Morecombe, 'you must do as you wish. As long as you don't expect me to stand in a doorway while Stella dances with foolish young men, I don't mind.' Lady Hambledon threw up her hands with a gesture of despair at the very notion. ' Gracious heavens, Ralph, I cannot think of anything more incongruous ; you 'd spoil the whole thing ! ' Mr. Morecombe, contrary to all habit, allowed Lady Hambledon to pour him out a cup of tea.

She had insisted upon his coming into the drawing-room to speak to her, because, she said, he was so inattentive in his study. She was the only being in the world who was ever allowed to disturb his habits, but it was a privilege which she exercised very seldom and only on great occasions. She had been rather nerv ous about this interview ; his temper she knew was very inflammable, and the talk followed so soon on a still more important one, when she had begged that Stella might have a special allowance for the clothes which, as a grown-up young lady, it was now necessary for her to wear. He had been meek then, and acceded to her request with so little comment, that she was afraid he might resent any further demands. * But nothing is ever so bad as one imagines it,' she said to herself contentedly as she sipped her tea. ' Why he 's not a bit like a naturalist to-day, he 's quite a Christian.' ' Ralph,' she exclaimed aloud, ' has it ever struck you how extremely pretty Stella is ? ' Mr. Morecombe looked up with the shadow of a smile in his eyes. ' Is she very pretty ? ' he asked.

At this moment there was a rushing sound in the house, a door banged, some one laughed, then there was another rush, and the door burst open. Stella stood on the threshold transfixed with surprise — her father in the drawing-room and drinking tea with Aunt Maisie ! She had put her hat on her head again to hide her tumbled hair, but it strayed from under it and framed her eager face. Mr. More combe looked at her for a moment. 'Yes, yes ! ' he said in an absent way as he got up and shook hands with Lady Hambledon ; ' Stella will give you your tea now, so I will say good-bye.' Lady Hambledon began to laugh gently to herself. ' Come here, you untidy little monkey,' she said to Stella, 'what have you been doing? Why are you so late ? ' Stella had her arms round her aunt's neck in a moment. ' Now, you 're not to be cross,' she said, 'but tell me why father was here, and what you 've been talking about ; is anything going to happen ? ' ' You are coming to stay with me next Satur day fortnight, when I have got some people ; that 's all' ' That 's all,' cried Stella, ' why it 's heavenly !

I shall wear all those smart clothes one after the other. O Aunt Maisie, do you think any one will like me ? ' Stella threw back her head and laughed. ' I don't care whether they do or not,' she added, ' as long as I enjoy myself — what fun it will be.' She jumped up and went to the piano, and in a moment the room was filled with the sound of a joyous swinging valse. But there is some strange inherent pathos in every valse measure. It is often drowned in the pleasure of a ball, for perhaps when the body is dancing, the soul is happy and forgets. But the soul cannot dance alone, and when the body is still, dance music saddens it. The room was growing dark and cold, and Stella stopped with a little shiver in the middle of a bar. ' I wish I hadn't begun,' she said half petu lantly, 'one ought never to play when one's feet want to dance.' Lady Hambledon's carriage drove round, and Stella wrapped her up in a fur cloak and tucked a rug round her, and stood on the steps to see her off. ' I don't think I can wait till Saturday fortnight,' she said to herself as she went upstairs, ' but I '11 go and try on my new gown.'

Chapter II

' Thou hast no sorrow in thy song.' To any one of an imaginative temperament a pleasure has three stages ; the bright prophecy of its sunrise, its zenith, and the afterglow of its memory, and those natures which are eager for enjoyment will not forgo a moment of any one of them. Stella, as she went upstairs, was see ing a vision of herself dressed in a new cotton gown which she had invented. It was pale lilac, and she wore a long white muslin fichu, and a velvet ribbon round her waist. The difficult point to decide was whether her hat should match the dress or not — it was very important. Clothes, she said to herself ought not to show thought, but should look as if they had come together by accident or by a design of nature, like the pink tips of a daisy's petals. This question was still unanswered when she reached the bedroom door, and the act of turning the handle and stepping into the dim room diverted her thoughts.

Stella's bedroom was a delightful one, though curiously enough it had nothing specially characteristic of her about it. A large square room with a low ceiling — an old Chinese paper on the walls, green, with strange bamboos and flowering trees stretching across it, a small wooden bed, and chintz curtains on two windows which framed a beautiful view over the valley. Stella had little of that senti ment of association which plays so large a part in the imagination of some people ; she knew no consecrated days, and her heart had never clung passionately to some little familiar trinket once worn by a friend. Although her mind was full of fancies, she never allowed it to rest upon the sad aspects of life, and seemed to turn away instinctively from anything which might possibly give her pain. She always, for instance, refused to talk about her mother, whom she, of course, could not remember, and when Lady Hambledon gave her one or two little bits of jewellery which had belonged to Mrs. Morecombe, Stella locked them away in a drawer and never once took them out again.

Fraulein Schmidt always said too, that she had behaved very oddly about the death of her tame canary. She had loved the little yellow bird for two or three years ; it knew her, it ate out of her mouth, and sometimes when all the windows were shut she let it fly round and round her room. One morning when she went to the cage as usual, she found a little ball of feathers lying in the sand at the bottom of the cage. Stella was utterly bewildered . . . she put her hand gently through the opening and lifted it out. There was something inexpressibly touching about the little soft warm corpse — the feathers are always warm — lying in the palm of her hand — small and helpless and insignificant, and yet a being that had traversed the great distance. Stella stooped as if she were going to kiss the tiny creature, but with a shudder of dislike and fear, she suddenly put it down on the table and ran out of the room ; nor would she enter it again, until every trace of the tragedy had been removed.

The cage was sent up to the garret, the bags of seed were thrown away, and she never asked where her little friend was buried. No one dared to speak to her about it, and in a few hours all was apparently forgotten. For a long time Stella B would turn away with impatience if she found herself involuntarily glancing up to where the cage used once to hang. She never kept another bird ; it was almost as if she were afraid. Since that time nothing had stirred her heart ; the passion of her nature poured itself into her enjoyment of the life she led, and as yet she loved no one deeply. Fraulein Schmidt was her slave, her father a mystery, her aunt an amusement, and she had never come into close contact with any one else. Stella rang the bell for her maid, a middle aged woman who had once been her nurse, and who watched her stages in growth with anxious mistrust.

This last chapter of new clothes, and vistas of new friends really horrified the faith ful woman, and she would show no sympathy. So the spare straight figure with brown eyes fixed on vacancy stood grimly in the doorway. ' What do you want, Miss Stella ? ' she said. Stella was a little frightened. 'Oh, never mind, Rose,' she answered, ' if you are busy. I only want a light, and I thought I might try on those new gowns — I am going to Lady Hambledon's in a fortnight.' ' In a fortnight, Miss ? ' repeated Rose in a tone of incredulous remonstrance ; ' you can 't go in a fortnight.' ' Why not ? ' ' I can't possibly finish your new shirts by then.' This was irritating besides being untrue. Stella answered quickly : ' Very well, then I must go without them, Rose ; but I '11 try on the new gowns now.' Rose went off grumbling to herself, but she re-appeared shortly with a white fluffy garment tied up in a sheet.

Without saying anything she laid it on the bed and began lighting the candles. Stella laughed. ' Rose, Rose,' she cried, ' how can you be so horrid ? ' and she put her arms round her nurse's stiff waist from the back and twirled her round. 'You ought to be glad when I am,' went on Stella ; ' why I am enchanted at the very idea of being grown-up, and you ought to be longing to see how I shall look.' Rose had the tears in her eyes, but Stella would not see them — she would not put her cheek against the poor old nurse's cheek and say she would never dance away from her. She began quickly taking off her gown, talking on about the new clothes and the new life, while Rose went to the bed to fetch the even ing dress. Her mood was still ruffled, and when she uncovered the gown and saw sleeves which, to her outraged eyes, were not sleeves at all, she turned round sharply. ' Why, Miss Stella, you 're surely not going to wear a body like this ? ' 'What is the matter with it?' asked Stella gaily. ' No sleeves ?

Of course not, no one wears sleeves on a ball gown ! ' Rose sighed, but her heart had not been softened. ' Your arms are much too thin,' she said with emphasis ; ' they ought to be covered up.' This denunciation was too much for Stella's sense of humour, though in truth she was a good deal disturbed by the remark. It rather spoilt the anticipatory pleasure with which she examined herself in the glass — her lovely little neck and shoulders emerging from a cloud of white. ' The arms were a trifle thin, perhaps,' thought Stella uneasily, ' but how pretty her figure was, and her hair ! ' Rose went out of the room saying it was time for Miss Stella to get ready for dinner, and Stella, left for a moment to herself, peered into the glass, holding the candle up above her head. There was no doubt she looked lovely, and a thrill of expectation and pleasure ran through her.

She made a sweeping curtsy to herself in the glass, and started, half with fear and half with annoyance at being caught posturing, when Rose came back carrying some hot water.

Chapter III

' Some flowers pause through long warm days, Slowly their leaves unfold ; But others greet the sun's first rays With blossom fresh and bold.' Lady Hambledon's house was a long, low, modern building, white, and covered with creepers. There was nothing special about the place in any way — a small very bright garden, a few pine-trees, a pond and one distant hill ; and yet the Grange enjoyed a certain amount of fame as a delightful house to stay in. It was quite close to the station, within an hour from London, and the easy manners of its hostess made a Saturday and Sunday there a great re freshment and pleasure. When Sir John was in England Lady Hambledon did not ask so many people, for although he had friends, he had not the numbers of attached acquaintances who congregated round his wife's genial personality.

Just now Sir John was in India, trying to establish a frontier in the north, his post in London being kept open for him. Lady Hambledon, who lived on the newspapers, was always besieging the War Office for news of the expedition. She was a devoted wife, and really adored her husband as much when he was with her, as when he was away. The society of her friends was not so much a com pensation, as a distraction which helped her in some measure to forget her anxieties. This year the entry of Stella, into what is called the world, was an additional interest. Lady Hambledon therefore was in a contented frame of mind, as she sat in her drawing-room on Saturday afternoon, the windows opening on to the lawn. Her tables were covered with photo graphs of all kinds, friends, celebrities, actresses; but on her writing-table there were only two ; one of Stella with her hair down her back in a swing, and one of Sir John in uniform.

She was wondering whether she had arranged everything for her guests, and thinking with some complacency that she had got a very good selection together for Stella's first venture. She felt confident that her niece would be appreciated at once, as she had none of the awkward shyness from which so many girls suffer. ' I must admit she does Ralph's neglect great credit,' Lady Hambledon said, ' perhaps leaving 'em alone is the best way after all to educate children.' She had never had a child, but she was full of theories, and gave a great deal of advice to her friends who were mothers. The time was creeping on and Stella had not yet arrived. It was naughty of her, thought Aunt Maisie, as she had promised to arrange some flowers for the dinner-table. Stella had a special way with flowers, they seemed to obey her, and they never quarrelled when she put them together.

But then Stella always was as unpunctual as — and Lady Hambledon paused for a com parison. Sometimes she tried the effect of using the first word which came into her head, and it often did very well. It was a pity, because she would have liked to install her niece before the others arrived ; this was the very first time she had been allowed to have her for more than an hour or two ; and she could have given her some advice — but it was no use, for here was the brake with Sir Edgar Pierson, yes, and his son Ronald, and Mrs. Grantham — but where was Mr. Bagehot? — why, he was the crown of the little party ! Lady Hambledon was really very much alarmed, though her fears did not spoil her greeting, and not until she had successfully provided tea under the big cedar for her friends did she turn to Mrs. Grantham and ask anxiously, 'What's happened to your wicked brother? he was to have come by this train.' Mrs. Grantham looked up quickly.

She had a striking face of noble outline. Her dark grey eyes were rather small, but they gained import ance from slightly projecting eyebrows. Her mouth was ugly in shape with a look of determination confirmed by her chin, and her nose was a little too long. But it was her forehead, wide and intellectual with the dark straight hair parted over it, which made some people call her handsome. She had been allowed two years of complete happiness with her husband, who had then been killed, or rather, had given his life to save others, in a mining accident ; and since that time she had tried for ten years to culti vate patience. She was rich, and she lived in London, working at all kinds of philanthropic schemes, and only allowing herself now and then a few diversions with her friends. She was by nature swift, gusty, and passionate, but she had learnt self-control, and her spirit yearned after the Unseen.

Her expression now, as she looked at Lady Hambledon's fat good-humoured face, betrayed a furtive amusement. ' I 'm afraid I haven't the remotest idea where Martin is, I didn't even know he was coming here.' ' Oh dear, oh dear, I hope he is ! ' cried poor Lady Hambledon, ' what shall we do without him?' 'Did he leave himself any kind of a loophole in his letter?' asked Mrs. Grantham in a voice of inquiry. 'No, no,' cried Lady Hambledon; 'on the contrary, he said he had a half-engagement elsewhere which he would get out of.' ' That 's very ominous,' said Mrs. Grantham laughing, 'very — you don't know Martin's methods as I do ; ' and then seeing Lady Hambledon was really annoyed, ' It 's sure to be all right though, Maisie, for he likes coming to you, and he generally does what he likes.' At this moment Stella appeared at the open drawing-room window.

She was looking radiant in the very lilac cotton of her dreams, her face shaded by a large black hat. She hesitated shyly for a moment as she saw that the people had come — she did not quite know whether to go forward or not. Mrs. Grantham touched Lady Hambledon's arm. ' There is a beautiful creature who wants to speak to you.' Lady Hambledon looked round quickly. 'Stella,' she cried, and then turning to her guests, ' my niece — Stella Morecombe,' she explained, 'who is just out.' Stella came across the lawn, and the timidity in her face gave it an added grace. 'Stella,' said Lady Hambledon, 'you must shake hands with Mrs. Grantham, one of my best friends, and here is Sir Edgar Pierson, and his son Mr. Ronald.' Stella greeted all three very shyly. Sir Edgar and Ronald both bowed. Mrs. Grantham smiled at her.

Sir Edgar was a thin spare figure, with a certain air of dis tinction. He had been born in a West Indian colony, but ran away from home when he was only sixteen, and found himself in middle life a widower, with a son to educate, and a large inherited fortune. His face was extraordinarily narrow, and his eyes very close together, but their keen sharp expression could not hide a lurking kindliness. For ten years now he had lived in London, and had it not been for the presence of his son Ronald, would have passed for a much younger man. Ronald, who was of medium height, with straight light hair, blue eyes, and a mouth hidden by a small moustache, was something of an artist. He collected brocades and gems, and even pictures. He played the piano, and was kind to singers ; everybody liked him, and although some despised his effeminate manners, there were a few who recognised a strong heart under all his culture.

He was greatly surprised by Stella's beauty ; surprised, and almost hurt that he should never have heard of her before. Ronald Pierson made a point of knowing everybody and every thing of any distinction — it was his metier. He called all the writers and musicians of the day by their Christian names ; he could laugh over the peculiarities of the last lion, and he had always at least read a review of the book which was under discussion. This appraising instinct led him to understand the importance of a new star on the social horizon at once. ' A girl with that face must be more than beautiful,' he said to himself. ' I must investigate her.' Stella sat down beside Mrs. Grantham ; she was annoyed with herself for feeling shy and awkward. Mrs. Grantham turned towards her with a welcoming look. ' I have so often heard of you,' she said in her low quiet voice, ' from Maisie — she feels as if you were her daughter.' Stella's eyes smiled. ' Isn't it a pity she hasn't got one ? ' she asked. ' I 'm afraid I 'm not much good to her — only a trouble.