Sake by Thomas
Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of the moral sense be upheld, it
is beyond question that there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the
absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an inducement to perform it;
while exhortation as to its necessity would breed excuses for leaving it undone.
The case of Mr. Millborne and Mrs. Frankland particularly illustrated this, and
perhaps something more.
There were few figures better known to the local crossing-sweeper than Mr.
Millborne's, in his daily comings and goings along a familiar and quiet London
street, where he lived inside the door marked eleven, though not as householder.
In age he was fifty at least, and his habits were as regular as those of a
person can be who has no occupation but the study of how to keep himself
employed. He turned almost always to the right on getting to the end of his
street, then he went onward down Bond Street to his club, whence he returned by
precisely the same course about six o'clock, on foot; or, if he went to dine,
later on in a cab. He was known to be a man of some means, though apparently not
wealthy. Being a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present mode of living as a
lodger in Mrs. Towney's best rooms, with the use of furniture which he had
bought ten times over in rent during his tenancy, to having a house of his own.
None among his acquaintance tried to know him well, for his manner and moods did
not excite curiosity or deep friendship. He was not a man who seemed to have
anything on his mind, anything to conceal, anything to impart. From his casual
remarks it was generally understood that he was country-born, a native of some
place in Wessex; that he had come to London as a young man in a banking-house,
and had risen to a post of responsibility; when, by the death of his father, who
had been fortunate in his investments, the son succeeded to an income which led
him to retire from a business life somewhat early.
One evening, when he had been unwell for several days, Doctor Bindon came in,
after dinner, from the adjoining medical quarter, and smoked with him over the
fire. The patient's ailment was not such as to require much thought, and they
talked together on indifferent subjects.
'I am a lonely man, Bindon--a lonely man,' Millborne took occasion to say,
shaking his head gloomily. 'You don't know such loneliness as mine . . . And the
older I get the more I am dissatisfied with myself. And to-day I have been,
through an accident, more than usually haunted by what, above all other events
of my life, causes that dissatisfaction--the recollection of an unfulfilled
promise made twenty years ago. In ordinary affairs I have always been considered
a man of my word and perhaps it is on that account that a particular vow I once
made, and did not keep, comes back to me with a magnitude out of all proportion
(I daresay) to its real gravity, especially at this time of day. You know the
discomfort caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that a door or window has
been left unfastened, or in the day by the remembrance of unanswered letters. So
does that promise haunt me from time to time, and has done to-day particularly.'
There was a pause, and they smoked on. Millborne's eyes, though fixed on the
fire, were really regarding attentively a town in the West of England.
'Yes,' he continued, 'I have never quite forgotten it, though during the busy
years of my life it was shelved and buried under the pressure of my pursuits.
And, as I say, to-day in particular, an incident in the law-report of a somewhat
similar kind has brought it back again vividly. However, what it was I can tell
you in a few words, though no doubt you, as a man of the world, will smile at
the thinness of my skin when you hear it . . . I came up to town at one-
and-twenty, from Toneborough, in Outer Wessex, where I was born, and where,
before I left, I had won the heart of a young woman of my own age. I promised
her marriage, took advantage of my promise, and--am a bachelor.'
'The old story.'
The other nodded.
'I left the place, and thought at the time I had done a very clever thing in
getting so easily out of an entanglement. But I have lived long enough for that
promise to return to bother me--to be honest, not altogether as a pricking of
the conscience, but as a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen of the heap
of flesh called humanity. If I were to ask you to lend me fifty pounds, which I
would repay you next midsummer, and I did not repay you, I should consider
myself a shabby sort of fellow, especially if you wanted the money badly. Yet I
promised that girl just as distinctly; and then coolly broke my word, as if
doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean action, for which the poor victim
herself, encumbered with a child, and not I, had really to pay the penalty, in
spite of certain pecuniary aid that was given. There, that's the retrospective
trouble that I am always unearthing; and you may hardly believe that though so
many years have elapsed, and it is all gone by and done with, and she must be
getting on for an old woman now, as I am for an old man, it really often
destroys my sense of self-respect still.'
'O, I can understand it. All depends upon the temperament. Thousands of men
would have forgotten all about it; so would you, perhaps, if you had married and
had a family. Did she ever marry?'
'I don't think so. O no--she never did. She left Toneborough, and later on
appeared under another name at Exonbury, in the next county, where she was not
known. It is very seldom that I go down into that part of the country, but in
passing through Exonbury, on one occasion, I learnt that she was quite a settled
resident there, as a teacher of music, or something of the kind. That much I
casually heard when I was there two or three years ago. But I have never set
eyes on her since our original acquaintance, and should not know her if I met
'Did the child live?' asked the doctor.
'For several years, certainly,' replied his friend. 'I cannot say if she is
living now. It was a little girl. She might be married by this time as far as
'And the mother--was she a decent, worthy young woman?'
'O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive to the
ordinary observer; simply commonplace. Her position at the time of our
acquaintance was not so good as mine. My father was a solicitor, as I think I
have told you. She was a young girl in a music-shop; and it was represented to
me that it would be beneath my position to marry her. Hence the result.'
'Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is probably too late to think
of mending such a matter. It has doubtless by this time mended itself. You had
better dismiss it from your mind as an evil past your control. Of course, if
mother and daughter are alive, or either, you might settle something upon them,
if you were inclined, and had it to spare.'
'Well, I haven't much to spare; and I have relations in narrow
circumstances--perhaps narrower than theirs. But that is not the point. Were I
ever so rich I feel I could not rectify the past by money. I did not promise to
enrich her. On the contrary, I told her it would probably be dire poverty for
both of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.'
'Then find her and do it,' said the doctor jocularly as he rose to leave.
'Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest. But I haven't the slightest
desire for marriage; I am quite content to live as I have lived. I am a bachelor
by nature, and instinct, and habit, and everything. Besides, though I respect
her still (for she was not an atom to blame), I haven't any shadow of love for
her. In my mind she exists as one of those women you think well of, but find
uninteresting. It would be purely with the idea of putting wrong right that I
should hunt her up, and propose to do it off-hand.'
'You don't think of it seriously?' said his surprised friend.
'I sometimes think that I would, if it were practicable; simply, as I say, to
recover my sense of being a man of honour.'
'I wish you luck in the enterprise,' said Doctor Bindon. 'You'll soon be out of
that chair, and then you can put your impulse to the test. But--after twenty
years of silence--I should say, don't!'
The doctor's advice remained counterpoised, in Millborne's mind, by the
aforesaid mood of seriousness and sense of principle, approximating often to
religious sentiment, which had been evolving itself in his breast for months,
and even years.
The feeling, however, had no immediate effect upon Mr. Millborne's actions. He
soon got over his trifling illness, and was vexed with himself for having, in a
moment of impulse, confided such a case of conscience to anybody.
But the force which had prompted it, though latent, remained with him and
ultimately grew stronger. The upshot was that about four months after the date
of his illness and disclosure, Millborne found himself on a mild spring morning
at Paddington Station, in a train that was starting for the west. His many
intermittent thoughts on his broken promise from time to time, in those hours
when loneliness brought him face to face with his own personality, had at last
resulted in this course.
The decisive stimulus had been given when, a day or two earlier, on looking into
a Post-Office Directory, he learnt that the woman he had not met for twenty
years was still living on at Exonbury under the name she had assumed when, a
year or two after her disappearance from her native town and his, she had
returned from abroad as a young widow with a child, and taken up her residence
at the former city. Her condition was apparently but little changed, and her
daughter seemed to be with her, their names standing in the Directory as 'Mrs.
Leonora Frankland and Miss Frankland, Teachers of Music and Dancing.'
Mr. Millborne reached Exonbury in the afternoon, and his first business, before
even taking his luggage into the town, was to find the house occupied by the
teachers. Standing in a central and open place it was not difficult to discover,
a well-burnished brass doorplate bearing their names prominently. He hesitated
to enter without further knowledge, and ultimately took lodgings over a toyshop
opposite, securing a sitting-room which faced a similar drawing or sitting-room
at the Franklands', where the dancing lessons were given. Installed here he was
enabled to make indirectly, and without suspicion, inquiries and observations on
the character of the ladies over the way, which he did with much deliberateness.
He learnt that the widow, Mrs. Frankland, with her one daughter, Frances, was of
cheerful and excellent repute, energetic and painstaking with her pupils, of
whom she had a good many, and in whose tuition her daughter assisted her. She
was quite a recognized townswoman, and though the dancing branch of her
profession was perhaps a trifle worldly, she was really a serious-minded lady
who, being obliged to live by what she knew how to teach, balanced matters by
lending a hand at charitable bazaars, assisting at sacred concerts, and giving
musical recitations in aid of funds for bewildering happy savages, and other
such enthusiasms of this enlightened country. Her daughter was one of the
foremost of the bevy of young women who decorated the churches at Easter and
Christmas, was organist in one of those edifices, and had subscribed to the
testimonial of a silver broth-basin that was presented to the Reverend Mr.
Walker as a token of gratitude for his faithful and arduous intonations of six
months as sub-precentor in the Cathedral. Altogether mother and daughter
appeared to be a typical and innocent pair among the genteel citizens of
As a natural and simple way of advertising their profession they allowed the
windows of the music-room to be a little open, so that you had the pleasure of
hearing all along the street at any hour between sunrise and sunset fragmentary
gems of classical music as interpreted by the young people of twelve or fourteen
who took lessons there. But it was said that Mrs. Frankland made most of her
income by letting out pianos on hire, and by selling them as agent for the
The report pleased Millborne; it was highly creditable, and far better than he
had hoped. He was curious to get a view of the two women who led such blameless
He had not long to wait to gain a glimpse of Leonora. It was when she was
standing on her own doorstep, opening her parasol, on the morning after his
arrival. She was thin, though not gaunt; and a good, well-wearing, thoughtful
face had taken the place of the one which had temporarily attracted him in the
days of his nonage. She wore black, and it became her in her character of widow.
The daughter next appeared; she was a smoothed and rounded copy of her mother,
with the same decision in her mien that Leonora had, and a bounding gait in
which he traced a faint resemblance to his own at her age.
For the first time he absolutely made up his mind to call on them. But his
antecedent step was to send Leonora a note the next morning, stating his
proposal to visit her, and suggesting the evening as the time, because she
seemed to be so greatly occupied in her professional capacity during the day. He
purposely worded his note in such a form as not to require an answer from her
which would be possibly awkward to write.
No answer came. Naturally he should not have been surprised at this; and yet he
felt a little checked, even though she had only refrained from volunteering a
reply that was not demanded.
At eight, the hour fixed by himself, he crossed over and was passively admitted
by the servant. Mrs. Frankland, as she called herself, received him in the large
music-and-dancing room on the first-floor front, and not in any private little
parlour as he had expected. This cast a distressingly business-like colour over
their first meeting after so many years of severance. The woman he had wronged
stood before him, well-dressed, even to his metropolitan eyes, and her manner as
she came up to him was dignified even to hardness. She certainly was not glad to
see him. But what could he expect after a neglect of twenty years!
'How do you do, Mr. Millborne?' she said cheerfully, as to any chance caller. 'I
am obliged to receive you here because my daughter has a friend downstairs.'
'Your daughter--and mine.'
'Ah--yes, yes,' she replied hastily, as if the addition had escaped her memory.
'But perhaps the less said about that the better, in fairness to me. You will
consider me a widow, please.'
'Certainly, Leonora . . . ' He could not get on, her manner was so cold and
indifferent. The expected scene of sad reproach, subdued to delicacy by the run
of years, was absent altogether. He was obliged to come to the point without
'You are quite free, Leonora--I mean as to marriage? There is nobody who has
your promise, or--'
'O yes; quite free, Mr. Millborne,' she said, somewhat surprised.
'Then I will tell you why I have come. Twenty years ago I promised to make you
my wife; and I am here to fulfil that promise. Heaven forgive my tardiness!'
Her surprise was increased, but she was not agitated. She seemed to become
gloomy, disapproving. 'I could not entertain such an idea at this time of life,'
she said after a moment or two. 'It would complicate matters too greatly. I have
a very fair income, and require no help of any sort. I have no wish to marry . .
. What could have induced you to come on such an errand now? It seems quite
extraordinary, if I may say so!'
'It must--I daresay it does,' Millborne replied vaguely; 'and I must tell you
that impulse--I mean in the sense of passion--has little to do with it. I wish
to marry you, Leonora; I much desire to marry you. But it is an affair of
conscience, a case of fulfilment. I promised you, and it was dishonourable of me
to go away. I want to remove that sense of dishonour before I die. No doubt we
might get to love each other as warmly as we did in old times?'
She dubiously shook her head. 'I appreciate your motives, Mr. Millborne; but you
must consider my position; and you will see that, short of the personal wish to
marry, which I don't feel, there is no reason why I should change my state, even
though by so doing I should ease your conscience. My position in this town is a
respected one; I have built it up by my own hard labours, and, in short, I don't
wish to alter it. My daughter, too, is just on the verge of an engagement to be
married, to a young man who will make her an excellent husband. It will be in
every way a desirable match for her. He is downstairs now.'
'Does she know--anything about me?'
'O no, no; God forbid! Her father is dead and buried to her. So that, you see,
things are going on smoothly, and I don't want to disturb their progress.'
He nodded. 'Very well,' he said, and rose to go. At the door, however, he came
'Still, Leonora,' he urged, 'I have come on purpose; and I don't see what
disturbance would be caused. You would simply marry an old friend. Won't you
reconsider? It is no more than right that we should be united, remembering the
She shook her head, and patted with her foot nervously.
'Well, I won't detain you,' he added. 'I shall not be leaving Exonbury yet. You
will allow me to see you again?'
'Yes; I don't mind,' she said reluctantly.
The obstacles he had encountered, though they did not reanimate his dead passion
for Leonora, did certainly make it appear indispensable to his peace of mind to
overcome her coldness. He called frequently. The first meeting with the daughter
was a trying ordeal, though he did not feel drawn towards her as he had expected
to be; she did not excite his sympathies. Her mother confided to Frances the
errand of 'her old friend,' which was viewed by the daughter with strong
disfavour. His desire being thus uncongenial to both, for a long time Millborne
made not the least impression upon Mrs. Frankland. His attentions pestered her
rather than pleased her. He was surprised at her firmness, and it was only when
he hinted at moral reasons for their union that she was ever shaken. 'Strictly
speaking,' he would say, 'we ought, as honest persons, to marry; and that's the
truth of it, Leonora.'
'I have looked at it in that light,' she said quickly. 'It struck me at the very
first. But I don't see the force of the argument. I totally deny that after this
interval of time I am bound to marry you for honour's sake. I would have married
you, as you know well enough, at the proper time. But what is the use of
They were standing at the window. A scantly-whiskered young man, in clerical
attire, called at the door below. Leonora flushed with interest.
'Who is he?' said Mr. Millborne.
'My Frances's lover. I am so sorry--she is not at home! Ah! they have told him
where she is, and he has gone to find her . . . I hope that suit will prosper,
at any rate!'
'Why shouldn't it?'
'Well, he cannot marry yet; and Frances sees but little of him now he has left
Exonbury. He was formerly doing duty here, but now he is curate of St. John's,
Ivell, fifty miles up the line. There is a tacit agreement between them,
but--there have been friends of his who object, because of our vocation.
However, he sees the absurdity of such an objection as that, and is not
influenced by it.'
'Your marriage with me would help the match, instead of hindering it, as you
'Do you think it would?'
'It certainly would, by taking you out of this business altogether.'
By chance he had found the way to move her somewhat, and he followed it up. This
view was imparted to Mrs. Frankland's daughter, and it led her to soften her
opposition. Millborne, who had given up his lodging in Exonbury, journeyed to
and fro regularly, till at last he overcame her negations, and she expressed a
They were married at the nearest church; and the goodwill--whatever that was--of
the music-and-dancing connection was sold to a successor only too ready to jump
into the place, the Millbornes having decided to live in London.
Millborne was a householder in his old district, though not in his old street,
and Mrs. Millborne and their daughter had turned themselves into Londoners.
Frances was well reconciled to the removal by her lover's satisfaction at the
change. It suited him better to travel from Ivell a hundred miles to see her in
London, where he frequently had other engagements, than fifty in the opposite
direction where nothing but herself required his presence. So here they were,
furnished up to the attics, in one of the small but popular streets of the West
district, in a house whose front, till lately of the complexion of a
chimney-sweep, had been scraped to show to the surprised wayfarer the bright
yellow and red brick that had lain lurking beneath the soot of fifty years.
The social lift that the two women had derived from the alliance was
considerable; but when the exhilaration which accompanies a first residence in
London, the sensation of standing on a pivot of the world, had passed, their
lives promised to be somewhat duller than when, at despised Exonbury, they had
enjoyed a nodding acquaintance with three-fourths of the town. Mr. Millborne did
not criticise his wife; he could not. Whatever defects of hardness and acidity
his original treatment and the lapse of years might have developed in her, his
sense of a realized idea, of a re-established self- satisfaction, was always
thrown into the scale on her side, and out- weighed all objections.
It was about a month after their settlement in town that the household decided
to spend a week at a watering-place in the Isle of Wight, and while there the
Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate aforesaid) came to see them, Frances in
particular. No formal engagement of the young pair had been announced as yet,
but it was clear that their mutual understanding could not end in anything but
marriage without grievous disappointment to one of the parties at least. Not
that Frances was sentimental. She was rather of the imperious sort, indeed; and,
to say all, the young girl had not fulfilled her father's expectations of her.
But he hoped and worked for her welfare as sincerely as any father could do.
Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family, and stayed with them in
the Island two or three days. On the last day of his visit they decided to
venture on a two hours' sail in one of the small yachts which lay there for
hire. The trip had not progressed far before all, except the curate, found that
sailing in a breeze did not quite agree with them; but as he seemed to enjoy the
experience, the other three bore their condition as well as they could without
grimace or complaint, till the young man, observing their discomfort, gave
immediate directions to tack about. On the way back to port they sat silent,
facing each other.
Nausea in such circumstances, like midnight watching, fatigue, trouble, fright,
has this marked effect upon the countenance, that it often brings out strongly
the divergences of the individual from the norm of his race, accentuating
superficial peculiarities to radical distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies will
uncover themselves at these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes
invested with the spectral presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and
family lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments are
masked by a stereotyped expression and mien, start up with crude insistence to
Frances, sitting beside her mother's husband, with Mr. Cope opposite, was
naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious sail home; at
first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle- aged father and his child
grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated into spotty
stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged from their familiar
and reposeful beauty into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the
resemblance between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented
nothing to the eye in common. Mr. Millborne and Frances in their indisposition
were strangely, startlingly alike.
The inexplicable fact absorbed Cope's attention quite. He forgot to smile at
Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore he remained sitting
for some moments like a man in a trance.
As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions and contours, the
similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were again
masked by the commonplace differences of sex and age. It was as if, during the
voyage, a mysterious veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange
pantomime of the past.
During the evening he said to her casually: 'Is your step-father a cousin of
your mother, dear Frances?'
'Oh, no,' said she. 'There is no relationship. He was only an old friend of
hers. Why did you suppose such a thing?'
He did not explain, and the next morning started to resume his duties at Ivell.
Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd withal. At home in his quiet rooms
in St. Peter's Street, Ivell, he pondered long and unpleasantly on the
revelations of the cruise. The tale it told was distinct enough, and for the
first time his position was an uncomfortable one. He had met the Franklands at
Exonbury as parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, and had floated thus
far into an engagement which was indefinite only because of his inability to
marry just yet. The Franklands' past had apparently contained mysteries, and it
did not coincide with his judgment to marry into a family whose mystery was of
the sort suggested. So he sat and sighed, between his reluctance to lose Frances
and his natural dislike of forming a connection with people whose antecedents
would not bear the strictest investigation.
A passionate lover of the old-fashioned sort might possibly never have halted to
weigh these doubts; but though he was in the church Cope's affections were
fastidious--distinctly tempered with the alloys of the century's decadence. He
delayed writing to Frances for some while, simply because he could not tune
himself up to enthusiasm when worried by suspicions of such a kind.
Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was growing
anxious. In talking to her mother of Cope she had innocently alluded to his
curious inquiry if her mother and her step-father were connected by any tie of
cousinship. Mrs. Millborne made her repeat the words. Frances did so, and
watched with inquisitive eyes their effect upon her elder.
'What is there so startling in his inquiry then?' she asked. 'Can it have
anything to do with his not writing to me?'
Her mother flinched, but did not inform her, and Frances also was now drawn
within the atmosphere of suspicion. That night when standing by chance outside
the chamber of her parents she heard for the first time their voices engaged in
a sharp altercation.
The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into the house of the Millbornes.
The scene within the chamber-door was Mrs. Millborne standing before her
dressing-table, looking across to her husband in the dressing-room adjoining,
where he was sitting down, his eyes fixed on the floor.
'Why did you come and disturb my life a second time?' she harshly asked. 'Why
did you pester me with your conscience, till I was driven to accept you to get
rid of your importunity? Frances and I were doing well: the one desire of my
life was that she should marry that good young man. And now the match is broken
off by your cruel interference! Why did you show yourself in my world again, and
raise this scandal upon my hard-won respectability--won by such weary years of
labour as none will ever know!' She bent her face upon the table and wept
There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances lay awake nearly all that night,
and when at breakfast-time the next morning still no letter appeared from Mr.
Cope, she entreated her mother to go to Ivell and see if the young man were ill.
Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Frances, anxious and haggard, met
her at the station.
Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; though he was not ill.
One thing she had found out, that it was a mistake to hunt up a man when his
inclinations were to hold aloof. Returning with her mother in the cab Frances
insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which plainly had alienated her
lover. The precise words which had been spoken at the interview with him that
day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne could not be induced to repeat; but thus far she
admitted, that the estrangement was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne having
sought her out and married her.
'And why did he seek you out--and why were you obliged to marry him?' asked the
distressed girl. Then the evidences pieced themselves together in her acute
mind, and, her colour gradually rising, she asked her mother if what they
pointed to was indeed the fact. Her mother admitted that it was.
A flush of mortification succeeded to the flush of shame upon the young woman's
face. How could a scrupulously correct clergyman and lover like Mr. Cope ask her
to be his wife after this discovery of her irregular birth? She covered her eyes
with her hands in a silent despair.
In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first suppressed their anguish. But by
and by their feelings got the better of them, and when he was asleep in his
chair after dinner Mrs. Millborne's irritation broke out. The embittered Frances
joined her in reproaching the man who had come as the spectre to their intended
feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to ghastly failure.
'Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such an enemy to your house--one so
obviously your evil genius--much less accept him as a husband, after so long? If
you had only told me all, I could have advised you better! But I suppose I have
no right to reproach him, bitter as I feel, and even though he has blighted my
life for ever!'
'Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to have any more to say to a
man who had been such an unmitigated curse to me! But he would not listen; he
kept on about his conscience and mine, till I was bewildered, and said Yes! . .
. Bringing us away from a quiet town where we were known and respected--what an
ill-considered thing it was! O the content of those days! We had society there,
people in our own position, who did not expect more of us than we expected of
them. Here, where there is so much, there is nothing! He said London society was
so bright and brilliant that it would be like a new world. It may be to those
who are in it; but what is that to us two lonely women; we only see it flashing
past! . . . O the fool, the fool that I was!'
Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to prevent his hearing these
animadversions that were almost execrations, and many more of the same sort. As
there was no peace for him at home, he went again to his club, where, since his
reunion with Leonora, he had seldom if ever been seen. But the shadow of the
troubles in his household interfered with his comfort here also; he could not,
as formerly, settle down into his favourite chair with the evening paper,
reposeful in the celibate's sense that where he was his world's centre had its
fixture. His world was now an ellipse, with a dual centrality, of which his own
was not the major.
The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantalizing Frances by his
elusiveness. Plainly he was waiting upon events. Millborne bore the reproaches
of his wife and daughter almost in silence; but by degrees he grew meditative,
as if revolving a new idea. The bitter cry about blighting their existence at
length became so impassioned that one day Millborne calmly proposed to return
again to the country; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, to
a little old manor-house which he had found was to be let, standing a mile from
Mr. Cope's town of Ivell.
They were surprised, and, despite their view of him as the bringer of ill, were
disposed to accede. 'Though I suppose,' said Mrs. Millborne to him, 'it will end
in Mr. Cope's asking you flatly about the past, and your being compelled to tell
him; which may dash all my hopes for Frances. She gets more and more like you
every day, particularly when she is in a bad temper. People will see you
together, and notice it; and I don't know what may come of it!'
'I don't think they will see us together,' he said; but he entered into no
argument when she insisted otherwise. The removal was eventually resolved on;
the town-house was disposed of; and again came the invasion by furniture-men and
vans, till all the movables and servants were whisked away. He sent his wife and
daughter to an hotel while this was going on, taking two or three journeys
himself to Ivell to superintend the refixing, and the improvement of the
grounds. When all was done he returned to them in town.
The house was ready for their reception, he told them, and there only remained
the journey. He accompanied them and their personal luggage to the station only,
having, he said, to remain in town a short time on business with his lawyer.
They went, dubious and discontented-- for the much-loved Cope had made no sign.
'If we were going down to live here alone,' said Mrs Millborne to her daughter
in the train; 'and there was no intrusive tell-tale presence! . . . But let it
The house was a lovely little place in a grove of elms, and they liked it much.
The first person to call upon them as new residents was Mr. Cope. He was
delighted to find that they had come so near, and (though he did not say this)
meant to live in such excellent style. He had not, however, resumed the manner
of a lover.
'Your father spoils all!' murmured Mrs. Millborne.
But three days later she received a letter from her husband, which caused her no
small degree of astonishment. It was written from Boulogne.
It began with a long explanation of settlements of his property, in which he had
been engaged since their departure. The chief feature in the business was that
Mrs. Millborne found herself the absolute owner of a comfortable sum in personal
estate, and Frances of a life- interest in a larger sum, the principal to be
afterwards divided amongst her children if she had any. The remainder of his
letter ran as hereunder:-
'I have learnt that there are some derelictions of duty which cannot be blotted
out by tardy accomplishment. Our evil actions do not remain isolated in the
past, waiting only to be reversed: like locomotive plants they spread and
re-root, till to destroy the original stem has no material effect in killing
them. I made a mistake in searching you out; I admit it; whatever the remedy may
be in such cases it is not marriage, and the best thing for you and me is that
you do not see me more. You had better not seek me, for you will not be likely
to find me: you are well provided for, and we may do ourselves more harm than
good by meeting again.
Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day forward. But a searching inquiry
would have revealed that, soon after the Millbornes went to Ivell, an
Englishman, who did not give the name of Millborne, took up his residence in
Brussels; a man who might have been recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had met
him. One afternoon in the ensuing summer, when this gentleman was looking over
the English papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland's
marriage. She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope.
'Thank God!' said the gentleman.
But his momentary satisfaction was far from being happiness. As he formerly had
been weighted with a bad conscience, so now was he burdened with the heavy
thought which oppressed Antigone, that by honourable observance of a rite he had
obtained for himself the reward of dishonourable laxity. Occasionally he had to
be helped to his lodgings by his servant from the Cercle he frequented, through
having imbibed a little too much liquor to be able to take care of himself. But
he was harmless, and even when he had been drinking said little.