“But wicked Count Ugo,” I began.
My father muttered something I did not quite catch. I thought I heard the word “fool,” but did not know whether it applied to the Count, or to me—or to himself.
“Even he must be excused,” he said aloud. “I too would have fought to keep her. And he is an old man now, if he is still alive. I suppose he married and had children of his own. Let us not speak of him. Your grandfather—”
“He was cruel,” I said firmly. Yet the word struck me strangely. The stern old man had been one of the villains of the story; yet he was closely related to me, part of my blood; my mother’s father, the same to her as my adored parent was to me.
Father shook his head vigorously.
“He did what any father would have done. I can understand him now that I too have a beloved daughter. He was not unkind to her, Francesca. She loved him.”
“She loved you more,” I said.
“Yes.”
He relapsed into silence after that. I thought he was remembering the past. I know now that he was struggling with a cruel decision. That night, after our supper at the inn where we broke our journey, he called for the paper and ink and sat writing late. I remember the way the candlelight touched his long, delicate fingers, and the shadows it cast across his face. The hollows of his eye-sockets and sunken cheeks became shapes of darkness, like the stark modeling of a tragic mask.
II
The holidays were sheer delight. We had lodgings in a fine old house in Leicester, maintained by a genteel elderly widow. Like most women, she fell genteelly in love with Father, and we made merry together, decking the house with Christmas boughs and holly. We even had a Christmas tree. Prince Albert had introduced this German custom when he married the queen, and the pretty fir trees, decked with candles and ornaments, were now popular. I had made Father a pair of slippers embroidered with purple pansies and sprays of an eccentric-looking vegetable which was supposed to be rosemary—“for remembrance,” as I explained to him. The gifts I received were magnificent, surpassing even his usual extravagance—a new pelisse, trimmed with ermine and silver buttons, a tiny muff of gray squirrel, a coral necklace, books, music for the pianoforte…too many to be recalled. I went reluctantly back to school, cheered only by Father’s promise that he would come for me soon.
I expected to finish out the term, but to my surprise and delight the moment of our next meeting came sooner than I dared hope. It was early in April, when the buds were beginning to swell with green promise, that Father next appeared. He came without advance warning, and when I saw him I did not need Miss Bertha Smith’s hastily checked exclamation to be alerted to the change in his appearance.
He was handsomer than ever, if that was possible, with a fine rosy flush on his cheeks; but he was terribly thin. Father admitted cheerfully that he had been ill, and was still plagued by a slight cough. But fine weather would soon set him up.
I accepted this facile good cheer, because I wanted to believe it. There was nothing I, or anyone else, could have done for him; yet I am still haunted by remorse when I think…
My boxes and parcels, hastily packed, were loaded onto the carriage. The Misses Smith embraced me, weeping. I wept too, and sobbed bitterly as I bade farewell to my friends. When the carriage drove off and I leaned out the window, waving at the other girls, I was sure they were a little jealous of me for having such a young, handsome father. Little did I know that I would never see any of them again, despite our promises of continued correspondence and future meetings; or that they, the daughters of small merchants and prosperous tradesmen, had far more hopeful futures than I.
III
Father had taken a house in Richmond, outside London. It was a tiny box of a place, but it had lovely gardens. We led a very retired life; I played for him on the pianoforte he had hired, and worked at my drawing. I had a small talent for this skill and, with his help, made considerable progress. I suppose that eventually I might have become bored with our lack of social life, for we saw no one except tradesmen and servants, but during those short weeks Father’s company was all I desired. He seemed quite gay; but sometimes I would hear him coughing at night.
One afternoon I came back to the house after finishing a sketch of the garden with it beds of daffodils. I was anxious to show it to Father, I felt it was the best thing I had ever done. I was wearing a white muslin-gown, with rose-colored ribbons, and ribbons of the same shade trimmed my broad-brimmed hat. The day was unseasonably warm, so I took the hat off as soon as I entered the house. I thought Father was resting, as he usually did in the afternoon.
I came in through the side door, so I did not see the carriage. I had no warning of guests until I approached the parlor door and heard voices. Such was my haste, and my stupid innocence, that it never occurred to me to wait, or even to knock. I merely thought, Good, Father is awake— and opened the door.
I heard one sentence before they were aware of my presence.
“But, my dear, surely you did not think you could elude me forever, after such—”
A cry from my father made the speaker break off. He turned on his heel, in a quick, violent movement.
He did not look like a man who could move so fast. He was tall and heavily built; not fat, but with a flabbiness of face and body that suggested self-indulgence. I was immediately struck by his attire, with it small, peculiar touches of almost feminine elegance—gloves of pearl-gray satin, a stickpin that was a single huge opal, and a cloak lined with sea-green satin.
There was no reason why his appearance should have filled me with such instinctive repugnance that I actually fell back a few steps. He was not young, but his fleshy jowls and wrinkled cheeks were not more unattractive than the faces of other men I had seen. Perhaps it was his eyes, of a gray so pale that they seemed to blend with the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks. A slow smile parted his lips, and I saw that his teeth were stained an ugly yellow. I soon learned that he did not smile often, perhaps for this reason.
My father, who had stood paralyzed during the few seconds of time that elapsed, now moved as if to approach me. The other man did not turn, but one arm shot out to bar Father’s way. His lips had closed, to hide the ugly teeth, but he was still smiling.
“Why, Allen,” he said, in a mocking tone. “I understand now the incentive for your—er—actions of late. No effort is too great to keep this pearl snug in its little casket, eh? Will you introduce me? No? Then …” His arm still outstretched, he made me a courtly bow and addressed me directly. “I am Shelton, my dear. Allen hasn’t mentioned me? How ungrateful! His oldest and dearest friend—the patron who appreciates his talents so generously…But I am a man of broad tastes, I assure you. My interests are not limited to any single field of…art.”
I didn’t understand what he was hinting. I thought him ugly and unprepossessing, but courteous. Indeed, if he had bought Father’s paintings—for so I interpreted his remarks—he deserved a pleasant answer. So I made him a curtsy, and said,
“How do you do, sir. I have been at school; you must excuse my ignorance of my father’s business affairs. I hope in future to be closer to him.”
I thought this a rather neatly turned little speech, and was chagrined to observe that it struck Mr. Shelton quite dumb for a moment. His eyes narrowed till they were mere slits in his face. Then he began to chuckle softly.
“Father,” he said, between chuckles. “Why, Allen, I would never have supposed you had a child of…What are you, my dear—fifteen or sixteen?”
“Almost eighteen,” I said.
“Such a great age! (By the by, my dear, I am Lord Shelton; you must call me ‘my lord,’ or ‘your lordship,’ eh? That’s a good girl.) Yes, a lovely age; so tender, so untouched…But, Allen, I must scold you for concealing this charming young lady. I would like to be of service to her, as I am of service to her father. The three of us should get on famously together, don’t you think?”
From my father came a horrible, choking gasp. He fell forward, clutching at Shelton’s outstretched arm.
His lordship was quick to act. Lowering Father’s limp body to the floor, he bellowed for the servants in a stentorian voice quite unlike his normal lisping whisper. The maid came running, followed by the cook, and they dragged me forcibly from my father. He was still choking, and from his parted lips issued a bright crimson stream.
He died three days later. I was with him at the end. So was my Lord Shelton. There was no way of keeping him out of the house; indeed, I had no desire to do so, for during those three dreadful days he managed everything. I would not have eaten or slept if he had not ordered the meals and directed the servants; and they jumped to obey his slightest wish as they had never obeyed my gentle, easygoing father.
If I thought of Lord Shelton at all, it was to regret my first critical thoughts, for he was unfailingly kind, almost paternal, in his manner. The only thing that bothered me was that he would not allow me to be alone with Father. He said it would be too distressing for me; but in fact Father lay unconscious the entire time, breathing with difficulty.
The night Father died I knew the end was near. The doctor had come and gone for the last time; there was nothing he could do. I knelt by the bed holding Father’s limp hand, praying for some last word from him. His lordship sat at the foot of the bed, still as a statue, his eyes never leaving my face. He did not speak. The sounds that broke the dead silence were the yawns of the housemaid, who was present “for the sake of propriety,” as his lordship had remarked.
They say that the souls of the dying go out with the tide, or with the turn from night to day. It was at that moment, when a promise of dawn indicated the coming of morning, that my father’s eyes opened.
He did not see me. His gaze was fixed on a spot beyond and above me, outside the candle’s feeble light—a spot deep in darkness. So intent was his look that involuntarily I turned my head to see what it was he beheld. There was nothing there.
“Francesca,” he said. His voice was young and strong. A faint smile played about his lips. “Soon, my darling; soon.”
Then, with horrifying abruptness and a strength utterly incommensurate with the ravages of his disease, he sat bolt upright. His eyes turned wildly, passing over me, and focusing finally on the man who sat at the foot of the bed. His lordship rose to his feet. My father tore his hand from my grasp and pointed, his finger quivering. In the same strong voice he cried,
“It is a dead man who speaks to you, Shelton. As you act toward my defenseless child, may God requite you in kind. Remember!”
