A Life Sentence. Sergeant Adeline
never petted or fondled the child—sometimes she rebuked him very angrily. And yet he was docile, sweet-tempered, and quick-witted, though not particularly handsome; but Florence had never liked children, and she made her own son no exception to the rule.
Eight years had changed Florence very little in outward appearance. She was still pale, slender, graceful—languid in manner, slow in speech, and given to the reading of French novels. But there were dark shades beneath her velvety brown eyes, as if she suffered from ill-health. She had taken to lying on a sofa a great deal; she did not visit much, and she seldom allowed any festivity at the Hall. She remained in her boudoir for the greater part of the day, with the rose-colored blinds down, and the doors carefully closed and curtained to exclude any sound of the outer world; and while she was up-stairs the General and his niece Enid and the boy had the house to themselves, and enjoyed their liberty extremely. In the afternoon Mrs. Vane would be found in her drawing-room, ready for visitors; but she generally returned to her boudoir for a rest before dinner, and steadily see her face against late hours in the evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her; some people spoke vaguely of her "nerves," of the extreme delicacy and sensitiveness of her organisation—some said that Beechfield did not suit her, and others whispered that she had never been "quite right" since her baby was born. At any rate, she was a semi-invalid; and she did not seem to know what was the matter with her any more than did other people. She sat in her luxurious lounging-chair, or lay on the softest of sofas, day after day without complaint, always pale, silent, graceful—an habitual smile, sweet and weary, upon her pinched lips, but no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which seemed to be burning her very life away.
One balmy September afternoon she had established herself rather earlier than usual in the drawing-room. A bright little fire burned in the polished steel grate—for Florence was always chilly—but the windows were open; a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so that the room was not very light; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon.
Florence Vane sat in a low arm-chair near the fire. She had a small table beside her, on which stood her dainty work-basket, half full of colored silks, her embroidery patterns, a novel, a gold vinaigrette, and a French fan. She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered in silver—a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have looked more at her ease.
In a chair opposite to her sat a man of rather more than thirty, who looked thirty-five or even forty when the little light from the curtained windows fell upon his dark face, and showed the gray threads that were beginning to appear in his moustache. If he had been a woman, he would have sat with his back to the window, as Florence was doing now. But Hubert Lepel was not at all the man to think about his appearance, or to regret the fact, if he did think about it, that he looked more than his age. He had found it rather an advantage to him during the last few years.
Florence had not seen him for some time, and she commented silently and acutely on the change in his appearance. He had a subtle face, she thought—keen, stern, sardonic—too deeply furrowed for a man of his years, too haggard to be exactly handsome, but certainly very interesting, especially to the mind of a woman who had seen little of the world. This was as it should be. She smiled to herself; she was a born plotter, and she had a scheme for Hubert's benefit now. It was only fair that he should partake of the good fortune that had fallen to her lot.
"It was kind of you to come," she was saying languidly, "for I know that you don't care for Beechfield."
"No," he said; "I prefer London on the whole."
"And foreign travel. It is quite extraordinary to think how little you have been in England for the last few years! I have not seen you for—how long, Hubert?"
"Three years, I believe."
"And then only for an hour or two in London, at intervals of six months! I hope that you are going to be a little more sociable now, and run down to see us occasionally."
The brother and sister looked at each other steadily for a moment without speaking. Each knew well enough what was in the other's mind.
"Yes," said Hubert at last, in a peculiarly light and careless voice, "I think I shall." He crossed his legs, and settled himself into an easier position in his chair. "Beechfield is not a bad place to stay at for a few days—or even a few weeks—now and then. And you seem very comfortable, Florence."
"Yes," she said, "I am comfortable. The General is very kind."
"And you have a fine boy—a nice little chap," said Hubert, still lightly.
"Yes; he is a healthy child," she answered, in the mechanical way in which she had spoken before.
Hubert gave her a keen glance. He looked at the long but not ungraceful lines of her slender figure, at the blue veins which showed themselves in the dead white of her hands, at the shade beneath her eyes, and knitted his brows a trifle impatiently. Then he spoke in lowered tones which betrayed some suppressed emotion.
"You have gained all that you wanted," he said—"you ought to be satisfied."
She stirred a little in her chair, and allowed a faint smile to appear upon her lips.
"And you," she said, "are a very successful man. How many nights did your last play run? You are popular; you have made money; you ought to be satisfied too."
Each knew that the other was not satisfied at all, each knew the cause of that silent dissatisfaction with what life had to give.
"I am satisfied," said the man grimly.
It was the tone that said, "I will be satisfied in spite of fate! In spite of my own actions, my own sin, my own remorse, I will be satisfied!"
"You have changed your note," said Florence, regarding him curiously.
"And not too soon," he answered decisively. "There is nothing so useless as sorrowing over the past and regretting what cannot be undone. Let me recommend my philosophy of life to you. Make the best of what remains; we cannot bring back what we have cast away." There was a new hardness in his tone—not of recklessness, but of unflinching determination. He rose and stood on the hearthrug, with his hands behind him as he spoke. "I have taken a new departure. I have wasted many hours of the past. I am resolved to waste not one hour in future. 'Though much is taken, much remains,' as the poet says; and you and I, Florence, have all to look for in the future and nothing in the past."
"That is true," she said, in a very low tone. "Nothing in the past!" Then she sat up, as if stirred to movement by his attitude, and looked at him again. "What has caused this change of mind, Hubert? Have you fallen in love?"
He uttered a short laugh.
"Not I—I don't know the sensation."
"You knew it a few years ago, when I thought you would marry pretty Mary Marsden."
"She married a Jew money-lender," said Hubert drily. "I saw her the other day—she weighs fourteen stone, I should think!"
"Poor little Mary! It is not love then?"
"No, it is not." He was silent a minute or two, pulling his moustache with a quick nervous movement which betrayed some agitation of mind. Then he said quickly, "I had better tell you something and get it over, though I have no wish to rake up the memory of unpleasant subjects. I heard a few months ago that the man Westwood was dead."
"Dead? At Portland?"
"Yes. An accident on the works where he was engaged. He died after a few hours' unconsciousness."
Florence meditated for a few moments and then said softly—
"I think that I now understand."
"It will be better that we do not