Chapter XLVIII

The château of Les Mouettes was lent for the coming winter season to the Prince and Princess Woffram of Karstein by its owners, who, both naturally generous, and made more generous still by happiness and a sense of gratitude, were unceasing and inexhaustible in the wideness of their goodwill. It was always well to oblige persons who are led away by their feelings, thought the recipient of their bounties. Such people do not inquire too minutely or measure too exactly. It is of such as these that is made that succulent oyster which the wise man or woman opens with his or her knife, and sucks the juices thereof.

Mouse had fully persuaded herself that she had done an admirable action. She had made two people happy; if their happiness were idiotic, and to her incomprehensible, it was none the less to them what their hearts desired: no one can account for the tastes of others.

She really admired herself and quite succeeded in forgetting whatever there might have been a little questionable or a little disagreeable to explain about her visit to Prince Khris on his deathbed. The documents had all been quite genuine; if she had embroidered a little on the plain facts of how she had obtained them, that mattered to nobody. Neither Vanderlin nor Olga ever doubted her narrative, and their gratitude toward her found incessant expression. If Prince Woffram doubted it he never said so. He had accepted its results, and his lips were sealed.

She was standing on the sea-wall of the Mouettes on a bright and balmy morning, looking herself as radiant as the morning, with a great bunch of tea-roses at her breast, and a gold-headed cane in her hand, when Daddy Gwyllian, who was staying at Cannes, came to her from the garden side of the sea-terrace.

He was looking brimful of news and of amazement; a white cashmere neckerchief was wound about his throat; he was wearing a fur coat and little bunch of fresias at the buttonhole of it; he was visibly agitated.

“My dear Princess!” he said, pressing her hands and quite forgetting that he disliked her. “What you must suffer! How I sympathize! Who could ever have thought it! A man of such sense! Perhaps if you had not left England it would not have happened!”

“What on earth is the matter, Daddy?” asked Mouse, astonished and curious. “Have you come to bring me bad news?”

“_You ask me!_” cried Daddy in amaze; then dropping his voice to a sepulchral moan, he added, “Is it possible--possible--that you have not heard of your brother’s fatal act?”

Over her face a cold and angry shadow passed.

“Has he killed himself?” she asked. “I don’t think he’d ever do anything half so agreeable to others.”

Daddy Gwyllian drew a long breath.

“I am really grieved to be the bearer of such tidings,” he said, with the very keenest relish in telling them. “But Ronnie--stay--you know that the Massarene woman gave all that immense fortune away to the poor?”

“Yes,” said Mouse impatiently. “I saw all that rubbish in the papers long ago. What has that to do with Hurstmanceaux?”

“He has married her!” ejaculated Daddy. “Now!--now!--when she hasn’t got a penny! Oh, Lord!”

“What!” she cried in turn, as she rose impetuously and stared at him.

“My dear lady! You may well be incredulous. It does seem impossible that any man in his senses---- But he married her yesterday, down at Bournemouth.”

“You foolish old gossip!” she cried, with a concentrated fury, which almost stifled her voice. “Can you think of nothing better than to frighten one with such preposterous inventions? My brother would never even look at that creature.”

“I may be an old gossip, Princess,” said Daddy, with high offence and some dignity, “but I do not consciously say what is not true. Will you do me the honor to read this?”

He fumbled beneath his fur coat, his paletôt, and his morning coat, and brought out a telegram, which he handed to her. It was dated from Bournemouth, and addressed to Daddy himself.

“_You often counselled me to marry the daughter of Mr. Massarene. I
am happy to inform you that I have done so this morning. The ceremony
was private: Alberic Orme officiated._”

It was signed--“Hurstmanceaux.”

She read the lines in a single glance.

“You advised him? You advised him to disgrace us like this!” she cried with a furious gesture, crushing the dispatch in her hand, whilst her azure eyes poured their lightning upon him.

“I advised him to do so when the young woman was rich. You sent her down to Bedlowes yourself on purpose to bring it about. Perhaps, if you had not shown your hand so openly, he might have done it when it would have been a desirable thing to do. But I am a foolish old gossip, and I will leave you to digest--er--this extremely unpleasant fact. I have the honor to wish you good morning.”

He took himself off, very huffed, stiff, and alienated; he had repossessed himself of his telegram.

Mouse stood still, convulsed with an inward fury, for which there was no possible outward expression. She was stunned.

He had done it on purpose, she was convinced! On purpose to outrage her!

“Wherever I meet them first,” she said between her teeth: “if it be at a Drawing-room--I will cut them both dead!”

“What is the matter, Sourisette?” asked one of her women friends who was staying with her and approached as Daddy withdrew.

“You may well ask me. My brother has married the lowest of low women!”

“How very dreadful for you!” said the lady with sympathy. “But are you quite sure? Because when I came away from England last week they said he was going to marry Miss Massarene, the daughter of your good old friend Billy.”

Mouse shuddered within herself. She could not hear the name of William Massarene without a spasm of unbearable remembrance, and she felt that her attitude of hostility was difficult to explain.

“He has married her. That is just the horror of it!” she said between her teeth. “You know what they all were, the lowest of the low. As acquaintances while they had their money, they were all very well: but as a connection--it is too frightful! I will never speak to her--never, never, not if I meet her at Osborne or Windsor.”

A servant at that moment brought her telegrams from Carrie Wisbeach, and various other members of her family, all repeating the news and reflecting her own views with regard to it.

Such a _mésalliance_! If the money had been there it would have been a most admirable alliance, a most suitable arrangement, a most excellent choice; but when the money was all gone back to the poor from whom it had been extracted originally, the union was positively monstrous. If he had married a pauper out of the county workhouse, it would have been less insult to them; so they all agreed.

There is a kind of cynical frankness about “good society,” with regard to its love of money, which is, perhaps, the only candid thing about it. It sticks like a swarm of bees where money is, and it vanishes like locusts before the north wind where it is not.

All the family and all the connections of Hurstmanceaux viewed his marriage as she viewed it. If he had blown his brains out they would have been less shocked, for they would have been able to say that he had had an accident with a revolver or a repeating-rifle. But it was impossible for them to explain away this act of insanity; and though he would probably live down in the country, as people should do who are ashamed of themselves, still, some time or other they would have to meet him, and they felt uncomfortably certain that the head of their house would compel from them respect and deference toward his wife.

Even those few friends who were sincerely attached to him felt, like Daddy Gwyllian, that they could not venture to apologize for a man who had shown such culpable indifference to his own interests and the world’s opinion.

“What has disturbed you, my heart’s dearest?” said Prince Woffram as he came on to the terrace on his return from a golfing match; he had met Daddy Gwyllian a mile from the entrance gate, who had driven past him merely touching his hat.

“What has disturbed you?” he continued. “Did that pleasant little old gentleman come to bring you any ill news?”

Her answer was to throw the telegrams into his hands; from them he gleaned some idea of what had passed.

“Your brother marries? Well, what does that matter?”

“What?” she echoed, her eyes shining and flashing with fury. “If he had married a woman off the pavement of the Haymarket he could not have disgraced us more utterly! And for Alberic Orme to countenance such a disgrace! What an infamy!”

The young man raised his eyebrows and played with the tea-roses of the balustrade. The placidity of his temper opposed itself to the violence of hers like a marble breakwater to the fretting fury of a Venetian lagoon in December.

“She will have my eldest son with her to poison his mind against me!” she added, tears of genuine rage and grief overflowing her lovely eyes. “Have they not even taken away my only daughter from my guardianship?”

The young man was silent; he was not grieved that his friend Boo had been removed to England.

“He has married her merely to pass this insult on me!” she said with tears which burnt her eyes like fire.

“That is scarcely probable, my beloved,” said Prince Woffram gently; “the lady is not noble, it is true; but then you have great license in these matters in Great Britain. Your Heralds’ Office is practically a box of puppets.”

“I cannot see,” he repeated, “why you should be thus affected. The lady was much admired in London; she had great musical talent. I remember my cousins----”

“Great musical talent!” echoed Mouse bitterly. “Whilst she had her money, of course, they gave her every talent under heaven!”

She heard in memory the harsh, rude voice of Massarene saying of her own songs:

“She says yours is bad amatoor music, my lady!”

Oh, how she hated the creature! And to think she was now mistress of Faldon!

Katherine Massarene mistress of Faldon! It seemed to her an outrage too intolerable to be borne!

She had never cared to go to Faldon since the time of her marriage to Cocky; she had always railed against it as the dullest, wildest, and most out-of-the-way place upon earth. She would have perished of _ennui_ if she had been forced to pass a week there between its ancient woods and its solitary seas; but for all that it was the cradle of her race, the home of her childhood, the house of her mother. To think of “Billy’s daughter” as reigning there was an utterly unendurable insult! And the bust by Dalou and the portrait by Orchardson were no doubt gone there already, and were impudently taking their place in the gallery where the women of her race were portrayed and where her own portrait as a child, painted by Millais, hung in the light of the setting sun!

“I cannot see what it matters,” repeated Prince Woffram, turning a telescope placed on the balustrade above the tea-roses on to a distant passing yacht.

He had become a very philosophic young man since his marriage.

The quiet common sense of the words fell like mild rain on the raging fires of her fierce indignation. Perhaps he was right and it did not matter. Perhaps he was more right than he knew and it was even advantageous.

If Katherine Massarene had not talked before of what she had found in her father’s papers she certainly would not talk now. Shameful as Ronnie’s conduct was, he would not allow his wife to expose his sister. It was a frightful _mésalliance_, but it had its serviceable side. A padlock was on the lips of “Billy’s daughter.”

“I will never speak to her if I meet her at Osborne or Windsor,” she repeated suddenly.

Prince Woffram looked round from the telescope and the tea-roses.

“My angel,” he said very gently, “that would be to argue yourself unused to royal circles, and it would bring down on you many--many--oh! many questions.”

“You would have me make advances to this beggared wretch--this scum of the earth!”

“No, no,” said Prince Woffram soothingly. “I would not suggest to you to make advances. To make advances is to put oneself in the wrong. I would suggest to you to await events; and, in the not very probable coincidence which you imagine, I would beg you to remember that a great sovereign’s invitation confers a credential which none can dispute.”

Since he had trampled on his conscience, as he had put away his sword, Wuffie had substituted for them much practical common sense, and in very bland sentences said things which smote edgeways. His wife at times wondered how much he guessed, how far he was blinded, and now and then felt a spasm of fear that this cherub-faced boy, with his artless, meaningless smile, might, in some things, prove her master.

It is dangerous to teach a man, and a very young man, to sell his soul. Nature will substitute something else for it, something which you will not like when you learn to know it well.

She felt that he had fully determined on two things: one, that he would be well paid; the other, that he would not be compromised. So when she went into the house she tore up the various infuriated telegrams she had written in answer to her correspondents, and wrote instead some prettily-worded intimations that, as she had counseled her brother to make this marriage when the lady was rich, she could not blame him for making it now the same lady was poor, and could only hope that the result would be as fortunate as she sincerely desired for them both, though circumstances had arisen which unhappily estranged her from Hurstmanceaux. This way of looking at the matter was at once so angelic, and so nice and temperate, that it suggested an idea, which gradually filtered down through her intimate correspondents and permeated society, the impression, vague but general, that William Massarene’s daughter had jockeyed her out of some portion of William Massarene’s fortune. No one could explain how, but everyone thought so. Daddy Gwyllian did indeed stoutly declare that the impression was preposterous and untenable, and that if Hurstmanceaux had broken all relations with his sister he had doubtless very sound reasons for doing so. But Daddy was waxing old and society was getting tired of him. When people live too long they outstay the welcome of the world.

* * * * *

With May Harrenden House was again open. The falconer of Clodion leaned and laughed in silent mirth as the throngs of society passed up the staircase under his gaze. The Massarenes were like Malbrouck, _morts et enterrés_, and an Australian wool-stapler reigned in their stead, worshipped where they had worshipped, and was guarded by their lares and pénates. Across the threshold, where William Massarene had been carried lifeless, the great world he had loved flocked, as the water-fowl on the ponds of the Green Park flock with equal avidity to be fed, no matter what hand it may be which scatters the bread.

Up that well-known staircase, under the eyes of the nude falconer, there came a beautiful and very fair woman, who had often been up those stairs before; a fair and slim and ever blandly-smiling youth was by her side, who had been told, as children are told in the nursery, to shut his eyes and open his mouth, and who had done so. He had been rewarded, for a great many good things had dropped into his mouth. England had become for him what it is for so many other German princelings, the Canaan overflowing with milk and honey where he could enjoy himself at other people’s expense, and lead the first flight on other people’s horses. She looked about her as she passed on through the reception-rooms: nothing was changed, nothing of any importance, and she herself not very much. There were still the same florid Pietro di Cortona high overhead in the effulgence of the electric lamps, still the same too dark and dubious Mantegna hanging above a pyramid of Calla lilies and damask roses. There were only no longer in the alcove where they had been enshrined the bust by Dalou and the portrait by Orchardson: they were at Faldon! Insupportable as this idea was to her, the outrage had its silver side; it meant silence, entire, absolute, on the part of her brother’s wife.

“Billy--you brute!--I have been stronger than you!” she thought as she passed the place where the gold vase of Leo the Tenth still filled the humble office of a samovàr. Life had once more become easy and agreeable to her. Death had been discriminating and Fortune on the whole not unkind.

“The poor Massarenes were such dear good friends of mine, but you have so much more taste than they had,” she said to the Australian wool-stapler.

And he, a big burly heavy man, who owned many millions of sheep on many thousands of pastures, and had as much taste as one of his wooly wethers, was flattered, and thrust out his big paunch, and thought to himself, under the sorcery of her smile, why should he not succeed wherever William Massarene had succeeded?

Why not indeed?

THE END.

A Few Press Opinions on

A Living Lie

BY PAUL BOURGET

_12 mo, Cloth, $1.25; Paper Covers, 50 cents._

=Scotsman=

Mr. de Vallieres’ translation leaves nothing to be desired, and
deserves the thanks of English readers for having rendered accessible
to them a masterpiece of minute analysis of character and feeling.

=Pall Mall Gazette=

M. Bourget’s celebrated novel ... it is good to find a translation of
a popular French novel so well done as this is, and the vivid picture
of Parisian life loses nothing of its force or truth in its English
dress.

=World=

“Mensonges” is undoubtedly a clever story, and the present version is
excellent.

=Vanity Fair=

The book itself is an education: the very greatest novel of analysis
and character France has produced since Balzac.

=New York Commercial Advertiser=

“A Living Lie,” published in this country by Fenno, is one of the
earlier works of Paul Burget, and one that shows both the weakness
and strength of his methods. In an introduction written to the
translation, the author speaks of his humble decipleship of Flaubert
and Zola, and perhaps none of Bourget’s novels better than this
recent translation will show better how closely the student has
followed the masters, especially the former. But one man could write
“Madame Bovary,” and that was Flaubert, but there are portions of
“Mensonges” that would lead one to believe that M. Bourget thought
that he might have written it himself. Madame Bovary’s meeting
with her lover in a house of ill-fame and Rene’s meetings with his
mistress might even seem to some as an illustration of where the
pupil had learned his lesson too well.

As for the story itself there is no need of rehearsing that. It is
strong, and viewed from the point of fiction is good. But since M.
Bourget aspires to be something more than novelist, to be an analyst,
a psychologist and feminologist, it would be wrong to ignore what
he considers his best labor. Perhaps it would not be malapropos to
quote, in relation to M. Bourget’s study of women and women’s mind,
what Nietzsche has written, that we are puzzled when we try to probe
women’s mind, not because it is so deep, not because it has no
bottom--“it is not even shallow.” Which is basely cynical, and anyway
it was written by a man who is now in a mad house. But, nevertheless,
it is a good sentence to bear in mind when one is reading the works
of a feminologist. There is no doubt of M. Bourget’s intuitive
powers. True, that too frequently does he affirm with unbecoming and
exultant delight and misplaced passion that two and two are four, but
often this leads to the higher and more complicated problems, such
as four and four are eight. Surely M. Bourget is an analyst, but he
spends too much time analyzing very obvious brick walls.

But, “A Living Lie” is good fiction, if it is not good literature. It
is well translated.

A Few Press Opinions on

Robert Urquhart

By GABRIEL SETOUN

12mo, Cloth, Illustrated, $1.00; Paper Covers, 50 Cents

=The Outlook=

“Robert Urquhart,” by Gabriel Setoun, is a Scotch story possessing a
certain degree of strength. Courageous indeed is the writer to-day
who brings his work in contrast with that of Ian Maclaren, Crockett,
and J. M. Barrie. Comparison between these masters and the lesser
lights there cannot be.

=Toledo Blade=

In “Robert Urquhart,” by Gabriel Setoun, the lovers of Scotch
stories will experience a delight the same as felt in the reading of
“The Lilac Sunbonnet,” “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,” “The Little
Minister,” and other novels and tales in which are found tender
pathos, delicate humor and a dramatic construction. The character of
old Rob cannot fail to impress all readers, winning their love by
his simple kindness; while the schoolmaster’s sturdy manliness calls
forth feeling of liking and respect, with a desire that he shall gain
his heart’s wish. The story is well worth a reading.

=Sunday Times=

Lovers of a good story, which is at the same time good literature,
and especially lovers of the Scotch atmosphere and temperament,
will enjoy “Robert Urquhart.” This is a new book by Gabriel Setoun,
published by R. F. Fenno & Company. The central character is a school
teacher, not the periwig old goose who has so long been strutting,
conventional to a hair through Scotch stories, but a man of head
and heart endowments which appeal to the head and the heart for our
belief, sympathy and love. If Mr. Setoun had not the originality
to lead the way, he has at least the genius to follow with highest
credit in the paths of Barrie, Maclaren and Crockett, and who will
say it is not as hard to follow creditably in beaten paths as to
charm public fancy with a trifle when it is new?

=Times-Union=

“Robert Urquhart.” This is an entertaining novel, well written, with
a good plot and with many of the essentials of a book of the highest
character. Its pretty binding should also be mentioned, and in this
it suggests itself as a present to a friend. Its author is Gabriel
Setoun. It is a Scotch tale. Its pathos is as sweet, its humor as
delicate, its construction as dramatic and its characters as lovable
as any to be found in the other Scottish stories which have caught
the fancy.

=Kansas City Journal=

An American edition of “Robert Urquhart” will attract the attention
of many thousands who have read and enjoyed “The Lilac Sunbonnet,”
“A Galloway Herd,” “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,” and “The Little
Minister” and they will find within its covers a pathos as sweet,
a humor as delicate a construction as dramatic, and characters as
lovable as are to be found in any of the above-mentioned works.

A Few Press Opinions on

The Professor’s Experiment

By MRS. HUNGERFORD (The Duchess)

12mo, Cloth, $1.25; Paper Covers, 50 Cents

=The Watchman=

“The ‘experiment,’ which gives name to the story, is a weird one and
picturesquely presented, reminding one faintly of the old French
story of the ‘Broken Ear.’ It turns the red light briskly on the
hero and heroine, who, having been thus vividly introduced to us and
to each other, proceed to the business of the occasion by falling
in love with each other and entangling themselves in divers nets
of embarrassing circumstances, settling away from the storm to a
peaceful horizon of marriage at last. It has become necessary, in
these days, to indicate the exceptional and welcome fact that this
is a pure story; painting cheery pictures of normal domestic life,
and opening no side doors to encourage the stealthy adventures of a
prurient fancy. It is a novel, strictly speaking, involving neither
sermon nor stump speech. It offers entertainment only, but it gives
what it offers; resting the tired brain and leaving no poison in the
blood.”

=Evening Bulletin=

“It is a capital story of an Irish savant, who, like the magicians
of mediæval days, passed his years in concocting a draught to put
his subjects to sleep. Fortunately a beautiful girl of eighteen
is found insensible on the professor’s doorstep. She becomes his
patient, enters upon a long sleep, and, in the ‘large awakening,’
learns that she is heiress to an immense fortune and the professor’s
granddaughter.”

=Indianapolis Journal=

“‘The Professor’s Experiment’ is the title of a new book by Mrs.
Hungerford (The Duchess). It is of a somewhat more elaborate and
ambitious character than this writer’s recent stories, and shows
a return to her earlier manner. The heroine is the impulsive,
warm-hearted young Irish girl with whom all Mrs. Hungerford’s
readers are well acquainted, but of whom, in her various phases and
reappearances they do not tire.”

A Few Press Opinions on

The Unclassed

By GEORGE GISSING

12mo, Cloth, Illustrated, $1.25; Paper Covers, 50 Cents

=Outlook=

It shows remarkable powers of observation and realistic reproduction
of certain phases of life. It deals with the life of the “unclassed”
very bluntly, and with unnecessary detail, but there is no intention
to pervert morals.

=Boston Post=

The story is full of strong and telling situations, a story in which
the realism often impinges closely upon the ideal. In many places the
book is absorbing in its interest.

=N. Y. Advertiser=

It is a story of the struggling ones, struggling against and for
class distinction; struggling to keep from going down into the
“lowest class;” struggling to reach the class where bread and butter
are not the only living cries.

=Buffalo Commercial=

Mr. Gissing has secured a place in the front rank of the best English
novelists, and any story of which he is the author will be widely
and eagerly read. “The Unclassed” is a thrilling, intensely dramatic
story.

=Meadville Stylus=

Ida Starr is a child of ten years when the story opens. It closes
with her marriage. We are permitted to observe her character in
all the stages of its development from a childhood all love and
gentleness, through a solitary and defenseless girlhood spent in
a desperate struggle against the poverty that ends in starvation,
through her temptation, her fall, and her redemption through love.
There are, curiously enough, no traces of the influence of the
naturalistic school in Mr. Gissing’s work. The entire story is
planned and wrought out with the greatest imaginable delicacy.

A Few Press Opinions on

Uncle Scipio

BY MRS. JEANNETTE H. WALWORTH

_12mo, Cloth, $1.25; Paper Covers, 50 Cents_

=Public Opinion=

A very effective story of the reconstruction days in Mississippi
is Mrs. Jeannette H. Walworth’s “Uncle Scipio.” It is bright and
healthy, with a well devised plot, full of incident and entertaining.
Stories based on those days of fermentation are not at all rare, but
Mrs. Walworth, being a transplanted Northener, has been able to take,
not a dispassionate view, but that of a warm-hearted, clear-headed
woman. Her novel, however, is by no means a political argument; the
time is in the early seventies, and the situation which then existed
in the South is merely a background for a good story, which is about
the best Mrs. Walworth has written.

=Courier=

Mrs. Walworth’s stories of Southern and negro life are vivaciously
characteristic of people and scenes of that portion of our country,
and they reveal charming pictures of a variety of types, grave and
gay. This is a love story, set in the gay picturesque Mississippi
Valley, describing the conditions that prevailed immediately after
the war of the rebellion. Mrs. Walworth is a Southerner by adoption,
and she is thus enabled to give us a true and sympathetic insight
that is certain to please and at the same time instruct.

=Commercial Advertiser=

Mrs. J. H. Walworth has already some celebrity as a story writer.
“Uncle Scipio,” which has made its appearance fresh from her pen,
is a love tale, set in the picturesque Mississippi Valley. As a
Northern woman the writer finds much in the country of her adoption,
immediately following the civil war, to strike her with peculiar
force. She is thus enabled to give a true and sympathetic insight
that is certain to please and at the same time instruct. “Uncle
Scipio,” the hero of the story, is a dear old negro slave of the
Uncle Tom variety, for whom the reader is bound to form a genuine
admiration and attachment before he lays down the book.

=Post=

A love story set in the Mississippi Valley, describing the conditions
that prevailed immediately after the War of the Rebellion. Mrs.
Walworth is a Southerner by adoption, and she is thus enabled to give
us a true and sympathetic insight that is certain to please and at
the same time instruct. Uncle Scipio is a dear old negro slave that
you are sure to become attached to before the volume is laid aside.

=Plain Dealer=

Mrs. J. H. Walworth’s “Uncle Scipio” is a story of the South the
time of which is the reconstruction period but the action had its
beginning in the ante-war days and was shaped by the events of the
great struggle. “Uncle Scipio” is the old negro whose reminiscent
gossip with the visiting agent of a Northern land syndicate brings
out the story which Mrs. Walworth narrates with the skill of a
practical novelist.

R. F. FENNO & CO., 112 Fifth Ave., N. Y.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

Dialect and non-English words are transcribed as printed except for
obvious errors which have been corrected.