by L. T. Meade
then?"
"Perfectly. Sit down, read your letter; know for yourself what afortunate--what a really fortunate girl you are."
"I won't read my letter now," I answered. "I will take it home and readevery word, study each sentence in my own room; but not now. You exciteme. I am tired. I cannot bear any more."
"Poor little girl," said Mr Gray, in quite a tender voice. "Therenever was a more plucky creature than you, Rosamund Lindley; but you area true woman after all. Well, my dear, go home. Early to-morrow Ishall see you again."
"I am to meet Lady Ursula Redmayne and Captain Valentine and his brotherin Cousin Geoffrey's house at twelve o'clock to-morrow," I replied.
"What!" answered Mr Gray. "Has Tom Valentine returned? Do you knowthe Valentines--your cousins?"
"Are they really my cousins?"
"Yes, three or four times removed; but undoubtedly there was at one timea relationship. Well, Rosamund, what do you think of your cousin TomValentine?"
"I scarcely know that I think of him at all," I replied.
"What! Have you not discovered that he is a traveller--a man who hasmet with remarkable adventures; a man of the world, a gentleman, a manof culture; also, and above all, an Englishman, with a true and honestheart?"
"I have had no time to find out these many excellent qualities," Ianswered back.
"You will soon see them," responded Mr Gray. "Your eyes will beopened. You will perceive what I mean; all, all that I mean. So youhave already met Tom Valentine; and Tom has returned just in time. Whatan extraordinary coincidence! what a piece of luck!"
"I don't pretend to understand you," I answered.
"No, my dear; go home and read your letter. God bless you, Rosamund.Upon my word, this day's work has taken a load off my mind."
He again wrung my hand. I had no time to think of his extraordinaryrapture, nor of his queer uncalled-for words about Tom Valentine.Everything he said came back to me by and by; but I had no room in mymind to dwell upon his words at that moment. There was no doubtwhatever that the packet held in my hand brought good fortune to me andmine. Ugly Poverty might take to himself wings and fly away--he and I--he and those I loved, would not have even a bowing acquaintance infuture. This fact was quite sufficient to fill my mind to the exclusionof all other ideas. I went home early--had tea with my mother--saidnothing at all about the packet which lay in my pocket, but listened toa long and miserable letter from Jack, while I held in my hand a littlenote from Hetty, which I knew must be sad, but which scarcely troubledme at that moment, for I also knew how soon I could relieve my dearlittle sister's anxieties; how absolutely it now lay in my power tocomfort and aid her, and to give to Jack all the good things which wouldmake him a manly fellow once more.
I do not think in my whole life I ever felt happier than I did thatevening. My fatigue had vanished--a feeling of absolute rest reigned inmy heart; even the annoyances, the vexations, the penury of home broughtto me a sense of rejoicing. It was sweet to know that with a touch ofmy magic wand I could sweep them once and for ever out of sight.
If I was happy, however, this could scarcely be said of any of the restof the family. My mother had a headache; she had also caught cold, andthe cough, which always more or less racked her slender frame, was worsethan usual.
My father kept looking at her anxiously. He really did love mybeautiful, gentle mother very much. George was disagreeable and morose;and my mother's eyes kept straying in the direction where Jack'sphotograph stood. She was thinking no doubt of that last letter fromthe poor fellow. Never mind, these were passing clouds, and knowing howsoon I could chase them away, I felt scarcely any pain as I watchedthem.
At last, one by one, my family bade me good-night. I stayed down-stairsto put the little house in order, and then, going up to my room, lockedmy door, and prepared to acquaint myself with the contents of thatletter, which was to turn all the dross of my life into pure andglittering gold.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
UGLY POVERTY AND I.
Cousin Geoffrey had sealed his letter with red wax. He had stamped theseal with his own signet-ring, which gave the impress of a coat-of-armswith a quaint device. That device became a household word with me byand by, but I was too impatient even to trouble myself to decipher itjust then. I spread the thick sheets of paper before me, and gavemyself up to the luxury of satisfying the most burning curiosity whichsurely ever besieged a girl.
Cousin Geoffrey's letter--a letter addressed to myself, well andcarefully written--was far too long to make it possible for me to quoteit here. I read it once, twice, three times. Then I sat with my handsbefore me, the open sheets of paper lying on my lap, my eyes fixed onvacancy. Two or three candles were lighted in my room; one by one theyburnt low in the socket, and expired. I was in the dark, not mentallybut physically. There was no darkness in my mental vision that night;my mind was so active that my body was incapable of feeling eitherfatigue or cold, and my eyes were incapable of noticing the thickdarkness which surrounded them.
This was my position: I was an heiress of Cousin Geoffrey's wealth. Oncertain conditions I was to inherit exactly one-half of his houses andlands, of his money in stocks and shares, and in the English Funds. Icould have for my own, exactly one-half of the marvellous treasureswhich filled the old house. I could divide those shawls from Cashmere,those sandal-wood boxes from China, those quaint embroideries fromPersia. Even the half of those lovely painted windows in the Chamber ofMyths would belong to me.
It was very funny. I could not help almost laughing, as I sat in thedark, with Cousin Geoffrey's open letter on my lap, over the persistencywith which I would think of the treasures which the Chamber of Mythscontained. Which Cashmere shawl might I take? Which piece ofembroidery might I clasp to my heart as my very, very own? Above all,which of the painted windows might in future be known as RosamundLindley's window--hers and no one else's?
I felt far, far more anxious about these comparatively minor mattersthan I did about the money in the Funds and the landed possessions,one-half of which also belonged to me.
Alack and alas! the news in the letter had nearly stunned me. I foundthat I was incapable of clear reasoning. What a fool I was--what anidiotic girl--to plan and consider, and think of Cashmere shawls andIndian embroideries and painted windows, and wonder which would fall tomy share--which of the beautiful things I might claim as my own.
My own! Cousin Geoffrey gave me nothing, nothing whatever of all hiswealth as my own absolutely.
On a certain condition I might have half. Half of the money, half ofthe treasures, should be settled on me and on my children for ever, if--ah, here was the rub, here was the astounding discovery which took mybreath away and paralysed me, and made me incapable of any consecutivethought beyond a burning sense of shame and anger. I was to have theseriches if I fulfilled a condition.
This was the condition. I was to marry the heir of all the other halfof the wealth and the beauty. The other half of Cousin Geoffrey'sriches was left to my almost unknown cousin, Tom Valentine. He was topossess his half if he married me. I was to take possession of my halfon the day I became his wife.
"I like you, Rosamund Lindley," Cousin Geoffrey had said in his letter;"you are no beggar, and no fawner. You are a simple-minded, honest,downright English girl. You have courage, too, and I always respectcourage. You have come to me to help you with your art. You have donethis with such a ludicrous, belief in yourself and your own powers, withsuch a simple sort of vanity, that I should probably have tried to cureit by granting your request had you come to me as a stranger. But Icannot look upon you as a stranger, Rosamund; you belong to my own kithand kin, and you are the daughter of the woman I love best on earth.Because you are Mary Rutherford's daughter I give you half my wealth _ifyou fulfil the conditions I require_!"
I knew these words of the long letter almost by heart; I said them overto myself many times.
When the first light of morning dawned I rose from my chair, stret
chedmy cramped limbs, pinched my arms to see if I were awake or if I hadonly been going through a horrid nightmare; opened the window, took in adraught of the cool morning air, and putting Cousin Geoffrey's letterinto my pocket went down-stairs.
The place looked as I had left it last night--our maid-of-all-work hadnot yet come down-stairs. Ugly Poverty surrounded me, and once more ithemmed me tightly around, and made its presence more felt even than ofold, I had looked into a land of promise--an ideal and lovely country.I had thought to enter; but alas! iron bars of pride, of maidenlymodesty, of right feeling, of even righteousness, kept me out. All thewomanhood within me declared wildly and desperately--
"Even to enter into that promised land you shall not sell yourself?"
Ugly Poverty and I must still be close acquaintances--nay more, we mustbe intimate
