As Hadria had foretold, she commenced
the attack on herself as soon as Henriette had departed,
and all night long, the stormy inner debate was kept
up. Her mind never wavered, but her heart was
rebellious. Hubert deserved to pay for his conduct;
but if we all had to pay for our conduct to the uttermost
farthing, that would be hard, if just. If Hadria
assumed the burden of Hubert’s debt, it would
mean what M. Jouffroy had pointed out. Hubert’s
suffering would be only on account of offended public
opinion; hers but then her parents would
suffer as well as Hubert. Round and round went
the thoughts, like vast wheels, and when towards morning,
she dozed off a little, the wheels were still turning
in a vague, weary way, and as they turned, the life
seemed to be crushed gradually out of the sleeper.
Jouffroy came to enquire whether the
decision had been made. He was in a state of
great excitement. He gave fervent thanks that
Hadria had stood firm.
“You do not forget my words, Madame?”
“I shall never forget them, Monsieur.”
Henriette discreetly forbore to say
anything further on the subject of dispute. She
waited, hopefully.
“Hubert has been troubled about
the money that your father set apart, on your marriage,
as a contribution to the household expenses,”
she said, one morning. “Your father did
not place it all in your name.”
“I know,” said Hadria.
“It is tied up, in some way, for the use of the
family. I have a small sum only in my own control.”
“Hubert is now leaving half
of it to accumulate. The other half has still
to go towards the expenses at the Red House. I
suppose you approve?”
“Certainly,” said Hadria.
“My father designed it for that purpose.”
“But Hubert feared you might
be running short of money, and wished to send you
some; but the trustees say it is against the conditions
of the trust.”
“So I suppose.”
“I wanted you to know about
it, that is all,” said Henriette. “Also,
I should like to say that though Hubert does not feel
that he can ask you to return to the Red House, after
what has happened he cannot risk your refusing yet
I take it on myself to tell you, that he would only
be too glad if you would go back.”
“Thank you, I understand.”
Next morning, Henriette came with a letter in her
hand.
“Bad news!” Hadria exclaimed.
The letter announced the failure of
the Company. It was the final blow. Dunaghee
would have to be given up. Mrs. Fullerton’s
settlement was all that she and her husband would
now have to live upon.
Hadria sat gazing at the letter, with
a dazed expression. Almost before the full significance
of the calamity had been realized, a telegram arrived,
announcing that Mrs. Fullerton had fallen dangerously
ill.
The rest of that day was spent in
packing, writing notes, settling accounts, and preparing
for departure.
“When how are you
going?” cried Madame Vauchelet, in dismay.
“By the night boat, by the night
boat,” Hadria replied hurriedly, as if the hurry
of her speech would quicken her arrival in England.
The great arches of the station which
had appealed to her imagination, at the moment of
arrival, swept upward, hard and grey, in the callous
blue light. Hadria breathed deep. Was she
the same person who had arrived that night, with every
nerve thrilled with hope and resolve? Ah! there
had been so much to learn, and the time had been so
short. Starting with her present additional experience,
she could have managed so much better. But of
what use to think of that? How different the
homeward journey from the intoxicating outward flight,
in the heyday of the spring!
What did that telegram mean? Ill;
dangerously, dangerously. The words seemed to
be repeated cruelly, insistently, by the jogging of
the train and the rumble of the wheels. The anxiety
gnawed on, rising at times into terror, dulling again
to a steady ache. And then remorse began to fit
a long-pointed fang into a sensitive spot in her heart.
In vain to resist. It was securely placed.
Let reason hold her peace.
A thousand fears, regrets, self-accusations,
revolts, swarmed insect-like in Hadria’s brain,
as the train thundered through the darkness, every
tumultuous sound and motion exaggerated to the consciousness,
by the fact that there was no distraction of the attention
by outside objects. Nothing offered itself to
the sight except the strange lights and shadows of
the lamp thrown on the cushions of the carriage; Henriette’s
figure in one corner, Hannah, with the child, in another,
and the various rugs and trappings of wandering Britons.
Everything was contracted, narrow. The sea-passage
had the same sinister character. Hadria compared
it to the crossing of the Styx in Charon’s gloomy
ferry-boat.
She felt a patriotic thrill on hearing
the first mellow English voice pronouncing the first
kindly English sentence. The simple, slow, honest
quality of the English nature gave one a sense of safety.
What splendid raw material to make a nation out of!
But, ah, it was sometimes dull to live with!
These impressions, floating vaguely in the upper currents
of the mind, were simultaneous with a thousand thoughts
and anxieties, and gusts of bitter fear and grief.
What would be the end of it all?
This uprooting from the old home it wrung
one’s heart to think of it. Scarcely could
the thought be faced. Her father, an exile from
his beloved fields and hills; her mother banished
from her domain of so many years, and after all these
disappointments and mortifications and sorrows!
It was piteous. Where would they live? What
would they do?
Hadria fought with her tears.
Ah! it was hard for old people to have to start life
anew, bitterly hard. This was the moment for their
children to flock to their rescue, to surround them
with care, with affection, with devotion; to make
them feel that at least something that could
be trusted, was left to them from the wreck.
“Ah! poor mother, poor kind
father, you were very good to us all, very, very good!”