After Dark

by Wilkie Collins

  THE ANGLER'S STORY of THE LADY OF GLENWITH GRANGE.

  I have known Miss Welwyn long enough to be able to bear personaltestimony to the truth of many of the particulars which I am now aboutto relate. I knew her father, and her younger sister Rosamond; and I wasacquainted with the Frenchman who became Rosamond's husband. These arethe persons of whom it will be principally necessary for me to speak.They are the only prominent characters in my story.

  Miss Welwyn's father died some years since. I remember him verywell--though he never excited in me, or in any one else that I everheard of, the slightest feeling of interest. When I have said that heinherited a very large fortune, amassed during his father's time, byspeculations of a very daring, very fortunate, but not always veryhonorable kind, and that he bought this old house with the notion ofraising his social position, by making himself a member of our landedaristocracy in these parts, I have told you as much about him, Isuspect, as you would care to hear. He was a thoroughly commonplace man,with no great virtues and no great vices in him. He had a little heart,a feeble mind, an amiable temper, a tall figure, and a handsome face.More than this need not, and cannot, be said on the subject of Mr.Welwyn's character.

  I must have seen the late Mrs. Welwyn very often as a child; but Icannot say that I remember anything more of her than that she was talland handsome, and very generous and sweet-tempered toward me when Iwas in her company. She was her husband's superior in birth, as ineverything else; was a great reader of books in all languages; andpossessed such admirable talents as a musician, that her wonderfulplaying on the organ is remembered and talked of to this day among theold people in our country houses about here. All her friends, as I haveheard, were disappointed when she married Mr. Welwyn, rich as he was;and were afterward astonished to find her preserving the appearance, atleast, of being perfectly happy with a husband who, neither in mind norheart, was worthy of her.

  It was generally supposed (and I have no doubt correctly) that shefound her great happiness and her great consolation in her little girlIda--now the lady from whom we have just parted. The child took afterher mother from the first--inheriting her mother's fondness for books,her mother's love of music, her mother's quick sensibilities, and, morethan all, her mother's quiet firmness, patience, and loving kindness ofdisposition. From Ida's earliest years, Mrs. Welwyn undertook the wholesuperintendence of her education. The two were hardly ever apart, withindoors or without. Neighbors and friends said that the little girlwas being brought up too fancifully, and was not enough among otherchildren, was sadly neglected as to all reasonable and practicalteaching, and was perilously encouraged in those dreamy and imaginativetendencies of which she had naturally more than her due share. Therewas, perhaps, some truth in this; and there might have been still more,if Ida had possessed an ordinary character, or had been reserved foran ordinary destiny. But she was a strange child from the first, and astrange future was in store for her.

  Little Ida reached her eleventh year without either brother or sister tobe her playfellow and companion at home. Immediately after that period,however, her sister Rosamond was born. Though Mr. Welwyn's own desirewas to have had a son, there were, nevertheless, great rejoicings yonderin the old house on the birth of this second daughter. But they were allturned, only a few months afterward, to the bitterest grief and despair:the Grange lost its mistress. While Rosamond was still an infant inarms, her mother died.

  Mrs. Welwyn had been afflicted with some disorder after the birth ofher second child, the name of which I am not learned enough in medicalscience to be able to remember. I only know that she recovered from it,to all appearance, in an unexpectedly short time; that she suffered afatal relapse, and that she died a lingering and a painful death. Mr.Welwyn (who, in after years, had a habit of vaingloriously describinghis marriage as "a love-match on both sides") was really fond of hiswife in his own frivolous, feeble way, and suffered as acutely as sucha man could suffer, during the latter days of her illness, and at theterrible time when the doctors, one and all, confessed that her lifewas a thing to be despaired of. He burst into irrepressible passionsof tears, and was always obliged to leave the sick-room whenever Mrs.Welwyn spoke of her approaching end. The last solemn words of the dyingwoman, the tenderest messages that she could give, the dearest partingwishes that she could express, the most earnest commands that she couldleave behind her, the gentlest reasons for consolation that she couldsuggest to the survivors among those who loved her, were not poured intoher husband's ear, but into her child's. From the first period ofher illness, Ida had persisted in remaining in the sick-room, rarelyspeaking, never showing outwardly any signs of terror or grief, exceptwhen she was removed from it; and then bursting into hysterical passionsof weeping, which no expostulations, no arguments, no commands--nothing,in short, but bringing her back to the bedside--ever availed to calm.Her mother had been her playfellow, her companion her dearest and mostfamiliar friend; and there seemed something in the remembrance of thiswhich, instead of overwhelming the child with despair, strengthened herto watch faithfully and bravely by her dying parent to the very last.

  When the parting moment was over, and when Mr. Welwyn, unable to bearthe shock of being present in the house of death at the time of hiswife's funeral, left home and went to stay with one of his relations ina distant part of England, Ida, whom it had been his wish to take awaywith him, petitioned earnestly to be left behind. "I promised mammabefore she died that I would be as good to my little sister Rosamond asshe had been to me," said the child, simply; "and she told me in returnthat I might wait here and see her laid in her grave." There happenedto be an aunt of Mrs. Welwyn, and an old servant of the family, in thehouse at this time, who understood Ida much better than her father did,and they persuaded him not to take her away. I have heard my mother saythat the effect of the child's appearance at the funeral on her, andon all who went to see it, was something that she could never think ofwithout the tears coming into her eyes, and could never forget to thelast day of her life.

  It must have been very shortly after this period that I saw Ida for thefirst time.

  I remember accompanying my mother on a visit to the old house we havejust left, in the summer, when I was at home for the holidays. It wasa lovely, sunshiny morning. There was nobody indoors, and we walked outinto the garden. As we approached that lawn yonder, on the other sideof the shrubbery, I saw, first, a young woman in mourning (apparentlya servant) sitting reading; then a little girl, dressed all in black,moving toward us slowly over the bright turf, and holding up before hera baby, whom she was trying to teach to walk. She looked, to my ideas,so very young to be engaged in such an occupation as this, and hergloomy black frock appeared to be such an unnaturally grave garment fora mere child of her age, and looked so doubly dismal by contrast withthe brilliant sunny lawn on which she stood, that I quite started whenI first saw her, and eagerly asked my mother who she was. The answerinformed me of the sad family story, which I have been just relating toyou. Mrs. Welwyn had then been buried about three months; and Ida,in her childish way, was trying, as she had promised, to supply hermother's place to her infant sister Rosamond.

  I only mention this simple incident, because it is necessary, beforeI proceed to the eventful part of my narrative, that you should knowexactly in what relation the sisters stood toward one another from thefirst. Of all the last parting words that Mrs. Welwyn had spoken to herchild, none had been oftener repeated, none more solemnly urged, thanthose which had commended the little Rosamond to Ida's love and care.To other persons, the full, the all-trusting dependence which the dyingmother was known to have placed in a child hardly eleven years old,seemed merely a proof of that helpless desire to cling even to thefeeblest consolations, which the approach of death so often brings withit. But the event showed that the trust so strangely placed had not beenventured vainly when it was committed to young and tender hands. Thewhole future existence of the child was one noble proof that she hadbeen worthy of her mother's dying confidence, when it was first re
posedin her. In that simple incident which I have just mentioned the new lifeof the two motherless sisters was all foreshadowed.

  Time passed. I left school--went to college--traveled in Germany, andstayed there some time to learn the language. At every interval when Icame home, and asked about the Welwyns, the answer was, in substance,almost always the same. Mr. Welwyn was giving his regular dinners,performing his regular duties as a county magistrate, enjoying hisregular recreations as an a amateur farmer and an eager sportsman. Histwo daughters were never separate. Ida was the same strange, quiet,retiring girl, that she had always been; and was still (as the phrasewent) "spoiling" Rosamond in every way in which it was possible for anelder sister to spoil a younger by too much kindness.

  I myself went to the Grange occasionally, when I was in thisneighborhood, in holiday and vacation time; and was able to test thecorrectness of the picture of life there which had been drawn for me. Iremember the two sisters, when Rosamond was four or five years old; andwhen Ida seemed to me, even then, to be more like the child's motherthan her sister. She bore with her little caprices as sisters do notbear with one another. She was so patient at lesson-time, so anxious toconceal any weariness that might overcome her in play hours, so proudwhen Rosamond's beauty was noticed, so grateful for Rosamond's kisseswhen the child thought of bestowing them, so quick to notice allthat Rosamond did, and to attend to all that Rosamond said, even whenvisitors were in the room, that she seemed, to my boyish observation,altogether different from other elder sisters in other family circlesinto which I was then received.

  I remember then, again, when Rosamond was just growing to womanhood, andwas in high spirits at the prospect of spending a season in London,and being presented at court. She was very beautiful at that time--muchhandsomer than Ida. Her "accomplishments" were talked of far and near inour country circles. Few, if any, of the people, however, who applaudedher playing and singing, who admired her water-color drawings, who weredelighted at her fluency when she spoke French, and amazed at her readycomprehension when she read German, knew how little of all this elegantmental cultivation and nimble manual dexterity she owed to her governessand masters, and how much to her elder sister. It was Ida who reallyfound out the means of stimulating her when she was idle; Ida who helpedher through all her worst difficulties; Ida who gently conquered herdefects of memory over her books, her inaccuracies of ear at the piano,her errors of taste when she took the brush and pencil in hand. It wasIda alone who worked these marvels, and whose all-sufficient reward forher hardest exertions was a chance word of kindness from her sister'slips. Rosamond was not unaffectionate, and not ungrateful; but sheinherited much of her father's commonness and frivolity of character.She became so accustomed to owe everything to her sister--to resign allher most trifling difficulties to Ida's ever-ready care--to have allher tastes consulted by Ida's ever-watchful kindness--that she neverappreciated, as it deserved, the deep, devoted love of which she was theobject. When Ida refused two good offers of marriage, Rosamond was asmuch astonished as the veriest strangers, who wondered why the elderMiss Welwyn seemed bent on remaining single all her life.

  When the journey to London, to which I have already alluded, took place,Ida accompanied her father and sister. If she had consulted her owntastes, she would have remained in the country; but Rosamond declaredthat she should feel quite lost and helpless twenty times a day, intown, without her sister. It was in the nature of Ida to sacrificeherself to any one whom she loved, on the smallest occasions as wellas the greatest. Her affection was as intuitively ready to sanctifyRosamond's slightest caprices as to excuse Rosamond's most thoughtlessfaults. So she went to London cheerfully, to witness with pride all thelittle triumphs won by her sister's beauty; to hear, and never tire ofhearing, all that admiring friends could say in her sister's praise.

  At the end of the season Mr. Welwyn and his daughters returned for ashort time to the country; then left home again to spend the latter partof the autumn and the beginning of the winter in Paris.

  They took with them excellent letters of introduction, and saw a greatdeal of the best society in Paris, foreign as well as English. At one ofthe first of the evening parties which they attended, the general topicof conversation was the conduct of a certain French nobleman, the BaronFranval, who had returned to his native country after a long absence,and who was spoken of in terms of high eulogy by the majority of theguests present. The history of who Franval was, and of what he haddone, was readily communicated to Mr. Welwyn and his daughters, and wasbriefly this:

  The baron inherited little from his ancestors besides his high rankand his ancient pedigree. On the death of his parents, he and histwo unmarried sisters (their only surviving children) found the smallterritorial property of the Franvals, in Normandy, barely productiveenough to afford a comfortable subsistence for the three. The baron,then a young man of three-and-twenty endeavored to obtain such militaryor civil employment as might become his rank; but, although the Bourbonswere at that time restored to the throne of France, his efforts wereineffectual. Either his interest at court was bad, or secret enemieswere at work to oppose his advancement. He failed to obtain even theslightest favor; and, irritated by undeserved neglect, resolved to leaveFrance, and seek occupation for his energies in foreign countries, wherehis rank would be no bar to his bettering his fortunes, if he pleased,by engaging in commercial pursuits.

  An opportunity of the kind that he wanted unexpectedly offered itself.He left his sisters in care of an old male relative of the family atthe chateau in Normandy, and sailed, in the first instance, to the WestIndies; afterward extending his wanderings to the continent of SouthAmerica, and there engaging in mining transactions on a very largescale. After fifteen years of absence (during the latter part of whichtime false reports of his death had reached Normandy), he had justreturned to France, having realized a handsome independence, with whichhe proposed to widen the limits of his ancestral property, and to givehis sisters (who were still, like himself, unmarried) all the luxuriesand advantages that affluence could bestow. The baron's independentspirit and generous devotion to the honor of his family and thehappiness of his surviving relatives were themes of general admirationin most of the social circles of Paris. He was expected to arrive inthe capital every day; and it was naturally enough predicted that hisreception in society there could not fail to be of the most flatteringand most brilliant kind.

  The Welwyns listened to this story with some little interest; Rosamond,who was very romantic, being especially attracted by it, and openlyavowing to her father and sister, when they got back to their hotel,that she felt as ardent a curiosity as anybody to see the adventurousand generous baron. The desire was soon gratified. Franval came toParis, as had been anticipated--was introduced to the Welwyns--met themconstantly in society--made no favorable impression on Ida, but won thegood opinion of Rosamond from the first; and was regarded with suchhigh approval by their father, that when he mentioned his intentions ofvisiting England in the spring of the new year, he was cordially invitedto spend the hunting season at Glenwith Grange.

  I came back from Germany about the same time that the Welwyns returnedfrom Paris, and at once set myself to improve my neighborly intimacywith the family. I was very fond of Ida; more fond, perhaps, than myvanity will now allow me to--; but that is of no consequence. It is muchmore to the purpose to tell you that I heard the whole of the baron'sstory enthusiastically related by Mr. Welwyn and Rosamond; that he cameto the Grange at the appointed time; that I was introduced to him; andthat he produced as unfavorable an impression upon me as he had alreadyproduced upon Ida.

  It was whimsical enough; but I really could not tell why I disliked him,though I could account very easily, according to my own notions, forhis winning the favor and approval of Rosamond and her father. He wascertainly a handsome man as far as features went; he had a winninggentleness and graceful respect in his manner when he spoke to women;and he sang remarkably well, with one of the sweetest tenor voices Iever heard. These qualities
alone were quite sufficient to attract anygirl of Rosamond's disposition; and I certainly never wondered why hewas a favorite of hers.

  Then, as to her father, the baron was not only fitted to win hissympathy and regard in the field, by proving himself an ardent sportsmanand an excellent rider; but was also, in virtue of some of his minorpersonal peculiarities, just the man to gain the friendship of his host.Mr. Welwyn was as ridiculously prejudiced as most weak-headed Englishmenare, on the subject of foreigners in general. In spite of his visit toParis, the vulgar notion of a Frenchman continued to be _his_ notion,both while he was in France and when he returned from it. Now, the baronwas as unlike the traditional "Mounseer" of English songs, plays, andsatires, as a man could well be; and it was on account of this verydissimilarity that Mr. Welwyn first took a violent fancy to him, andthen invited him to his house. Franval spoke English remarkably well;wore neither beard, mustache, nor whiskers; kept his hair cut almostunbecomingly short; dressed in the extreme of plainness and modest goodtaste; talked little in general society; uttered his words, when he didspeak, with singular calmness and deliberation; and, to crown all,had the greater part of his acquired property invested in Englishsecurities. In Mr. Welwyn's estimation, such a man as this was a perfectmiracle of a Frenchman, and he admired and encouraged him accordingly.

  I have said that I disliked him, yet could not assign a reason for mydislike; and I can only repeat it now. He was remarkably polite to me;we often rode together in hunting, and sat near each other at the Grangetable; but I could never become familiar with him. He always gave methe idea of a man who had some mental reservation in saying the mosttrifling thing. There was a constant restraint, hardly perceptible tomost people, but plainly visible, nevertheless, to me, which seemedto accompany his lightest words, and to hang about his most familiarmanner. This, however, was no just reason for my secretly disliking anddistrusting him as I did. Ida said as much to me, I remember, whenI confessed to her what my feelings toward him were, and tried (butvainly) to induce her to be equally candid with me in return. She seemedto shrink from the tacit condemnation of Rosamond's opinion which sucha confidence on her part would have implied. And yet she watched thegrowth of that opinion--or, in other words, the growth of her sister'sliking for the baron--with an apprehension and sorrow which she triedfruitlessly to conceal. Even her father began to notice that her spiritswere not so good as usual, and to suspect the cause of her melancholy.I remember he jested, with all the dense insensibility of a stupid man,about Ida having invariably been jealous, from a child, if Rosamondlooked kindly upon anybody except her elder sister.

  The spring began to get far advanced toward summer. Franval paid a visitto London; came back in the middle of the season to Glenwith Grange;wrote to put off his departure for France; and at last (not at all tothe surprise of anybody who was intimate with the Welwyns) proposed toRosamond, and was accepted. He was candor and generosity itself when thepreliminaries of the marriage-settlement were under discussion. He quiteoverpowered Mr. Welwyn and the lawyers with references, papers, andstatements of the distribution and extent of his property, which werefound to be perfectly correct. His sisters were written to, and returnedthe most cordial answers; saying that the state of their health wouldnot allow them to come to England for the marriage; but adding a warminvitation to Normandy for the bride and her family. Nothing, inshort, could be more straightforward and satisfactory than the baron'sbehavior, and the testimonies to his worth and integrity which the newsof the approaching marriage produced from his relatives and his friends.

  The only joyless face at the Grange now was Ida's. At any time it wouldhave been a hard trial to her to resign that first and foremost placewhich she had held since childhood in her sister's heart, as she knewshe must resign it when Rosamond married. But, secretly disliking anddistrusting Franval as she did, the thought that he was soon to becomethe husband of her beloved sister filled her with a vague sense ofterror which she could not explain to herself; which it was imperativelynecessary that she should conceal; and which, on those very accounts,became a daily and hourly torment to her that was almost more than shecould bear.

  One consolation alone supported her: Rosamond and she were not to beseparated. She knew that the baron secretly disliked her as much as shedisliked him; she knew that she must bid farewell to the brighter andhappier part of her life on the day when she went to live under the sameroof with her sister's husband; but, true to the promise made years andyears ago by her dying mother's bed--true to the affection which was theruling and beautiful feeling of her whole existence--she neverhesitated about indulging Rosamond's wish, when the girl, in her bright,light-hearted way, said that she could never get on comfortably in themarriage state unless she had Ida to live with her and help her just thesame as ever. The baron was too polite a man even to _look_ dissatisfiedwhen he heard of the proposed arrangement; and it was therefore settledfrom the beginning that Ida was always to live with her sister.

  The marriage took place in the summer, and the bride and bridegroomwent to spend their honeymoon in Cumberland. On their return to GlenwithGrange, a visit to the baron's sisters, in Normandy, was talked of; butthe execution of this project was suddenly and disastrously suspended bythe death of Mr. Welwyn, from an attack of pleurisy.

  In consequence of this calamity, the projected journey was of coursedeferred; and when autumn and the shooting season came, the baron wasunwilling to leave the well-stocked preserves of the Grange. He seemed,indeed, to grow less and less inclined, as time advanced, for the tripto Normandy; and wrote excuse after excuse to his sisters, whenletters arrived from them urging him to pay the promised visit. In thewinter-time, he said he would not allow his wife to risk a long journey.In the spring, his health was pronounced to be delicate. In thegenial summer-time, the accomplishment of the proposed visit would beimpossible, for at that period the baroness expected to become a mother.Such were the apologies which Franval seemed almost glad to be able tosend to his sisters in France.

  The marriage was, in the strictest sense of the term, a happy one. Thebaron, though he never altogether lost the strange restraint and reserveof his manner, was, in his quiet, peculiar way, the fondest and kindestof husbands. He went to town occasionally on business, but always seemedglad to return to the baroness; he never varied in the politeness ofhis bearing toward his wife's sister; he behaved with the most courteoushospitality toward all the friends of the Welwyns; in short, hethoroughly justified the good opinion which Rosamond and her father hadformed of him when they first met at Paris. And yet no experience ofhis character thoroughly re-assured Ida. Months passed on quietlyand pleasantly; and still that secret sadness, that indefinable,unreasonable apprehension on Rosamond's account, hung heavily on hersister's heart.

  At the beginning of the first summer months, a little domesticinconvenience happened, which showed the baroness, for the first time,that her husband's temper could be seriously ruffled--and that by theveriest trifle. He was in the habit of taking in two French provincialnewspapers--one published at Bordeaux and the other at Havre. He alwaysopened these journals the moment they came, looked at one particularcolumn of each with the deepest attention, for a few minutes, thencarelessly threw them aside into his waste-paper basket. His wife andher sister were at first rather surprised at the manner in which he readhis two papers; but they thought no more of it when he explained that heonly took them in to consult them about French commercial intelligence,which might be, occasionally, of importance to him.

  These papers were published weekly. On the occasion to which I have justreferred, the Bordeaux paper came on the proper day, as usual; but theHavre paper never made its appearance. This trifling circumstance seemedto make the baron seriously uneasy. He wrote off directly to the countrypost-office and to the newspaper agent in London. His wife, astonishedto see his tranquillity so completely overthrown by so slight a cause,tried to restore his good humor by jesting with him about the missingnewspaper. He replied by the first angry and unfeeling words t
hat shehad heard issue from his lips. She was then within about six weeksof her confinement, and very unfit to bear harsh answers fromanybody--least of all from her husband.

  On the second day no answer came. On the afternoon of the third, thebaron rode off to the post town to make inquiries. About an hour afterhe had gone, a strange gentleman came to the Grange and asked to seethe baroness. On being informed that she was not well enough to receivevisitors, he sent up a message that his business was of great importanceand that he would wait downstairs for a second answer.

  On receiving this message, Rosamond turned, as usual, to her eldersister for advice. Ida went downstairs immediately to see the stranger.What I am now about to tell you of the extraordinary interview whichtook place between them, and of the shocking events that followed it, Ihave heard from Miss Welwyn's own lips.

  She felt unaccountably nervous when she entered the room. The strangerbowed very politely, and asked, in a foreign accent, if she were theBaroness Franval. She set him right on this point, and told him sheattended to all matters of business for the baroness; adding that, ifhis errand at all concerned her sister's husband, the baron was not thenat home.

  The stranger answered that he was aware of it when he called, and thatthe unpleasant business on which he came could not be confided to thebaron--at least, in the first instance.

  She asked why. He said he was there to explain; and expressed himself asfeeling greatly relieved at having to open his business to her, becauseshe would, doubtless, be best able to prepare her sister for the badnews that he was, unfortunately, obliged to bring. The sudden faintnesswhich overcame her, as he spoke those words, prevented her fromaddressing him in return. He poured out some water for her from a bottlewhich happened to be standing on the table, and asked if he might dependon her fortitude. She tried to say "Yes"; but the violent throbbingof her heart seemed to choke her. He took a foreign newspaper from hispocket, saying that he was a secret agent of the French police--that thepaper was the Havre _Journal_, for the past week, and that it had beenexpressly kept from reaching the baron, as usual, through his (theagent's) interference. He then opened the newspaper, and begged that shewould nerve herself sufficiently (for her sister's sake) to read certainlines, which would give her some hint of the business that brought himthere. He pointed to the passage as he spoke. It was among the "ShippingEntries," and was thus expressed:

  "Arrived, the _Berenice_, from San Francisco, with a valuable cargo ofhides. She brings one passenger, the Baron Franval, of Chateau Franval,in Normandy."

  As Miss Welwyn read the entry, her heart, which had been throbbingviolently but the moment before, seemed suddenly to cease from allaction, and she began to shiver, though it was a warm June evening. Theagent held the tumbler to her lips, and made her drink a little of thewater, entreating her very earnestly to take courage and listen to him.He then sat down, and referred again to the entry, every word he utteredseeming to burn itself in forever (as she expressed it) on her memoryand her heart.

  He said: "It has been ascertained beyond the possibility of doubt thatthere is no mistake about the name in the lines you have just read. Andit is as certain as that we are here, that there is only _one_ BaronFranval now alive. The question, therefore, is, whether the passenger bythe _Berenice_ is the true baron, or--I beg you most earnestly to bearwith me and to compose yourself--or the husband of your sister. Theperson who arrived last week at Havre was scouted as an impostor bythe ladies at the chateau, the moment he presented himself there asthe brother, returning to them after sixteen years of absence. Theauthorities were communicated with, and I and my assistants wereinstantly sent for from Paris.

  "We wasted no time in questioning the supposed impostor. He either was,or affected to be, in a perfect frenzy of grief and indignation. We justascertained, from competent witnesses, that he bore an extraordinaryresemblance to the real baron, and that he was perfectly familiar withplaces and persons in and about the chateau; we just ascertained that,and then proceeded to confer with the local authorities, and to examinetheir private entries of suspected persons in their jurisdiction,ranging back over a past period of twenty years or more. One of theentries thus consulted contained these particulars: 'Hector AugusteMonbrun, son of a respectable proprietor in Normandy. Well educated;gentleman-like manners. On bad terms with his family. Character: bold,cunning, unscrupulous, self-possessed. Is a clever mimic. May be easilyrecognized by his striking likeness to the Baron Franval. Imprisoned attwenty for theft and assault.'"

  Miss Welwyn saw the agent look up at her after he had read this extractfrom the police-book, to ascertain if she was still able to listen tohim. He asked, with some appearance of alarm, as their eyes met, ifshe would like some more water. She was just able to make a sign in thenegative. He took a second extract from his pocket-book, and went on.

  He said: "The next entry under the same name was dated four years later,and ran thus, 'H. A. Monbrun, condemned to the galleys for life, forassassination, and other crimes not officially necessary to behere specified. Escaped from custody at Toulon. Is known, since theexpiration of his first term of imprisonment, to have allowed his beardto grow, and to have worn his hair long, with the intention of renderingit impossible for those acquainted with him in his native province torecognize him, as heretofore, by his likeness to the Baron Franval.'There were more particulars added, not important enough for extract. Weimmediately examined the supposed impostor; for, if he was Monbrun, weknew that we should find on his shoulder the two letters of the convictbrand, 'T. F.,' standing for _Travaux Forces_. After the minutestexamination with the mechanical and chemical tests used on suchoccasions, not the slightest trace of the brand was to be found. Themoment this astounding discovery was made, I started to lay an embargoon the forthcoming numbers of the Havre _Journal_ for that week, whichwere about to be sent to the English agent in London. I arrived at Havreon Saturday (the morning of publication), in time to execute my design.I waited there long enough to communicate by telegraph with my superiorsin Paris, then hastened to this place. What my errand here is, youmay--"

  He might have gone on speaking for some moments longer; but Miss Welwynheard no more.

  Her first sensation of returning consciousness was the feeling thatwater was being sprinkled on her face. Then she saw that all the windowsin the room had been set wide open, to give her air; and that she andthe agent were still alone. At first she felt bewildered, and hardlyknew who he was; but he soon recalled to her mind the horrible realitiesthat had brought him there, by apologizing for not having summonedassistance when she fainted. He said it was of the last importance, inFranval's absence, that no one in the house should imagine that anythingunusual was taking place in it. Then, after giving her an interval ofa minute or two to collect what little strength she had left, he addedthat he would not increase her sufferings by saying anything more, justthen, on the shocking subject of the investigation which it was his dutyto make--that he would leave her to recover herself, and to considerwhat was the best course to be taken with the baroness in the presentterrible emergency--and that he would privately return to the housebetween eight and nine o'clock that evening, ready to act as Miss Welwynwished, and to afford her and her sister any aid and protection of whichthey might stand in need. With these words he bowed, and noiselesslyquitted the room.

  For the first few awful minutes after she was left alone, Miss Welwynsat helpless and speechless; utterly numbed in heart, and mind, andbody--then a sort of instinct (she was incapable of thinking) seemedto urge her to conceal the fearful news from her sister as long aspossible. She ran upstairs to Rosamond's sitting-room, and calledthrough the door (for she dared not trust herself in her sister'spresence) that the visitor had come on some troublesome business fromtheir late father's lawyers, and that she was going to shut herself up,and write some long letters in connection with that business. Aftershe had got into her own room, she was never sensible of how time waspassing--never conscious of any feeling within her, except a baseless,helpless hope
that the French police might yet be proved to have madesome terrible mistake--until she heard a violent shower of rain comeon a little after sunset. The noise of the rain, and the freshness itbrought with it in the air, seemed to awaken her as if from a painfuland a fearful sleep. The power of reflection returned to her; herheart heaved and bounded with an overwhelming terror, as the thought ofRosamond came back vividly to it; her memory recurred despairingly tothe long-past day of her mother's death, and to the farewell promise shehad made by her mother's bedside. She burst into an hysterical passionof weeping that seemed to be tearing her to pieces. In the midst of itshe heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs in the courtyard, and knew thatRosamond's husband had come back.

  Dipping her handkerchief in cold water, and passing it over her eyes asshe left the room, she instantly hastened to her sister.

  Fortunately the daylight was fading in the old-fashioned chamber thatRosamond occupied. Before they could say two words to each other,Franval was in the room. He seemed violently irritated; said that he hadwaited for the arrival of the mail--that the missing newspaper had notcome by it--that he had got wet through--that he felt a shivering fitcoming on--and that he believed he had caught a violent cold. His wifeanxiously suggested some simple remedies. He roughly interrupted her,saying there was but one remedy, the remedy of going to bed; and so leftthem without another word. She just put her handkerchief to her eyes,and said softly to her sister, "How he is changed!" then spoke no more.They sat silent for half an hour or longer. After that, Rosamond wentaffectionately and forgivingly to see how her husband was. She returned,saying that he was in bed, and in a deep, heavy sleep; and predictinghopefully that he would wake up quite well the next morning. In a fewminutes more the clock stuck nine; and Ida heard the servant's stepascending the stairs. She suspected what his errand was, and went outto meet him. Her presentiment had not deceived her; the police agent hadarrived, and was waiting for her downstairs.

  He asked her if she had said anything to her sister, or had thought ofany plan of action, the moment she entered the room; and, on receivinga reply in the negative, inquired, further, if "the baron" had come homeyet. She answered that he had; that he was ill and tired, and vexed, andthat he had gone to bed. The agent asked in an eager whisper if she knewthat he was asleep, and alone in bed? and, when he received her reply,said that he must go up into the bedroom directly.

  She began to feel the faintness coming over her again, and with itsensations of loathing and terror that she could neither express toothers nor define to herself. He said that if she hesitated to let himavail himself of this unexpected opportunity, her scruples might leadto fatal results. He reminded her that if "the baron" were really theconvict Monbrun, the claims of society and of justice demanded that heshould be discovered by the first available means; and that if he werenot--if some inconceivable mistake had really been committed--then sucha plan for getting immediately at the truth as was now proposed wouldinsure the delivery of an innocent man from suspicion; and at the sametime spare him the knowledge that he had ever been suspected. This lastargument had its effect on Miss Welwyn. The baseless, helpless hope thatthe French authorities might yet be proved to be in error, which shehad already felt in her own room, returned to her now. She suffered theagent to lead her upstairs.

  He took the candle from her hand when she pointed to the door; opened itsoftly; and, leaving it ajar, went into the room.

  She looked through the gap with a feverish, horror-struck curiosity.Franval was lying on his side in a profound sleep, with his backturned toward the door. The agent softly placed the candle upon a smallreading-table between the door and the bedside, softly drew down thebed-clothes a little away from the sleeper's back, then took a pair ofscissors from the toilet-table, and very gently and slowly began to cutaway, first the loose folds, then the intervening strips of linen, fromthe part of Franval's night-gown that was over his shoulders. When theupper part of his back had been bared in this way, the agent took thecandle and held it near the flesh. Miss Welwyn heard him ejaculatesome word under his breath, then saw him looking round to where she wasstanding, and beckoning to her to come in.

  Mechanically she obeyed; mechanically she looked down where his fingerwas pointing. It was the convict Monbrun--there, just visible under thebright light of the candle, were the fatal letters "T. F." branded onthe villain's shoulder!

  Though she could neither move nor speak, the horror of this discoverydid not deprive her of her consciousness. She saw the agent softlydraw up the bed-clothes again into their proper position, replacethe scissors on the toilet-table, and take from it a bottle ofsmelling-salts. She felt him removing her from the bedroom, and helpingher quickly downstairs, giving her the salts to smell to by the way.When they were alone again, he said, with the first appearance ofagitation that he had yet exhibited, "Now, madam, for God's sake,collect all your courage, and be guided by me. You and your sisterhad better leave the house immediately. Have you any relatives in theneighborhood with whom you could take refuge?" They had none. "What isthe name of the nearest town where you could get good accommodation forthe night?" Harleybrook (he wrote the name down on his tablets). "Howfar off is it?" Twelve miles. "You had better have the carriage out atonce, to go there with as little delay as possible, leaving me to passthe night here. I will communicate with you to-morrow at the principalhotel. Can you compose yourself sufficiently to be able to tell the headservant, if I ring for him, that he is to obey my orders till furthernotice?" The servant was summoned, and received his instructions, theagent going out with him to see that the carriage was got ready quietlyand quickly. Miss Welwyn went upstairs to her sister.

  How the fearful news was first broken to Rosamond, I cannot relateto you. Miss Welwyn has never confided to me, has never confided toanybody, what happened at the interview between her sister and herselfthat night. I can tell you nothing of the shock they both suffered,except that the younger and the weaker died under it; that the elder andthe stronger has never recovered from it, and never will.

  They went away the same night, with one attendant, to Harleybrook, asthe agent had advised. Before daybreak Rosamond was seized with thepains of premature labor. She died three days after, unconscious of thehorror of her situation, wandering in her mind about past times, andsinging old tunes that Ida had taught her as she lay in her sister'sarms.

  The child was born alive, and lives still. You saw her at the window aswe came in at the back way to the Grange. I surprised you, I dare say,by asking you not to speak of her to Miss Welwyn. Perhaps you noticedsomething vacant in the little girl's expression. I am sorry to say thather mind is more vacant still. If "idiot" did not sound like a mockingword, however tenderly and pityingly one may wish to utter it, I shouldtell you that the poor thing had been an idiot from her birth.

  You will, doubtless, want to hear now what happened at Glenwith Grangeafter Miss Welwyn and her sister had left it. I have seen the letterwhich the police agent sent the next morning to Harleybrook; and,speaking from my recollection of that, I shall be able to relate all youcan desire to know.

  First, as to the past history of the scoundrel Monbrun, I need only tellyou that he was identical with an escaped convict, who, for a long termof years, had successfully eluded the vigilance of the authoritiesall over Europe, and in America as well. In conjunction with twoaccomplices, he had succeeded in possessing himself of large sums ofmoney by the most criminal means. He also acted secretly as the "banker"of his convict brethren, whose dishonest gains were all confided tohis hands for safe-keeping. He would have been certainly captured, onventuring back to France, along with his two associates, but for thedaring imposture in which he took refuge; and which, if the trueBaron Franval had really died abroad, as was reported, would, in allprobability, never have been found out.

  Besides his extraordinary likeness to the baron, he had every otherrequisite for carrying on his deception successfully. Though his parentswere not wealthy, he had received a good education. He was so notoriousfor his
gentleman-like manners among the villainous associates of hiscrimes and excesses, that they nicknamed him "the Prince." All his earlylife had been passed in the neighborhood of the Chateau Franval. He knewwhat were the circumstances which had induced the baron to leave it. Hehad been in the country to which the baron had emigrated. He was ableto refer familiarly to persons and localities, at home and abroad,with which the baron was sure to be acquainted. And, lastly, he had anexpatriation of fifteen years to plead for him as his all-sufficientexcuse, if he made any slight mistakes before the baron's sisters,in his assumed character of their long-absent brother. It will be, ofcourse, hardly necessary for me to tell you, in relation to this partof the subject, that the true Franval was immediately and honorablyreinstated in the family rights of which the impostor had succeeded fora time in depriving him.

  According to Monbrun's own account, he had married poor Rosamond purelyfor love; and the probabilities certainly are, that the pretty, innocentEnglish girl had really struck the villain's fancy for the time; andthat the easy, quiet life he was leading at the Grange pleased him, bycontrast with his perilous and vagabond existence of former days. Whatmight have happened if he had had time enough to grow wearied of hisill-fated wife and his English home, it is now useless to inquire. Whatreally did happen on the morning when he awoke after the flight of Idaand her sister can be briefly told.

  As soon as his eyes opened they rested on the police agent, sittingquietly by the bedside, with a loaded pistol in his hand. Monbrun knewimmediately that he was discovered; but he never for an instant lost theself-possession for which he was famous. He said he wished to have fiveminutes allowed him to deliberate quietly in bed, whether he shouldresist the French authorities on English ground, and so gain time byobliging the one Government to apply specially to have him delivered upby the other--or whether he should accept the terms officially offeredto him by the agent, if he quietly allowed himself to be captured.He chose the latter course--it was suspected, because he wished tocommunicate personally with some of his convict associates in France,whose fraudulent gains were in his keeping, and because he feltboastfully confident of being able to escape again, whenever he pleased.Be his secret motives, however, what they might, he allowed the agent toconduct him peaceably from the Grange; first writing a farewellletter to poor Rosamond, full of heartless French sentiment and glibsophistries about Fate and Society. His own fate was not long inovertaking him. He attempted to escape again, as it had been expectedhe would, and was shot by the sentinel on duty at the time. I rememberhearing that the bullet entered his head and killed him on the spot.

  My story is done. It is ten years now since Rosamond was buried in thechurchyard yonder; and it is ten years also since Miss Welwyn returnedto be the lonely inhabitant of Glenwith Grange. She now lives but inthe remembrances that it calls up before her of her happier existence offormer days. There is hardly an object in the old house which does nottenderly and solemnly remind her of the mother, whose last wishes shelived to obey; of the sister, whose happiness was once her dearestearthly care. Those prints that you noticed on the library wallsRosamond used to copy in the past time, when her pencil was often guidedby Ida's hand. Those music-books that you were looking over, she and hermother have played from together through many a long and quiet summer'sevening. She has no ties now to bind her to the present but the poorchild whose affliction it is her constant effort to lighten, and thelittle peasant population around her, whose humble cares and wantsand sorrows she is always ready to relieve. Far and near her modestcharities have penetrated among us; and far and near she is heartilybeloved and blessed in many a laborer's household. There is no poorman's hearth, not in this village only, but for miles away from it aswell, at which you would not be received with the welcome given to anold friend, if you only told the cottagers that you knew the Lady ofGlenwith Grange!

  PROLOGUE TO THE FIFTH STORY.

  The next piece of work which occupied my attention after taking leaveof Mr. Garthwaite, offered the strongest possible contrast to the taskwhich had last engaged me. Fresh from painting a bull at a farmhouse,I set forth to copy a Holy Family, by Correggio, at a convent of nuns.People who go to the Royal Academy Exhibition, and see pictures byfamous artists, painted year after year in the same marked style whichfirst made them celebrated, would be amazed indeed if they knew whata Jack-of-all-trades a poor painter must become before he can gain hisdaily bread.

  The picture by Correggio which I was now commissioned to copy had beenlent to the nuns by a Catholic gentleman of fortune, who prized it asthe gem of his collection, and who had never before trusted it out ofhis own hands. My copy, when completed, was to be placed over the highaltar of the convent chapel; and my work throughout its progress wasto be pursued entirely in the parlor of the nunnery, and always in thewatchful presence of one or other of the inmates of the house. It wasonly on such conditions that the owner of the Correggio was willing totrust his treasure out of his own hands, and to suffer it to be copiedby a stranger. The restrictions he imposed, which I thought sufficientlyabsurd, and perhaps offensively suspicious as well, were communicatedto me politely enough before I was allowed to undertake the commission.Unless I was inclined to submit to precautionary regulations which wouldaffect any other artist exactly as they affected me, I was told notto think of offering to make the copy; and the nuns would then addressthemselves to some other person in my profession. After a day'sconsideration, I submitted to the restrictions, by my wife's advice,and saved the nuns the trouble of making application for a copier ofCorreggio in any other quarter.

  I found the convent was charmingly situated in a quiet little valleyin the West of England. The parlor in which I was to paint was a large,well-lighted apartment; and the village inn, about half a mile off,afforded me cheap and excellent quarters for the night. Thus far,therefore, there was nothing to complain of. As for the picture, whichwas the next object of interest to me, I was surprised to find thatthe copying of it would be by no means so difficult a task as I hadanticipated. I am rather of a revolutionary spirit in matters of art,and am bold enough to think that the old masters have their faultsas well as their beauties. I can give my opinion, therefore, on theCorreggio at the convent independently at least. Looked at technically,the picture was a fine specimen of coloring and execution; but lookedat for the higher merits of delicacy, elevation, and feeling for thesubject, it deserved copying as little as the most commonplace work thatany unlucky modern artist ever produced. The faces of the HolyFamily not only failed to display the right purity and tenderness ofexpression, but absolutely failed to present any expression at all. Itis flat heresy to say so, but the valuable Correggio was neverthelessemphatically, and, in so many words, a very uninteresting picture.

  So much for the convent and the work that I was to do in it. My nextanxiety was to see how the restrictions imposed on me were to be carriedout. The first day, the Mother Superior herself mounted guard in theparlor--a stern, silent, fanatical-looking woman, who seemed determinedto awe me and make me uncomfortable, and who succeeded thoroughly inthe execution of her purpose. The second day she was relieved by theofficiating priest of the convent--a mild, melancholy, gentleman-likeman, with whom I got on tolerably well. The third day, I had foroverlooker the portress of the house--a dirty, dismal, deaf, old woman,who did nothing but knit stockings and chew orris-root. The fourth day,a middle-aged nun, whom I heard addressed as Mother Martha, occupied thepost of guardian to the precious Correggio; and with her the number ofmy overlookers terminated. She, and the portress, and the priest, andthe Mother Superior, relieved each other with military regularity, untilI had put the last touch to my copy. I found them ready for me everymorning on entering the parlor, and I left them in the chair ofobservation every evening on quitting it. As for any young and beautifulnuns who might have been in the building, I never so much as set eyeson the ends of their veils. From the door to the parlor, and from theparlor to the door, comprised the whole of my experience of the insideof the convent.

&n
bsp; The only one of my superintending companions with whom I establishedanything like a familiar acquaintance was Mother Martha. She had nooutward attractions to recommend her; but she was simple, good-humored,ready to gossip, and inquisitive to a perfectly incredible degree. Herwhole life had been passed in the nunnery; she was thoroughly accustomedto her seclusion, thoroughly content with the monotonous round of heroccupations; not at all anxious to see the world for herself; but, onthe other hand, insatiably curious to know all about it from others.There was no question connected with myself, my wife, my children, myfriends, my profession, my income, my travels, my favorite amusements,and even my favorite sins, which a woman could ask a man, that MotherMartha did not, in the smallest and softest of voices, ask of me. Thoughan intelligent, well-informed person in all that related to herown special vocation, she was a perfect child in everything else. Iconstantly caught myself talking to her, just as I should have talked athome to one of my own little girls.

  I hope no one will think that, in expressing myself thus, I am writingdisparagingly of the poor nun. On two accounts, I shall always feelcompassionately and gratefully toward Mother Martha. She was the onlyperson in the convent who seemed sincerely anxious to make her presencein the parlor as agreeable to me as possible; and she good-humoredlytold me the story which it is my object in these pages to introduce tothe reader. In both ways I am deeply indebted to her; and I hope alwaysto remember the obligation.

  The circumstances under which the story came to be related to me may betold in very few words.

  The interior of a convent parlor being a complete novelty to me, Ilooked around with some interest on first entering my painting-room atthe nunnery. There was but little in it to excite the curiosity of anyone. The floor was covered with common matting, and the ceiling withplain whitewash. The furniture was of the simplest kind; a lowchair with a praying-desk fixed to the back, and a finely carved oakbook-case, studded all over with brass crosses, being the only usefulobjects that I could discern which had any conventional character aboutthem. As for the ornaments of the room, they were entirely beyond myappreciation. I could feel no interest in the colored prints of saints,with gold platters at the backs of their heads, that hung on the wall;and I could see nothing particularly impressive in the two plain littlealabaster pots for holy water, fastened, one near the door, the otherover the chimney-piece. The only object, indeed, in the whole room whichin the slightest degree attracted my curiosity was an old worm-eatenwooden cross, made in the rudest manner, hanging by itself on a slipof wall between two windows. It was so strangely rough and misshapena thing to exhibit prominently in a neat room, that I suspected somehistory must be attached to it, and resolved to speak to my friend thenun about it at the earliest opportunity.

  "Mother Martha," said I, taking advantage of the first pause in thesuccession of quaintly innocent questions which she was as usualaddressing to me, "I have been looking at that rough old crosshanging between the windows, and fancying that it must surely be somecuriosity--"

  "Hush! hush!" exclaimed the nun, "you must not speak of that as a'curiosity'; the Mother Superior calls it a Relic."

  "I beg your pardon," said I; "I ought to have chosen my expressions morecarefully--"

  "Not," interposed Mother Martha, nodding to show me that my apology neednot be finished--"not that it is exactly a relic in the strict Catholicsense of the word; but there were circumstances in the life of theperson who made it--" Here she stopped, and looked at me doubtfully.

  "Circumstances, perhaps, which it is not considered advisable tocommunicate to strangers," I suggested.

  "Oh, no!" answered the nun, "I never heard that they were to be kept asecret. They were not told as a secret to me."

  "Then you know all about them?" I asked.

  "Certainly. I could tell you the whole history of the wooden cross; butit is all about Catholics, and you are a Protestant."

  "That, Mother Martha, does not make it at all less interesting to me."

  "Does it not, indeed?" exclaimed the nun, innocently. "What a strangeman you are! and what a remarkable religion yours must be! What do yourpriests say about ours? Are they learned men, your priests?"

  I felt that my chance of hearing Mother Martha's story would be a poorone indeed, if I allowed her to begin a fresh string of questions.Accordingly, I dismissed the inquiries about the clergy of theEstablished Church with the most irreverent briefness, and recalled herattention forthwith to the subject of the wooden cross.

  "Yes, yes," said the good-natured nun; "surely you shall hear all I cantell you about it; but--" she hesitated timidly, "but I must ask theMother Superior's leave first."

  Saying these words, she summoned the portress, to my great amusement, tokeep guard over the inestimable Correggio in her absence, and left theroom. In less than five minutes she came back, looking quite happy andimportant in her innocent way.

  "The Mother Superior," she said, "has given me leave to tell all I knowabout the wooden cross. She says it may do you good, and improve yourProtestant opinion of us Catholics."

  I expressed myself as being both willing and anxious to profit by what Iheard; and the nun began her narrative immediately.

  She related it in her own simple, earnest, minute way; dwelling aslong on small particulars as on important incidents; and making moralreflections for my benefit at every place where it was possible tointroduce them. In spite, however, of these drawbacks in the telling ofit, the story interested and impressed me in no ordinary degree; andI now purpose putting the events of it together as skillfully andstrikingly as I can, in the hope that this written version of thenarrative may appeal as strongly to the reader's sympathies as thespoken version did to mine.

  THE NUN'S STORY OF GABRIEL'S MARRIAGE