A Fatal Reservation

Front matter

I ■ ■ ■ I ■ A FATAL RESEEVATION BY TIHIIE S-A-IMIIE AUTHOU. Second Edition, Grown 8vo. 3*. Gd. THE POISON OP ASPS. From the Westminster Review. ' By far the best novel we have come across this month is " The Poison of Asps " by Mr. R. 0. Prowse. It is a tragedy, entirely unsensational, but yet deeplj' touching, wrought out by the tittle tattle and intolerance of a small English country town, impatient of any appearance of nonconformity to its own narrow standards and rules of life. The author thoroughly kuowa the tone aud calibre of the society he undertakes to depict, and he portrays it without caricature, rarely with bitterness, rather with a slightly contemptuous indulgence. The victims are all three more or less noble and striking characters — dtnes d'tfite, to use the hackneyed but expressive French phrase — and they are very skilfully presented.

It is a quiet, almost an eventless, book, but it abounds in deep human interest. The writing is much above the average, and the whole texture of the thought, apart from the story or the delinea tion of character, is exceptionally fine and close.' London METHUEN & CO., 3G Essex Street, W.C. BY E. 0. PEOWSE AUTHOR OF ' THE POISON OF ASPS ' LONDON SMITH, ELDEK, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1895 {.All rights reserved]

Prologue

Over the Turkey carpet of a lamp-lit dining-room, Mr. Costlie, of the old and respectable firm of Costlie and Vallid, solicitors, was pacing restlessly to and fro. He was a precise looking little gentleman of a somewhat old-fashioned type, with a bald head, a fresh colour, a black cravat, and a very high stiff collar, which had taken such complete possession of his chin that it was difficult for him to turn his head. To save himself this trouble, he had acquired a habit of looking out of the corners of his eyes, a trick which heightened the expression of quiet shrewdness in his genial observant face. His restlessness was remarkable because he had just dined, one end of the long table being still covered with dessert. That the restlessness was in some measure due to his ex pecting the arrival of somebody seemed probable, for this reason : as he paced the room in one direction he raised his eyes from time to time to glance towards the door, while as he returned towards the fireplace he kept looking at the clock.

Every now and then he paused beside the place where he had sat, and taking up his glass of sherry, drank three sips, muttering as he did so — ' A sad case ; a very sad case indeed.' He had just put down his glass, and lifted the decanter to refill it, when the door was softly opened, and a stout middle- B A EATAL RESERVATION aged man dressed in a black frock-coat came into the room. Mr. Costlie placed the decanter on the table beside his empty glass, and looked at this gentleman inquiringly. He appeared to understand the mute interrogation, for he said at once — ' She is asleep.' ' Which means, doctor ? ' ' That she may last the night.' ' Dear me,' said the little gentleman, ' ah, dear me, dear me ! ' He resumed his pacings to and fro, but pausing when he came to the end of the table where the doctor had seated himself, turned to him and inquired, ' May I pour you out a glass of sherry ?

I can recommend it. It's from my own wine merchants, Messrs. Buist and Vidler. I have dealt with them for years.' The doctor held the wine which the little man gave him up to the light, sipped it, looked at it earnestly for several seconds, took another and longer sip, held it up to the light again, and as he placed the glass on the table, asked — ' What did he give for this ? ' ' Fifty-four ; fifty -four shillings a dozen. You don't want to drink a better wine.' ' Is there much of it ? ' ' Only a few bottles, I believe. Fill your glass.' 'He was a judge of sherry, poor man,' said the doctor, reflectively ; ' a good judge of sherry. It is certainly one of the saddest cases within my experience.' 'Ah, a very sad case ; a very sad case indeed,' echoed the little gentleman. ' And just when they had got every thing so nice, too !

They have not been in this house much more than a year.' 'I suppose he was really doing remarkably well in the City ? ' ' Remarkably well. Ah, he was a nice fellow ; a little quick-tempered, perhaps ; but a thoroughly good fellow. Devoted to his wife.' ' Perhaps it is best for her as it is, poor lady.' ' Yes, I am afraid so. People don't always consult their true interests, doctor, when they come to you any more than when they come to us.' The doctor smiled. ' I imagine he will return to the world some day ? ' ' In all probability. But he will never be the same man again.' ' No ; poor lady, it is best as it is. Her brother will take charge of the child ? ' ' Yes ; I expect him here every minute. I am staying on purpose to see him.' ' I don't think I shall remain any longer. You can send for me if you want me.

There is really nothing more that I can do.' ' You will take another glass of sherry ? ' ' No, thank you, not another drop.' He rose as he spoke, and having gently shaken himself, adjusted his waistcoat and pulled up his shirt-collar, deliberately buttoned his frock-coat, and wished Mr. Costlie a somewhat melancholy good-night. ' Good evening, sir, good evening,' said the little gentleman. ' We will send for you if we want you.' Mr. Costlie followed the doctor into the hall and saw him let himself out at the front door ; then he turned back into the dining-room, poured himself out another half glass of sherry, and dropped into an easy-chair by the fireless grate. In the room upstairs the dying woman was still asleep. To look at her, it was hard to believe that she was so near her end, for her face had none of the signs of long illness or severe suffering.

It was very calm. The faint gleam of the lamp which fell across the bed showed that she was still young, and that her features, now too delicately fair, had once, and not long ago, possessed a rich share of beauty. Presently she opened her eyes, and turned uneasily towards the light. ' Nurse,' she whispered. A woman rose from a seat by the table and approached the bed. b2 ' Has he come ? ' she asked. ' No, not yet.' ' Not yet ? When will he come ? Nurse, open the window — wide, quite wide, that I may hear him when he comes. I know he will not be long.' The nurse drew up the blind, and softly opened the window. The silver brightness of a summer moon flowed into the room, making the lamp burn yellow, and the night air, coming fresh over dewy lawns and sweet with the old familiar scents of hillside, meadow, and wood, blew soft and cool, gently fanning the face of the sufferer.

She smiled, and raising herself in the bed, murmured gratefully, ' Ah, that is good, that is good. I can breathe now.' ' Perhaps,' said the nurse, ' it will be too much for you ? ' ' No, no, the room was so hot before. But hark ! what is that ? Do you hear nothing ? ' The woman opened the window a little wider and leaned out. ' Yes, I hear the sound of wheels.' ' Thank God ! he is coming at last.' The poor lady fell back upon the pillows and closed her eyes. The nurse gently lowered the window, and coming to the bedside stood watching her, as the moonlight fell full upon her fair tired face. The carriage had stopped before the house. For a moment here was the muffled noise of voices and of the opening and shutting of doors ; then the grating of the wheels upon the gravel as the carriage moved away; after that the former stillness returned.

Presently a soft knock was heard at the door of the sick-room. A minute later brother and sister were alone. ' Eleanor ! ' ' Ah, my brother ! ' He seated himself by the bedside, and took one of his sister's thin, white hands within his own. They looked at one another in silence. ' I would not have left you if I had known,' he murmured. ' If we had only known ! ' she echoed, with a smile. ' If I had only known that night ! — you have been travelling fast ? ' ' Ever since I got your message.' ' I sent it as soon as they told me. They might have told us before you left ; we should not have lost these last few days. You have seen Mr. Costlie ? ' ' Yes.' ' He will arrange everything with you. He has been so good to me, dear. I want now ' she paused for breath. ' Don't tire yourself, dearest,' he said gently. ' Does it matter ?

I shall have so long to rest.' Several minutes passed before she spoke again. ' I am better now,' she said. ' Will you open the window a little wider ? There seems to be no air to-night.' He did as she wished, and returned to the bedside. ' I shall not have long to talk to you,' she murmured. ' Let me tell you now what I wish to say. I know — come closer, closer still ; there, so that I can kiss you. Now give me your hand. I know, dear, I know you can't help doubting him. It is not your fault. You must judge by appearances — by the facts as you see them. How can you know him as I do ? You have never loved him. . . . No, you have never said that you doubted him. You are too good for that. You have tried to make me think that you believed in him. But all along I have known the truth. Now I want you to pro mise me something.' She paused a moment. ' My child's home for the future will be with you ? ' ' Mary and I will do our best to make it a happy one for her,' he said, huskily. ' I know it : your little boy is nearly four ? ' ' Yes.' ' My child was two last week.

She will be a playfellow for him.' There was a long pause before she continued — ' The promise I want from you is this. When some day the child comes to you, and asks you to talk to her of her father, promise me that you tell her anything but the truth. You are not good at hypocrisy, dear. You have not been able to keep your doubt from me, and still less will you be able to hide it from the eyes of a child. " But he was innocent," 1 can hear her say. " He did not do it ! " And what answer could you make to her ? You would say what you could, but you would leave a doubt upon the child's mind. Tell her how fond he was of her ; tell her of the old days when he would take her on his knee in the nursery, and rock her to sleep, and sing to her. Store her mind with memories such as these. But promise me that you will try to keep his story from her, because I could not die happy if I thought she would learn it from doubting lips.

And, God knows ! she may one day learn it from his own. Dearest, will you promise me this ? ' ' I promise.' ' Ah, dear,' she went on, eagerly, ' you must not misunder stand me. I do not doubt your goodness. It is because you are too good that I cannot trust you. Think of him ! Think how, when I am gone, there will be no one left to believe him innocent. It is this that makes it so hard for me to die. To have to leave him alone— so utterly alone — to begin alone some day, perhaps, a new life which may either be darkened by the concealment of the past, or worn out in a poor brave struggle to outlive the doubt and suspicion that never die. Alone ! — but not alone, dear brother, if he has his daughter's love ; not alone if he knows that she can give him a perfect trust. This is why I want your promise : that I may die knowing that his dear memory will be kept unspotted for our child.' A long silence followed.

The poor lady lay back upon the pillows with her eyes closed, her breathing becoming more laboured and difficult, while there were signs in her face that the eagerness with which she had spoken had tended to shorten the brief span of life that remained yet to her. Her head rested on her brother's arm ; his face was scarcely less pallid than her own. The hours wore away ; the moonlight faded from the room ; through the open window the first cold breath of morning air came chillingly ; in the eastern sky the stars drew back, shrinking from the pale grey presence of the dawn ; and in woods, and behind hill-tops, and in the secret and shadowy places of still cities night hid herself for a last brief refuge from the day. She spoke but twice again, the first time to give some message for a friend, the second to ask him for her child. ' Give me my child once more, brother dear,' she said.

And he left her, and fetched the young thing from its little bed, and brought it to her, and held it while she put her arms about its neck. The blessing she breathed upon it made the last words she uttered.

Book I Chapter

I She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover. Waveney Court was pervaded with an air of preparation, expectation, and impatience. There was usually a reposefulness in its atmosphere, an absence of all unnecessary going to and fro, which to one who dwelt in a suburb, or to the active-minded Bohemian, might have conveyed a suggestion of dulness. It had made a little bit of the permanent scenery for the historical drama of its three centuries of stately and beautiful existence ; prominent actors had lived, or, more often perhaps, had stayed, within its honourable walls, and if no events of the first mag nitude lay in the archives of the family, it had witnessed many transactions which had been highly fruitful of conse quences. For though the Keyworths had generally fought for their monarchs, and had sometimes attempted the more dan gerous task of advising them, they had never quite held the stage as actors of the first importance ; so that the scenes of which the Court could boast had been rather of the nature of those restful episodes during which the action temporarily pauses, than of the louder and stormier kind in which the drama rises to great situations.

At all events, the Court was an institution venerable and highly accredited, and the cer tainty of its inhabitants as to themselves and their relations with the world lent existence a peculiar smoothness. Still, it is not given to everyone to appreciate a permanent tranquillity, and life at the Court was without that friction which some minds need as a stimulus. But this afternoon, as we have hinted, no one seemed to be himself. For instance, there was Mr. Edwards, the butler, whose custom it had been for many years to have a nap in his pantry after the servants' hall dinner : to-day he had scarcely closed his eyes ; and yet he had nothing to show for his after noon's work beyond a decanter of fine old port which it must have taken him something less than five minutes to decant, and which he had been contemplating on and off for something like an hour and a half.

Or there was even Sir George Keyworth himself. He had come in earlier than usual, and was sitting in the library with a volume of Montaigne's essays open before him, open strangely enough at that chapter headed ' Against idlenesse, or doing nothing ; ' but not a word had Sir George read, though the genial old egotist was a favourite of his. He was merely looking out of the window. And the cause of this unnecessary excitement must appear, it is to be feared, somewhat small and insufficient ; for it was nothing more important than the return from school of Mr. Waveney Keyworth, who was expected home for the Christmas holidays. But there was one person whom this demoralising atmo sphere of expectation had not disturbed. It may have been that Mrs. Fry held her feelings with a firmer rein than that with which the rest of the household held theirs ; or it may have been that the prospect of seeing her nephew caused her less vivid emotion.

Whichever it was, she was certainly de voting herself with more persistence than usual to the papers, tickets, account books, registers, &c. &c. connected with her Sunday school, night school, clothing club, coal club, shoe club, soup kitchen, lying-in society, and other valuable insti tutions, the documents of which were spread out before her in the corner of the drawing-room which custom had reserved for her use. Still, even Mrs. Fry's mind was not quite at rest. Whose mind could have been in such a restless house ? Or, giving the thought a wider application, as Mrs. Fry herself would have done, whose can be in such a restless world ? — for Mrs. Fry was not quite in harmony with the Court. Still, at first sight, the cause of her uneasiness would have been difficult to discover. The room was agreeably quiet, the scratching of Mrs. Fry's pen, and the tick of the blue-faced clock on the chiffonnier beside her being almost the only sounds.

To a visitor standing with his back to the mullioned window that nearly filled one end of the room, Mrs Fry in her corner by the oak fireplace, with its carved arabesques and foliage, its quaint cornices and mouldings, would have seemed to be ab solutely alone. But if the visitor had moved a few paces over the carpet, and had peeped round the curtain into the recess of one of the windows, he would have discovered that it possessed an occupant — a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of sixteen, whose head rested against a panel of the shutter, as she looked down the avenue where the nests of the rooks in the bare branches rocked in the gathering twilight of the winter's day. And in the girl he would have found the disturber of the good lady's peace and equanimity. Tolerance for the shortcomings of her relations was not one of Mrs. Fry's characteristics.

Being a singularly active person herself, idleness in others was offensive to her : and the young lady in the window was very idle. The work which had dropped from her fingers was in possession of a kitten that was lying on the cushion beside her. ' You don't seem to be getting on with your work, dear,' said Mrs. Fry, presently. ' I never like to see young people idle.' Idleness, of course, being indefensible, Maggie could only make the excuse of having come to a part of her work which she was unable to do by herself. ' Why did you not bring it to me before ? ' Mrs. Fry naturally asked. Whereupon Maggie disentangled her work from the claws of the kitten, and went to her aunt. When the difficulty had been overcome, she returned to her seat in the window ; but still the work did not make much progress. ' I am sure you must feel a draught in the window, Maggie, and with your cough you ought not to sit there.

You could see very well at the table,' said Mrs. Fry, presently. To which Maggie replied that she felt no draught, and had no cough worth speaking of. ' Is there anything very entertaining going on outside ? ' inquired Mrs. Fry, by-and-by. ' No, aunt,' answered her niece. ' I thought, perhaps, from the way you have been looking out of the window, there might be, dear,' said Mrs. Fry ; adding pleasantly, ' He won't come any the sooner, you know, for your looking for him.' Maggie smiled. Mrs. Fry had been besieging her position in the window all the afternoon, but had not yet succeeded in dislodging her. To say that between Maggie and her aunt there had been a seven years' war, that is, from the day the latter had returned to Waveney Court, would be to give a false account of the hostilities.

It was Mrs. Fry who had declared war : it was Mrs. Fry who had been waging it offensively ever since : it was Mrs. Fry who refused to make peace. For upon the death of his wife, seven years before, Sir George had invited that lady, who was his sister, to come back to her old home at tlie Court, and take charge of his son and niece ; and this, as she had recently been left a widow and but indifferently provided for, Mrs. Fry had been glad to do. But it had not been without considerable misgiving that Sir George had taken the step, and his misgiving had been abundantly justified. Outside the circle of her family, Maria had established an early reputation for piety. She still had in her possession a letter she had received from a kind-hearted old archdeacon when she was only twelve, commending her in tender and patriarchal language for certain good works she had performed.

It was on strictly religious grounds that she had opposed the marriage of her younger sister when she had gone to the altar before her. Still, there had been a little space in her hfe during which good works had not occupied the first place in it ; a month or so when a certain young lieutenant in the — th Lancers had stayed at a neighbouring house, and had been suspected of paying her attention. In the end, however, he had prudently abstained, possibly checked by visions of himself giving out the hymns at his wife's meetings for his troopers, and had returned uncommitted to his regiment ; whereupon Miss Keyworth had married a curate, and returned to her works of piety. The rest of her life had been con sistently devoted to them. Sir George, in whom the genial spirit of a country gentleman still survived, found that charity may cover a vast deal of discomfort.

The consciousness that there is someone at the other end of one's table who may at any moment treat the most trivial remark from the gravest point of view, regard an innocent joke as little short of profanity, frown on one's favourite platitudes of men and things, one's little cynicisms and scraps of worldly philosophy as blasphemies, heresies, and the outpourings of an unregenerate heart that ignores the divine governance of the world, is not only fatal to conversation, but throws a fearful pall over life generally. With strangers, on the other hand, Mrs. Fry could be a pleasant person ; with her religious friends sbe always was. She dressed simply and well, could assume the sweetest of smiles, and, in spite of her dislike of society, would do the honours of the house as became a gentlewoman of the race to which she belonged.

Maggie's watch by-and-by came to an end. A carriage drove up to the door, and from it stepped Mr. Waveney Keyworth. He had no need to ring the bell. Edwards, the butler, was in attendance, to give the young gentleman his first welcome. ' Glad to see you home, sir. Hope you're well,' he said, in a voice respectful and husky. ' Quite well, thanks, Edwards. How are they all ? Mrs. Hope, the housekeeper, was the next to come forward. She looked very much as if she would like to take the young gentleman in her motherly arms and kiss him, but refrained. There was that about the young gentleman himself which suggested that the possibility had not escaped him, the joints of his right arm showing a certain stiffness as he shook hands with the old housekeeper. ' And I hope you have kept well and free from colds ? ' inquired the good soul. ' I have been very well, thanks,' said Waveney, as Edwards helped him off with his great coat. ' The hamper you sent me at half term, Mrs. Hope, was first-rate.' ' And the port, sir ? ' inquired the old butler, confidentially. ' Excellent, Edwards ; excellent,' he said. ' I am glad you liked the hamper,' said Mrs. Hope ; 'we were sorry afterwards we hadn't put in another pot or two of the marmalade.

I think Mr. Waveney is grown,' she added, turning to Edwards. ' Sure of it,' said Edwards, proudly. Which little attentions, though he was eighteen, and had brought home his first razor, as well as a couple of prizes, in his portmanteau, Waveney received very graciously. Then came Sir George, who, having greeted his son affectionately, lost no time in leading him to the library to have the first little chat with him alone. As father and son stood side by side on the hearthrug, in height there was nothing to choose between them ; but though the boy was limber and clean of limb, his figure looked as if it would scarcely attain the robust proportions of his father's. What chiefly impressed one in Sir George's face was its ex pression of kindly refinement. Never quite a sportsman at heart, but rather kept one by habit and tradition, of late years he had given his time more and more to his books ; and a slight stoop of the broad shoulders and a certain slowness of movement faintly betrayed the student.

His eyes were re flective rather than observant ; his face, lightly sunburnt below the forehead, was clean shaven except for a moustache. His manner was easy, interested, adaptable — the manner of a man who had ceased to make claims for his dignity. In Waveney's face reflection contrasted curiously with animation, a refinement which was almost feminine with an intensity of vigorous life. His face possessed a mobility, a quick change of expression, uncommon with the type of clear cut features— features a little proud with the distinction of good breeding —to which his face belonged. His cheek was pale, but kept the healthy fulness of boyhood ; his forehead was perhaps a trifle too high ; his eyes were bright, and, in colour, a soft dark brown like his father's. His dark hair was wavy ; his mouth sensitive almost to weakness.

The relations between father and son were not only cordial, but were frankly affectionate to an extent unusual with men of their class. As he asked his innumerable questions about the term that was over, Sir George kept his hand on the boy's shoulder, and the freedom and fulness of the young fellow's answers showed that he knew his father to be patient of detail. This first little talk, however, was never along one, and before the interest of even the more obvious topics was exhausted, they went upstairs together to the drawing-room. ' Here is someone who is glad to have you home again,' said Sir George, cheerily, as Maggie came forward to meet her cousin, a very legible assent in her face. ' She has done nothing the whole afternoon but look out of the window to see if you were coming,' appended Mrs. Fry, as Waveney shook hands with his aunt.

The meeting was not unlike that of a schoolmistress and her pupil. It was courteous, but with the consciousness on both sides that the courtesy was not likely to be lasting. Waveney had taken a dislike to his aunt when she had first come to fill his mother's place ; and in the sensitive, but spirited, little fellow she had had a persistent and successful rebel against her unsympathetic discipline. The conversation became general. Sir George questioned the boy about his doings at school ; Mrs. Fry paid her nephew the compliment of leaving her little table and asking him an occasional question, too ; and Waveney himself answered the questions with animation, adding a few of his own, inquiries as to the state of the preserves, when and where the hounds would next meet, the covers that had been drawn, &c. &c. ; while Maggie nursed the restless kitten, saying little, waiting resolutely for the sounding of the first gong, when Waveney and she would be left alone.

When the gong sounded at last, and the others had left the room, she got up and went to him, and he took both her hands in his, and they stood looking at one another in the fire-light, silently, as if they were gathering up the threads of old intercourse. ' It is very jolly to be here again,' he said. ' I am so glad you have come,' she assured him. He fetched two deep little chairs, and drew them up to the fire. A shaded lamp had been lighted, but it was small for the room, and left a wealth of shadow about them. ' I was so glad you got the essay prize,' she said, when they had drawn their chairs close under the strange old carv ings of the fireplace. ' Did you have to work very hard for it? ' ' No, it was an easy subject with not much to read. I find it easier, too, to work in the winter term, as I don't play football.' ' Uncle was delighted at your getting it.' Waveney smiled. ' Yes, I could tell that by his letters.