Love and jealousy

Front matter

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UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA.

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CHAPTER 1. ’miss fame, of fame court

“ I CAM^T go any further! Oh, I canT! Let me sit down and rest a little, for the love of the Blessed Virgin!”

The low, red sun glowed like a ball of blood in the November sky, throwing crimson shafts of light across the avenue of ancient beeches, where the yellow leaves were raining down in a shower of perfumed gold, making a rustling carpet beneath the feet, and flying in fantastic drifts before the wind. At the rear was a porter's lodge of gray, lichen-covered stone, almost hidden in creeping vines, from which the lozenged-paned casements looked out like inquiring human eyes — beyond, the castellated towers of an old mansion were just visible through the trees — the towers of Fane Court, in the county of Surrey, dominion of England.

And the only apparent human objects in this dreary autumn landscape were two- women, one old and grislylooking, and bent with age, the other bowed also, and feeble, but not with years. The elder was yellow -visaged, with a multitude of thread-like wrinkles crossing and recrossing one another upon her face, a white bristly stubble on her chin, and sharp, black eyes, as keen and restless as those of a rat, and her dress, of some worn quilted stuff, was half covered with a faded cloak of red camlet. Her silvery hair, loosened from the comb, and escaped from the border of her hood, blew to and fro in the wind, giving

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her a strange and witch-like air, and as she looked around her, she mumbled her toothless jaws and muttered to herself, as if communing with some unseen familiar.

The other woman leaned upon the arm of this old crone, a faded, feeble creature, with a pallid face, and light yellow hair, already threaded with silver, although she could net have been more than thirty years of age. Her dress was plain, and scant, and shabby — in fact, her worn shoes scarcely interposed any protection between her feet and the ground, and the shawl that was crossed over her breast and knotted behind was tattered and thin. She might have been pretty once; her features were regular enough, and there was still a glimmer of blue fire in the sunken eyes, over which the eyelids drooped so heavily, but she had too evidently lost all womanly pride in her own appearance. And taking the general aspect of the pair into consideration, Mrs. Dykes, the portress, was quite justified in the doubt with which she regarded them from the ivy-garlanded casements of the lodge.

“ They does look precious queer,’^ muttered that matron, mechanically wringing her dish-cloth around and around, although every drop of moisture was long since squeezed out. And I^m moreen half sorry I let ^em in. But what is a body to do when folks declares, out and out, as they^ve got business at the Court?^^

And Mrs. Dykes returned to her domestic duties, still shaking her head in a dubious sort of way.

“ OanT go any further!” echoed the old woman, turning on her companion with a snarl which revealed her gums. “ Pauline, you haven't the sperit of a dog! A dog, indeed! There ain't the cur alive but would keep on to the end when once he's got the scent of a bone!”

“ I'm tired! Tired to the death!” groaned the younger, leaning up against the gnarled and jagged trunk of one of the old beeches, and pushing her foot to and fro on the carpet of dead leaves that rustled softly beneath it. “ Go you on by yourself if you choose, Mother Benoit, and leave me here to die in peace

With a hurried movement of her left hand Mother Benoit twitched a small flat bottle out of some receptacle in her tattered skirts, and, uncorking it with her teeth, held it to the pale lips of the woman she had called Pauline.

“ Drink, ye poor, bloodless, lily-livered thing,^^ said she. “ Drink — and look up at yonder towers! A brave place it looks to be, eh? Eich gentlefolks like them, people as would send the likes of you and me round to the back door, where the dogs and the servants is, eh? And all belonging to Sir Kupert Fane, Baronight! Now, will you come along?’ ^

But Pauline still lingered. Evidently the weariness which had overpowered her was too great to admit of even temporary stimulant.

“ Come!” snarled Mother Benoit, “ or else I’ll take ye up and carry ye like a child! I’ve done it afore now, and I’ll go ^ili can again!”

Burbefore she could put this threat into execution, a light footstep rustled on the dry leaves, and a tall, slight figure, coming around the curve in the avenue of beeches, was momentarily outlined against the burning November sky; the figure of a girl of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in some dark-gray stuff which fell in soft clinging folds around her, and wearing a hat of deep blue velvet with a jet buckle in its front, and a dark-blue plume drooping over the back. A scarf of the dull red that betokens the Indian loom was wrapped carelessly around her shoulders, and her slender feet were clad in thick and substantial leather boots, as if for a walk.

All these details Mother Benoit’s rafe*li,ke eyes took in at a single glance, and in addition to this sh^ noted the brilliant red and white complexion, the dark-brown hair curling in rings over the ivory-pale forehead and coiled at the back of the head, and the large velvety-brown eyes that

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were fixed upon herself with such a surprised expression. Nor did she fail to observe the neatly dressed maid who followed a little in the background, with a plaid Scotch shawl wrapped around her, and a basket on her arm.

The young lady stopped; the little attendant stopped also.

“ It’s them tramps, miss, from Baddersley,” said the maid in a loud whisper; “ and however Dykes come to let ’em in, 1 don’t know!”

‘‘ Hush, Anne,” said the girl, “ the old woman is going to speak!”

And Mother Benoit courtesied herself into the foreground, with the set smile and air of exaggerated humility that belonged to her profession.

‘‘ God bless you, sweet lady,” croaked she, and send you a long life and a merry one!”

I am much obliged to you,” said the girl, with dignity; “ but perhaps you are not aware that these are private grounds.”

Ain’t this the carriage drive as leads to Fane Court, miss?” humbly questioned the old hag, with another succession of courtesies.

“ And don’t Sir Rupert Fane live there?”

“ When he is at home, he resides at the Court,” was the answer.

At this response. Mother Benoit’s countenance visibly lowered.

“ When he is at home?” she repeated. “ Ain’t he at home now, then?”

“No; he is in London.”

“ Lord save us!” groaned the old woman. “ Sir Rupert Fane in London, and me and my friend came all this way to get a word with him! Ah, deary me, deary me, what a cross-grained world this is, to be sure! On foot all the way from Fane’s Bridge Station!”

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The young lady fixed her soft brown eyes pityingly on the weird and wrinkled face.

I can give you my father^s address in London/^ said she, drawing a penciled card from her pocket. “ He will be there some time.^'

“ And thankee kindly, miss,^^ said the old woman, stretching out her withered claw to receive it. ‘‘ So youTe Sir Eupert^s daughter, are you? and the heiress to all these grand acres? God send you a long life to enjoy ^em. Miss Fane!"^

Christabel Fane instinctively recoiled, the blessing was spoken in accents so like a curse.

Yes, yes,^^ nodded the hag, drawing under her own the arm of the woman who had leaned against the tree, stirring the dead leaves with her foot, and never once looking up during all this dialogue. Come, Pauline, come! We^ve had our trouble for our pains, and weTl have to seek Sir Eupert elsewhere, my girl. **

Can not you leave a message with me?” asked Christabel, pityingly, for the old woman seemed so infirm, the young one so pale and feeble.

No, Miss Fane, 1 canT,” said the woman. “ What I has to say to Sir Eupert can’t travel by second hand.”

“ Had you not better go to the house and get something to eat?” asked Christabel, kindly.

“No, miss, no. Time is precious, and there’s a train leaves Fane’s Bridge as we can catch if we steps lively,” muttered Mother Benoit. “ Come, Pauline, I say!”

“ Stop a moment,” said Miss Fane, gently. “ I — I have not much pocket-money, but if you want a few shillings — ”

Mother Benoit held out her hand again, a greedy light sparkling under her frost-white lashes.

“ Thankee kindly, Miss Fane,” said she. “ Shillings is shillings, wherever they come froni; and I won’t deny as

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I’m poor as poverty itself. Come, Pauline! And a blithe wedding to you, Miss Fane, of Fane Court!”

Christabel Fane looked after the pair as they trudged slowly down the avenue, the last bloody light of sunset shining on their retreating figures, and the yellow leaves falling around them like golden rain.

I wonder who they are,” she said, and what they can possibly want with papa?”

It’s my belief, miss, as it’s all a blind,” said the maid, coming close to her mistress, and lowering her voice. “ A put-up job! When Brickfold Farm was robbed, there was two respectable women come to the back door that very afternoon, asking for a drink of water, and all the while looking at the winder fastenings and door bolts! And no one’s safe as long as there’s tramps around!”.

Miss Fane smiled.

“ I don’t think they are tramps, Anne,” said she. “ And if they are, there’s little enough at Fane Court for them to steal. Come, let’s go home; the air is growing chill, now that the sun is down, and I don’t think we shall find any more autumn leaves or mosses to-night.”

“ Miss Christabel,” suggested Anne, still discontented in her own mind, “ hadn’t I better borrow Dykes’s bulldog?”

“ What for?” said Miss Fane, turning around and regarding her maid with large, surprised eyes.

“ Because of the tramps, miss.”

“ Nonsense!” said Miss Fane, brusquely. “Two poor, homeless creatures, that couldn’t hurt a kitten! Anne, I am surprised at you!”

“ But, miss, only think of the robbery at Brickfold Farm!”

To this Miss Fane made no reply, but quickened her pace almost to a run, while Anne Hartsuff, the maid, followed, muttering disconsolately to herself;

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“ I shouldn't wonder if we were all burned in our beds before to-morrow morning

But it was a good eighth of a mile from the stone entrance gates, with their moss-enameled urns and ancient carved inscription, to the Court itself, and the ruddy autumn sunset had darkened into chill purplish gray before Christabel Fane reached the level terrace in front of the main entrance — a terrace where a cracked sun-dial yawned opposite the discolored marble basin of a waterless fountain, and a great walnut-tree stretched its giant boughs over both.

Chapter II. Fanecoukt

Fane Coukt presented an imposing appearance from a distance, but when one came to a nearer survey the illusion melted away, and the beholder became painfully aware that it was nothing more than a ruinous old pile, on which the dilapidations of a series of years had plainly inscribed their mark. The Fanes had been a rich and prosperous race once, but that period was so long ago that the mists of obscurity seemed to have swallowed up all but its memory.

And the evil genius of the family had been one Sir Alured Fane, who, in the reign of England's Sailor King, had deliberately gambled and squandered away the fortune of the Fanes, leaving his children only an empty title^ud a heritage of debt. From the blow Fane Court and its inhabitants had never recovered in the generations that fo]»> lowed. The males of the race were gentlemen, the females rarely gifted with beauty and spirit, but ill-fortune had doggedi their footsteps like an avenging Fate. Whatever enterprises they attempted turned out wretched failures — whatever feeble efforts they resorted to for the benefit of their fallen estates, only left them still deeper in debt, and Sir Rupert, the only child of the last baronet, had found

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himself reduced to an income which barely sufficed for the ordinary comforts of life when he took possession of his inheritance, on the death of his father in the island of Capri. He might, perhaps, have saved himself a great deal of pecuniary embarrassment, and a host of minor mortifications, could he have been content to let the Court, and live in a hired house in the little village of Taney's Bridge, according to the advice and entreaties of the family lawyer. But against this plan Sir Rupert Fane steadily set himself.

“ I am an English gentleman, he had asserted, “ and a Fane of Fane Court. And I will never consent to lower myself in my own eyes, and those of the world, by deserting my a-ncestral home, and resorting to petty and degrading economies, which were never meant for men of my stamp.

And so Christabel Fane, motherless almost from her birth, had been brought up under the frescoed ceiling of moldy, half-furnished rooms, where the rats scampered in droves on a winter night, and great spots of mildew broke out like giant tears upon the furniture — brought up under a succession of governesses, to believe in Fane Court as a paradise, and the Fanes as a peculiar and exalted race. To be sure, they were poor, but then, as Christabel argued, what did that matter as long as they had enough to eat and drink, and a sufficiency of tolerable clothing? And it was not until she had reached woman’s estate, and began to see things through a woman’s intuitive vision, that the full forlornness of their condition fell upon her.

“ We are genteel beggars,” said Christabel Fane to herself. »“ Nay worse, for beggars are not expected to live up to any artificial standard. They are contented with their crust and their rags, and have no hope of anything better.”

And the weight of this consciousness was even heavier than usual, as Christabel entered the old house in the dreary autumn twilight, not by the grand central portal —

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that was loug disused, aud the bolts were rusting peacefully in their staples — but by a little side door that led direct into a small room which had been the boudoir of the dead . and buried Lady Fanes. Beyond was her father^s study; at the back were the servants^ offices, few in number, but amply sufficient for the accommodation of all the present retainers of Fane Court, who consisted only of a cook, who called herself also a housekeeper, Anne, who was Miss Fane’s maid in particular, and girl of all work in general, an ancient gardener, and a rheumatic stableman who stayed at the Court only because they were too infirm to earn their salt in any other establishment.

One by one, as the larger rooms had become uninhabitable, Sir Rupert and his daughter had abandoned them, and moved into snugger and less pretentious quarters, until they had, so to speak, been brought to bay in this little wing of the Court.

“ And when this falls down,” said Sir Rupert, with a sort of grim pleasantry, “ we shall have to transfer our quarters to the stable, for all that I can see!”

Sir Rupert, as will be perceived, had reached that stage of philosophy at which he could joke at their discomfiture. Christabel, however, was less resigned. The infinite pangs, the numberless mortifications of poverty, weighed her young spirits down; she could not reconcile herself to this monotonous life, this perpetual famine of all that is most bright and pleasing in a young girl’s life.

The room looked almost pleasant, however, in the light of the low, clear fire. By this illusive medium, one did not observe so plainly the blotched ceilings, the faded red of the curtains, and the worn carpet, in whose center all pretension to a pattern was long since obliterated. The marble mantel was cracked down one side, but that was not perceptible in the ruddy half light; the tall vases on its either end were mended with paste cement, but in the dusk they looked all but perfect. And the coarse dimity

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covering that Christabel had made for the old sofa, when its upholstery absolutely dropped into rags, between moths and antiquity, might have been white and pink damask, or silk brocatelle in this blessed semi-obscurity.

Christabel Fane dropped down into a low chair, with a sigh, threw aside her hat, and the old India scarf which had been her mother^s, and resting her elbows on her knees, looked sadly into the fire.

“ Oh, dear,^^ she mused, “ 1 wish we weren’t so poor. I shall have to economize in a thousand contemptible little ways, to make up the eighteenpence I gave that poor wretch in the park, fifteen minutes ago. And when Mrs. Maclaine gave me that subscription paper in the village, how mortifying it was to have to tell her I would consult with my father. ‘ But half a crown is such a small sum,’ she pleaded. ‘ Yes,’ I answered, ‘ but papa likes to be advised with even upon the smallest expenditures.’ It wasn’t that — it was just because I had not got the money. Oh, I try to be truthful, but it is just such galling poverty as ours that teaches a base equivocation ten degrees worse than lying.” And Christabel Fane bit her lip, and frowned at the red coals. “I declare, 1 almost envied Polly Stokes selling ribbons behind the village counter, and Mrs. Meiklewham trudging from door to door with her basket of lobsters. They, at least, are independent^ and earn their own living. They do not shrink from the tradespeople, and tremble when the quarterly bills come in! Must it always be thus? Is there no escape from this iron yoke of aristocratic beggary? If I could give lessons, or paint water-color sketches, or even write a poem that the magazines would pay for — but I can’t! Yes, Joan, what is it?”

The old housekeeper, who had tapped at the door, now stood there, fingering the frill of her apron.

“It’s Stubbs, the green-grocer, miss, please. He was here this afternoon, while you were out, and his compli-

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ments, please, and would yon suit yourself with some other house in his line of business until Sir Kupert can make it convenient to let him have a small sum on account?’’

“ Very well/’ said Christabel, briefly.

“ And the man from the Bridge as mended the roof last July, miss, he’s called eight times about his bill, and he’s up and down abusive, miss, and says them as can’t pay hadn’t ought to have called him in. I tol^ him Sir Rupert would attend to it when he returned, but he says he’s heard that before!”

“ Now, then, Joan Ditchett,” interposed Anne, who was entering with the tea-tray, ‘‘ what’s the use of bothering Miss Christabel with them things? She can’t make a hair black nor white, can she?”

“ I know that,” said Joan, with a puzzled look toward her young lady; “ and I wouldn’t take the liberty, only I promised Stubbs and Corsley to speak to Miss Fane myself, since Sir Rupert was gone. And a promise is a promise, Anne Ilartsuff!”

“ Well, now you’ve spoke, and got it off your mind,” retorted Anne, “ you’d best go back to your pots and pans, and let Miss Christabel have her tea in peace. Here it is, miss, with a pot of real cream as Widow Norris left with humble duty.”

The tea-cup and saucer were of exquisitely painted pale-blue Sevres — the little solitaire service was of chased silver — and as Christabel poured out her tea, she wondered vaguely if she could not induce her father to sell the antique silver and priceless china, and liquidate some of their more pressing debts.

But Sir Rupert Fane, neglectful and unpretentious enough in some things, was morbidly sensitive and fastidious in others, and these heir-looms of the mother who had been his idol, were far too precious to be bartered for gold or silver, and of this poor Christabel was but too well aware.

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While she draiiJc her tea, and tried to eat a little of the thin bread and butter which accompanied it, Anne Hartsuff knelt down before the fire to mend it, and, with the inoffensive familiarity of a privileged servant, began to talk.

“ The gentry from White Oaks was here this afternoon, while we were out, miss/^ said she, vigorously poking at the bars of the grate.

“ From White Oaks?^^ repeated Christabel.

“Yes, miss; so Diggory says — in a barouche all lined with cherry-colored velvet, and horses just covered with gold-plated harness — two ladies and a little boy.^'

“ But why should the White Oaks people come here?^’ questioned Christabel, with a puzzled countenance. “ We have not called upon them!’^

“ No, miss. Anne rose up now and shook two or three specks of ashes from her apron into the fire. “ But they came to ask permission to see the old pictures in the north gallery, as theyM heard tell of. But Diggory made up some story about master having the key up in London with him.^^

“ That was very wrong, said Christabel, coloring. “ We do not know these rich people who have taken White Oaks, but 1 am very sure that papa would not grudge a sight of our pictures to any neighbor who asked the privilege.^^

“ Certain sure, miss,^’ said Anne, with a little dip of obeisance. “ But there^s something wrong with the roof of the north gallery, and the rain has found its way in, and the ceiling fell yesterday, all a mess of lime and plaster, miss, on the floor. And Diggory says he wasn^t going to have the gentry suppose the walls of Fane Court wasn^t all right, so he put ^em off! 1 didn’t know the man had so much common sense.”

Christabel was silent. Here it was again, the galling yoke of Poverty!

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“ They must be very rich, miss, from all that folks say,^^ resumed Anne, after a few minutes of respectful silence. “ Their dresses and jewels is wonderful, Mrs. Stokes says; and they flings their money about as if it was so much water. And White Oaks is furnished up like it was the queen^s castle, and improvements going on the whole time. And all the money was made in the carpet business I Think of that, missl^^

“ You may remove the tray, Anne,^^ said Miss Fane, spiritlessly.

“ Dear, dear, miss — and you haven’t eaten a mouthful!” said Anne, dolorously surveying the plate of thin bread and butter.

“ I have had enough,” said Christabel.

Anne went out, and once more Christabel Fane found herself alone with her own thoughts — thoughts which, in spite of herself, would turn toward the wealthy parvenus who had recently purchased White Oaks, the estate of a nobleman who had recently beggared himself on the turf, and were astonishing the neighborhood with the lavish display of their opulence.

They must be vulgar and low born, and common in their tastes,” said Christabel Fane to herself; “ and yet — and yet 1 envy them! Oh, why could we not have been rich also?”

At the moment in which Miss Fane sat musing sorrowfully before the fire. Mother Benoit and her half-torpid companion, Pauline, were crouching in a second-class carriage on the London-bound train.

“ I declare, Pauline,” said the old crone, refreshing herself with a drink out of the pocket bottle, after it had been motioned impatiently away by the other, ‘‘ I don’t know what’s come over you of late! Just when we’re on the road to luck, too! You won’t have a drop? Let it alone, then; but there’s nothing like it for warming the blood and starting the spirits! Miss Fane, of Fane Court, eh?

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And she’s like her father, too. He was always a wellfavored man if he’d only behaved as well as he looked! Lives at a West End hotel like a lord, too! Well, he always was a liberal one with his money. Let — me — see,” fumbling in her pocket, while her toothless jaws worked and twisted as if some one had placed them in an invisible vise, ‘ • where is the card what the bonny young lady gave me? Where is it, I say?”

She jumped to her feet, and searched yet a second and a third time before she could convince herself that the bit of pasteboard was not there; and then she uttered a sound, half groan, half bark, that aroused even Pauline from her stupor.

“ AVhat is it?” asked Pauline, looking vaguely around.

“I’ve lost it!” said Mother Benoit, groveling on the floor like some extinct species of reptile, “ I’ve lost the address; and arter the time I took to scrape together money for the journey and all! I knowed good luck wa’n't on my track this time, but I never s ’posed Fate would serve me such a trick as this. ”

And she dropped back into her seat, a mere despairing bag of shaking bones and tattered clothes.

It was but too true. Mother Benoit had pulled out the address card at the station, with the ragged handkerchief, in one end of which was tied her slender stock of shillings and halfpence, and it had fallen unnoticed under her feet; and not until the train had gone did the station agent, issuing out of his glazed pen, and swinging a lighted lantern in his hand, perceive a slip of white paper lying on the floor.

“ Halloo!” said he, picking it up and scrutinizing both sides of it with a keen eye. “ Sir Rupert Fane, Hotel Escolada, No. — Mortland Square. Some one has dropped this; and yet, there wasn’t none but second-class tickets sold to-night. Perhaps it’s some of the old gent’s creditors going arter him to collect their bill.”

And chuckling at his own witticism, the man dropped the card again and passed on.

Chapter III. Florine Dufour

Of all the fashionable restaurants which had boldly established themselves along the frontiers of the West End of London, rival bidders for the favor of the fair ladies whose carriages rolled parkward, or turned into the wide thoroughfares devoted to the shopping world, that of M. Emile Lesdernier was at present on the top wave of popular favor. It was gotten up regardless of expense a la Parisian, with immense sheets of plate glass on either side of the gilded door, a floor of green and white tessellated marble, and a profusion of tropical shrubs, lemon-trees, oleanders, and pomegranates loaded with scarlet bells, disposed around, in the midst of which, as in a fairy bower, were set little marble tables, and through which circulated French waiters in paper caps and white aprons, with rosebuds in their button -holes. It was a bold idea on the part of M. Emile Lesdernier, and an expensive one, but his success had fully justified all his aspirations.

“ W^'hat la pi(bliqiie wants,^^ said M. Lesdernier, reflectively, “ is novelty — la noiiveaute. I have but to supply it to them, and I am a rich man.^^

So he filled his gilded and tessellated salon with flowers, marked his prices well up, and erected a turquois-blue sign with the legend “ Jardin de Grosvenor,^^ in letters of frosted silver, and entered upon a career of good fortune, which filled the souls of his compeers with consternation and envy.

At two o’clock on this particular November day — a November day of sunshine and balmy air — the Jardin de Grosvenor was filled with richly attired customers, but toward three or four the crowd thinned somewhat, and

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later still, there was scarcely a seat occupied when Mrs. Adam Carruthers and her daughter, Gwyneth Vivian, sailed in, the former resplendent in black velvet, with diamonds twinkling like stars all over her, and a violet plumed Paris hat fastened scientifically on the back of her head; the latter dressed in navy blue silk, trimmed with silver fox fur, which could hardly have been more expensive if it had been cut out of Bank of England notes, and wearing a Gainsborough hat of dark-blue velvet, with a bird's wing at the back.

Mrs. Carruthers was short and plump, with rosy cheeks, light-blue eyes, and fiaxen tresses, like a French doll that had grown stout. Miss Vivian, her daughter by a former marriage, was tall and dark, with a high color, dark-gray eyes and very red lips. And, as they seated themselves, M. Lesdernier himself came to receive their orders.

“ A lobster salad, please, and a cup of tea," said Mrs. Carruthers. “ What will you have, Gwynnie dear?"

“ I don't know," said Gwyneth Vivian, languidly scrutinizing the bill of fare, printed on superfine pearl paper, and bound in glistening crimson velvet. “ A pate de foie gras, I think, and a Neapolitan ice!"