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Stereochemistry of Organic Compounds Principles and
Applications 4th Edition D. Nasipuri Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): D. Nasipuri
ISBN(s): 9781781830574, 1781830576
Edition: 4
File Details: PDF, 13.43 MB
Year: 2011
Language: english
Stereochemistry of
Organic
Compounds
Principles and Applications
 This page
intentionally left
blank
Stereochemistry of
Organic
Compounds
Principles and Applications
(FOURTH EDITION)

D NASIPURI
Former Professor and Chairman
Department of Chemistry
Indian Institute of Technology
Kharagpur, India

New Academic Science Limited

The Control Centre, 11A Little Mount Sion
Tunbridge Wells, Kent TN1 1YS, UK
NEW
ACADEMIC
www.newacademicscience.co.uk
SCIENCE
e-mail: [email protected]
Copyright © 2013 by New Academic Science Limited
The Control Centre, 11 A Little Mount Sion, Tunbridge Wells, Kent TN1 1YS, UK
www.newacademicscience.co.uk • e-mail: [email protected]

ISBN : 978 1 781830 57 4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photostat, microfilm,
xerography, or any other means, or incorporated into any information retrieval system, electronic or
mechanical, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Every effort has been made to make the book error free. However, the author and publisher have no
warranty of any kind, expressed or implied, with regard to the documentation contained in this book.
 To the Memory
of

MARIAN KOCOR
 This page
intentionally left
blank
 Foreword

Since the publication of my own book “Stereochemistry of Carbon Compounds” nearly thirty
years ago, there has been a remarkable, almost explosive growth of the subject. There are several
reasons for that, among them the surging interest in reaction mechanism in the 1960’s culminating in
the Woodward-Hoffmann rules at the end of that decade, the mounting interest in total synthesis
including diastereoselective and (since the mid-nineteen seventies) enantioselective synthesis, and the
development and expansion of new techniques, such as 13C nuclear magnetic resonance and, more
recently, 2-D and solid-state nmr. The subject has been recognized by two Nobel Prizes in the area—to
Barton and Hassel in 1969 and to Cornforth and Prelog in 1975. Yet there have been few comprehensive
stereochemistry books in that period, despite the growth of the subject and despite the increasing
interest of not only organic chemists, but also biochemists and, more recently, medical chemists and
pharmacologists. Most of the books that did appear have been short ones, either specialized or aimed at
the advanced undergraduate. My own second edition, originally planned for the late seventies, has been
delayed; instead there will, in the near future, be an entirely new book, coauthored with S.H. Wilen
and L. Mander. In the meanwhile, a book suitable for beginning graduate students and incorporating
up-to-date nomenclature as well as modern concepts and new facts has been in abeyance.
Professor Nasipuri is filling this gap in the present book. The book is comprehensive and includes
leading references. Nasipuri is well qualified for the task; his own research has been in the area of
stereochemistry and I have had the pleasure of collaborating with him in this area at the University of
Notre Dame in the mid-nineteen sixties. Subsequently he paid visits to the W.R. Kenan, Jr. Laboratories
of the University of North Carolina in 1977 and again in 1987. His understanding of the subject is
thorough and extensive and this reflects itself in his writing. The book covers the entire area of
stereochemistry, including both static and dynamic aspects and physical, especially spectroscopic
properties as well as chemical behavior. In addition, the author has made a serious effort to clear a path
through the jungle of overgrown stereochemical nomenclature.
I believe graduate students and others interested in learning stereochemistry beyond what they
find in elementary textbooks will greet this book with applause.

Ernest L. Eliel
W.R.Kenan, Jr. Laboratories
Department of Chemistry
University of North Carolina
Chapel Hill, NC USA
 This page
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 Preface

Organic stereochemistry started with Louis Pasteur in 1848, was placed on a firm three-dimensional
basis by Le Bel and van’t Hoff in 1874, and subsequently passed through several phases of intensive
development. Introduction of the principles of conformational analysis by Barton and Hassel in 1950
set another landmark in its progress helping to understand the temporal aspect of molecular geometry
and its significance in physicochemical properties and reaction mechanisms. Modern instrumentation
methods such as X-ray diffraction, nuclear magnetic resonance spectroscopy, circular dichorism and
optical rotatory dispersion measurements have helped to solve many intricate stereochemical problems.
Considerable progress has been made in the recent past in some selected areas such as asymmetric
synthesis, stereodynamics, topicity and prostereoisomerism, cyclostereoisomerism, and chemical
topology. There have been important developments on the terminological front so that many
stereochemical concepts can now be defined in more precise terms. Changes have also been made at the
basic level such as in the definition and classification of stereoisomers and even in the understanding of
molecular chirality. Stereochemistry is no longer an isolated field of study for organic chemists; it is
inseparably linked with virtually all branches of chemistry notably synthetic and mechanistic chemistry,
biological chemistry (including molecular biology), medicinal chemistry, and polymer chemistry. It
has important bearing even on such diversified subjects such as spectroscopy, engineering, and exobiology.
In spite of the importance of the subject, however, there are not many comprehensive textbooks
on stereochemistry excepting the one by Professor E.L. Eliel published in 1962 which has catered to
the need of the students and research workers the world over for nearly twenty-five years. A few
textbooks have since then appeared incorporating some of the latest developments but not in a
comprehensive manner. Some advanced series of monographs, e.g., ‘Topics in Stereochemistry’, edited
by Eliel, Allinger, and Wilen are available but their approach is highly specialised and clearly meant
for the initiated.
The present text is an effort to fill up this void in the stereochemical literature. It would be
inappropriate to claim that a complete coverage of organic stereochemistry has been made—this is
almost impossible to do under a single cover with limited space. Attempts have, nevertheless, been
made not to leave out any of the major areas which might be significant in later study. The subject has
been treated from the fundamental level and slowly developed so that the book may be adopted at any
stage of university teaching and at the same time be useful to the practising organic chemists. Special
emphasis has been given to conformational analysis and dynamic stereochemistry which include
correlation of conformation and reactivity, stereoselective methodologies, and a brief account of pericyclic
x PREFACE

reactions. A large cross section of reaction mechanisms has been incorporated with stereochemical
implications. For reasons of space, no problem solving exercises could be included— they are intended
to be taken up in a supplementary volume. Each chapter is provided with a summary which highlights
the main points discussed in the text. Selected references, mostly of textbooks, monographs, review
articles, and significant original papers, are given at the end of each chapter extending through early
1990.
The author is extremely grateful to Professor E.L. Eliel who not only inspired him to write this
book but meticulously went through the entire first draft of the manuscript and enriched it with valuable
comments and suggestions. He also very kindly wrote a foreword to the book. Any error in facts and
figures is, however, the sole responsibility of the author. The author takes this opportunity to express
his gratitude to his numerous friends and colleagues who assisted him in one way or the other in
completing the book. He is specially thankful to Dr. Satyesh C. Pakrashi, Director, Indian Institute of
Chemical Biology, Calcutta for providing hospitality in his laboratories and other facilities and to
Professor Sunil K. Talapatra University of Calcutta for his helpful comments and improvement on
certain diagrams. Drs. Anup Bhattacharya, Pranab K. Bhattacharya, and Ranjan Mukherjee (all of
IICB, Calcutta) went through the final manuscript; the last named also assisted with the reading of the
galley proof.
Thanks are also due to Professor Dibyendu N. Roy, University of Toronto, Canada, Dr. Abhik
Ghosh, University of Minnesota, USA, Professor Mihir Chowdhuri, Professor Usha R. Ghatak,
Dr. Brindaban Ranu, Dr. Ashis De (all of Indian Association for the Cultivation of Science, Calcutta),
Professor Amareswar Chatterjee, Jadavpur University, Calcutta, Professor S.P. Singh, Kurukshetra
University, Kurukshetra, Dr. Ranjit K. Roy (Calcutta), Arabinda Saha, and Dr. Basudev Achari (both
of IICB, Calcutta). Tapan, author’s eldest son helped with the compilation of the subject index. The
author records his appreciation to Namita, his wife for her understanding and endurance and to Asis,
his youngest son and Sunil, his son-in-law for their cooperative enthusiasm during the period of
writing. The credit for artwork and cover design goes to S.K. Sahoo and H.N. Datta. The manuscript
was typed by S.K. Chhatui.

D. Nasipuri
 Contents

Foreword vii
Preface ix

Chapter 1. Molecular Geometry and Chemical Bonding 1–14

1.1 Introduction 1
1.2 Molecular structure and chemical bonding 2
1.2.1 Bond length, bond angle, and dihedral angle 2
1.2.2 Covalent radii and van der Waals atomic radii 3
1.3 Hybridisation and chemical bonding 4
1.3.1 Hybridisation and bond angles 6
1.3.2 Bond angle deformation in small ring compounds 7
1.4 Hydrogen bonding 7
1.5 Rotation around bonds and change in dihedral angle 8
1.5.1 Rotation around a single bond 8
1.5.2 Rotation around a double bond 9
1.5.3 Restricted rotation around intermediate (hybrid) bonds 10
1.6 Catenanes 11
1.7 Summary 12
References 13
Chapter 2. Molecular Symmetry and Chirality 15–25
2.1 Introduction 15
2.2 Symmetry operations and symmetry elements 15
2.2.1 Simple or proper axis of symmetry 15
2.2.2 Plane of symmetry 16
2.2.3 Centre of symmetry or inversion centre 18
2.2.4 Improper or alternating or rotation-reflection axis 18
2.3 Point group classification 20
2.4 Molecular symmetry and chirality 23
xii CONTENTS

2.5 Point groups and symmetry numbers 24

2.6 Summary 25
References 25
Chapter 3. Stereoisomerism: Definitions and Classifications 26–40
3.1 Introduction 26
3.2 Molecular representation 27
3.3 Classification of stereoisomers 29
3.3.1 Classification based on symmetry criterion 30
3.3.2 Classification based on energy criterion 33
3.4 Stereoisomerism, conformation, and chirality 35
3.5 Racemic modifications 36
3.5.1 Racemic modifications and thermodynamic properties 36
3.5.2 Classification of racemic modifications 37
3.5.3 Quasi-racemates 38
3.6 Summary 39
References 40
Chapter 4. Stereoisomerism and Centre of Chirality 41–69
4.1 Introduction 41
4.2 Molecules with a single chiral (stereogenic) centre 42
4.2.1 Chiral manifestations 42
4.2.2 Molecules with a tetracoordinate chiral centre 43
4.2.3 Molecules with a tricoordinate chiral centre 44
4.3 Configurational nomenclature 46
4.3.1 Fischer’s D and L nomenclature 46
4.3.2 R and S nomenclature 47
4.3.3 R* and S* nomenclature 53
4.3.4 CIP nomenclature of racemates 54
4.3.5 Nomenclature of polysubstituted cyclanes 54
4.4 E and Z nomenclature 55
4.5 Molecules with a centre of chirality and simple axes of symmetry (Cn) 56
4.6 Molecules with two and more chiral centres 58
4.6.1 Constitutionally unsymmetrical chiral molecules 58
4.6.2 Constitutionally symmetrical chiral molecules 62
4.6.3 Stereoisomerism in cyclic compounds 64
4.7 Summary 66
References 68
Chapter 5. Stereoisomerism: Axial Chirality, Planar Chirality and Helicity 70–101
5.1 Introduction 70
5.2 Principles of axial and planar chirality 70
CONTENTS xiii

5.2.1 Elongated tetrahedron approach 70

5.2.2 Approach based on two-dimensional chiral simplex 71
5.3 Stereochemistry of allenes 72
5.3.1 Optically active allenes 73
5.3.2 Configurational nomenclature 73
5.4 Stereochemistry of spiranes and analogues 73
5.4.1 Optically active alkylidene cycloalkanes 76
5.4.2 Optically active spiranes 76
5.4.3 Optically active adamantoids 77
5.4.4 Optically active catenanes 77
5.5 Biphenyl derivatives and atropisomerism 78
5.5.1 Optically active biphenyl derivatives 80
5.5.2 Bridged biphenyls 82
5.5.3 Configurational nomenclature of biphenyls 83
5.5.4 Atropisomerism in compounds other than biphenyls 85
5.5.5 Atropisomerism around sp3-sp3 bond 88
5.6 Stereochemistry of molecules with planar chirality 88
5.6.1 Ansa compounds 89
5.6.2 Cyclophanes 90
5.6.3 trans-Cycloalkenes 90
5.7 Helicity 91
5.8 Miscellaneous examples of molecular stereoisomerism 93
5.9 Cyclostereoisomerism 94
5.9.1 Cyclic directionality of constitutional origin 95
5.9.2 Cyclic directionality of conformational origin 97
5.9.3 Retro-enantio isomers 98
5.10 Summary 99
References 101
Chapter 6. Topicity and Prostereoisomerism 102–128
6.1 Introduction 102
6.2 Topicity of ligands and faces 103
6.2.1 Homotopic ligands and faces 103
6.2.2 Enantiotopic ligands and faces 106
6.2.3 Diastereotopic ligands and faces 109
6.2.4 Summary of topic relationships 111
6.3 Nomenclature of stereoheterotopic ligands and faces 112
6.3.1 Symbols for stereoheterotopic ligands 112
6.3.2 Symbols for stereoheterotopic faces 116
6.4 Stereoheterotopic ligands and NMR spectroscopy 117
6.4.1 Diastereotopic ligands and NMR spectroscopy 118
6.4.2 Diastereotopic faces and NMR spectroscopy 119
xiv CONTENTS

6.4.3 Diastereotopic nuclei in conformationally mobile systems 120

6.4.4 Intrinsic anisochrony and conformational anisochrony 120
6.4.5 Enantiotopic nuclei and NMR spectroscopy 122
6.4.6 Isogamous and anisogamous nuclei 122
6.5 Prostereoisomerism and stereoisomerism 123
6.5.1 Chemical transformations of heterotopic ligands and faces 123
6.5.2 Biochemical transformations of heterotopic ligands and faces 124
6.6 Summary 127
References 128
Chapter 7. Racemisation and Methods of Resolution 129–154
7.1 Introduction 129
7.2 Mechanism of racemisation 130
7.2.1 Mechanism involving carbanions 130
7.2.2 Mechanism involving carbonium ions 131
7.2.3 Mechanism involving free radicals 131
7.2.4 Mechanism involving stable symmetrical intermediate 131
7.2.5 Racemisation through rotation around bonds 132
7.2.6 Configurational change in substitution reactions 133
7.3 Asymmetric transformation and mutarotation 135
7.3.1 Mutarotation and first order asymmetric transformation 135
7.3.2 Second order asymmetric transformation 137
7.4 Methods of resolution 138
7.4.1 Mechanical separation: crystallisation method 139
7.4.2 Resolution through the formation of diastereomers 139
7.4.3 Resolution through the formation of molecular complexes 142
7.4.4 Resolution by chromatography 143
7.4.5 Resolution through equilibrium asymmetric transformation 144
7.4.6 Resolution through kinetic asymmetric transformation 145
7.4.7 Resolution by biochemical transformation 148
7.4.8 Resolution through inclusion compounds 148
7.5 Optical purity and enantiomeric excess 148
7.5.1 Isotope dilution method 149
7.5.2 Enzymatic method 150
7.5.3 Methods based on gas chromatography 150
7.5.4 Methods based on NMR spectroscopy 150
7.6 Summary 152
References 153
Chapter 8. Determination of Configuration 155–192
8.1 Introduction 155
8.2 Determination of absolute configuration 156
8.2.1 Method based on anomalous X-ray scattering 156
CONTENTS xv

8.2.2 Crystals as probes for the assignment of configuration 157

8.3 Correlative methods for configurational assignment 159
8.3.1 Chemical correlation of configuration 160
8.3.2 Methods based on comparison of optical rotation 165
8.3.3 The method of quasi-racemate 169
8.3.4 Correlative method based on NMR spectroscopy 170
8.3.5 Correlation based on asymmetric synthesis 171
8.4 Configuration of molecules with axial and planar chirality 176
8.4.1 Configuration of biphenyls and analogues 176
8.4.2 Configuration of chiral allenes 178
8.4.3 Configuration of alkylidenecycloalkanes 179
8.4.4 Configuration of spiranes 180
8.4.5 Configuration of trans-cycloalkenes 180
8.5 Relative configuration of diastereomers 181
8.5.1 Comparison of physical properties 181
8.5.2 Methods based on NMR Spectroscopy 184
8.5.3 Chemical methods 188
8.5.4 Symmetry consideration 189
8.6 Summary 190
References 190
Chapter 9. Conformations of Acyclic Molecules 193–227
9.1 Introduction 193
9.2 Molecular mechanics and conformation 194
9.2.1 Molecular deformations and steric strain 194
9.2.2 Conformation of ethane, propane, and n-butane 196
9.3 Klyne-Prelog terminology for torsion angles 201
9.4 Physical methods for conformational analysis 204
9.4.1 Physical and thermodynamic properties 204
9.4.2 Spectroscopic methods 206
9.5 Conformations of a few acyclic molecules 212
9.5.1 Conformations of alkanes 212
9.5.2 Conformations of halogenoalkanes 214
9.5.3 Conformation and intramolecular hydrogen bonding 215
9.5.4 Conformations of 1-substituted 3,3-dimethyl butanes 216
9.5.5 Conformations around sp3-sp2and sp2-sp2 bonds 217
9.5.6 Conformations around carbon-heteroatom bonds 218
9.6 Diastereomers, configurations, and conformations 220
9.6.1 Diastereomers with two vicinal halogens 220
9.6.2 Diastereomers with two vicinal hydroxyl groups 221
9.6.3 Diastereomers with vicinal hydroxyl and amino groups 222
9.7 Summary 224
References 226
xvi CONTENTS

Chapter 10. Conformations of Cyclic Systems: Monocyclic Compounds 228–288

10.1 Introduction 228
10.1.1 Early history 228
10.2 Conformation of cyclohexane 230
10.2.1 Characteristics of chair conformation 230
10.2.2 Ring inversion 232
10.2.3 Stabilisation of the flexible conformers 237
10.3 Conformations of monosubstituted cyclohexanes 238
10.3.1 Transition states and intermediates 238
10.3.2 Conformational free energy 238
10.3.3 Isolation and characterisation of conformers 240
10.3.4 Determination of conformational free energy 241
10.4 Conformations of di- and polysubstituted cyclohexanes 242
10.4.1 1,1-Disubstituted cyclohexanes 242
10.4.2 Disubstituted cyclohexanes 243
10.4.3 A few atypical disubstituted cyclohexanes 246
10.4.4 Conformation of polysubstituted cyclohexanes 250
10.5 Cyclohexane ring with one and two sp2 carbons 252
10.5.1 Cyclohexanone ring system 253
10.5.2 Alkylidenecyclohexanes 256
10.5.3 Cyclohexene 257
10.5.4 Cyclohexane-1,4-dione 259
10.6 Carbocycles other than cyclohexane 259
10.6.1 Cyclobutane 259
10.6.2 Cyclopentane 261
10.6.3 Cycloheptane 262
10.6.4 Medium rings: conformation 263
10.6.5 Medium rings: some unusual properties 266
10.6.6 Large ring compounds 270
10.6.7 Rings with multiple double bonds 271
10.7 Conformational analysis of heterocycles 274
10.7.1 Three-membered heterocycles 275
10.7.2 Four and five-membered heterocycles 276
10.7.3 Six-membered heterocycles 277
10.7.4 Stereoelectronic effects in heterocycles 281
10.8 Summary 285
References 286
Chapter 11. Conformations of Cyclic Systems: Fused Ring and
Bridged Ring Compounds 289–319
11.1 Introduction 289
11.2 Fused bicyclic systems 289
CONTENTS xvii

11.2.1 Bicyclo[4.4.0]decane (decalin) 289

11.2.2 Decalones and decalols 293
11.2.3 Octahydronaphthalenes (octalins) 294
11.2.4 Fused bicyclic systems with nitrogen 296
11.2.5 Bicyclo[4.3.0]nonane (hydrindane) 297
11.2.6 Fused bicyclic systems with small rings 298
11.3 Fused polycyclic systems 300
11.3.1 Perhydrophenanthrenes 300
11.3.2 Perhydroanthracenes 304
11.3.3 Steroids: perhydrocyclopentenophenanthrenes 306
11.4 Bridged ring systems 309
11.4.1 Bicyclo[1.1.1]pentane and bicyclo[2.1.1]hexane 309
11.4.2 Bicyclo[2.2.1]heptane 309
11.4.3 Bicyclo[2.2.2]octane 312
11.4.4 Other bridged ring systems 314
11.4.5 Bicyclo systems with heteroatoms 316
11.4.6 Tri-and polycyclic systems 316
11.5 Summary 317
References 318
Chapter 12. Dynamic Stereochemistry I: Conformation and Reactivity 320–382
12.1 Introduction 320
12.2 Selection of substrates 320
12.2.1 Conformationally rigid diastereomers 320
12.2.2 Conformationally mobile diastereomers 322
12.2.3 A single substrate with two or more conformers 324
12.3 Quantitative correlation between conformation and reactivity 326
12.3.1 Winstein-Eliel equations 327
12.3.2 Curtin-Hammett principle 329
12.4 Conformation, reactivity, and mechanism: cyclic systems 333
12.4.1 Reactions involving exocyclic atoms 334
12.4.2 Nucleophilic substitution reaction at ring carbon 335
12.4.3 Formation and cleavage of epoxide ring 338
12.4.4 Addition reactions to double bonds 340
12.4.5 Elimination reactions 342
12.4.6 Chromic acid oxidation of cyclohexanols 347
12.4.7 Neighbouring group participation 348
12.4.8 Molecular rearrangements 351
12.5 Conformation, reactivity, and mechanism: acyclic systems 354
12.5.1 Addition reactions 354
12.5.2 Elimination reactions 355
12.5.3 Neighbouring group participation and molecular rearrangements 358
12.5.4 Stereochemistry of molecular rearrangements 362
xviii CONTENTS

12.6 Conformational atropisomers and reactivity 364

12.7 Formation and reactions of enols and enolates 366
12.7.1 Protonation and halogenation of enols 366
12.7.2 Alkylation of enolate ions 367
12.7.3 Alkylation of cyclohexanone enamines 368
12.7.4 Enolisation and bromination of exocyclic ketones 368
12.8 Reduction of cyclohexanones 369
12.8.1 Catalytic hydrogenation 370
12.8.2 Reduction of cyclohexanones with hydrides 370
12.8.3 Meerwein-Ponndorf-Verley and related reactions 374
12.8.4 Reduction of cyclic ketones with dissolving metals 375
12.9 Summary 378
References 380
Chapter 13. Dynamic Stereochemistry II: Stereoselective Reactions 383–423
13.1 Introduction .383
13.2 Stereoselectivity: classification, terminology, and principle 383
13.2.1 Classification and terminology 383
13.2.2 Principle of stereoselectivity 385
13.2.3 Asymmetric synthesis and asymmetric induction 387
13.2.4 Double diastereoselection and double asymmetric induction 387
13.2.5 Strategy of stereoselective synthesis 389
13.3 Acyclic stereoselection 389
13.3.1 Addition of nucleophiles to carbonyl compounds 389
13.3.2 Addition of enolate to a carbonyl group: the aldol reaction 393
13.3.3 Addition of allylmetal and allylboron compounds to carbonyl 397
13.3.4 Stereoselective transformations of C == C bond 399
13.4 Diastereoselection in cyclic systems 401
13.4.1 Nucleophilic addition to cyclic ketones 401
13.4.2 Catalytic hydrogenation 403
13.4.3 Alkylation 404
13.4.4 Diastereoselective oxidation 405
13.4.5 Stereoselective formation of a double bond 406
13.4.6 Stereoselective cyclisation of polyenes 406
13.4.7 Miscellaneous reactions 407
13.5 Enantioselective synthesis 407
13.5.1 Reduction with chiral hydride donors 408
13.5.2 Enantioselective hydroboration 411
13.5.3 Enantioselective catalytic hydrogenation 413
13.5.4 Enantioselective synthesis via hydrazones 414
13.5.5 Enantioselective alkylation through oxazolines 415
13.5.6 Sharpless enantioselective epoxidation 416
CONTENTS xix

13.5.7 Miscellaneous enantioselective syntheses 417

13.5.8 Asymmetric amplification 419
13.6 Summary 420
References 420
Chapter 14. Dynamic Stereochemistry III : Pericyclic Reactions 424–454
14.1 Introduction 424
14.2 Electrocyclic reactions 426
14.2.1 Frontier molecular orbital (FMO) approach 426
14.2.2 Stereochemistry 429
14.3 Cycloaddition reactions 432
14.3.1 Frontier molecular orbital (FMO) approach 432
14.3.2 Generalised Woodward-Hoffmann rule 435
14.3.3 Stereoselectivity in cycloaddition reactions 435
14.4 Sigmatropic rearrangements 442
14.4.1 Frontier molecular orbital (FMO) approach 442
14.4.2 Stereochemical course in sigmatropic rearrangements 444
14.4.3 Stereoselectivity in sigmatropic rearrangements 445
14.5 Enantioselectivity in pericyclic reactions 451
14.6 Summary 453
References 453
Chapter 15. Molecular Dissymmetry and Chiroptical Properties 455–484
15.1 Introduction 455
15.2 Polarised lights and chiroptical properties 456
15.2.1 Linearly and circularly polarised lights 456
15.2.2 Circular birefringence and circular dichroism 457
15.2.3 ORD and CD curves: Cotton effect 460
15.3 Application of CD and ORD: comparison method 461
15.3.1 Use of plane curves 461
15.3.2 CD and ORD curves with Cotton effects 462
15.4 Empirical and semiempirical rules 465
15.4.1 The axial haloketone rule 466
15.4.2 The octant rule 468
15.4.3 Helicity rule 472
15.4.4 Lowe’s rule 473
15.4.5 Empirical rules involving the benzene chromophore 474
15.4.6 The exciton chirality method 476
15.5 Optical rotation and group polarisability: a correlation 477
15.5.1 Atomic asymmetry 477
15.5.2 Conformational asymmetry 478
15.6 Origin of chirality 480
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 Lady Markham went to bed as soon as her son left her. She had said she
could receive no one, being much fatigued. “My lady have been with Mrs
Winterbourn,” was the answer made to Sir Thomas when he came to the
door late, after a tedious debate in the House of Commons. Sir Thomas, like
everybody, was full of speculations on this point, though he regarded it
from a point of view different from the popular one. The world was
occupied with the question whether Nelly would marry Markham, now that
she was rich and free. But what occupied Sir Thomas, who had no doubt on
this subject, was the—afterwards? What would Lady Markham do? Was it
not now at last the moment for Waring to come home?
In Lady Markham’s mind, some similar thoughts were afloat. She had
said that she was fatigued; but fatigue does not mean sleep, at least not at
Lady Markham’s age. It means retirement, silence, and leisure for the far
more fatiguing exertion of thought. When her maid had been dismissed, and
the faint night-lamp was all that was left in her curtained, cushioned,
luxurious room, the questions that arose in her mind were manifold.
Markham’s marriage would make a wonderful difference in his mother’s
life. Her house in Eaton Square she would no doubt retain; but the lovely
little house in the Isle of Wight, which had been always hers—and the
solemn establishment in the country, would be hers no more. These two
things of themselves would make a great difference. But what was of still
more consequence was, that Markham himself would be hers no more. He
would belong to his wife. It was impossible to believe of him that he could
ever be otherwise than affectionate and kind; but what a difference when
Markham was no longer one of the household! And then the husband, so
long cut off, so far separated, much by distance, more by the severance of
all the habits and mutual claims which bind people together—with him
what would follow? What would be the effect of the change? Questions like
these, diversified by perpetual efforts of imagination to bring before her
again the tragical scene of which she had been a witness,—the dying man,
with his hoarse attempts to be intelligible; the young, haggard, horrified
countenance of Nelly, compelled to approach the awful figure, for which
she had a child’s dread,—kept her awake long into the night. It is seldom
that a woman of her age sees herself on the eve of such changes without any
will of hers. It seemed to have overwhelmed her in a moment, although,
indeed, she had foreseen the catastrophe. What would Nelly do? was the
question all the world was asking. But Lady Markham had another which
occupied her as much on her own side. Waring, what would he do?
 CHAPTER XLII.
The question which disturbed Frances, which nobody knew or cared for,
was just as little likely to gain attention next day as it had been on the
evening of Mr Winterbourn’s death. Lady Markham returned to Nelly
before breakfast; she was with her most of the day; and Markham, though
he lent an apparent attention to what Frances said to him, was still far too
much absorbed in his own subject to be easily moved by hers. “Gaunt? Oh,
he is all right,” he said.
“Will you speak to him, Markham? Will you warn him? Mr Ramsay says
he is losing all his money; and I know, oh Markham, I know that he has not
much to lose.”
“Claude is a little meddler. I assure you, Fan, Gaunt knows his own
affairs best.”
“No,” cried Frances: “when I tell you, Markham, when I tell you! that
they are quite poor, really poor—not like you.”
“I have told you, my little dear, that I am the poorest beggar in London.”
“Oh Markham! and you drive about in hansoms, and smoke cigars, all
day.”
“Well, my dear, what would you have me do? Keep on trudging through
the mud, which would waste all my time; or get on the knife-board of an
omnibus? Well, these are the only alternatives. The omnibuses have their
recommendation—they are fun; but after a while, society in that
development palls upon the intelligent observer. What do you want me to
do, Fan? Come, I have a deal on my mind; but to please you, and to make
you hold your tongue, if there is anything I can do, I will try.”
“You can do everything, Markham. Warn him that he is wasting his
money—that he is spending what belongs to the old people—that he is
making himself wretched. Oh, don’t laugh, Markham! Oh, if I were in your
place! I know what I should do—I would get him to go home, instead of
going to—those places.”
“Which places, Fan?”
“Oh,” cried the girl, exasperated to tears, “how can I tell?—the places
you know—the places you have taken him to, Markham—places where, if
the poor General knew it, or Mrs Gaunt——”
“There you are making a mistake, little Fan. The good people would
think their son was in very fine company. If he tells them the names of the
persons he meets, they will think——”
“Then you know they will think wrong, Markham!” she cried, almost
with violence, keeping herself with a most strenuous effort from an outburst
of indignant weeping. He did not reply at once; and she thought he was
about to consider the question on its merits, and endeavour to find out what
he could do. But she was undeceived when he spoke.
“What day did you say, Fan, the funeral was to be?” he asked, with the
air of a man who has escaped from an unwelcome intrusion to the real
subject of his thoughts.
Sir Thomas found her alone, flushed and miserable, drying her tears with
a feverish little angry hand. She was very much alone during these days,
when Lady Markham was so often with Nelly Winterbourn. Sir Thomas
was pleased to find her, having also an object of his own. He soothed her,
when he saw that she had been crying. “Never mind me,” he said; “but you
must not let other people see that you are feeling it so much: for you cannot
be supposed to take any particular interest in Winterbourn: and people will
immediately suppose that you and your mother are troubled about the
changes that must take place in the house.”
“I was not thinking at all of Mrs Winterbourn,” cried Frances, with
indignation.
“No, my dear; I knew you could not be. Don’t let any one but me see
you crying. Lady Markham will feel the marriage dreadfully, I know. But
now is our time for our grand coup.”
“What grand coup?” the girl said, with an astonished look.
“Have you forgotten what I said to you at the Priory? One of the chief
objects of my life is to bring Waring back. It is intolerable to think that a
man of his abilities should be banished for ever, and lost not only to his
country but his kind. Even if he were working for the good of the race out
there—— But he is doing nothing but antiquities, so far as I can hear, and
there are plenty of antiquarians good for nothing else. Frances, we must
have him home.”
“Home!” she said. Her heart went back with a bound to the rooms in the
Palazzo with all the green persiani shut, and everything dark and cool: it
was getting warm in London, but there were no such precautions taken. And
the loggia at night, with the palm-trees waving majestically their long
drooping fans, and the soft sound of the sea coming over the houses of the
Marina—ah, and the happy want of thought, the pleasant vacancy, in which
nothing ever happened! She drew a long breath. “I ought not to say so,
perhaps; but when you say home——”
“You think of the place where you were brought up? That is quite
natural. But it would not be the same to him. He was not brought up there;
he can have nothing to interest him there. Depend upon it, he must very
often wish that he could pocket his pride and come back. We must try to get
him back, Frances. Don’t you think, my dear, that we could manage it, you
and I?”
Frances shook her head, and said she did not know. “But I should be
very glad—oh, very glad: if I am to stay here,” she said.
“Of course you would be glad; and of course you are to stay here. You
could not leave your poor mother by herself. And now that Markham—now
that probably everything will be changed for Markham—— If Markham
were out of the way, it would be so much easier; for, you know, he always
was the stumbling-block. She would not let Waring manage him, and she
could not manage him herself.”
Frances was so far instructed in what was going on around her, that she
knew how important in Markham’s history the death of Mr Winterbourn
had been; but it was not a subject on which she could speak. She said: “I am
very sorry papa did not like Markham. It does not seem possible not to like
Markham. But I suppose gentlemen—— Oh, Sir Thomas, if he were here, I
would ask papa to do something for me; but now I don’t know who to ask
to help me—if anything can be done.”
“Is it something I can do?”
“I think,” she said, “any one that was kind could do it; but only not a
girl. Girls are good for so little. Do you remember Captain Gaunt, who
came to town a few weeks ago? Sir Thomas, I have heard that something
has happened to Captain Gaunt. I don’t know how to tell you. Perhaps you
will think that it is not my business; but don’t you think it is your friend’s
business, when you get into trouble? Don’t you think that—that people who
know you—who care a little for you—should always be ready to help?”
 “That is a hard question to put to me. In the abstract, yes; but in
particular cases—— Is it Captain Gaunt for whom you care a little?”
Frances hesitated a moment, and then she answered boldly: “Yes—at
least I care for his people a great deal. And he has come home from India,
not very strong; and he knew nothing about—about what you call Society;
no more than I did. And now I hear that he is—I don’t know how to tell
you, Sir Thomas—losing all his money (and he has not any money) in the
places where Markham goes—in the places that Markham took him to. Oh,
wait till I have told you everything, Sir Thomas! they are not rich people,—
not like any of you here. Markham says he is poor——”
“So he is, Frances.”
“Ah,” she cried, with hasty contempt, “but you don’t understand! He
may not have much money; but they—they live in a little house with two
maids and Toni. They have no luxuries or grandeur. When they take a drive
in old Luca’s carriage, it is something to think about. All that is quite, quite
different from you people here. Don’t you see, Sir Thomas, don’t you see?
And Captain Gaunt has been—oh, I don’t know how it is—losing his
money; and he has not got any—and he is miserable—and I cannot get any
one to take an interest, to tell him—to warn him, to get him to give up——”
“Did he tell you all this himself?” said Sir Thomas, gravely.
“Oh no, not a word. It was Mr Ramsay who told me; and when I begged
him to say something, to warn him——”
“He could not do that. There he was quite right; and you were quite
wrong, if you will let me say so. It is too common a case, alas! I don’t know
what any one can do.”
“Oh, Sir Thomas! if you will think of the old General and his mother,
who love him more than all the rest—for he is the youngest. Oh, won’t you
do something, try something, to save him?” Frances clasped her hands, as if
in prayer. She raised her eyes to his face with such an eloquence of entreaty,
that his heart was touched. Not only was her whole soul in the petition for
the sake of him who was in peril, but it was full of boundless confidence
and trust in the man to whom she appealed. The other plea might have
failed; but this last can scarcely fail to affect the mind of any individual to
whom it is addressed.
Sir Thomas put his hand on her shoulder with fatherly tenderness. “My
dear little girl,” he said, “what do you think I can do? I don’t know what I
can do. I am afraid I should only make things worse, were I to interfere.”
“No, no. He is not like that. He would know you were a friend. He
would be thankful. And oh, how thankful, how thankful I should be!”
“Frances, do you take, then, so great an interest in this young man? Do
you want me to look after him for your sake?”
She looked at him hastily with an eager “Yes”—then paused a little, and
looked again with a dawning understanding which brought the colour to her
cheek. “You mean something more than I mean,” she said, a little troubled.
“But yet, if you will be kind to George Gaunt, and try to help him, for my
sake—— Yes, oh, yes! Why should I refuse? I would not have asked you if
I had not thought that perhaps you would do it—for me.”
“I would do a great deal for you; for your mother’s daughter, much; and
for poor Waring’s child; and again, for yourself. But, Frances, a young man
who is so weak, who falls into temptation in this way—my dear, you must
let me say it—he is not a mate for such as you.”
“For me? Oh no. No one thought—no one ever thought——” cried
Frances hastily. “Sir Thomas, I hear mamma coming, and I do not want to
trouble her, for she has so much to think of? Will you? Oh, promise me.
Look for him to-night; oh, look for him to-night!”
“You are so sure that I can be of use?” The trust in her eyes was so
genuine, so enthusiastic, that he could not resist that flattery. “Yes, I will try.
I will see what it is possible to do. And you, Frances, remember you are
pledged, too; you are to do everything you can for me.”
He was patting her on the shoulder, looking down upon her with very
friendly tender eyes, when Lady Markham came in. She was a little startled
by the group; but though she was tired and discomposed and out of heart,
she was not so preoccupied but what her quick mind caught a new
suggestion from it. Sir Thomas was very rich. He had been devoted to
herself, in all honour and kindness, for many years. What if Frances——? A
whole train of new ideas burst into her mind on the moment, although she
had thought, as she came in, that in the present chaos and hurry of her
spirits she had room for nothing more.
“You look,” she said with a smile, “as if you were settling something.
What is it? An alliance, a league?”
“Offensive and defensive,” said Sir Thomas. “We have given each other
mutual commissions, and we are great friends, as you see. But these are our
little secrets, which we don’t mean to tell. How is Nelly, Lady Markham?
And is it all right about the will?”
“The will is the least of my cares. I could not inquire into that, as you
may suppose; nor is there any need, so far as I know. Nelly is quite enough
to have on one’s hands, without thinking of the will. She is very nervous
and very headstrong. She would have rushed away out of the house, if I had
not used—almost force. She cannot bear to be under the same roof with
death.”
“It was the old way. I scarcely wonder, for my part: for it was never
pretended, I suppose, that there was any love in the matter.”
“Oh no” (Lady Markham looked at her own elderly knight and at her
young daughter, and said to herself, What if Frances——?); “there was no
love. But she has always been very good, and done her duty by him—that,
everybody will say.”
“Poor Nelly!—that is quite true. But still I should not like, if I were such
a fool as to marry a young wife, to have her do her duty to me in that way.”
“You would be very different,” said Lady Markham with a smile. “I
should not think you a fool at all; and I should think her a lucky woman.”
She said this with Nelly Winterbourn’s voice still ringing in her ears.
“Happily, I am not going to put it to the test. Now, I must go—to look
after your affairs, Miss Frances; and remember that you are pledged to look
after mine in return.”
Lady Markham looked after him very curiously as he went away. She
thought, as women so often think, that men were very strange, inscrutable
—“mostly fools,” at least in one way. To think that perhaps little Frances
—— It would be a great match, greater than Claude Ramsay—as good in
one point of view, and in other respects far better than Nelly St John’s great
marriage with the rich Mr Winterbourn. “I am glad you like him so much,
Frances,” she said. “He is not young—but he has every other quality; as
good as ever man was, and so considerate and kind. You may take him into
your confidence fully.” She waited a moment to see if the child had
anything to say; then, too wise to force or precipitate matters, went on:
“Poor Nelly gives me great anxiety, Frances. I wish the funeral were over,
and all well. Her nerves are in such an excited state, one can’t feel sure
what she may do or say. The servants and people happily think it grief; but
to see Sarah Winterbourn looking at her fills me with fright, I can’t tell why.
She doesn’t think it is grief. And how should it be? A dreadful, cold, always
ill, repulsive man. But I hope she may be kept quiet, not to make a scandal
until after the funeral at least. I don’t know what she said to you, my love,
that day; but you must not pay any attention to what a woman says in such
an excited state. Her marriage has been unfortunate (which is a thing that
may happen in any circumstances), not because Mr Winterbourn was such a
good match, but because he was such a disagreeable man.”
Frances, who had no clue to her mother’s thoughts, or to any
appropriateness in this short speech, had little interest in it. She said,
somewhat stiffly, that she was sorry for poor Mrs Winterbourn—but much
more sorry for her own mother, who was having so much trouble and
anxiety. Lady Markham smiled upon her, and kissed her tenderly. It was a
relief to her mind, in the midst of all those anxious questions, to have a new
channel for her thoughts; and upon this new path she threw herself forth in
the fulness of a lively imagination, leaving fact far behind, and even
probability. She was indeed quite conscious of this, and voluntarily
permitted herself the pleasant exercise of building a new castle in the air.
Little Frances! And she said to herself there would be no drawback in such
a case. It would be the finest match of the season; and no mother need fear
to trust her daughter in Sir Thomas’s hands.
Sir Thomas came back next morning when Lady Markham was again
absent. He informed Frances that he had gone to several places where he
was told Captain Gaunt was likely to be found, and had seen Markham as
usual “frittering himself away;” but Gaunt had nowhere been visible.
“Some one said he had fallen ill. If that is so, it is the best thing that could
happen. One has some hope of getting hold of him so.” But where did he
live? That was the question. Markham did not know, nor any one about.
That was the first thing to be discovered, Sir Thomas said. For the first
time, Frances appreciated her mother’s business-like arrangements for her
great correspondence, which made an address-book so necessary. She found
Gaunt’s address there; and passed the rest of the day in anxiety, which she
could confide to no one, learning for the first time those tortures of
suspense which to so many women form a great part of existence. Frances
thought the day would never end. It was so much the more dreadful to her
that she had to shut it all up in her own bosom, and endeavour to enter into
other anxieties, and sympathise with her mother’s continual panic as to
what Nelly Winterbourn might do. The house altogether was in a state of
suppressed excitement; even the servants—or perhaps the servants most
keenly of any, with their quick curiosity and curious divination of any
change in the atmosphere of a family—feeling the thrill of approaching
revolution. Frances with her private preoccupation was blunted to this; but
when Sir Thomas arrived in the evening, it was all she could do to curb
herself and keep within the limits of ordinary rule. She sprang up, indeed,
when she heard his step on the stair, and went off to the further corner of the
room, where she could read his face out of the dimness before he spoke;
and where, perhaps, he might seek her, and tell her, under some pretence.
These movements were keenly noted by her mother, as was also the alert air
of Sir Thomas, and his interest and activity, though he looked very grave.
But Frances did not require to wait for the news she looked for so
anxiously.
“Yes, I am very serious,” Sir Thomas said, in answer to Lady Markham’s
question. “I have news to tell you which will shock you. Your poor young
friend Gaunt—Captain Gaunt—wasn’t he a friend of yours?—is lying
dangerously ill of fever in a poor little set of lodgings he has got. He is far
too ill to know me or say anything to me; but so far as I can make out, it has
something to do with losses at play.”
Lady Markham turned pale with alarm and horror. “Oh, I have always
been afraid of this! I had a presentiment,” she cried. Then rallying a little:
“But, Sir Thomas, no one thinks now that fever is brought on by mental
causes. It must be bad water or defective drainage.”
“It may be—anything; I can’t tell; I am no doctor. But the fact is, the
young fellow is lying delirious, raving. I heard him myself—about stakes
and chances and losses, and how he will make it up to-morrow. There are
other things too. He seems to have had hard lines, poor fellow, if all is true.”
Frances had rushed forward, unable to restrain herself. “Oh, his mother,
his mother—we must send for his mother,” she cried.
“I will go and see him to-morrow,” said Lady Markham. “I had a
presentiment. He has been on my mind ever since I saw him first. I blame
myself for losing sight of him. But to-morrow——”
“To-morrow—to-morrow; that is what the poor fellow says.”
 CHAPTER XLIII.
Lady Markham did not forget her promise. Whatever else a great lady may
forget in these days, her sick people, her hospitals, she is sure never to
forget. She went early to the lodgings, which were not far off, hidden in one
of the quaint corners of little old lanes behind Piccadilly, where poor Gaunt
was. She did not object to the desire of Frances to go with her, nor to the
anxiety she showed. The man was ill; he had become a “case;” it was
natural and right that he should be an object of interest. For herself, so far as
Lady Markham’s thoughts were free at all, George Gaunt was much more
than a case to her. A little while ago, she would have given him a large share
in her thoughts, with a remorseful consciousness almost of a personal part
in the injury which had been done him. But now there were so many other
matters in the foreground of her mind, that this, though it gave her one
sharp twinge, and an additional desire to do all that could be done for him,
had yet fallen into the background. Besides, things had arrived at a climax:
there was no longer any means of delivering him, no further anxiety about
his daily movements; there he lay, incapable of further action. It was
miserable, yet it was a relief. Markham and Markham’s associates had no
more power over a sick man.
Lady Markham managed her affairs always in a business-like way. She
sent to inquire what was the usual hour of the doctor’s visit, and timed her
arrival so as to meet him, and receive all the information he could give.
Even the medical details of the case were not beyond Lady Markham’s
comprehension. She had a brief but very full consultation with the medical
man in the little parlour down-stairs, and promptly issued her orders for
nurses and all that could possibly be wanted for the patient. Two nurses at
once—one for the day, and the other for the night; ice by the cart-load; the
street to be covered with hay; any traffic that it was possible to stop,
arrested. These directions Frances heard while she sat anxious and
trembling in the brougham, and watched the doctor—a humble and
undistinguished practitioner of the neighbourhood, stirred into excited
interest by the sudden appearance of the great lady, with her liberal ideas,
upon the scene—hurrying away. Lady Markham then disappeared again
into the house,—the small, trim, shallow, London lodging-house, with a few
scrubby plants in its little balconies on the first floor, where the windows
were open, but veiled by sun-blinds. Something that sounded like incessant
talking came from these windows—a sound to which Frances paid no
attention at first, thinking it nothing but a conversation, though curiously
carried on without break or pause. But after a while the monotony of the
sound gave her a painful sensation. The street was very quiet, even without
the hay. Now and then a cart or carriage would come round the corner,
taking a short-cut from one known locality to another. Sometimes a street
cry would echo through the sunshine. A cart full of flowering-plants, with a
hoarse-voiced proprietor, went along in stages, stopping here and there; but
through all ran the strain of talk, monologue or conversation, never
interrupted. The sound affected the girl’s nerves, she could not tell why. She
opened the door of the brougham at last, and went into the narrow little
doorway of the house, where it became more distinct,—a persistent dull
strain of speech. All was deserted on the lower floor, the door of the sitting-
room standing open, the narrow staircase leading to the sick man’s rooms
above. Frances felt her interest, her eager curiosity, grow at every moment.
She ran lightly, quickly up-stairs. The door of the front room, the room with
the balconies, was ajar; and now it became evident that the sound was that
of a single voice, hoarse, not always articulate, talking. Oh, the weary strain
of talk, monotonous, unending—sometimes rising faintly, sometimes falling
lower, never done, without a pause. That could not be raving, Frances said
to herself. Oh, not raving! Cries of excitement and passion would have been
comprehensible. But there was something more awful in the persistency of
the dull choked voice. She said to herself it was not George Gaunt’s voice:
she did not know what it was. But as she put forth all these arguments to
herself, trembling, she drew ever nearer and nearer to the door.
“Red—red—and red. Stick to my colour: my colour—my coat,
Markham, and the ribbon, her ribbon. I say red. Play, play—all play—
always: amusement: her ribbon, red. No, no; not red, black, colour death—
no colour: means nothing, all nothing. Markham, play. Gain or lose—all—
all: nothing kept back. Red, I say; and red—blood—blood colour. Mother,
mother! no, it’s black, black. No blood—no blood—no reproach. Death—
makes up all—death. Black—red—black—all death colours, all death,
death.” Then there was a little change in the voice. “Constance?—India; no,
no; not India. Anywhere—give up everything. Amusement, did you say
amusement? Don’t say so, don’t say so. Sport to you—but death, death:—
colour of death, black: or red—blood: all death colours, death. Mother!
don’t put on black—red ribbons like hers—red, heart’s blood. No bullet, no
—her little hand, little white hand—and then blood-red. Constance! Play—
play—nothing left—play.”
Frances stood outside and shuddered. Was this, then, what they called
raving? She shrank within herself; her heart failed her; a sickness which
took the light from her eyes, made her limbs tremble and her head swim.
Oh, what sport had he been to the two—the two who were nearest to her in
the world! What had they done with him, Mrs Gaunt’s boy—the youngest,
the favourite? There swept through the girl’s mind like a bitter wind a cry
against—Fate was it, or Providence? Had they but let alone, had each
stayed in her own place, it would have been Frances who should have met,
with a fresh heart, the young man’s early fancy. They would have met
sincere and faithful, and loved each other, and all would have been well.
But there was no Frances; there was only Constance, to throw his heart
away. She seemed to see it all as in a picture—Constance with the red
ribbons on her grey dress, with the smile that said it was only amusement;
with the little hand, the little white hand, that gave the blow. And then all
play, all play, red or black, what did it matter? and the bullet; and the
mother in mourning, and Markham. Constance and Markham! murderers.
This was the cry that came from the bottom of the girl’s heart. Murderers!
—of two; of him and of herself; of the happiness that was justly hers, which
at this moment she claimed, and wildly asserted her right to have, in the
clamour of her angry heart. She seemed to see it all in a moment: how he
was hers; how she had given her heart to him before she ever saw him; how
she could have made him happy. She would not have shrunk from India or
anywhere. She would have made him happy. And Constance, for a jest, had
come between; for amusement, had broken his heart. And Markham, for
amusement—for amusement!—had destroyed his life; and hers as well.
There are moments when the gentle and simple mind becomes more terrible
than any fury. She saw it all as in a picture—with one clear sudden
revelation. And her heart rose against it with a sensation of wrong, which
was intolerable—of misery, which she could not, would not bear.
She pushed open the door, scarcely knowing what she did. The bed was
pulled out from the wall, almost into the centre of the room; and behind,
while this strange husky monologue of confused passion was going on
unnoted, Lady Markham and the landlady stood together talking in calm
undertones of the treatment to be employed. Frances’ senses, all stimulated
to the highest point, took in, without meaning to do so, every particular of
the scene and every word that was said.
“I can do no good by staying now,” Lady Markham was saying. “There
is so little to be done at this stage. The ice to his head, that is all till the
nurse comes. She will be here before one o’clock. And in the meantime,
you must watch him carefully, and if anything occurs, let me know. Be very
careful to tell me everything; for the slightest symptom is important.”
“Yes, my lady; I’ll take great care, my lady.” The woman was overawed,
yet excited, by this unexpected visitor, who had turned the dull drama of the
lodger’s illness into a great, important, and exciting conflict, conducted by
the highest officials, against disease and death.
“As I go home, I shall call at Dr——’s”—naming the great doctor of the
moment—“who will meet the other gentleman here; and after that, if they
decide on ice-baths or any other active treatment—— But there will be time
to think of that. In the meantime, if anything important occurs,
communicate with me at once, at Eaton Square.”
“Yes, my lady; I’ll not forget nothing. My ’usband will run in a moment
to let your ladyship know.”
“That will be quite right. Keep him in the house, so that he may get
anything that is wanted.” Lady Markham gave her orders with the liberality
of a woman who had never known any limit to the possibilities of command
in this way. She went up to the bed and looked at the patient, who lay all
unconscious of inspection, continuing the hoarse talk, to which she had
ceased to attend, through which she had carried on her conversation in
complete calm. She touched his forehead for a moment with the back of her
ungloved hand, and shook her head. “The temperature is very high,” she
said. There was a semi-professional calm in all she did. Now that he was
under treatment, he could be considered dispassionately as a “case.” When
she turned round and saw Frances within the door, she held up her finger.
“Look at him, if you wish, for a moment, poor fellow; but not a word,” she
said. Frances, from the passion of anguish and wrong which had seized
upon her, sank altogether into a confused hush of semi-remorseful feeling.
Her mother at least was occupied with nothing that was not for his good.
“I told you that I mistrusted Markham,” she said, as they drove away.
“He did not mean any harm. But that is his life. And I think I told you that I
was afraid Constance—— Oh, my dear, a mother has a great many hard
offices to undertake in her life—to make up for things which her children
may have done—en gaieté du cœur, without thought.”
“Gaieté du cœur—is that what you call it,” cried Frances, “when you
murder a man?” Her voice was choked with the passion that filled her.
“Frances! Murder! You are the last one in the world from whom I should
have expected anything violent.”
“Oh,” cried the girl, flushed and wild, her eyes gleaming through an
angry dew of pain, “what word is there that is violent enough? He was
happy and good, and there were—there might have been—people who
could have loved him, and—and made him happy. When one comes in, one
who had no business there, one who—and takes him from—the others, and
makes a sport of him and a toy to amuse herself, and flings him broken
away. It is worse than murder—if there is anything worse than murder,” she
cried.
Lady Markham could not have been more astonished if some passer-by
had presented a pistol at her head. “Frances!” she cried, and took the girl’s
hot hands into her own, endeavouring to soothe her; “you speak as if she
meant to do it—as if she had some interest in doing it. Frances, you must be
just!”
“If I were just—if I had the power to be just—is there any punishment
which could be great enough? His life? But it is more than his life. It is
misery and torture and wretchedness, to him first, and then to—to his
mother—to——” She ended as a woman, as a poor little girl, scarcely yet
woman grown, must—in an agony of tears.
All that a tender mother and that a kind woman could do—with due
regard to the important business in her hands, and a glance aside to see that
the coachman did not mistake Sir Joseph’s much frequented door—Lady
Markham did to quench this extraordinary passion, and bring back calm to
Frances. She succeeded so far, that the girl, hurriedly drying her tears,
retiring with shame and confusion into herself, recovered sufficient self-
command to refrain from further betrayal of her feelings. In the midst of it
all, though she was not unmoved by her mother’s tenderness, she had a kind
of fierce perception of Lady Markham’s anxiety about Sir Joseph’s door,
and her eagerness not to lose any time in conveying her message to him,
which she did rapidly in her own person, putting the footman aside,
corrupting somehow by sweet words and looks the incorruptible
functionary who guarded the great doctor’s door. It was all for poor Gaunt’s
sake, and done with care for him, as anxious and urgent as if he had been
her own son; and yet it was business too, which, had Frances been in a
mood to see the humour of it, might have lighted the tension of her feelings.
But she was in no mind for humour—a thing which passion has never any
eyes for or cognisance of. “That is all quite right. He will meet the other
doctor this afternoon; and we may be now comfortable that he is in the best
hands,” Lady Markham said, with a sigh of satisfaction. She added: “I
suppose, of course, his parents will not hesitate about the expense?” in a
faintly inquiring tone; but did not insist on any reply. Nor could Frances
have given any reply. But amid the chaos of her mind, there came a
consciousness of poor Mrs Gaunt’s dismay, could she have known. She
would have watched her son night and day; and there was not one of the
little community at Bordighera—Mrs Durant, with all her little pretences;
Tasie, with her airs of young-ladyhood—who would not have shared the
vigil. But the two expensive nurses, with every accessory that new-fangled
science could think of—this would have frightened out of their senses the
two poor parents, who would not “hesitate about the expense,” or any
expense that involved their son’s life. In this point, too, the different classes
could not understand each other. The idea flew through the girl’s mind with
a half-despairing consciousness that this, too, had something to do with the
overwhelming revolution in her own circumstances. A man of her own
species would have understood Constance; he would have known
Markham’s reputation and ways. The pot of iron and the pot of clay could
not travel together without damage to the weakest. This went vaguely
through Frances’ mind in the middle of her excitement, and perhaps helped
to calm her. It also stilled, if it did not calm her, to see that her mother was a
little afraid of her in her new development.
Lady Markham, when she returned to the brougham after her visit to Sir
Joseph, manifestly avoided the subject. She was careful not to say anything
of Markham or of Constance. Her manner was anxious, deprecatory, full of
conciliation. She advised Frances, with much tenderness, to go and rest a
little when they got home. “I fear you have been doing too much, my
darling,” she cried, and followed her to her room with some potion in a
glass.
“I am quite well,” Frances said; “there is nothing the matter with me.”
 “But I am sure, my dearest, that you are overdone.” Her anxious and
conciliatory looks were of themselves a tonic to Frances, and brought her
back to herself.
Markham, when he appeared in the evening, showed unusual feeling too.
He was at the crisis, it seemed, of his own life, and perhaps other sentiments
had therefore an easier hold upon him. He came in looking very downcast,
with none of his usual banter in him. “Yes, I know. I have heard all about it,
bless you. What else, do you think, are those fellows talking about? Poor
beggar. Who ever thought he’d have gone down like that in so short a time?
Now, mother, the only thing wanting is that you should say ‘I told you so.’
And Fan,—no, Fan can do worse; she can tell me that she thought he was
safe in my hands.”
“It is not my way to say I told you so, Markham; but yet——”
“You could do it, mammy, if you tried—that is well known. I’m rather
glad he is ill, poor beggar; it stops the business. But there are things to pay,
that is the worst.”
“Surely, if it is to a gentleman, he will forgive him,” cried Frances,
“when he knows——”
“Forgive him! Poor Gaunt would rather die. It would be as much as a
man’s life was worth to offer to—forgive another man. But how should the
child know? That’s the beauty of Society and the rules of honour, Fan. You
can forgive a man many things, but not a shilling you’ve won from him.
And how is he to mend, good life! with the thought of having to pay up in
the end?” Markham repeated this despondent speech several times before
he went gloomily away. “I had rather die straight off, and make no fuss. But
even then, he’d have to pay up, or somebody for him. If I had known what I
know now, I’d have eaten him sooner than have taken him among those
fellows, who have no mercy.”
“Markham, if you would listen to me, you would give them up—you
too.”
“Oh, I——” he said, with his short laugh. “They can’t do much harm to
me.”
“But you must change—in that as well as other things, if——”
“Ah, if,” he said, with a curious grimace; and took up his hat and went
away.
 Thus, Frances said to herself, his momentary penitence and her mother’s
pity melted away in consideration of themselves. They could not say a
dozen words on any other subject, even such an urgent one as this, before
their attention dropped, and they relapsed into the former question about
themselves. And such a question!—Markham’s marriage, which depended
upon Nelly Winterbourn’s widowhood and the portion her rich husband left
her. Markham was an English peer, the head of a family which had been
known for centuries, which even had touched the history of England here
and there; yet this was the ignoble way in which he was to take the most
individual step of a man’s life. Her heart was full almost to bursting of these
questions, which had been gradually awakening in her mind. Lady
Markham, when left alone, turned always to the consolation of her
correspondence—of those letters to write which filled up all the interstices
of her other occupations. Perhaps she was specially glad to take refuge in
this assumed duty, having no desire to enter again with her daughter into
any discussion of the events of the day. Frances withdrew into a distant
corner. She took a book with her, and did her best to read it, feeling that
anything was better than to allow herself to think, to summon up again the
sound of that hoarse broken voice running on in the feverish current of
disturbed thought. Was he still talking, talking, God help him! of death and
blood and the two colours, and her ribbon, and the misery which was all
play? Oh, the misery, causeless, unnecessary, to no good purpose, that had
come merely from this—that Constance had put herself in Frances’ place,—
that the pot of iron had thrust itself in the road of the pot of clay. But she
must not think—she must not think, the girl said to herself with feverish
earnestness, and tried the book again. Finding it of no avail, however, she
put it down, and left her corner and came, in a moment of leisure between
two letters, behind her mother’s chair. “May I ask you a question,
mamma?”
“As many as you please, my dear;” but Lady Markham’s face bore a
harassed look. “You know, Frances, there are some to which there is no
answer—which I can only ask with an aching heart, like yourself,” she said.
“This is a very simple one. It is, Have I any money—of my own?”
Lady Markham turned round on her chair and looked at her daughter.
“Money!” she said. “Are you in need of anything? Do you want money,
Frances? I shall never forgive myself, if you have felt yourself neglected.”
 “It is not that. I mean—have I anything of my own?”
After a little pause. “There is a—small provision made for you by my
marriage settlement,” Lady Markham said.
“And—once more—could, oh, could I have it, mamma?”
“My dear child! you must be out of your senses. How could you have it
at your age—unless you were going to marry?”
This suggestion Frances rejected with the contempt it merited. “I shall
never marry,” she said; “and there never could be a time when it would be
of so much importance to me to have it as now. Oh, tell me, is there no way
by which I could have it now?”
“Sir Thomas is one of our trustees. Ask him. I do not think he will let
you have it, Frances. But perhaps you could tell him what you want, if you
will not have confidence in me. Money is just the thing that is least easy for
me. I could give you almost anything else; but money I have not. What can
you want money for, a girl like you?”
Frances hesitated before she replied. “I would rather not tell you,” she
said; “for very likely you would not approve; but it is nothing—wrong.”
“You are very honest, my dear. I do not suppose for a moment it is
anything wrong. Ask Sir Thomas,” Lady Markham said, with a smile. The
smile had meaning in it, which to Frances was incomprehensible. “Sir
Thomas—will refuse nothing he can in reason give—of that I am sure.”
Sir Thomas, when he came in shortly afterwards, said that he would not
disturb Lady Markham. “For I see you are busy, and I have something to
say to Frances.”
“Who has also something to say to you,” Lady Markham said, with a
benignant smile. Her heart gave a throb of satisfaction. It was all she could
do to restrain herself, not to tell the dear friend to whom she was writing
that there was every prospect of a most happy establishment for dear
Frances. And her joy was quite genuine and almost innocent,
notwithstanding all she knew.
“You have written to your father?” Sir Thomas said. “My dear Frances, I
have got the most hopeful letter from him, the first I have had for years. He
asks me if I know what state Hilborough is in—if it is habitable? That looks
like coming home, don’t you think? And it is years since he has written to
me before.”
 Frances did not know what Hilborough was; but she disliked showing
her ignorance. And this idea was not so comforting to her as Sir Thomas
expected. She said: “I do not think he will come,” with downcast eyes.
But Sir Thomas was strong in his own way of thinking. He was excited
and pleased by the letter. He told her again and again how he had desired
this—how happy it made him to think he was about to be successful at last.
“And just at the moment when all is likely to be arranged—when Markham
—— You have brought me luck, Frances. Now, tell me what it was you
wanted from me?”
Frances’ spirits had fallen lower and lower while his rose. Her mind
ranged over the new possibilities with something like despair. It would be
Constance, not she, who would have done it, if he came back—Constance,
who had taken her place from her—the love that ought to have been hers—
her father—and who now, on her return, would resume her place with her
mother too. Ah, what would Constance do? Would she do anything for him
who lay yonder in the fever, for his father and his mother, poor old people!
—anything to make up for the harm she had done? Her heart burned in her
agitated, troubled bosom. “It is nothing,” she said—“nothing that you
would do for me. I had a great wish—but I know you would not let me do
it, neither you nor my mother.”
“Tell me what it is, and we shall see.”
Frances felt her voice die away in her throat. “We went this morning to
see—to see——”
“You mean poor Gaunt. It is a sad sight, and a sad story—too sad for a
young creature like you to be mixed up in. Is it anything for him, that you
want me to do?”
She looked at him through those hot gathering tears which interrupt the
vision of women, and blind them when they most desire to see clearly. A
sense of the folly of her hope, of the impossibility of making any one
understand what was in her mind, overwhelmed her. “I cannot, I cannot,”
she cried. “Oh, I know you are very kind. I wanted my own money, if I
have any. But I know you will not give it me, nor think it right, nor
understand what I want to do with it.”
“Have you so little trust in me?” said Sir Thomas. “I hope, if you told
me, I could understand. I cannot give you your own money, Frances; but if
it were for a good—no, I will not say that—for a sensible, for a practicable
purpose, you should have some of mine.”
“Yours!” she cried, almost with indignation. “Oh no; that is not what I
mean. They are nothing—nothing to you.” She paused when she had said
this, and grew very pale. “I did not mean—— Sir Thomas, please do not
say anything to mamma.”
He took her hand affectionately between his own. “I do not half
understand,” he said; “but I will keep your secret, so far as I know it, my
poor little girl.”
Lady Markham at her writing-table, with her back turned, went on with
her correspondence all the time in high satisfaction and pleasure, saying to
herself that it would be far better than Nelly Winterbourn’s—that it would
be the finest match of the year.
 CHAPTER XLIV.
It had seemed to Frances, as it appears naturally to all who have little
experience, that a man who was so ill as Captain Gaunt must get better or
get worse without any of the lingering suspense which accompanies a less
violent complaint; but, naturally, Lady Markham was wiser, and entertained
no such delusions. When it had gone on for a week, it already seemed to
Frances as if he had been ill for a year,—as if there never had been any
subject of interest in the world but the lingering course of the malady,
which waxed from less to more, from days of quiet to hours of active
delirium. The business-like nurses, always so cool and calm, with their
professional reports, gave the foolish girl a chill to her heart, thinking, as
she did, of the anxiety that would have filled, not the house alone in which
he lay, but all the little community, had he been ill at home. Perhaps it was
better for him that he was not ill at home,—that the changes in his state
were watched by clear eyes, not made dim by tears or oversharp by anxiety,
but which took him very calmly, as a case interesting, no doubt, but only in
a scientific sense.
After a few days, Lady Markham herself wrote to his mother a very kind
letter, full of detail, describing everything which she had done, and how she
had taken Captain Gaunt entirely into her own hands. “I thought it better
not to lose any time,” she said; “and you may assure yourself that
everything has been done for him that could have been done, had you
yourself been here. I have acted exactly as I should have done for my own
son in the circumstances;” and she proceeded to explain the treatment, in a
manner which was far too full of knowledge for poor Mrs Gaunt’s
understanding, who could scarcely read the letter for tears. The best nurses,
the best doctor, the most anxious care, Lady Markham’s own personal
supervision, so that nothing should be neglected. The two old parents held
their little counsel over this letter with full hearts. It had been Mrs Gaunt’s
first intention to start at once, to get to her boy as fast as express trains
could carry her; but then they began to look at each other, to falter forth
broken words about expense. Two nurses, the best doctor in London—and
then the mother’s rapid journey, the old General left alone. How was she to
do it, so anxious, so unaccustomed as she was? They decided, with many
doubts and terrors, with great self-denial, and many a sick flutter of
questionings as to which was best, to remain. Lady Markham had promised
them news every day of their boy, and a telegram at once if there was “any
change”—those awful words, that slay the very soul. Even the poor mother
decided that in these circumstances it would be “self-indulgence” to go; and
from henceforward, the old people lived upon the post-hours,—lived in
awful anticipation of a telegram announcing a “change.” Frances was their
daily correspondent. She had gone to look at him, she always said, though
the nurses would not permit her to stay. He was no worse. But till another
week, there could be no change. Then she would write that the critical day
had passed—that there was still no change, and would not be again for a
week; but that he was no worse. No worse!—this was the poor fare upon
which General Gaunt and his wife lived in their little Swiss pension, where
it was so cheap. They gave up even their additional candle, and economised
that poor little bit of expenditure; they gave up their wine; they made none
of the little excursions which had been their delight. Even with all these
economies, how were they to provide the expenses which were running on
—the dear London lodgings, the nurses, the boundless outgoings, which it
was understood they would not grudge? Grudge! No; not all the money in
the world, if it could save their George. But where—where were they to get
this money? Whence was it to come?
This Frances knew, but no one else. And she, too, knew that the lodgings
and the nurses and the doctors were so far from being all. The poor girl
spent the days much as they did, in agonised questions and considerations.
If she could but get her money, her own money, whatever it was. Later, for
her own use, what would it matter? She could work, she could take care of
children, it did not matter what she did: but to save him, to save them. She
had learned so much, however, about life and the world in which she lived,
as to know that, were her object known, it would be treated as the
supremest folly. Wild ideas of Jews, of finding somebody who would lend
her what she wanted, as young men do in novels, rose in her mind, and
were dismissed, and returned again. But she was not a young man; she was
only a girl, and knew not what to do, nor where to go. Not even the very
alphabet of such knowledge was hers.
While this was going on, she was taken, all abstracted as she was, into
Society—to the solemn heavinesses of dinner-parties; to dances even, in
which her gravity and self-absorption were construed to mean very different
things. Lady Markham had never said a word to any one of the idea which
had sprung into her own mind full grown at sight of Sir Thomas holding in
fatherly kindness her little girl’s hands. She had never said a word, oh, not a
word. How such a wild and extraordinary rumour had got about, she could
not imagine. But the ways of Society and its modes of information are
inscrutable: a glance, a smile, are enough. And what so natural as this to
bring a veil of gravity over even a débutante in her first season? Lucky little
girl, some people said; poor little thing, some others. No wonder she was so
serious; and her mother, that successful general—her mother, that
triumphant match-maker, radiant, in spite, people said, of the very
uncomfortable state of affairs about Markham, and the fact that, in the
absence of the executor, Nelly Winterbourn knew nothing as yet as to how
she was “left.”
Thus the weeks went past in great suspense for all. Markham had
recovered, it need scarcely be said, from his fit of remorse; and he, perhaps,
was the one to whom these uncertainties were a relief rather than an
oppression. Mrs Winterbourn had retired into the country, to wait the arrival
of the all—important functionary who had possession of her husband’s will,
and to pass decorously the first profundity of her mourning. Naturally,
Society knew everything about Nelly: how, under the infliction of Sarah
Winterbourn’s society, she was quite as well as could be expected; how she
was behaving herself beautifully in her retirement, seeing nobody, doing
just what it was right to do. Nelly had always managed to retain the
approval of Society, whatever she did. In the best circles, it was now a
subject of indignant remark that Sarah Winterbourn should take it upon
herself to keep watch like a dragon over the widow. For Nelly’s prevision
was right, and the widow was what the men now called her, though women
are not addicted to that form of nomenclature. But Sarah Winterbourn was
universally condemned. Now that the poor girl had completed her time of
bondage, and conducted herself so perfectly, why could not that dragon
leave her alone? Markham made no remark upon the subject; but his
mother, who understood him so well, believed he was glad that Sarah
Winterbourn should be there, making all visits unseemly. Lady Markham
thought he was glad of the pause altogether, of the impossibility of doing
anything; and to be allowed to go on without any disturbance in his usual
way. She had herself made one visit to Nelly, and reported, when she came
home, that notwithstanding the presence of Sarah, Nelly’s natural brightness
was beginning to appear, and that soon she would be as espiègle as ever.
That was Lady Markham’s view of the subject; and there was no doubt that
she spoke with perfect knowledge.
It was very surprising, accordingly, to the ladies, when, some days after
this, Lady Markham’s butler came up-stairs to say that Mrs Winterbourn
was at the door, and had sent to inquire whether his mistress was at home
and alone before coming up-stairs. “Of course I am at home,” said Lady
Markham; “I am always at home to Mrs Winterbourn. But to no one else,
remember, while she is here.” When the man went away with his message,
Lady Markham had a moment of hesitation. “You may stay,” she said to
Frances, “as you were present before and saw her in her trouble. But I
wonder what has brought her to town? She did not intend to come to town
till the end of the season. She must have something to tell me. O Nelly, how
are you, dear?” she cried, going forward and taking the young widow into
her arms. Nelly was in crape from top to toe. As she had always done what
was right, what people expected from her, she continued to do so till the
end. A little rim of white was under the edge of her close black bonnet with
its long veil. Her cuffs were white and hem-stitched in the old-fashioned
deep way. Nothing, in short, could be more deep than Nelly’s costume
altogether. She was a very pattern for widows; and it was very becoming, as
that dress seldom fails to be. It would have been natural to expect in Nelly’s
countenance some consciousness of this, as well as perhaps a something at
the corners of her mouth which should show that, as Lady Markham said,
she would soon be as espiègle as ever. But there was nothing of this in her
face. She seemed to have stiffened with her crape. She suffered Lady
Markham’s embrace rather than returned it. She did not take any notice of
Frances. She walked across the room, sweeping with her long dress, with
her long veil like an ensign of woe, and sat down with her back to the light.
But for a minute or more she said nothing, and listened to Lady Markham’s
questions without even a movement in reply.
“What is the matter, my dear? Is it something you have to tell me, or
have you only got tired of the country?” Lady Markham said, with a look of
alarm beginning to appear in her face.
“I am tired of the country,” said Mrs Winterbourn; “but I am also tired of
everything else, so that does not matter much. Lady Markham, I have come
to tell you a great piece of news. My trustee and Mr Winterbourn’s
executor, who has been at the other end of the world, has come home.”
 “Yes, Nelly?” Lady Markham’s look of alarm grew more and more
marked. “You make me very anxious,” she cried. “I am sure something has
happened that you did not foresee.”
“Oh, nothing has happened—that I ought not to have foreseen. I always
wondered why Sarah Winterbourn stuck to me so. The will has been opened
and read, and I know how it all is now. I rushed to tell you, as you have
been so kind.”
“Dear Nelly!” Lady Markham said, not knowing, in the growing
perturbation of her mind, what else to say.
“Mr Winterbourn has been very liberal to me. He has left me everything
he can leave away from his heir-at-law. Nothing that is entailed, of course;
but there is not very much under the entail. They tell me I will be one of the
richest women—a wealthy widow.”
“My dear Nelly, I am so very glad; but I am not surprised. Mr
Winterbourn had a great sense of justice. He could not do less for you than
that.”
“But Lady Markham, you have not heard all.” It was not like Nelly
Winterbourn to speak in such measured tones. There was not the faintest
sign of the espiègle in her voice. Frances, roused by the astonished, alarmed
look in her mother’s face, drew a little nearer almost involuntarily,
notwithstanding her abstraction in anxieties of her own.
“Nelly, do you mind Frances being here?”
“Oh, I wish her to be here! It will do her good. If she is going to do—the
same as I did, she ought to know.” She made a pause again—Lady
Markham meanwhile growing pale with fright and panic, though she did
not know what there could be to fear.
“There are some people who had begun to think that I was not so well
‘left’ as was expected,” she said; “but they were mistaken. I am very well
‘left.’ I am to have the house in Grosvenor Square, and the Knoll, and all
the plate and carriages, and three parts or so of Mr Winterbourn’s fortune—
so long as I remain Mr Winterbourn’s widow. He was, as you say, a just
man.”
There was a pause. But for something in the air which tingled after
Nelly’s voice had ceased, the listeners would scarcely have been conscious
that anything more than ordinary had been said. Lady Markham said
“Nelly?” in a breathless interrogative tone—alarmed by that thrill in the air,
rather than by the words, which were so simple in their sound.
“Oh yes; he had a great sense of justice. So long as I remain Mrs
Winterbourn, I am to have all that. It was his, and I was his, and the
property is to be kept together. Don’t you see, Lady Markham?—Sarah
knew it, and I might have known, had I thought. He had a great respect for
the name of Winterbourn—not much, perhaps, for anything else.” She
paused a little, then added: “That’s all. I wished you to know.”
“Oh my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “is it possible—is it possible? You
—debarred from marrying, debarred from everything—at your age!”
“Oh, I can do anything I please,” cried Nelly. “I can go to the bad if I
please. He does not say so long as I behave myself—only so long as I
remain the widow Winterbourn. I told you they would all call me so. Well,
they can do it! That’s what I am to be all my life—the widow Winterbourn.”
“Nelly—O Nelly,” cried Lady Markham, throwing her arms round her
visitor. “Oh, my poor child! And how can I tell—how am I to tell——?”
“You can tell everybody, if you please,” said Mrs Winterbourn, freeing
herself from the clasping arms and rising up in her stiff crape. “He had a
great sense of justice. He doesn’t say I’m to wear weeds all my life. I think I
mean to come back to Grosvenor Square on Monday, and perhaps give a
ball or two, and some dinners, to celebrate—for I have come into my
fortune, don’t you see?” she said, with an unmoved face.
“Hush, dear—hush! You must not talk like that,” Lady Markham said,
holding her arm.
“Why not! Justice is justice, whether for him or me. I was such a fool as
to be wretched when he was dying, because—— But it appears that there
was no love lost—no love and no faith lost. He did not believe in me, any
more than I believed in him. I outwitted him when he was living, and he
outwits me when he is dead. Do you hear, Frances?—that is how things go.
If you do as I did, as I hear you are going to do—— Oh, do it if you please;
I will never interfere. But make up your mind to this—he will have his
revenge on you—or justice; it is all the same thing. Good-bye, Lady
Markham. I hope you will countenance me at my first ball—for now I have
come into my fortune, I mean to enjoy myself. Don’t you think these things
are rather becoming? I mean to wear them out. They will make a sensation
at my parties,” she said, and for the first time laughed aloud.
 “This is just the first wounded feeling,” said Lady Markham. “O Nelly,
you must not fly in the face of Society. You have always been so good. No,
no; let us think it over. Perhaps we can find a way out of it. There is bound
to be a flaw somewhere.”
“Good-bye,” said Nelly. “I have not fixed on the day for my first At
Home; but the invitations will be out directly. Good-bye, Frances. You must
come—and Sir Thomas. It will be a fine lesson for Sir Thomas.” She
walked across the room to the door, and there stood for a moment, looking
back. She looked taller, almost grand in still fury and despair with her
immovable face. But as she stood there, a faint softening came to the
marble. “Tell Geoff—gently,” she said, and went away. They could hear the
soft sweep of her black robes retiring down the stair, and then the door
opening, the clang of the carriage.
Lady Markham had dropped into a chair in her dismay, and sat with her
hands clasped and her eyes wide open, listening to these sounds, as if they
might throw some light on the situation. The consequences which might
follow from Nelly’s freedom had been heavy on her heart; and it was
possible that by-and-by this strange news might bring the usual comfort; but
in the meantime, consternation overwhelmed her. “As long as she remains
his widow!” she said to herself in a tone of horror, as the tension of her
nerves yielded and the carriage drove away. “And how am I to tell him—
gently; how am I to tell him gently?” she cried. It was as if a great
catastrophe had overwhelmed the house.
In an hour or so, however, Lady Markham recovered her energy, and
began to think whether there might be any way out of it. “I’ll tell you,” she
cried suddenly; “there is your uncle Clarendon, Frances. He is a great
lawyer. If any man can find a flaw in the will, he will do it.” She rang the
bell at once, and ordered the carriage. “But, oh dear,” she said, “I forgot.
Lady Meliora is coming about Trotter’s Buildings, the place in
Whitechapel. I cannot go. Whatever may happen, I cannot go to-day. But,
my dear, you have never taken any part as yet; you need not stay for this
meeting: and besides, you are a favourite in Portland Place; you are the best
person to go. You can tell your uncle Clarendon—— Stop; I will write a
note,” Lady Markham cried. That was always the most satisfactory plan in
every case. She sent her daughter to get ready to go out; and she herself
dashed off in two minutes four sheets of the clearest statement, a précis of
the whole case. Mr Clarendon, like most people, liked Lady Markham,—he
did not share his wife’s prejudices; and Frances was a favourite. Surely,
moved by these two influences combined, he would bestir himself and find
a flaw in the will!
In less than half an hour from the time of Mrs Winterbourn’s departure,
Frances found herself alone in the brougham, going towards Portland Place.
Her mind was not absorbed in Nelly Winterbourn. She was not old enough,
or sufficiently used to the ways of Society, to appreciate the tragedy in this
case. Nelly’s horror at the moment of her husband’s death she had
understood; but Nelly’s tragic solemnity now struck her as with a jarring
note. Indeed, Frances had never learned to think of money as she ought.
And yet, how anxious she was about money! How her thoughts returned, as
soon as she felt herself alone and free to pursue them, to the question which
devoured her heart. It was a relief to her to be thus free, thus alone and
silent, that she might think of it. If she could but have driven on and on for a
hundred miles or so, to think of it, to find a solution for her problem! But
even a single mile was something; for before she had got through the long
line of Piccadilly, a sudden inspiration came to her mind. The one person in
the world whom she could ask for help was the person whom she was on
her way to see—her aunt Clarendon, who was rich, with whom she was a
favourite; who was on the other side, ready to sympathise with all that
belonged to the life of Bordighera, in opposition to Eaton Square. Nelly
Winterbourn and her troubles fled like shadows from Frances’ mind. To be
truly disinterested, to be always mindful of other people’s interests, it is
well to have as few as possible of one’s own.
Mrs Clarendon received her, as always, with a sort of combative
tenderness, as if in competition for her favour with some powerful
adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid that
adversary, to offer more than she did, of which Frances was usually
uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her like a cordial. “I
suppose you are being taken to all sorts of places?” she said. “I wish I had
not given up Society so much; but when the season is over, and the fine
people are all in the country, then you will see that we have not forgotten
you. Has Sir Thomas come with you, Frances? I supposed, perhaps, you had
come to tell me——”
“Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was too much
occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her aunt could mean.
“Oh, aunt Caroline,” she said, “I have come to speak to you of something I
am very, very much interested about.” In all sincerity, she had forgotten the
original scope of her mission, and only remembered her own anxiety. And
then she told her story—how Captain Gaunt, the son of her old friend, the
youngest, the one that was best beloved, had come to town—how he had
made friends who were not—nice—who made him play and lose money—
though he had no money.
“Of course, my dear, I know—Lord Markham and his set.”
At this Frances coloured high. “It was not Markham. Markham has
found out for me. It was some—fellows who had no mercy, he said.”
“Oh yes; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an innocent girl
like you should be in any way mixed up with such people. Whether Lord
Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets some of his friends to do it
——”
“Aunt Caroline, now you take away my last hope; for Markham is my
brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who speaks so of my
brother—he is always so kind, so kind to me.”
“I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to you,” said
Mrs Clarendon.
But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned away her
head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding tears—those tears
which would come in spite of her, notwithstanding all the efforts she could
make. “I had a little hope in you,” Frances said; “but now I have none,
none. My mother sees him every day; if he lives, she will have saved his
life. But I cannot ask her for what I want. I cannot ask her for more—she
has done so much. And now, you make it impossible for me to ask you!”
If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best, she could not have hit
upon a more effectual way. “My dear child,” cried Mrs Clarendon, hurrying
to her, drawing her into her arms, “what is it, what is it that moves you so
much? Of whom are you speaking? His life? Whose life is in danger? And
what is it you want? If you think I, your father’s only sister, will do less for
you than Lady Markham does——! Tell me, my dear, tell me what is it you
want?”
Then Frances continued her story. How young Gaunt was ill of a brain-
fever, and raved about his losses, and the black and red, and of his mother
in mourning (with an additional ache in her heart, Frances suppressed all
mention of Constance), and how she understood, though nobody else did,
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