But these workings of the feminine mind could not possibly be known

to Hugo, who was only aware that he had received an indulgent smile

and a pleasant glance from Helena’s dark eyes, as she protested a

little against the three waltzes, but yielded in the end. He repaired

to the drawing-room, and, with characteristic fitfulness, spent the

whole afternoon in playing waltzes, good, bad, and indifferent, of

every kind and from every source he could think of. Waltz after waltz

flowed from his rapid fingers. Gung’l and Strauss, Beethoven, Mozart,

Schubert--ancient and modern composers, good and bad ones, were laid

under contribution, till his whole being seemed a waltz, and he was

in a state of highly strung nervous excitement and anticipation, with

which mingled the memories of past waltzes with partners of a bygone

day. Hugo felt his whole soul penetrated with music, melody, and

happiness as he sat in the shady corner of the drawing-room and saw the

sun stream warmly in at the side window. He felt life that afternoon

very full and rich and delicious, and crowded with sweet and grand

possibilities. He felt at harmony with all the world, and was sure it

was a good place to live in.

He had just finished the solemn, passionate strains of a waltz of

Beethoven’s, and still his fingers lingered on the keys, and still his

ears drank in the glorious notes, when the door opened and Mrs. Mallory

came into the room.

Hugo stopped playing. She did not openly request him to do so, but he

knew she disliked to hear him, and to his fastidious taste the very

presence of an unsympathetic spirit was jarring. Spontaneity ceased;

pleasure was gone.

He rose from the instrument, went to the sunny window, and hummed over

the air he had been playing.

‘At what time do we go to-night, Mrs. Mallory?’ he presently inquired.

‘Go where?’

‘To the ball.’

‘At eight o’clock, I believe,’ she said, with stony coldness. Mrs.

Mallory’s anger was coming to a climax now; it would be strange if Hugo

did not say something which should cause the storm to break over his

head. Unconsciously, unwittingly, he led straight up to the point.

‘I should like to dance every night,’ he said, rather enthusiastically,

for his music still haunted him, and even Mrs. Mallory’s chill

influence could not quite bring him down from his heights of

abstraction to the commonplaces of every day--yet.

‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘I have noticed that the more frivolous a

thing is, the more you delight in it.’

‘Dancing is not necessarily frivolous,’ Hugo assured her with the

greatest solemnity. ‘It is, or should be, an art; not a mere kicking

about of the legs.’

‘Indeed!’

‘When I grow up,’ continued Hugo, ‘that is to say, when I am _majorat_,

come of age, I mean, and come into my property, I shall devote a great

part of my time to dancing, I love it so.’

This was too much, far too much. It was high time that this vain,

bombastical, self-conceited pauper was put down.

‘When you come into your property,’ she remarked with polite sarcasm,

‘then you can squander it just as you please. But I would advise you

first to make certain that you have any property to come into.’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose I shall be rich. Sebastian knows all about it. He

says he will explain all in good time.’

‘Sebastian is as foolish a young man, in some respects, as I know; and

as for you, Mr. von Birkenau, I am at a loss to understand how any one

professing to be a gentleman can behave as you do.’

‘As how?’ demanded Hugo, his brow suddenly clouding as he perceived

that her words bore reference to something unknown to him.

‘Did Sebastian ever tell you, in so many words, that you had any

property, any money, estate, possessions of any kind?’

‘N--no.’

‘I thought so. He is very trying, but I have always found him sincere,

so far. I should have thought that very fact would have led you to

think a little about your own position. That you can quietly accept

another man’s bounty, and never ask the reason of it, never inquire

into your own affairs, or ask whether you are living in a manner

suitable to your future prospects--it is incredible! No one with any

sense of honour could conduct himself in such a manner.’

‘I do not know what you mean--Sebastian knows,’ said Hugo, a dread

suspicion beginning to creep into his heart. ‘He is my guardian, and I

live as _he_ pleases, of course. You know I do.’

‘Your guardian! That is about all he has to guard, I think.’

‘He is my guardian, and the guardian of my property, however small

it may be. I dare say, to you, I may seem almost a beggar, but

Sebastian----’

‘You make me pity you! I do not think it right that you should live

under such a delusion any longer. Let me tell you that you have no

property except what my son gives you. You live on his bounty. But for

him you would be a beggar.’

‘You are not speaking the truth!’ said Hugo, suddenly standing before

her and bending his flashing eyes upon her. ‘You know you are not

speaking the truth.’

‘Where is it now, the glory and the dream?’

‘Am I not? You had better ask Sebastian. It was he who told me. I

thought you considered him perfect in all respects--not being his

mother.’

‘Sebastian told you that I lived on him--that he----’

‘That your mother committed you to his charge, and he took it into his

head to adopt you. That, except what he gives you, you have _nothing_.

He told me that, and I think it best that you should know it, for I

consider your behaviour and conversation very unfit for your position.

That is all that I have to say, or want to hear, upon the subject.’

Mrs. Mallory’s moral equilibrium was almost restored; she felt

distinctly more cheerful and better satisfied with everything. For Hugo

there remained only a hideous chaos, a general _bouleversement_ of his

fixed, contented conceptions of life and his sphere in it.

He walked out of the room, and stood in the hall a moment. What should

he do--whither go? This was no place for him. He had no right here. He

was the object of a rich man’s pitying charity--a beggar. Mrs. Mallory

had said it, and said it after a fashion which left no doubt possible.

Instead of playing a grand piano in a luxurious drawing-room, instead

of going to balls and dancing with beautiful young women of large

fortune, and driving about, and riding fine horses--all belonging to

another man--instead of this, he ought to be--what? Well, if Sebastian

had left him at the institution where he was being brought up, the

authorities would at least have found him a trade and apprenticed him

to it: he might have been at this moment a shopman or an usher, or a

clerk, or somebody’s secretary and amanuensis. At least, he would not

have been anybody’s dependent, loaded with so many obligations that

their weight crushed and overpowered him.

By this time he had almost unconsciously ascended the stairs, and

found himself in his own room. What must he do? It was impossible to

let such a state of things continue any longer. What remained? To go,

of course! The idea flashed like an inspiration upon him. He would

fly--now, at once, Sebastian was out; Mrs. Mallory would certainly

not try to prevent his departure. What should he take? what leave?

He made an excited rush to his wardrobe, his drawers, and began to

turn them out. Then another idea struck him. That would not do. They

were all Sebastian’s things. Not one of them but had been bought with

Sebastian’s money. He could not take any of them. It would be stealing.

He looked down with a shudder at the very clothes he wore. No--he must

take nothing; but he must go--he must get away from here, and go and

earn some money, and pay Sebastian back.

But he never could do that. How could he repay the kindness, the

advice, the friendship--the care that had watched over him, the

generosity which had condoned a thousand impertinences and wayward

wearisome fancies? No money, no service, could ever repay these

things. But at least he must get away--must remove himself. That very

generosity which he had so often proved might, for anything he knew,

have wearied of him long ago, though it would never say so.

He rose with the vague intention of getting out of the house with as

few impediments as possible, and, once out of it, never to re-enter it.

And then memory and conscience again asserted themselves. What was it

that he had promised Sebastian only last night? Not to do anything of

any importance without first telling him of his intention. He could not

even go, for he would not begin his new career by breaking his word to

the man to whom he owed everything. He must wait.

‘Oh, Sebastian!’ groaned the poor boy, flinging himself face downwards

upon a couch at the foot of his bed, ‘it was cruel, cruel of you! You

should not have treated me thus!’

Men of Hugo’s temperament weep sometimes with almost womanly facility,

and Hugo, in his new-born anguish and despair, wept now; and when

the weeping was over, he did not rise, but remained with his face

buried in the cushions, repeating to himself every item of Sebastian’s

generosity, and his own blind, besotted self-confidence and ignorant

assumption (such it appeared to him). A thousand things rose up in his

memory, and he asked himself how he could have failed to comprehend

their meaning, to have some suspicion of his real position. He

resolved, with more and more impassioned eagerness, to _go_; to wait

till he had redeemed his promise, and then to say farewell, and bid

Sebastian forget him. How his heart ached at the thought! But no

alternative was open to him. He was a gentleman. No gentleman could

knowingly continue to live as he had been doing.

The time went on; whether long or short he could not tell. He did not

keep count of the minutes or hours. His whole consciousness seemed to

resolve itself into a desire to be gone, which had grown overpowering

and intense, when a quick tap at the door was heard, then it was

opened, and Sebastian’s voice said,

‘I say, Hugo, do you mean to go to this entertainment or not? Because

if--why, what _is_ the matter with you?’

‘I never knew, Sebastian! Upon my soul and honour I never knew

till Mrs. Mallory told me to-day!’ exclaimed Hugo, starting up and

confronting his horrified friend, with pale face, scintillating eyes,

which bore traces of recent weeping, hair wildly tossed up and down his

head, and generally demoralised aspect.

‘Didn’t know _what_, my dear fellow? What is all this excitement about?’

‘Mrs. Mallory told me, just a little while ago, the _truth_ about

myself,’ said Hugo, speaking rapidly and vehemently in German, as he

nearly always did when agitated, and he began to stride excitedly about

the room. ‘It was not right ... no, no! it was very cruel! you should

not have done it. I have no right to reproach you, but you should

not have laid such a burden upon me--a burden which is greater than

I can bear ... _aber, Gott im Himmel_! what do I mean by reproaching

you, when I owe you the very bread I eat, the very clothes I wear!

Sebastian! Sebastian! It was not _right_!’ he reiterated passionately,

coming to a stop, and standing before the other, upon whose mind the

truth began to dawn.

His mother had played the traitor--had betrayed the trust which he

had been weak enough to repose in her before he had understood her

so well as he did now, and the result must be, in any case, a very

painful explanation, and perhaps failure to convince Hugo; perhaps

the alienation of a love which he prized more highly at this present

moment than he ever had done before. For the moment, the first moment,

his heart sank very low: he suddenly seemed to see everything that he

most prized deserting him. Adrienne was lost to him, and his heart

was yet smarting under that conviction. Yesterday he had seen Myles

Heywood depart, expressing his gratitude, but, as he felt, unconquered,

untouched at heart. Now, here was Hugo bitterly reproaching him for

not having done what was right towards him. One stroke coming upon the

other almost unmanned him momentarily, for the men with warm hearts and

cool heads are necessarily more susceptible both to failure and success

than the men with cool heads and cold hearts to boot.

Then he suddenly gathered himself together. Hugo was not gone; he was

only drifting away from him. He would make a very strong struggle to

still hold him fast to him; if he succeeded, he might take it as a good

omen for the future--if not, the future must look after itself. He came

into the room and closed the door.

‘You startle me, Hugo. This is something I did not expect. Suppose you

tell me all about it, and we can discuss it. Shall we?’

‘There is nothing to be discussed. If it had not been for my promise to

you yesterday, I should not be here now. As it is, I waited; but only

to say that I am going at once--to clear myself--to tell you that I

never knew....’

‘Why, Hugo, how _could_ you know? If you had known, you would not

have been what you are to me, the frank, open-hearted comrade, whose

friendship and companionship have made me so happy.’

‘If I had known,’ said Hugo, ‘I should not have behaved myself like

a mountebank, such as I must have seemed to you many a time, with my

impertinences and fancies. Mrs. Mallory is quite right--for me to be

thinking of balls and amusements and enjoyments is folly--madness. What

an ape! what a confounded, conceited, self-important _ape_ I must have

seemed all these years! Acting as if I had great prospects before me,

while all the time I am a beggar. It is hideous!’

He was getting excited again. His eyes began to flash and his foot

to beat the floor restlessly. Sebastian noticed that he had not once

looked at him during all this scene, but away from him: anywhere rather

than meet his eyes.

‘Let me go,’ he added, in a choked voice. ‘Let me go, and forget me.

That is all you and I can do, and it must be done at once.’

‘You will never leave me, any more than I can, or shall try to forget

you.’

‘Why? Because I am under such obligations to you, that you can force me

to obey you from very shame?’ asked Hugo, bitterly.

‘Not at all, Hugo, but because you love me, and I love you (if it were

not so, after all these years, it would be strange), and you could

never find it in your heart to wound me as such a proceeding would

wound me.’

At last Hugo’s eyes turned to him; at last he stood still and looked

at him, and Sebastian returned the look from his inmost heart. This

soul-to-soul, searching gaze was a prolonged one, and Hugo at last,

turning away, sat down on the sofa again, put his hand before his face,

and said in a broken voice,

‘You could always do what you liked with me, and you can now. What do

you want?’

‘I only want you to listen to me and _believe_ me,’ said Sebastian. ‘If

you will only believe me, all will be well.’

A movement of the head showed that Hugo was listening.

‘You have called me cruel--you have said that what I have done was not

right. I cannot hear such accusations unmoved. Why have I been cruel?’

‘In putting me into a false position--making me believe myself to be

what I am not.’

‘Somewhat insincere it may have been, but I do not see how I could well

have acted otherwise. When your mother died you were equally badly off,

so far as worldly circumstances go, as you are now. _You_ did not know

it. It was her weakness that she could not bear you, whom she adored,

to know it. She had a horror of your learning that the institution at

which you were being educated was a ch--I mean----’

‘A charity-school--yes.’

‘That’s right, old fellow! Put it as spitefully as you can. If you

like, it _was_ a charity-school--and a poor coarse inadequate place

too, not the place for you. When I think of _you_ there, it is

horrible; I simply took the place of the authorities of that school

towards you. They had nothing to bind them to you; no single tie

existed. _I_ had everything. I had been your mother’s intimate friend;

she gave me, in her goodness, that which no service of mine could

repay. I reverenced her in her lifetime, and I reverence her memory

now. She knew what I wished; I discussed it with her fully and freely,

and she gave her unqualified consent. She trusted you to me--gave you

to me. Have you any right to impute wrong motives to her memory? You

remember her perfectly well. You know what she was. You must know that

she never acted but as she thought, from right and pure motives.’

‘I know; that alters it. But all the same it is very hard.’

‘I feel it so,’ said Sebastian. ‘Year by year I have been more glad

that I had you as my firm and faithful friend, who would never desert

me, whatever any one else did. I firmly believed that it was so, and

you--you have so little regard for me, that you would leave me--quit

me here at an hour’s notice, and why? Because you cannot, or will not,

rise above a few miserable, material interests; because you let a

few paltry, sordid coins (that is what it comes to) raise themselves

between you and me, and make them into a wall which neither of us

can pass. Yet you told me the other night that you _could_ not be

fickle--to me. Which am I to believe--your words or your actions?’

‘You may believe both now, when I tell you that I will do what you

please. Shall I stay? I will do whatever you like--just whatever you

like,’ said Hugo, in a dull, toneless kind of voice.

‘You call that doing what I please--remaining though you hate it. I

thought--last night I was sure that it would have caused you pain to

leave me.’

‘It will--would, I mean, cause me agony; but what am I to think, when

you have told Mrs. Mallory, who hates me, my whole story, and kept it

from me, whom you say you love?’

‘There I was wrong, Hugo--utterly wrong, I own it Had I known--but I

must not say that. If I had it to do now, I should keep silence. But if

you will not allow me _one_ mistake, take your own way. Leave me alone.

My mother opposes my wishes bitterly. The girl I love won’t have a word

to say to me. I have no one left but Hugo von Birkenau--and he begs to

decline my acquaintance. So be it!’

He turned to leave the room. His hand was on the door-handle, when Hugo

overtook him.

‘Stop!’ said he, almost in a whisper. ‘You know me better than I know

myself. I cannot leave you thus. If I thought I was of any good to

you----’

‘I suppose I should go through all this, to keep a thing I didn’t care

for. That is so like me!’ observed Sebastian.

‘Yes,’ said Hugo, with a half-laugh, half-choke, or sob; ‘I never

thought of that.’

‘Of course not. You wish to repay me, as you call it, Hugo. The only

way in which you can do it is to let me watch your future, as I have

always hoped to do, till you are famous, and I am known as your

greatest friend, eh?’

Hugo smiled faintly.

‘Your mother despises me,’ he began.

Sebastian shrugged his shoulders.

‘My dear boy, you must have seen that my mother is by no means

graciously disposed towards any one or anything that I may have the

misfortune to be fond of. As I like you better almost than any one,

she naturally dislikes you proportionately. It is not a pleasant thing

to have to say, but it is true. Surely, if you and I understand each

other, it does not matter what outsiders think of us.’

‘No,’ said Hugo, and once more there was heartiness and confidence in

his tone. ‘Forgive me my folly. It is over now.’

‘I thank you for making such a sacrifice to me.... When I came into the

room it was to see what you were doing, as you didn’t appear at dinner.

And, behold, nearly an hour has passed. The carriage will be here in

ten minutes.’

‘I don’t think I shall go.’

‘Pray do, though, or I shall have to think that this reconciliation is

only a sham one after all. Besides, Helena’s _beaux yeux_ will not turn

very amiably towards me, if I come without you.’

‘It depends upon yourself how Helena’s _beaux yeux_ regard you,’ said

Hugo; ‘but I will go. It would be insulting to her if I did not. I’ll

get ready now.’

‘I must do the same,’ said Sebastian, leaving the room.

Hugo proceeded to dress himself. He found himself looking back upon the

afternoon, when he had sat playing waltzes, as if it had been separated

by years from the evening, and his present self was a stranger to

himself of yesterday.

It was quite true. These few short hours had transformed him from a boy

to a man. The process, which in some cases is one of such prolonged,

lingering growth, had been with him effected at a leap, a single bound.

The change proved itself most in the fact that he accepted the cross

laid upon him; he felt himself possessed of that goodly, manly virtue,

the ability to wait; two days ago he would have tried to rush away from

pain and difficulty--now he could shake hands with them. As he dressed,

he planned his course as it should be, subject to circumstances; not

with the furious, fitful temper of an hour ago, but with calm, manly

reasonableness and judgment.

When the carriage came round they stood in the hall, and Mrs. Mallory

looked curiously at his pale, altered, composed countenance; but she

saw in an instant, by the look that passed between him and Sebastian,

that all was perfectly clear between them. The sweet accord of two

noble natures was a thing beyond her power to grasp; but she saw that

she had not succeeded in separating them, and recognised that she had

done her cause no service by her interference.

CHAPTER XVI.

HOW HELENA CAME INTO HER FORTUNE.

The rooms at Castle Hill were nearly full, and the ball had just

begun, when the Oakenrod party arrived. Sebastian offered his arm to

his mother, and she took it, both of them having a very strong sense

of the fact that the courtesy was a mere outside show, and that they

would rather have been any number of miles apart. Followed by Hugo,

they penetrated through the large square hall and the coffee-room,

to the drawing-room, which blazed in the full splendour of unlimited

wax-lights. In the centre of the room, looking very hot and very

uncomfortable, they found Mrs. Spenceley alone. Her lord was nowhere to

be seen, though her son was stationed at some little distance from her,

helping her in the discharge of her duties with a Thanshopian grace and

dignity all his own.

Sebastian, when his mother had finished her greetings and

congratulations, went up to Mrs. Spenceley, and in his turn paid his

_devoirs_.

The lady bore upon her face distinct traces of uneasiness of mind.

There was something terrible and _bezarre_ in the contrast between

her expression and her attire. Helena had considerately tried to

arrange her dress for her, with the natural sense of beauty and

harmony of colour and material which she so strongly possessed. She

had endeavoured to soften down the radiant hues contemplated by Mrs.

Spenceley, and had succeeded in inducing her rather to dress herself

in a magnificent robe of black satin. Diamonds twinkled upon her

spacious bosom, and diamond pins fastened her gorgeous lace cap. Here

Helena’s efforts had ceased to produce any effect. At this point Mrs.

Spenceley’s own taste in dress asserted itself. She had thrown over

her shoulders a floating scarf of crimson gauze, intertwined with

lines of orient gold, and over which wandered abnormally large bunches

of abnormally large grapes--purple grapes, with leaves of the same

phenomenal proportions. This treasure had been put on in order, as

she explained to Helena, ‘to cover my shoulders and give me a little

colour; for, say what you will, a black satin and a white lace cap is

not full enough for a woman of my years.’

In despairing resignation Helena had submitted, and the result was

the apparition already described, looking, with the troubled, puzzled

expression on her highly coloured face and the restless wandering of

her gentle dark eyes, altogether so grotesque, that Sebastian’s quick

observation instantly suspected something behind the gay show which

surrounded them.

‘I am glad to see you, Mr. Mallory,’ she said, giving him her hand,

and with an effort giving her attention to him. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy

yourself, I’m sure. We’ve done all we could think of to make people

enjoy themselves; but it is _very_ provoking, Spenceley’s not coming at

the last minute, isn’t it?’

‘I thought I missed Mr. Spenceley. Is he engaged?’

‘Oh, it’s this horrid business, you know. I said to him, I said,

“Spenceley, if business is so uncertain, it’s a very sure thing that we

oughtn’t to be giving balls in this style;” not but what I am _very_

glad to see you, and I hope you’ll enjoy it,’ she hastened to add. ‘He

had to go off to Liverpool early this morning, and he said he _might_

have to come home by Manchester, but he’d try to be with us before we

began. However, he hasn’t turned up.’

‘Very likely he has been detained.’

‘I expect so. These are anxious times, and it keeps a man on the

strain, with things going first up and then down, and not knowing how

anything will turn out,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lucidly. ‘But aren’t

you going to dance, Mr. Mallory? There’s lots of young ladies will

be delighted to dance with you. See! there’s little Fanny Kay sitting

out--the first dance, too. Do you know her?’

‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think I will dance at present. I’m looking for

Miss Spenceley, to congratulate her; but she is not here, I think.’

‘She’s in the ball-room. You see, she had to open the ball, being for

her own birthday, and all, and some of them were very anxious to begin.

It makes it very awkward, Spenceley’s being away. But you’ll see Helena

directly, I dare say. She said she should come straight here when the

dance was over.’

‘I think I will go and see if it is over,’ said Sebastian, who saw Hugo

leading off a white-robed virgin to the ball-room.

‘Ay, do; I’m sure they must be nearly done by now,’ she replied,

drawing her dazzling scarf more closely about her, and obstinately

refusing to lessen her fatigue by sitting down.

Sebastian crossed the hall, and at the door of the ball-room met Helena

and her partner coming out. She was leaning on the arm of an elderly

man, one of the Thanshope magnates, to whose lot it had fallen to guide

her through the mazes of a duty-quadrille, by way of opening the ball.

Helena looked bored, and the gentleman no less so. They were making

straight for the drawing-room, in order to get rid of each other as

soon as possible.

Helena did not at once see Sebastian, and he had time to notice how

downcast and pale she looked, although so lovely. Mr. Rawson, her

partner, was at this moment ‘collared’ in a summary manner by an

acquaintance, and appeared particularly anxious to talk with him on

congenial subjects. Mr. Mallory, therefore, seized the opportunity to

advance and say:

‘Good evening, Miss Spenceley.’

Helena started, and turned quickly to him.

‘Mr. Rawson,’ proceeded Sebastian, ‘I see you are engaged. Allow me to

take Miss Spenceley to the drawing-room--or wherever else you please,’

he added, in a lower voice, as Mr. Rawson, with evident gratitude,

gave up his charge, and they walked away, her hand resting lightly on

his arm.

‘Now he is happy with a friend of his own age,’ remarked Sebastian. ‘I

could not find you in the drawing-room, so I came to seek you, in order

to offer you my sincere congratulations upon this occasion.’

‘Why so _sincere_? You speak so emphatically that I begin to doubt your

sincerity. Why congratulate me at all?’

‘What a question! I always understood, from your own words, that

you looked forward to your twenty-first birthday as a moment of

emancipation, when you would not be trodden down any more, and could

really show the sex which fails to meet your approval what you think of

them, and----’

‘I wish you would not keep talking in that way,’ said Helena. ‘It does

not amuse me in the least, and I don’t see what fun there is in it.’

‘Fun! I had no idea of fun! You shock me. I am in the most solemn

earnest I beg to be allowed to offer my congratulations to the heroine

of the present occasion, and to wish you “many happy returns of this

day.” You will permit me to do that?’

‘I am not a heroine, and the present occasion requires anything but

congratulations,’ was all Helena said.

Her wonted brilliance and high spirits had quite deserted her, even

in the presence of Sebastian Mallory, for whose delectation they

were usually wont to flow rather more rapidly than at other times.

In this new and more pensive mood Sebastian found the charm, which

he had always owned, a strong one. He had never before found her so

attractive. Her dress was less splendid, and more airy and girlish

than usual. It was white and full and flowing, suggestive of _tulle

illusion_ and silvery clouds, and was dotted all over with little

bunches of rosebuds. There was a string of pearls around her lovely

throat; and, for all her paleness and downcast looks, her beauty came

out triumphant.

‘She is a lovely creature!’ he thought, glancing downwards at the

serious face and the dark lashes which swept her cheek.

‘Not a heroine!’ he said. ‘You must be one to-night, whether you like

it or not. And as for congratulations, I could offer you a hundred

reasons why people should congratulate you; but to confine myself to

one, you are Helena Spenceley. Don’t you think that is reason enough

for congratulation?’

They had wandered into a little anteroom, divided by curtains from one

of the other sitting-rooms, and as Sebastian asked the last question

they were standing in the middle of the room, and Helena looked at him.

Her face was sad, and her eyes were bright with tears.

‘It is of no use; you cannot make me angry to-night, even by laughing

at me. But if you want the satisfaction of knowing that your remarks

wound me, take it: it is so.’

‘Helena! Miss Spenceley!’ he stammered, in confusion, for his words had

not been free from malice, and he knew it. What he had not known was

that Helena was in no mood for battle--that she did not even wish to

quarrel with him.

‘If you are offended, I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean

anything like what you imagine. And, since you do not choose to be

congratulated, I withdraw the congratulations. May I say you have my

good wishes?’

‘Not unless you mean it,’ said Helena, coldly; ‘and, when you think how

different our thoughts and wishes, and hopes and objects in life are,

you will, I hope, hesitate before making more pretty speeches.’

‘You are very severe. I think I had better say no more upon the

subject. But,’ he added, with that air of almost affectionate interest

which Helena believed she so greatly resented, ‘you are downcast and

out of spirits to-night--not as you should be for your own birthday

ball. How is it?’

In so matter-of-fact a tone was the question asked, that Helena

scarcely felt it strange that he should put it, and began in a docile

manner to explain.

‘How can I be otherwise? It is such nonsense. What is the good of

having a ball? I don’t want a ball. I wanted to be quiet. I go about

every day, from house to house, and see people starving--much better

people than I am, or ever shall be--and then I have to come home and

see money flung away on a ball--for me--because such an important

personage has condescended to live twenty-one years in this horrid,

grimy old world; and to put on a dress that has cost--no, I will never

reveal all my shame, but I could tear my dress to pieces when I think

of a woman whom I saw this afternoon, and who was crying as if her

heart would break, because she had to pawn her husband’s and children’s

Sunday clothes, and their best tea-things, that she had when she was

married. I thought of this dress, which was got on purpose for me at

Paris, and which cost about ten times as much as the materials that

made it are worth,’ said Helena passionately, ‘and when I put it on, I

felt as if I were putting on my shroud.’

‘I am very sorry--only you won’t believe it, because I say so, but

surely now it will be different? You must not get morbid. That never

does any good. You will have wealth of your own now, and be your own

mistress, when you can take your revenge on all these fine clothes, and

go about in home-spun, or even sackcloth, if you choose.’

‘Yes,’ said Helena dispiritedly, ‘I know; but I should not like it.

I love expensive things, and I hate coarse and common ones. And I am

beginning to think that perhaps I am not such a very fit person to have

money. I have heard a great deal about money lately, and I don’t fancy

it is so easy to manage as I used to think.’

‘Miss Mereweather will assist you,’ he said, half smiling.

‘Don’t name Miss Mereweather to me,’ said Helena, with sudden

animation. ‘She has deceived me cruelly. I never was so cut-up about

anything.’

‘What _has_ she done?’

‘She has got married,’ said Helena, in a determined voice, as if

anxious to get the worst over.

‘Got married!... Why ... and a very good wife she will make, if she

has got the right sort of husband. I remember thinking, that evening I

met her here, what a capital head of a large establishment she would

make....’

‘Did you?’ said Helena, with a curious quaver in her voice, half

laughter, half astonishment. ‘Well, you must have been right. She has

married a clergyman who is the head of a very large boys’ school--a

sort of college.’

‘The very thing for her. I wish, when you write, you would ask if she

remembers my insignificance, and offer my warmest congratulations and

good wishes.’

‘When I write!’ echoed Helena, scornfully. ‘I wrote to her once, after

I heard of it, but never again. I told her my mind.’

‘Did you really? What did you say?’

‘I said she was a traitor to her sex and her cause, and that, as I

still held my old opinions, I could not be her friend any longer.’

‘How awful for her! May I ask whether she made any reply?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Helena, her colour rising, ‘she made a very stupid

reply.’

‘Won’t you tell me what it was?’

‘No, it was too silly.’

‘I believe you got the worst of it.’

‘At least, it was too ridiculous to repeat.’

‘Perhaps she said, “Wait and see;” or, “Don’t shout till you are out of

the wood!” only more elegantly expressed.’

‘She--oh, there is Hugo coming. This is my first dance with him.’

‘Miss Spenceley, will you be very kind to Hugo to-night? Really and

truly, he has had a great trouble.’

‘I will. Poor boy!’

‘And have you any dances left?--a waltz? Though I can hardly hope it.

You must have been engaged long ago, for the whole evening?’

‘In that case you might have spared yourself the trouble of asking,’

said Helena, rather defiantly; but as their eyes met, hers wavered.

‘Perhaps you have still one left,’ said he, capturing her programme and

opening it.

‘It looks very full,’ he said; ‘but--ah, yes! here is one, a waltz--two

waltzes. This is extraordinary--my luck, I mean; don’t you think so?

And may I----’

He paused, looking inquiringly at her as he held the pencil suspended

over the card.

‘Two waltzes!’ exclaimed Helena, innocently. ‘Oh, but that must be a

mistake. I know when Mr. Consterdine came just now I told him I had not

one left.’

‘No doubt you told him what was good for him,’ said Sebastian, with

laudable gravity. ‘At least, we will make it quite sure now. There: “S.

M., 6,” and “S. M., 10.” Thank you, very much.’

With a bow and a half-smile he resigned her to Hugo, who came up at

that moment to offer congratulations and to claim his dance, while

Sebastian walked away to while away the time until ‘Number 6’ should

begin.

As he danced only once or twice with any one but Helena, he had ample

opportunity of observing the general features of the entertainment, and

he soon saw that Helena’s depression was but a part of that obvious

more or less throughout the whole assembly. The rooms were dazzling,

the decorations were unutterably gorgeous, the brilliance of the lights

amounted to an absolute glare, and became oppressive and terrible. On

all sides there was evidence of the most lavish expenditure; flowers,

furniture, attendants, refreshments, all seemed to cry in loud and

blatant voices, ‘Try us; we are of the very best. No stint here,

because expense is no object, absolutely none at all.’ It would have

been exceedingly amusing, and Sebastian was by no means slow to see the

humorous side of ambitious entertainments of that kind; but the amusing

part of it was quite overcome and swamped by the great and nameless

cloud and oppression that hung over it all. What was the reason of that

cloud? Surely not the simple fact that the master of the house was

absent. That alone would have been a relief rather than otherwise.

For he came not, and came not, and poor Mrs. Spenceley still looked ill

at ease: and at last Sebastian noticed some one else begin to look ill

at ease too, and to glance round with a suspicious, watchful air now

and then. That person was Frederick Spenceley. Something was wrong,

something lay behind it all, thought Sebastian, as he stood in the

cool hall after his first dance with Helena, that is to say, between

ten and eleven o’clock. During that dance they had quite forgotten to

flout each other, or to do anything but enjoy themselves. He had said

all he could to raise that nameless cloud from her face, and he had

been startled to find what brilliant success had attended his efforts.

Helena had soon smiled again, and had half confessed that she had kept

the two dances for him, and had even blushed and laughed when he teased

her about it. He was thinking of that waltz, and humming the tune to

which they had danced as he paced about the hall, while he still seemed

to feel Helena lightly resting in his arms, her fleet foot keeping pace

with his; and he began to wish that he had not four whole dances to

wait before his next one with her came.

‘She is very lovely, and there is something very bewitching about her,’

he said to himself for the second time that evening.

A dance was going on in the ball-room, and the hall at the moment was

empty, save for himself. He paused before a huge mirror, which had been

raised at one end of it, and in front of which was erected a fragrant

pyramid of flowers and ferns, delicate hothouse blossoms, and feathery

aromatic leaves. There was a blaze of light all around, and the

staircase and part of the gallery running round the second story were

reflected in the mirror. Sebastian stood before the pyramid of flowers,

and gently first touched one and then the other, and then his eyes fell

upon the reflection of his own face, and he was surprised to see how

grave it looked; for he did not feel particularly grave at the moment,

and that interview with Adrienne Blisset seemed to hang like a dream in

the far background of his consciousness, while another face and form,

flower-crowned and glowingly beautiful, advanced to the front.

Suddenly he became conscious, as it were, of some shadow crossing the

glass, and looking higher, to where the staircase was reflected, he

saw the figure of a man stealing carefully, softly, noiselessly up the

stairs, keeping well to the wall, with averted face, as if anxious to

get as quickly as possible out of all that obtrusive glare of light and

stream of dancing sound.

CHAPTER XVII.

HOW MR. SPENCELEY MET HIS DIFFICULTIES.

Sebastian’s first thought naturally resolved itself into the words, ‘A

thief in the night;’ some evil-disposed person who thought to penetrate

to some of the bedrooms, in the confusion, and perhaps reap a harvest

of neglected brooches, watches, or shawl-pins. In such a case, it was

his duty at once to warn the servants, and he was in the act of turning

to go and do so as quickly as possible, when the figure reached the

head of the first flight of stairs, and turned to mount the next. As

this happened, Sebastian caught a momentary glimpse of the face. He

was long sighted, and not given to making mistakes in the matter of

identity. The man who was stealing so quietly up the stairs in such

evident fear of detection was, one would suppose, the last person

who should need to act in so strange a manner. It was Mr. Spenceley

himself, the master of the house.

With great presence of mind Sebastian checked his movement to turn

round, and neither started nor stirred, but stood pensively trifling

with a fern leaf, as he gave himself time to reflect upon what had

happened.

The vague, floating rumours which he had heard, as to the ‘shakiness’

of Mr. Spenceley’s commercial position, recurred to his mind. Probably

there was something in them. His own business and that of Mr. Spenceley

lay in utterly different lines: he had not come across him in any

commercial transactions; but he knew men who had, and who were of

opinion that Spenceley was playing rather a dangerous game. During

those troublous years some fortunes were made, and many were lost--lost

by men who seemed as little likely to fail as Mr. Spenceley of Castle

Hill. Sebastian pictured the feelings of his mother, supposing she were

to hear any such rumour--his mother who was probably at that moment

listening with affecting interest and politeness to some circumlocutory

history from the lips of Mrs. Spenceley, _à propos_ either of Fred or

of Helena. This was the day on which Helena was to come into--not her

whole fortune--that was only to happen at her father’s death, or if

she married--but of so much of it as would make her what many people

would call a rich woman. Sebastian thought of this, and wondered if the

fortune were but

‘A fleeting show

For man’s illusion given.’

His thoughts turned persistently to the girl with whom he had so

lately been dancing. It was all in her honour, this ghastly, hollow

mockery of an entertainment, with its spectres and shadows flitting and

stealing about. All for her! She was crowned with roses, which were

indeed the fitting flower for so beautiful a rose as she was herself.

Those great pearls round her neck, and those massive bracelets on

her slender arm--his mind recalled each item of her dress, and, as

it were, every line of her beauty; he saw her standing, as she had

stood more than once that evening, with a crowd round her, of friends

and well-wishers--for she was popular--who congratulated her, and

brought her flowers and bouquets--chiefly roses--the flowers of love

and triumph. And ever, as he pictured her thus, that shadowy, stealing

figure seemed to lurk and crouch behind them, now uncovering its face

a little, and then, with a smile of weird meaning, drawing the veil

again. He shuddered a little, and turned hastily towards the ball-room;

stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was Helena with Hugo; he

was glad she was with Hugo; smiling and laughing with him, as they flew

swiftly by, past the door, and her perfumed skirts brushed him and sent

an odd little thrill through him.

The ball progressed, and the evening drew drearier and drearier; he

heard the excuses made by Mrs. Spenceley, and saw the care growing

darker upon her brow; he heard the regrets of the guests, and saw the

increasing uneasiness of the looks cast about him by Fred, with a

strange sense that he alone could, if he chose, point the way upstairs

and say, ‘You will find the explanation of all, if you go there and

ask.’

As the tenth dance was about to begin, he saw Fred make some excuse to

the lady whom he was leading to the ball-room; heard the words, ‘Very

sorry--back in a minute.’ The young lady was put on a cushioned bench

beside the wall, and Fred quickly departed, with a look of resolution

on his face. Sebastian, with Helena on his arm, looked after Spenceley.

He was going upstairs. Mallory, throughout all the dance, could not

keep himself from wondering what was taking place in one of those upper

rooms. What confession, or what revelation? Were things very bad? Was

the crisis a very critical one?

‘You have become perfectly silent, Mr. Mallory--not to say morose,’

remarked Helena. ‘And when I was dancing with Hugo, I saw you looking

in upon us with a sort of glare. What is the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing! Miss Spenceley, when did you last see your father?’

‘This morning, quite early: you know we have breakfast at eight,

because we are business people. He gave me these pearls that I have

on for a birthday present, and though I would much rather have had

no presents, they were so beautiful, and I am so weak, that I was in

ecstasies with them. But papa said he had very important business in

Liverpool, and he might have to go to Manchester too. Still, he is very

late,’ she added, as they began to dance again.

The waltz was over. Every one was streaming into the supper-room;

Helena, with Sebastian, remained in the ball-room, watching the people

out, to see that all went, when voices made themselves heard: young men

were calling out, ‘I say, Spenceley!’--‘Where’s Fred?’--‘Who’s to sit

where?’--‘Fred, Mrs. Spenceley wants to ask you something.’

‘Where can Fred be?’ exclaimed Helena, craning her neck to look round.

‘It is very strange in him to go away just now, when he ought to be

seeing after things.’

They were standing beside a door of the ball-room; not that leading

into the hall, but one which opened into a passage leading to the

billiard-room, and thence to the kitchen regions and offices. Almost

as Helena spoke, the door was suddenly opened, and a young woman

appeared, with frightened face, and widely distended eyes, who, seeing

Helena, began, after the manner of her kind, to wring her hands, and

exclaim, in much agitation,

‘Oh, Miss Spenceley! Where’s missis? Oh, how dreadful! Oh!’

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Helena in a clear, decided voice.

‘Oh--master, m’! He’s----’

‘Stop!’ said Sebastian, suddenly and sternly, as he took the girl’s

arm, and gave it a little shake, to restore her to her senses. ‘Don’t

make such a noise! Miss Spenceley, wait here a moment. Come here!’

he added to the girl--one of the housemaids--as he drew her into the

passage, and closed the door. ‘Now, what is the matter? Your master has

returned. I saw him. Is he ill?’

‘Oh, sir,’ she said, with an hysterical sob, ‘he’s dead! He’s lying on

the sofa in his room, and----’

‘Dead!’ repeated Sebastian, and he knew in a moment what it meant.

‘Where is Mr. Fred? Is he with him?’

‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him. I thought he was here.’

Sebastian, with a growing fear that the whole thing was much blacker

and more dreadful than he had suspected, bade the young woman wait

a moment, while he returned to Helena. He had rapidly reviewed the

circumstances, and found there was nothing for it but to go to her.

Fred was gone: he did not like to let the idea, ‘absconded,’ shape

itself, even in his mind; but all the same, it was there, like an ugly

black spectre. To burst upon Mrs. Spenceley with such news would have

been in the highest degree inhuman and improper. Helena alone remained

to take this fearful burden upon her shoulders.

He found Helena standing in the same place in which he had left her,

and the last of the guests disappearing through the hall to the

supper-room. Helena was composed and calm, but her eyes, as they met

his, told him that she suspected a catastrophe.

‘I want you to come with me,’ said he, drawing her arm through his,

and speaking in a low, gentle voice, and then they stood in the

passage, with the servant-maid.

‘Show me the room where your master is, and do not speak,’ he said to

her; she was crying bitterly, in a cowed and helpless fashion, but was

less excited, less inclined to shriek out her dreadful news to every

one she met. Helena’s face grew white, but she neither trembled nor

spoke, as they followed the girl up the backstairs to a landing-door,

which she threw open, and then they found themselves standing on the

gallery which formed the landing, and from which all the bedroom doors

opened out.

‘Which is your master’s room?’ asked Sebastian.

The maid pointed to a door, and cried more bitterly still, while

Helena’s face grew whiter and more set every minute.

‘Have you seen Mr. Fred at all this evening?’

‘I saw him run upstairs, sir, and then I saw him go to his own room;

but he’s not there now, and I’ve never seen him since.’

‘Very well, you can go now; but remember, you are to be silent, or it

will be worse for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I won’t say nothing, indeed!’ said the weeping young woman,

going away with her muslin apron to her eyes.

He turned to Helena. He felt he must not defer it any longer. There was

pity and tenderness in his eyes and in his voice, as he said,

‘Now, Helena, you are brave, and you must be as brave as you can

to-night.’

‘Tell me what it is!’ she said; ‘but don’t keep me waiting any longer.’

‘I must keep you waiting just a few moments,’ said he. ‘I want you to

sit down here, and not move, while I go to your father’s room--will

you?’

‘Yes,’ said Helena, seating herself with a prompt docility which

contrasted strangely with her white face and distended eyes.

Sebastian left her, walked into the room, and found it all as he had

expected. Mr. Spenceley had committed suicide. He had taken prussic

acid, and lay dead upon the couch at the foot of his bed. Sebastian,

looking quickly round, saw a written paper lying on the floor at his

feet. It was merely a scrap of paper, with the words,

‘DEAR LIZZIE,--I am a ruined man, and I can’t bear it. I’ve never made

you very happy, and the best I can do is to leave you. I don’t know

what will be left, but there is always your money of your own, and

Nelly’s that I----’

Here it broke off. It was not torn; it was as if the facts had rushed

over the man as he wrote these words, and he had failed to pen another

syllable. There was no proof that Fred had absconded, or that he knew

his father’s fate. Sebastian knew he must put the matter in the best

light; but he himself felt an absolute certainty of conviction on the

matter.

He took the paper and went out of the room, locking the door and

putting the key in his pocket. Helena looked up as he came to her, but

said not a word.

‘Helena,’ he began, ‘from what has happened to-night, I fear your

father has found that he is ruined.’

‘Is that all?’ said Helena, drawing a long breath of relief.

‘No. That, if true, is the least part of it. Remember what this must

have been to your father. Prosperity and success were his very _life_.’

‘Do you mean that it has killed papa?’ asked Helena with unnatural

calm, fixing her eyes upon his face.

‘I wish to spare your mother, or I would not tell you this. It has

killed him--that is, he could not bear to live after such a fall. My

poor child, your father has destroyed himself.’

‘He has--oh!’ came like a whisper from her white lips. Face, cheeks,

brow, lips, were white as the dress she wore. She caught at a chair

which stood near and supported herself upon it, looking at him with a

stare of blank, utter horror, which he felt to be almost unbearable.

For weeks afterwards he was haunted by the vision of the white figure

in its cloudy dress; the roses scattered about it, all like one white

marble figure, save the dusky hair and eyes which looked coal-black by

contrast with her face.

‘Think of your mother,’ said he, feeling that that spell of horror

must be broken, and he gently put his arm round her, and placed her

in the chair on which she had been leaning. She did not speak for a

moment, but at last said,

‘Oh, poor mamma! If she only need not know.’

‘I fear she must know a great deal of it.’

Then Helena put the question which he dreaded.

‘But where can Fred be all this time?’

‘He is not in the house. He may have gone away to see if the failure

is complete--if anything remains to be saved,’ said Sebastian; ‘at any

rate he is not here.’

‘Ah, yes!’ said Helena, and no suspicion like Sebastian’s conviction

even for a moment troubled her mind. He gave her the paper he had found.

‘I have read it; I thought it best,’ said he. ‘And now I want you to go

to your own room, and I will send Mrs. Spenceley to you, and ask all

these people to go away. You will allow me!’

‘You are very good,’ said Helena, calmly.

‘You must break just what you think fit to Mrs. Spenceley,’ he added.

‘There is no one but you to do it, and she will hear it best from you.

For her sake, you will keep up this brave, calm behaviour till the

worst is over.’

‘Yes; and then?’

‘Trouble yourself about nothing else to-night. I will see to everything

until your brother comes back. I will stay here all night. You need not

leave your room again.’

Helena rose without speaking; looked at him with an indescribable

expression; her lips moved, as if she would have spoken; but, without

a word, she turned and went to her room. Sebastian watched until the

door had closed after her, and that silence seemed to leave an enormous

want in his heart. There was silence, except a murmur coming from the

supper-room. That reminded him of his duty. With another earnest look

at that closed door, he went downstairs.

He made his way to Mrs. Spenceley, and asked her to go to her daughter

in her room. With a deep flush of terror and foreboding, she went.

Neither husband nor son was there to support her. A stranger took her

to the foot of the stairs and left her. Sebastian’s soul was quite

possessed with the idea of these two women; one telling, the other

learning, the extent of their awful calamity, so far as it was known.

It haunted him, but he gathered himself together, and easily catching

the attention of the startled company, he merely told them that Mrs.

and Miss Spenceley wished him to express their great regret at having

to leave their guests, in consequence of very distressing news which

they had just received. Frederick Spenceley had had to leave home

immediately, and he thought, as it was already late, the kindest thing

they could do would be to leave the house as soon as possible.

Amidst a wild buzz of inquiries, suggestions, and speculations, the

guests dispersed. In an hour the house was quiet, and Helena had gently

told her mother the whole truth as far as she knew it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DOWN IN THE WORLD.

It was not until late in the afternoon of the following day that

Sebastian, not forgetting his appointment with Myles Heywood, found it

possible to return to his own home.

That was a dreadful day, bringing in its course fresh disclosures of

dishonesty on the part of both father and son of the Spenceleys, fresh

shame and humiliation to the sorely proved Helena; fresh bursts of

wild, hopeless weeping and meaningless questions from her poor mother.

Mrs. Spenceley was, of course, perfectly bewildered by everything, and

could only reiterate that she had told Spenceley, over and over again,

that if business was so precarious, they had no right to be giving

balls; and she knew it would turn out badly, she had said so all along.

Then a fresh burst of weeping, and the inquiries:

‘Helena, my dear, I s’pose we shall have to leave here. What do you

think we shall be allowed to keep? Will everything have to be sold?’

To all of which Helena, pale, composed, and gentle, made answers as

soothing as she could.

It was upon her head that the cruellest shame and humiliation naturally

fell. Sebastian asked her, almost as soon as he met her in the morning,

what friends or relations there were with whom he could communicate

on the subject of her father’s death, and to whom he could resign his

present authority.

‘But there is Fred,’ said poor, unconscious Helena. ‘He is sure to be

back soon. He will come by one of the early trains from Manchester, I

am sure.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Sebastian, feeling his task a hard one. ‘And even

if he did, it is not right that your friends and relations should not

be summoned. Don’t think I wish to withdraw the little assistance I

can offer you, but I have no right to the position. It is absolutely

necessary that I give the responsibility into some proper hands.’

‘I don’t know of any one except Uncle Robert, and papa and he were not

good friends. He is mamma’s brother. I think he would come if we sent

for him.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Manchester; I will give you his address,’ said Helena.

When she had done so, Sebastian telegraphed to Mr. Robert Bamford,

requesting him to come over as soon as possible on urgent business.

An answer came to the effect that Mr. Bamford would arrive some time

in the afternoon. It was for his appearance that Sebastian waited. He

and Helena were in the library. He was trying to explain to her the

circumstances which had made it possible for her father to fail, and

Helena was giving her best attention, but, with all the goodwill in

the world, utterly helpless before the technical business terms and

details. Her sad face with its serious, puzzled look, was in sharp

contrast with that of the Helena Spenceley whom Sebastian had always

hitherto known.

‘You see,’ said she, suddenly looking up at him with a wan attempt at a

smile, ‘you had every right to laugh at me when I boasted my business

capacities. No one could be more ignorant. I see it now.’

‘It was not unnatural,’ said he, gently. ‘People with a cheque-book and

a balance at the banker’s, are apt to think they understand business

when they don’t. But it is of no consequence, really. The thing has

happened, and if you had known all the secrets of the Stock Exchange

you could not have prevented it.’

‘No, I know,’ said Helena, looking wearily round. ‘I wonder if Fred

will come back with Uncle Robert. I daresay he has been to consult him.

Don’t you think so?’

‘It may be so; at least, your uncle will be able to tell us something

about him.’

‘How I wish it was all over,’ she went on, ‘and that we were safely

housed in, wherever we go to--some back street in Manchester, I dare

say.’

‘Oh, it may not be quite so bad as that.’

‘I never said I thought that would be bad,’ said Helena, leaning her

elbows, as if utterly tired out, upon the table, and resting her head

upon her hands. Sebastian felt a deep pity stir his heart. She had

already suffered so much--she had still so much more, and so much worse

to suffer. Perhaps all this pain would make her what people, what he

himself, would call ‘more reasonable.’ But she was very sweet in her

unreasonableness. It seemed rather sad that she must go through such an

ordeal in order that she might become like other people.

At this point a servant announced ‘Mr. Robert Bamford,’ and Helena’s

uncle arrived. Now Sebastian felt sure some painful truths would have

to be told, and he again looked with a strange strength of compunction

at the beautiful, weary, white face of Helena.

Mr. Bamford was a very plain, rough-spoken man indeed, who walked with

a heavy step into the room, glanced at Sebastian from a pair of shrewd,

dark eyes, and without waiting for an introduction, gave a stiff little

nod, and said, ‘Your servant, sir;’ and then turned to his niece with

the greeting, ‘Well, Helena, this is a pretty business.’

‘It is very sad, uncle,’ said she, facing him, pale, and with dilated

eyes. ‘I think we had better not talk about it, but see what is to be

done.’

‘There’s not much left to be done now that yon precious brother o’

yours has given us the slip.’

‘_What?_’ said Helena, growing paler than before, and putting her

trembling hands upon the table to support herself. ‘Fred given you the

slip--what do you mean? He has gone to see about papa’s affairs. He--I

expected him to come back with you. What has he done?’

There was no defiance in the tone, only apprehension.

‘Done!’ ejaculated Mr. Bamford, plunging his hands into his pockets and

almost running about the room in his excitement. ‘Done! Why, he’s taken

everything he could lay his hands on in the shape of money or money’s

worth, and he’s off--perhaps to America, but certainly to the devil.’

‘Do you mean that Fred has acted dishonourably?’ asked Helena, almost

inaudibly, and trembling still more.

‘Dishonourably! Why, you know nothing. Every one in Manchester knows it

by this time. There’s been precious little honour wasted on the whole

business, my lass. We know what to think when the men make away with

themselves one way or another, and leave the women and the debts behind

them.’

‘But my father--it was his misfortune--he did not----’

‘The less said about your father’s transactions, for the last six

weeks, the better,’ said Mr. Bamford, curtly.

‘Consider Miss Spenceley’s feelings, sir!’ interposed Sebastian, unable

to endure seeing Helena’s despair, and feeling a glow almost of hatred

towards Mr. Bamford, and what struck him as his brutality. Helena had

turned away and covered her face with her hand, as a man might do

who is sorely hit on some vital point--it was more a man’s gesture

than a woman’s. Neither groan nor cry escaped her, but Sebastian

saw that the iron had entered into her soul. That which she endured

was the keenest moral anguish--the supremest of all pains. He could

understand it. Her beauty was enhanced: the reckless, impetuous girl,

with her ‘disorganised’ ideas, which he had laughed at before now, was

transformed into the noble woman, who must bear things which only women

can or do bear--the punishment for the sins of their masculine shields

and protectors. ‘She has had a very severe shock already,’ he went on,

‘and it cannot be necessary to pain her with----’

‘She must know the truth, and the sooner the better,’ said Mr. Bamford,

irascibly. ‘If she is a girl of spirit, she will not wish to be

deceived, and anyhow her whole life will have to be changed, and come

down a peg or two, for the sins of her father shall be visited upon

her.’

‘You are very kind, Mr. Mallory,’ said Helena, turning to them again

and speaking calmly, though her face had, even in those few minutes,

taken an older, worn expression, which shocked Sebastian. ‘I wish to

know the worst at once. I can bear it. I did not know there had been

anything dishonourable. Go on, uncle. I am not afraid, and I must know

what I have to tell my mother.’

‘By ----, the lass has a spirit of her own!’ observed Mr. Bamford. ‘Now

that I see what she’s made of, I may try to explain things to her a

bit.’

‘Then I will leave you,’ said Sebastian. ‘Miss Spenceley will tell you

that I made what arrangements were immediately necessary. I shall take

the liberty of calling soon,’ he added to Helena, ‘in the hope that I

may be of some assistance to you. May I?’

‘You are very kind,’ she said, still with the same unmoved calm, as

she gave him her hand. ‘I shall be glad to see you whenever you call.

Perhaps, another time I can thank you better for your goodness; but at

present----’

‘Pray do not thank me; there is not the very least necessity,’ said he,

as he left the room.

‘Now, Uncle Robert!’ said Helena.

‘Who is that young fellow?’

‘Mr. Sebastian Mallory.’

‘Young Mallory of the Oakenrod, who has been acting the philanthropist

since he came from abroad?’

‘Has he? Yes, it is that Mallory.’

‘Any particular friend of yours?’

‘No,’ was the cold response. ‘He happened to hear first of my father’s

death last night, and as there was no one else here, and no one to do

anything, he has been kind enough to arrange things for me since. I

know very little of him.’

‘H’m! ha! Well, we must get to business.’

In a very short time Helena was made acquainted with what had happened,

and with the bare and naked outline of her approaching future life. The

less said of her brother the better, said Mr. Bamford. He believed that

the sum with which he had absconded was about two thousand pounds. As

for her father--he softened his tone a little, out of consideration for

Helena--he was to blame, too, for not drawing in when first he began to

find himself in difficulties; ‘only that would have brought him down

in the world, and he couldn’t bear it; so, instead of going one step

lower, and then climbing up again when he had a chance, he has waited,

till he had to tumble down to the ground, and can never get up again,’

remarked the merchant drily, while Helena listened.

She showed him the scrap of paper which Sebastian had given her.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Bamford; ‘that money of yours is a myth----’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said his niece, in a deep, almost resentful

tone. ‘And if it had been there--every penny--I should not have kept it

now, of course.’

‘And what your mother was to have had--it’s all in the business; was, I

mean. It has gone with the rest.’

‘I am glad of that too,’ observed Helena, concisely. ‘Then no one

will have the power to say that we were well off while other people

suffered.’

‘Your wardrobe and jewellery will be your own, of course. Your jewels

and your mother’s must be worth a pretty good sum, Helena.’

‘My jewellery will be sold, and mamma’s too.’

‘Please yourself about your own; but if your mother is not your

father’s most pressing creditor, I don’t know who is. Of course she

will sell her jewels; but she will keep the proceeds, and you will

abstain from meddling in matters you don’t understand.’

‘I understand right and wrong, uncle, and I shall do what I feel to be

right.’

‘Eh!’ he repeated, with a kind of chuckle: ‘the lass has a spirit in

her after all.’

They would have to leave Thanshope. Helena must try to find some

employment. He would give them a home until that was accomplished; to

his sister as long as she chose to stay with him. If she liked she

might keep house for him, but if she chose to also try some means of

gaining a livelihood, he would do what he could to help her. More, he

thought, they could not expect.

‘Certainly not,’ said Helena, composedly. ‘We have no right to expect

so much, and may consider ourselves fortunate in having you for a

friend.’

She had always asked for work, she reminded herself when she was

alone--real work, necessary work--not the fads with which rich women

try to deceive themselves by calling them work. Behold! here was every

prospect of as much work as she liked, and yet she found nothing

cheering in it. Only--anything to get away from this sham life of sham

luxury, sham state, sham riches, sham everything--away from the world’s

eyes and those of Sebastian, into obscurity and poverty, which, she

felt, would be no shams, but stern realities, with front of brass and

eyes of stone.

CHAPTER XIX.

IRREVOCABLE.

‘Good-bye, Heywood, I wish you every success, and you carry the

assurance of success in yourself. You will return to England a man of

mark.’

‘I trust never to return to England,’ replied Myles, standing up in

Sebastian’s study, in the act of going. ‘I am afraid it will seem

ungracious to you when I say I don’t care much about success. I want

work; I don’t care whether it’s successful or not. There’s a verse in

the Bible about “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world

and lose his own soul?” There may be many sorts of souls, don’t you

think so?’

‘Yes, certainly. But I think time will soften these feelings of yours.

Some time you will find yourself wishing to return to England.’

Myles shook his head, with a half-smile, at once melancholy and

sceptical. He ever wish to return to the place where Adrienne lived,

Sebastian Mallory’s wife! They had left the study, and gone to the hall

door.

Straight before them, separated only by the garden and the dirty

little river, was the broad, busy street--the beautiful building of

the town-hall rose through the dusk before them. Lights twinkled; feet

and wheels sped rapidly past. As they paused before the open door, the

chimes rang out, clear and melodious; nine struck solemnly, and the old

tune which haunted Myles, so interwoven was it with all the most sacred

feelings of his life, was borne through the air in broken, fitful gusts

of sound.

Sebastian heard it too.

‘Take that as an omen,’ said he, earnestly. ‘The old poet old Martin

Usteri, in his homely German town, touched a deeper truth when he wrote

that little song of his, than all our present pessimistic sages put

together can cram into their learned books. Don’t forget the tune when

you are away.’

‘I am not likely ever to forget it,’ said Myles. ‘Good-bye, and thank

you. I cannot say more.’

With a pressure of the hand he was gone. Sebastian heard his quick step

along the gravel--then he heard the gate open and swing to after him;

and then Myles Heywood’s form and footsteps were lost in the general

rush along the busy street. Sebastian was left to listen to the last

echoes of the chimes, and to hum softly to himself--

‘Freut Euch des Lebens,

Weil noch das Lämpchen glüht!

Pflücket die Rose,

Eh’ sie verblüht.’

Myles was striding quickly homewards. In the hurry, preparation,

and excitement of the last two days his mind had regained somewhat

its vigour. It was not that he felt at all happier, or satisfied, or

contented--not that life appeared much brighter to him, only _it had

to be lived_. He set that formula before his mind, and never allowed

a doubt upon the subject to intrude, because he dared not. He felt

that his only safe, his only reasonable course of action, was to press

forward sternly and as rapidly as possible; to cast from him his old

life like a worn-out coat, and begin the new one.

There was the prospect before him of life, struggle, striving, which

he knew was worth a hundred of the lives he had been leading, which

he knew it was his duty to accept and fulfil. The mere idea of

it--of the difficulties to be overcome, and the possibilities to be

attained--attracted him and braced him up, even while all he must leave

seemed to grow dearer and more desirable as it was thrust farther into

the background. There was no turning back now; a delay was what he most

dreaded. He had grown a little grim and hard in his resolute pressing

forward; even Mary fancied that he left them with a kind of exultation,

and grieved the more, even while she felt no surprise.

This evening he walked rapidly up the hilly street, ‘for the last

time,’ he kept saying to himself, and hoping so too. How he had loved

this prosaic, commonplace, dingy manufacturing town! What memories

hung about it! Memories of a childhood spent amongst those he loved,

of a youth and young manhood, which had not been without their

honest, hearty struggles, strivings, and conquests, as well as their

backslidings and failures; memories of a love which had grown upon him,

stealing into his heart by such gentle, subtle degrees that he could

by no means define them--which love had become the master passion of

his earnest heart, with heaven on its side, and chaos on the other.

All this he had lived through in grimy, smoky Thanshope, with the

everlasting roar of machinery as a sort of chorus; within sound of the

melodius, chiming bells. His whole surroundings had ever been earnest

and serious as his own thoughts and bent of mind, and he felt that

no other home would ever be harmonious to him as this was. Yet he

was going to leave it all to-morrow, and his heart beat with a fierce

gladness at the thought.

Occupied with such reflections as these, he found himself at his

own door, and went into the house. Mary was in the kitchen. All her

preparations lay neglected; she sat in her rocking-chair, with her

hands before her, looking at nothing, her eyes wet with tears.

‘What ails you, Molly?’

‘Eh, you’re there, Myles! Nothing ails me except thinking o’ what Miss

Blisset’s been talking about.’

‘Miss Blisset!’ he echoed in a gentle voice, pausing to look at her.

‘Has she been here?’

‘Ay, she has so! She only heard tell this morning about poor Ned,

and she came down to say how sorry she were. Eh, but she is some and

altered; hoo’s gone so quiet, I ne’er saw nowt like it. Hoo were ne’er

a noisy one, but now----’

Mary paused a minute.

‘I’d a deal to tell her--all about me and Harry, and poor Ned, and

about thy going away.’

‘Yes,’ said Myles, in a dull voice.

‘Hoo fair started when hoo heard thou were going away. Hoo were so

surprised. I told her all about it, and hoo said it were much the best

thing, and I were to congratulate you. And then hoo said it were a

long time since hoo had seen you, and, if you’d time, would you go up

to-night and see her, for she’d something she wanted to say to you. If

you do go,’ added Mary, ‘you’ll have to go now, or it’ll get too late.

It’s after nine.’

‘I don’t think it would be anything very important,’ said her brother,

in a measured voice. ‘And I have no time, either. I’ve a lot of things

to do to-night.’

‘Won’t you go?’ asked Mary, opening her eyes wide. ‘Not go and say

good-bye to her! Such friends as you’ve been!’

‘No,’ repeated Myles. ‘She will understand that I am too busy.’

‘I don’t think hoo’ll understand nowt o’ t’ sort,’ said Mary very

emphatically. ‘But go thy own gait! thou knows best.’

He turned away from her, and went upstairs to nail up a box with some

books of his own in it, and to put up some few things of furniture

which Mary was to take away with her when she went to the Ashworths’

house; and as he worked his heart and his temples throbbed almost to

bursting.

Go to her, after what had been said! And, never to mention that, why

was he to go to her? To hear something she wanted to tell him! What

could that be, but that she was going to marry Sebastian? He was to

walk up and hear that from her own lips, and then say good-bye to her,

and not betray himself! After what had happened! After he had gone

through with his bitter task, accepted favours from Sebastian--all in

order that he might never see her again! No! Of course it might be

ungrateful, brutal, uncivilised; it was nevertheless the only safe

path for him to take--to maintain absolute silence and let her think

what she pleased of him. What did it matter? She had Sebastian. He

would soon be forgotten; he would take care of that. He knew, he was

perfectly conscious all the time, that he was doing wrong. As he drove

one nail after another into the box, each stroke of the hammer seemed

to say ‘Wrong!’ And, with his eyes open, he did that wrong, because he

was utterly miserable, and for the moment utterly indifferent; because

he had suffered so much and so long that even his will felt broken, and

to deliberately go to her and court still more suffering was more than

he could do.

The theory of the freedom of the will, says the latest philosophy,

is nonsense, and worse than nonsense. If we seriously follow out

such an idea, it leads us into a mad confusion--an insane chaos of

impossibilities piled on impossibilities. We have no power to will

this or that; we have the power of following and obeying the strongest

motives, and acting upon them. It was in strict accordance with this

principle that Myles behaved in this crisis of his fate: he followed

and obeyed the strongest motives--he stayed at home.

Soon after eight the next morning he left. Later on the same day,

Mr. Hoyle, hearing of the disappearance of Frederick Spenceley, was

perforce reminded of the words of the preacher, and learnt practically

that he had wrought in vain; that, truly, all was vanity.

BOOK III.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

THE DAWN OF NEW DAYS.

It was August; the second August since that memorable one in 1862. This

year, that of 1864, was in many respects a remarkable one in the annals

of commerce, more especially in that branch of it known as the cotton

trade.

Strange events had been witnessed; amongst others, a wondering world

had looked on at the great ‘scare’ which took place amongst the cotton

lords, when the first mistaken rumours of peace were spread. The

members of a trade whose greatest friend, it might have been supposed,

would be peace, turned pale and trembled when peace was mentioned, and

actually wished for the continuance of war; some of them saying that

for them the alternative was war or ruin. Things grew somewhat more

sane and better balanced, later; but the fact remained, that for once

a great industry had seriously inclined her ear unto warlike councils,

and had sought therein her profit. Despite all drawbacks, however, this

last mighty daughter of civilisation was slowly arousing, and shaking

off the paralysis which oppressed her. She stretched her huge limbs,

and found that there was still life and vigour in them. Factories

were being reopened on every side, and amongst those which were again

working full time was that of Sebastian Mallory.

He sat breakfasting one Friday morning, alone, opening his letters, and

with the unopened newspapers beside him. He usually breakfasted alone

now, and had grown quite accustomed to it. Mrs. Mallory rather avoided

his society, and he, when he thought about the matter at all, felt the

absence to be a relief rather than otherwise.

Two years may or may not make a great change both in the character and

appearance of a man. Sebastian Mallory was somewhat altered in the

latter respect since he had parted from Myles Heywood one evening,

which, when he thought of it, seemed a long time ago. His face had

taken an older, more decided expression; his lips were more firmly

closed; his eyes had lost much of their listlessness. He had found

plenty of work ready to his hand, and he was not one of those persons

whose work decreases. Business accumulated about him. People had

discovered that he was useful, capable, and impartial. He did not know

himself how great his influence was, or rather he had not known it

until a few days before, when, to his great surprise, he had been asked

to contest the borough in the Radical interest, so soon as a vacancy

should occur. He had promised to take the matter into consideration.

In a few days his answer was to be given. He was not wont to waver

or vacillate; generally he could sum up the reasons for and against

a course, and decide in the most prudent and reasonable way. On this

occasion he had not found the matter so easily disposed of. ‘He would,

and he would not.’ Many considerations urged him to accept; he could

scarcely assign any for declining. The only one which would have

been valid--that he felt no desire for a public life, and no wish to

increase his present occupations--was absent. He had often felt a

strong inclination for such a life; and he knew that he could manage

to give time enough to it. The core of the matter was that his heart

was not in it. As he read his letters this morning, he thought of the

coming interview with his supporters, and had an odd sensation that he

absolutely did not know what to say to them, and that it was a case

which might appropriately be settled by tossing up.

He laid two of his letters on one side, until the business

communications were disposed of, and then he took one of them up. They

both bore the Prussian stamp of two and a half groschen, and both were

addressed in a German handwriting. He took up the first of them, with

a slight smile hovering about his lips, or ever he began to read.

‘DEAR SEBASTIAN,’ it began,

‘What an age it is since I heard from you! I look out fervently every

day for the postman, and he never comes. I suppose you are _busy_!

How completely changed you are, you who never used to be busy. I am

writing this at the midnight hour, because I have news for you. Good

news, of course; if it were bad news, I should leave it to travel to

you on its own legs. Old Biermann, the _Direktor_, and I have, so to

speak, buried the tomahawk, and sworn an alliance; and he is going to

give my little cantata, _Hermann u. Dorothea_, at the next concert

but one. This is a great step in advance. I hardly know what has

induced him to be so gracious; but his word is given now, and let him

repent him never so much, he will be obliged to carry it out. I need

not tell you, however, that I look upon it only as a step, and that

my hopes and wishes continue to turn always to the opera. I am not

hurrying about it, because I want it to be worth hearing when it is

done. Mozart was only eighteen when his first opera (it’s true it was

a comic one) was produced, and I am nearly twenty.

‘I am in luck’s way, too. I have earned ten pounds by my own

exertions, teaching, in the last six months. It is spread out before

me in a beautiful shining row. No money ever looked so charming

before. Please remember this, and make your next remittance ten

pounds less than usual, or else I shall not feel as if I had really

earned it.

‘I cannot give you any news, for there is none; still, I will

tell you what happened to me the other day. I was walking in the

_Hofgarten_, when I met a lady walking alone. I looked up, and I

thought: ‘Helena Spenceley! How did she come here?’ In the surprise

of the moment I did not look at her attentively enough, but raised my

cap, held out my hand, and was going to accost her, when she smiled

and uttered a rather astonished ‘_Mein Herr_, you are mistaken!’ She

was German, and when she smiled I saw the difference; she had not

Helena’s fire and spirit, and yet the likeness was wonderful. The

incident set me thinking about these old days. You never mention

Helena now. Do you never see her? Tell me when you write. I have

never seen any one like her. I suppose you are too busy to think of

such things. I used to wonder at your coolness all the time that she

was suffering so, in consequence of that wicked father and brother of

hers. I used to make her, in my own mind, the heroine of a hundred

tragedies and romances, in those days. And yet--forgive me for saying

so, I have always said things I ought not to say, to you--I was

nothing to her but an enthusiastic boy, to whom she was kind, and you

were a great deal--a man--I believe _the_ man. Since I met that lady

in the gardens, I have thought a great deal about it, and as I found

a little poem the other day, called _Hélène_, I composed an air for

it, and made it into a song; but I shall not sell it. You may have it

if you like; but I shall not send it until I hear from you.

‘Ever your devoted

‘HUGO.’

Sebastian put the letter down, the smile fading from his face. The

meeting with a strange girl, a passing likeness, had set Hugo’s memory

working; had prompted him to write words which seemed striking to

Sebastian. He had thought, more than once--often--of Helena Spenceley,

but he had never seen her since, with disasters falling thick upon

her young head, she, with her mother, had left Thanshope. They had

gone to Manchester, he had heard. Once or twice he had asked his

mother if she had not heard from Helena, for he remembered that Mrs.

Mallory had told him how Helena had been a ‘kind of daughter’ to her;

but she had composedly answered ‘No,’ and had added that she did not

know their address, and had reason to think they did not wish to keep

up any of their old Thanshope acquaintances, which, she feelingly

added, was really very natural under the circumstances. At the time

of their departure, business had pressed upon Sebastian, as it had

continued to press upon him ever since. He had been smarting under the

disappointment of his refusal by Adrienne. Helena and her misfortunes

had touched him deeply; her calmness, and the real heroism with which

she met her fate, had impressed him. He had firmly intended that he

should not be one of the Thanshope acquaintances whom they dropped

entirely; but, by some means, they had slipped out of his ken, and

he had not been able to find them again. Yet, many a time, Helena’s

beautiful face had seemed to start up before his eyes, at strange

moments: sometimes when he was most busy, sometimes when he was in one

of his rare idle moods. Sometimes a song or a strain of music would

summon up the vision; sometimes in a busy street, or in a silent hour,

it would hover before him. This morning, after reading Hugo’s letter,

he saw it more strongly than ever; but with the strength of will which

belongs to daylight and activity, he thrust it away, and took up his

other letter.

It was from his old friend, Herr Süsmeyer, who asked him if he was

never coming to see him again, and added, that he expected his son home

some time during the autumn, to take his place in the business. There

were further domestic details, and then the remark, ‘Young Heywood,

whom you sent here to me, is my right hand, now that I am somewhat

laid up; but he has been invaluable ever since he fairly mastered the

language. I should like to speak to you about him too. There will have

to be some change when Julius returns.’

‘Julius will return, will he?’ murmured Sebastian to himself. ‘And

Heywood is invaluable. He has gained the old man’s affections, and has

not hardened his heart against him, or indeed against any one but me.

But I know the reason, and can forgive him. It is an old story now.

Still, if ever I had the chance, I should like to test once again his

feelings, and see if he is as stiffnecked as ever.’

He put the letters into his pocket-book, and, having finished

breakfast, took his way to his office, pondering as to whether it

would be possible for him to get a brief holiday some time during the

autumn, run over to Eisendorf, see Herr Süsmeyer, and observe with

his own eyes how ‘young Heywood’ was getting on; then go on to where

Hugo was studying, and carry him off with him to--Italy, perhaps, or

Switzerland. He began to long all at once that he might be able to do

so, and to yearn, almost, for the sound of Hugo’s voice; to feel a

sudden weariness of this grey, dismal town--this never-ending strife

with starvation, this strained suspense, this sensation of standing on

the brink of a precipice, which had been present with him, as it was

with most men in his position, during all those troubled years. The

last two of them he had fought out alone: to-day, for the first time,

he felt the battle weary and monotonous--almost ignoble.

‘Please, sir,’ said Ben, who still retained his place in the office, as

Sebastian entered it, ‘there’s a message from Mr. Sutcliffe to say he’s

very poorly this morning, and can’t come. He’s very sorry, and he hopes

he’ll be better to-morrow.’

‘Ill, is he?’ said Sebastian, going into his private room. Mr.

Sutcliffe had often been ill lately, and when he came to his work he

walked feebly, and coughed a good deal.

‘That’s another question that must be settled, and before long, too,’

reflected Mr. Mallory, a shade of care upon his brow, when he found

himself alone. ‘I must have a serious talk with Sutcliffe, but how I’m

to manage to make him have assistance, and yet take the same salary, I

don’t know. He is so confoundedly conscientious.’

After working doubly hard, in order to make up for Mr. Sutcliffe’s

absence, Sebastian found himself, shortly after eleven o’clock, in

the train on his way to Manchester, Tuesday and Friday being the

market-days in that city: the days when merchants in the streets most

do congregate, and when that impressive spectacle, High ’Change, is

wont to be even more imposing than usual.

It was a busy day. Sebastian, after going on ’Change and visiting his

Manchester office, made certain business calls, and, in the middle

of the afternoon, found himself standing in Mosley Street, exactly

opposite the Royal Institution.

It was a hot, close, Manchester afternoon. Scarcely a breath of air

was stirring. The smoke pressed heavily down upon the thick, yellow

air. Faintly the coppery sunbeams tried to struggle through it,

and wavered, and seemed to fail. There was a roar and a din in the

much-frequented street--all about the great black, grimy-looking

buildings, shops, offices, and warehouses. Omnibuses, carts, and

lorries were struggling in a ‘lock’ in the middle of the street,

and two exhausted-looking policemen were trying to restore order.

Sebastian’s next destination was over the way; but, surveying the scene

before him, he saw no immediate prospect of getting over the way, and

turned round towards the Royal Institution, as if to consult that

building as to what he had better do.

Three large boards, covered with placards, caught his eye. ‘Exhibition

of Pictures,’ in large letters, stood at the top of the boards, while

profuse details followed in smaller print below.

‘The pictures! Why not go in and have a look?’ he reflected, and

straightway walked up to the door, paid his shilling, secured a

catalogue, and ran up the steps.

It was between three and four in the afternoon. If it had been sultry

out of doors, it was much more so within. The rooms felt stiflingly

hot, and the blaze of colour upon the walls was oppressive. There were

not very many visitors present, and those who had come were going

languidly round. The people who had secured seats upon the chairs or

divans looked nearly asleep, and those who had not secured such seats

were looking enviously at those who had, as if, with a little more

provocation, they would forget conventionality and sit down on top of

them.

Sebastian glanced critically around. Now and then a picture caught his

eye and partially pleased it, but these were few and far between; and

he passed rather quickly from one room to another, until he came to the

end one of all, which was devoted to water-colours. The first object

that met his eye was an empty chair, and he promptly sat down upon

it. On examining the wall before him, he found that one oil-painting

had been admitted amongst the water-colours, and that it was hung

exactly opposite to him. He sat in rapt contemplation of it, feebly

endeavouring to guess what it was meant to represent. A drab-coloured

lady crouched together, nursing one of her own feet. She was scantily

attired, also in drab, and had a peculiar cast of countenance, and

an imbecile smile, showing rows of very fine teeth, and was glancing

upwards. She was adorned with ropes of pearls of a size and value which

must have surprised even the author of ‘Lothair,’ could he have seen

them. An opaque veil prevented the colour of her hair from being seen.

She was drab; the stones of the palace-steps upon which she reposed

were likewise drab. The sand of the banks, the water of the river

flowing by, were all drab. Sebastian studied the composition, and shook

his head, referring in despair to his catalogue. ‘Cleopatra by the

Nile, by ----. Price, one hundred guineas.’ If a little green ticket

stuck in the margin of the frame were to be believed, this work of

genius was sold.

‘Some fellows do have most awful strokes of luck,’ mused Sebastian.

‘Now, the man who painted this thing--I wonder if he knew how the

chances were against his ever sell----’

‘You shan’t!’

‘I shall! I tell you I shall have that picture; it’s mine. I like that

little pussy. Mayn’t I have that little pussy, Miss Spenceley?’

‘Well, no, dear, I’m afraid not, unless you can persuade papa to buy

it; because, you see, we can’t take the things away.’

‘But I will have it! I want that little pussy for my own!’ And a howl

followed.

‘Oh, hush, Jacky, dear! What shall we do if the man comes to turn us

out? Come here. We’ll ask papa about the pussy, shall we?’

Sebastian started from his chair, heat, listlessness, ‘Cleopatra by

the Nile,’ and everything else forgotten, and turned suddenly round.

The group was behind him, close to him--yes, he knew that figure again

instantly, even in its present shabbiness, compared with its former

splendour. She was bending over an urchin of four or five summers,

whose engaging countenance was ominously puckered up in readiness for

another burst of infantile music. Two other children, a girl and a boy,

both older than the would-be possessor of the pussy-cat, stood by,

wrangling with each other as to the possession of another work of art.

She still did not turn her face in his direction, but Sebastian, with

an eagerness and a pleasure which surprised even himself, exclaimed

very audibly,

‘Miss Spenceley, have you forgotten me? Won’t you look at me?’ She

started violently from her stooping attitude, and, leaving the

recalcitrant Jacky to his fate, at last turned to him.

‘Mr. Mallory, I--I--how you surprised me!’ she stammered, looking at

first so pale and startled that he was surprised.

He was shocked too, after the first glance, at the change, the sad,

mournful change, in her face.

‘You do know me again,’ he said; ‘at least you might shake hands with

me. I fear you are not pleased to renew our acquaintance.’

He had taken her hand, and as his fingers touched hers, Helena’s

paleness fled, and crimson dyed her cheeks. Tears rushed to her eyes;

her lips opened, but she did not speak. His eyes were still fixed

upon her face; he could not remove them; he did not realise that his

prolonged gaze distressed her. He felt unaccountably glad to meet her,

pleased, excited, light-hearted, as if he had a great deal to say to

her and ask her. He forgot all about his engagements--about returning

to the station, or going home; he wanted to talk to her, to hear her

speak, to find out all about her.

The colour gradually died out of her cheeks, and then became again

apparent the change these two years had wrought in her. She was thin,

decidedly thin, compared with the full if delicate beauty of past days;

there were hollows in her cheeks, and under her great dark eyes; there

was a painful line about her lips, and a melancholy, which looked

as if it were settled, in her expression. She looked, what he had

never thought she could look, patient and subdued--not the impulsive,

fiery-hearted girl whom he had known and teased and quarrelled with.

Her dress, he also saw, was sadly altered. Helena had always had a

weakness for splendid things: she delighted in a rich colour, a soft

silk, a sheeny satin--in all kinds of luxurious, and beautiful, and

fashionable things. Formerly people used to laugh at this weakness.

Other girls, whose fathers had not been so rich as Mr. Spenceley, used

to turn up their noses, and say that she was vulgarly ostentatious;

that it was exceedingly bad taste in a girl to dress herself as

splendidly as a dowager, and so on. In truth, it had been no bad

taste at all. The splendour was part of her nature--one phase of her

individuality; it belonged to her as much as her queenly shape and

melodious voice.

But now--there was no splendour in that dress, of poor material and

last year’s fashion. The silk mantle had been handsome once--perhaps it

was a relic of palmier days; now its shape was antiquated, and it was

too good for the poorness of the rest of the toilette. The glove on the

hand, which Sebastian still continued to hold, had been often mended.

Helena looked what she used to have the strongest objection to--poor,

shabby, and unprosperous, her good looks faded----

But not gone. No. Sebastian, staring on in the same rude and

reprehensible manner, satisfied himself that her beauty was only

clouded over, not vanished.

‘Do you know, I have been thinking about you a great deal to-day?’ he

said. ‘I had a letter this morning from Hugo von Birkenau: he saw a

German lady in the gardens at ----, and thought it was you. Just fancy!

He made all sorts of inquiries about you. How fortunate that I happened

to look in this afternoon!’

Helena seemed to have nothing to reply. Her face was still downcast;

she remained silent.

‘It is nearly two years since we met,’ he urged; ‘and yet you do not

say you are glad to see me.’

‘Oh, I am! Very glad,’ murmured Helena.

‘You live in Manchester still?’

‘Yes; mamma and I. We live in Woodford Street----’

She named one of the southern suburbs of Manchester.

‘Do you? That is not far away. How odd that we should never have met!’

‘I don’t think so. Woodford Street is not a fashionable locality.’

‘Is it not? I must remember the name. I asked my mother where you

lived, but she said she did not know the address. But now that we have

met, I am sure you will allow me to call, will you not?’

‘Our house is so very small; we have so few visitors,’ she began in

some embarrassment.

‘But, my dear Miss Spenceley, you do not seriously mean that you could

urge that as an objection,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are pleased to chaff me,

I think, as you used to do.’

Helena turned abruptly away; her lips set; her eyes fixed upon a

water-colour drawing immediately before them.

‘Do you mean that you really would rather I did not come?’ he asked

earnestly, and excessively piqued at the idea.

‘If you really wish to come,’ said Helena, rather proudly, ‘of course

we shall be happy to see you, but I am sure you will find it very

inconvenient. I am engaged until after four o’clock, and mamma----’

‘Until after four? I shall remember that. The evenings are long now,

and there are trains going to Thanshope till midnight, you know. How is

Mrs. Spenceley?’

‘She is very well, thank you.’

‘Have you been bringing these young people to see the pictures?’ he

inquired, for something in Helena’s manner forbade him to make the

eager personal inquiries which crowded to his lips.

Now that the first shock and surprise of meeting him again had passed,

and she had recovered her self-possession, there was a certain

pride and distance of bearing which seemed to require considerable

deference on his part. Helena’s troubles had indeed made her into

a woman; she had most decidedly quitted the girlish stage. She had

probably, thought Sebastian, become a great deal more reasonable, and

consequently a great deal less amenable to the influence of other

persons--Miss Mereweather, for instance, and himself too. With regard

to Miss Mereweather, it might be a matter of rejoicing that Helena had

forsworn her tenets, but with regard to himself, perhaps that was not

altogether delightful.

‘Yes,’ said Helena, calmly, as she looked at the three children, ‘I

have. They are my pupils.’

‘Are they good?’

‘I fancy they are as good as their parents will allow them to be. It

all depends upon that.’

‘How so?’ asked Sebastian. Anything to prolong the conversation!

‘Mr. and Mrs. Galloway are supplied with the newest ideas upon all

subjects, education included. The new education theory is, that when

children are allowed their own way, they always do right; or if they do

wrong some one else is to blame for it. That is why I say they are as

good as their parents will allow them to be.’

‘And are you generally the “some one else” who is to blame?’ he asked,

wishing very much that she would utter some complaint, afford him some

chance of offering sympathy or expressing fellow-feeling.

‘Oh no!’ she replied, quite cheerfully. ‘I only come in for my share,

and they really are very fond of me; only they show it in rather a

funny way. That is why I can’t see any one before four o’clock. I leave

them then--reluctantly, of course,’ she added, with a smile which vexed

Sebastian, because he could not tell whether it was feigned or not;

‘but still, I leave them.’

‘Won’t you sit down in this chair,’ he said reproachfully, ‘and tell

me all about yourself?’ He moved the chair forward for her, for he saw

that she looked tired, and indeed she was very tired, and Sebastian

looked to her wearied eyes, so kind, so handsome, and so agreeable,

that it was with difficulty she maintained her little air of dignified

reserve: but the voice within was a powerful one: ‘What right has he

to look at me in that gentle, reproachful way, as if he, and not poor

mamma and I, had been neglected? It is impertinent, and I won’t submit

to it.’

‘No, thank you,’ she said aloud, looking at her watch. ‘It is time to

go. We must take a Victoria Park omnibus, and it will pass in three

minutes. Come, children! Jacky, Amy, Ted! we must go.’

They came obediently enough, their failing appearing to be in affection

towards each other. They lavished affectionate epithets upon their

governess, and quarrelled, as Helena said, ‘because I have not three

hands;’ but they cast looks of suspicion upon each other, and took

every opportunity of falling out.

‘Good afternoon!’ said Helena to Sebastian, and as the children crowded

round her and clasped her hands, she was not displeased to see that his

face fell. She was glad that he should see that she was not altogether

an object of pity.

‘I am going too,’ he said. ‘I will see you into the omnibus. It will

save you a little trouble. Come, young lady, take hold of my hand, or

you will tear Miss Spenceley to pieces.’

The little girl put her hand in his contentedly enough, merely

informing her brothers that they were ‘nasty, selfish things,’ and the

procession went downstairs.

As they stood on the top of the steps, waiting for the omnibus,

Sebastian, turning once more to Helena, said,

‘You have not told me the number of your house. What is it?’

‘Fifty-seven,’ said Helena. ‘Jacky, dear, if you pull Teddy’s hair

again, I’ll make you sit outside the omnibus.’

‘Fifty-seven. Best make a note of it, for fear I should forget it,’

he added, jotting it down, while Helena, with a brave assumption of

indifference, looked straight before her, and choked back her tears.

‘You are not engaged until four o’clock on Sundays, are you?’ he

suddenly asked.

‘No--but--oh, don’t come on Sunday!’ said Helena in her old tragic

manner.

‘I solemnly swear that I will not come on Sunday!’ he said. ‘And

equally solemnly I swear I will make you tell me why I am forbidden to

come on that day.’

‘Why?’ said Helena, with a kind of half-laugh, not quite free from an

hysterical sound--‘why, the reason is simple enough. Because----’

The omnibus is almost more relentless in its punctuality than time and

tide. Not another word could be exchanged. They ran down the steps, and

went through the ignominious performance of hailing and catching the

vehicle. Sebastian, with great presence of mind, did manage to clasp

Helena’s hand once more, and to repeat the words,

‘I shall come soon, and _not_ on Sunday.’

Then he stood in the middle of Mosley Street gazing after the omnibus,

until an uproar caused him to look up, and he found himself surrounded

with infuriated lorrie-drivers, swearing at him for getting into the

way, while a hansom cabman had just pulled his horse up on to its

very haunches, and was apostrophising him in a manner the reverse of

complimentary. Newspaper boys were jeering at him, and an indignant

policeman was ordering him to move on.

With an amiable smile, and a murmured general apology, he made his way

to the footpath, and then on to the station.

CHAPTER II.

FENCING.

Towards five o’clock on the following Tuesday afternoon, a hansom-cab

drove rapidly up that Manchester thoroughfare known as Oxford Street,

and the address given by the man who took it had been, ‘Fifty-seven

Woodford Street.’

As they spun rapidly along, he looked out wondering on which side of

Oxford Street Woodford Street might lie; how far from town, and if it

would turn out to be a very poor little street indeed. He remembered

Helena’s look of embarrassment, as she said the house was small and

uncomfortable. They drove on; the cab passed the Owen’s College, passed

the ‘Church of the Holy Name,’ passed some other buildings, and at last

turned off to the right.

Sebastian shook his head. ‘Not the best side. Poor little Helena!’ Why

did he always think of her as ‘little Helena,’ she who was taller than

most women, and whose disdainful head, set upon her long white neck,

had been wont to look over the heads of a good many even of the men

of Thanshope? Three whole days had passed since he had met her in the

Royal Institution--three whole days, and part of a fourth, because she

had told him not to come on Sunday.

‘Why wouldn’t she let me come on Sunday?’ he had asked himself many

times, and had assigned all kinds of imaginary reasons for the

prohibition. The latest was, ‘Perhaps other people, or another person,

may be allowed to come on Sunday. I shall make her tell me--if I can. I

wonder if I can call one of those old flashing smiles to her face--one

of those looks, which ran over it, and made it more beautiful still, if

that could be?’

Lost in profound conjecture upon this subject, he forgot to look where

they were going, until the cab had traversed several smallish streets,

and at last pulled up suddenly before one of a row of moderately sized

houses--houses of the kind which would be called ‘respectable.’ It was

not a glaring new street: it was neatly kept, and as he jumped out

of the hansom and looked up it and down it, he did not see a single

barrel-organ--not even a perambulator.

Neither of these things did he behold; but he saw Helena Spenceley

herself, just coming up to the gate, walking rather wearily, and

looking tired as she pushed it open.

‘She has been walking, and I have been driving,’ he thought, with a

strange sensation of guiltiness, as he dismissed the man and joined her.

‘You see, I have kept my word,’ he observed. ‘I have come soon, and I

have not come on Sunday.’

‘I am glad to see you,’ said Helena, sedately.

They were airing themselves all this time on the top of the door steps,

Mrs. Spenceley’s domestic, or domestics, not seeming to be in any

violent hurry to open the front door; but as Sebastian was about to

make some further observation, it was suddenly flung (as much as such

a modestly proportioned door could be flung) wide open, by a young man

whose appearance seemed to indicate that he belonged to some one of the

numerous tribe of clerks.

When he saw them he recoiled a step or two, and Sebastian, to his

great amusement, saw that he was honoured by the surprised young

gentleman with a scowl of peculiar malevolence. Clearing his brow,

after a moment, of this unbecoming expression, he addressed himself to

Helena.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Spenceley. I hope I see you well.’

‘Very well, thank you. Will you allow me to pass?’

‘You see I am somewhat earlier to-day; in fact two hours earlier than

usual. I was, if I must tell the truth, on my way to meet _you_,’

with great emphasis upon the personal pronoun, and a languishing but

fascinating smile.

‘To meet _me_?’ repeated Helena, with equal emphasis. ‘Pray, on what

errand, Mr. Jenkins?’

‘I thought, as the evening was so beautiful, you might possibly not be

indisposed for a--a--little walk after tea of course; and if so, I----’

‘I am obliged, but I am engaged this evening, and I _never_ take walks

after tea,’ said Helena, with crushing coldness. ‘If you will kindly

allow us to pass----’

Mr. Jenkins, plunging his hand into his breast, flattened himself

against the wall, and resumed the Giaour-like scowl as Sebastian

followed Helena. She opened the door of a back room and invited him in.

‘I am afraid you will find it rather hot,’ said she; ‘these little

houses are so thin, you know. They let the heat in, and then it never

seems to get out again, somehow. Take that chair,’ and she seated

herself languidly upon another. ‘It is our only sitting-room,’ she

added, drawing off her gloves, and speaking deliberately, as she looked

fixedly at Sebastian, to see how he would take her announcement. ‘It is

dining, and drawing-room, morning-room, boudoir, and library. At Castle

Hill we had them separately, but here mamma lets the rest of her rooms

to lodgers. Mr. Jenkins, who wanted me to go for a walk with him, was

one of them.’

‘I see,’ said Sebastian, tranquilly. ‘I also saw that I did not rise in

his esteem from the fact that I deprived him of his walk.’

‘Mr. Mallory!’ exclaimed Helena, indignantly, as she lost the languid

look and suddenly sat upright, ‘do you insult me by supposing that I

_ever_ take my walks abroad with that horrid, presuming little man?

But why should you not suppose so?’ she added with a little laugh.

‘I supposed nothing,’ said Sebastian. ‘I only saw that he looked very

much disappointed, and I could quite sympathise with him.’

Here he ventured to look at Helena with some meaning in his glance,

but was met by a direct gaze of what seemed to him cheerful, blank

indifference--a gaze which chilled him; for Helena’s looks and glances

had suddenly risen to a place of high importance in his mind. Their

interview on Friday, especially the first few minutes of it, haunted

him. He could not forget her agitation, nor how she had turned, first

pale, and then red as a rose, on meeting him. He had wondered, and had

determined to find out, what the agitation meant. He had thought it

would be quite easy. The Helena whom he had known in former days had

not been adroit in concealing her feelings, but before the present

young lady he was obliged to own himself baffled. Her appearance,

attitude, expression, were languid and weary; she looked worn, and

not very happy, but her manner was composed, and a little hard in its

ostentatious cheerfulness. He could not tell what was real and what

assumed, and the desire to find out, to break down the reserve, to

conquer in short--his besetting foible--grew very strong indeed.

‘Can you drink tea at five o’clock?’ pursued Helena. ‘We have ours

at five. Teaching makes me thirsty, and mamma likes her tea at five.

Remember, there is no dinner to follow after.’

‘If you invite me to tea, I am sure I shall be delighted to stay.’

‘Then you are invited. Now I must go and take off my things. I will try

to find mamma. You will excuse our leaving you alone for a short time.’

‘Pray don’t mention it,’ said Sebastian, and Helena left the room. It

was not a lofty room: the doorway was decidedly low, and he thought she

would have to stoop to pass under it.

When he was left alone, he glanced round the room. It was rather

small, and was over-filled with furniture. Books were scattered about,

and in the most shady corner of the room there was a vase containing a

carefully preserved nosegay, such as might be bought for a trifle at

any greengrocer’s shop in the neighbourhood. Everything was exquisitely

neat and orderly, and in little touches here and there he fancied he

recognised Helena’s hand despite the plainness, and in some respects

even poorness, of the furniture. On the mantelpiece he detected two

little vases of Sevres--relics of former splendour, no doubt. There

was no piano, he noticed that. Perhaps because it would have filled

up the room too much, or perhaps because pianos were rather expensive

things to buy or hire. Yet Helena used to sing, and had a very fresh,

sweet voice. How well he remembered her on that evening when he had

first seen her--in her beauty and splendour, in her costly dress and

sparkling necklace and rings. She had sung, ‘Since first I saw your

face.’

That seemed a very long time ago!

He hoped it would not be long before Helena came down again. He hoped

Mrs. Spenceley would not sit with them all the evening, and he hoped

they would not expect him to go away very early.

Presently the door was opened, and, not Helena but her mother came in.

Sebastian was as much struck with the change in her as he had been

shocked with that in Helena, but in a different way. Mrs. Spenceley

looked better, happier, younger, and more contented, than she had done

since her husband had made his fortune eighteen years ago. And she

looked so because she was so. She did not mind the narrow means, the

small house, the two girls, and the constant necessity for her presence

in the kitchen. All that was as the breath of life to her, and she

thoroughly enjoyed it. Sebastian, with a sigh of relief, felt that here

no condolences were needed, no delicate skirting of dangerous ground.

He might look cheerful, and ask Mrs. Spenceley with confidence and

success how she was. The nature of her answer was visibly written upon

her face beforehand.

‘Well, Mr. Mallory, this is a pleasure! I could scarcely believe it

when Helena said she had met you, and you were coming to see us. I

said, “Eh, he’ll never come, not he!” But she said she thought you

would; and she’s right, it seems.’

‘She certainly is. I am very glad to see you looking so well, Mrs.

Spenceley.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lightly, flinging a purple satin

cap-string over her shoulder. ‘I’ve nothing to complain of, thank God!

I’ve got on much better than I’d any reason to expect, and I’m thankful

for it. It’s hard work sometimes, but I’ve a broad back.’

Which she certainly had.

‘That is very fortunate,’ he said, with becoming solemnity.

‘Yes; I’ve four gentlemen. You’d wonder where we find room to put them

all, but the house is more capacious’ (Sebastian conjectured that she

meant spacious) ‘than it looks, and we’ve room for them all. Very

nice gentlemen they are too; all in business in Manchester, you know.

They’re quiet and well-behaved, and they pay up regularly; and,’ she

added, dropping her voice, ‘none of your stand-off gents. They are all

disposed to be most friendly, all except Mr. Harrison, and he’s engaged

to his cousin, who lives in Northumberland. He hears from her regularly

twice a week.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian, with an air of the deepest interest--the air of

one thirsting for more information.

‘But all the others, Mr. Finlay, and Mr. Smithson, and Mr. Jenkins--are

most friendly, and quite gentlemen, every one of them. Indeed, Mr.

Jenkins,’ she dropped her voice again, ‘is very much interested in

Helena.’

‘Is he?’ said Sebastian, still with unfeigned interest.

‘Yes, he is. He’s getting on, too. And a perfect gentleman--on

Sundays’--Sebastian leaned eagerly forward--‘on Sundays they often go

out into the country for the day, or sometimes even for the week-end;

but Mr. Jenkins, never,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, emphatically: ‘Mr.

Jenkins dines with _us_.’

‘_Poor_ Helena!’ thought Sebastian, while he said, ‘Oh, indeed!’

‘Helena said I oughtn’t to have entered into such an arrangement; but

I think she’s mistaken, and I think she’ll come to see her mistake in

time.’

‘Miss Spenceley does not feel so much interest in Mr. Jenkins, perhaps,

as he feels in her!’

‘That I can’t say; but if she does, she conceals it, which is but

natural after all.’

‘Quite natural in such a case,’ assented Sebastian.

‘Here’s the tea-things,’ continued Mrs. Spenceley, cheerfully,

producing a bunch of keys, and going to a cupboard, whence she drew

forth, to speak metaphorically, flagons wherewith to stay her guest,

and apples for his comfort--in the dry language of reality, a jar of

apple-jelly, and a glass dish containing conserves of a deeper, more

sanguinary hue.

While Mrs. Spenceley was half-buried in the depths of the cupboard,

Helena came into the room again. She had changed her dress, and

attired herself in another relic of splendour, a black silk dress,

rich and handsome, if somewhat old-fashioned; and she had tied an

orange-coloured ribbon round her neck, and put on a little lace frill,

and Sebastian felt that she looked lovely, and began to hate those

three gentlemen who were disposed to be so very friendly, with a deadly

hatred. Her eyes fell upon the figure of her mother, half in and half

out of the cupboard. It was a very funny sight, and when she turned to

Sebastian there was a broad smile of amusement upon her face. It looked

as if it was the first that had been there for a very long time, and

Sebastian felt it only right to smile as genially in return.

Mrs. Spenceley, emerging from the cupboard, summoned them to the table;

Sebastian felt as if it were a dream, as he handed Helena her chair,

and took his place opposite her. No surroundings, however poor, could

take away from the queenly beauty of her face and figure. She was

indeed more queenly than she ever had been before, he thought, as he

watched her across that simple board. The meal was soon over, and then

Mrs. Spenceley, rising, said,

‘Mr. Mallory, you must excuse me if I leave you. I must first go

and see about Their teas, and then I’ve promised to go and sit with

Mrs. Woodford, next door but one. She’s a great friend of mine. Her

husband’s father built most of the houses in this street, and was a

rich man, but he never could keep anything, never! and now she pays a

rent for the very house her father-in-law built. This world’s full of

ups and downs.’

‘It is indeed. Then I shall not see you again this evening?’

‘Well, no. We shall most likely have a little supper together, and so I

shall leave Helena and you to have a little chat. But I shall hope to

see you again soon, Mr. Mallory, if you don’t mind coming all this way

out of town.’

He hastened to assure her that he thought it a very nice drive, and not

at all far; and Mrs. Spenceley, disturbed by the sound of a ring at the

bell, said,

‘There’s Mr. Finlay! I must go. Good evening, Mr. Mallory.’

She was gone, and they were alone. Helena had taken her work-basket to

a little table near the window, and had begun to embroider a little

strip of muslin. Sebastian thought the sofa, which was just on the

other side of the little table, offered a suitable place for the

purposes of confidential conversation, and he went and sat down upon it.

‘Is there no one in Thanshope about whom you wish to inquire, Miss

Spenceley?’ he began.

‘I--oh, how rude of me! I have never asked after Mrs. Mallory. How is

she?’

‘She is very well, thank you.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Helena, calmly; and Sebastian felt rather

uncomfortable, for Mrs. Mallory had not displayed any interest in the

Spenceley family since their downfall.

‘Do you see much of the Thanshope people?’ continued Helena, in the

same calmly indifferent tone; not a resentful tone, but a politely

conventional one, which was much more disagreeable to Sebastian than a

resentful one would have been. It implied that Thanshope and all that

therein lived had become a name, a memory, a thing of the past to her.

‘Do you visit much?’ she added; ‘go to many parties?’

‘N--no. I am very busy. I am busy all day, and I don’t care much for

the Thanshope people. All my near friends, those in whom I took an

interest, I have lost.’

‘How very distressing! How has that come to pass?’

‘Hugo von Birkenau has gone to Germany. He is studying music, and

intends to make a profession of it. He has begun to give lessons

already.’

‘Hugo give lessons!’ cried Helena, looking up surprised.

‘Yes, I will tell you all about it another time. I see you don’t half

believe it. But it is true. We have not quarrelled, I am glad to say;

but he has gone. He has begun life for himself, and henceforth our

paths are divided. There was another. You did not know him. I could

scarcely call him one of my friends, but I miss him. He is one interest

less. There was Mr. Blisset; he is dead. There was you--at least I hope

so.’

‘I don’t think we ever were really friends. I did not like your

opinions.’

‘But not enemies?’

‘Well, perhaps not exactly; at least, not at last,’ said Helena with

a sudden change in her voice. ‘But,’ she repeated, ‘I did not like

your opinions. You shut me--I mean, you denied to women the right

to participate in those larger questions which I hold they ought to

be interested in as well as men, for the sake both of men and of

themselves; and I never would give in to that as long as I live.’

She did not speak vehemently, but with a decision and calmness unlike

her old agitation of manner.

‘I wonder how I shall ever make you understand my real views on that

subject,’ he said despairingly.

‘You said you had no views on the question. Perhaps, if you had ever

tried to find out whether I had any understanding, you might have

succeeded in discovering a tiny scrap somewhere very low down. But

never mind, it is of no consequence now. I can never help forward the

questions I take an interest in, as I once hoped to do; so you need

not be afraid of my going astray. I have lost the power.’

‘Miss Spenceley----’

‘I think you have forgotten one of your friends,’ suggested Helena,

with a change in her voice, which she could not quite conceal.

‘Have I? Which?’ he asked very meekly.

‘Miss Adrienne Blisset.’

‘Ah, yes! I actually had forgotten her. I never see her now, either.’

‘Does she no longer live in Thanshope?’ asked Helena, bending over her

work.

‘She still has Stonegate, but she is scarcely ever there. I think she

has taken a dislike to the place. And when she is there, I do not see

her. As you say, she is lost to me too, for we once were friends.’

Sebastian’s voice did not change. It was quite steady and composed.

Helena still seemed interested in her work, as she said,

‘I should think that must be the greatest loss of all to you.’

‘In some respects it is. At first it was a great loss. Now I feel

it less. For two years I have been learning to live alone. Smile

scornfully to yourself if you like! You may not believe me, but it is

true all the same.’

‘Oh, I can believe that you found it hard to lose Miss Blisset’s

society. She was no ordinary young lady. If she had once been your

friend, it must have been difficult to resign her. And people spoke of

something more than friendship. I heard, often, that you and she were

engaged.’

‘Did you? I, too, have heard something of the same kind; but there was

no truth in the report. We were never engaged.’

‘Ah! people will talk, you see!’

‘Naturally, but I don’t think they talk so much anywhere as in

Thanshope.’

‘Perhaps they haven’t so much cause.’

‘That is rather too bad.’

‘You mean that people are not often so rude to you. I can quite fancy

so.’

‘You will agree with me that I have lost all my friends.’

‘You do not seem broken-hearted,’ said Helena. ‘You look well and

cheerful.’ She raised her eyes, and surveyed his face, straightly

and composedly. Sebastian wished the look had not been so entirely

self-possessed.

‘I lead too busy a life to be broken-hearted,’ he replied. ‘Pray don’t

suppose that I spend my time in thinking how lonely I am.’

‘I never supposed anything of the kind.’

‘It is simply that I once had friends, and circumstances removed

them, and I have not been able to fill up their places. I have worked

hard--really hard, and I think I have learnt some good lessons in these

sad years.’

‘Yes,’ said Helena, looking up, with the old eager interest in her

eyes, the old brightness upon her face. ‘You must indeed have learned

some lessons. My greatest trouble in leaving Thanshope was that I

lost sight of all my friends that I had made during the distress. I

have had no interest like that since then. You have. And you have had

other interests too. I saw that they had asked you to be the Radical

candidate, when Mr. Lippincott resigned. There is a prospect before

you! Have you given your answer yet?’

‘My answer is due to-morrow. And upon my honour, I don’t know what it

is going to be. What would you advise?’

‘Mr. Mallory!’

‘Yes?’

‘Why will you persist in saying such things? Do you think it is

amusing?’

‘According to you, I must have the most wonderful faculty of amusement

that any man possessed. Please, do I think what amusing?’

‘Do you think it amusing to ask questions of that kind?--to solemnly

ask advice when you don’t want it? To consult a woman, and a young

woman, upon an important step in life? We don’t understand these

things--at least you say so, and I choose to take you at your word,

so far as you are concerned. I do not choose to be treated as you once

treated me, when I was in earnest, and then be appealed to for an

opinion. I have no opinion on the question.’

‘I wish I had never opened my lips upon that question. You have

never forgiven me, and you never will,’ said he, in a deep tone of

mortification. ‘I too was in earnest when I asked you to-night what you

advised. I have been vacillating, and considering and wondering what

was best, like----’