: Stories By English Authors: England

Ernest looked up from the letter. "What can this possibly mean?"

he wondered.

But he was too sensible a man to be content with wondering; he

decided on keeping his engagement.

What Dr. Johnson called "the insolence of wealth" appears far more

frequently in the houses of the rich than in the manners of the

rich. The reason is plain enough. Personal ostentation is, in the

very nat
re of it, ridiculous; but the ostentation which exhibits

magnificent pictures, priceless china, and splendid furniture,

can purchase good taste to guide it, and can assert itself without

affording the smallest opening for a word of depreciation or a look

of contempt. If I am worth a million of money, and if I am dying

to show it, I don't ask you to look at me, I ask you to look at my


Keeping his engagement with Mrs. Callender, Ernest discovered that

riches might be lavishly and yet modestly used.

In crossing the hall and ascending the stairs, look where he might,

his notice was insensibly won by proofs of the taste which is not

to be purchased, and the wealth which uses, but never exhibits,

its purse. Conducted by a man-servant to the landing on the first

floor, he found a maid at the door of the boudoir waiting to

announce him. Mrs. Callender advanced to welcome her guest, in a

simple evening dress, perfectly suited to her age. All that had

looked worn and faded in her fine face by daylight was now softly

obscured by shaded lamps. Objects of beauty surrounded her, which

glowed with subdued radiance from their background of sober colour.

The influence of appearances is the strongest of all outward

influences, while it lasts. For the moment the scene produced its

impression on Ernest, in spite of the terrible anxieties which

consumed him. Mrs. Callender in his office was a woman who had

stepped out of her appropriate sphere. Mrs. Callender in her own

house was a woman who had risen to a new place in his estimation.

"I am afraid you don't thank me for forcing you to keep your

engagement," she said, with her friendly tones and her pleasant


"Indeed I do thank you," he replied. "Your beautiful house and your

gracious welcome have persuaded me into forgetting my troubles--for

a while."

The smile passed away from her face. "Then it is true," she said,


"Only too true."

She led him to a seat beside her, and waited to speak again until

her maid had brought in the tea.

"Have you read my letter in the same friendly spirit in which I

wrote it? "she asked, when they were alone again.

"I have read your letter gratefully, but--"

"But you don't know yet what I have to say. Let us understand each

other before we make any objections on either side. Will you tell

me what your present position is--at its worst? I can, and will,

speak plainly when my turn comes, if you will honour me with your

confidence. Not if it distresses you," she added, observing him

attentively. He was ashamed of his hesitation, and he made amends

for it.

"Do you thoroughly understand me?" he asked, when the whole truth

had been laid before her without reserve.

She summed up the result in her own words: "If your overdue ship

returns safely within a month from this time, you can borrow the

money you want without difficulty. If the ship is lost, you have

no alternative, when the end of the month comes, but to accept a

loan from me or to suspend payment. Is that the hard truth?"

"It is."

"And the sum you require is--twenty thousand pounds?"


"I have twenty times as much money as that, Mr. Lismore, at my sole

disposal--on one condition."

"The condition alluded to in your letter?"


"Does the fulfilment of the condition depend in some way on any

decision of mine?"

"It depends entirely on you."

That answer closed his lips.

With a composed manner and a steady hand, she poured herself out a

cup of tea. "I conceal it from you," she said, "but I want confidence

Here" (she pointed to the cup) "is the friend of women, rich or

poor, when they are in trouble. What I have now to say obliges me

to speak in praise of myself. I don't like it; let me get it over

as soon as I can. My husband was very fond of me; he had the most

absolute confidence in my discretion, and in my sense of duty to

him and to myself. His last words before he died were words that

thanked me for making the happiness of his life. As soon as I had in

some degree recovered after the affliction that had fallen on me,

his lawyer and executor produced a copy of his will, and said there

were two clauses in it which my husband had expressed a wish that

I should read. It is needless to say that I obeyed." mit to certain

restrictions, which, remembering my position, you will understand

and excuse.

"We are to live together, it is unnecessary to say, as mother and

son. The marriage ceremony is to be strictly private, and you are

so to arrange our affairs that, immediately afterward, we leave

England for any foreign place which you prefer. Some of my friends,

and (perhaps) some of your friends, will certainly misinterpret our

motives, if we stay in our own country, in a manner which would be

unendurable to a woman like me.

"As to our future lives, I have the most perfect confidence in you,

and I should leave you in the same position of independence which

you occupy now. When you wish for my company you will always be

welcome. At other times you are your own master. I live on my side

of the house, and you live on yours; and I am to be allowed my

hours of solitude every day in the pursuit of musical occupations,

which have been happily associated with all my past life, and which

I trust confidently to your indulgence.

"A last word, to remind you of what you may be too kind to think

of yourself.

"At my age, you cannot, in the course of nature. be troubled by

the society of a grateful old woman for many years. You are young

enough to look forward to another marriage, which shall be something

more than a mere form. Even if you meet with the happy woman in my

lifetime, honestly tell me of it, and I promise to tell her that

she has only to wait.

"In the meantime, don't think, because I write composedly, that I

write heartlessly. You pleased and interested me when I first saw

you at the public meeting. I don't think I could have proposed

what you call this sacrifice of myself to a man who had personally

repelled me, though I have felt my debt of gratitude as sincerely

as ever. Whether your ship is safe or whether your ship is lost,

old Mary Callender likes you, and owns it without false shame.

"Let me have your answer this evening, either personally or by

letter, whichever you like best."

Mrs. Callender received a written answer long before the evening.

It said much in few words:

"A man impenetrable to kindness might be able to resist your letter.

I am not that man. Your great heart has conquered me."

The few formalities which precede marriage by special license were

observed by Ernest. While the destiny of their future lives was

still in suspense, an unacknowledged feeling of embarrassment on

either side kept Ernest and Mrs. Callender apart. Every day brought

the lady her report of the state of affairs in the City, written

always in the same words: "No news of the ship."

On the day before the ship-owner's liabilities became due the terms

of the report from the City remained unchanged, and the special

license was put to its contemplated use. Mrs. Callender's lawyer

and Mrs. Callender's maid were the only persons trusted with the

secret. Leaving the chief clerk in charge of the business, with every

pecuniary demand on his employer satisfied in full, the strangely

married pair quitted England.

They arranged to wait for a few days in Paris, to receive any

letters of importance which might have been addressed to Ernest

in the interval. On the evening of their arrival a telegram from

London was waiting at their hotel. It announced that the missing

ship had passed up channel--undiscovered in a fog until she reached

the Downs --on the day before Ernest's liabilities fell due.

"Do you regret it?" Mrs. Lismore said to her husband.

"Not for a moment!" he answered.

They decided on pursuing their journey as far as Munich.

Mrs. Lismore's taste for music was matched by Ernest's taste for

painting. In his leisure hours he cultivated the art, and delighted

in it. The picture-galleries of Munich were almost the only galleries

in Europe which he had not seen. True to the engagements to which

she had pledged herself, his wife was willing to go wherever it

might please him to take her. The one suggestion she made was that

they should hire furnished apartments. If they lived at a hotel

friends of the husband or the wife (visitors like themselves to the

famous city) might see their names in the book or might meet them

at the door.

They were soon established in a house large enough to provide them

with every accommodation which they required. Ernest's days were

passed in the galleries, Mrs. Lismore remaining at home, devoted

to her music, until it was time to go out with her husband for

a drive. Living together in perfect amity and concord, they were

nevertheless not living happily. Without any visible reason for

the change, Mrs. Lismore's spirits were depressed. On the one

occasion when Ernest noticed it she made an effort to be cheerful,

which it distressed him to see. He allowed her to think that she

had relieved him of any further anxiety. Whatever doubts he might

feel were doubts delicately concealed from that time forth.

But when two people are living together in a state of artificial

tranquillity, it seems to be a law of nature that the element of

disturbance gathers unseen, and that the outburst comes inevitably

with the lapse of time.

In ten days from the date of their arrival at Munich the crisis

came. Ernest returned later than usual from the picture-gallery,

and, for the first time in his wife's experience, shut himself up

in his own room.

He appeared at the dinner hour with a futile excuse. Mrs. Lismore

waited until the servant had withdrawn.

"Now, Ernest," she said, "it's time to tell me the truth."

Her manner, when she said those few words, took him by surprise.

She was unquestionably confused, and, instead of looking at him,

she trifled with the fruit on her plate. Embarrassed on his side,

he could only answer:

"I have nothing to tell."

"Were there many visitors at the gallery?" she asked.

"About the same as usual."

"Any that you particularly noticed?" she went on. "I mean among

the ladies."

He laughed uneasily.

"You forget how interested I am in the pictures," he said.

There was a pause. She looked up at him, and suddenly looked away

again; but--he saw it plainly--there were tears in her eyes.

"Do you mind turning down the gas?" she said. "My eyes have been

weak all day."

He complied with her request the more readily, having his own

reasons for being glad to escape the glaring scrutiny of the light.

"I think I will rest a little on the sofa," she resumed. In the

position which he occupied his back would have been now turned

on her. She stopped him when he tried to move his chair. "I would

rather not look at you, Ernest," she said, "when you have lost

confidence in me."

Not the words, but the tone, touched all that was generous and noble

in his nature. He left his place and knelt beside her, and opened

to her his whole heart.

"Am I not unworthy of you?" he asked, when it was over.

She pressed his hand in silence.

"I should be the most ungrateful wretch living," he said, "if I did

not think of you, and you only, now that my confession is made.

We will leave Munich to-morrow, and, if resolution can help me,

I will only remember the sweetest woman my eyes ever looked on as

the creature of a dream."

She hid her face on his breast, and reminded him of that letter of

her writing which had decided the course of their lives.

"When I thought you might meet the happy woman in my lifetime

I said to you, 'Tell me of it, and I promise to tell her that she

has only to wait.' Time must pass, Ernest, before it can be needful

to perform my promise, but you might let me see her. If you find

her in the gallery to-morrow you might bring her here."

Mrs. Lismore's request met with no refusal. Ernest was only at a

loss to know how to grant it.

"You tell me she is a copyist of pictures," his wife reminded him.

"She will be interested in hearing of the portfolio of drawings

by the great French artists which I bought for you in Paris. Ask

her to come and see them, and to tell you if she can make some copies;

and say, if you like, that I shall be glad to become acquainted

with her."

He felt her breath beating fast on his bosom. In the fear that

she might lose all control over herself, he tried to relieve her

by speaking lightly.

"What an invention yours is!" he said. "If my wife ever tries to

deceive me, I shall be a mere child in her hands."

She rose abruptly from the sofa, kissed him on the forehead, and

said wildly, "I shall be better in bed!" Before he could move or

speak she had left him.

The next morning he knocked at the door of his wife's room, and

asked how she had passed the night.

"I have slept badly," she answered, "and I must beg you to excuse

my absence at breakfast-time." She called him back as he was about

to withdraw. "Remember," she said, "when you return from the

gallery to-day I expect that you will not return alone."

Three hours later he was at home again. The young lady's services

as a copyist were at his disposal; she had returned with him to

look at the drawings.

The sitting-room was empty when they entered it. He rang for

his wife's maid, and was informed that Mrs. Lismore had gone out.

Refusing to believe the woman, he went to his wife's apartments.

She was not to be found.

When he returned to the sitting-room the young lady was not unnaturally

offended. He could make allowances for her being a little out of

temper at the slight that had been put on her; but he was inexpressibly

disconcerted by the manner--almost the coarse manner--in which she

expressed herself.

"I have been talking to your wife's maid while you have been away,"

she said. "I find you have married an old lady for her money. She

is jealous of me, of course?"

"Let me beg you to alter your opinion," he answered. "You are wronging

my wife; she is incapable of any such feeling as you attribute to


The young lady laughed. "At any rate, you are a good husband," she

said, satirically. "Suppose you own the truth: wouldn't you like

her better if she was young and pretty like me ?"

He was not merely surprised, he was disgusted. Her beauty had

so completely fascinated him when he first saw her that the idea

of associating any want of refinement and good breeding with such

a charming creature never entered his mind. The disenchantment to

him was already so complete that he was even disagreeably affected

by the tone of her voice; it was almost as repellent to him as thie

exhibition of unrestrained bad temper which she seemed perfectly

careless to conceal.

"I confess you surprise me," he said, coldly.

The reply produced no effect on her. On the contrary, she became

more insolent than ever.

"I have a fertile fancy," she went on, "and your absurd way of

taking a joke only encourages me! Suppose you could transform this

sour old wife of yours, who has insulted me, into the sweetest young

creature that ever lived by only holding up your finger, wouldn't

you do it?"

This passed the limits of his endurance. "I have no wish," he said,

"to forget the consideration which is due to a woman. You leave

me but one alternative." He rose to go out of the room.

She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed herself in the way of

his going out.

He signed to her to let him pass.

She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately,

and whispered, with her lips at his ear, "O Ernest, forgive me!

Could I have asked you to marry me for my money if I had not taken

refuge in a disguise?"

When he had sufficiently recovered to think he put her back from

him. "Is there an end of the deception now?" he asked, sternly.

"Am I to trust you in your new character?"

"You are not to be harder on me than I deserve," she answered,

gently. "Did you ever hear of an actress named Miss Max?"

He began to understand her. "Forgive me if I spoke harshly," he

said. "You have put me to a severe trial."

She burst into tears. "Love," she murmured. "is my only excuse."

From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand and made

her sit by him.

"Yes," he said, "I have heard of Miss Max, and of her wonderful

powers of personation; and I have always regretted not having seen

her while she was on the stage."

"Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest?"

"Yes; I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct,

and that she gave up her profession at the height of her success

to marry an old man."

"Will you come with me to my room?" she asked. "I have something

there which I wish to show you."

It was the copy of her husband's will.

"Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let

my dead husband speak for me."

The lines ran thus:

"My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, in

justice to her, and, I will venture to add, in justice to myself.

I felt the sincerest sympathy for her position. She was without

father, mother, or friends, one of the poor forsaken children

whom the mercy of the foundling hospital provides with a home. Her

after life on the stage was the life of a virtuous woman, persecuted

by profligates, insulted by some of the baser creatures associated

with her, to whom she was an object of envy. I offered her a home

and the protection of a father, on the only terms which the world

would recognise as worthy of us. My experience of her since our

marriage has been the experience of unvarying goodness, sweetness,

and sound sense. She has behaved so nobly in a trying position

that I wish her (even in this life) to have her reward. I entreat

her to make a second choice in marriage, which shall not be a mere

form. I firmly believe that she will choose well and wisely, that

she will make the happiness of a man who is worthy of her, and

that, as wife and mother, she will set an example of inestimable

value in the social sphere that she occupies. In proof of the

heartfelt sincerity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues, I

add to this, my will, the clause that follows."

With the clause that followed Ernest was already acquainted.

"Will you now believe that I never loved till I saw your face for

the first time?" said his wife. "I had no experience to place me

on my guard against the fascination--the madness, some people might

call it--which possesses a woman when all her heart is given to

a man. Don't despise me, my dear! Remember that I had to save you

from disgrace and ruin. Besides, my old stage remembrances tempted

me. I had acted in a play in which the heroine did--what I have done.

It didn't end with me as it did with her in the story. _She_

was represented as rejoicing in the success of her disguise. I have

known some miserable hours of doubt and shame since our marriage.

When I went to meet you in my own person at the picture-gallery,

oh, what relief, what joy I felt when I saw how you admired me! It

was not because I could no longer carry on the disguise; I was able

to get hours of rest from the effort, not only at night, but in

the daytime, when I was shut up in my retirement in the music-room,

and when my maid kept watch against discovery. No, my love! I hurried

on the disclosure because I could no longer endure the hateful

triumph of my own deception. Ah, look at that witness against me!

I can't bear even to see it."

She abruptly left him. The drawer that she had opened to take out

the copy of the will also contained the false gray hair which she

had discarded. It had only that moment attracted her notice. She

snatched it up and turned to the fireplace.

Ernest took it from her before she could destroy it. "Give it to

me," he said.


He drew her gently to his bosom, and answered, "I must not forget

my old wife."