The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson Burnett

as a woman who possessed attractions likely to lead to marriage, so she was mentally restrained in these days. There was something spinster-like in the tenor of her thoughts. But she would have laid down her life for this dull man’s happiness. And of late she had more than once blamed herself for accepting so much, unthinkingly.

      “I did not realise things properly,” she had said to herself in humble pain. “I ought to have been a girl, young and strong and beautiful. His sacrifice was too great, it was immense.”

      It had been nothing of the sort. He had pleased himself and done what was likely to tend, and had tended, altogether to his own ease and comfort. In any case Emily Fox-Seton was a fine creature, and only thirty-four, and with Alec Osborn at the other side of the globe the question of leaving an heir had been less present and consequently had dwindled in importance.

      The nearness of the Osborns fretted him just now. If their child was a son, he would be more fretted still. He was rather glad of a possibility, just looming, of his being called away from England through affairs of importance.

      He had spoken to Emily of this possibility, and she had understood that, as his movements and the length of his stay would be uncertain, she would not accompany him.

      “There is one drawback to our marriage,” he said.

      “Is it—is it anything I can remove?” Emily asked.

      “No, though you are responsible for it. People seldom can remove the drawbacks they are responsible for. You have taught me to miss you.”,

      “Have I—have I?” cried Emily. “Oh! I am happy!”

      She was so happy that she felt that she must pass on some of her good fortune to those who had less. She was beautifully kind to Hester Osborn. Few days passed without the stopping of a Walderhurst carriage before the door of The Kennel Farm. Sometimes Emily came herself to take Mrs. Osborn to drive, sometimes she sent for her to come to lunch and spend the day or night at Palstrey. She felt an interest in the young woman which became an affection. She would have felt interested in her if there had not existed a special reason to call forth sympathy. Hester had many curious and new subjects for conversation. Emily liked her descriptions of Indian life and her weird little stories of the natives. She was charmed with Ameerah, whose nose rings and native dress, combining themselves with her dark mystic face, rare speech, and gliding, silent movements, awakened awe in the rustics and mingled distrust and respect in the servants’ hall at Palstrey.

      “She’s most respectably behaved, my lady, though foreign and strange in her manners,” was Jane Cupp’s comment. “But she has a way of looking at a person—almost stealthy—that’s upset me many a time when I’ve noticed it suddenly. They say that she knows things, like fortune-telling and spells and love potions. But she will only speak of them quite secret.”

      Emily gathered that Jane Cupp was afraid of the woman, and kept a cautious eye upon her.

      “She is a very faithful servant, Jane,” she answered. “She is devoted to Mrs. Osborn.”

      “I am sure she is, my lady. I’ve read in books about the faithfulness of black people. They say they’re more faithful than white ones.”

      “Not more faithful than some white ones,” said Lady Walderhurst with her good smile. “Ameerah is not more faithful than you, I’m very sure.”

      “Oh, my lady!” ejaculated Jane, turning red with pleasure. “I do hope not. I shouldn’t like to think she could be.”

      In fact the tropic suggestion of the Ayah’s personality had warmed the imagination of the servants’ hall, and there had been much talk of many things, of the Osborns as well as of their servants, and thrilling stories of East Indian life had been related by Walderhurst’s man, who was a travelled person. Captain Osborn had good sport on these days, and sport was the thing he best loved. He was of the breed of man who can fish, hunt, or shoot all day, eat robust meals and sleep heavily all night; who can do this every day of a year, and in so doing reach his highest point of desire in existence. He knew no other aspirations in life than such as the fortunes of a man like Walderhurst could put him in possession of. Nature herself had built him after the model of the primeval type of English country landowner. India with her blasting and stifling hot seasons and her steaming rains gave him nothing that he desired, and filled him with revolt against Fate every hour of his life. His sanguine body loathed and grew restive under heat. At The Kennel Farm, when he sprang out of his bed in the fresh sweetness of the morning and plunged into his tub, he drew every breath with a physical rapture. The air which swept in through the diamond-paned, ivy-hung casements was a joy.

      “Good Lord!” he would cry out to Hester through her half-opened door, “what mornings! how a man lives and feels the blood rushing through his veins! Rain or shine, it’s all the same to me. I can’t stay indoors. Just to tramp through wet or dry heather, or under dripping or shining trees, is enough. How can one believe one has ever lain sweating with one’s tongue lolling out, and listened to the whining creak of the punkah through nights too deadly hot to sleep in! It’s like remembering hell while one lives in Paradise.”

      “We shan’t live in Paradise long,” Hester said once with some bitterness. “Hell is waiting for us.”

      “Damn it! don’t remind a man. There are times when I don’t believe it.” He almost snarled the answer. It was true that his habit was to enhance the pleasure of his days by thrusting into the background all recollections of the reality of any other existence than that of the hour. As he tramped through fern and heather he would remember nothing but that there was a chance—there was chance, good Lord! After a man not over strong reached fifty-four or five, there were more chances than there had been earlier.

      After hours spent in such moods, it was not pleasant to come by accident upon Walderhurst riding his fine chestnut, erect and staid, and be saluted by the grave raising of his whip to his hat. Or to return to the Farm just as the Palstrey barouche turned in at the gate with Lady Walderhurst sitting in it glowing with health and that enjoyable interest in all things which gave her a kind of radiance of eye and colour.

      She came at length in a time when she did not look quite so radiant. This, it appeared, was from a reason which might be regarded as natural under the circumstances. A more ardent man than Lord Walderhurst might have felt that he could not undertake a journey to foreign lands which would separate him from a wife comparatively new. But Lord Walderhurst was not ardent, and he had married a woman who felt that he did all things well—that, in fact, a thing must be well because it was his choice to do it. His journey to India might, it was true, be a matter of a few months, and involved diplomatic business for which a certain unimpeachable respectability was required. A more brilliant man, who had been less respectable in the most decorous British sense, would not have served the purpose of the government.

      Emily’s skin had lost a shade of its healthful freshness, it struck Hester, when she saw her. There was a suggestion of fulness under her eyes. Yet with the bright patience of her smile she defied the remote suspicion that she had shed a tear or so before leaving home. She explained the situation with an affectionally reverent dwelling upon the dignity of the mission which would temporarily bereave her of her mate. Her belief in Walderhurst’s intellectual importance to the welfare of the government was a complete and touching thing.

      “It will not be for very long,” she said, “and you and I must see a great deal of each other. I am so glad you are here. You know how one misses—” breaking off with an admirable air of determined cheer—“I must not think of that.”

      Walderhurst congratulated himself seriously during the days before his departure. She was so exactly what he liked a woman to be. She might have made difficulties, or have been sentimental. If she had been a girl, it would have been necessary to set up a sort of nursery for her, but this fine amenable, sensible creature could take perfect care of herself. It was only necessary to express a wish, and she not only knew how to carry it out, but was ready to do so without question. As far as he was concerned, he was willing to leave all to her own taste. It was such decent taste. She had no modern ideas which might lead during his absence to any action likely