CHAPTER XLIV.—‘JANE PEARTREE.’

The stream of my narrative, instead of lingering round that group of excited duellists on the French coast, turns again back to England, and to that place of refuge which the wandering woman, ‘Jane Peartree,’ found in the extremity of her distress.

After her first night under the roof of Mount Eden, and after her first wild impulse to rise and fly on and on, she subsided into a kind of restless slumber, accompanied with violent shivering and nausea, and before twenty-four hours had passed violent fever had set in. Over the details of this illness, which lasted many weeks, I have no intention to linger. We pass on to the period when the invalid, sufficiently convalescent to sit up in the smaller chamber to which she had been conveyed, began thoroughly to realise the fiery ordeal through which her life had passed.

It was a room overlooking the lawn and shrubberies, which, at that season, were carpeted and draped with snow; and she sat one morning, looking out—on the white ground, on the shrouded trees, on the red sun beyond, hanging like a pink balloon close to the cold and foggy marshes, through which flowed the sullen Thames.

By her side stood the French girl Adèle, who, throughout the sickness, had been her voluntary nurse, and had watched her with extraordinary tenderness and care.

‘You are stronger to-day than ever, mademoiselle,’ she was saying in French; ‘you will soon be able to leave this room.’

The invalid sat silent, her eyes on the dreary, winter landscape, her pale beautiful face set like a mask of utter forlornness and despair; then slowly, convulsively, her bosom shook, her eyes filled, and large tears coursed silently over her cheek.

‘O mademoiselle, do not weep! It breaks my heart to see you. Courage! Are you not nearly well? Ah, yes! and there will be happy days in store for you, after so great trouble.’

The invalid smiled sadly, and shook her head; then reaching out a wasted hand, she took one of the French girl’s.

‘Adèle!’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever care for any one very, very much? I don’t mean foolishly, like young girls who think they love; but passionately, religiously, with your whole heart and soul? I do not speak of women, but of men, Adèle; though there are good women too.’

With a curiously beautiful shame Adèle turned her face away, while a faint flush crept over her face. After a moment she replied evasively:—

‘There are few good men, mademoiselle.’

‘But have you known none?’

‘Yes, one—one only,’ replied Adèle with sudden warmth, ‘and I think there is no other like him in the world. Ah, mademoiselle, it is so strange that you should ask me, since he is coming here to see me this very day.’

‘Tell me about him, Adèle,’ said the invalid gently.

‘To tell you truly all he is, mademoiselle, I should have to tell you all I have been, and then, you might hate me! But no, you are too good. I know you have never been there—-where he found me—in the life which is worse than hell. If you have been unfortunate, you have not-been to blame; but I—I have been a devil, tempted by a devil! Ah, yes!’

As she proceeded, the girl seemed to yield more and more to the hysterical excitement of her temperament and race. Her face went ghastly pale, her eyes swam with tears, her hands opened and shut convulsively.

‘Do not speak of it,’ said the other, taking her hand again gently—‘since it gives you such pain.’

‘No, mademoiselle, let me speak,’ returned Adèle struggling with her agitation, ‘but I will not speak of that, but of him who raised me from it and saved my life for God. Twice, mademoiselle, he came like the angel he is; the first time it was too soon; the second time I thought it was the Lord Himself, standing—ah, so beautiful!—at my bedside.’

She ceased, and, pressing her hands upon her bosom, gazed out through the window, as if indeed she saw before her the heavenly vision of which she spoke. Then, after a little time, the invalid broke the silence, saying:—

‘I think I understand you. I, too, have known such a man as you describe—all goodness, all kindness—so different to the rest. But I brought great misery to him, and sometimes I think his heart must be quite broken. That is what fills me with despair.’

‘Truly, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes. If I could be certain that he was happy, that he had forgotten me, I should not mind.’

‘Was he your lover, mademoiselle?’ asked Adèle, suddenly looking into her companion’s eye.

‘He was my husband,’ was the reply.

Adèle uttered an exclamation.

‘Ah, that is different!’ she cried in wonder. ‘And—and—you left him, madame?’

‘Yes, Adèle.’

‘Although you loved him so much!’

‘Because I loved him.’

‘And does he live, madame?’

Again the softly summoned word ‘madame,’ so significant of a new curiosity and a new respect.

‘Yes, he lives, unless he has died of sorrow. I brought disgrace upon him; it was unhappy for him that we ever met; and so—I left him.’

‘Does he know you are here, madame?’

Jane Peartree started nervously; then, smiling sadly at her own terror, shook her head.

‘God forbid!’

‘And you are really his wife, madame?’

‘Yes.’

Adèle walked to the window thoughtfully, and stood there continuing the conversation.

‘It must be so dreadful,’ she said, ‘for husband and wife to part. I was never married, madame, but I understand. A little time ago I was reading in an English newspaper, of an English merchant, a rich man, whose wife left him suddenly, and no one knew why. She had been an actress in the theatre, and he had fallen in love with her upon the stage. Then, owing to some disagreement, she ran away.’

Fortunately, Adèle was not looking at her companion; otherwise she would have been startled by the change that had come over her. Leaning back in her invalid chair, with the last trace of colour faded from her cheek, and her form trembling violently, she murmured, in a voice of forced composure—

‘Yes;—and did she return?’

‘Ah, no, madame. The lady drowned herself that very night, and the body was afterwards found in the Morgue, at the police station, and identified by her husband. It was the account of the inquest which I read in the journals. Though the body had been long in the water, and was quite disfigured, the husband recognised it at once.’

‘But how?’

‘Easily. By the clothes upon it, and by a pair of bracelets which the gentleman’s sister had given to the lady, as a birthday gift.’

The invalid uttered a low moan, and Adèle, approaching her, saw with surprise that she had fainted in her chair.

Reproaching herself for having wearied out her charge, the French girl knelt by her side, chafed her hands, and gradually drew her back to consciousness. At last opening her eyes, she shuddered violently, and shrank away as if possessed by some unaccountable terror.

‘Jane! Madame! Calm yourself. It is I, Adèle. Forgive me for tiring you with my foolish chatter, since you are so weak. I will fetch you your beef-tea, and then you will be better.’

Gradually the invalid became more composed, and partook of the nourishment which the kind nurse brought to her; but she still, from time to time, seemed to fix her eyes on some sight of horror, and to tremble with secret agitation.

A little later in the day, as she sat leaning back in her chair and gazing in the fire, she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. Adèle, who was at the window, uttered a joyful cry.

‘Madame! it is he! it is my friend!’

A few minutes later came a message from Sister Ursula saying that Adèle was wanted below, and that during her absence the messenger, a young country girl of seventeen, was to remain in the sick room.

Adèle, with sparkling eyes and heightened colour, kissed the invalid, and departed.

A long time elapsed. Jane Peartree, with her eyes on the fire, fell into a light sleep, broken by feverish flashes of dream. She was awakened by the sound of voices at her door. Then Adèle, smiling brightly, entered, accompanied by Sister Ursula.

‘I have brought my friend,’ she cried, ‘to speak to you before he goes. Come in, Mr. Sutherland.’

Before Jane Peartree could reply, a gentleman, hat in hand, entered the room. The invalid looked up as if startled, sat erect in her chair, and the full light of the wintry afternoon fell upon her beautiful face.

She did not recognise the gentleman, but at the first glance he, to her horror and alarm, seemed to recognise her. Turning ghastly pale, and uttering a wild exclamation, he stood and gazed upon her, as upon a spirit risen from the dead.

‘What is the matter?’ cried Sister Ursula, in astonishment, while Adèle Lambert stood by trembling, and Jane Peartree, startled and terrified, shrank back in her chair.

But directly the first shock of surprise was over Sutherland mastered his agitation, and quietly advanced into the room.

‘It is nothing,’ he said to Sister Ursula. ‘Pray forgive my stupidity, but for the moment I was startled out of my self-possession by a somewhat singular resemblance.’

He added, looking steadily at Jane Peartree:—

‘They tell me you have been very ill. I trust you are now almost well.’

He waited for a reply, but none came. Jane Peartree still shrank back in terror or aversion, and endeavoured to turn away her face.

‘You spoke of a resemblance,’ said Sister Ursula. ‘What did you mean?’

Sutherland still kept his eyes upon the averted form of Jane Peartree, and saw that it trembled violently, as he replied:—

‘It is scarcely worth mentioning further, for such resemblances are common; but at the first glance, this lady seemed very like a person I once knew.’

To his intense surprise, Jane Peartree now turned her eyes and looked steadily up at him. Her face was white as death, but firm and resolved. Again the peculiar likeness struck him, and he gazed in wonder; but she bore his gaze steadily, as she asked, in a low deep tone, very unlike that of her usual voice—

‘Who is the person of whom you speak?’

‘A lady—a married lady.’

‘A friend of yours, sir?’

‘Scarcely that; one whom I met on several occasions, and whose character I greatly admired.’

‘Is she still living, sir?’

‘No, she is dead,’ answered Sutherland.

Jane Peartree turned her eyes away, and sighed heavily, while Adèle stepped to the side of the chair, and adjusted the pillows behind her head.

‘Her life was unhappy,’ Sutherland, continued, ‘and her death was very pitiful. She had just this lady’s eyes, her hair, even something of her voice. If a human being could rise from the grave, I should say this lady was the same; that I know is impossible. Ah! if she only lived—if I could only see her again—if I could only tell her of what has passed since she died!’

As he spoke, he quietly watched the invalid, and saw that she was still greatly agitated. Eager to spare her pain, though still strangely curious and suspicious, he changed the conversation, and talked lightly for some minutes to Adèle and Sister Ursula. Finally he glanced towards the door, and held out his hand to the invalid.

‘Good-night,’ he said.

‘Good-night, sir,’ said Jane Peartree, not turning her face again.

‘Good-night, Adèle,’ he said, smiling.

‘Good-night, monsieur,’ answered Adèle, looking at him with bright, almost worshipping eyes; then, lifting his hand to her lips, she kissed it gently.

Accompanied by Sister Ursula, Sutherland descended to the lower part of the house, and entered a small sitting-room, or office, reserved for the superior’s private use.

‘Tell me something more of your invalid,’ he said quickly. ‘I feel rather interested in her. What did you say was her name?’

‘Jane Peartree.’

‘Jane Peartree?’

‘Yes; but it may be assumed. I have noticed one thing which I may tell you in confidence. The initials on the clothes she wore when she came here are quite different.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Not “J. P.”—but “M. F.”’

Sutherland started in new surprise.

‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, “M. F.” Do you know any person with those initials? Who was the person to whom you referred upstairs?’

Sutherland’s reply was singular.

‘I cannot tell you; not, at least, to-night. Promise me, however, before I go, that this lady—she is a lady, that is clear, and very different to the usual inmates of the Home—shall not go away from Mount Eden until you hear from me again. In the meantime assure her, should she question you, that I have not recognised her.’

‘That you have not recognised her?’ echoed Sister Ursula, puzzled and anxious.

‘Just so. It is important that you should not alarm her; it is equally important that she should not be lost sight of, if what I suspect is possible.’

‘But can you not explain?’

‘Do not ask me to-night. As soon as I can I will write—or come to you. Pray trust me in this matter; it is a sort of miracle, not quite comprehended even by myself.’

‘As you please,’ returned Sister Ursula, smiling, ‘since you are determined to be inscrutable.’