The Earl's promise

Grace’s experiences of drawing-rooms in her own country had been considerable.

She had been acquainted from her childhood with immense apartments, commanding sea and land views. She knew the orthodox style of furniture which upholsterers sent in as a species of groundwork upon which individual fancy subsequently painted the form of its own especial idiosyncrasy. She had beheld acres of carpeting, hangings which were miracles of heaviness and expense, chairs first covered with green, or amber, or ponceau, or silver grey, to match the curtains, and then wrapped up in holland, to preserve their beauty intact, ponderous loo and sofa tables, everything as good as money could buy, and expected to last accordingly; these were some of the necessaries without which no drawing-room in a gentleman’s house could be considered orthodox; but when all such things had been provided, it was admissible to add such other elegances as personal taste might suggest.

Personal taste or family circumstances produced occasionally some very curious devices in the way of ornamentation. Relics from Pompeii would be the attraction of one home; carved temples, cedar-wood boxes, daggers with richly-ornamented handles, spoke in another of some male relatives who had crossed the sea, and brought back flotsam and jetsom with him. Dogs, parrots, flowers, depicted in wool on canvas, testified in many homes to the indefatigable industry of its female occupants; in rare cases, rare because the materials were for those days costly, beadwork in unlimited quantities charmed the beholder; occasionally old china, which would now fetch fabulous prices in London, adorned the chiffoniers, whatnots, and cabinets of persons who had none too much money to spare, whilst in almost all cases where there were young ladies, or even middle-aged, the open piano, the litter of music, often a harp or a guitar, spoke of the love of that talent which is bestowed so much more freely on Irish than English women.

All these rooms, and many others besides, Grace had been free of; rooms with a certain stately dignity about them, rooms connected with which she had many a pleasant childish and girlish memory, but a drawing-room like Mrs. Hartley’s was as far beyond her imagination as that other style of apartment generally and prudently unoccupied which obtains in the suburbs of London, and in the houses of all highly respectable and sober-minded middle class people throughout England generally.

Luxury in those days had not attained to the height to which it has since sprung. It has been reserved for the reign of her present Majesty to witness a more rapid transition from comparative simplicity of living, lodging, dressing, spending, to the wildest extravagance of expenditure in all ranks, than has ever occurred before at any era, or in any nation; and for this reason the decorations and furniture which seemed perfection to Grace Moffat, would no doubt appear extremely poor and commonplace if catalogued for the benefit of the reader.

In the nature of almost every woman there is, I suspect, a latent, cat-like love of things soft, bright, cosy, and there was something in the whole aspect of Mrs. Hartley’s drawing-room which appealed to this sense in Grace’s nature. She liked walking over the thick carpet; the white sheepskin hearthrug on which generally reposed a King Charles that hated Grace with a detestation she cordially reciprocated; the firelight reflected from mirrors, sparkling against lustres; the lovely water-colour drawings hanging on the walls; the delightful easy chairs; the statuettes; the flowers piled up in banks between the long French windows, and the conservatory filled with rare and beautiful plants; all these things were pleasant as they were novel to the rich widow’s visitor.

In Mrs. Hartley’s opinion, however, the very greatest ornament her room had ever held was Grace Moffat, and the admiration she always entertained for her guest was heightened as they entered the apartment together, by the new interest now attaching to her, as the older lady felt satisfied must be the case. Some misplaced affection, some love entanglement which she had kept secret until she could endure to keep silent no longer.

“Now sit down, dear, and tell me all about it; you prefer the low chair, I know,” began Mrs. Hartley; but Grace answered,—

“I should like to sit on the rug close by you, if I may, and if Jet does not object to my company.”

“He shall be taken away,” said Jet’s mistress, laying her hands on the bell.

“No!” interposed Grace. “I will try to be amiable to him, if he will be tolerant of me,” and she sat down; a pretty picture in the firelight, her black dress disposing itself in graceful folds over the white rug, her hands crossed idly in her lap, and her face upturned to Mrs. Hartley, who, stooping, kissed it almost involuntarily.

“Now who is he?” asked the widow.

“There is no ‘he’ in my story,” Grace answered; “at least no ‘he’ in your sense. I hope you will not be disappointed when I tell you my trouble has nothing to do with love, but a very great deal to do with money.”

“So far, my dear, I think money has been a trouble to you; when you are as old as I am you will understand the trouble of having money is by no means comparable to the trouble of being without it.”

“In this case my money has nothing to do with the story.”

“Then, for mercy’s sake, child, tell me what has to do with it.”

“I have,” Grace answered; “a secret has been confided to me that I do not know how to deal with; a responsibility has been put upon me which makes me wretched. I fully intended when I first came here to tell you all about the matter, but—”

“But what?” asked Mrs. Hartley softly; “this is the light, and you are in the mood for confession, let us get that little ‘but’ out of the way now—for ever.”

“I will try,” said Grace boldly. “You are not really changed in the least; you are the same true, dear friend you were in the old Kingslough days when Nettie made such a mess of her life; but everything about you is changed. The grandeur—don’t laugh at me—and the formality, and the stateliness of your surroundings threw me back at first, and then I fancy you thought I was changed, and so—”

“Yes; you need not try to finish; spite of your occasional little whiffs of temper, you have changed, or rather developed, into one of the sweetest and most lovable women I have ever known. And now you are getting accustomed to what you call my grandeur, and English ways do not seem so objectionable as they did at first, and we are going this evening to break the ice once and for always; and you have a story to tell, and I am in one of my best moods for listening.”

“My story is a very short one, but it will interest you, for it concerns the Rileys.”

“Which of them?”

“All; father, mother, sisters, brother,” answered Grace. “The night my father was taken ill I was told something which may affect them all most seriously. It was my intention to consult him in the matter, but after—after his death you may imagine I forgot for a time in my own grief the possible griefs of other people. Before I left Ireland, however, I received a note containing the words, ‘Have you forgotten what I told you?’ To-day a second note is forwarded to me repeating the same inquiry.”

“May I ask the name of the writer?”

“No; there is my difficulty. I am bound to silence as regards my informant. But for that, I should have sent for General Riley and told him all I had learned.”

“The Rileys and you have not been very intimate since you were sweet seventeen?” said Mrs. Hartley interrogatively.

“No,” was the reply. “We of course are friendly if we happen to meet, but Mrs. Riley’s disappointment at my refusing John was so great that she ceased visiting Bayview entirely. I felt rather hurt that she never called upon me after my loss. The General was ill; indeed his health has been bad for a long time past, but I thought and think she and the girls might have let bygones be bygones, and come and said, ‘We are sorry for your trouble.’”

“It certainly would have been more graceful,” remarked Mrs. Hartley; “but, then, one never associates the ideas of grace and Mrs. Riley together. But to come to your story.”

“You know there is a mortgage on Woodbrook?”

“I knew there was one, and to know that, is to conclude there is one still. I never heard of a mortgage being paid off in Ireland; such a thing might have happened, but I do not think it likely.”

“The Woodbrook mortgage has not been paid at all events,” replied Grace; “but, so far as I can gather, it has changed hands.”

“In whose hand is it now, then?”

“In Mr. Brady’s.”

“What! the man Nettie ran away with?”

“The same.”

“Where on earth did he get enough money to enable him to advance such a sum?”

“I have not the faintest idea.”

“What could have induced him to do a thing of the kind?”

“Revenge. He means to turn the Rileys out of Woodbrook; at least so I am informed.”

“Can you trust your informant?”

“Fully; there is, I think, not the slightest hope of”—Grace hesitated; she could not say, “his being mistaken,” and she would not say, “her;” so she altered the form of her sentence, and finished it by adding, “there cannot be any mistake in the matter.”

Mrs. Hartley lay back in her chair and thought in silence.

She was quick enough to grasp the whole meaning of Grace’s communication, and she understood sufficient of legal matters to comprehend how to a certain extent the desire of Mr. Brady’s heart might be compassed.

“What can be done?” Grace asked at length.

“I do not see that either of us can do anything,” was the reply. “General Riley ought to be told by some one, and the question naturally arises by whom? Shall I write to him, if you feel any hesitation about reopening your acquaintance with the family?”

“I should not have any feeling of that kind to influence me in such a case as this,” Grace answered; “but if I wrote to the General, it would be certain in some way to reach Mr. Brady’s ears, and if it did—”

“Supposing it did?”

“By putting two and two together he might, he would, suspect from whom I received my information.”

“And in that event disastrous results might ensue to your nameless friend?”

“I believe so.”

“I think you had better tell me the name of your friend.”

“I cannot. I promised to keep it a secret. It fills me with such dread and apprehension to fancy what might occur if Mr. Brady ever should learn who betrayed him, that I feel tempted at times to let matters take their course. Surely, the General is old enough to manage his affairs without any assistance from me?”

“He may be old enough, but he is far from wise enough. If Mr. Brady has really laid a trap for him, he will walk into it as innocently as a child; and then, some fine day, we shall hear they have all to leave Woodbrook; that the shock has killed the General; and that when John returns there will not be an acre of land left of his inheritance.”

“I thought of writing an anonymous letter,” said Grace innocently; “but then no one ever takes any notice of anonymous letters.”

“It is well you did not carry that plan into execution,” remarked Mrs. Hartley. “I must think the matter over, Grace. It has come upon me suddenly; in fact, I cannot realize such a complication. You are positive,” she went on, “that you have not been deceived; that the he, she, or it who told you the story did so in perfect good faith?”

“Yes, quite positive, the risk incurred alone would satisfy me of that, even if other circumstances had failed to do so.”

“Do you know it strikes me you have taken the whole affair rather coolly, young lady!” said Mrs. Hartley. “I think, even although you did refuse John Riley, he would not have permitted months to pass without letting you know your fortune was in danger, had the cases been reversed.”

“I have felt something of what you express,” Grace replied, “and suffered in consequence. Had John been in this country, I should have told him at once—I should have felt safe with him—but I am afraid of telling the General. I suppose I must be a great coward, but I never dreaded anything so much as having it known the information came from me. I could have trusted John’s discretion, I cannot trust that of the General or Mrs. Riley or the girls.”

“Still we must not let them be utterly beggared without lifting a finger to save them. Besides, your friend must wish them to know their danger, or such a communication would never have been made; and if harm does come of Mr. Brady hearing you are acquainted with his secrets, it seems to me that you are in no way responsible for it.”

“Harm must not come, Mrs. Hartley,” said Grace earnestly. “If you can think of any way in which we can let the General know without his connecting either of us with the intelligence—well; but if not, the very best thing that could be done would be for you to write to John and tell him that he must come home.”

“And find Mr. Brady ‘in possession’ of the property!” finished Mrs. Hartley. “I suspect there is no time to be lost about the matter, and that, clever as we both are, we shall have to get the assistance of some man in it. Poor John! it would indeed be hard to lose both wife and lands.”

“I should have thought he might have found the former without much difficulty ere this,” said Grace.

“Then, my dear, you judged Mr. John Riley, as usual, unfairly,” retorted Mrs. Hartley.

Her visitor laughed. “I do so like to hear you defend him. You are thoroughly in earnest on that subject.”

“Earnestness is a good quality,” said the widow. “It is one in which some of your suitors have been rather deficient.”

“None of them, so far as their desire to get my money was concerned, I assure you,” Miss Moffat answered, which might be considered as rather a neat little tit in return for Mrs. Hartley’s tat.

For a long time after they had separated for the night the latter lady lay awake, thinking over Grace’s story, and wondering who could have told her. She recalled all the people she had known in Kingslough, she puzzled her head to imagine who it might be so utterly in Mr. Brady’s power as to dread the weight of his vengeance. She tried to remember if Grace had let fall any word likely to give her a clue, but in vain.

“It must be that Hanlon or else Scott—I dare say it was Scott. But, then, Mr. Brady and he could not be bitterer enemies than they are; besides, the address on that letter was written by a person of education. I feel no doubt it was Mr. Hanlon,” and then all at once the truth flashed upon her, and she sat up in bed, saying almost out aloud, “It was Nettie, the man’s own wife.” Even in the darkness Kingslough seemed to rise before her eyes. Kingslough at high noon, with the sun dancing on the sea and a group of pitying friends gathered round a feeble old woman bewailing herself for Nettie, golden-haired Nettie, who had gone out that morning all unsuspecting to meet her fate.

Next morning Mrs. Hartley appeared at breakfast, with signs of sleeplessness around her eyes, and tokens of anxiety on her face.

“I have decided on the course we must take,” she said, when they were alone; “but before I speak about it, I want to tell and ask you something.

“I know now from whom you received your information; do not be frightened, for the secret is safe with me, and it is well I do know, for otherwise we might, with the best intentions, have secured a fiasco. What I wish to ask is this, Is he aware she is acquainted with this affair?”

“Mrs. Hartley,” said Grace quietly, “I must refuse to answer any question in connection with the individual who brought this intelligence to me. I wish it never had been brought. I am the last person in the world on whom such a responsibility should have been thrown.”

“I agree with you to a certain extent. I think there are many persons in the world who would have been of more use in such a crisis than yourself. The worst of young heiresses, even if they have philanthropic impulses and amiable dispositions, is that they are apt to get slightly—”

“Selfish,” suggested one of the young heiresses referred to.

“No, I do not mean exactly that; in fact, I am not exactly certain that I could express what I do mean. One thing, however, I must say, making all allowance for the difficulty in which you have been placed,—I think, Miss Grace, you ought to have made some move in the matter ere this; you ought to have told me all about it before you had been twenty-four hours in the same house with me. There, I have spoken out my mind and feel better for it. Now are you going to be very angry with me?”

“No indeed,” Grace answered; “I like to be scolded, it seems as though some one loved me enough to be interested in me,” and she caught Mrs. Hartley’s hand and held it for a second. There were unshed tears in the eyes of both. Perhaps the same thought occurred to each at the same moment. They had wealth, and position, friends, acquaintances; they possessed those things deemed valuable by most people; and yet they were lonely creatures, the one in her youth, the other in her age.

“I shall write,” said Mrs. Hartley, after a pause, “to Lord Ardmorne, or rather, I shall go to see him—he is in London now; he is so courteous a nobleman, I dare say he would come to see me if I asked him.”

“That would be a far better arrangement,” remarked Grace. “Your servants here could attach no importance to his visit, but his servants there might.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley, but she gave way nevertheless, and wrote a note forthwith in which she stated she desired to have Lord Ardmorne’s advice and assistance, and stating she would send her carriage to meet any train by which he might appoint to travel.

By return of post came his lordship’s answer. He should be only too delighted, he said, if his advice or assistance could be of any service to Mrs. Hartley, and he would leave London by such a train on such a day.

“So far well,” said the widow; “now we must have a nice luncheon for the dear old man, and you must look your very best. I suppose you are not desirous of adding any other members of the nobility to your list of suitors; but as penance for your sin of omission, you ought to make yourself very charming.”

“I will try,” answered Grace, and she succeeded. Lord Ardmorne was delighted with her.

When, in the pretty drawing-room, Mrs. Hartley repeated all Grace had told her to him, the visitor looked exceedingly grave.

“This thing must not be,” he said; “we must save the General from ruin, and keep the estate for the son—a fine, brave, honest fellow. I never did a kindness to any young man whose subsequent career satisfied me so completely. I never receive a letter from India in which his name is not mentioned, and with approval.”

Grace felt her colour rise a little at this laudation of a man she had never thought clever or remarkable in any way, and she turned her head away, so that if Mrs. Hartley glanced towards her, she might build no fancy from her face.

But Mrs. Hartley did no such thing. She was much too astute a woman to let Grace imagine she was going to plead John Riley’s cause again. She had made up her mind that Miss Moffat and her first lover should marry, but she did not intend to let Grace see her game, or tell her for what stakes she was playing. Mentally, she likened her own position to that of the man who, driving pigs along the road to Cork, told all the people he met that he was proceeding in a contrary direction for fear the animals might immediately turn back.

She had guessed Grace’s little peculiarities with tolerable accuracy, and she was determined not to risk damaging her favourite’s chance by running counter to them.

From the tone of his letters, she knew no woman had as yet filled up Grace’s place in John’s heart.

“I wonder if he would still love her if they met. She is beautiful now, which she certainly was not then; but she is not quite the Grace he knew—”

Was she not? Before another twelvemonth had passed, Mrs. Hartley knew of what stuff Grace was made.

“I shall at once write to Mr. Riley, and tell him his presence is urgently required in Ireland.”

“But what a pity it seems to do so, when he is getting on so well in India!”

“If he finds affairs in Ireland are able to go on without him, he can return to India; I will arrange all that.”

“But it would be dangerous to wait for his return before making any move in the matter,” suggested Mrs. Hartley.

“I shall not wait for anything or person,” was the reply; “I shall ascertain if the statement be true—no reflection intended, Miss Moffat, on your sagacity; this can be done through the General’s lawyers.”

“And then?” suggested Mrs. Hartley.

“Then I shall begin to be perplexed. I do not suppose, if the interest were regularly settled, there would be any necessity to pay off the mortgage, but still I think it will have to be paid off, and if so, where is the money to come from? It is not given to every one to command capital as Mr. Brady seems able to do. I have been buying an estate lately in one of the midland counties, and it has made me very short—very short indeed. But bless me! to think of Brady aspiring to Woodbrook! No matter at what sacrifice, that must be prevented. A place I would gladly own myself.”

“All my money is invested,” said Mrs. Hartley. “I am afraid I could not realize any considerable sum for a long time.”

“I have not the slightest idea where my money is,” added Miss Moffat; “but if any of it is available, I should like to help.”

“Not to be thought of,” suggested Mrs. Hartley. “I am sure Lord Ardmorne agrees with me, when I say the idea ought not to be entertained for a moment.”

“I really am at a loss—” began the nobleman.

“If you are sensitive, Grace, you can leave us,” said Mrs. Hartley; “if not, you can hear what I say. There was a time, my lord, when this young lady’s fortune would have infused new blood into the Woodbrook estate, when a very honourable and honest young gentleman who was very fond of her asked her to be his wife. But she could not fancy him. It was a pity, still such things will happen. Without further explanation, you will see at once that if Miss Moffat stepped forward at this juncture to offer assistance, her feelings and motives might be misconstrued. Her views have undergone no change, but it might be imagined they had.”

Grace sat chafing in her place, whilst Mrs. Hartley delivered herself of this long sentence, but she did not speak. Lord Ardmorne, after studying the pattern of the carpet for a moment or two, looked up and said with a twinkle in his kindly eyes,—

“Yes, I agree with you, though it does seem hard a young lady should be unable to help a friend because his son was once her suitor. These difficulties are boulders in the path of life, but still we must all face them. If, however, I am not greatly mistaken in Miss Moffat, she is one of those who are given—

and, supposing money be urgently needed, I fancy she would lend it to me and let me take the credit of helping the General and his family at this crisis. You would trust me, Miss Moffat, to take as much care of your pride as I should of your fortune?”

Said Grace—“My lord, I would trust you with my life,” and passed out into the conservatory, thinking that if the Glendares had been made of such stuff as this, it would have seemed a glorious lot to link her fortune with that of Robert Somerford—even although the ways and doings of the nobility are not as the ways and doings of the class from which she sprung.

“A most charming girl!” exclaimed Lord Ardmorne, “and the case was, as you implied, serious!”

“Yes; John Riley loved Grace Moffat, as a girl is only liked once in her lifetime. That was why he went abroad, that is why he stays abroad, that is probably the reason why he will remain single till he is middle-aged and rich. You have seen the young lady who is ‘the woman’ of that man’s life.”

“I fancy your story ought to end, however, Mrs. Hartley, with—they lived happy ever after.”

But Mrs. Hartley shook her head. Not even to this new ally did she intend to show her hand.