‘What it means?’ said Frank; and Alice, though she had but half heard

the question, paused as by instinct, the chords still vibrating under

her fingers. She had been perfectly passive, taking no part in the talk,

not even knowing what was said; yet suddenly she too felt as Frank did,

that they were engaged in opposite armies, two against one. Nelly

affronted, a little hurt, angry without meaning to be angry, stood on

one side--and on the other, the performer and the listener stood

together, having forgotten everything. Alice felt this by instinct, with

a quick pang of sorrow, yet of satisfaction. He and she were on the same

side. It was pleasant not to stand alone.

‘You look moon-struck,’ said Nelly, more and more indignant, ‘and it is

still broad daylight. Yes; tell me what it means. What wailing spirit is

in the keys? I cannot make it out. I have been listening and wondering

for ten minutes. I know what books mean, and pictures; but I can’t

understand music. Tell me, you two, who are fond of it, what it is all

about?’

Then Frank turned round upon Alice, and a look of mutual appeal passed

between them. Mean? It was part of a mass; but Frank, for his part at

least, did not know the solemn words to which the music was wedded; and

he wanted no meaning that could be put into words. He felt what it was,

instinctively. It was the only poetry of which his mind was susceptible.

Alice was more fanciful, more imaginative, perhaps more intellectual

than the young Guardsman; but yet the question was to her much what the

question, What did ‘In Memoriam’ mean? would have been to a mind of

different inclinations. The two looked at each other in a momentary

wondering consultation. They were the two against one, connected by a

secret bond. In a moment the colour flamed from one young face to the

other. A sensation of happiness, tenderness, exquisite satisfaction and

contentment, came over them both. Neither could explain, and yet both

knew, felt, and felt together. And were ashamed!--Surely a more innocent

bond could not have been. As for Nelly, with her quick eyes she saw the

glance, and understood, and flamed up also, all over, with resentment

and indignation, and a mortified sense of being superseded.

‘Yes.’ she said, with a hard little laugh, ‘consult each other! I have

asked heaps of musical people the same question; but they never could

tell me. What is it about? Is there a story in it, or any meaning? Have

a consultation; two heads are better than one. And please, when you make

it out, tell me,’ she cried, rising from her seat. ‘I will go and get a

book that I can understand.’

And before they could either of them say a word she was gone out of the

room. The movement was so sudden, that they were both taken by surprise.

‘What is the matter? Is she affronted?’ said Frank, with a secret sense

that he himself was the sinner. As for Alice, she was struck with

consternation. ‘What have we done?’ she said, faltering, and then

recollected herself, and blushed more deeply than ever. And there was a

pause of dismay, during which the two strangers listened and waited for

the return of the daughter of the house. Then Alice rose with tears in

her eyes.

‘Mr. Renton, I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘Miss Hadley always tells me

musical people are so selfish, thinking everybody must like it. I will

go and beg Nelly’s pardon. I did not mean any harm.’

‘Harm?’ said Frank with indignation; but before he could add another

word he found himself alone.

CHAPTER XIV.

FRANK’S PERPLEXITIES.

It will be perceived, from all that has been said, that Nelly Rich used

more freedom in the expression of her sentiments than is generally

expected from girls of her age. A well brought-up young woman is not

supposed to go off affronted when her admirer, real or supposed, shows a

sudden interest in music, or anything else, independent of herself. The

modern code of manners exacts that she should, if not grin, at least

smile and bear it, with as much courage and as little of the air either

of offence or resignation, as possible. Nelly betrayed her less exalted

origin in this, that she allowed her real sentiments to escape her.

There can be no doubt that she had given Frank intimations of her

readiness to look favourably upon him which a more reticent girl would

have blushed to give, and on which was built much that would else have

seemed coxcombical in his behaviour. When a young woman asks if there is

no possible chance that would induce a young man to change his mind

about going to India or elsewhere, she is either beguiling and deluding

that young man, or she is exhibiting, as far as she can, ‘intentions’

which are generally supposed to originate on the other side. And then

her abrupt exit was a startling thing. When he was left alone in the

music-room with the open piano, and Nelly’s book lying on the table,

Frank did not feel comfortable. He was left, as it were, master of the

field. But it cannot be said that it is a pleasant thing to rout your

friends so completely in their own house, and find yourself in solitary

possession of their usual haunts. The evening passed, however, less

unpleasantly than this scene would have led a looker-on to suppose.

Alice, learning wisdom from experience, excused herself on the plea of

being tired from playing; and Frank made his peace with Nelly, saying no

more about his brother, and talking of the Beauchamps, and Mary

Westbury, and his own home. The Renton woods were an unfailing

subject,--as were also his own boyish adventures, into the history of

which he was drawn by Mrs. Rich, whose inquiries were manifold. A man,

especially if he is still a boy, has always a certain pleasure in

uttering such reminiscences to sympathetic ears. The ladies laughed at

his Eton scrapes, and were edified by his adventures on the river, and

listened with ready interest, and smiles, and wanderings, to all his

schoolboy tales. He felt himself of importance as he turned from one to

another, and it pleased him to see Nelly seriously inclined to listen.

She was interested,--it was no make-believe,--interested in Frank in

the first place, and after that, like a true woman, interested in every

detail about him. She liked to know how he had distinguished, and how he

had committed, himself. It seemed to give her something to do with him;

and Frank, too, felt the charm of confidence. She had put aside her

waywardness, and listened with bright eyes of interest, with an eager

ear, with smiles and exclamations. She made him describe Renton to her

over and over again, and those points of view which people went to see.

‘I could row you over,’ he said, ‘any day. From Cookesley to Renton is

an easy pull. Let us make up a party and do it. The river is lovely, and

if you have not seen it before----’

‘I have never been higher up than Cookesley,’ said Nelly; and thus it

was arranged, though Mrs. Rich shook her head.

‘We shall see when the time comes,’ that wise mother said; and Frank

perceived that it was only in case his mother should make up her mind to

be civil that this little expedition would be permitted.

He made himself very agreeable to Nelly that evening, undismayed by the

events of the afternoon. Alice was out of the way. She was at the other

end of the room, looking over engravings, and resisting Alf’s entreaties

that she should play something. ‘Nelly would not like it,’ she said to

herself; ‘she is talking, and she likes that better.’ And Alice felt

herself somewhat silent and wistful, and wished herself back in Fitzroy

Square. That evening it appeared to her that she was not enjoying her

visit as she had expected to do. She missed her mother, and she missed

the children, and Miss Hadley, and her usual duties, and perhaps

something else too, though she did not know what was in her own

thoughts. Sometimes she cast a wistful glance across the room at Nelly

smiling and softened, with that look of absorbed attention in her

brilliant eyes. Alice had been shocked by her friend’s freedom of

speech, but, as was so natural, impressed by it also. Unconsciously she

herself began to speculate about Nelly. Could there be--as girls

say--anything between her and Frank Renton? Was that why she was cross,

and was it not the music? Alice felt herself to be pushed aside, and it

was not a cheerful feeling; but fortunately the only form it took was a

longing for home. She had home to fall back upon whatever might befall

her here. If any vague discontent came down upon her heart, happiness

and peace, as of old, dwelt and waited for her in the Square. This was

her feeling, as she sat in the distant corner looking over the

photographs. Alf had settled down sulkily when she refused to play to

him, on a sofa near, and Mr. Rich slept the sleep of the just, the

Sunday evening crown of the week’s exertion, in an easy chair midway

between her and the table, with a lamp burning brilliantly upon it,

round which were grouped Mrs. Rich and Nelly and the young visitor.

When Alice saw them laughing and talking, she felt that she would have

liked to be there too, and have a part in the fun. But they did not call

her, and she was too shy to go unasked, and she found the evening a

little long.

When Frank Renton left Richmont the next morning it was with a mind by

no means settled or at rest. He had received the warmest invitations to

return from the parent pair, and Nelly was not slow to intimate that she

looked for him soon. ‘Come over here when Lord Edgbaston’s refined

society palls upon you,’ Nelly said. ‘Indeed, Edgbaston is a very good

fellow,’ Frank answered, apologetically. ‘I know he is a lord,’ was

Nelly’s reply. She did not care for a lord, nor had she given so much of

her society or conversation to any one of her followers, though many of

them were much more eligible in every way than Frank. This compliment

went to the bottom of his heart. No doubt she was full of intelligence

and discrimination, and could see the difference between one man and

another; and she was, when she liked, the brightest little sympathetic

creature, and awfully clever,--clever enough to make up a man’s

deficiencies in that way; but yet----! These were the young man’s

thoughts as he walked down to Cookesley to get his boat. He was going to

the Manor, after all, to see his mother; and on the way he turned

everything over again in his mind. Nelly was very nice, when she

pleased; and though her connexions were nothing to brag of, still that

was not a thing which people took into severe consideration when a man

married money, especially when the money was young and pretty. And

yet----! Frank could not but ask himself how it was that the girl who

took a fellow’s fancy--the one he would really have gone after had he

been able to choose for himself--should never be the one who had the

fifty thousand pounds. It was a curious spite of fortune. When he

directed his mind to the serious consideration of this grand

question--the first great social problem he had ever tackled on his own

account--a singular dissipating influence always arrested him. Stray

notes of music would float across his mind,--a bit of a melody which

compelled him to hum it,--a perplexing bar which would separate from

everything else, and echo in his ear. And when he returned to the

consideration of Nelly Rich, another little agile figure stepped in

before her, the one shadow jostling the other out of the way with a

curious reality. It was not he who did it, nor had his will any share in

the matter. They did it themselves, independent of any influence of his.

So that the more he thought it over the more perplexed he became; and

yet it was not a matter which could be suffered to run on and be decided

any time. It must be settled, and that at once.

With his head full of these thoughts, he walked down across the

cheerful, blooming country to Cookesley. The day was quite bright enough

for the expedition he had proposed to Nelly; and when the recollection

of this proposed expedition came back to his mind, Frank fell into

pondering whether his mother would call. Why should she not call? It was

quite true that she was an invalid; and also true that she was in the

deepest of mourning; but still, the carriage, with Mary in it, and a

card, would do. Mere civility! he said to himself. And if it should be

for Laurie’s interest,--or even for his own! Instead of going to India.

Frank knew that his mother would have visited anybody in the country on

that inducement. And it might come to that. He stepped into his boat

with so serious a countenance that the men at the wharf took note of it.

‘Them Rentons, they ain’t up to no good,’ one said to another. ‘The

eldest gentleman, as was here the other day, was awful changed, and this

one, as is the swellest of all, looks as black as if he was a-carrying

of the world on his shoulders.’ This chance observation Frank overheard

as he glided his boat through the maze of skiffs into clear water. It

made him smile when he was fairly afloat and out of reach of

observation. He had more than the world on his shoulders. What would the

mere world have been, or any superficial weight, compared to the task of

deciding what his whole life was to be? According as he made up his mind

now would be the direction and colour of his existence. No wonder he

looked black. But how was it that the eldest gentleman had so changed?

And Laurie was gone without giving any reason. It was hard to think that

it was their father’s fault,--the father who had been so good to them.

Seven months before they had all looked up to him with the undoubting,

affectionate confidence of sons who had never known anything but

kindness; and now they were all scattered to the different corners of

the world, separated from each other, broken up, and set adrift. Frank

was more a man of the world than either of his brothers, though he was

so young. He could not but ask himself,--Was not old Rich right? Mr.

Renton’s mind must have been touched. He could not have been guilty of

such an injury to them all had he been in full possession of his reason.

Thus, if he did not look black, he looked at least very grave, as he

pulled up the river, unlike the light-hearted young Guardsman who had so

often made the banks ring with his laughter and boyish nonsense. He was

approaching his twenty-first birthday, and he was having the grand

problem submitted to his decision. It was not pleasure and virtue,

certainly, which stood before him offering; him the irrevocable choice.

There was no particular sin in adopting either course, and no

unspeakable delight; nothing infinitely seductive to move his senses, or

loftily excellent to restrain them. If he were to marry Nelly and stay

at home, he would be to all intents and purposes as good and as honest

as if he went to India. And if he went to India he would be sufficiently

well off, and quite as happy,--perhaps happier than if he stayed at

home. The question was a fine modern one between two neutral shades of

well-doing, and not a primitive alternative between black and white,

salvation and ruin. You will say that to marry a girl he did not love

would have been a sin; but Frank did not see it in that light. If he did

marry her, no doubt they would get on very well together. Nelly was not,

as we have already said, a temptation to be resisted, but, most

probably, a sober duty which he ought not to neglect. He was not

passionate, like Ben, nor was he meditative, like his brother Laurie. He

was the practical man of the family. If it had been decided to be right,

no doubt he would have done it like a man, and been quite comfortable

ever after. The difficulty was that there was too much neutral tint

about the whole question. It was possible that he might do quite as well

for himself in India as by marrying money. The chances were too equal,

the gain too uncertain, to make the decision easy.

Mrs. Renton received him as usual in her dim room with the blinds down,

a bottle of medicine on the table, and her arrowroot in the background.

It was a different atmosphere, certainly, from that of Richmont. His

mother wept a few tears as Frank kissed her. She was apt to do so

now-a-days when one of her sons appeared. And Ben’s farewell visit had

been but a few days before, and had shaken her more than anything that

had happened since her husband’s death. She could do nothing but talk of

him. ‘He was looking quite well, Frank, quite well,’ she said, over and

over again, ‘though I am sure living shut up in London all winter would

have killed any one else. And he is to sail on Friday,’ Mrs. Renton

added with a sigh. As for Mary Westbury, she, too, bore traces of having

been moved by Ben’s visit. ‘Oh, he is quite in good spirits about

going,’ she interposed. ‘I think he likes the idea.’ Frank, with his

new-born experience, felt at once that something must have happened, and

that all was not merely simple, straightforward, cousinly friendship

between Mary and Ben.

‘I suppose that was why you did not send for me,’ he said; ‘but, mamma,

you must take the consequences. Instead of only dining at Richmont, I

have passed the Sunday there, and I hope you will be so polite as to

call. They are very good sort of people, and they have been very kind to

me.’

‘Those new people!’ said Mrs. Renton. ‘What a house for you to spend

Sunday in! Your note never came till yesterday, when the servants came

back from church; and I thought of course you must have gone back to

Royalborough. Mary will tell you all about it, and how we consulted what

to do.’

‘But, mother, I want you to call on Mrs. Rich,’ repeated Frank.

‘My dear!’ said Mrs. Renton, sitting up on her sofa.

But Frank was aware that she must not be allowed to stand up for

herself, and confirm her own resolution by talk. ‘They are friends of

Laurie’s,’ he said, making a little gulp at the fib; ‘they are fond of

him, and they may have it in their power to be kind to him, too. They

are going to Italy next year.’

‘My poor Laurie!’ cried Mrs. Renton. ‘He has written me such a nice

letter. He says he could not come to say good-bye; that it would have

been too much for him. So he says; but I am sure he was afraid to come

to let me see how pale he was looking. You don’t think it is anything

about his lungs which has taken him to Italy? He might confide in you.’

‘Why it is for his pictures, not his lungs,’ said Frank, with the

cheerful confidence of ignorance. ‘Those Riches are friends of his. I am

sure it would be good for him if you could make up your mind to call.

Don’t you think he is the sort of man who ought to marry money?’ Frank

added, with a little embarrassment, after a pause.

‘To marry money! Is he thinking of marrying?--and he has nothing!’ cried

Mrs. Renton, with consternation.

‘But if she had a good deal?’ said Frank. ‘He will never make any way

for himself. Don’t you see, he is too good-natured and kind for that. So

I think a nice little fortune that would keep him comfortable would be

the very finest thing for Laurie. And I wish you would call at

Richmont.’

‘Is it Miss Rich that is to supply the little fortune?’ asked Mary, with

a smile.

‘Miss Rich is very nice,’ said Frank, with some indignation. Though he

spoke thus of Laurie, it was not with any particular hope in respect to

him. But if he himself should marry Nelly,--which seemed much more

likely,--he would not drop any word which could be brought up against

her. ‘She is very accomplished, and draws beautifully; but unless you

can get my mother to attend to ordinary civility, they can’t be expected

to like it. And it may be the worse for both Laurie and me.’

‘Neither Laurie nor you should have anything to do with such people,’

said Mrs. Renton; and then she stopped short, and a new current of

thinking rose up in her mind. ‘I do not like such things to be spoken

of, Frank,’ she said. ‘It is disgusting to hear some people talk of

marrying money. Has the young lady a great fortune? Did you say she was

nice? Sometimes the children of those vulgar people are wonderfully well

brought up. They get all that money can buy, of course. And did you say

they were fond of Laurie? He has never mentioned them in any of his

letters. Poor Laurie! Will his pictures ever bring him in any money, I

wonder? And he never can go travelling about on his allowance,--that is

impossible. Did you say Miss Rich had a very large fortune, Frank?’

‘Enough to be comfortable upon,’ said the Guardsman. ‘They would be

immensely pleased if you would call.’

‘Oh, my dear, I am not strong enough, nor in spirits to call anywhere,’

said Mrs. Renton, sinking back on her pillows. But the seed had been

dropped in the soil. Mary Westbury’s opinion, when she and Frank were

alone, was that she would go. Frank, for his part, found himself a great

deal more anxious about it than he had the least idea he was. Perhaps

because of Nelly; perhaps only because of the difficulty,--he could

scarcely say.

‘I shall feel very small if she does not go,’ he confided to Mary; ‘and

really, you know, I had not the least claim upon them, and they were

very kind to me.’

‘I thought you said they were friends of Laurie’s,’ said Mary. ‘He never

mentioned them in any way; but people have begun to gossip about you,

Frank. I nearly laughed when you were talking so wisely of Laurie. It

never occurred to you that other people might be behind the scenes and

know better. Everybody says it is you.’

‘What is me?’ said Frank, with some heat. ‘I did not think you were the

sort of girl to repeat such folly. Because Nelly Rich is a nice bright

little thing, and would be the very thing for Laurie----’

‘Laurie again!’ cried Mary, laughing. ‘You are the strangest figure for

a match-maker! They say, Frank, that these good people have quite made

up their mind to have a gentleman of Berks for their daughter: and that

is why they have always been so interested about us. And then they came

to know you,--the very thing they want. I don’t know if it is true, but

that is what they say.’

‘They say a great deal of nonsense,’ said Frank. ‘But, Mary, I have

never had an opportunity to ask you anything. How about Ben?’

And now it was Mary’s turn to change countenance. ‘I don’t think there

is much to tell about Ben,’ she said, with unusual curtness of

expression. ‘He is going to America, you know.’

‘But there is something more than that,’ said Frank. ‘I can read it in

your face.’

‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Mary Westbury, cooling down into

that dogmatic obduracy and calmness which is a gift of woman. ‘I am sure

Ben did not confide in me.’

No--and wild horses would not have drawn anything further from her, that

was evident. Mary, who was always so open, and candid, and

straightforward, closed up in a moment, put shutters to all her windows,

sealed her lips as if hermetically. If there had been nothing this

would not have been necessary; but Frank had not time to go fully into

the question. He gave her a keen, scrutinising glance, and then was

silent. No doubt Ben had got into some scrape or other; but that his

brother was not to know anything about it was equally clear.

‘It is dreadful that you should all be going off at once,’ said Mary.

‘Ben did come to bid us good-bye, but Laurie has disappeared without

even so much as that. I wish you would tell me something about Laurie,

Frank. He must have known somebody better than the Riches surely;--some

of those artist people. When you went to see him in town did you never

see any of his friends?’

‘Laurie’s friends?’ said the Guardsman, and it is undeniable that

certain confusion stole over him. It was a kind of duel that was taking

place between his cousin and himself. They were both of clearer sight

than usual, enlightened by experience,--both anxious to find out

something they did not know, and conceal something they did. ‘Oh, yes,’

Frank went on carelessly, ‘I have seen several of his friends;--Suffolk,

the painter,--though I don’t suppose you ever heard of him; and there is

a Mrs. Severn, in Fitzroy Square,--I think he was most intimate there.’

‘Tell me about her,’ cried Mary. ‘It is so odd of Laurie to go away

without coming home; something must have happened to him. It might not

be anything of that kind, of course; but tell me,--were there

daughters? or any one?’

Frank cleared his throat, nor could he keep a certain glow of colour

from mounting to his temples,--most foolish and uncalled for, it was no

doubt,--for Mrs. Severn’s household was not, and never could be,

anything to him. Either it was Mary’s eyes looking at him so keenly, or

simply a little excitement hanging about himself. Or he must have taken

cold somehow on the river.

‘Daughters?’ he said. ‘Oh,--well,--children, that’s all; there is one

little girl that plays charmingly,’ Frank added, with easy candour; ‘but

Laurie never cared for music. I don’t think there’s anything in that.’

‘And it could not be Miss Rich?’ said Mary, fixing her eyes more keenly

than ever on the young fellow’s face.

Then his countenance cleared. He was himself unaware of the change of

expression, but Mary saw it, and perceived at once that Nelly, though he

talked of her so much, was not dangerous ground to Frank. ‘No; frankly,

I don’t think it could be Miss Rich,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘I think it

would be a capital thing for both; but I cannot say that I believe

either of them have thought of it for themselves.’

‘But this Mrs. Severn----?’ insisted Mary, and she was aware of an

immediate gleam of intelligence and embarrassment in his eyes.

‘She is a painter’ said Frank, ‘and a widow, and a very nice woman,--at

least I suppose so. To hear Laurie chattering to her you would think he

found her so. I cannot say I remarked it particularly myself.’

‘And young?’ said Mary, breathless with her discovery.

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Frank, ‘not at all young;--not old either, I

suppose. A certain age, you know; that sort of thing. But really, if you

are interested about her, you must apply to Miss Rich. I did not observe

her much. Her little girl,’ Frank continued, with again that soft drop

of the eyelids, and gleam of sudden light from beneath them,--‘she I

told you of, who plays so charmingly,--is at Richmont now.’

‘Oh!’ said Mary. And Frank turned away to the window as if the

conversation had come to a natural end. And as for his cousin, she

seemed suddenly to have made a discovery; and yet, when she thought it

over, could not make out what the discovery was. The little girl who

played could not surely have anything to do with Laurie; or was it Frank

himself who was moved by her music,--or,--. Mary was left as much in the

dark as at the beginning. ‘The boys’ had all gone off on their separate

courses; they had escaped out of the hands of their old confidante and

unfailing sympathiser; and the idea grieved her. She would have given a

great deal to have been able to read the meaning of that look in her

young cousin’s eyes. She would have liked in all sisterly tenderness and

faithfulness to fathom Laurie’s secret,--for a secret Mary felt there

must be. As for Ben, that was different. She felt that the secret in his

case was somehow her own.

‘Old Sargent ought to be looked after, really,’ said Frank. ‘It is all

very well to have a gardener who is a character; but those flower-beds

are disgraceful, Mary. You should see the garden at Richmont. I suppose

my mother does not mind; but, at least, you might look after it. I shall

give the old beggar a piece of my mind if he comes across me to-day.’

‘Are the gardens really so wonderful at Richmont?’ said Mary;

‘altogether it must be an extraordinary place. I have met Miss Rich

once, and I thought her pretty; of course, I should like to know her,

if---- But, Frank, you might tell me---- If that is really what you are

thinking of----’

‘If what is really what I am thinking of?’ said Frank, with a laugh.

Mary had laid her hand on his shoulder, and was looking at him

anxiously. His face had changed once more,--the gleam under the eyelash,

the softened droop of the lid, had disappeared: but the colour rose

again to his face, though with a difference. ‘Don’t inquire too much,’

he said, turning away from her. ‘I can’t tell you myself. No one can

say what may happen. Don’t ask me any more questions, there’s a dear.’

‘But Frank, only one thing;--is she really so very nice?’ said Mary,

with another effort to catch his eye.

‘Oh, yes; she’s very nice?’ answered Frank, with a little impatience in

his tone.

‘And if,--that were to happen--you would not require to go to India?’

said Mary, dropping her voice.

‘No.’

‘And,--only one word;--are you really, really fond of her, Frank?’

The young soldier shook her hand off his shoulder, and turned away with

an impatient exclamation. ‘Good heavens! what an inquisitor you are!

Can’t you let a fellow alone? As if a man can go and make a talk about

everything like a set of girls!’ he cried, and stepped out of the open

window on to the lawn, where old Sargent was visible in the distance.

Frank went straight to the old gardener, and began to give him that

piece of his mind he had promised, using considerable action, and

pointing indignantly to the flower-beds, while Mary stood and watched,

feeling that old Sargent was suffering the penalty of her own curiosity.

Her cousins had always been as brothers to Mary,--at least the two

younger ones had been brothers; and it vexed her beyond description to

find how they had both glided out of her knowledge upon their different

paths. She was a good girl, and very sensible, everybody allowed; but

still she was young, not in reality any older than Frank, and the first

idea of love was sacred to her mind. The almost admission he had made

struck her dumb. To think of a girl,--in that way,--and yet not be fond

of her! Mary shrank from the idea as if she had received a blow. Of

course, she had heard of marrying money, as everybody else has, and,

like everybody else, had seen people who were said to have married

money, and got on together as well as the rest of the world. It was a

thing acknowledged in the society she was acquainted with to be a duty

incumbent upon some people, and creditable to all. But yet,--one of the

boys! Instinct carried the day over principle as inculcated everywhere

around her. “With other people it might be well enough,--but one of us!

Mary stood in great consternation, looking on while Frank delivered his

lecture to the gardener. She wanted to say something more to him, and

did not know how. Had not he better, far better, go to India, after all?

It would be sad to have none of the boys at home, but not so sad as

this. And then Mary cast a half-angry, half-pitying thought at Nelly

Rich, poor wealthy girl, the ‘money’ whom Frank was trying to bring

himself to marry. She was angry, like a woman, at this creature for so

much as existing, and yet,--‘Oh!’ said Mary to herself, ‘what a fate for

a girl,--to be married as money! And how frightful, for Frank! and how

base of him! and yet, oh, what a fate! poor, poor fellow!’ This is how

her thoughts went on as she stood gazing after him, with consternation,

and sympathy, and horror, and indignation. Everybody would say it was

quite right; even Mrs. Renton would go and call, for this reason, though

for no other, and smile upon them for their wealth. Mary grew sick as

she thought of it. Ben was infatuated, and blind, and foolish. He was

going to be miserable in a different way, for the creature he loved was

not good enough for him. But it was not so bad as this.

In the meantime Frank was very bitter upon old Sargent about those

flower-beds. He upbraided the gardener with taking advantage of his

mother’s illness and her indifference to external things. He was so

solemn about such a breach of trust that the old man was struck dumb,

and had not a word to say for himself. It was a satisfaction to the mind

of the young master, who had been stung by Mary’s injudicious question,

more than he could have avowed. Frank had to take a long walk, and do an

immense deal of thinking, before he could bring himself back to his

former easy sense of duty. Fond of her! Of course, if he married her he

should grow fond of Nelly. He liked her very well now, or he never would

think of it. Girls were such foolish creatures, and could not understand

all the breadth of a man’s motives. A pretty thing the world would be

if it were built only upon what they called love. Love! It was very well

in its way, but society wanted a firmer, more practical basis; but yet,

notwithstanding all these reasonings, Frank was more shaken than he had

yet been by the surprise and the pain that had come into Mary Westbury’s

face.

CHAPTER XV.

PROGRESS.

Before Frank returned to his quarters, he had received his mother’s

promise that she would call at Richmont. ‘I have given up all that sort

of thing on my own account,’ Mrs. Renton had said. ‘I will never go into

society again. All that is over for me; and I hope your friends

understand so. I can’t entertain people, you know; but anything that is

for my boy’s interests,’ the mother said, magnanimously, sitting up

among her pillows,--that was quite a different matter. Fifty thousand

pounds going a-begging, so to speak, when such a small affair as her own

card, or, at the worst, ten minutes’ talk, might determine the house to

which it should come! There could be no doubt about a mother’s duty in

such circumstances. Laurie, it was true, was out of the way; but there

was no reason why Frank should not take advantage of such a windfall.

Mrs. Renton’s mind was not troubled by any of the scruples that moved

Mary Westbury. Perhaps,--it was so long since it had come in her

way,--love had lost its importance in her eyes. Perhaps she had never

felt its necessity in any very urgent way. Mr. Renton had been the best

of husbands, but yet it could not be said that there had been much

sentiment, not to say passion, in their union. But Mrs. Renton, like

every other sensible woman, understood the value of fifty thousand

pounds. She had already made a calculation in her own mind as to the

income it would produce. ‘It can’t possibly be at less interest than

five per cent,--with a father to manage it who knows all about money,’

she said. ‘Five per cent on fifty thousand makes twenty-five hundred.

They might take Cookesley Lodge and live very comfortably on that; and I

should have them always near me.’ This reflection made Mrs. Renton not

only willing, but anxious, to pay the promised visit. She questioned her

son a great deal about Nelly before he left her. What she was like, and

the colour of her hair, and her height, and a hundred other details. ‘If

she is pretty it is so much the better,’ she said, with maternal

indulgence for a young man’s weakness. ‘I do not say anything, Frank,’

she told him, as she bade him good-bye, ‘for I see you are turning it

over in your mind. And you know I am not mercenary, nor given to think

about money. Alas! there are many things that money cannot do! It can’t

buy health when one has lost it. But it has always been my opinion that

to marry young was the very best thing for a man. And, my dear boy, if

it is in your power to secure your own happiness, and other things as

well, I hope you will be guided for the best.’ She meant that she hoped

he would be guided to the fifty thousand pounds. And Frank understood

what she meant as well as if she had said it. Mrs. Renton had never been

poor in her life, and yet she appreciated money; whereas Mary Westbury,

who had been brought up in a very limited household, and by a very

prudent mother, felt in this present instance a scorn for it which no

words could express. When she went out to the door in the starlight to

see her cousin off, her mind was full of thoughts half contemptuous,

half bitter. There was no moon, but a soft visionary light in the skies,

partly of the stars, partly that lingering reflection of light which

makes a summer evening so beautiful. Mary stood in the dark shadow of

the doorway and watched Frank getting into the dog-cart. She said her

good-night with a certain plaintive tone. ‘Good-night! but you don’t say

good luck, Mary,’ cried Frank, as he lighted his cigar. She came out

upon the steps, and looked up wistfully at him as he spoke. The shadows

of the trees hung dark all round, swallowing up in gloom the road by

which he was going; and in the opening, out of the shadow, Mary looked

at him, and thought he looked half-defiant, half-deprecating, as he

struck a light, which made his form visible for a moment. The horse was

fresh, and stood with impatience waiting the signal to start.

‘Good-night,’ Mary repeated; ‘I don’t know about the good luck:’ and

then he was suddenly whirled away into the darkness. The dog-cart was

audible going down the long line of avenue to the gate which opened on

the highroad, and now and then appeared for a moment out of the shadow

where the trees separated. She felt melancholy to see the boy thus

dashing forth, doubting and unguided, into the world. She was very

little older than he was, and yet Mary kindly felt the insufficiency of

Frank’s youth to keep him in the straight way, much more keenly than he

felt it himself. He was going, and nobody could tell what he was going

to. And there was nobody to stand in his way and advise him. Thus Frank

went out of sight, and the two ladies stopped behind with their

different thoughts. Mary was not alone in her knowledge of his

intentions; the entire household was soon pervaded by a sense of the

coming event. Mrs. Renton, as she took her arrowroot, could not but give

a hint of what she supposed to be going on to her confidential maid, and

that trusted creature was not reticent. ‘Mr. Frank’s going to marry a

lady as has made a terrible fuss about him,’ the butler said, ‘as

rich,--as rich----! I hope, when he comes into his fortune, he’ll have

something done to keep us a-going here. It’s hawful is this quiet,--and

us as always had so much visiting.’ ‘He’ll beat the old ones all to

sticks,’ said the cook; ‘but I always said Mr. Frank was the one.’ Thus

it will be seen that he left a universal excitement behind him, and

that of a favourable character. A wedding in prospect is always pleasant

to everybody, and the servants’ hall was as much impressed by the duty

of marrying money as was their mistress. Only Mary in her heart, and one

small housemaid, were sensible of the other side of the question. From

Mrs. Renton, down to the boy who blacked the shoes, the feeling, with

these two exceptions, was general. To have married for any other reason

might have produced as many criticisms as congratulations. Frank would

have been set down as too young,--a foolish boy; but to marry money was

a thing so reasonable, that nobody could but applaud.

And Frank himself felt all its reasonableness as he returned to his

quarters. He took the train at Cookesley Station for Royalborough; and

when he had to change carriages at Slowley junction, stood and kicked

his heels on the platform, so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not

leisure to be impatient. In every way it was the most reasonable, the

most natural, the most feasible thing. He cast his eye round the county,

as it were, as he stood waiting for the down-train. For a man who was

going to settle down, no county could be better than Berks. It was his

own county, in the first place, where his family were known and

considered,----and then it had a hundred advantages. It was so near

town that a man could run up for a day as often as it pleased him; a

good hunting county, with pleasant society, and the garrison at

Royalborough, in which there are always sure to be some of his regiment,

within reach. He cast his eye metaphorically over the district, and

recollected that Cookesley Lodge was to let, and also that pretty house

near St. Leonard’s. Either of them, he thought, would do very well for a

small establishment. So far as this his thoughts had advanced. He

settled a great many things as he stood on the platform at the Slowley

junction, and paced up and down with echoing feet, neither fuming nor

fretting, absorbed in his own thoughts. The station-master kept out of

Frank’s way, in fear of being called to account for the lateness of the

train; but he was too much occupied even to think of the train. To be

sure, he could afford a good hunter or two without interfering with the

other needs of the _ménage_ in respect of horses. He thought of

everything,--from the little brougham and the pony-carriage, and the

cart for his private use, down even to the dogs which should bark about

the place, and hail him when he came home. He thought of everything,

except of the central figure who would bring all these luxuries in her

hand. Certainly, he did not think of her. A chorus of barking terriers,

pointers, mastiffs,--I know not how many kinds of dogs,--seemed already

in his thoughts to bid him welcome as he drew near the imaginary house.

But there was no representation in his mind of any sweeter welcome. He

imagined the terriers, but not the wife running to the door to meet

him. That he left out, and he was not even aware of the omission. On the

whole, it grew pleasant to the eye,--this imaginary house. A Renton was

sure of a good reception in the county which had known the family for

hundreds of years; and if he wanted occupation, there was the Manor

estate, left in the lawyer’s hands only during the seven years’

interregnum, which he could always keep an eye on; and his mother’s

interests, and her own property, which she would be so glad to have him

at hand to see after. Cookesley, on the whole, would be the best. It was

near the Manor, and not quite so near Richmont; and then there would be

the river for the amusement of idle hours. It was a pleasant prospect

enough. Youth, health, a good hunter, a pretty house, a

pleasantly-assured position, and,--say at the least,--two thousand five

hundred pounds a-year! A man should have no call to mope who had all

these good things. Something, it is true, he left out from the

calculation, but there was enough to fill any man with very comfortable

sensations in what remained.

Thus it happened that he had almost made up his mind when he got back to

Royalborough. He had weighed all the arguments in favour of such a step,

and had found them unanswerable. The arguments against,--what were they?

It is, indeed, impossible to formalise them or set such weak pleas

against the solid, sturdy weight of reason which lay on the other side.

Indeed, there was nothing that could be called an argument,--certain

wandering notes of music that now and then stole with a bewildering

effect upon his ear,--faint, momentary visions of a face which was not

Nelly’s. But what then? To be fond of music is no reproach to a man,

even if the future partner of his bosom does not play; and as for the

face, why any face may spring up in your memory, and glance at you now

and then by times without any blame of yours. Some people, as is well

known, are haunted for days by a face in a picture; and what did it

matter to anybody if Frank’s imagination, too, were momentarily haunted

by the picture which he had made of a certain sweet countenance?

He felt that he had quite made up his mind when he went to bed; but the

morning brought back a certain uncertainty. What a pity that Laurie

could not have been got to do it,--Laurie, for whom it would have been

so completely suitable! leaving Frank free to go to India! He could not

but feel that this was indeed a spite of fortune. Laurie, poor fellow!

could not go to India,--he never would make his own way anywhere,--he

would only moon about the world and make himself of use to other people;

and, so far as his own interests were concerned, would end just where he

began. Whereas Frank felt confident that he himself could have made his

way. And Laurie wanted somebody to take care of him, to give a practical

turn to his dreamings, to keep him comfortable in his wanderings to and

fro. If he could only be sent for from Italy even yet! What could have

tempted him to go to Italy at this time of the year, which everybody

knew was the very worst time,--bad for health, and impossible for work?

Frank shook his head in his youthful prudence at the vagaries of those

artist-folk. They never could be relied upon one way or another. They

were continually doing things which nobody else did,--going away when

they were wanted at home,--staying when they should go away. It must

have been some demon which had put it into Laurie’s head to take himself

off at this particular moment, leaving to his conscientious brother the

task of dealing with that fifty thousand pounds. Indeed, the morning

light brought home to Frank more and more clearly the sense that this

step he was contemplating was duty. The evening had had certain

softening effects. The pretty little house, and the hunters, and the

terriers, and all the pleasant country-gentleman occupations to which

the young man had been born, came clearly before him at that pleasant

hour. But, by daylight, it was the duty involved which was most apparent

to Frank. He had no right to allow such an opportunity to slip through

his fingers. If he did so, he might never have such a chance again. To

neglect it was foolish,--wrong,--even sinful. He gave a little

half-suppressed sigh as he sat down to breakfast, feeling strongly that

high principle involved some inevitable pangs. But should he be the man

to turn his back upon an evident duty because it cost him something? No!

Ben might take the bit in his teeth and go out to America to make his

fortune, like the head-strong fellow he was; and Laurie might prefer his

own foolish devices to every substantial advantage under heaven; but

Frank was not the man to run away. He could see what the exigencies of

his position demanded, and he was not one to shirk his duty. And then,

poor boy! he rounded his deliberations by humming very dolefully a bar

or two of a certain plaintive melody, and ended all by a sigh.

‘Sighing like a furnace,’ said Edgbaston, who came in unceremoniously,

followed by Frank’s servant with the kidneys,--for his thoughts did not

much affect his appetite,--and his letters. ‘My dear fellow, that’s

serious. Ah, I see you have a card for the grand fête. We are all

invited, I think.’

‘What grand fête?’ said Frank.

‘There it is,’ said his friend, turning over the letters, and producing

an enormous square envelope ornamented with a prodigious coat-of-arms in

crimson and gold. ‘These are something like armorial bearings, you know.

By Jove! people ought to pay double who go in for heraldry to that

extent. Mine is not as big as a threepenny bit. It’s a case of swindling

the Exchequer. The arms of the great house of Rich, my boy. Don’t you

know?’

‘There are Riches who are as good gentlefolks as we are,’ said Frank,

already feeling that this scoff affected his own credit.

‘Oh, better,’ cried Edgbaston. ‘We are only Brummagem,--I confess

it,--with a pinchbeck coronet. But I doubt if our friends are of the old

stock. Open and read, Frank; this day fortnight. Archery

fête,--everything that is most alluring,--croquet, good luncheon, dance

to wind up with. We’re all going. Hallo! there’s a note enclosed for

you!’

‘And why shouldn’t there be a note enclosed?’ said Frank, colouring

high, and thrusting the small epistle under his other letters. ‘I

suppose all of you had the same?’

‘The card was thought enough for me,’ said Edgbaston. ‘Well, well, I

don’t repine. But I say, Frank, if you are going in for that in earnest,

I see no use in carrying on about India. And I came to tell you of a

fellow in the 200th who wants to get off going. Montague,--he’s to be

heard of at Cox’s. You can do what you like about it of course, but you

can’t go in for both.’

‘For both?’ said Frank; ‘what do you mean? I don’t know anything else I

am going in for. Did you say Montague of the 200th? Going to Calcutta,

are they? Thanks, Edgbaston. I’ll think it over. Of course one can’t

make one’s mind up all at once.’

‘I advise you to think it well over,’ said his friend; ‘and the other

thing, too. You may look as unconscious as you please, but you can’t

conceal that you are the favourite, Frank. And, by Jove, it shows her

sense. She’s as jolly a little thing as ever I saw, and there’s no end

to the tin. If I were in your place, I’d see India scuttled first. I

don’t know a fellow who might be more comfortable; and I can tell you,

you’ll be an awful fool, my dear boy, if you let her slip through your

hands.’

‘Stuff!’ cried Frank. ‘I wish you’d let a man eat his breakfast in

peace, without all this rubbish. Archery fête, is it? I didn’t know

anybody went in for archery now-a-days; and, as for croquet, I am sick

of it. I don’t think I shall go. What sort of a fellow is Montague? The

best thing would be to run up to town, and have a talk with him at

once.’

‘If that is what you have determined on,’ said Edgbaston; ‘but, Frank,

if I were you, with such a chance----’

‘Oh, confound the chance!’ said Frank; and the rest of the conversation

was based on the idea that his heart was set on the proposed exchange,

on the prospects of the 200th, and his own immediate banishment. He

thought he had done it very cleverly, when at last he got rid of his

comrade. But Edgbaston was not the man to be so easily deceived. He

explained the whole matter confidentially to the first group of men he

encountered. ‘Look here, you fellows,’ he said; ‘mind how you talk of

little Rich to Frank Renton. He has made up his mind to go in for Nelly,

and he’s awfully thin-skinned about it, and sets up all sorts of

pretences. Frank’s the favourite, I always told you; I’ll give you five

to one they are married in six months.’

Thus Frank’s affairs were discussed, though he flattered himself he had

so skilfully blinded his critic. When Edgbaston was gone, he drew the

little note from beneath the other papers. It was from Nelly, as he

thought, and there was not much in it,--but yet,--

‘DEAR MR. RENTON,--Mamma bids me say that she forgot, when you were

here, to tell you of the little party to which the enclosed card is

an invitation. They were all put up on Saturday, before you came,

and we forgot them. And I open your envelope only lest you should

think it strange that we never said anything about it. I hope you

had a pleasant walk to Cookesley. The river must have been lovely.

‘The fête is in my poor little honour, so I hope you will come. It

happens to be my birthday;--not that anybody except my own people

can be supposed to care for that; but you, who are so fond of your

family, will excuse poor papa and mamma for making a fuss. You

know I am the only girl they have; though I am only

‘NELLY.’

‘_Richmont,_

‘_Monday morning._’

Only,--Nelly! It was a tantalising, seductive little note, which tempted

a young fellow to answer, even when he had nothing to say. She must have

written it as soon as he was gone. She must have been thinking of him

quite as much, at least, as he had been thinking of her. Something of

the natural complacency and agreeable excitement which, even when there

is nothing more serious in hand, moves a young man in his correspondence

with a girl, breathed about Frank as he wrote his reply. He told her he

could perfectly understand the fuss that would be made, and that it was

astonishing how many follies other people, who could not claim such a

tender right of relationship, might be tempted to do for the sake of a

little personage who was only,--Nelly. And then he begged pardon on his

knees for the familiarity. Thus it will be seen that things were making

considerable progress in every way. This snatch of letter-writing did

more for the sentimental side of the question than half-a-dozen

interviews. The pretty little note with Nelly’s little cipher on it, the

suggestions of the conclusion, the humility which asserted a subtle

claim on his discrimination as a man fond of his own family,--all this

moved Frank, who was not used to such clever little suggestive

correspondences. For the first time it occurred to him that Nelly was a

sweet little name, and that it would be pleasant to have its little

owner rush to meet him when he went home. For one moment the hunters and

the terriers fell into the background. Thus it will be seen that the

affair made admirable progress in every possible way.

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. RENTON’S CALL.

And it was not later than the Wednesday after when Mrs. Renton, moved to

the pitch of heroism by the possible advantages to her boy, and

fortified by a large cupful of arrowroot, with some sherry in it, got

into her carriage and called at Richmont. Mary accompanied her, full of

curiosity and opposition. Mary herself had thought Nelly Rich ‘nice’

when she met her and had no particular call to be interested in her; but

now her feelings were much less amiable. A little sprite of evil

tempting Frank to do what he ought not to do,--this was the idea which

now entered Mary’s mind as to her little neighbour. But, nevertheless,

of course she accompanied her aunt merely to smile and say polite things

to everybody. She could not help it; it was the duty which life exacted

of a well-bred maiden. It was a very fine day, and both the ladies

sallied forth with the hope, common to people who pay morning visits, of

finding that the Riches were out, and that a card would serve all

purposes of civility. ‘They are sure to be out such a beautiful day,’

said Mrs. Renton. ‘I hope you put some cards in my case, Mary; and write

your name on one, my dear, that they may see we have both called, should

like to pay every attention, in case of anything----’ Mary made a

little wry face, but scribbled her name all the same, without any

remark. But when they drew up before the door at Richmont their

delusions were all scattered to the winds. Everybody was in,--Mr. Rich,

Mrs. Rich, Miss Rich; and Mrs. Renton, not without an effort, got out of

her carriage. She was much impressed by the beautiful footmen who stood

about the hall. ‘Poor old Beecham!’ she said in her niece’s ear; ‘it

never was kept up as it ought to be in their time,--poor things!’ and

her heart melted towards the people who had everything in such order.

‘It would be a lesson to Sargent to see that garden,’ she said; ‘only to

see it. Oh, my dear, what money can do!’ So went in, with her mind

prepared to be friendly. Mrs. Rich received her in a considerable

flutter. She was the first county lady of any importance who had done

her so much honour. Finer people than Mrs. Renton, indeed, had come down

from town to the Riches’ parties, and taken the good of all that was

going, and laughed at the hosts for their pains; but no leader of the

county had yet presented herself. Mrs. Renton was, as the maids say,

_passée_, but, nevertheless, her countenance was as good as any one’s

for a beginning. She might have withdrawn from the world, but so much

the mere was the world likely to be impressed by her example. It was the

first ray of the sunshine of local grandeur in which it was the desire

of Mrs. Rich’s heart to bask.

‘This is so kind,--so very kind,’ she said in her flutter. ‘You must let

me send for my daughter. She is in her favourite room, with her pictures

and her books; but she would not miss you for the world. This is the

most comfortable corner, with no draughts. Some tea, Baker; let Miss

Rich know Mrs. Renton is here.’

‘Pray, don’t disturb yourself,’ Mrs. Renton said. ‘I scarcely ever go

out; but it is such a lovely day.’

‘And so kind of you!’ repeated the lady of the house. ‘I had heard so

much of your family,--such nice young men, and everything so charming,

that I confess I have been longing for you to call. And I have the

pleasure of knowing two of your sons, Mrs. Renton,--Mr. Frank, and the

one next to him,--Mr. Laurence, I think,--delightful young men. I hope

Mr. Frank does not really mean to go to India. It would be such a loss

to the neighbourhood. I was telling him he ought to marry an heiress,

and settle down in the county, and make himself comfortable. I told him

I should have you on my side. And such a good son as he seems to

be,--so fond of you. He surely cannot mean to go away.’

‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Renton, ‘I should be very thankful if any strong

inducement fell in his way to keep him at home.’ And just at this moment

Nelly came in, in a white gown, with her favourite scarlet ribbons. The

dress was not of flimsy materials, but dead, solid white, relieved by

the red; and there was a flush upon her dark, clear cheek, and unusual

brilliancy in her eyes. Frank’s mother stopped short with these words on

her lips, and looked at Nelly. Was she the strong inducement? She was a

little agitated, and the nervousness and excitement made her almost

beautiful. Mary Westbury stared at her too, open-mouthed, thinking,

after all, Frank might have other motives. Nelly came in with a touch of

shyness, very unusual to her. The nearest female relations of one who,

perhaps----. If she had been even more agitated than she was, it would

have been natural enough.

‘This is my daughter Nelly,’ said Mrs. Rich; ‘my only daughter. She can

tell you more about it than I can. We are to have a little fête for her

on Monday week,--archery and croquet, and that sort of thing, and a

dance in the evening. It would give us all the greatest pleasure if Miss

Westbury would come. Nelly, you must try and persuade Miss Westbury.

Indeed, I assure you, I spoke to Mr. Frank quite seriously,’ Mrs. Rich

added, sinking into a confidential tone, as she changed her seat to one

close to her much-prized visitor. ‘And he is so fond of you. I am sure

he will not go if he can help it. How nice he is! and how popular among

the gentlemen! We were delighted with the chance which kept him here all

Sunday. Sunday in the country is such a nice domestic sort of day. There

is nothing like it for making people acquainted with each other. I was

so glad when I heard the hours pass and no sound of wheels. I think

before he left us that he got really to feel that we were his friends.’

‘He was very grateful to you for your kindness, I am sure,’ said Mrs.

Renton, who, though she could talk herself upon occasions, was fairly

overflooded and carried away by this flowing current of speech.

‘Oh, grateful,--no!; said Mrs. Rich; ‘that word would be quite

misapplied. It is we who should be grateful to him,--a young man

accustomed to the best society,--for putting up with a family party. And

your other son, Mrs. Renton, is delightful too. We met him in town. He

took us to a friend of his, Mr. Suffolk, the painter, where Mr. Rich

bought a most lovely picture. I should ask you to go up to the

music-room and look at it but for the stairs. It is a trial going up so

many stairs. Yes, we have done a great deal to the house. It must be

strange to you, coming to call at a house you once knew so well. But, as

Mr. Rich says, it is not our fault. We gave a very good price for it;

and, if we had not bought it, some one else would. My husband has laid

out a great deal of money upon it. He has excellent taste, everybody

says; and, of course, being well off, he does not need to consider every

penny, as, unfortunately, so many excellent people have to do. You would

be pleased if you saw the music-room,--quite a fine domestic chapel they

tell us. We have hung Mr. Suffolk’s picture there. If you are fond of

pictures----’

‘Oh, thanks! but I am not able to move about and look at things as I

used to be,’ cried Mrs. Renton, in alarm.

‘To be sure,’ said her anxious hostess; ‘I ought to have thought of

that. You will take a cup of tea? It is so refreshing after a long

drive. Your son is quite a painter, I know, and so is my daughter. I

tell her I cannot tell where she has got it, for we neither of us could

draw a line to save our lives, neither her father nor me.’

Thus Mrs. Rich fluttered on, more fluent than ever, probably in

consequence of her agitation. She was anxious to show herself at her

best to her visitor, and the consequence was that Mrs. Renton went away

sadly fatigued, and with a sensation of pity for Frank. ‘I never could

get a word in,’ she said, indignantly, when she found herself safely

ensconced once more in the corner of the carriage. ‘Mary, have you some

eau-de-Cologne? I feel as if I were good for nothing but to go to

sleep.’

‘Then go to sleep, dear godmamma,’ said Mary, soothingly; ‘don’t mind

me; I have plenty to think about, and I am sure you are tired. But Miss

Rich is not so heavy as her mother,’ she added, conscientiously. Her

heart compelled her to do justice to Nelly, but it was against the

grain.

‘I don’t know much about Miss Rich,’ said Mrs. Renton, sighing in her

fatigue. And she closed her eyes, lying back in her corner, and dozed,

or appeared to doze. As for Mary, she had, as she said, a great deal to

think about, and indulged herself accordingly, having perfect leisure.

But Mary’s thoughts had more of a sting in them than her aunt’s. She was

thinking somewhat bitterly of the difference between hope and reality.

How hopeful, how promising had been all those young men, her cousins!

She herself, feeling herself as a woman as old as the eldest, though she

was in fact the same age as the youngest, had thought of them in the

exalted way common to young women. Something better than usual, she had

felt, must fall to their fate. And yet so soon, so suddenly, what a

miserable end had come to her dreams! Ben, for whose express benefit

some unimaginable creature had always been invented in Mary’s thoughts,

had allowed himself to be taken captive by the first beautiful face,

unaccompanied by anything better. He had set a creature on the

supremest pedestal who was not worthy to be his servant, Mary thought.

He had been beguiled and taken in by mere beauty,--not beauty even in

which there was any soul. And Frank was going to marry money! She did

not know about Laurie. Perhaps had she been aware how far he had erred

on the other side, and how his admiration for the soul and heart had led

him away, she might have been still more horror-stricken. The difference

between fact and expectation made her heart sink. Was this all that hope

was good for? was this all that men were good for? to be deceived or to

deceive; to fall victims to a little art and a pair of bright eyes; or

to affect a love which they did not feel? Mary’s heart sank within her,

as she thought it all over. But her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs.

Renton, who stirred uneasily every five minutes and said something to

her.

‘I never saw Beecham look the least like what it does now,’ Mrs. Renton

murmured, and then closed her eyes again. ‘I wonder what they are really

worth,’ she would say next, drowsily, with her eyes shut, ‘when they can

afford to spend so much on setting the house to rights. But the woman is

insupportable,’ Mrs. Renton added, with much energy.

Thus they went home again over Cookesley bridge and across the smiling

country.

‘I am sorry you did not speak to Miss Rich, godmamma,’ said Mary, as

they approached the gate of the Manor; ‘she is very nice, and just as

well bred as other people. I never could have told the difference.’ A

sentiment which, forced as it was from her by pure conscientiousness,

made Mrs. Renton shake her head,--

‘Ah, my dear, I never could have been deceived,’ she said. ‘When I saw

her sitting by you, I said to myself in a moment, How easy it is to see

which is the gentlewoman! But she is not so bad as her mother,--I can

understand that.’

‘She is not bad at all,’ said Mary; ‘and if that is really what is going

to happen,--though I hope not with all my heart----’

‘Why should you hope not? ‘Mrs. Renton cried, sitting bolt upright, and

opening her eyes wide. ‘How unkind of you, Mary! Don’t you see the poor

boy may never have such a chance again? If we had her entirely in our

own hands we might make a difference. I must speak to Frank to begin

from the beginning, keeping her as much as possible away from her own

family. I wonder what the father looks like? The family are so

objectionable,’ said Mrs. Renton, seriously, ‘that such an arrangement

would be indispensable,--at least if he ever hoped to make his way in

society. I don’t think I ever was so tired of any call in my life.’

‘But her family may be fond of her,’ said Mary, ‘all the same.’

‘Fond of her, my dear!’ cried Mrs. Renton, with energy; ‘what does that

matter? You would not have a young man like Frank give up the society of

his equals on account of his wife’s family. It would be absurd. Besides,

it will be the very best thing he could do for her to bring her away

from such an influence; nobody would ever visit her there.’

‘But, dear godmamma,’ said Mary, persisting with the unreasonableness of

youth, ‘if that is the case, would it not be better for Frank to

withdraw from it altogether? For nothing seems to be settled yet, and I

think he might still withdraw.’

Mrs. Renton gave a cry of horror and alarm. ‘I can’t think where you

have got such foolish notions,’ she said. ‘Why should he withdraw? I

tell you I think it is very doubtful if he ever has such a chance again.

Weak as I am, you see what an effort I have made to-day on his behalf. I

am frightened by that woman, but I would do it again rather than

anything should come in his way. I would actually do it again!’ said the

devoted mother; and after such an heroic decision what could any one

say?

As for Mrs. Rich and her daughter, they were quite unconscious of the

feelings which moved Mrs. Renton. When the carriage disappeared down the

avenue Mrs. Rich drew Nelly to her, and gave her a soft, maternal kiss.

‘If you ever have anything to do with that old lady,’ she said, ‘you

will not find her difficult to manage, my dear. I was thinking of that

all the time she was here. “My Nelly will turn you round her little

finger,” I said to myself. She is not one of your hard, fine ladies,

that are as easy to be moved as the living rock.’

‘I don’t see that it matters to me,’ Nelly said, impatiently. ‘Mamma, I

wish you would not go on thinking that every new person we meet----. It

is quite ridiculous. Why should I have anything to do with her? And I

don’t think she would be easy to manage. She gave me a look as I came

in, and lifted her eyebrows while you were speaking,----’

‘She was as sweet as sugar to me,’ said Mrs. Rich, ‘and I hope I can see

through people as fast as any one; and it is you who are ridiculous, my

dear. As if you did not know as well as I do that Frank Renton does not

come here without a reason. He is a young man who knows quite well what

he is about; and, of course, it is he that has sent his mother. That

Miss Westbury did not look half pleased, Nelly. I should not wonder if

she wanted to keep her cousin for herself.’

‘Mamma, you are too bad; you are always saying things about people,’

said Nelly. ‘She may have all the Rentons in the world for me. What do I

care for her cousin? And why cannot you let me alone as I am? I am much

happier here than I should be anywhere else. I hate all those silly

young men.’

‘Ah! my dear, I know what nonsense girls talk,’ said Mrs. Rich; ‘but I

hope I know better than to pay any attention. I should be glad to keep

you always at home, Nelly; but I am not a fool, and that can’t be. And

isn’t it better to fix upon somebody that is nice, and will be fond of

you, and will not take you away from us? That has always been my idea

for you. I made up my mind from your cradle, Nelly, that I would choose

some one for you. Many people in our position, as well off as your papa

is, would want a title for their only daughter; but I want somebody to

make you happy, my pet, and that will not be too grand, and take you

away from your father and me.’

‘That you may be sure no man shall ever do,’ said Nelly, returning her

mother’s kiss.

If Mrs. Rich had but heard what the other mother was saying as she drove

home,--‘I will speak to Frank to keep her as much away from her own

family as possible!’ Or if she had been aware of the calculation in

Frank’s mind about the houses which were to be had in the county, and

his decision in favour of Cookesley Lodge as being farther off from

Richmont! Thus the two sets of people went on in their parallel lines,

never coming within sight of each other. After all, it was poor Nelly

for whom the question was most important. She went away across the park

in her white gown, with her pretty waving ribbons, and a sketch-book

under her arm, after this talk with her mother. Nelly had not attained

the highest type of maidenly refinement. She had adopted something of

that exalted code of manners which entitles a young princess to signify

her preference. She was rich and petted, and set upon a pedestal, a kind

of little princess in her way; and she had perhaps permitted Frank to

see that his attentions would be acceptable to her in a more distinct

manner than is quite usual. She was even conscious that she had done so,

but the consciousness did not disturb her much. Communing with herself

vaguely as she sat down under a tree, and arranged her materials for

sketching, Nelly came to some very sensible conclusions about the

matter. Yes; she liked Frank; he was nice, and he was very suitable. Her

eye had singled him out instinctively from the little crowd of Guardsmen

the first time she had seen him. Perhaps he was not clever,--not so

clever as could have been wished; but he was very good-looking, and he

was nice. And then, perhaps, he was younger than she quite liked him to

be; but Nelly told herself philosophically that you could not expect to

have everything. Her own ideal had been different. He had been thirty at

least, a man of experience, with a story and unknown depths in his life;

and he had been a man of splendid intellect, and looked up to by

everybody; and he had been dark, with wonderful eyes, and a face full of

expression. Whereas Frank Renton was fair, with eyes just like other

people’s, very young, and not intellectual at all. But he was

nice,--that was the point to which Nelly’s reflections always came back.

And he was a gentleman of a family very well known in Berks, and would

please papa and mamma by settling near them. And Nelly in her heart

secretly believed, though even in her thoughts she did not express it,

that Frank, though he might please papa and mamma by settling down,

would in the meantime please herself by taking her all over the world.

His ideal of the hunters and the terriers was very different from her

ideal, though the latter was quite as distinct in its way. No doubt a

young couple moving about wherever they pleased, dancing through the

world here and there, over mountains and valleys, stopping where they

liked, rushing about wherever the spirit moved them,--would be a very

different thing from the caravanserai progress through Italy

contemplated by papa and mamma and all their dependants. This was

Nelly’s ideal, very clearly drawn, and most seductive to her mind. Two

people can go anywhere;--a young woman need not mind where she goes, nor

how she travels, so long as her husband is with her. Even Mrs. Severn

had told her stories of the early wanderings of the poor, joyous young

painter-pair, which had filled Nelly’s heart with longing. To be sure

he was no artist; but still his presence would throw everything open to

his young wife, and make every kind of pleasant adventure possible. No

longer would there be necessity for pausing to reflect,--Was this

proper? was it correct to do so and so? ‘You may go anywhere with your

husband,’ was a sentiment that Nelly had been in the way of hearing all

her life.

Thus it will be seen that Nelly Rich was not so much to be pitied as

Mary Westbury thought. This marriage,--if it came to a marriage,--was an

affair involving mingled motives on her part as well as Frank’s. Yet, as

she sat under the tree with her bright face shadowed by the leaves, and

her white dress blazing in the sunshine, she might have been a little

lady of romance, with the flowers all breathing fragrance around her,

and above the tenderest blue of summer skies.

CHAPTER XVII.

A STEP THE WRONG WAY.

When Frank Renton had sent off his note to Nelly, accepting the

invitation for the birthday fête, and adding such little compliments as

have been recorded, a kind of sensation of having gone too far came over

him. He had not yet by any means made up his mind finally, and he had no

desire to commit himself. It seemed necessary, by way of holding the

balance even, to take a step in the other direction. So he set about

making very vigorous inquiries concerning the 200th, their destination,

and the character of the officers, and all the other points of

information most likely to be interesting. And the result of his

inquiries was a resolution to go up to town and see Montague, who did

not want to go to India. Edgbaston and the rest might laugh, but Frank

said to himself that he was far from having made up his mind, and that

it was very important for him to acquaint himself with all the

circumstances. It was on a June day when he went up to town in pursuance

of this resolution, hot enough to dissuade any man from business, and

especially from business connected with India. ‘If it is like this in

Pall Mall, what will it be in Calcutta?’ Frank asked himself; but,

nevertheless, he was not to be dissuaded. Montague, however, though

certified on all sides to be at home, was not to be found. Frank sought

him at his rooms, at one club after another, at the agent’s,--everywhere

he could think of,--but was unsuccessful. To be sure he got all the

necessary information, which answered his purpose almost as well; but

the ineffectual search tired him out. He was so thoroughly sick of it,

and the day was so hot, that none of his usual haunts or occupations

attracted him as it happened. After he had fortified himself with sherry

and biscuits, he went rambling forth to spend his time in some

misanthropical way till it should be time to return to Royalborough; but

the best way that occurred to him for doing that was to take a walk. The

Row was deserted; so, of course, it would have been foolish to go there;

and he did not feel disposed to make calls; and lounging about the

club,--or, indeed, anywhere where he should meet men and be questioned

on all hands about himself and his brothers,--was a trial he was not

equal to in his present frame of mind. So he went out to walk, which was

a curious expedient. And of all places in the world to go to, turned his

steps in the direction of the Regent’s Park, which, as everybody knows,

is close to Fitzroy Square.

I have never been able to understand what was Frank’s motive in setting

out upon this walk. He knew very well,--none better,--that it was

entirely out of the world. What a Guardsman could have to do in such a

neighbourhood, except, indeed, to visit a wayward brother, nobody could

have imagined; and now the wayward brother was gone. He said to himself

that he did not mind where he went, so long as it was quite out of the

way of meeting anybody; and yet on ordinary occasions Frank had no

objection to meeting people. He went up Harley Street, scowling at those

scowling houses, and then he went into the smiling, plebeian park, among

all the nursery-maids. How funny it was, he said to himself, to notice

the difference between this and the other parks, and persuaded himself

that he was studying life on its humdrum side. He looked into the steady

little broughams meandering round and round the dull terraces. Was it

any pleasure to the old ladies to drive about thus, each in her box? And

then he walked down the centre walk, where all the children were

playing. The children were just as pretty as if they had been in

Kensington Gardens. Mrs. Suffolk’s babies trotted past, with signs of

old Rich’s two hundred and fifty pounds in their little summer garments,

though Frank knew nothing of them,--and he kept stumbling over two

pretty boys, who recalled to him some face he knew, and to whom he

seemed an object of lively curiosity. They held close conversations,

whispering with their heads together, and discussing him, as he could

see, and turned up wherever he went, hanging about his path. ‘I tell you

it ain’t Laurie’s ghost,’ one of them said audibly, at length. ‘He’s

twice as tall, and he’s Laurie’s brother.’ ‘Hallo!’ Frank said, turning

round upon them; ‘you are the little Severns, to be sure.’ No doubt it

was the first time the idea had occurred to him. He must be close to

Fitzroy Square, and being so, and Mrs. Severn having been such a friend

of Laurie’s, it was his duty to call. Clearly it was his duty to call.

She was a friend of the Riches, too. There was thus a kind of connexion

on two sides; and to be near and not to call would be very uncivil.

Frank made friends with the boys without any difficulty, and took the

opportunity of making them perfectly happy by a purchase of canes and

whips from a passing merchant of such commodities, and set off for the

Square under their guidance. It would not have mattered if Mrs. Severn

had not known that he was in the neighbourhood; but of course the boys

would hasten home and tell. And to be uncivil to so great a friend of

Laurie’s was a sin Frank would not have been guilty of for the world.

Thus it will be seen that it was in the simplest, most unpremeditated

way that he was led to call at the Square.

The scene he saw when he went in was a scene of which Laurie had once

made a little drawing. Though it was so hot and blazing out of doors,

the great window of Mrs. Severn’s dining-room, which looked into her

garden, was by this time of the afternoon, overshadowed by the

projecting ends of her neighbours’ houses, and admitted only a softened

light. Alice sat full in the midst of this colourless day with her curls

hanging about her shoulders, and her delicate face, with all its soft

bright tints, like a flower a little bent upon its stem. The door of the

dining-room was ajar; and this was how Frank managed to catch a passing

glimpse as he was being ushered into the decorum of the great vacant

drawing-room; for to be sure he was a stranger, and had no right to go

as familiar visitors did, and tap at the padrona’s studio-door. He saw

as he passed Alice sitting by the window, her hands full of work, and

her face full of contentment and sweet peace. And at her feet, like a

rose-bud, sat little Edith, in all a child’s carelessness of attitude,

her little white frock tucked about her shapely, rosy limbs, her little

feet crossed. Miss Hadley was in the shadow, and Frank did not see her.

He thought Alice and her little sister were alone, and that he was in

luck. He paused at the open door, though the maid led the way to the

other. ‘May I come in?’ he said. Perhaps the tone was too much like that

in which he had asked permission to enter the music-room at Richmont.

Alice gave a great start at the sound of his voice, and dropped her work

on the floor. ‘Oh, Mr. Laurie’s brother!’ cried Edith, who was quite

unembarrassed. And Frank felt himself charmed out of all reason by the

little start and the flutter of the white work as it fell. ‘I feared you

were still at Richmont,’ he said, ‘and that I should not see you.’ And

so he went lightly in and found himself in Miss Hadley’s presence, with

her sternest countenance on, a face enough to have driven out of his

wits the most enterprising cavalier in the world.

‘It is Mr. Frank Renton,’ said Alice. ‘Miss Hadley, Mr. Renton’s

brother;’ and Miss Hadley made him a curtsey, and looked him through and

through with her sharp eyes, for which Frank was so entirely unprepared.

The thought of finding Alice all by herself had been so charming to him,

and he had brightened into such genuine exultation, that the way in

which his face fell was amusing to see.

‘Your mamma will be very glad to see Mr. Renton’s brother, I am sure,’

said Miss Hadley. ‘Run, my dear, and tell her; and ask if he shall go to

the studio, or if she will come here.’

‘Don’t disturb Mrs. Severn, pray, for me,’ said the discomfited Frank.

‘I was in the neighbourhood, and by accident met the boys in the park. I

could not be so near without calling; but pray don’t disturb her for

me.’

‘She is sure to want to see you,’ said Miss Hadley. ‘Have you heard from

your brother? It was so very unexpected to us all his going away. I

hope it was not his health. But you young men think so little of

travelling now-a-days. Is it you who are going to India, Mr. Renton?

Your brother used to talk a great deal of you.’

‘Yes, I think I am going to India,’ said Frank. Alice was standing

putting her work aside before she went to tell her mother of Frank’s

presence; but at these words she turned half round with an involuntary

movement,--he could see it was involuntary, almost unconscious,--and

gave him a soft look of inquiry and grief. ‘Must you go away,--shall we

never see you again?’ said the eyes of Alice. The tears were ready to

spring and the lips to quiver, and then she returned to the folding of

her work, and blushed all over her pretty throat. And Frank saw it, and

his heart swelled within him. To think she should care! Nelly

disappeared out of his thoughts like the merest shadow,--indeed, Nelly

had not been in his thoughts since he left Royalborough. ‘I have not

quite made up my mind yet; but I fear I must go,’ he continued,

answering her look. And Miss Hadley, always sharp, noticed at once the

changed direction of his eyes.

‘Run, my dear, and tell your mother,’ she said. ‘I will put your work

away for you, and Edie may go and play with the boys. Run out into the

garden, children. We cannot have you all making a noise when people are

here.’

‘But I want to stay and talk to Mr. Laurie’s brother,’ cried Edith. ‘I

love Laurie; there is nobody so nice ever comes now. And Alice loves him

too,’ said the little traitor, ‘and tells me such stories when she is

putting me to bed, about Richmont.’

‘But, you silly child, it was Mr. Frank Renton who was at Richmont,’

said Miss Hadley. Upon which the child nodded her head a great many

times, and repeated, ‘I know, I know.’

‘Your brother was such a favourite with them all,’ said Miss Hadley,

apologetically, ‘they get confused to know which Mr. Renton it is. He is

very nice. Is he just wandering about on the face of the earth, or has

he settled down anywhere? I don’t think Mrs. Severn has heard; and that

is strange too.’

‘We don’t know exactly what route he has taken,’ said Frank, ‘He is not

much of a letter-writer. Of course my mother hears. And I don’t think it

is anything about his health. There is such pleasure to a fellow like

Laurie, who never thinks of anything, in the mere fact of travelling

about.’

‘I always thought he considered everybody before himself,’ said Miss

Hadley.

‘He never pays the slightest attention to his own affairs,’ said Frank,

‘which comes to very nearly the same thing; and yet he is the best

fellow that ever was born.’

Having thus exhausted the only subject which they had in common, he and

Miss Hadley sat and gazed at each other for some time in silence. The

governess was very well aware that Laurie had not gone away for his

health,--indeed, she had a shrewd suspicion what it was that had driven

him away,--and she could not but look at Frank with watchful, suspicious

eyes, feeling that there was something in his uncalled-for visit, in his

embarrassment, and Alice’s start and look of interest, more than met the

eye. There might have been no harm in that, had he been staying at home.

But a young man on the eve of starting for India! It would break her

mother’s heart, Miss Hadley said to herself; and though she was

sometimes troublesome, and almost intrusive in her vigilance, the

governess loved her friend with that intense affection of one woman to

another,--generally of a lonely woman to one more fortunate than

herself,--which is so seldom appreciated and so little understood, but

which sometimes rises to the height of passion. Jane Hadley made herself

disagreeable by times to the padrona, but would have been cut in pieces

for her,--would have lain down to be trampled over,--could she have done

any good by such an act to the being she held highest in the world.

Therefore it immediately occurred to her that her first duty was to

discourage and snub this new visitor. Going away to India, and yet

trying to make himself agreeable in the eyes of Alice, was a sin of the

deepest dye.

‘You were going to change into another regiment, your brother said,’

remarked Miss Hadley. ‘When do you leave? I should think, on the whole,

it would be pleasanter to change the monotony of your leisure for a more

active life.’

‘It is not settled yet,’ said Frank. ‘But I suppose I’ll go. Yes; it is

rather monotonous doing garrison work at home.’

‘And what part of India are you going to?’ Miss Hadley continued. Frank

began to get irritated by the questions. Confound India! he did not want

to think of it,--or, indeed, to trouble his mind with anything at that

moment. He wanted Alice to come back again, to look at him, to speak to

him, to play for him. He kept his eyes on the door, and felt that the

place was empty till she came. Here it was he had seen her first. There,

under the curtains in the doorway, she had stood lighting up the

darkness with her face; there she had sat making the tea;--how clearly

every little incident dwelt on his mind! As for Nelly Rich, he had not

the slightest recollection where he saw her first, nor what the

circumstances were. He was never restless for her return when she was

out of the room; but at that moment he did not even pay Nelly Rich the

compliment of contrasting his feelings in respect to her with his

feelings to Alice Severn. He simply forgot her existence, and watched

the door, and stammered what reply he could to the inquisitor who sat

opposite to him,--like an old cat he said,--watching him with her keen

eyes.

And when the door opened at last it was only Mrs. Severn who came in.

Frank absolutely changed colour, and grew pale and green with

disappointment. Laurie had thought her a type of everything most perfect

in woman; but to Frank she was a sober personage, comely and

middle-aged, and Alice’s mother, which indeed was her real appearance in

the world. She came in with a gleam of interest in her eyes, and a

little eagerness in her manner. She had not taken off her

painting-dress, but she had put aside her brushes and her palette, and

sat down by him without any fuss about abandoning her work. With her

intimates she worked on without intermission, but to strangers the

padrona ignored the constant labour which filled her life.

‘Have you brought us some news of your brother, Mr. Renton?’ she said.

‘I shall be so glad to hear he is safe in Rome. He should not have gone

so late in the year.’

‘No, I have no particular news,’ said Frank. ‘His going took us all by

surprise. My mother has had two or three little notes, I believe. I was

in the neighbourhood,’ he added in an explanatory, apologetic way, ‘and

thought I would call.’

‘I am very glad to see you,’ said the padrona; ‘Laurie Renton’s brother

can never be but welcome here. I have known him so long,--since he was a

boy,’ she added, with a little colour rising on her cheek, seeking in

her turn to excuse the warmth with which she spoke; but the blush was

for Jane Hadley quietly seated in the background seeing everything, and

not for the unconscious Frank.

‘Oh, thanks,’ said Frank. ‘Laurie was always speaking of you. I met Miss

Severn the other day at Richmont. She might tell you, perhaps. How she

plays! I don’t think I ever heard anything like it. It draws the heart

out of one’s breast.’

‘Ah, yes, Alice plays very well,’ said Mrs. Severn, with placid

complacency. ‘She is doing something for me in the studio. She is as

clever with her needle as she is with her music,’ she added, calmly.

Clever! and to compare her needlework with her music! This speech went a

long way to prove that the padrona was a very ordinary, commonplace

personage in Frank’s eyes. That, however, did not matter so much. What

was a great deal more important was that Alice did not return.

‘I hope she liked Richmont,’ he said; ‘they are kind people, and the

country is lovely just now. You don’t know Renton, Mrs. Severn? My

mother, I am sure, would be charmed to see you, and Laurie must have

told you of our woods. My mother is a great invalid. She has always been

so as long as I can recollect, but she would be delighted to see you. I

wish I could persuade you and Miss Severn to come down for a day; I

could row you up from Cookesley,’ said Frank, eagerly. Alice came in

just in time to hear these last words, and gazed at her mother with a

longing look. She had not heard the previous part of the proposal, but

to be rowed up the river from Cookesley! The words flushed her young

imagination with every kind of delight.

‘It is very tempting,’ Mrs. Severn said, ‘but I fear we must not think

of it. Alice, you must go and make some music for Mr. Renton; he likes

your playing. Are you in town only for the day?’

‘Only for the day,’ said Frank; and then he paused and put on his

suppliant look. ‘When I was here with Laurie I was allowed to stay to

tea.’

‘And so you shall stay to tea if you like it,’ said the padrona,

laughing. And Alice gave him a momentary glance and a soft little smile

of content. A paradisiacal sense of well-being and happiness glided over

Frank he could not tell how. It was something quite new and strange to

him. He had been happy most part of his life,--not being yet quite

one-and-twenty, poor fellow!--happy for no particular reason,--because

he was alive, because he was Frank Renton, because he had got something

he wanted; but this was a totally different sort of happiness. It seemed

to float him away from all mean and indifferent things; he was mounted

up on a pinnacle from the heights of which he contemplated the rest of

the world with a tender pity; he was enveloped in an atmosphere of

blessedness. This intoxicating yet subduing delight seemed to him the

natural air of the place in which he was. They must breathe it all day

long these happy people; even the governess who sat grim over her

knitting and watched him with keen eyes. It was the air of the place,

though the place was Fitzroy Square, in the heart of London, on the way

to the City; for never in the summer woods, never at home in his

hereditary house, never amid the luxuries and delights of society, had

he breathed anything like it. He did his best to make himself agreeable

to Mrs. Severn, but it cannot be asserted that he was sorry when she

left the room, which she did after a while. True, Miss Hadley was there,

more watchful than a dozen padronas; but the watchfulness seemed

appropriate somehow and was harmonised by the atmosphere, just as summer

air harmonises all out-door noises. The children rushed to the garden,

getting tired of the quiet, and Alice went into the other room and began

to play. I have said it was the only poetry of which Frank was

susceptible. All the poets in one could not have moved him as these

sweet, inarticulate floods of sound did, making the atmosphere more

heavenly still, breathing a heart into it full of soft longings and a

tender languor. The house, as we have said, was on the shady side of the

Square--the great drawing-room felt like some cool, still, excluded

place, in the midst of the hot and lingering afternoon. Frank threw

himself into a chair at the other end of the room, from whence he could

watch the musician without disconcerting her. There were the three great

windows draped in white like tall ghosts ranged against the wall; and

the chairs and tables all grouped in a mysterious way as if there were

whispering spectators who marked all; and the cool grey-green walls with

here and there the frame of a picture catching the light; and Alice in

her fresh muslin gown, white, with lines and specks of blue, with blue

ribbons tied among her curls, and her bright eyes intent and her white

hands rippling among the ivory keys. The only thing that had ever made a

painter of Frank was his meeting with Alice. His mind was becoming a

kind of picture-gallery hung with sketches of her. He remembered every

look, almost every dress she had ever worn,--the dark neutral-tinted one

that night, the white at Richmont, and now the glimmer of blue ribbons

among the curls,----

After a time Miss Hadley, who sat there patient with her knitting, like

a cat watching a mouse, was called away for something and had to leave

them reluctantly. And then it is undeniable that Frank took advantage of

her absence and stole a little closer to the piano. He even interrupted

Alice ruthlessly in the midst of her sonata.

‘Play me this,’ he said, humming the bars that haunted him. He was even

so bold as to approach his hand to the piano and run over the notes. ‘It

was the first thing I had ever heard you play,’ the young man added; ‘I

have done nothing but sing it ever since. Ah, forgive me for stopping

you! Let me hear it again.’

‘It is very lovely,’ faltered Alice, stooping her head over the keys;

and then by chance their eyes met and they knew---- What? Neither said

another word. Alice’s fingers flew at the keys with the precipitancy of

haste and fear. She spoiled the air, her heart beating so loud as to

drown both tune and time. As the notes rushed out headlong after each

other, an indifferent looker-on would have concluded poor Alice to be a

school-girl in the fullest musical sense of the word. But Frank, though

he was a connoisseur, never found it out. He sat down behind her

listening with a perfect imbecility of admiration. It might have been

St. Cecilia, it might have been the angels playing in heaven whom

Cecilia heard. To him it was a strain divine. To think that he had not

known of Alice’s existence when he heard these notes first! He began to

babble in the midst of the music, quite unconscious of doing anything

amiss.

‘When I heard you play that first I had never seen you,’ he said, and

though Alice was at the crisis of the melody her hand slackened and

lightened to listen. ‘I could not think who it could be. I thought you

must be the sick one of the family or something. And then, when your

mother called you and you came and stood in the door----’

Alice now stopped altogether and did her best to laugh. ‘What a very

good memory you must have,’ she said. ‘I am sure I could not have

remembered all that.’

‘Yes; I have a good memory,--for some things,’ said Frank, while she

half unconsciously kept running on with one hand among the treble keys,

half drowning his voice, half making an accompaniment to it. ‘Your

mother spoke of you in such a tone--I understand it now, but it

bewildered me at the time, I thought you must be ill--or--sickly--or

something. And then she called Alice, and you appeared under the

curtains; I can see it all as plain as if it had happened yesterday.

Laurie chattering enough for six with his back turned, and you standing

in the doorway like----’

Alice made a great crash on the piano and burst at once into a grand

symphony. Instinct told her to play, and it was just as well she had

done so, for one minute after Miss Hadley appeared with her perpetual

knitting in her hand. She gave Frank a look when she perceived his

change of position and herself approached the piano. A young fellow who

was going to India! That was his sole and unique description to Miss

Hadley,--and she was deeply indignant at his presumption. The symphony

was a long one, but Alice was restored to herself. Safety had come in

place of danger. She had not wanted Miss Hadley to return, and yet under

shelter of Miss Hadley her faculties came back to her. There was a good

deal of crash and execution in what she was now playing, and it suited

her feelings. It was a kind of music which Frank would have scorned at

from any other player, but oddly enough it chimed in with his feelings

now. They were both tingling all over with soft emotion and that first

excitement of early love, in which it is the man’s object to say as much

as he may under covert of commonplace observations, and the woman’s to

receive it as if it meant nothing and to escape from all appearance of

comprehension. And yet if by chance they looked at each other both knew,

not what they were aiming at certainly, but in some darkened, vague

degree that there was a meaning, and a very decided one underneath.

Then Mrs. Severn appeared again in her black silk gown, and the tea was

set upon the table, and Alice made it as she had done before. It was

like the same scene repeated, and yet it was not the same. Alice who had

been to him but a fairy vision was now---- What was she now? Frank made

a sudden jump from that side of the question, and felt his cheeks flush

and a delicious glow come over his heart. But, not to speak of Alice,

he himself was no longer an accidental guest received for his brother’s

sake; but if not a friend, at least an acquaintance received for his

own. To Alice at least he was more than an acquaintance. ‘I have lived

in the same house with Miss Severn, and I feel as if we were old

friends,’ he said, and Alice, with a soft blush and smile, did not

reject the claim. ‘How pretty it was at Richmont!’ she said, with a

soft, little sigh. And if it had not been for that dreadful old

governess, who broke in, in the most abrupt way, with something about

India! What was India to her? What had she to do with it? If a man

wanted for the moment to forget everything that was disagreeable, what

business had Miss Hadley to interfere? Frank as nearly turned his back

upon her when she made her second interpellation on the subject as

good-breeding would allow. Was it her business? He was very wroth with

the meddler, but very soft and benignant with every one else, talking to

Edith--to the child’s immense delight--as if she were grown up, and

discussing games with the boys, and making himself very generally

agreeable. He stayed long enough to watch the people beginning to arrive

on their evening calls, and accepted all the circumstances of the house

with the profoundest satisfaction and sense of fitness. But he could not

find any more private opportunities of making known his recollections or

his fancies to Alice, and went away at last when he had but time for

his train, with a sense of intoxication and absorption in he knew not

what golden dreams. India!--but soft--India, when a man came to think of

it, might for anything he knew, involve brighter possibilities than he

had yet contemplated. Speak low; whisper low. When this thought occurred

to Frank he ran and took his leave with a sensation as if a whole hive

of bees had set to buzzing in his head. As I have said it intoxicated

him. He had need to go away, to get himself into the morose solitude of

the train to think it over. The sudden light that had burst upon his

path took all power of vision from his dazzled eyes.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WAVERING.

It has been seen that Frank Renton was not, in any sense of the words, a

model young man. He was not offensive nor disagreeable, but as a pure

matter of fact, the centre of his own world, as, indeed, we all are more

or less. When it had been placed so very clearly before him that it was

to his advantage to marry money, he had acquiesced, with a little

struggle, feeling that the advantage was so great as to create a duty;

but now, after this bewildering day, another prospect altogether opened

before his eyes. He had forgotten Nelly. For the moment she passed from

his mind, as if she had never been, and Alice had risen upon him like

the sun. He could perceive now that from the first moment his heart had

claimed her. Happiness, companionship, the very light of life, seemed to

be concentrated for him in that simple youthful creature, ignorant of

the world, innocent as a child, sweet with the earliest freshness of

existence. He had no need to reason about it, to say to himself that it

was she whom he wanted, she whom he had unconsciously been groping for;

he knew it; it was clear as daylight; he seemed to himself to have been

aware of it all along, from the earliest moment. A voice from heaven had

spoken to him, as to Adam, crying, ‘This is she.’ Such was the thought

that filled his mind as he went down to Royalborough in the dark and

damp loneliness of the railway carriage. He had so much thinking to do

that he had warned the guard that he must have a compartment to himself;

and there he lay back in his corner with a very black shadow thrown on

him from the dim lamp, and floated forth upon this Elysian sea of

thought. But it was only for the first two minutes that it was Elysian.

All at once he sat bolt upright, and remembered that he had forgotten

something. Nelly! This recollection rushed at him like another railway

train in the darkness, so that there was a sharp and violent collision.

After the first shock Frank began to consider anxiously how far he had

gone on that other side, what words he might have spoken, what

inferences had been made. Only yesterday, it must be allowed, he was

making very decided way towards Nelly. He had been softened, and brought

nearer to her personally, and the house and the hunters had held a very

high place in his thoughts. He had persuaded his mother to call, and

written a note which was not at all unlike the first beginning of

love-making. And yet, to-day, he had forgotten Nelly’s existence. When

he recollected all this, he grew suddenly very hot, and very

uncomfortable. Love, even when it is unfortunate, has something sweet in

it; but the thought of Nelly’s little indignant face was not sweet. He

had never loved her; he had never, even to himself, pretended to be fond

of her. He had represented to himself that if they were married, no

doubt the time would come when he should be fond of his wife. But while

he was thus deciding in cold blood, the other had but to give a glance,

and all was over with Nelly. When this terrible complication became

apparent, Frank no longer found that there was anything Elysian in his

circumstances; for this discovery suddenly revealed to him the entire

circumstances of the case. Nelly was marriageable, for she was very

rich; but Alice was poor. If the wealth of the one out-balanced the

objections against her in respect to birth and breeding, there was no

such saving clause in respect to the other. Even Mr. Rich patronised

Mrs. Severn. The artist’s family was of no rank, and had no such social

standing whatever, not even that conferred by money. As for the

distinction of art,--Frank was too much a man of the world not to know

for how little that counted. Penniless, without connexions or prospects,

or blood, or anything,--a creature who was only herself, and possessed

only the qualities of her own mind and heart! To make such a marriage,

Frank was aware, would be sheer madness. Nelly was different. Nelly

meant Cookesley Lodge, with all its accompaniments and a certain sum

a-year. Alice meant nothing but her simple self. No wonder the moisture

stood heavy on his forehead. He had been a fool, in suffering himself to

be thus moved out of all sense and prudence. And yet when he tried to

turn to other thoughts his heart grew sick. He--almost--made a vow never

to think of anybody, never to look at any one more. Why was fate always

so spiteful? Why was it that Alice had not Nelly’s fortune, or Nelly

Alice’s charms? It was not that he was mercenary. Money, except for what

it brought, was not important to Frank; but there is a difference

between being mercenary and being an idiot. And he knew so well what the

world would say if, instead of marrying money, he married a girl who had

nothing,--neither money nor any other substantial recommendation. He

would be laughed at, and she would be snubbed,--and who could wonder at

it? Thus Frank reasoned with himself, and groaned in his heart. And then

he thought of India, and the world stood still for a moment that he

might look that possibility in the face.

India! In the first place, it was out of the world, and the ridicule

attending his fiasco would not, in India, be so overwhelming; but at the

same time, the world is a very small place, and news would travel

faster than by telegraph to everybody who was anybody. In India the pay

was double, which was a very great matter; but then, on the other hand,

would not the expenses be greater too? Not, of course, in proportion to

Cookesley Lodge and the hunters, which, alas! it was no use thinking any

more about, but in proportion to the tiny _ménage_ which a young soldier

with two hundred a-year, besides his pay, might venture on at home. And

here, once more, Frank drew himself up, with a sensation of misery. Two

hundred a-year and his pay barely sufficed for himself. To marry upon it

would be simple madness, neither more nor less. And to wait seven

years---- No! India was the only chance. It was the most usual thing in

the world for a young fellow going out there to marry before he

went;--therefore it must be practicable. There would be no society nor

expensive habits,--as he supposed, in his ignorance,--and there was the

chance of appointments, which was always worth taking into account.

Frank contemplated the question all round, but it was a very dreary

horizon which encircled him on every side. Poverty, the renunciation of

most things which had made life agreeable--a struggle with care and the

burdens of serious life,--instead of Cookesley and the hunters and

terriers, and the country gentleman’s existence, for which he had

evidently been created! There was so much good in the young man

however, that though he could not but contrast the two existences which

thus seemed to be set before him, he could not and did not contrast the

two through whose hands their different threads must run. He made no

comparison there. Nelly had been swept out of his sky the moment Alice

appeared.

One thing was quite clear to him at this crisis of excitement and

emotion, while the image of Alice still danced before his eyes with all

her soft looks and words;--Cookesley and its delights,--meaning Nelly

and her fortune,--were impossible,--quite impossible; altogether out of

the question. He had been capable in the abstract of doing a duty to

himself and the world, and securing,--in default of Laurie, for whom he

always acknowledged the position would have been so much more

suitable,--all those advantages which seemed to be held out to him in

Nelly Rich’s hand. He liked her very well, and no doubt would have grown

fond of her in time. That he could have done. His own interests, and the

unanimous voice of his friends, and the appeal of the world in general,

had all but decided the question. But Frank, notwithstanding the prudent

and practical character of his understanding, was true and honest at

bottom. And as soon as he discovered beyond question that he was in love

with one woman, it became impossible for him to marry another, whatever

the advantages might be which she brought with her. He was not capable

of that. It was indispensable to him to be true, if not to Alice, who

knew nothing about his sentiments, at least to Nelly. She had a right to

it. He could have married her yesterday, but he could not deceive her

to-day. What could he do? The clouds closed in upon him, swallowed him

up, the more he thought it over. Do! Nothing but trudge forth to India,

leaving his hopes of every description behind him,--a saddened and a

solitary man. Neither one thing nor another, neither love nor wealth

were practicable.

‘I must never see her again,’ Frank said to himself, as he got out of

the train; ‘I must never see her again!’ Perhaps it was because of the

very practicality and matter-of-fact character of his mind that he felt

it dangerous to permit himself such an indulgence. He could not go and

gaze and moon about her, as other men might, without anything coming of

it. The only safeguard would be to keep away altogether. But it was not

a cheerful thought; and, consequently, when he emerged from the station

with his hat down over his brows, a certain air of tragedy and misery

was about the poor fellow. And if the reader of this sober history

should at any time encounter on the railway between London and

Royalborough an unfortunate and melancholy Guardsman, well thrown back

into the shadow of the lamp, gnawing his moustache as he chews the cud

of fancy, let him remember the miserable perplexities of poor Frank

Renton, and pity the man. The impulse of the mature spectator’s mind is

so invariably to vituperate the military butterfly, that it is the duty

of the benevolent moralist to turn the tide of sympathy towards that

beautiful, frivolous, yet sometimes suffering creature, when he has the

opportunity. After all, Guardsmen are men.

Frank kept his resolution for a week. He gave himself a fair trial. To

describe the cogitations which passed through his mind during that time,

would only weary the reader without bringing him any nearer to the issue

of the conflict; for, to be sure, it does not matter so very much what

conclusion a young man may arrive at in such a contest, after even weeks

of thought. Five minutes may destroy the entire fabric at any time;--a

sudden meeting,--three words,--all unpremeditated on either side,--a

chance look,--even a few notes of music played unawares by strange

hands,--will suffice to undo the finest piece of reasoning ever put

together. Nor is it at all unusual in Frank’s circumstances for a young

man to make an absolute determination against marriage one day, and go

and lay himself at the feet of the lady of his affections on the next.

Many times, it must be allowed, Cookesley Lodge would burst like a

sudden revelation upon the young man’s soul. He could hear the hunters

rattling up the avenue, and the dogs yelping a chorus of welcome; and

then this charming home-scene would give place to a misty conception of

an Indian bungalow,--whatever that might be,--and the fierce delights of

a jungle-hunt. The question was not Alice or Nelly,--that would have

horrified him;--but Cookesley with all possible comforts and

indulgences, and India with none;--question enough to make a man ponder.

Four or five days after his visit to London, though it seemed four or

five years from the multiplicity of his thoughts, he rode over to

Richmont, on an unacknowledged mission to prove to himself whether that

image of Alice, which he had been trying hard to banish, would disappear

before the close realisation of all the good things on the other side.

He had tried to forget her, or rather he had tried to shut her out from

his thoughts; to divert his mind to anything else in the world rather

than allow it to dwell upon her. And he was now going to test what

success he had had. Nelly Rich was sketching under the trees, as we have

before seen her, when he rode up to the door; and instead of going in to

pay his respects to her mother, Frank,--with a strong sense of

duty,--crossed the lawn to where the white figure, with sketching-block

on her lap, and bright ribbons fluttering about her, sat in the shadow

of the soft limes. A prettier picture could not have been desired. The

dead white of the dress blazed out in the sunshine, lying in crisp folds

upon the soft grass. The silken lime-leaves made a flutter and chequer

of light and shade upon the pretty drooping head. Nelly was older, more

piquant, more expressive, indeed, to any unprejudiced eye more

beautiful, than Alice Severn; not, as Frank said to himself hotly, that

he ever had made such a profane comparison. But yet it was impossible

thus to approach the one without thinking of the other. There was a

technicality and a pretension, he thought, about all this paraphernalia

of the artist. When Alice went softly to her piano, you never could have

told, until you heard her, that she was anything but a school-girl. And

no one seemed to give her any particular glory for her music. She was a

little girl to all of them. Whereas Nelly was the mistress of

everything, more mistress in the house than was her mother, and getting

credit for all sorts of talent and cleverness. In his heart Frank took

up a position of defence for the absent, whom, indeed, no one dreamt of

attacking. No doubt he would have to talk of the sketch, and admire it

as if it had been something very fine. At Fitzroy Square the mother had

smiled and had just admitted that Alice played well;--and that she was

as clever at her needle as at her music. How strange was the difference!

‘Is it you, Mr. Renton?’ said Nelly; and she put down her

sketching-block hastily as he approached. ‘I could not make you out till

you came quite close. Did you not find mamma?’

‘I confess I did not ask,’ said Frank; and the consciousness that he was

paying a compliment which he did not mean embarrassed him in his

peculiar circumstances; ‘I saw you here----’ and then he stopped, the

unfortunate youth giving double meaning to his words.

Nelly blushed. It was very natural she should after such an address; and

her change of colour told upon Frank as the most terrible reproach. ‘I

thought Mrs. Rich would be with you,’ he added, hurriedly; ‘it is so

pleasant out-of-doors on such a day. You were sketching, I am sure, and

I have stopped your work.’

‘Oh, it does not matter,’ said Nelly. ‘I want to draw the house, and I

cannot get it just as I want it. I must have in the window of the

music-room. You know I live there. I don’t care for all the rest of the

house in comparison with that one room.’

‘Yes,’ said Frank, with a sudden relapse, ‘with such music as we had

there the other day, the place was like paradise.’

‘You liked little Alice Severn’s playing,’ said Nelly. ‘Ah! yes, I

remember. She plays very well. For myself I am not fanatical about

music. I don’t understand it. I want to know what it says, and it says

nothing. And these musical people are so exclusively musical, they never

seem to have brains for anything else.’