Rupert Godwin

BENT BUT NOT BROKEN.

The day that succeeded the night on which the Marquis of Roxleydale and his two friends had visited the Circenses happened to be Saturday, and Violet Westford had to attend at the theatre in order to receive her salary for the week. This business was a long one, for the salaries were not paid until after the rehearsal of a new piece that was about to be produced, and Violet had to wait until all the principal actors and actresses had received their money. Thus it happened that Clara Westford was alone all that Saturday morning; alone and very sad; for when her children were away from her she made no effort to control her sadness. She gave free course to melancholy and regretful thoughts; mournful and bitter memories crowded upon her mind, and the unheeded tears rolled slowly down her wan cheeks, as she bent over the needlework, which took such time and labour to accomplish, and was so poorly paid for when done.

She was seated at the little table near the window, when a man’s footstep sounded on the stair without, and in the next instant the door was suddenly opened.

Clara Westford started to her feet, her heart beating quickly. To whom could that unexpected footstep belong except Lionel, her bright, brave son, in whose presence there was always comfort?

Her disappointment was very keen when, on turning towards the door, she found herself face to face with her bitterest foe, the man whom of all others she hated and feared.

But the proud spirit of Sir John Ponsonby’s daughter was not yet quenched. The widow drew herself to her full height, and turned to meet her persecutor, very pale, but self-possessed as her visitor himself.

“You here, Mr. Godwin!” she said. “I thought that in this place at least I should be secure from such an intrusion.”

“Love, Clara, respects no place in its pursuit of the beloved object.”

Mrs. Westford shuddered, and turned from the banker with a look of scorn and disgust.

“Love!” she exclaimed. “Pray do not profane that sentiment by the poison of your lips! Why are you here, Mr. Godwin? By what right do you enter this room? This poor lodging is at least my own, and I request you to leave it immediately. When you came to me in my happy country home you came as the harbinger of sorrow and desolation. By your machinations I and my children have been banished from that home. Here we have taken shelter. This place is our own, supported by our own labour, and here our poverty should preserve us from your hateful presence.”

“Fine words, Clara Westford—grand words!” exclaimed the banker, with a sneer. “You would banish me from your presence; you would order me out of your lodgings; and yet I come to you as a friend.”

“A friend!” cried the widow, with a bitter laugh.

“Ay, a friend, Clara, as well as a lover. Let me first be the lover; let me first tell you that my heart is still unchanged. After all these years of separation, after all your unconcealed hatred, your bitter scorn and defiance, I love you still. Yes, Clara, even now in your poverty, even now in your fallen pride.”

“My pride has not fallen,” answered Clara Westford. “It is the pride of a woman whose love has been given to a noble and generous-minded husband, and who holds that husband’s memory after death even more sacred than his honour in life.”

“Clara!” cried Rupert Godwin passionately, “Clara, have pity upon me! Remember, how deeply, how devotedly I loved you.”

His hands were clasped entreatingly; his head sank upon his breast; a vivid light burned in his dark eyes. It seemed as if in that moment the feelings of youth returned to him; and for a while at least it was love, and not vengeance, that animated his breast.

“Clara,” he murmured tenderly, “at the sight of your face the past all comes back to me, and I forget your cruelty, I forget your preference of another, I forget all except my love. I cannot bear to see you thus—poor, degraded; for poverty is in itself degradation. Leave this place, Clara. Your old home shall again be yours; beautified and enriched by the lavish outlay of wealth which I prize very little except for your sake. Return to the Grange, Clara, as its mistress—and the mistress of my fate.”

Clara Westford looked at the banker aghast with horror.

“Return thither!” she cried. “Return to that house as your dependant; your—no, I will not utter the odious word. Return to that house which is sacred to me by the memory of my husband’s affection! You must know me very little, Rupert Godwin, when you can come to me with such a request as this.”

The banker’s face grew black as thunder.

“Enough, Clara!” he exclaimed. “I was a fool to show you the weakness of my heart. I came to you as a friend; but you refuse to accept my friendship. So be it. Henceforth I am your foe. You have chosen to set your pride against mine. You have elected to defy me. Good, madam! I accept the challenge. It is a duel to the death. I am what is called a good hater, Mrs. Westford, as you may live to discover.”

For some moments Clara Westford made no reply. She stood before the banker, calm, impassable; very beautiful in her quiet dignity, in her threadbare mourning robes, her simple widow’s cap. The delicate colour had faded from her cheeks, the perfect oval of her face was hollowed by care and deprivation, but the classic outline of feature and the subtle loveliness of expression remained, and Clara Westford was still beautiful.

After a few moments of silence, during which the banker’s breath came thick and fast between his set teeth, Clara Westford seated herself in the chair by the table, and resumed her work.

“I must remind you that this room belongs to me, Mr. Godwin,” she said, very quietly, “and that your presence is unpleasant to me. Allow me to wish you good morning.”

“Not yet, Mrs. Westford; I did not come here entirely on a fool’s errand. You have despised my friendship; you have defied my enmity. Perhaps, however, you will not refuse to accept my advice. Have a care of your daughter!”

Clara Westford started; and her face, always pale, grew ghastly white. She tried to speak, but her trembling lips refused to shape the words she would have spoken.

“Have a care of your daughter!” repeated Rupert Godwin. “She is very young. She is inexperienced. It is only a few months since she first came to London, and already strange things have happened. She has left one situation—under suspicious circumstances. She is now in a sphere where there is constant danger for one so young and beautiful as she is. Once again, I say, beware, Clara Westford! and if ever disgrace or ruin come upon your only daughter, remember that I have warned you. In that hour you will perhaps come to me. In that hour you will perhaps condescend to accept my friendship.”

What words could have been better adapted to strike terror to the heart of a mother? The sickness of despair blanched the cheek of Clara Westford. Everywhere, on every side, there seemed danger and misery. And she was so utterly alone in the world, so completely helpless, hedged round by calamities, face to face with a man who openly avowed himself her deadly enemy! Yet, even in this supreme hour of trial, her fortitude did not entirely abandon her.

“My daughter is able to protect her good name in any position, Mr. Godwin,” she said proudly, “however degraded that position may appear in your eyes. If I am destined to eat the bread of dependence, I would rather be indebted to the precarious labours of my daughter than owe sixpence to your—friendship.”

“You carry matters with a high hand, Mrs. Westford,” replied the banker, irritated beyond measure by the undisturbed calmness of his victim’s manner; “but I can afford to wait. What is it Tennyson says about that? ‘My faith is strong in Time!’ You defy me to-day, but before long I may find you in a more reasonable temper. En attendant, I can only advise you to keep a sharp eye upon Miss Violet. The Circenses ballet is not quite the highest school of morality; and Hogarth has taught us what happens to rustic simplicity when she comes to seek her fortune in London. Good morning.”