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Updated: June 2, 2025
All this was amusing to Don Julian, but somewhat embarrassing to me, seated, as I was, between them, and trying to carry on a conversation with him. The expression of wonderment in Felicita's beautiful eyes was disconcerting to say the least. It was evident she did not remember me. And yet how could she be expected to.
His heart was drawing him to Whitefriars Road, to that spot on earth of all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he turned his face that way. He rambled into the ancient market square, where stood a statue of his Felicita's great uncle, the first Baron Riversdale. The long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look in at a bookseller's window.
But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see if she was weeping. "Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think kindly of him, and be grieved for him.
I went to the office of the general manager and he gave me the package, unaddressed, done up securely, and sealed with red wax. I placed it in the inside pocket of my vest. The manager asked me to be careful with myself. He would much rather I should not go, but in my state of mind, I was only too glad to get my thoughts off the sad remembrance of Felicita's fate.
There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes all spoke of a heart-sickness such as Madame had never seen or dreamed of.
Yes, the little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it was all his fault; his fault and " But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was Felicita's fault more than any one's? "Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why did he kill himself?
For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood.
If her work was worth no more than that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought! There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had offered an advance of £10 only, saying they were doing very well for her, and running a risk themselves.
But Felicita's portrait he could not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her. In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him? All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph only.
He shook hands with Don Julian and daughter, but merely bowed to me. I was glad he was gone. Never before had I been so happy as now, in Felicita's presence. For the first time since leaving home this was the only pleasure I had known. Felicita sang some pretty Spanish ballads to the music of her guitar and I went home that night with a lightness of heart I had not experienced for a long time.
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