Leonore Stubbs

"Yes—yes, he did."

"Now I want to say something," Leo changed the subject, which each felt to be a sad one. "Sue, what really—what I shall never forget, is, that when the worst moment of all came, when Paul and I were together, all alone, and I was ready—oh, I was ready to fall into his arms if he had held out his little finger—he didn't hold it. He stood there like a statue. And I know, I know what held him back. If all the world had called Paul a good man, and he had preached goodness from morning to night, it wouldn't have had the least effect, but when he said 'L'honneur pour moi'"—her tears overflowed, and Sue wept likewise....

They often wondered how much and how little had been suspected by Maud, inducing her own line of action. In the light of her subsequent attitude it seemed more than probable that she had either learnt or divined that all was not as it appeared, but so cleverly had she kept up a show of being in good spirits up to the close of the day which was to Leo like the day of judgment, that nothing could be certain.

Sue could recall that after Leo had been seen to bed, obviously ill, on her return to the house before dinner, Maud had expressed a sort of satisfaction, pointing out that this accounted for the peculiarities of her sister's behaviour throughout the day. "Really one is glad to know it was that," she had exclaimed more than once.

She had also rallied Paul for his indifference on the subject. It appeared he had been out with Leo, and on such a raw evening he might have seen that it was rash and foolish of her not to keep within doors. "But I suppose you thought as it wasn't me——?" she had wound up; and Sue, conscious that Sybil was watching also, owned that the triumphant smile by which the words were accompanied, made her strangely uncomfortable.

"And the next morning she pored over a new set of illustrated papers," continued she; "it is odd that I should remember it all so clearly, but I do. What happened afterwards stamped it on my memory, no doubt. I racked my brains to think if Paul could have offended her in any way, and if a sudden angry impulse—you know poor Maud was apt to get angry, and to be very implacable too—but they seemed quite as friendly as usual. We had grown to think, Sybil and I, that Paul had not—not perhaps found Maud all that he expected, and that sometimes he looked a little grave after they had been together. Sybil spoke to me about it, but we kept it to ourselves, as we fancied you saw nothing."

"Well?" said Leo, slowly. "Well?" She was drinking in every word.

"The next evening—the evening you were in bed—stop, let me consider: no, I don't think there was any palpable difference; nothing to attract attention, of that I am sure. Maud had great command over herself. She told us as if it were an ordinary piece of news, that she had had a long visit from Val—but whether she intended Paul to take any notice of that, or not, I cannot tell. I cannot tell anything about that evening, because my own thoughts were rather taken up with you, and I was up in your room a good deal, you may remember?"

Yes, Leo remembered. Remembered also how she tried every means to get rid of the kindly, patient intruder, who tortured her by her presence and anxiety. "I never thought I should be able to tell you the truth, Sue. And oh, I was so miserable, I was in hell–"

"Darling Leo, don't; don't say that. It is not quite right, you know."

"Yet we talk of being in heaven, why is the other place worse?"

Sue however could not tell why, and only shook her head gently.

"Well, then, I was, you know where," resumed Leo, with a nod; "and what's more, I had been there for ages. I was wicked for quite a long time before that, you know;" and she leaned her elbows on Sue's lap, and looked up into her face. "It began soon after I came home. I did so hate being a widow—oh, poor Godfrey! Sue, it had nothing to do with Godfrey; it was the awful clothes, and the being shut up in dark corners–"

"Dark corners, Leo?"

"That was what it seemed like to me. I was hustled out of the way when people came, and whatever happened, it didn't happen for me. Sometimes I could hardly believe it was me; I used to pinch myself and say 'You horrid little black thing, who are you? Are you "Leonore," or "Leonore Stubbs"?—because they are two quite different people. Leonore is a harmless little tom-fool—but Leonore Stubbs is an odious, artificial creature, a sham all round.' And then, Sue, something, never mind what, started a new idea, I felt that I had never really been in love, nor had any one really been in love with me. Godfrey and I had just been fond of each other, and I couldn't help—yes, I could have helped, but I didn't—trying to get up the real thing. I longed for it, I craved for it—and I made several shots for it. Oh, I am ashamed,"—and she hid her face.

"My poor little Leo!"

"Your poor little Leo is a mighty bad lot. However, it wasn't till Paul came that she was—no, I don't think that she really was to blame, I don't indeed;" said Leo, earnestly. "Because directly she suspected—I mean directly she began to feel—it, she was frightened to death. She was in a vile temper all the time, but she kept her secret, and Paul does not know it yet. Oh, Sue, do you think, do you think he does?" she broke off suddenly.

"No, dear, how should he?"

"I hoped perhaps he might. Of course I don't want him to, but still if he did–"

"You yourself said he never gave you to understand he had any feeling for you."

"But I didn't say he might not have—understood that I had any feeling for him."

"Would you wish it, Leo?"

"No."

But after a long pause the face was turned up again. "Yes."

Still nothing was heard of Paul, and the sisters grew to talk of him less and less. They laid plans for their future irrespective of his existence, they visited Sybil, who had now a home on the south coast, her husband having become a County Court judge; and they flitted quietly up and down the various highways and byeways of rural England.

One April they found themselves in a land of hills, and lakes, and green, leafy foregrounds.

"Let us stay here for a while," said Sue.

Beautiful scenery always appealed to Sue, and a good hotel was not to be despised. The lapping of the waters of the lake beneath her window was pleasant, even when the wind sent tiny wavelets running along the shore in a sort of mock animosity—and when the surface was calm as a mirror, she thought it was Paradise.

"It really is very nice," said Leo. "I have been out exploring. There is a lovely glen about a mile off, with woods and a stream—a little splashing stream—and the banks are simply covered with blue-bells. I should have picked some, but the path looked suspiciously well cared for, and there were little gates, as if it belonged to some big place; to tell the truth, I had an inkling I was trespassing, though there were no boards up. It would have been awkward to have been met by the owner, with my hands full of blue-bells. However, I mean to go again to-morrow, and spy out the land. If it's safe, you shall come."

"Could I walk so far?"

"You can have a little carriage, and leave it at the gate. You could not get it up the valley, as there is only a footpath, but I think you could walk that part. I can't tell you how delightful it was,—the sunlight speckling through the trees, and the cuckoos answering each other across the brook;—I could have stayed forever, but I remembered you and flew home."

She flew back, however, the following evening. It was an equally calm, bright evening, after a day of heat and growth,—and buds that had been fast closed at dawn, had burst on every side. Tassels hung from the larches, giving forth their resinous fragrance; and the pink buds of young oaks, and sprays of waving yellow broom mingled with the many shades of green above and beneath.

"What a heavenly spot!" sighed Leonore, enraptured. She could not resist wandering on and on; the woods at Boldero were nothing to this fairy dell, and at every tinkling waterfall, she was down the thymy bank overhanging it.

But she noted anew that she was neither preceded nor followed by other invaders. She also experienced a little thrill of dismay at seeing through a vista—a long vista, it is true—a country house towards which a byepath led direct. Oh, well, she must risk it; if met—? She started and the courage of a moment before began to ebb, for something certainly moved behind the trees, and now she distinctly saw a figure on the path in front.

To put a bold face upon it when no one challenged the face was easy, but it was another matter to—her pulses beat a little faster.

Conning an apology, and prepared to offer it with the best grace she could muster, she walked slowly forward, with downcast eyes,—then, oh, what?—oh, who was this? She stood face to face with—Paul.

Often and often afterwards she wondered how she felt, how she looked and what she did at that supreme moment? In the retrospect it was all a mist—a blurred canvas—a confused phantasm.

"Paul!"

"Leonore!"

An outcry—then a terrible silence; agitation on his part, trepidation on hers—each alike stupefied, breathless.

And Leonore's heart sank, and her eyelids fell.

Was this all? Was this the end? Oh, misery, misery.

Was it amazement alone which had first forced her name from his lips, and then shut them fast? Was he shocked, perhaps sore that a thing had happened which he had resolved should never happen? Was it pain, disgust, horror, she heard in that single involuntary utterance?

Ah, then, she knew what she must do.

Sick disappointment sent a shiver through her frame, and all at once she felt her limbs totter.

But to fall? To betray emotions which were not his emotions? To be weak where he was bold and strong? No, a thousand times, no; she drew herself upright and made a passionate effort.

"Paul, I am—so sorry. I did not know, I never dreamt—of this. Indeed, indeed I never did. Believe me, oh, do believe me, Paul."

"Believe you, Leo? I do not understand?" He gazed at her, bewildered, then took a step forward, and she felt him trying to take her hand. She drew it back hurriedly.

"Wait. Wait a moment. Let me speak. We did not know you were here, we did not indeed. We have not known anything of you, for a long, long time. It was only yesterday we, Sue and I, came to this place; and we can go away again to-morrow—or to-night. We would not trouble you, Paul."

"Trouble me?" He laughed, a curious laugh, bitter and sweet, scornful and surpassingly tender. It might have enlightened her, but she was past listening.

"You will believe, Paul, that we—that to annoy you, to distress you,—oh, not for worlds, not for worlds. We will go to-night." And she turned as though to fly on the spot, but he caught her arm.

"Leo?"

She was faintly trying to free herself. The arm went further and held her fast.

"Can you think," said a voice in her ear, "can you suppose that the sight of you, you who have been with me night and day in dreams, and thoughts, and hopes, and fears, that this could—what did you call it?—'annoy' me? Leo, my own, my beloved, don't you, can't you see—now?"

"Paul!"

"You whom I might not love, and yet could not but love? Listen. You say you had lost sight of me—that was because I dared not come to you. I dared not trust myself—perhaps, may I say it?—I could not trust either of us. We had once—and that must never happen again. You are listening? My darling, how you tremble, why do you tremble so, Leo? There is nothing to fear now. Let me go on, and you will see. It was only the other day I learned the tidings that set me free. You see I had no means of knowing; and then when I did hear, I could not—it would have been horrible to be in haste to take advantage of it. So, though life opened anew, I meant to wait quietly till the time came when perhaps I might hope to prevail—but, oh, to think of this!"

And then at last she ventured to raise her eyes, and what did those eyes behold? It was the look—the look—on the face of Paul!

And now her head was on his breast, and his kisses on her cheek. "Cruel doubts tortured me often," he whispered, "for how could I tell what changes time might not have wrought? It had left my love untouched, but what right had I to expect that you might not have lost the feeling you had—yes, I did know you once had for me? Leo, darling, can you think how terrible it was to know that, and have to affect ignorance? To have every beat of my heart go out towards you, and to feign indifference? To meet your poor, piteous eyes, and keep the answer to their appeal out of mine? Not that you meant to show, dear; oh, no, you never dreamed your secret was revealed—and it was not, to others,—but to me–"

"Oh, Paul! Oh, Paul!"

"Hush, you were not to blame. It was no fault of yours, you poor, brave, little thing. You played your part nobly–"

"Oh, no—oh, no."

"You may think not, but I know you did. I know, for I shared the struggle. There was once," he paused and considered, "there was that day when we were together in the green-house. You were cold and careful at first, but gradually the mask wore off and—and mine too slipped. We were happy, too happy. I think we both knew it. We did not look at each other as we came away, but I gave you a red vine leaf, and I saw that you did not put it with the others, even with those I had picked for you before."

"I have it now, Paul."

"After that, I began to suspect myself. I had hardly done so before, for there was only a vague sense of disappointment, and dissatisfaction with things as they were. Your sister was not—but no matter. I reasoned myself out of this over and over again. I argued that I was not well, was not fully recovered from my late attack of fever—in short, that I was hipped, and would certainly take a more cheerful view of things as my strength came back. I really had been rather bad, you know—and was low and easily depressed. But what might have opened my eyes to the truth was that all depression vanished, and all inertia ceased, directly you appeared,—and that was after I had ceased to hear your gay little laugh and merry voice. For though you soon grew grave as myself, my heart would jump when you came into the room, or when I came upon you in some distant corner, not knowing you were there."

"Paul, Paul, my heart jumped too."

He drew her closer—ah, she was very close now. "I scarcely ever spoke to you, do you remember? We avoided each other; and I cannot even now imagine how I came to know you so well,"—and so on, and so on....

Presently Leo had a question to ask. Where had he been during those three blank days when no communications from Boldero Abbey reached him? He had disposed of them in a fashion that satisfied others, but not her.

"No, you were too clear-sighted. I knew that," said he. "But what could I do? I could not tell the truth, which was that I never went near the place whose address I gave Maud! My one desire was to be out of range of her letters; for Leonore—I had—I cannot tell how, a sort of dreadful certainty that she would recall me. For those three days I wandered about,—I went down to a wild, little, sea place, and fought the demon within. Then because I simply felt weaker, I fancied soul as well as body brought into subjection. You all told me I looked bad when I returned—now you know why."

But though they thus skirted round and round one dread remembrance which was—how could it help being?—in both their minds, each shrank from approaching a subject avoided by the other; until at length Leonore, tremulous but resolute, realised that it was for her, not him, to speak.

"Paul, dear Paul, I don't want to leave anything unsaid. Paul, on that worst day of all," she hesitated, and his hand pressed the little hand within it. "Dear Paul," she whispered, "I did not know what I was doing; indeed, indeed I did not. Something in my head seemed to have snapped, and I felt so strange—I never felt like it before. And it was not only about you that I was so unutterably wretched, there was—there was—something else."

"Something else?"

"A man told me the day before that I had broken his heart,—oh, Paul, don't start. He was not a man I could ever have given a thought to. He was not one I should ever have spoken to—in that way. Only our village doctor's assistant, and the rest of us hardly knew that he existed,—but I, I was so unhappy, even before you came to Boldero, that I let myself go,—that is, I let the poor silly creature run up a kind of friendship with me. That was all, Paul; truthfully it was—on my part. I amused myself with him—a little; and then—and then–"

"What was fun to you was death to him?"

"It had no right to be," said Leo, with dignity. "It never went any length; we only just met each other once or twice, and–"

"Flirted?"

"Not even that. I let him adore," she laughed, but shamefacedly—"and he mistook."

"I see."

"Paul, dear, I am not excusing myself; only I do not think, I do not think that wretched Tommy Andrews ought ever to have presumed—it was frightful, it was untrue what he said. I did not break his disgusting heart–"

"Oh, Leo!" Paul tried not to laugh.

"But he made me think I had. He accused me of it, and I was in such a state at the time that I believed him, and it drove me wild. It was the last straw, the finishing touch. I seemed not only to have made a mess of my own poor life, but of another's—and while I was very angry and contemptuous, I was enraged with myself for being so. I stormed and raved when I was alone, and vowed to end it all,—but I know now that I—Sue says I was not accountable, Paul,—" wistfully.

"Sue is right, dearest. Your nerves were altogether unstrung. You were overstrained and off your balance for the time being."

"Had—had you noticed anything, Paul?"

"Everything. It was that which made me fear—and follow you."

"At night I hardly slept at all. And, I couldn't eat; I loathed food. I may tell you all this, mayn't I? It just kills me to keep things to myself; doing that was what, I think, began it all."

"You shall tell me everything," said he.

"Well, but Paul," after an interlude, "there is still a mystery; what are you doing here? And was it not the strangest thing our meeting here?"

He smiled. "Not so very strange, seeing that this is my usual walk about this hour."

"Your—what did you say?—your 'usual' walk?"

"Look, Leo." He drew her along to the opening of the vista she had passed before, and pointed to the mansion beyond, now glistening in the setting sun. "That is my home—and yours."

"Oh, Paul!"

"I bought it a year ago, but have been busy with alterations and improvements, so only came to live here within the last few weeks. I was so tired of a wandering life, Leo; and though I had only the vaguest hope that you—but somehow hope never quite deserted me."

"Then the strangeness is on our part. That we should come to where you were!"

"You had really no suspicion, Leo?" He looked at her with laughter in his eyes. "Sue kept her own counsel well;" added Paul demurely.

He and Sue had been in communication from—from precisely the date at which he took up his residence at Mere Hall. He had left for Mere Hall the day after he last saw Sue in London.

"You saw Sue in London?" She could scarcely speak for astonishment.

"Several times. The Fosters, my brother and his wife, put me up to it. Your sister is good and kind and sensible—mine is both the first, but not exactly the last, bless her for it! Her very lack of what is commonly admired, proved my salvation. She first extracted the truth from me, and then went straight for Sue, and hammered it into her that there was no earthly reason why we two should not be made happy now. She could not endure to see my long face, she said;—and though I gathered that Sue was somewhat startled by her abruptness—for Charlotte is not famed for tact—eventually the two understood each other, and I was brought on to the stage."

"Was that," cried Leo, with a sudden flash of memory, "was that one day, oh, it must have been that day!—Sue was so odd and unlike herself. I wondered what could have excited her in a private view of rather stupid water-colours, and why she began all at once to say she longed for the country? Were you in the water-colour gallery?"

He was, and all was explained.

"Coo-coo," came the plaintive note of a dove from the leafy shades close by—but it cooed unheard. The streamlet splashed on unheeded. The sun went slowly down behind the mountain-tops unseen. And still they sat on....

CHAPTER XIX.

EPILOGUE

About a year after Paul and Leonore were married, they received a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Valentine Purcell, travelling in all the state that money could buy and ingenuity devise.

Val was glorious: even prouder of his new wife's cleverness than he had been of her predecessor's beauty. Marietta was superb: there never was such a woman; managed everything—ran the entire show. He was allowed a tailor's bill though,—and he looked down at a new suit with all his old complacency.

He was perfectly easy, happy, and friendly. He had not an awkward remembrance, nor an uncomfortable sensation.

It was splendid to be among his dear old friends again, and to find them all so fit; Mere Hall was a delightful place, and he was awfully glad that it was Sue's home too.

He did wish that he could get them all out to California. Sue ought really to see California. If she would hop across the pond, he would meet her himself in New York, and take her across the Rockies in his own car. He and his wife always travelled in their own car.

As for Paul and Leo, of course they were coming, but Sue—he had a sly whisper for Leo's ear anent Sue. "What about Salt Lake City? That would be Sue's chance: those Mormons are awful jossers for wives. I never let Marietta within a hundred miles of 'em. You send old Sue out to me, Leo."

Paul he speedily pronounced the best fellow in the world—taking him as an entirely new personage. Paul's alterations in the house were a triumph of architecture, and the steeple he was adding to the church a masterpiece.

"Quite right to look after the church," said Val, seriously. "I always take care that Marietta goes to church, and she's come rather to like it. Now that she has been here, she says she's going to be more religious, and I daresay I shall too. It's so awfully jolly to live as you and Paul do, you know."

Another day he was alone with his old playmate, and raised his head after a reverie.

"So you and Paul got each other after all, Leo?"

Leo, who was dressing a bowl with roses, dropped one, and looked attentively at the speaker.

"Got each other after all, Val?"

"Oh, don't you come the innocent over me, Mrs. Stubbs—Mrs. Foster, I mean. I know you and your tricks. You are just the same little wag you always were—but I know you. And I know about you and Paul too."

"Know about us? What about us?"—quickly.

"Tell you if you like. I was in the woods that day. I was going home from shooting and heard a row,—so then I crept along to see what was up, and hid behind some big hollies; and there you were, you and Paul, holding each other's hands, and shouting into each other's faces!"

"Did you—did you hear what we said, Val?"

"Lord, no—though I tried all I could. And what the dickens made you speak so loud—you, especially—I could not imagine. If I hadn't had to keep dark behind the beastly bushes, I could have heard every word. Anyhow I heard enough—and saw enough—to know what you were up to."

He paused.

"And I was mad with you both, Leo. Because, you see, it wasn't Queensberry—however it's all right now."

"And it was you who told Maud?"

"Why, of course," said Val, simply.