When Lucy examined her friend, thinking of the closeness of their future

connection, she was startled by the girl’s prettiness and youth, and

thorough unlikeness to herself. Sophy had long, black, glossy curls,

large eyes, a pink complexion, and was very short. She seemed to have no

inclination for that strong, serviceable brown binding which was so

valuable in Lucy’s eyes; but rather to be wedded to bright colours and

soft materials. And it soon became evident to the elder young woman that

the younger looked upon her employment simply as a stepping-stone to a

husband. To get herself married as soon as possible was unblushingly

declared by Sophy Wilson to be the one object of her ambition,--and as

she supposed that of every other girl in the telegraph department. But

she seemed to be friendly and at first docile, to have been brought up

with aptitudes for decent life, and to be imbued with the necessity of

not spending more than her three shillings a day. And she was quick

enough at her work in the office,--quicker even than Lucy

herself,--which was taken by Lucy as evidence that her new friend was

clever, and would therefore probably be an agreeable companion.

They took together a bedroom in a very quiet street in Clerkenwell,--a

street which might be described as genteel because it contained no

shops; and here they began to keep house, as they called it. Now the

nature of their work was such that they were not called upon to be in

their office till noon, but that then they were required to remain there

till eight in the evening. At two a short space was allowed them for

dinner, which was furnished to them at a cheap rate in a room adjacent

to that in which they worked. Here for eightpence each they could get a

good meal, or if they preferred it they could bring their food with

them, and even have it cooked upon the premises. In the evening tea and

bread and butter were provided for them by the officials; and then at

eight or a few minutes after they left the building and walked home. The

keeping of house was restricted in fact to providing tea and bread and

butter for the morning meal, and perhaps when they could afford it for

the repetition of such comfort later in the evening. There was the

Sunday to be considered,--as to which day they made a contract with the

keeper of the lodging-house to sit at her table and partake of her

dishes. And so they were established.

From the first Lucy Graham made up her mind that it was her duty to be a

very friend of friends to this new companion. It was as though she had

consented to marry that widowed bookseller. She would then have

considered herself bound to devote herself to his welfare. It was not

that she could as yet say that she loved Sophy Wilson. Love with her

could not be so immediate as that. But the nature of the bond between

them was such, that each might possibly do so much either for the

happiness, or the unhappiness of the other! And then, though Sophy was

clever,--for as to this Lucy did not doubt,--still she was too evidently

in many things inferior to herself, and much in want of such assistance

as a stronger nature could give her. Lucy in acknowledging this put down

her own greater strength to the score of her years and the nature of the

life which she had been called upon to lead. She had early in her days

been required to help herself, to hold her own, and to be as it were a

woman of business. But the weakness of the other was very apparent to

her. That doctrine as to the necessity of a husband, which had been very

soon declared, had,--well,--almost disgusted Lucy. And then she found

cause to lament the peculiar arrangement which the requirements of the

office had made as to their hours. At first it had seemed to her to be

very pleasant that they should have their morning hours for needlework,

and perhaps for a little reading; but when she found that Sophy would

lie in bed till ten because early rising was not obligatory, then she

wished that they had been classed among those whose presence was

demanded at eight.

After awhile, there was a little difference between them as to what

might or what might not be done with propriety after their office hours

were over. It must be explained that in that huge room in which eight

hundred girls were at work together, there was also a sprinkling of boys

and young men. As no girls were employed there after eight there would

always be on duty in the afternoon an increasing number of the other

sex, some of whom remained there till late at night,--some indeed all

night. Now, whether by chance,--or as Lucy feared by management,--Sophy

Wilson had her usual seat next to a young lad with whom she soon

contracted a certain amount of intimacy. And from this intimacy arose a

proposition that they two should go with Mr. Murray,--he was at first

called Mister, but the formal appellation soon degenerated into a

familiar Alec,--to a Music Hall! Lucy Graham at once set her face

against the Music Hall.

“But why?” asked the other girl. “You don’t mean to say that decent

people don’t go to Music Halls?”

“I don’t mean to say anything of the kind, but then they go decently

attended.”

“How decently? We should be decent.”

“With their brothers,” said Lucy;--“or something of that kind.”

“Brothers!” ejaculated the other girl with a tone of thorough contempt.

A visit to a Music Hall with her brother was not at all the sort of

pleasure to which Sophy was looking forward. She did her best to get

over objections which to her seemed to be fastidious and absurd,

observing, “that if people were to feel like that there would be no

coming together of people at all.” But when she found that Lucy could

not be instigated to go to the Music Hall, and that the idea of Alec

Murray and herself going to such a place unattended by others was

regarded as a proposition too monstrous to be discussed, Sophy for

awhile gave way. But she returned again and again to the subject,

thinking to prevail by asserting that Alec had a friend, a most

excellent young man, who would go with them,--and bring his sister. Alec

was almost sure that the sister would come. Lucy, however, would have

nothing to do with it. Lucy thought that there should be very great

intimacy indeed before anything of that kind should be permitted.

And so there was something of a quarrel. Sophy declared that such a life

as theirs was too hard for her, and that some kind of amusement was

necessary. Unless she were allowed some delight she must go mad, she

must die, she must throw herself off Waterloo Bridge. Lucy, remembering

her duty, remembering how imperative it was that she should endeavour to

do good to the one human being with whom she was closely concerned,

forgave her, and tried to comfort her;--forgave her even though at last

she refused to be guided by her monitress. For Sophy did go to the Music

Hall with Alec Murray,--reporting, but reporting falsely, that they were

accompanied by the friend and the friend’s sister. Lucy, poor Lucy, was

constrained by certain circumstances to disbelieve this false assertion.

She feared that Sophy had gone with Alec alone,--as was the fact. But

yet she forgave her friend. How are we to live together at all if we

cannot forgive each other’s offences?

CHAPTER II.

ABRAHAM HALL.

As there was no immediate repetition of the offence the forgiveness soon

became complete, and Lucy found the interest of her life in her

endeavours to be good to this weak child whom chance had thrown in her

way. For Sophy Wilson was but a weak child. She was full of Alec Murray

for awhile, and induced Lucy to make the young man’s acquaintance. The

lad was earning twelve shillings a week, and if these two poor young

creatures chose to love each other and get themselves married, it would

be respectable, though it might be unfortunate. It would at any rate be

the way of the world, and was a natural combination with which she would

have no right to interfere. But she found that Alec was a mere boy, and

with no idea beyond the enjoyment of a bright scarf and a penny cigar,

with a girl by his side at a Music Hall. “I don’t think it can be worth

your while to go much out of your way for his sake,” said Lucy.

“Who is going out of her way? Not I. He’s as good as anybody else, I

suppose. And one must have somebody to talk to sometimes.” These last

words she uttered so plaintively, showing so plainly that she was unable

to endure the simple unchanging dulness of a life of labour, that Lucy’s

heart was thoroughly softened towards her. She had the great gift of

being not the less able to sympathize with the weakness of the weak

because of her own abnormal strength. And so it came to pass that she

worked for her friend,--stitching and mending when the girl ought to

have stitched and mended for herself,--reading to her, even though but

little of what was read might be understood,--yielding to her and

assisting her in all things, till at last it came to pass that in truth

she loved her. And such love and care were much wanted, for the elder

girl soon found that the younger was weak in health as well as weak in

spirit. There were days on which she could not,--or at any rate did not

go to her office. When six months had passed by Lucy had not once been

absent since she had begun her new life.

“Have you seen that man who has come to look at our house?” asked Sophy

one day as they were walking down to the office. Lucy had seen a strange

man, having met him on the stairs. “Isn’t he a fine fellow?”

“For anything that I know. Let us hope that he is very fine,” said Lucy

laughing.

“He’s about as handsome a chap as I think I ever saw.”

“As for being a chap the man I saw must be near forty.”

“He is a little old I should say, but not near that. I don’t think he

can have a wife or he wouldn’t come here. He’s an engineer, and he has

the care of a steam-engine in the City Road,--that great printing place.

His name is Abraham Hall, and he’s earning three or four pounds a week.

A man like that ought to have a wife.”

“How did you learn all about him?”

“It’s all true. Sally heard it from Mrs. Green.” Mrs. Green was the

keeper of the lodging-house and Sally was the maid. “I couldn’t help

speaking to him yesterday because we were both at the door together. He

talked just like a gentleman although he was all smutty and greasy.”

“I am glad he talked like a gentleman.”

“I told him we lodged here and that we were telegraph girls, and that we

never got home till half-past eight. He would be just the beau for you

because he is such a big steady-looking fellow.”

“I don’t want a beau,” said Lucy angrily.

“Then I shall take him myself,” said Sophy as she entered the office.

Soon after that it came to pass that there did arise a slight

acquaintance between both the girls and Abraham Hall, partly from the

fact of their near neighbourhood, partly perhaps from some little tricks

on Sophy’s part. But the man seemed to be so steady, so solid, so little

given to lightnesses of flirtation or to dangerous delights, that Lucy

was inclined to welcome the accident. When she saw him on a Sunday

morning free from the soil of his work, she could perceive that he was

still a young man, probably not much over thirty;--but there was a look

about him as though he were well inured to the cares of the world, such

as is often produced by the possession of a wife and family,--not a look

of depression by any means, but seeming to betoken an appreciation of

the seriousness of life. From all this Lucy unconsciously accepted an

idea of security in the man, feeling that it might be pleasant to have

some strong one near her, from whom in case of need assistance might be

asked without fear. For this man was tall and broad and powerful, and

seemed to Lucy’s eyes to be a very pillar of strength when he would

stand still for a moment to greet her in the streets.

But poor Sophy, who had so graciously offered the man to her friend at

the beginning of their intercourse, seemed soon to change her mind and

to desire his attention for herself. He was certainly much more worthy

than Alec Murray. But to Lucy, to whom it was a rule of life as strong

as any in the commandments that a girl should not throw herself at a

man, but should be sought by him, it was a painful thing to see how many

of poor Sophy’s much-needed sixpences were now spent in little articles

of finery by which it was hoped that Mr. Hall’s eyes might be gratified,

and how those glossy ringlets were brushed and made to shine with

pomatum, and how the little collars were washed and re-washed and

starched and re-starched, in order that she might be smart for him.

Lucy, who was always neat, endeavoured to become browner and browner.

This she did by way of reproach and condemnation, not at all surmising

that Mr. Hall might possibly prefer a good solid wearing colour to

glittering blue and pink gewgaws.

At this time Sophy was always full of what Mr. Hall had last said to

her; and after awhile broached an idea that he was some gentleman in

disguise. “Why in disguise? Why not a gentleman not in disguise?” asked

Lucy, who had her own ideas, perhaps a little exaggerated, as to

Nature’s gentlemen. Then Sophy explained herself. A gentleman, a real

gentleman, in disguise would be very interesting;--one who had

quarrelled with his father, perhaps, because he would not endure

paternal tyranny, and had then determined to earn his own bread till he

might happily come into the family honours and property in a year or

two. Perhaps instead of being Abraham Hall he was in reality the Right

Honourable Russell Howard Cavendish; and if, during his temporary

abeyance, he should prove his thorough emancipation from the thraldom of

his aristocracy by falling in love with a telegraph girl, how fine it

would be! When Lucy expressed an opinion that Mr. Hall might be a very

fine fellow though he were fulfilling no more than the normal condition

of his life at the present moment, Sophy would not be contented,

declaring that her friend, with all her reading, knew nothing of poetry.

In this way they talked very frequently about Abraham Hall, till Lucy

would often feel that such talking was indecorous. Then she would be

silent for awhile herself, and rebuke the other girl for her constant

mention of the man’s name. Then again she would be brought back to the

subject;--for in all the little intercourse which took place between

them and the man, his conduct was so simple and yet so civil, that she

could not really feel him to be unworthy of a place in her thoughts.

But Sophy soon declared frankly to her friend that she was absolutely in

love with the man. “You wouldn’t have him, you know,” she said when Lucy

scolded her for the avowal.

“Have him! How can you bring yourself to talk in such a way about a man?

What does he want of either of us?”

“Men do marry you know,--sometimes,” said Sophy; “and I don’t know how a

young man is to get a wife unless some girl will show that she is fond

of him.”

“He should show first that he is fond of her.”

“That’s all very well for talkee-talkee,” said Sophy; “but it doesn’t do

for practice. Men are awfully shy. And then though they do marry

sometimes, they don’t want to get married particularly,--not as we do.

It comes like an accident. But how is a man to fall into a pit if

there’s no pit open?”

In answer to this Lucy used many arguments and much scolding. But to

very little effect. That the other girl should have thought so much

about it and be so ready with her arguments was horrid to her. “A pit

open!” ejaculated Lucy; “I would rather never speak to a man again than

regard myself in such a light.” Sophy said that all that might be very

well, but declared that it “would not wash.”

The elder girl was so much shocked by all this that there came upon her

gradually a feeling of doubt whether their joint life could be

continued. Sophy declared her purpose openly of entrapping Abraham Hall

into a marriage, and had absolutely induced him to take her to the

theatre. He had asked Lucy to join them; but she had sternly refused,

basing her refusal on her inability to bear the expense. When he offered

to give her the treat, she told him with simple gravity that nothing

would induce her to accept such a favour from any man who was not either

a very old friend or a near relation. When she said this he so looked at

her that she was sure that he approved of her resolve. He did not say a

word to press her;--but he took Sophy Wilson, and, as Lucy knew, paid

for Sophy’s ticket.

All this displeased Lucy so much that she began to think whether there

must not be a separation. She could not continue to live on terms of

affectionate friendship with a girl whose conduct she so strongly

disapproved. But then again, though she could not restrain the poor

light thing altogether, she did restrain her in some degree. She was

doing some good by her companionship. And then, if it really was in the

man’s mind to marry the girl, that certainly would be a good thing,--for

the girl. With such a husband she would be steady enough. She was quite

sure that the idea of preparing a pit for such a one as Abraham Hall

must be absurd. But Sophy was pretty and clever, and if married would at

any rate love her husband. Lucy thought she had heard that steady,

severe, thoughtful men were apt to attach themselves to women of the

butterfly order. She did not like the way in which Sophy was doing this;

but then, who was she that she should be a judge? If Abraham Hall liked

it, would not that be much more to the purpose? Therefore she resolved

that there should be no separation at present;--and, if possible, no

quarrelling.

But soon it came to pass that there was another very solid reason

against separation. Sophy, who was often unwell, and would sometimes

stay away from the office for a day or two on the score of ill-health,

though by doing so she lost one of her three shillings on each such day,

gradually became worse. The superintendent at her department had

declared that in case of further absence a medical certificate must be

sent, and the doctor attached to the office had called upon her. He had

looked grave, had declared that she wanted considerable care, had then

gone so far as to recommend rest,--which meant absence from work,--for

at least a fortnight, and ordered her medicine. This of course meant the

loss of a third of her wages. In such circumstances and at such a time

it was not likely that Lucy should think of separation.

While Sophy was ill Abraham Hall often came to the door to inquire after

her health;--so often that Lucy almost thought that her friend had

succeeded. The man seemed to be sympathetic and anxious, and would

hardly have inquired with so much solicitude had he not really been

anxious as to poor Sophy’s health. Then, when Sophy was better, he would

come in to see her, and the girl would deck herself out with some little

ribbon and would have her collar always starched and ironed, ready for

his reception. It certainly did seem to Lucy that the man was becoming

fond of her foolish little friend.

During this period Lucy of course had to go to the office alone, leaving

Sophy to the care of the lodging-house keeper. And, in her solitude,

troubles were heavy on her. In the first place Sophy’s illness had

created certain necessarily increased expenses; and at the same time

their joint incomes had been diminished by one shilling a week out of

six. Lucy was in general matters allowed to be the dispenser of the

money; but on occasions the other girl would assert her rights,--which

always meant her right to some indulgence out of their joint incomes

which would be an indulgence to her and her alone. Even those bright

ribbons could not be had for nothing. Lucy wanted no bright ribbons.

When they were fairly prosperous she had not grudged some little

expenditure in this direction. She had told herself that young girls

like to be bright in the eyes of men, and that she had no right even to

endeavour to make her friend look at all these things with her eyes. She

even confessed to herself some deficiency on her own part, some want of

womanliness in that she did not aspire to be attractive,--still owning

to herself, vehemently declaring to herself, that to be attractive in

the eyes of a man whom she could love would of all delights be the most

delightful. Thinking of all this she had endeavoured not to be angry

with poor Sophy; but when she became pinched for shillings and sixpences

and to feel doubtful whether at the end of each fortnight there would

be money to pay Mrs. Green for lodgings and coal, then her heart became

sad within her, and she told herself that Sophy, though she was ill,

ought to be more careful.

And there was another trouble which for awhile was very grievous.

Telegraphy is an art not yet perfected among us and is still subject to

many changes. Now it was the case at this time that the pundits of the

office were in favour of a system of communicating messages by ear

instead of by eye. The little dots and pricks which even in Lucy’s time

had been changed more than once, had quickly become familiar to her. No

one could read and use her telegraphic literature more rapidly or

correctly than Lucy Graham. But now that this system of little tinkling

sounds was coming up,--a system which seemed to be very pleasant to

those females who were gifted with musical aptitudes,--she found herself

to be less quick, less expert, less useful than her neighbours. This was

very sad, for she had always been buoyed up by an unconscious conviction

of her own superior intelligence. And then, though there had been

neither promises nor threats, she had become aware,--at any rate had

thought that she was aware,--that those girls who could catch and use

the tinkling sounds would rise more quickly to higher pay than the less

gifted ones. She had struggled therefore to overcome the difficulty. She

had endeavoured to force her ears to do that which her ears were not

capable of accomplishing. She had failed, and to-day had owned to

herself that she must fail. But Sophy had been one of the first to

catch the tinkling sounds. Lucy came back to her room sad and down at

heart and full of troubles. She had a long task of needlework before

her, which had been put by for awhile through causes consequent on

Sophy’s illness. “Now she is better perhaps he will marry her and take

her away, and I shall be alone again,” she said to herself, as though

declaring that such a state of things would be a relief to her, and

almost a happiness.

“He has just been here,” said Sophy to her as soon as she entered the

room. Sophy was painfully, cruelly smart, clean and starched, and

shining about her locks,--so prepared that, as Lucy thought, she must

have evidently expected him.

“Well;--and what did he say?”

“He has not said much yet, but it was very good of him to come and see

me,--and he was looking so handsome. He is going out somewhere this

evening to some political meeting with two or three other men, and he

was got up quite like a gentleman. I do like to see him look like that.”

“I always think a working man looks best in his working clothes,” said

Lucy. “There’s some truth about him then. When he gets into a black coat

he is pretending to be something else, but everybody can see the

difference.”

There was a severity, almost a savageness in this, which surprised Sophy

so much that at first she hardly knew how to answer it. “He is going to

speak at the meeting,” she said after a pause. “And of course he had to

make himself tidy. He told me all that he is going to say. Should you

not like to hear him speak?”

“No,” said Lucy very sharply, setting to work instantly upon her

labours, not giving herself a moment for preparation or a moment for

rest. Why should she like to hear a man speak who could condescend to

love so empty and so vain a thing as that? Then she became gradually

ashamed of her own feelings. “Yes,” she said; “I think I should like to

hear him speak;--only if I were not quite so tired. Mr. Hall is a man of

good sense, and well educated, and I think I should like to hear him

speak.”

“I should like to hear him say one thing I know,” said Sophy. Then Lucy

in her rage tore asunder some fragment of a garment on which she was

working.

CHAPTER III.

SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS.

Sophy went back to her work, and in a very few days was permanently

moved from the seat which she had hitherto occupied next to Alec Murray

and near to Lucy, to a distant part of the chamber in which the tinkling

instruments were used. And as a part of the arrangement consequent on

this she was called on to attend from ten till six instead of from noon

till eight. And her hour for dining was changed also. In this way a

great separation between the girls was made, for neither could they walk

to the office together, nor walk from it. To Lucy, though she was

sometimes inclined to be angry with her friend, this was very painful.

But Sophy triumphed in it greatly. “I think we are to have a step up to

21_s._ in the musical box,” she said laughing. For it was so that she

called the part of the room in which the little bells were always

ringing. “Won’t it be nice to have 3_s._ 6_d._ instead of 3_s._?” Lucy

said solemnly that any increase of income was always nice, and that when

such income was earned by superiority of acquirement it was a matter of

just pride. This she enunciated with something of a dogmatic air; having

schooled herself to give all due praise to Sophy, although it had to be

given at the expense of her own feelings. But when Sophy said in reply

that that was just what she had been thinking herself, and that as she

could do her work by ear she was of course worth more than those who

could not, then the other could only with difficulty repress the

soreness of her heart.

But to Sophy I think the new arrangements were most pleasant because it

enabled her to reach the street in which she lived just when Abraham

Hall was accustomed to return from his work. He would generally come

home,--to clean himself as she called it,--and would then again go out

for his employment or amusement for the evening; and now, by a proper

system of lying in wait, by creeping slow or walking quick, and by

watching well, she was generally able to have a word or two with him.

But he was so very bashful! He would always call her Miss Wilson; and

she of course was obliged to call him Mr. Hall. “How is Miss Graham?” he

asked one evening.

“She is very well. I think Lucy is always well. I never knew anybody so

strong as she is.”

“It is a great blessing. And how are you yourself?”

“I do get so tired at that nasty office. Though of course I like what I

am doing now better than the other. It was that rolling up the bands

that used to kill me. But I don’t think I shall ever really be strong

till I get away from the telegraphs. I suppose you have no young ladies

where you are?”

“There are I believe a lot of them in the building, stitching bindings;

but I never see them.”

“I don’t think you care much for young ladies, Mr. Hall.”

“Not much--now.”

“Why not now? What does that mean?”

“I dare say I never told you or Miss Graham before. But I had a wife of

my own for a time.”

“A wife! You!”

“Yes indeed. But she did not stay with me long. She left me before we

had been a year married.”

“Left you!”

“She died,” he said, correcting very quickly the false impression which

his words had been calculated to make.

“Dear me! Died before a year was out. How sad!”

“It was very sad.”

“And you had no,--no,--no baby, Mr. Hall?”

“I wish she had had none, because then she would have been still living.

Yes, I have a boy. Poor little mortal! It is two years old I think

to-day.”

“I should so like to see him. A little boy! Do bring him some day, Mr.

Hall.” Then the father explained that the child was in the country, down

in Hertfordshire; but nevertheless he promised that he would some day

bring him up to town and show him to his new friends.

Surely having once been married and having a child he must want another

wife! And yet how little apt he was to say or do any of those things by

saying and doing which men are supposed to express their desire in that

direction! He was very slow at making love;--so slow that Sophy hardly

found herself able to make use of her own little experiences with him.

Alec Murray, who, however, in the way of a husband was not worth

thinking of, had a great deal more to say for himself. She could put on

her ribbons for Mr. Hall, and wait for him in the street, and look up

into his face, and call him Mr. Hall;--but she could not tell him how

dearly she would love that little boy and what an excellent mother she

would be to him, unless he gave her some encouragement.

When Lucy heard that he had been a married man and that he had a child

she was gratified, though she knew not why. “Yes, I should like to see

him of course,” she said, speaking of the boy. “A child, if you have not

the responsibility of taking care of it, is always nice.”

“I should so like to take care of it.”

“I should not like to ask him to bring the boy up out of the country.”

She paused a moment, and then added, “He is just the man whom I should

have thought would have married, and just the man to be made very

serious by the grief of such a loss. I am coming to think it does a

person good to have to bear troubles.”

“You would not say that if you always felt as sick as I do after your

day’s work.”

About a week after that Sophy was so weak in the middle of the day that

she was obliged to leave the office and go home. “I know it will kill

me,” she said that evening, “if I go on with it. The place is so stuffy

and nasty, and then those terrible stairs. If I could get out of it and

settle down, then I should be quite well. I am not made for that kind of

work;--not like you are.”

“I think I was made for it certainly.”

“It is such a blessing to be strong,” said poor Sophy.

“Yes; it is a blessing. And I do bless God that he has made me so. It is

the one good thing that has been given to me, and it is better, I think,

than all the others.” As she said this she looked at Sophy and thought

that she was very pretty; but she thought also that prettiness had its

dangers and its temptations; and that good strong serviceable health

might perhaps be better for one who had to earn her bread.

But through all these thoughts there was a great struggle going on

within her. To be able to earn one’s bread without personal suffering is

very good. To be tempted by prettiness to ribbons, pomatum, and vanities

which one cannot afford is very bad. To do as Sophy was doing in regard

to this young man, setting her cap at him and resolving to make prey of

him as a fowler does of a bird, was, to her way of thinking, most

unseemly. But to be loved by such a man as Abraham Hall, to be chosen by

him as his companion, to be removed from the hard, outside, unwomanly

work of the world to the indoor occupations which a husband would

require from her; how much better a life according to her real tastes

would that be, than anything which she now saw before her! It was all

very well to be brown and strong while the exigencies of her position

were those which now surrounded her; but she could not keep herself from

dreaming of something which would have been much better than that.

A month or two passed away during which the child had on one occasion

been brought up to town on a Saturday evening, and had been petted and

washed and fed and generally cared for by the two girls during the

Sunday,--all which greatly increased their intimacy with the father. And

now, as Lucy quickly observed, Abraham Hall called Sophy by her

Christian name. When the word was first pronounced in Lucy’s presence

Sophy blushed and looked round at her friend. But she never said that

the change had been made at her own request. “I do so hate to be called

Miss Wilson,” she had said. “It seems among friends as though I were a

hundred years old.” Then he had called her Sophy. But she did not

dare,--not as yet,--to call him Abraham. All which the other girl

watched very closely, saying nothing.

But during these two months Sophy had been away from her office more

than half the time. Then the doctor said she had better leave town for

awhile. It was September, and it was desired that she should pass that

month at Hastings. Now it should be explained that in such emergencies

as this the department has provided a most kindly aid for young women.

Some five or six at a time are sent out for a month to Hastings or to

Brighton, and are employed in the telegraph offices in those towns.

Their railway fares are paid for them, and a small extra allowance is

made to them to enable them to live away from their homes. The privilege

is too generally sought to be always at the command of her who wants it;

nor is it accorded except on the doctor’s certificate. But in the

September Sophy Wilson was sent down to Hastings.

In spite, however, of the official benevolence which greatly lightened

the special burden which illness must always bring on those who have to

earn their bread, and which in Sophy Wilson’s case had done so much for

her, nevertheless the weight of the misfortune fell heavily on poor

Lucy. Some little struggle had to be made as to clothes before the girl

could be sent away from her home; and, though the sick one was enabled

to support herself at Hastings, the cost of the London lodgings which

should have been divided fell entirely upon Lucy. Then at the end of the

month there came worse tidings. The doctor at Hastings declared that the

girl was unfit to go back to her work,--was, indeed, altogether unfit

for such effort as eight hours’ continued attendance required from her.

She wanted at any rate some period of perfect rest, and therefore she

remained down at the seaside without the extra allowance which was so

much needed for her maintenance.

Then the struggle became very severe with Lucy,--so severe that she

began to doubt whether she could long endure it. Sophy had her two

shillings a day, the two-thirds of her wages, but she could not subsist

on that. Something had to be sent to her in addition, and this something

could only come from Lucy’s wages. So at least it was at first. In order

to avoid debt she gave up her more comfortable room and went upstairs

into a little garret. And she denied herself her accustomed dinner at

the office, contenting herself with bread and cheese,--or often simply

with bread,--which she could take in her pocket. And she washed her own

clothes and mended even her own boots, so that still she might send a

part of her earnings to the sick one.

“Is she better?” Abraham asked her one day.

“It is hard to know, Mr. Hall. She writes just as she feels at the

moment. I am afraid she fears to return to the office.”

“Perhaps it does not suit her.”

“I suppose not. She thinks some other kind of life would be better for

her. I dare say it would.”

“Could I do anything?” asked the man very slowly.

Could he do anything? well; yes. Lucy at least thought that he could do

a great deal. There was one thing which, if he would do it, would make

Sophy at any rate believe herself to be well. And this sickness was not

organic,--was not, as it appeared, due to any cause which could be

specified. It had not as yet been called by any name,--such as

consumption. General debility had been spoken of both by the office

doctor and by him at Hastings. Now Lucy certainly thought that a few

words from Mr. Hall would do more than all the doctors in the way of

effecting a cure. Sophy hated the telegraph office, and she lacked the

strength of mind necessary for doing that which was distasteful to her.

And that idea of a husband had taken such hold of her, that nothing else

seemed to her to give a prospect of contentment. “Why don’t you go down

and see her, Mr. Hall?” she said.

Then he was silent for awhile before he answered,--silent and very

thoughtful. And Lucy as the sound of her own words rested on her ears

felt she had done wrong in asking such a question. Why should he go

down, unless indeed he were in love with the girl and prepared to ask

her to be his wife? If he were to go down expressly to visit her at

Hastings unless he were so prepared, what false hopes he would raise;

what damage he would do instead of good! How indeed could he possibly go

down on such a mission without declaring to all the world that he

intended to make the girl his wife? But it was necessary that the

question should be answered. “I could do no good by that,” he said.

“No; perhaps not. Only I thought----”

“What did you think?” Now he asked a question and showed plainly by his

manner that he expected an answer.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy blushing. “I suppose I ought not to have

thought anything. But you seemed to be so fond of her.”

“Fond of her! Well; one does get fond of kind neighbours. I suppose you

would think me impertinent, Miss Lucy,”--he had never made even this

approach to familiarity before,--“if I were to say that I am fond of

both of you.”

“No indeed,” she replied, thinking that as a fondness declared by a

young man for two girls at one and the same moment could not be

interesting, so neither could it be impertinent.

“I don’t think I should do any good by going down. All that kind of

thing costs so much money.”

“Of course it does, and I was very wrong.”

“But I should like to do something, Miss Lucy.” And then he put his hand

into his trousers pocket, and Lucy knew that he was going to bring forth

money.

She was very poor; but the idea of taking money from him was shocking to

her. According to her theory of life, even though Sophy had been engaged

to the man as his promised wife, she should not consent to accept

maintenance from him or pecuniary aid till she had been made, in very

truth, flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. Presents an engaged

girl might take of course, but hardly even presents of simple utility. A

shawl might be given, so that it was a pretty thing and not a shawl

merely for warmth. An engaged girl should rather live on bread and water

up to her marriage, than take the means of living from the man she

loved, till she could take it by right of having become his wife. Such

were her feelings, and now she knew that this man was about to offer her

money. “We shall do very well,” she said, “Sophy and I together.”

“You are very hard pinched,” he replied. “You have given up your room.”

“Yes, I have done that. When I was alone I did not want so big a place.”

“I suppose I understand all about it,” he said somewhat roughly, or,

perhaps, gruffly would be the better word. “I think there is one thing

poor people ought never to do. They ought never to be ashamed of being

poor among themselves.”

Then she looked up into his face, and as she did so a tear formed itself

in each of her eyes. “Am I ashamed of anything before you?” she asked.

“You are afraid of telling the truth lest I should offer to help you. I

know you don’t have your dinner regular as you used.”

“Who has dared to tell you that, Mr. Hall? What is my dinner to

anybody?”

“Well. It is something to me. If we are to be friends of course I don’t

like seeing you go without your meals. You’ll be ill next yourself.”

“I am very strong.”

“It isn’t the way to keep so, to work without the victuals you’re used

to.” He was talking to her now in such a tone as to make her almost feel

that he was scolding her. “No good can come of that. You are sending

your money down to Hastings to her.”

“Of course we share everything.”

“You wouldn’t take anything from me for yourself I dare say. Anybody can

see how proud you are. But if I leave it for her I don’t think you have

a right to refuse it. Of course she wants it if you don’t.” With that he

brought out a sovereign and put it down on the table.

“Indeed I couldn’t, Mr. Hall,” she said.

“I may give it to her if I please.”

“You can send it her yourself,” said Lucy, not knowing how else to

answer him.

“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know her address.” Then without waiting for

another word he walked out of the room, leaving the sovereign on the

table. This occurred in a small back parlour on the ground floor, which

was in the occupation of the landlady, but was used sometimes by the

lodgers for such occasional meetings.

What was she to do with the sovereign? She would be very angry if any

man were to send her a sovereign; but it was not right that she should

measure Sophy’s feelings by her own. And then it might still be that the

man was sending the present to the girl whom he intended to make his

wife. But why--why--why, had he asked about her dinner? What were her

affairs to him? Would she not have gone without her dinner for ever

rather than have taken it at his hands? And yet, who was there in all

the world of whom she thought so well as of him? And so she took the

sovereign upstairs with her into her garret.

CHAPTER IV.

MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER.

Lucy, when she got up to her own little room with the sovereign, sat for

awhile on the bed, crying. But she could not in the least explain to

herself why it was that she was shedding tears at this moment. It was

not because Sophy was ill, though that was cause to her of great grief;

nor because she herself was so hard put to it for money to meet her

wants. It may be doubted whether grief or pain ever does of itself

produce tears, which are rather the outcome of some emotional feeling.

She was not thinking much of Sophy as she cried, nor certainly were her

own wants present to her mind. The sovereign was between her fingers,

but she did not at first even turn her mind to that, or consider what

had best be done with it. But what right had he to make inquiry as to

her poverty? It was that, she told herself, which now provoked her to

anger so that she wept from sheer vexation. Why should he have searched

into her wants and spoken to her of her need of victuals? What had there

been between them to justify him in tearing away that veil of custom

which is always supposed to hide our private necessities from our

acquaintances till we ourselves feel called upon to declare them? He had

talked to her about her meals. He ought to know that she would starve

rather than accept one from him. Yes;--she was very angry with him, and

would henceforth keep herself aloof from him.

But still, as she sat, there were present to her eyes and ears the form

and words of an heroic man. He had seemed to scold her; but there are

female hearts which can be better reached and more surely touched by the

truth of anger than by the patent falseness of flattery. Had he paid her

compliments she would not now have been crying, nor would she have

complained to herself of his usage; but she certainly would not have sat

thinking of him, wondering what sort of woman had been that young wife

to whom he had first given himself, wondering whether it was possible

that Sophy should be good enough for him.

Then she got up, and looking down upon her own hand gazed at the

sovereign till she had made up her mind what she would do with it. She

at once sat down and wrote to Sophy. She had made up her mind. There

should be no diminution in the contribution made from her own wages. In

no way should any portion of that sovereign administer to her own

comfort. Though she might want her accustomed victuals ever so badly,

they should not come to her from his earnings. So she told Sophy in the

letter that Mr. Hall had expressed great anxiety for her welfare, and

had begged that she would accept a present from him. She was to get

anything with the sovereign that might best tend to her happiness. But

the shilling a day which Lucy contributed out of her own wages was sent

with the sovereign.

For an entire month she did not see Abraham Hall again so as to do more

than just speak to him on the stairs. She was almost inclined to think

that he was cold and unkind in not seeking her;--and yet she wilfully

kept out of his way. On each Sunday it would at any rate have been easy

for her to meet him; but with a stubborn purpose which she did not

herself understand she kept herself apart, and when she met him on the

stairs, which she would do occasionally when she returned from her work,

she would hardly stand till she had answered his inquiries after Sophy.

But at the end of the month one evening he came up and knocked at her

door. “I am sorry to intrude, Miss Lucy.”

“It is no intrusion, Mr. Hall. I wish I had a place to ask you to sit

down in.”

“I have come to bring another trifle for Miss Sophy.”

“Pray do not do it. I cannot send it her. She ought not to take it. I am

sure you know that she ought not to take it.”

“I know nothing of the kind. If I know anything, it is that the strong

should help the weak, and the healthy the sick. Why should she not take

it from me as well as from you?”

It was necessary that Lucy should think a little before she could answer

this;--but, when she had thought, her answer was ready. “We are both

girls.”

“Is there anything which ought to confine kindness to this or the other

sex? If you were knocked down in the street would you let no one but a

woman pick you up?”

“It is not the same. I know you understand it, Mr. Hall. I am sure you

do.”

Then he also paused to think what he would say, for he was conscious

that he did “understand it.” For a young woman to accept money from a

man seemed to imply that some return of favours would be due. But,--he

said to himself,--that feeling came from what was dirty and not from

what was noble in the world. “You ought to lift yourself above all

that,” he said at last. “Yes; you ought. You are very good, but you

would be better if you would do so. You say that I understand, and I

think that you, too, understand.” This again was said in that voice

which seemed to scold, and again her eyes became full of tears. Then he

was softer on a sudden. “Good night, Miss Lucy. You will shake hands

with me;--will you not?” She put her hand in his, being perfectly

conscious at the moment that it was the first time that she had ever

done so. What a mighty hand it seemed to be as it held hers for a

moment! “I will put the sovereign on the table,” he said, again leaving

the room and giving her no option as to its acceptance.

But she made up her mind at once that she would not be the means of

sending his money to Sophy Wilson. She was sure that she would take

nothing from him for her own relief, and therefore sure that neither

ought Sophy to do so,--at any rate unless there had been more between

them than either of them had told to her. But Sophy must judge for

herself. She sent, therefore, the sovereign back to Hall with a little

note as follows:--

“DEAR MR. HALL,--Sophy’s address is at

“Mrs. Pike’s,

“19, Paradise Row,

“Fairlight, near Hastings.

“You can do as you like as to writing to her. I am obliged to send

back the money which you have so _very generously_ left for her,

because I do not think she ought to accept it. If she were quite in

want it might be different, but we have still five shillings a day

between us. If a young woman were starving perhaps it ought to be

the same as though she were being run over in the street, but it is

not like that. In my next letter I shall tell Sophy all about it.

“Yours truly,

“LUCY GRAHAM.”

The following evening, when she came home, he was standing at the house

door evidently waiting for her. She had never seen him loitering in that

way before, and she was sure that he was there in order that he might

speak to her.

“I thought I would let you know that I got the sovereign safely,” he

said. “I am so sorry that you should have returned it.”

“I am sure that I was right, Mr. Hall.”

“There are cases in which it is very hard to say what is right and what

is wrong. Some things seem right because people have been wrong so long.

To give and take among friends ought to be right.”

“We can only do what we think right,” she said, as she passed in through

the passage upstairs.

She felt sure from what had passed that he had not sent the money to

Sophy. But why not? Sophy had said that he was bashful. Was he so far

bashful that he did not dare himself to send the money to the girl he

loved, though he had no scruple as to giving it to her through another

person? And, as for bashfulness, it seemed to her that the man spoke out

his mind clearly enough. He could scold her, she thought, without any

difficulty, for it still seemed that his voice and manner were rough to

her. He was never rough to Sophy; but then she had heard so often that

love will alter a man amazingly!

Then she wrote her letter to Sophy, and explained as well as she could

the whole affair. She was quite sure that Sophy would regret the loss of

the money. Sophy, she knew, would have accepted it without scruple.

People, she said to herself, will be different. But she endeavoured to

make her friend understand that she, with her feelings, could not be the

medium of sending on presents of which she disapproved. “I have given

him your address,” she said, “and he can suit himself as to writing to

you.” In this letter she enclosed a money order for the contribution

made to Sophy’s comfort out of her own wages.

Sophy’s answer, which came in a day or two, surprised her very much. “As

to Mr. Hall’s money,” she began, “as things stand at present perhaps it

is as well that you didn’t take it.” As Lucy had expected that grievous

fault would be found with her, this was comfortable. But it was after

that, that the real news came. Sophy was a great deal better; that was

also good tidings;--but she did not want to leave Hastings just at

present. Indeed she thought that she did not want to leave it at all. A

very gentlemanlike young man, who was just going to be taken into

partnership in a hairdressing establishment, had proposed to her;--and

she had accepted him. Then there were two wishes expressed;--the first

was that Lucy would go on a little longer with her kind generosity, and

the second,--that Mr. Hall would not feel it very much.

As regarded the first wish, Lucy resolved that she would go on at least

for the present. Sophy was still on sick leave from the office, and,

even though she might be engaged to a hairdresser, was still to be

regarded as an invalid. But as to Mr. Hall, she thought that she could

do nothing. She could not even tell him,--at any rate till that marriage

at Hastings was quite a settled thing. But she thought that Mr. Hall’s

future happiness would not be lessened by the event. Though she had

taught herself to love Sophy, she had been unable not to think that her

friend was not a fitting wife for such a man. But in telling herself

that he would have an escape, she put it to herself as though the fault

lay chiefly in him. “He is so stern and so hard that he would have

crushed her, and she never would have understood his justness and

honesty.” In her letter of congratulation, which was very kind, she said

not a word of Abraham Hall, but she promised to go on with her own

contribution till things were a little more settled.

In the meantime she was very poor. Even brown dresses won’t wear for

ever, let them be ever so brown, and in the first flurry of sending

Sophy off to Hastings,--with that decent apparel which had perhaps been

the means of winning the hairdresser’s heart,--she had got somewhat into

debt with her landlady. This she was gradually paying off, even on her

reduced wages, but the effort pinched her closely. Day by day, in spite

of all her efforts with her needle, she became sensible of a

deterioration in her outward appearance which was painful to her at the

office, and which made her most careful to avoid any meeting with

Abraham Hall. Her boots were very bad, and she had now for some time

given up even the pretence of gloves as she went backwards and forwards

to the office. But perhaps it was her hat that was most vexatious. The

brown straw hat which had lasted her all the summer and autumn could

hardly be induced to keep its shape now when November was come.

One day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Abraham Hall went to the

Post Office, and, having inquired among the messengers, made his way up

to the telegraph department at the top of the building. There he asked

for Miss Graham, and was told by the doorkeeper that the young ladies

were not allowed to receive visitors during office hours. He persisted,

however, explaining that he had no wish to go into the room, but that it

was a matter of importance, and that he was very anxious that Miss

Graham should be asked to come out to him. Now it is a rule that the

staff of the department who are engaged in sending and receiving

messages, the privacy of which may be of vital importance, should be

kept during the hours of work as free as possible from communication

with the public. It is not that either the girls or the young men would

be prone to tell the words which they had been the means of passing on

to their destination, but that it might be worth the while of some

sinner to offer great temptation, and that the power of offering it

should be lessened as much as possible. Therefore, when Abraham Hall

pressed his request the doorkeeper told him that it was quite

impossible.

“Do you mean to say that if it were an affair of life and death she

could not be called out?” Abraham asked in that voice which had

sometimes seemed to Lucy to be so impressive. “She is not a prisoner!”

“I don’t know as to that,” replied the man; “you would have to see the

superintendent, I suppose.”

“Then let me see the superintendent.” And at last he did succeed in

seeing some one whom he so convinced of the importance of his message as

to bring Lucy to the door.

“Miss Graham,” he said, when they were at the top of the stairs, and so

far alone that no one else could hear him, “I want you to come out with

me for half an hour.”

“I don’t think I can. They won’t let me.”

“Yes they will. I have to say something which I must say now.”

“Will not the evening do, Mr. Hall?”

“No; I must go out of town by the mail train from Paddington, and it

will be too late. Get your hat and come with me for half an hour.”

Then she remembered her hat, and she snatched a glance at her poor

stained dress, and she looked up at him. He was not dressed in his

working clothes, and his face and hands were clean, and altogether there

was a look about him of well-to-do manly tidiness which added to her

feeling of shame.

“If you will go on to the house I will follow you,” she said.

“Are you ashamed to walk with me?”

“I am, because----”

He had not understood her at first, but now he understood it all. “Get

your hat,” he said, “and come with a friend who is really a friend. You

must come; you must, indeed.” Then she felt herself compelled to obey,

and went back and got her old hat and followed him down the stairs into

the street. “And so Miss Wilson is going to be married,” were the first

words he said in the street.

“Has she written to you?”

“Yes; she has told me all about it. I am so glad that she should be

settled to her liking, out of town. She says that she is nearly well

now. I hope that Mr. Brown is a good sort of man, and that he will be

kind to her.”

It could hardly be possible, Lucy thought, that he should have taken her

away from the office merely to talk to her of Sophy’s prospects. It was

evident that he was strong enough to conceal any chagrin which might

have been caused by Sophy’s apostacy. Could it, however, be the case

that he was going to leave London because his feelings had been too much

disturbed to allow of his remaining quiet? “And so you are going away?

Is it for long?” “Well, yes; I suppose it is for always.” Then there

came upon her a sense of increased desolation. Was he not her only

friend? And then, though she had refused all pecuniary assistance, there

had been present to her a feeling that there was near to her a strong

human being whom she could trust, and who in any last extremity could be

kind to her.

“For always! And you go to-night!” Then she thought that he had been

right to insist on seeing her. It would certainly have been a great blow

to her if he had gone without a word of farewell.

“There is a man wanted immediately to look after the engines at a great

establishment on the Wye, in the Forest of Dean. They have offered me

four pounds a week.”

“Four pounds a week!”

“But I must go at once. It has been talked about for some time, and now

it has come all in a clap. I have to be off without a day’s notice,

almost before I know where I am. As for leaving London, it is just what

I like. I love the country.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “that will be nice;--and about your little boy?”

Could it be that she was to be asked to do something for the child?

They were now at the door of their house.

“Here we are,” he said, “and perhaps I can say better inside what I have

got to say.” Then she followed him into the back sitting-room on the

ground floor.

CHAPTER V.

ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED.

“Yes;” he said;--“about my little boy. I could not say what I had to say

in the street, though I had thought to do so.” Then he paused, and she

sat herself down, feeling, she did not know why, as though she would

lack strength to hear him if she stood. It was then the case that some

particular service was to be demanded from her,--something that would

show his confidence in her. The very idea of this seemed at once to add

a grace to her life. She would have the child to love. There would be

something for her to do. And there must be letters between her and him.

It would certainly add a grace to her life. But how odd that he should

not take his child with him! He had paused a moment while she thought of

all this, and she was aware that he was looking at her. But she did not

dare to return his gaze, or even to glance up at his face. And then

gradually she felt that she was shivering and trembling. What was it

that ailed her,--just now when it would be so necessary that she should

speak out with some strength? She had eaten nothing since her breakfast

when he had come to her, and she was afraid that she would show herself

to be weak. “Will you be his mother?” he said.

What did it mean? How was she to answer him? She knew that his eyes were

on her, but hers were more than ever firmly fixed upon the floor. And

she was aware that she ought briskly to have acceded to his

request,--so as to have shown by her ready alacrity that she had

attributed no other meaning to the words than they had been intended to

convey,--that she had not for a moment been guilty of rash folly. But

though it was so imperative upon her to say a word, yet she could not

speak. Everything was swimming round her. She was not even sure that she

could sit upon her chair. “Lucy,” he said;--then she thought she would

have fallen;--“Lucy, will you be my wife?”

There was no doubt about the word. Her sense of hearing was at any rate

not deficient. And there came upon her at once a thorough conviction

that all her troubles had been changed for ever and a day into joys and

blessings. The word had been spoken from which he certainly would never

go back, and which of course,--of course,--must be a commandment to her.

But yet there was an unfitness about it which disturbed her, and she was

still powerless to speak. The remembrance of the meanness of her clothes

and poorness of her position came upon her,--so that it would be her

duty to tell him that she was not fit for him; and yet she could not

speak.

“If you will say that you want time to think about it, I shall be

contented,” he said. But she did not want a moment to think about it.

She could not have confessed to herself that she had learned to love

him,--oh, so much too dearly,--if it were not for this most unexpected,

most unthought of, almost impossible revelation. But she did not want a

moment to make herself sure that she did love him. Yet she could not

speak. “Will you say that you will think of it for a month?”

Then there came upon her an idea that he was not asking this because he

loved her, but in order that he might have a mother whom he could trust

for his child. Even that would have been flattering, but that would not

have sufficed. Then when she told herself what she was, or rather what

she thought herself to be, she felt sure that he could not really love

her. Why should such a man as he love such a woman? Then her mouth was

opened. “You cannot want me for myself,” she said.

“Not for yourself! Then why? I am not the man to seek any girl for her

fortune, and you have none.” Then again she was dumfounded. She could

not explain what she meant. She could not say,--because I am brown, and

because I am plain, and because I have become thin and worn from want,

and because my clothes are old and shabby. “I ask you,” he said,

“because with all my heart I love you.”

It was as though the heavens had been opened to her. That he should

speak a word that was not true was to her impossible. And, as it was so,

she would not coy her love to him for a moment. If only she could have

found words with which to speak to him! She could not even look up at

him, but she put out her hand so as to touch him. “Lucy,” he said,

“stand up and come to me.” Then she stood up and with one little step

crept close to his side. “Lucy, can you love me?” And as he asked the

question his arm was pressed round her waist, and as she put up her hand

to welcome rather than to restrain his embrace, she again felt the

strength, the support, and the warmth of his grasp. “Will you not say

that you love me?”

“I am such a poor thing,” she replied.

“A poor thing, are you? Well, yes; there are different ways of being

poor. I have been poor enough in my time, but I never thought myself a

poor thing. And you must not say it ever of yourself again.”

“No?”

“My girl must not think herself a poor thing. May I not say, my girl?”

Then there was just a little murmur, a sound which would have been “yes”

but for the inability of her lips to open themselves. “And if my girl,

then my wife. And shall my wife be called a poor thing? No, Lucy. I have

seen it all. I don’t think I like poor things;--but I like you.”

“Do you?”

“I do. And now I must go back to the City Road and give up charge and

take my money. And I must leave this at seven--after a cup of tea. Shall

I see you again?”

“See me again! Oh, to-day, you mean. Indeed you shall. Not see you off?

My own, own, own man?”

“What will they say at the office?”

“I don’t care what they say. Let them say what they like. I have never

been absent a day yet without leave. What time shall I be here?” Then

he named an hour. “Of course I will have your last words. Perhaps you

will tell me something that I must do.”

“I must leave some money with you.”

“No; no; no; not yet. That shall come after.” This she said smiling up

at him, with a sparkle of a tear in each eye, but with such a smile!

Then he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “That may come at present

at any rate,” he said. To this, though it was repeated once and again,

there was no opposition. Then in his own masterful manner he put on his

hat and stalked out of the room without any more words.

She must return to the office that afternoon, of course, if only for the

sake of explaining her wish to absent herself the rest of the day. But

she could not go forth into the streets just yet. Though she had been

able to smile at him and to return his caress, and for a moment so to

stand by him that she might have something of the delight of his love,

still she was too much flurried, too weak from the excitement of the

last half-hour, to walk back to the Post Office without allowing herself

some minutes to recruit her strength and collect her thoughts. She went

at once up to her own room and cut for herself a bit of bread which she

began to eat,--just as one would trim one’s lamp carefully for some

night work, even though oppressed by heaviest sorrow, or put fuel on the

fire that would be needed. Then having fed herself, she leaned back in

her chair, throwing her handkerchief over her face, in order that she

might think of it.

Oh,--how much there was to fill her mind with many thoughts! Looking

back to what she had been even an hour ago, and then assuring herself

with infinite delight of the certain happiness of her present position,

she told herself that all the world had been altered to her within that

short space. As for loving him;--there was no doubt about that! Now she

could own to herself that she had long since loved him, even when she

thought that he might probably take that other girl as his wife. That

she should love him,--was it not a matter of course, he being what he

was? But that he should love her,--that, that was the marvel! But he

did. She need not doubt that. She could remember distinctly each word of

assurance that he had spoken to her. “I ask you, because with all my

heart I love you.” “May I not say my girl;--and, if my girl, then my

wife?” “I do not think that I like poor things; but I like you.” No. If

she were regarded by him as good enough to be his wife then she would

certainly never call herself a poor thing again.

In her troubles and her poverty,--especially in her solitude, she had

often thought of that other older man who had wanted to make her his

wife,--sometimes almost with regret. There would have been duties for

her and a home, and a mode of life more fitting to her feminine nature

than this solitary tedious existence. And there would have been

something for her to love, some human being on whom to spend her human

solicitude and sympathies. She had leagued herself with Sophy Wilson,

and she had been true to the bond; but it had had in it but little

satisfaction. The other life, she had sometimes thought, would have been

better. But she had never loved the man, and could not have loved him as

a husband should, she thought, be loved by his wife. She had done what

was right in refusing the good things which he had offered her,--and now

she was rewarded! Now had come to her the bliss of which she had

dreamed, that of belonging to a man to whom she felt that she was bound

by all the chords of her heart. Then she repeated his name to

herself,--Abraham Hall, and tried in a lowest whisper the sound of that

other name,--Lucy Hall. And she opened her arms wide as she sat upon the

chair as though in that way she could take his child to her bosom.

She had been sitting so nearly an hour when she started up suddenly and

again put on her old hat and hurried off towards her office. She felt

now that as regarded her clothes she did not care about herself. There

was a paradise prepared for her so dear and so near that the present was

made quite bright by merely being the short path to such a future. But

for his sake she cared. As belonging to him she would fain, had it been

possible, not have shown herself in a garb unfitting for his wife.

Everything about him had always been decent, fitting, and serviceable!

Well! It was his own doing. He had chosen her as she was. She would not

run in debt to make herself fit for his notice, because such debts would

have been debts to be paid by him. But if she could squeeze from her

food what should supply her with garments fit at any rate to stand with

him at the altar it should be done.

Then, as she hurried on to the office, she remembered what he had said

about money. No! She would not have his money till it was hers of right.

Then with what perfect satisfaction would she take from him whatever he

pleased to give her, and how hard would she work for him in order that

he might never feel that he had given her his good things for nothing!

It was five o’clock before she was at the office, and she had promised

to be back in the lodgings at six, to get for him his tea. It was quite

out of the question that she should work to-day. “The truth is, ma’am,”

she said to the female superintendent, “I have received and accepted an

offer of marriage this afternoon. He is going out of town to-night, and

I want to be with him before he goes.” This is a plea against which

official rigour cannot prevail. I remember once when a young man applied

to a saturnine pundit who ruled matters in a certain office for leave of

absence for a month to get married. “To get married!” said the saturnine

pundit. “Poor fellow! But you must have the leave.” The lady at the

telegraph office was no doubt less caustic, and dismissed our Lucy for

the day with congratulations rather than pity.

She was back at the lodging before her lover, and had borrowed the

little back parlour from Mrs. Green, and had spread the tea-things, and

herself made the toast in the kitchen before he came. “There’s something

I suppose more nor friendship betwixt you and Mr. Hall, and better,”

said the landlady smiling. “A great deal better, Mrs. Green,” Lucy had

replied, with her face intent upon the toast. “I thought it never could

have been that other young lady,” said Mrs. Green.

“And now, my dear, about money,” said Abraham as he rose to prepare

himself for the journey. Many things had been settled over that

meal,--how he was to get a house ready, and was then to say when she

should come to him, and how she should bring the boy with her, and how

he would have the banns called in the church, and how they would be

married as soon as possible after her arrival in the new country. “And

now, my dear, about money?”

She had to take it at last. “Yes,” she said, “it is right that I should

have things fit to come to you in. It is right that you shouldn’t be

disgraced.”

“I’d marry you in a sack from the poor-house, if it were necessary,” he

said with vehemence.

“As it is not necessary, it shall not be so. I will get things;--but

they shall belong to you always; and I will not wear them till the day

that I also shall belong to you.”

She went with him that night to the station, and kissed him openly as

she parted from him on the platform. There was nothing in her love now

of which she was ashamed. How, after some necessary interval, she

followed him down into Gloucestershire, and how she became his wife

standing opposite to him in the bright raiment which his liberality had

supplied, and how she became as good a wife as ever blessed a man’s

household, need hardly here be told.

That Miss Wilson recovered her health and married the hairdresser may be

accepted by all anxious readers as an undoubted fact.

ALICE DUGDALE.

CHAPTER I.

THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY.

It used to be said in the village of Beetham that nothing ever went

wrong with Alice Dugdale,--the meaning of which, perhaps, lay in the

fact that she was determined that things should be made to go right.

Things as they came were received by her with a gracious welcome, and

“things,” whatever they were, seemed to be so well pleased with the

treatment afforded to them, that they too for most part made themselves

gracious in return.

Nevertheless she had had sorrows, as who has not? But she had kept her

tears for herself, and had shown her smiles for the comfort, of those

around her. In this little story it shall be told how in a certain

period of her life she had suffered much;--how she still smiled, and how

at last she got the better of her sorrow.

Her father was the country doctor in the populous and straggling parish

of Beetham. Beetham is one of those places so often found in the south

of England, half village, half town, for the existence of which there

seems to be no special reason. It had no mayor, no municipality, no

market, no pavements, and no gas. It was therefore no more than a

village;--but it had a doctor, and Alice’s father, Dr. Dugdale, was the

man. He had been established at Beetham for more than thirty years, and

knew every pulse and every tongue for ten miles round. I do not know

that he was very great as a doctor;--but he was a kind-hearted, liberal

man, and he enjoyed the confidence of the Beethamites, which is

everything. For thirty years he had worked hard and had brought up a

large family without want. He was still working hard, though turned

sixty, at the time of which we are speaking. He had even in his old age

many children dependent on him, and though he had fairly prospered, he

had not become a rich man.

He had been married twice, and Alice was the only child left at home by

his first wife. Two elder sisters were married, and an elder brother was

away in the world. Alice had been much younger than they, and had been

the only child living with him when he had brought to his house a second

mother for her. She was then fifteen. Eight or nine years had since

gone, and almost every year had brought an increase to the doctor’s

family. There were now seven little Dugdales in and about the nursery;

and what the seven would do when Alice should go away the folk of

Beetham always declared that they were quite at a loss even to guess.

For Mrs. Dugdale was one of those women who succumb to

difficulties,--who seem originally to have been made of soft material

and to have become warped, out of joint, tattered, and almost useless

under the wear of the world. But Alice had been constructed of

thoroughly seasoned timber, so that, let her be knocked about as she

might, she was never out of repair. Now the doctor, excellent as he was

at doctoring, was not very good at household matters,--so that the folk

at Beetham had reason to be at a loss when they bethought themselves as

to what would happen when Alice should “go away.”

Of course there is always that prospect of a girl’s “going away.” Girls

not unfrequently intend to go away. Sometimes they “go away” very

suddenly, without any previous intention. At any rate such a girl as

Alice cannot be regarded as a fixture in a house. Binding as may be her

duties at home, it is quite understood that should any adequate

provocation to “go away” be brought within her reach, she will go, let

the duties be what they may. Alice was a thoroughly good girl,--good to

her father, good to her little brothers and sisters, unutterably good to

that poor foolish stepmother;--but, no doubt she would “go away” if duly

asked.

When that vista of future discomfort in the doctor’s house first made

itself clearly apparent to the Beethamites, an idea that Alice might

perhaps go very soon had begun to prevail in the village. The eldest son

of the vicar, Parson Rossiter, had come back from India as Major

Rossiter, with an appointment, as some said, of £2,000 a year;--let us

put it down as £1,500;--and had renewed his acquaintance with his old

playfellow. Others, more than one or two, had endeavoured before this to

entice Alice to “go away,” but it was said that the dark-visaged

warrior, with his swarthy face and black beard, and bright

eyes,--probably, too, something in him nobler than those outward

bearings,--had whispered words which had prevailed. It was supposed that

Alice now had a fitting lover, and that therefore she would “go away.”

There was no doubt in the mind of any single inhabitant of Beetham as to

the quality of the lover. It was considered on all sides that he was

fitting,--so fitting that Alice would of course go when asked. John

Rossiter was such a man that every Beethamite looked upon him as a

hero,--so that Beetham was proud to have produced him. In small

communities a man will come up now and then as to whom it is surmised

that any young lady would of course accept him. This man, who was now

about ten years older than Alice, had everything to recommend him. He

was made up of all good gifts of beauty, conduct, dignity, good

heart,--and fifteen hundred a year at the very least. His official

duties required him to live in London, from which Beetham was seventy

miles distant; but those duties allowed him ample time for visiting the

parsonage. So very fitting he was to take any girl away upon whom he

might fix an eye of approbation, that there were others, higher than

Alice in the world’s standing, who were said to grudge the young lady

of the village so great a prize. For Alice Dugdale was a young lady of

the village and no more; whereas there were county families around, with

daughters, among whom the Rossiters had been in the habit of mixing. Now

that such a Rossiter had come to the fore, the parsonage family was held

to be almost equal to county people.

To whatever extent Alice’s love affairs had gone, she herself had been

very silent about them; nor had her lover as yet taken the final step of

being closeted for ten minutes with her father. Nevertheless everybody

had been convinced in Beetham that it would be so,--unless it might be

Mrs. Rossiter. Mrs. Rossiter was ambitious for her son, and in this

matter sympathised with the county people. The county people certainly

were of opinion that John Rossiter might do better, and did not

altogether see what there was in Alice Dugdale to make such a fuss

about. Of course she had a sweet countenance, rather brown, with good

eyes. She had not, they said, another feature in her face which could be

called handsome. Her nose was broad. Her mouth was large. They did not

like that perpetual dimpling of the cheek which, if natural, looked as

if it were practised. She was stout, almost stumpy, they thought. No

doubt she danced well, having a good ear and being active and healthy;

but with such a waist no girl could really be graceful. They

acknowledged her to be the best nursemaid that ever a mother had in her

family; but they thought it a pity that she should be taken away from

duties for which her presence was so much desired, at any rate by such

a one as John Rossiter. I, who knew Beetham well, and who though turned

the hill of middle life had still an eye for female charms, used to

declare to myself that Alice, though she was decidedly village and not

county, was far, far away the prettiest girl in that part of the world.

The old parson loved her, and so did Miss Rossiter,--Miss Janet

Rossiter,--who was four or five years older than her brother, and

therefore quite an old maid. But John was so great a man that neither of

them dared to say much to encourage him,--as neither did Mrs. Rossiter

to use her eloquence on the other side. It was felt by all of them that

any persuasion might have on John anything but the intended effect. When

a man at the age of thirty-three is Deputy Assistant Inspector General

of Cavalry, it is not easy to talk him this way or that in a matter of

love. And John Rossiter, though the best fellow in the world, was apt to

be taciturn on such a subject. Men frequently marry almost without

thinking about it at all. “Well; perhaps I might as well. At any rate I

cannot very well help it.” That too often is the frame of mind.

Rossiter’s discussion to himself was of a higher nature than that, but

perhaps not quite what it should have been. “This is a thing of such

moment that it requires to be pondered again and again. A man has to

think of himself, and of her, and of the children which have to come

after him;--of the total good or total bad which may come of such a

decision.” As in the one manner there is too much of negligence, so in

the other there may be too much of care. The “perhaps I might as

wells,”--so good is Providence,--are sometimes more successful than

those careful, long-pondering heroes. The old parson was very sweet to

Alice, believing that she would be his daughter-in-law, and so was Miss

Rossiter, thoroughly approving of such a sister. But Mrs. Rossiter was a

little cold;--all of which Alice could read plainly and digest, without

saying a word. If it was to be, she would welcome her happy lot with

heartfelt acknowledgment of the happiness provided for her; but if it

was not to be, no human being should know that she had sorrowed. There

should be nothing lack-a-daisical in her life or conduct. She had her

work to do, and she knew that as long as she did that, grief would not

overpower her.

In her own house it was taken for granted that she was to “go,” in a

manner that distressed her. “You’ll never be here to lengthen ’em,” said

her stepmother to her, almost whining, when there was a question as to

flounces in certain juvenile petticoats which might require to be longer

than they were first made before they should be finally abandoned.

“That I certainly shall if Tiny grows as she does now.”

“I suppose he’ll pop regularly when he next comes down,” said Mrs.

Dugdale.

There was ever so much in this which annoyed Alice. In the first place,

the word “pop” was to her abominable. Then she was almost called upon to

deny that he would “pop,” when in her heart she thought it very

probable that he might. And the word, she knew, had become intelligible

to the eldest of her little sisters who was present. Moreover, she was

most unwilling to discuss the subject at all, and could hardly leave it

undiscussed when such direct questions were asked. “Mamma,” she said,

“don’t let us think about anything of the kind.” This did not at all

satisfy herself. She ought to have repudiated the lover altogether; and

yet she could not bring herself to tell the necessary lie.

“I suppose he will come--some day,” said Minnie, the child old enough to

understand the meaning of such coming.

“For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever,--for ever,”

said or sang Alice, with a pretence of drollery, as she turned herself

to her little sister. But even in her little song there was a purpose.

Let any man come or let any man go, she would go on, at any rate

apparently untroubled, in her walk of life.

“Of course he’ll take you away, and then what am I to do?” said Mrs.

Dugdale moaning. It is sad enough for a girl thus to have her lover

thrown in her face when she is by no means sure of her lover.

A day or two afterwards another word, much more painful, was said to her

up at the parsonage. Into the parsonage she went frequently to show that

there was nothing in her heart to prevent her visiting her old friends

as had been her wont.

“John will be down here next week,” said the parson, whom she met on

the gravel drive just at the hall door.

“How often he comes! What do they do at the Horse Guards, or wherever it

is that he goes to?”

“He’ll be more steady when he has taken a wife,” said the old man.

“In the meantime what becomes of the cavalry?”

“I dare say you’ll know all about that before long,” said the parson

laughing.

“Now, my dear, how can you be so foolish as to fill the girl’s head with

nonsense of that kind?” said Mrs. Rossiter, who at that moment came out

from the front door. “And you’re doing John an injustice. You are making

people believe that he has said that which he has not said.”

Alice at the moment was very angry,--as angry as she well could be. It

was certain that Mrs. Rossiter did not know what her son had said or had

not said. But it was cruel that she who had put forward no claim, who

had never been forward in seeking her lover, should be thus almost

publicly rebuked. Quiet as she wished to be, it was necessary that she

should say one word in her own defence. “I don’t think Mr. Rossiter’s

little joke will do John any injustice or me any harm,” she said. “But,

as it may be taken seriously, I hope he will not repeat it.”

“He could not do better for himself. That’s my opinion,” said the old

man, turning back into the house. There had been words before on the

subject between him and his wife, and he was not well pleased with her

at this moment.

“My dear Alice, I am sure you know that I mean everything the best for

you,” said Mrs. Rossiter.

“If nobody would mean anything, but just let me alone, that would be

best. And as for nonsense, Mrs. Rossiter, don’t you know of me that I’m

not likely to be carried away by foolish ideas of that kind?”

“I do know that you are very good.”

“Then why should you talk at me as though I were very bad?” Mrs.

Rossiter felt that she had been reprimanded, and was less inclined than

ever to accept Alice as a daughter-in-law.

Alice, as she walked home, was low in spirits, and angry with herself

because it was so. People would be fools. Of course that was to be

expected. She had known all along that Mrs. Rossiter wanted a grander

wife for her son, whereas the parson was anxious to have her for his

daughter-in-law. Of course she loved the parson better than his wife.

But why was it that she felt at this moment that Mrs. Rossiter would

prevail?

“Of course it will be so,” she said to herself. “I see it now. And I

suppose he is right. But then certainly he ought not to have come here.

But perhaps he comes because he wishes to--see Miss Wanless.” She went a

little out of her road home, not only to dry a tear, but to rid herself

of the effect of it, and then spent the remainder of the afternoon

swinging her brothers and sisters in the garden.

CHAPTER II.

MAJOR ROSSITER.

“Perhaps he is coming here to see Miss Wanless,” Alice had said to

herself. And in the course of that week she found that her surmise was

correct. John Rossiter stayed only one night at the parsonage, and then

went over to Brook Park where lived Sir Walter Wanless and all the

Wanlesses. The parson had not so declared when he told Alice that his

son was coming, but John himself said on his arrival that this was a

special visit made to Brook Park, and not to Beetham. It had been

promised for the last three months, though only fixed lately. He took

the trouble to come across to the doctor’s house with the express

purpose of explaining the fact. “I suppose you have always been intimate

with them,” said Mrs. Dugdale, who was sitting with Alice and a little

crowd of the children round them. There was a tone of sarcasm in the

words not at all hidden. “We all know that you are a great deal finer

than we mere village folk. We don’t know the Wanlesses, but of course

you do. You’ll find yourself much more at home at Brook Park than you

can in such a place as this.” All that, though not spoken, was contained

in the tone of the lady’s speech.

“We have always been neighbours,” said John Rossiter.

“Neighbours ten miles off!” said Mrs Dugdale.

“I dare say the Good Samaritan lived thirty miles off,” said Alice.

“I don’t think distance has much to do with it,” said the Major.

“I like my neighbours to be neighbourly. I like Beetham neighbours,”

said Mrs. Dugdale. There was a reproach in every word of it. Mrs.

Dugdale had heard of Miss Georgiana Wanless, and Major Rossiter knew

that she had done so. After her fashion the lady was accusing him for

deserting Alice.

Alice understood it also, and yet it behoved her to hold herself well up

and be cheerful. “I like Beetham people best myself,” she said, “but

then it is because I don’t know any other. I remember going to Brook

Park once, when there was a party of children, a hundred years ago, and

I thought it quite a paradise. There was a profusion of strawberries by

which my imagination has been troubled ever since. You’ll just be in

time for the strawberries, Major Rossiter.” He had always been John till

quite lately,--John with the memories of childhood; but now he had

become Major Rossiter.

She went out into the garden with him for a moment as he took his

leave,--not quite alone, as a little boy of two years old was clinging

to her hand. “If I had my way,” she said, “I’d have my neighbours

everywhere,--at any distance. I envy a man chiefly for that.”

“Those one loves best should be very near, I think.”

“Those one loves best of all? Oh yes, so that one may do something. It

wouldn’t do not to have you every day, would it, Bobby?” Then she

allowed the willing little urchin to struggle up into her arms and to

kiss her, all smeared as was his face with bread-and-butter.

“Your mother meant to say that I was running away from my old friends.”

“Of course she did. You see, you loom so very large to us here. You

are--such a swell, as Dick says, that we are a little sore when you pass

us by. Everybody likes to be bowed to by royalty. Don’t you know that?

Brook Park is, of course, the proper place for you; but you don’t expect

but what we are going to express our little disgusts and little prides

when we find ourselves left behind!” No words could have less declared

her own feelings on the matter than those she was uttering; but she

found herself compelled to laugh at him, lest, in the other direction,

something of tenderness might escape her, whereby he might be injured

worse than by her raillery. In nothing that she might say could there be

less of real reproach to him than in this.

“I hate that word ‘swell,’” he said.

“So do I.”

“Then why do you use it?”

“To show you how much better Brook Park is than Beetham. I am sure they

don’t talk about swells at Brook Park.”

“Why do you throw Brook Park in my teeth?”

“I feel an inclination to make myself disagreeable to-day. Are you never

like that?”

“I hope not.”

“And then I am bound to follow up what poor dear mamma began. But I

won’t throw Brook Park in your teeth. The ladies I know are very nice.

Sir Walter Wanless is a little grand;--isn’t he?”

“You know,” said he, “that I should be much happier here than there.”

“Because Sir Walter is so grand?”

“Because my friends here are dearer friends. But still it is right that

I should go. One cannot always be where one would be happiest.”

“I am happiest with Bobby,” said she; “and I can always have Bobby.”

Then she gave him her hand at the gate, and he went down to the

parsonage.

That night Mrs. Rossiter was closeted for awhile with her son before

they both went to bed. She was supposed, in Beetham, to be of a higher

order of intellect,--of a higher stamp generally,--than her husband or

daughter, and to be in that respect nearly on a par with her son. She

had not travelled as he had done, but she was of an ambitious mind and

had thoughts beyond Beetham. The poor dear parson cared for little

outside the bounds of his parish. “I am so glad you are going to stay

for awhile over at Brook Park,” she said.

“Only for three days.”

“In the intimacy of a house three days is a lifetime. Of course I do not

like to interfere.” When this was said the Major frowned, knowing well

that his mother was going to interfere. “But I cannot help thinking how

much a connection with the Wanlesses would do for you.”

“I don’t want anything from any connection.”

“That is all very well, John, for a man to say; but in truth we all

depend on connections one with another. You are beginning the world.”

“I don’t know about that, mother.”

“To my eyes you are. Of course, you look upwards.”

“I take all that as it comes.”

“No doubt; but still you must have it in your mind to rise. A man is

assisted very much by the kind of wife he marries. Much would be done

for a son-in-law of Sir Walter Wanless.”

“Nothing, I hope, ever for me on that score. To succeed by favour is

odious.”

“But even to rise by merit, so much outside assistance is often

necessary! Though you will assuredly deserve all that you will ever get,

yet you may be more likely to get it as a son-in-law to Sir Walter

Wanless than if you were married to some obscure girl. Men who make the

most of themselves in the world do think of these things. I am the last

woman in the world to recommend my boy to look after money in marriage.”

“The Miss Wanlesses will have none.”

“And therefore I can speak the more freely. They will have very

little,--as coming from such a family. But he has great influence. He

has contested the county five times. And then--where is there a

handsomer girl than Georgiana Wanless?” The Major thought that he knew

one, but did not answer the question. “And she is all that such a girl

ought to be. Her manners are perfect,--and her conduct. A constant

performance of domestic duties is of course admirable. If it comes to

one to have to wash linen, she who washes her linen well is a good

woman. But among mean things high spirits are not to be found.”

“I am not so sure of that.”

“It must be so. How can the employment of every hour in the day on

menial work leave time for the mind to fill itself? Making children’s

frocks may be a duty, but it must also be an impediment.”

“You are speaking of Alice.”

“Of course I am speaking of Alice.”

“I would wager my head that she has read twice more in the last two

years than Georgiana Wanless. But, mother, I am not disposed to discuss

either the one young lady or the other. I am not going to Brook Park to

look for a wife; and if ever I take one, it will be simply because I

like her best, and not because I wish to use her as a rung of a ladder

by which to climb upwards into the world.” That all this and just this

would be said to her Mrs. Rossiter had been aware; but still she had

thought that a word in season might have its effect.

And it did have its effect. John Rossiter, as he was driven over to

Brook Park on the following morning, was unconsciously mindful of that

allusion to the washerwoman. He had seen that Alice’s cheek had been

smirched by the greasy crumbs from her little brother’s mouth, he had

seen that the tips of her fingers showed the mark of the needle; he had

seen fragments of thread about her dress, and the mud even from the

children’s boots on her skirts. He had seen this, and had been aware

that Georgiana Wanless was free from all such soil on her outward

raiment. He liked the perfect grace of unspotted feminine apparel, and

he had, too, thought of the hours in which Alice might probably be

employed amidst the multifarious needs of a nursery, and had argued to

himself much as his mother had argued. It was good and homely,--worthy

of a thousand praises; but was it exactly that which he wanted in a

wife? He had repudiated with scorn his mother’s cold, worldly doctrine;

but yet he had felt that it would be a pleasant thing to have it known

in London that his wife was the daughter of Sir Walter Wanless. It was

true that she was wonderfully handsome,--a complexion perfectly clear, a

nose cut as out of marble, a mouth delicate as of a goddess, with a

waist quite to match it. Her shoulders were white as alabaster. Her

dress was at all times perfect. Her fingers were without mark or stain.

There might perhaps be a want of expression; but faces so symmetrical

are seldom expressive. And then, to crown all this, he was justified in

believing that she was attached to himself. Almost as much had been said

to him by Lady Wanless herself,--a word which would amount to as much,

coupled as it was with an immediate invitation to Brook Park. Of this

he had given no hint to any human being; but he had been at Brook Park

once before, and some rumour of something between him and Miss Georgiana

Wanless had reached the people at Beetham,--had reached, as we have

seen, not only Mrs. Rossiter, but also Alice Dugdale.

There had been moments up in London when his mind had veered round

towards Miss Wanless. But there was one little trifle which opposed the

action of his mind, and that was his heart. He had begun to think that

it might be his duty to marry Georgiana;--but the more he thought so the

more clearly would the figure of Alice stand before him, so that no veil

could be thrown over it. When he tried to summon to his imagination the

statuesque beauty of the one girl, the bright eyes of the other would

look at him, and the words from her speaking mouth would be in his ears.

He had once kissed Alice, immediately on his return, in the presence of

her father, and the memory of the halcyon moment was always present to

him. When he thought most of Miss Wanless he did not think much of her

kisses. How grand she would be at his dining-table, how glorious in his

drawing-room! But with Alice how sweet would it be to sit by some brook

side and listen to the waters!

And now since he had been at Beetham, from the nature of things which

sometimes make events to come from exactly contrary causes, a new charm

had been added to Alice, simply by the little effort she had made to

annoy him. She had talked to him of “swells,” and had pretended to be

jealous of the Wanlesses, just because she had known that he would hate

to hear such a word from her lips, and that he would be vexed by

exhibition of such a feeling on her part! He was quite sure that she had

not committed these sins because they belonged to her as a matter of

course. Nothing could be more simple than her natural language or her

natural feelings. But she had chosen to show him that she was ready to

run into little faults which might offend him. The reverse of her ideas

came upon him. She had said, as it were,--“See how little anxious I must

be to dress myself in your mirror when I put myself in the same category

with my poor stepmother.” Then he said to himself that he could see her

as he was fain to see her, in her own mirror, and he loved her the

better because she had dared to run the risk of offending him.

As he was driven up to the house at Brook Park he knew that it was his

destiny to marry either the one girl or the other; and he was afraid of

himself,--that before he left the house he might be engaged to the one

he did not love. There was a moment in which he thought he would turn

round and go back. “Major Rossiter,” Lady Wanless had said, “you know

how glad we are to see you here. There is no young man of the day of

whom Sir Walter thinks so much.” Then he had thanked her. “But--may I

say a word in warning?”

“Certainly.”

“And I may trust to your honour?”

“I think so, Lady Wanless.”

“Do not be much with that sweet darling of mine,--unless indeed--” And

then she had stopped. Major Rossiter, though he was a major and had

served some years in India, blushed up to his eyebrows and was unable to

answer a word. But he knew that Georgiana Wanless had been offered to

him, and was entitled to believe that the young lady was prone to fall

in love with him. Lady Wanless, had she been asked for an excuse for

such conduct, would have said that the young men of the present day were

slow in managing their own affairs, unless a little help were given to

them.

When the Major was almost immediately invited to return to Brook Park,

he could not but feel that, if he were so to make his choice, he would

be received there as a son-in-law. It may be that unless he intended so

to be received, he should not have gone. This he felt as he was driven

across the park, and was almost minded to return to Beetham.

CHAPTER III.

LADY WANLESS.

Sir Walter Wanless was one of those great men who never do anything

great, but achieve their greatness partly by their tailors, partly by a

breadth of eyebrow and carriage of the body,--what we may call

deportment,--and partly by the outside gifts of fortune. Taking his

career altogether we must say that he had been unfortunate. He was a

baronet with a fine house and park,--and with an income hardly

sufficient for the place. He had contested the county four times on old

Whig principles, and had once been in Parliament for two years. There he

had never opened his mouth; but in his struggle to get there had greatly

embarrassed his finances. His tailor had been well chosen, and had

always turned him out as the best dressed old baronet in England. His

eyebrow was all his own, and certainly commanded respect from those with

whom eyebrows are efficacious. He never read; he eschewed farming, by

which he had lost money in early life; and had, so to say, no visible

occupation at all. But he was Sir Walter Wanless, and what with his

tailor and what with his eyebrow he did command a great deal of respect

in the country round Beetham. He had, too, certain good gifts for which

people were thankful as coming from so great a man. He paid his bills,

he went to church, he was well behaved, and still maintained certain

old-fashioned family charities, though money was not plentiful with him.

He had two sons and five daughters. The sons were in the army, and were

beyond his control. The daughters were all at home, and were altogether

under the control of their mother. Indeed everything at Brook Park was

under the control of Lady Wanless,--though no man alive gave himself

airs more autocratic than Sir Walter. It was on her shoulders that fell

the burden of the five daughters, and of maintaining with straitened

means the hospitality of Brook Park on their behoof. A hard-worked

woman was Lady Wanless, in doing her duty,--with imperfect lights no

doubt, but to the best of her abilities with such lights as she

possessed. She was somewhat fine in her dress, not for any comfort that

might accrue to herself, but from a feeling that an alliance with the

Wanlesses would not be valued by the proper sort of young men unless she

were grand herself. The girls were beautifully dressed; but oh, with

such care and economy and daily labour among them, herself, and the two

lady’s-maids upstairs! The father, what with his election and his

farming, and a period of costly living early in his life, had not done

well for the family. That she knew, and never rebuked him. But it was

for her to set matters right, which she could only do by getting

husbands for the daughters. That this might be achieved the Wanless

prestige must be maintained; and with crippled means it is so hard to

maintain a family prestige! A poor duke may do it, or perhaps an earl;

but a baronet is not high enough to give bad wines to his guests without

serious detriment to his unmarried daughters.

A beginning to what might be hoped to be a long line of successes had

already been made. The eldest girl, Sophia, was engaged. Lady Wanless

did not look very high, knowing that failure in such operations will

bring with it such unutterable misfortune. Sophia was engaged to the

eldest son of a neighbouring Squire,--whose property indeed was not

large, nor was the squire likely to die very soon; but there were the

means of present living and a future rental of £4,000 a year. Young Mr.

Cobble was now staying at the house, and had been duly accepted by Sir

Walter himself. The youngest girl, who was only nineteen, had fallen in

love with a young clergyman in the neighbourhood. That would not do at

all, and the young clergyman was not allowed within the Park. Georgiana

was the beauty; and for her, if for any, some great destiny might have

been hoped. But it was her turn, a matter of which Lady Wanless thought

a great deal, and the Major was too good to be allowed to escape.

Georgiana, in her cold, impassive way, seemed to like the Major, and

therefore Lady Wanless paired them off instantly with that decision

which was necessary amidst the labours of her life. She had no scruples

in what she did, feeling sure that her daughters would make honest, good

wives, and that the blood of the Wanlesses was a dowry in itself.

The Major had been told to come early, because a party was made to visit

certain ruins about eight miles off,--Castle Owless, as it was

called,--to which Lady Wanless was accustomed to take her guests,

because the family history declared that the Wanlesses had lived there

at some very remote period. It still belonged to Sir Walter, though

unfortunately the intervening lands had for the most part fallen into

other hands. Owless and Wanless were supposed to be the same, and thus

there was room for a good deal of family tattle.

“I am delighted to see you at Brook Park,” said Sir Walter as they met

at the luncheon table. “When I was at Christchurch your father was at

Wadham, and I remember him well.” Exactly the same words had been spoken

when the Major, on a former occasion, had been made welcome at the

house, and clearly implied a feeling that Christchurch, though much

superior, may condescend to know Wadham--under certain circumstances. Of

the Baronet nothing further was heard or seen till dinner.

Lady Wanless went in the open carriage with three daughters, Sophie

being one of them. As her affair was settled it was not necessary that

one of the two side-saddles should be allotted to her use. Young Cobble,

who had been asked to send two horses over from Cobble Hall so that

Rossiter might ride one, felt this very hard. But there was no appeal

from Lady Wanless. “You’ll have plenty enough of her all the evening,”

said the mother, patting him affectionately, “and it is so necessary

just at present that Georgiana and Edith should have horse exercise.” In

this way it was arranged that Georgiana should ride with the Major, and

Edith, the third daughter, with young Burmeston, the son of Cox and

Burmeston, brewers at the neighbouring town of Slowbridge. A country

brewer is not quite what Lady Wanless would have liked; but with

difficulties such as hers a rich young brewer might be worth having. All

this was hard upon Mr. Cobble, who would not have sent his horses over

had he known it.