‘Like a woman.’

‘Like a lonely man who has no counsellor to whom to apply.’

‘How pathetic!’

‘Will you really not give me one word of advice? Would you accept or

not?’

‘You do not want my advice. You--it is absurd! You have lots of men to

advise you. What can you want my advice for?’

She spoke impatiently. Stung by her tone, words, and manner, he leaned

suddenly forward, saying,

‘I do want your advice, Helena. I acted like a consequential fool

towards you at one time. When your troubles overtook you, I was made

thoroughly ashamed of myself. You behaved like a heroine. Tell me,

should I accept or refuse? Give me your opinion, and, by heaven, I will

abide by it! I can trust you.’

‘Then accept! With your abilities and your responsibilities, you have

no right to refuse.’

‘I shall accept,’ was all he said, and there was silence for a time.

Helena went on working, with how great, how immense an effort, he could

not know. He sat and meditated on what he had done, on the fact that

he had submitted his conscience to the guidance of a girl’s voice, and

that since that voice had spoken, every hesitation, every doubt had

vanished. Not a difficulty remained.

‘You will be almost certainly elected,’ said Helena, after a pause.

‘Then your life will be busier than ever. How will you manage?’

‘That is a problem which is even now troubling me. I must have some

help. I do not know where to turn for it. I am overwhelmed with

business, really.’

‘Are you? I wonder at you wasting your precious hours here,’ said

Helena, and the moment after she had said it her face became crimson.

‘You think the time wasted, and you wonder that I should waste it

here?’ said Sebastian, and looked at her steadily.

Helena did, at this point, show a return of her former sensibility.

The flush remained high in her cheeks. Her eyes fell, and her hands

trembled as she resumed her work. Sebastian was much too good a

tactician to lessen the value of the sign he had wrung from her, by

coming to her assistance with any casual remark. He remained perfectly

silent, till Helena, apparently finding the situation disturbing,

started up, exclaiming impatiently.

‘How hot it is! Oh, how hot! My needle gets sticky, and I can’t work

with a sticky needle.... When you are elected--and you are sure to be

elected--you will, as you say, be very busy; but what an interesting

kind of business! I shall often think----’

She stopped suddenly.

‘Never mind my life,’ said he, beginning to see where the power on his

side, and the weakness on hers, really lay. ‘Tell me something about

your own.’

‘About mine--my life!’ said Helena, with a laugh. ‘That would indeed be

an exciting history--too much for your nerves altogether, I fear.’

‘Tell me, or I shall not know how to think of you. It is so annoying

not to know the tenor of the life led by some person in whom one takes

an interest. What is the name of the parents of your pupils?’

‘Their name is Galloway.’

‘What sort of people are they?’

‘They are rich people.’

‘That is nothing to the point.’

‘They are people with fads, and yet they are very kind to me. I teach

their children--as much as they will allow me, that is. They believe in

letting the children grow up happy, and never punishing them, which

means----’ Helena smiled.

‘Which means that every one else, and you particularly, are to grow up

unhappy, and live in a state of eternal punishment,’ said Sebastian,

resentfully; ‘disgusting people!’

‘They are not disgusting, and they have a right to bring up their

children as they think best.’

Sebastian found that Helena would not complain. She evidently accepted

the inevitable resolutely. She had become very reasonable and sensible.

He wished she had been less so.

‘Mrs. Spenceley looks well and cheerful,’ said he at last. ‘That must

be a comfort to you.’

‘Poor mamma! Yes, it is,’ said Helena, with sudden tenderness. ‘What a

great deal she has had to go through, and how brave, and cheerful, and

uncomplaining she is. She makes me feel ashamed of myself, and yet I

cannot see things in the light in which she sees them.’

‘Mr. Jenkins, for instance, on Sundays.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Helena, and then, after a pause, ‘No; mamma and I

differ very much on the subject of Mr. Jenkins.’

‘You see, I know why I may not come on Sunday,’ said he, rising.

‘Do you? I thought you would not enjoy Mr. Jenkins’s society, but now,

if you like, you may come on Sunday, and have the pleasure of meeting

him. We are glad to see our friends, if they care to visit us.’

‘Our _friends_!’ It was the turn of the eminently reasonable Mr.

Mallory to feel most unreasonably annoyed at being classed, along with

Mr. Jenkins, as ‘our friends.’ Helena had succeeded in turning the

tables very completely upon him. It was useless to try not to feel

mortified and snubbed. He felt both; and Helena stood, the picture of

unconscious innocence, waiting for him to finish his good-bye.

‘You have changed, Miss Spenceley,’ said he. ‘You have developed the

power of being very----’

‘Rude and unkind?’ suggested Helena. ‘Perhaps adversity has soured my

temper. It has that effect upon many natures, and I never was one who

could endure thwarting as you may remember.’

‘May I be allowed to come again?’ he asked, almost humbly.

‘We shall be happy to see you, whenever your other engagements allow

you to call,’ said Helena, quite coolly and distantly. The answer

chilled him and stung him, and yet he asked himself, what more would he

have had her say?

‘You say you are so very busy,’ she continued remorselessly, ‘and if

you accept this invitation to stand, and if Mr. Lippincott resigns,

which I suppose he really intends to do now, and the election comes on,

your time will indeed be fully occupied.’

‘But I am not forbidden to come when I have time?’

‘Forbidden! Oh no! As I said, we are always glad to see our friends.’

‘Good-bye,’ said he. ‘Remember you are answerable for the step I am

going to take.’

‘You say so, but I wonder how it would have been if we had never met,’

said Helena, carelessly. They shook hands, and Sebastian was gone, with

the words still echoing after him: ‘I wonder how it would have been, if

we had never met!’

‘How indeed?’ he muttered to himself. ‘And how is it to be now that

we have met? I don’t know how it will end, but you shall look at me

differently from that, Helena, or----’

CHAPTER III.

IN THE RAIN.

It was more than three weeks later. The month of August had almost

come to its close. The scene was again the bright and cheerful city of

Manchester, on one of its typical days. August was going out, as she

often does in Lancashire, with a sullen, streaming rain, which poured

on, relentlessly and unceasingly. Helena Spenceley had been struggling

all the morning with her pupils, who had turned refractory, and, unable

because of the rain to go out, had vented their youthful spirits in

a series of experiments upon Miss Spenceley’s endurance. They were

not bad children; indeed they had in them ‘the makings’ of very good

children, and were, as their governess had informed Sebastian, as good

as their parents would allow them to be. They had been allowed to find

out that everyone and everything in the establishment was to yield to

their comfort and convenience. They knew their power, and used it.

The morning’s lessons were over. Usually, at twelve o’clock, Helena

took her pupils for a walk, but to-day that was impossible, so they

remained indoors, and she was understood to be amusing them. It was a

dreary kind of amusement. She had been feeling weary and exhausted all

the morning, and now, the close room, the shouting children rushing

wildly about, almost overpowered her. She felt herself growing each

moment more numb and stupid. At last the bell rang for Mrs. Galloway’s

lunch, and the dinner of Helena and the children. Pell-mell they

rushed in, and forgot for a time, in the pleasures of the table, their

quarrels and disputes, relating chiefly to the possession of certain

precious objects and fetishes, over which they wrangled with ever fresh

acrimony and avidity.

The meal was over, and Helena returned to the schoolroom. The children

were to remain downstairs for an hour with their mother. Helena took

a chair to the window, and, resting her chin upon her hand, looked

drearily out upon the streaming rain, the dripping trees, and the misty

outlines of other houses in the park. Idle tears filled her eyes, and

a lump rose in her throat. She choked both back, and smiled drily and

drearily to herself.

‘What a fool I was,’ she thought, ‘to expect him again! It was

a passing fancy. He is naturally polite--that means, a little

deceitful--and he could not have said anything rough or rude if he

had tried. But he will never come again. It is not likely. I was most

foolish to be so glad to see him. I might have known it would bring me

nothing but pain and sorrow. I wish we had not met again, and then, if

I had not had the pleasure, I should not have had the pain either. I

had almost given over thinking of him, and now I have nothing else to

think of, and he has everything else. Why did he come and spend that

one evening, and brighten everything, and take me into another world,

and force me to like him? Why did he ask my advice--as if he wanted

it? It was too bad, and I was a fool. But I always was that. He is not

shallow--no, it is not that. It is simply that his life is a full one,

and mine is an empty one, and that what to him is a chance meeting--a

passing act of politeness, is to me a great event--a thing to think

about. I wish I had a great deal to do--a work, a regular career. Soon,

if these miserable, restless feelings do not leave me, I must bestir

myself, and find something more absorbing than this teaching. I have

been more dissatisfied ever since I knew that he had the prospect of

making himself a name and an influence. And I will do something, too.

There must be things to be done; there must be some way of curing this

sentimental folly--some way of working it out, till nothing is left of

it. I will find a way, or I will die.’

She started as the door opened, and Mrs. Galloway, the mother of her

pupils, entered.

‘Are you sitting moping, Miss Spenceley? You should never mope,’ said

she; ‘it is a very bad habit, and leads to all kinds of follies.’

‘Does it?’ said Helena.

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Mrs. Galloway, who did not look as if she moped

much herself.

She did not either speak or look unkindly; she was only devoid of tact

and judgment. She held three books in her hands; and as she spoke she

advanced to the window and looked out.

‘I am afraid it is not going to clear up,’ she began, looking first at

the rain, and then at the books.

Helena also expressed the same opinion.

‘I am rather in a dilemma,’ continued Mrs. Galloway.

‘Can I be of any help to you?’

‘I was on my way to ask you to do something for me; but I had no idea

how very wet it was, and I do not think it fit for you to go.’

‘Was it to go out?’ asked Helena, wondering whether it would not be

pleasanter to brave the elements than to return to her task of teaching

the little Galloways that day.

‘The fact is, Mr. Galloway forgot to take the books to Mudie’s this

morning, and we had arranged to have some reading aloud to-night,

and----’

‘I will go and change them for you with pleasure,’ said Helena, almost

with animation; ‘only the children----’

‘It will do the children no harm to miss their lessons this afternoon;

in the depressed state of the barometer, it is cruelty to make them

study. But it is such a day----’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. It will do me no harm; I don’t take cold easily, and

I can take an omnibus from Oxford Street, you know.’

‘Really, since you don’t seem to mind, I think----’

‘I will get ready now,’ said Helena.

‘I can lend you a waterproof,’ suggested Mrs. Galloway, to whom it

did not seem to occur that a cab would be the most effectual kind of

waterproof.

‘I have one, thank you; I am ready now. I will put the books in this

strap. Have you put a list with them?’

‘The list is quite ready. Then you will bring the books back here?’

‘Yes,’ said Helena, cheerfully, so pleased at the prospect of escaping

the afternoon’s lessons that she would willingly have gone if, in

addition to the rain, it had blown a hurricane.

Mrs. Galloway followed her to the hall door, uttering deprecating

observations, and Helena, unfurling her umbrella, stepped out into the

rain.

After a short walk through the damp, soaking avenues of the park, she

at last emerged in Oxford Street, and stood waiting in the wet until

an omnibus came by. It was nearly full, but Helena managed to squeeze

herself in between two stout ‘Turkish merchants,’ and opposite a

fat old woman with a bundle. Who does not know and love the classic

atmosphere of a crowded omnibus on a wet, close day?

The omnibus took her to Market Street, from whence she took another

walk into Cross Street, and turned into the narrow lane, sacred to

Mr. Mudie’s library and fancy shops. Her enthusiasm was beginning

to glow less brightly. She felt very wet, very draggled, and very

tired--exceedingly tired. She went into the library, and found herself

alone there; the young man who came forward to serve her looked almost

compassionately at her, and remarked what very bad weather it was.

Helena languidly agreed with him, and presented her list. He gave her

two heavy massive volumes of travels, and she took them. They would not

go into the little strap which had held the three volume novel, and

Helena was in that mood in which a trifling inconvenience makes one

feel that it would be best to put an end to one’s existence at once.

‘Suppose you were to take only one volume,’ suggested the young man.

‘No, I’ll have both,’ said Helena, stoically, manfully seizing them,

and going on her way.

As she left the library some one almost knocked up against her, some

one who was going, like herself, towards St. Ann’s Square.

‘Beg your pardon. Oh, Helena--Miss Spenceley! What, in the name of all

that is damp, brings you here on such a day?’ asked Sebastian, stopping

suddenly and looking at her.

To meet him thus, after her recent reflections, came upon Helena with

almost a shock: but she mastered herself quickly, and said,

‘I have only been to the library.’

‘Only been to the library! Suppose you give me those books. I have

tried to call at your house again,’ he added, ‘but I have been

so awfully busy. You would see all about my acceptance and Mr.

Lippincott’s resignation in the papers.’

‘Yes; I did not expect you to call again,’ said Helena, distantly.

‘Did you not? You speak as if you were offended. What have I done?’

By this time they were in the square, near the cab-stand, and it was

high time to decide whether they were going in the same direction or

not.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Sebastian.

‘To the omnibus office, till a Victoria Park omnibus comes, and then to

Mrs. Galloway’s with the books. Where are you going?’

‘I am going to see the pictures again,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t you

think you had better come and see them too?’

‘I! Oh, I am afraid I have not time,’ said Helena, taken aback by the

proposal. ‘It is nearly four o’clock, and the books----’

‘Oh, never mind the books. I am sure you want to see the pictures; and

you must explain to me what I have done to offend you, and we can’t do

that under an umbrella in the street.’

He signed to an observant cabby, who drove up, and Sebastian politely

handed Helena into the vehicle. She did not know why she got into

the cab, unless it was because Sebastian looked as if he were quite

determined that she should do so, and she did not feel able to resist.

‘Royal Institution,’ said he, and followed her. They drove rapidly away.

‘I ought not to have come; it is very absurd,’ said Helena,

uncomfortably.

‘I am quite sure you ought,’ he said, decidedly.

He saw that Helena’s manner was changed. From her gravity and almost

monosyllabic answers to his remarks he concluded that she was for some

reason offended with him. He did not know that three weeks’ absence and

silence had done more to favour his cause than three months’ assiduous

courtship would have done.

‘Here we are! Now for the pictures!’ he observed, as they stopped

before the Royal Institution.

Helena laughed nervously, and did not know why she laughed. They

stopped to leave their umbrellas with the porter, and she found

Sebastian unfastening her cloak.

‘Because we shall be here a good while,’ said he, gravely. ‘The

pictures are not to be done all in a minute.’

Helena did not resist. It was all very strange--comical almost. She

felt as if it had been a pre-arranged meeting, and yet, she solemnly

assured herself, that was impossible.

They went up the stairs, bestowing a very scanty meed of attention on

the much-talked-of pictures. Sebastian seemed in very high spirits,

thought Helena, unconscious that her own cheeks were burning with

their old brightness, that the actual sight of her and her eyes had

turned her companion’s head; that he had thought more of her than of

his work since they had parted; that her face, and her eyes, and an

orange-coloured ribbon, had seemed to float before his eyes by day and

by night, haunting him in all his business, and intruding themselves

in the most solemn of committee meetings or political dinners. She was

conscious that whenever she looked at him he seemed to be looking at

her, and, she thought, often when she was not looking; that there was

something in his eyes and his manner which made her tremble strangely,

and that she suddenly felt quite certain that whatever might have been

the case in the past, he did not care for Adrienne Blisset now.

On that wet afternoon there were not more than half a dozen persons

in all the suite of rooms. They walked through one after another, and

would probably have gone on for ever, had they not found that they had

come to the last: they were stopped by a wall, and could go no farther.

‘Sit down,’ said Sebastian, suddenly, taking her hand and drawing her

to the settee in the middle of the room, which was empty, save for

themselves.

‘You know I am in the midst of electioneering?’ said he.

‘I supposed so, from what I read in the papers.’

‘That has been the only reason why I did not call. Twice I have tried

to do so, but, with the best will in the world, I could not manage it.

And poor Sutcliffe, my manager, is ill, so I have had double duty to

do.’

‘I am sure you are busy,’ she repeated mechanically.

‘It is thought that I shall win,’ he added. ‘The Conservatives seem to

have got desperate. No local candidate would present himself, so they

had down a Q.C. from the Junior Carlton. I don’t fancy he has much

chance, though he is a good fellow.’

‘Oh, he will have no chance. You will win. I shall be very glad.’

‘Will you really? You really meant what you said when you told me I had

no right to refuse?’

‘I am not in the habit of saying what I don’t mean.’

‘That is true, but you were very brief in your remarks on that

occasion. Do you think that I really can do good?’

‘Yes,’ said Helena, crushing down all the ungenerous remarks which

occurred to her, and answering him frankly, according to her

conviction, ‘I do. I think, with your experience of a different,

broader life than most of our young manufacturers have led, and

with the practical talents that you have too, you ought to rise to

influence. You may do a great deal. I think you have a noble career

before you, if you will follow it worthily. And--I--I shall always read

with interest of your progress.’

‘You really think this, though you so bitterly opposed me upon some

other questions?’ he asked earnestly.

‘Yes, I do. I have seen not the error of my ideas, for I still believe

them to be true and just in principle, but I have seen that a man may

be utterly against them, and may yet be capable of very great things. I

believe this of you. I shall be sorry if I ever hear of your rising and

lifting your voice against these ideas that I believe in; but I shall

try to think that my cause is not so important as a great many others,

and----’

‘But, will you give me a hearing now, while I tell you that my views

have changed, too, as much as yours?’

‘Have they? How?’

‘I always did believe that the woman’s cause is man’s. I told you that,

even when we most disagreed and least understood each other. During

these two years in which I have lived alone, I have learned to feel

that still more strongly. I have felt that no friend, no _man_, could

give me the help and sympathy that I wanted; that no man, and no woman,

pitted each against the other, could do any good, but that “the _twain

together_ well might change the world.” I shall never uplift my voice

against those theories of yours, never.’

‘I am glad of that, very glad. It would have hurt me dreadfully; it

would have seemed as if--it would have cut me up,’ said Helena.

‘How careful I shall have to be, as to what I say and do, now.’

‘Because of what I have said? You have a larger public than me to think

of. You must do what is right--you must say all that you know of the

truth.’

‘Helena, will you help me to try and discover what is right and true? I

have been wondering for a fortnight whether you would, and sometimes I

have dared to hope it. Have I been too bold?’

‘You mean----’ said Helena, with trembling lips and a face which had

suddenly grown pale.

‘I mean that for a year, for more, I have loved you unconsciously,

Helena; that since I met you three weeks ago, I have known it to my

very heart-depths. Will you help me? Will you be my wife?’

‘You forget,’ said she, her face grown still paler, and its expression

more pained; ‘you forget.’

‘Forget what?’ he asked, surprised and chilled by the tone, yet unable

to think that the expression in her eyes was one of indifference.

‘You forget whom you are asking to be your wife. You----’

‘I am asking Helena Spenceley to be my wife. Who has a word to say

against her?’ he asked, his face darkening.

‘You must remember that I am not alone,’ said Helena. ‘There is the

past: my father, my brother; oh, it is not to be thought of--for you.’

‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me that you do not love me, and

will not marry me?’ he asked, taking her hand, and looking at her until

she looked at him. ‘I would rather you said it straight out--I am

waiting.’

‘But I cannot say that,’ murmured Helena; ‘I do love you.’

‘Then let the other things take care of themselves,’ said he

pleadingly, for something in her face forbade him to draw her to him,

or do anything more than plead.

‘No,’ said she. ‘It is not fit that a man like you, in your position,

should marry a girl with the--connections--that I have.’

‘You mean this seriously?’

‘I am quite decided about it.’

‘Then good-bye,’ said Sebastian, abruptly rising; ‘I will bear it as

best I can.’

He was going, but suddenly turned to her again and stooped over her.

‘Helena,’ he said, and his voice was so changed that she looked up

affrighted--‘is it that your pride is stronger than your love? Because,

if so, yours is not real love.’

‘My pride!’ she ejaculated.

‘Yes, your pride, which is afraid lest it should be said that I stooped

to you? That is the secret of this objection. You would ruin our two

lives for the sake of gratifying your pride.’

‘Sebastian!’

‘Helena?’

‘It is not that....’

‘What else is it?’

She was silent, in pain and uncertainty, till he said:

‘_My_ pride is not so great as my love. You have conquered me, Helena.

I would go through fire and water to win you. Once more, will you tell

me again to go?’

His voice had sunk to a whisper. He was leaning over the settee, and

she, with a sudden shiver at the idea his words conjured up, looked up

to him. He stooped, by an involuntary, instinctive impulse, and kissed

her.

‘Must I go, or may I stay? Answer me, my darling.’

‘Do not go!’ said Helena, almost inaudibly, and Sebastian stayed; but

he could not conceal from himself that he had yet much to win, much

service to do, before he could call Helena his own.

She loved him; she said so; she felt it, but she was proud: he had

been right when he said so. Despite her love, she was half ashamed,

half angry at finding herself conquered, and the glance was a shy and

wavering one which he met. It was a strange fact, that though he wished

very much that Helena would ask him to go home with her, though he had

a couple of hours to spare, yet he dared not venture to hint at the

invitation. All he could venture upon was to say to her.

‘You will allow me to take you to Mrs. Galloway’s, as it is late?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Helena, rising.

And they went downstairs. Sebastian gave Helena her umbrella, carried

her cloak, opened the door for her, in a strange silence. She had just

accepted him, and yet he had never felt so completely held at arm’s

length before. Helena’s own shyness and timidity effected what the

most cunningly laid stratagem could not have accomplished--they raised

her lover’s fervent admiration into absolute worship. He called a cab,

and in it they drove towards the Victoria Park. When they were nearly

there, Sebastian, unable to endure the silence any longer, said.

‘Helena, when may I come to see you? Will you not even look at me?’ he

added, almost vehemently. ‘You cannot know how hardly you are treating

me.’

‘Hardly!’ she repeated. ‘I--it is so strange. It is a most wonderful

feeling.’

‘But pleasant, I hope?’ suggested Sebastian, earnestly.

‘Oh, very!’

‘Then may I come soon to see you? To ask Mrs. Spenceley’s consent----’

‘Oh! there is Mrs. Mallory. I am sure she will object,’ said Helena,

suddenly, and with animation.

‘Leave her to me!’ said he, almost impatiently. ‘See, Helena, we are

almost at the park, and you have not given me one look, one word, to

tell me that you are really mine. I have not deserved to be so treated.’

‘Forgive me!’ said she, suddenly, in a voice of tenderness. ‘I was so

unhappy this afternoon before I saw you, and now I am too happy for

words. I am afraid of my happiness. Come soon to see me, and I will try

to behave better.’

She looked at him at last with an April face, beneath whose showers lay

a broad and fathomless heaven of love. Sebastian was satisfied.

‘And may I write?’ he asked.

‘Yes, do!’ returned Helena, and the cab stopped at Mrs. Galloway’s

door. Helena and the books got out, and Sebastian Mallory drove away

again, to the station--and a meeting.

CHAPTER IV.

A CONQUEST.

‘My dear Mallory, I am glad to see you here at last! Were you

unexpectedly detained?’ asked Canon Ponsonby, greeting Sebastian at the

door of the room in the town-hall in which the meeting was to be held.

It began at half-past seven, and that time had been already past when

Sebastian arrived.

‘I was very unexpectedly detained,’ replied the young man, pressing

Canon Ponsonby’s hand with a fervour which seemed a little extravagant

to that gentleman. ‘But I am quite ready now, quite fit,’ he added.

‘Suppose we go to the platform. They seem to be getting impatient.’

They ascended the platform, and Sebastian was surprised at the

heartiness of the greeting he received. He had not known how popular he

was, and in his present mood he felt absolutely touched by these signs

of goodwill on the part of the ‘people.’ All things combined to-night

to rouse and inspire him. One or two even of his warmest friends and

supporters, and most earnest admirers, had said they feared Mallory’s

coldness of manner might be mistaken for indifference, that he was a

little too prone to betray some of the contempt which he felt for party

and party feeling: and had a way, in the extreme philosophy of his

radicalism, of saying things which might be mistaken by the uninitiated

Thanshope mind for distinctly Conservative expressions. On this

occasion, these doubting hearts were agreeably deceived. Sebastian’s

tact came strongly into play; he made one of those fortunate speeches,

in which the right was happily touched off, and in which the truth was

told without disturbing people’s feelings. He felt himself penetrated

by an enthusiasm as rare, with him, as it was agreeable. Every now

and then he seemed to lose sight of the sea of faces below him, and to

see only one; his own voice seemed to die away, while Helena’s voice

bade him do what was right, and tell the truth as far as he knew it.

Under that influence questions which had hitherto seemed even a little

contemptible were suddenly revealed as susceptible of being raised

and ennobled; and the effort which he had at first thought of making,

chiefly in compliance with the wishes of certain friends, and because

he felt (like Myles Heywood) a thirst for constant work wherewith to

fill up his life--this effort, not a very hearty or enthusiastic one,

was now changed completely by the consciousness that there was not only

Sebastian Mallory, indolent and indifferent by nature, to be consulted,

but also Helena Spenceley, earnest, vehement, and enthusiastic, who

would exult in his success, and be bitterly disappointed by his

failure. Indeed, she was so calmly confident that he would win, that

he felt he dared not lose. All this combined in his favour that night.

There was no want of unanimity in the voice of the meeting. The speaker

was so carried away himself that he carried his audience away with him.

They separated in the highest good humour with him and themselves--full

of confidence in their candidate, and of amiable contempt for his

Conservative opponent.

There followed a gathering of some of his friends, and supper at home.

Politics, and nothing but politics, engrossed the conversation, and

it was late when Sebastian found himself alone. He drew a long breath

of relief, but checked it again immediately--as he remembered the

interview which was to follow.

‘Best get it over at once,’ he reflected, going to the drawing-room;

but finding it empty, he went upstairs and knocked at his mother’s

dressing-room door.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked.

‘It is I--Sebastian. May I see you for a few minutes?’

‘Come in!’ was the answer, and Sebastian entered.

Mrs. Mallory was seated before her looking-glass, and her maid was

brushing her hair.

‘Be quick, Emma,’ said she; ‘and sit down, Sebastian; I shall be ready

directly.’

He threw himself into a low chair by the hearth, and in two minutes was

lost in a pleasant, pleasant dream.

‘Now!’ said his mother’s voice at last, and he speedily awoke to

reality again.

The lady’s maid had twisted up her mistress’s hair into a loose knot in

the gaslight. With the soft frills of her dressing-gown round her neck

she looked a very young and handsome woman.

‘What beautiful hair you have, mother!’ he exclaimed, struck with its

gloss and abundance. ‘Why do you cover it up with a cap?’

‘Is that all you have come to say?’ she inquired drily. ‘What kind of a

meeting did you have?’

‘It appeared very unanimous and successful. Ponsonby said it was, and

he ought to know. I wish you had been there. I saw a good many ladies.’

‘Very likely; but not ladies of my opinions.’

‘Ah! I forgot,’ said Sebastian, smiling.

He felt soft-hearted to-night, and hardly noticed his mother’s coolness.

‘Have all those men gone?’

‘Yes; the last of them has departed, and I am glad of it. But I did

not come to keep you talking about Radical meetings, mother. I wished

particularly to see you to-night; I have something to tell you.’

Mrs. Mallory knew in an instant the nature of the coming communication,

and prepared herself to hear something disagreeable. She had not

omitted to provide her son with many opportunities of changing his

estate. She had had plenty of visitors at her house, and chiefly young

lady visitors. None of them had had a hundred thousand pounds, but

equally none of them had been quite portionless, and all of them had

been more or less good-looking, and what are called ‘nice girls.’ She

had seen all her efforts wasted; had seen Sebastian studiously polite

and amiable, even putting himself out of the way often to attend her

and her visitors when they wanted an escort. She had seen him follow

them to concerts and dances and garden-parties; she had seen him play

the host--and nothing else--to admiration; and she had seen the look of

relief which dawned upon his face when the duty could conscientiously

be left, and he could return to his books, his plans, and his

business--that business which seemed to have become the very breath of

life to him, and from which no girl, however nice, could succeed in

drawing him away.

But some one had at last found this power--probably some one whom she

would dislike excessively. Most probably he had met Adrienne Blisset

again somewhere; had proposed to her a second time, and been accepted.

Mrs. Mallory thought she would have preferred him to come and tell her

that he was going to marry any one--a barmaid, a milliner--any one

rather than ‘that girl,’ whom she hated with a virulence which grew

with time.

‘Indeed!’ she made answer, and left him to inflict the blow. It was

exactly as she expected.

‘I am going to be married, mother.’

‘To be married?’ she repeated mechanically. She had long ago said that

she had no power over her son, but she felt bitter at this proof of the

truth of her words.

‘Yes. I hope you will approve my choice.’

‘If your choice is Miss Blisset, Sebastian, I shall never approve it,

and so I tell you distinctly.’

‘But it is not Miss Blisset, mother. She refused me two years ago--she

would refuse me now, and she would refuse me through all time. Then I

was a good deal cut-up about it. Now, I am very glad. No; it is some

one whom you used to like very much. At least, I always understood you

to say so.’

It is a fact that the idea of Helena Spenceley did not once enter Mrs.

Mallory’s mind. She had so come to believe that her son never could,

under any circumstances, turn to her former favourite, that since the

downfall of Helena and her family she had altogether dismissed them

from her thoughts. Even now, as Sebastian paused, she did not think of

Helena, but said, after a moment.

‘I cannot imagine whom you mean, Sebastian, and I never could guess

things of that kind. Who may the lady be?’

‘Helena Spenceley.’

Mrs. Mallory actually started from her chair.

‘HELENA SPENCELEY! What will you tell me?’

‘You surely cannot disapprove of that. My dear mother, you at one time

wished me to marry her. You told me so.’

‘You have the most extraordinary, perverted ideas of right and duty,

Sebastian. Can you suppose that I ever wished you to marry a girl whose

father committed suicide after behaving in a far from honourable way in

his business affairs, and whose brother absconded with a large sum of

money which he had stolen, and who is now--who knows where he is, or

what he is doing, or what trouble he may cause his relations even yet?’

Sebastian almost smiled at the utter opposition of his mother’s ideas

to his own. They never saw but one side each of the other’s nature--not

because neither had another side to show, but because of the formation

of their respective mental eyes. Yet, for the sake of appearances, he

must argue the matter out.

‘Suppose we had married at the time you wished it,’ he suggested.

‘These things would have happened all the same. As it is, they are now

nearly forgotten. No one with any feeling would wish to remind her of

them. If you could only see her, you would forget them all, in looking

at herself. She was always a beautiful girl, but now she is lovelier

than ever, and more charming.’

She was silent.

‘Will you not say you approve of this, mother! You know I will not seek

a wife with a fortune. If she had happened to have money, well and

good; but I would rather have her without, and with the beauty and the

love that Helena gives me.’

‘It is a mockery to ask me whether I approve of it. You will do it

whether I approve or not.’

‘But if you will approve--if you will hold out your hand to Helena, and

accept her as my wife, you will gratify me beyond measure. You know,

it is really your fault. You threw Helena in my way at first, and she

must have made a much deeper impression upon me than I knew, for a

few weeks ago, when I met her unexpectedly, I was scarcely master of

myself. It was all over with me from that moment.’

‘And suppose I do not approve?’

‘I should be unspeakably grieved. We are alone in the world, almost.

You are the very nearest relative a man can have; but you will agree,’

and he stooped and gently kissed her cheek.

She started. With that kiss seemed to come suddenly to her a great

revelation, the revelation of the love which she had thrust obstinately

away from her. She had received her son as a child, and had tried to

curb and control him; and when he acted as a man, she had enclosed

herself within a wall of icy reserve, and had repelled every advance he

had made. The truth rushed upon her mind now with overwhelming force.

She was a selfish, a profoundly selfish, woman; but somewhere, not

quite withered away within her, there lay the remains of a mother’s

heart.

‘I am your mother, Sebastian,’ she said, with a sudden tremor in her

voice. ‘It is very strange that we should have got on so badly since

you came home.... I have had no wish but for your prosperity and

well-being, and yet----’

‘I know you have. I fear I have not been all that I might have been to

you. Forgive me!’

He refrained, and she noticed it, from even speaking of the other side

of the question--from saying, ‘You have deliberately set yourself

against every plan and project of mine, until at last, in very

self-defence, I have been obliged to be silent, and to keep my hopes

and wishes to myself.’ This behaviour was generous, and she knew it

was. It appeared that Sebastian did love her, and prized her goodwill.

The emotion she felt was not an unpleasant one. And then, as he

certainly would marry Helena, she put her hand on his shoulder and said,

‘I consent, Sebastian, though it is a trial. No; I don’t mean that I

disapprove of Helena. I know a more lovely girl could not easily be

found. It is her--well, never mind! Are you going to be married soon?’

‘Thank you! I thank you from my very heart!’ he exclaimed. ‘My great

fear was lest you should be displeased. Shall we be married soon? I do

not know in the least. I am obliged to go abroad before the autumn, and

if I can persuade Helena, we will be married before then; but I am not

sure that I can. She is not by any means inclined to rush into my arms.

She is very much changed. She used to be so impulsive, and to betray

her feelings so easily; and now, I assure you, her dignity has already

almost overwhelmed me more than once.’

‘When you are married, or, at any rate, when you return from abroad,

you will want the Oakenrod to yourselves,’ she suggested graciously.

‘My dear mother, I hope you will stay in it exactly as long as you feel

disposed to do so. Helena wishes very much to please you,’ he added,

drawing a bow at a venture.

‘Does she? When next you see her give her my--my love. Perhaps I had

better go and call upon her.’

‘Or I will bring her over here to spend the day with you.’

‘Yes, perhaps that might be better. Has she given up any of her old

notions yet?’

‘We both find that our views on these points are considerably modified,

so that we are quite able to meet each other and agree together.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I think it must be getting late.’

‘It is indeed. You must excuse me, mother. I seem to have found more

than a wife to-day,’ he added, kissing her hands one after the other.

‘Good night.’

Mrs. Mallory drew her son’s face down, and kissed him, strangely moved.

‘Good night, my son. God bless you!’

Sebastian left her. The conquest was won. From that day Augusta Mallory

was a happier woman than she had been. There was always a certain

distance about the intercourse between her and her son and his family,

but there was amity and concord; and later, when Helena won triumphs

by her beauty, grace, and spirit, which no money could ever have

purchased for her, and when Mrs. Mallory heard on all sides of her

beautiful and charming daughter-in-law, she began to think that after

all Sebastian had not done so badly, even in a worldly wise point of

view; and her respect for him increased accordingly.

* * * * *

In the course of a week the election came off, when the Radical

candidate headed the poll by a large majority. Despite the exceeding

business of that week, Sebastian had found time to pay several visits

at 57 Woodford Street, and there had used such arguments with Helena

that she had consented to the early marriage he wished for. Sebastian,

Mrs. Mallory, and Canon Ponsonby went over to Manchester one evening,

and the next day there was a small wedding at a quiet church in some

fields.

Helena was given away by her uncle of the uncompromisingly truthful

disposition. Mrs. Mallory looked calmly dignified. Mrs. Galloway

was there, subdued by the fact that Helena had taken the liberty to

contradict her hypothesis that governesses always make disastrous

marriages. Mrs. Spenceley was there too, weeping in an obtrusive

manner; and, when it was all over, they returned to their respective

dwellings, except Helena and Sebastian, who went to the London Road

station, to a compartment in the Euston express marked ‘engaged.’ They

were on their way to Germany, but before they arrived at Euston Square

Sebastian had told Helena the whole history of his earlier love for

Adrienne, and his own misty conjectures as to how things stood between

her and Myles Heywood--a recital which aroused the romantic Helena’s

most compassionate and interested feelings--and so ended Sebastian’s

courtship.

BOOK IV.

QUITS.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

‘_1st Friend._ Well, you’ve tried it: is your problem solved?

_2d Friend._ I have lived so long in the dark, I do not know.

_1st Friend._ Out, into the wind and sunshine then, and try!’

What is the difference, save in size, between one manufacturing town

and another? How will you say, reader, on the first view, where this

town lies to which I am about to lead you? You shall have heard no

word of the language of its people, seen none of its customs, only had

a quick bird’s-eye view of it, with its long chimneys and its canopy

of smoke, its blackened grass and dingy trees. Not to make the survey

tedious, let me say that it is no English town, but a German one. Let

us not linger longer than is needful in its streets; here is a sloping

road that leads to the railway station; and here, after ascending the

hill, we are within the great noisy arena.

Amidst the crowd of hurrying passengers and phlegmatic officials, one

figure stood perfectly still on the platform, waiting quietly, and

looking composedly around him with quick, observant eyes. Whether a

German, an Englishman, or even a Frenchman, the casual observer would

have found it hard to say until he spoke, and then the accent would

have betrayed the Englishman.

He was much changed. The two years of absence, the better outward

circumstances, the habit of authority, the necessity of accommodating

himself to a life new and strange to him, together with whatever

inward thoughts might have had their part in moulding and shaping his

mind--all these had had their influence. He was still Myles Heywood;

but between him and himself of two years ago there was just the

difference that there is between the reflective man and the passionate

child.

As he stood waiting, a little round, quick-looking fair-haired German

man came up to him and began to talk to him.

‘Now, Mr. Heywood, you have finished your business in the town?’

‘Yes, Herr Sternefeld; I am, as you may see, waiting for the train to

Eisendorf.’

‘How goes all there? The old man is in rather feeble health, I hear.’

‘Yes. He has not been strong this summer. He thinks he will be better

when the cooler weather comes.’

‘Ah!’ said the little German, ‘and still he keeps grinding away at the

business?’

‘Yes,’ said Myles, rather indifferently; ‘or rather, I do. He leaves it

pretty much to me at present.’

‘Yes, to be sure,’ said Herr Sternefeld, with a somewhat significant

nod and smile. And there’s your train. Herr Süsmeyer will be glad to

see you back again. _Au revoir!_’

He bustled away, and Myles, stepping forward to take his place in the

Eisendorf train, soon forgot him.

From the great manufacturing town of ----feld, the home of turbulent

spirits and birthplace of social democracy, to the mining and

manufacturing village of Eisendorf, was some three quarters of an

hour’s railway journey. The way was so thickly set with factories,

houses, great collieries, and other evidences of manufacturing

industry, that scarcely had these been left behind, and a strip of

green grass and some distant hills been allowed a chance of showing

themselves in a purer air, than they too were swamped, as it were. More

collieries, more great buildings, cranes, hoists, and a canal, became

dominant in the landscape, while the train rolled into Eisendorf.

Myles got out of the train, and left the station. Going quickly in

the September evening through the busy main street, he presently

turned aside and went down a kind of alley, at the end of which

light and trees were visible. It was the way into a restauration

and _Biergarten_, much frequented by the middle and better class of

Eisendorf. Here, on almost every evening in the week, music was to be

heard, and here, beneath the trees, one might sit and take one’s supper.

This was apparently Myles’s intention, for he walked through the

lighted garden, seated himself at one of the tables, and gave an order

to a waiter, who presently returned bearing a dish, a table-cloth, and

all the other paraphernalia of a supper.

Myles did not spend a long time over this meal. The table was soon

clear again, with the exception of the indispensable bottle of yellow

wine, and the accompanying green glass. He leaned his elbows upon the

table before him and stared dreamily forward across the garden, beyond

the groups of merry guests--young men and girls, and whole families,

with _Vater_ and _Mutter_ in full amplitude; he seemed to see none of

them. The band in the orchestra, fifty yards away, were playing soft

strains; the lamps twinkled with a mild, pleasant brightness; the trees

above them looked ink-black by contrast. The sky beyond was like a

vault of violet crystal, and the lamp-like stars beamed out mildly here

and there. The breeze rustled gently now and then, but it was a very

gentle breeze, with nothing of the storm in its breath. All around was

the hum of laughter and talk, and the murmur of flirtation; now and

then the clanking of spurs and the rattling of swords as the company

was reinforced ever and anon by fresh specimens of the inevitable

lieutenant; it was all very pleasant, very calm and peaceful. Myles,

somewhat languid after a long day’s business in the de-oxygenised

atmosphere of the offices and warehouses of a large town, felt, at the

moment, perfectly neutral; neither glad nor sorry, but content, so far

as he was anything, to sit still, with his arms on the table, taking an

occasional drink of his pleasant, if not strong, straw-coloured Neckar

wine, and listening to the whispers of the band, as one instrument

after another died away in the final bars of a little serenade of

Haydn’s. He would have been content to stay there for an indefinite

time, for Myles had arrived at that mental state in which a man finds

it easiest and pleasantest to go on doing the same thing. Whether the

thing were work or idlenesss was almost immaterial to him, when he had

once begun it. It was the effort of turning his attention from one

thing to another which brought mental pain and inconvenience. All day

he had wrought hard, and asked nothing better than to continue doing

so. So long as he could go on, he was almost at ease. But when the work

was over--when the offices were closed, and men had finished their

toil, and were going home to ‘play them’--to use an idiom of his own

native dialect--then it was that despondency seized him; then it was

that he felt a sudden blank, an emptiness, a sense of being lost and

unprovided for; then it was that the effort to find some other pastime,

something else with which to fill his thoughts, was a dull pang which

he dreaded continually. It was this feeling of desolation that kept him

sitting up till all hours of the night, with book and dictionary open

before him, studying or reading until his eyelids fell over his weary

eyes, and he could go upstairs, certain that he would fall asleep as

soon as he tumbled into bed. It was this which made him dread to awaken

in the night watches, or to lie awake with nothing to do; this that,

as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, made him rise instantly

and begin to do something. He had got an unconquerable horror of those

hours of silent thought and meditation which had once been a joy and

a privilege to him, as they are and must be to all robust, properly

ripening minds.

It was for this reason that, being tired with his work, soothed with

eating and drinking, and pervaded by a feeling of quiet calm and

contentment unusual with him, he felt reluctant to move, and sat on,

his handsome bronzed face set in a gravity that amounted to solemnity,

and a fixed listlessness in his dark and brilliant eyes. Soon, he

knew, the transient pause would be over--for the contentment was

abnormal--soon the aching sense of desolation and unrest would return,

and he would have to awake again.

Very soon, indeed, the spell was broken. A party of young men,

strolling through the gardens, saw him, greeted him, and sat down

beside him. They began to talk--persisted in drawing his attention to

this girl and that girl, and in asking him if he had heard this piece

of gossip or the other.

They were well-conditioned, kind-hearted young fellows enough; they

had liked him, and had treated him with friendliness ever since his

advent amongst them, and they continued to seek his company, in spite

of his unvarying sedateness and gravity. Myles, in these latter days,

was courtesy itself to all who merited courtesy; if Adrienne Blisset

could have heard the yea, yea and nay, nay of his daily communication

at present, she would have been quite unable to accuse him of being

‘scornful’ or ‘disdainful,’ as she once had done. What she might have

felt about the little air of proud, absent, patient indifference, who

shall say?

Despite absence and indifference, Myles was very well liked amongst

the better sort of the young men of Eisendorf. They were of various

nationalities; chiefly, however, German, Dutch, and English, with a

sprinkling of French. They were all engaged in commercial pursuits,

with the exception of one or two young professional men, and an

occasional ‘lieutenant’--that much-laughed-at, much-abused equivalent

of the English curate. It was known--Myles had never attempted to make

any secret of it--that he had left a workman’s situation in an English

town, to come and be the overlooker at Herr Süsmeyer’s works--that

since then he had rapidly risen to the post of manager and headman;

that Herr Süsmeyer had greatly attached himself to him; and it was

thought more than probable that Herr Süsmeyer’s son, Julius, would

never abandon his favourite occupation of travelling in foreign lands,

and that when Herr Süsmeyer had provided for the said Julius, he would

most likely retire, and leave his business in the hands of Myles

Heywood, who--so every one agreed--was quite the most proper person to

succeed to it.

Myles happened to know better--to know that Julius Süsmeyer was even

then on his way home, with every intention of devoting himself to the

career of a merchant, but, at Herr Süsmeyer’s request, he had not named

the fact.

He sat, this evening, listening to the talk and jesting of the others

for some little time, and then rose.

‘Why are you going?’ cried one of them. ‘Why not stay here? The evening

has only just began. It’s only nine o’clock. I expect we shall have

some dancing in the _Saal_ when the concert is over.’

‘Thanks,’ said Myles, with a gleaming smile which lighted up his dark

face; ‘dancing is not in my line, as you know.’

‘No,’ said a young Englishman, laughing. ‘One would almost as soon

expect to see old Michel Angelo’s Juliano de Medici step from his

pedestal and begin to dance, as you, Heywood.... Now that I look at

you,’ he added, thoughtfully, putting his head on one side, ‘there is a

likeness actually; at least about the nose and mouth. Look here! If you

were to put your hand across your face so----’

‘And twist my other arm into a commanding position--thus--you would see

a man in the attitude of Michel Angelo’s ‘Pensiero’ Medici, and that

would be all. Good night!’

‘Odd fish, Heywood!’ murmured his countryman, shaking his head. ‘I

wonder if he was ever less solemn than he is now.’

The object of that speculation took his way out of the gardens and

the town, walking northwards, along a road leading to that suburb in

which lived most of the more wealthy and distinguished inhabitants

of Eisendorf. He walked for half an hour or more, till he arrived at

the house of Herr Süsmeyer, the largest and pleasantest of all these

residences. He went up the dark garden walk, and pulled the bell; soon

the great door was thrown open, and he was in the presence of his

chief, a delicate, kindly-looking old man, with a gouty foot laid up

on a stool before him, and a crutched stick leaning against the table

which stood hard by his easy-chair. The table was covered with books

and papers; a reading-lamp cast a softened light over the page which

the old man was reading. He was quite alone; there was perfect rest and

perfect stillness around him.

He glanced up over his spectacles, and laid down his book, as if well

satisfied when he found who his visitor was.

‘So late!’ said he. ‘I had hardly expected to see you to-night, after

your long day’s work. What business in ----feld?’

Myles entered into details as to the business he had done, with an

incidental disquisition upon the state of trade in general at that

time. Then the conversation drifted off into other channels.

‘Your holiday-time will soon be here,’ observed Herr Süsmeyer; ‘you

mean to spend it in Berlin, I think you said?’

‘I shall go to Berlin, amongst other places,’ said Myles, who had

assumed the very attitude which the young Englishman had wished him to

take, and who sat, his hand half across his face, looking out, through

the open window, into the darkness of the garden. ‘I suppose I shall

wander from one place to another. I do not much care where I go. You

know it is your doing, sir, that I am going at all.’

‘I wonder that you should go to Berlin, from one town to another. I

should have thought the green woods and fresh air of Thüringen, or----’

Myles shook his head.

‘No; I don’t care about the country. It is dull.’

‘Or to England, to see your friends?’

The young man started.

‘No--oh, certainly not,’ said he. ‘The last place I should wish to

go to. No, Herr Süsmeyer; with your introductions and through your

kindness, I shall meet with friends in Berlin and other places, and

shall see a great deal that is interesting, and which I have long

wished to see. I shall come back here refreshed and ready for work

again, until your son----’

‘We can talk about that when Julius arrives. Time enough, time enough!

I hate changes,’ said Herr Süsmeyer. ‘Meanwhile, I have had very good

news to-day--excellent news.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yes; a letter from Sebastian Mallory.’

‘Ah! Is he coming, then?’

‘He is coming--yes, but not alone,’ said Herr Süsmeyer, a smile of much

satisfaction playing upon his face. He will bring his bride with him.

What do you think of that? He says I must see her. But you say nothing;

you did not know?’

‘His bride!’ repeated Myles, in a low voice. ‘No, I did not know.

But--when does he come?’

‘In a few days. They are already at Cologne. They will travel through

Düsseldorf and ----feld, and come here for two nights only. Then they

are going on. It is their wedding tour. I have already given orders,’

continued the old man, ‘to receive them. I must make much of my friend

Sebastian. It is as if a child of my own brought his bride to see me.

I have ordered the guest-chambers to be prepared, which have not been

used since the death of my blessed Amalie, my wife.’

Thus the good old man prosed on, with childlike pleasure in the

prospect of meeting ‘his’ Sebastian again, and of seeing his bride,

so engrossed in the anticipation that he did not even look at his

listener, who sat still, composed and pale, hearing distinctly all that

was said, and occupied, he too, in picturing the scene: how Sebastian

Mallory would lead forward his bride, who would be glad that his old

friends were pleased to welcome her. Myles could exactly realise how

she would go up to good old Herr Süsmeyer with both hands held out, and

eyes shining with happiness, and he--perhaps he need not be there at

all; but, at any rate, if he only kept sufficiently in the background

he would not be observed, and he could bear his pain alone. This stroke

had been long delayed, but it had come at last--as he knew it must.

Those words he had heard spoken in the Thanshope Park had held good.

Why there had been so long an interval he could not tell; he had often

wondered, had many a time sought the papers through with sickening

anxiety, and had never yet seen what he expected and dreaded to see.

But at last all uncertainty was over. He could never doubt again: and

now, he thought to himself, life would be much easier to live, for he

had too much sense to bewail his lot when he knew what it was; it was

uncertainty which was so wearing, and no doubt it was uncertainty which

had caused all his mental pain and distress. Now, certainly, things

would be better.

Thus consoling himself, he rose to take his leave of Herr Süsmeyer, who

shook hands with him, and thanked him for calling, and said.

‘You know, you too must see Mr. Mallory. He will wish to see you;

indeed, he says so in this letter.’

‘Yes, I shall see him, of course,’ said Myles.

Then he went away--walked back to town to his lodgings; found his lamp

burning, and his books open as he had left them; said to himself,

‘Now, at last, I can study with a mind at ease,’ and straightway

prepared to do so.

In vain! Echoes from a life that he had tried to believe lived out

thronged in his mind, and resounded there. Faces seemed to flash

past him and voices to ring in his ears. All sorts of scenes vividly

recurred to his mind: always he and she were together; always there

was exquisite delight mingling with his pain, till he recalled the

scene in which Frederick Spenceley had come scowling through the

committee-room, in the great distress. It was after that that his

life had become so intolerable to him. His thoughts wandered off

to the Spenceleys in general. Of course he had heard of the great

failure; of Mr. Spenceley’s suicide; of Fred’s dishonourable flight.

What was the wretched fellow doing now? he wondered. And there had

been others: a good, homely-looking mother, who seemed ill at ease

under her greatness; and a daughter--he remembered her too--the most

beautiful girl in Thanshope, so every one had said, and Myles also had

been compelled to give her his meed of admiration when he saw her,

day after day, working with Adrienne Blisset. He had often thought

what a contrast they formed--like a beautiful crimson rose and a white

violet: the one with her fair hair and delicate, pale face; the other

with dusky locks and great dark eyes, the rich colour that came and

went, the vivid life in every movement, the splendid attire. Yes, he

remembered her--she was most beautiful; but to him a violet was more

exquisite and precious than the most gorgeous rose, and it seemed other

people shared the same opinion.

CHAPTER II.

ROSE OR VIOLET?

Two days later, Myles took his way, in the evening, towards Herr

Süsmeyer’s house. The travellers had arrived, he had heard, early in

the forenoon. There had been a ceremonious _Mittagessen_, or midday

dinner, at which different treasured friends of Herr Süsmeyer’s had

been present--friends also of Sebastian in former days. Myles, too,

had received a pressing invitation to be there; but, feeling that he

would much rather descend of his own free will into the crater of Mount

Vesuvius, and there spend the remainder of his natural life, than sit

a long three hours (for German congratulatory dinners are not amongst

the briefest of ceremonies) at Herr Süsmeyer’s table under the proposed

circumstances, he had declined, on the plea that it was a very busy

day at the works, and he could not possibly be spared before evening.

At the evening meal (the _Abendbrod_), Herr Süsmeyer insisted that

he should be present; and Myles, not quite sure, when it came to the

point, that the last arrangement was not worse than the first, had

perforce consented.

The house was lighted up, he saw, as he approached. There were lights

in the windows of those guest-chambers which had once been the pride of

her life to the _selige Amalie_ of Herr Süsmeyer. There, in that house,

under that roof, he was to meet Adrienne again--no longer the girl

whom he might dare to love because she was free, but as the wife of

Sebastian Mallory, henceforth to be looked upon with other eyes. A rush

of recollections, sweet and bitter, alike filled his mind for a moment,

and were very strong.

But his will was still stronger. He had not endured his years of

sorrow, trial, and probation, to emerge, at the last, a weaker and

worse man than he had been at first. He was prepared to endure the pain

that awaited him, _piene forte et dure_ though it might be--to endure

and perhaps, in the end to conquer it; to bear it, moreover, so that it

and its cause should be known to himself alone.

It was with a feeling of sadness, but without any of bitterness, that

he entered the house. He felt clearly and distinctly that he could meet

his successful rival without a feeling of grudging or ill-will.

He was ushered into the large commodious room which was Herr Süsmeyer’s

library, and in which he always sat when alone, or with intimate

friends. Myles, going in, saw his old master in his gala dress of

faultless black cloth and dazzling linen, his gouty foot laid up on

the stool before him; his best-pleased smile upon his face, looking up

to where Sebastian Mallory stood talking, his elbow resting on the top

of the piano. There was no one else in the room. Sebastian, who was

looking towards the door, changed his position quickly as Myles came

in, and went to meet him with outstretched hand.

‘Ah, Heywood, I am glad to see you again. We were talking about you at

this instant.’

Myles found it strangely hard at first to return the greeting, but

he sternly beat back the grudging feeling which momentarily raised

its head, and spoke with cordiality. How well Sebastian looked! How

happy! How self-possessed, and at harmony with life and circumstances,

naturally, thought Myles. He had everything to make him so. He was

little changed. Perhaps there was a degree more of animation or

abruptness in his manner; a little more of the active combatant, and

less of the amused bystander, looker-on at the world’s game. That was

natural too, thought Myles, and to be expected, while Sebastian was

thinking he had never seen any man with manner, expression, almost

appearance, so completely changed as this ‘revolutionary weaver,’ as

Hugo von Birkenau had once called him. He could scarcely realise the

excessive change which had taken place. All the old froward defiance

appeared to have vanished, and instead there was

‘The reason calm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,’

which were the qualities he himself most highly prized in man and

woman. They stood patent on his ex-workman’s broad brow, in his steady

eyes, and upon his firmly, though not sourly, set lips. Sebastian was

divided between pleased surprise and self-congratulation on his own

foresight; for, from the first, he had hoped and expected to see Myles

turn into something of this kind.

Occupied with these feelings, the two young men scarcely spoke, but

left Herr Süsmeyer to do the talking, which was exactly what he wished.

The first thing that really roused them to reality again was a remark

of Herr Süsmeyer’s:

‘Your dear wife (_Ihre liebe Frau_) is absent a long time, _mein

Bester_.’

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian, with a sudden flash of the eyes, which did not

escape Myles, ‘she will not be long. I told her at what time you took

your supper. She was resting when I saw her.’

‘So!’ said Herr Süsmeyer, adding, for the hundredth time, ‘I trust she

finds herself accommodated with all she wants upstairs.’

‘Oh, everything, thank you. She says she thinks German hospitality is

the most delightful she ever had.’

‘German hospitality!’ thought Myles. ‘Strange! She passed her happiest

years in Germany; she told me so.’

While he was marvelling at this (to him) peculiar remark of

Sebastian’s, the rustle of a silken gown became audible on the polished

floor of the passage; _she_ was coming now.

‘There she is!’ said Sebastian, catching the sound too, and starting

forward to open the door.

‘I hope I’m not very late,’ said a voice--(silvery, though not _the_

voice)--and it was just at that moment that Myles began to wonder if he

were labouring under some wild and extraordinary hallucination--whether

long brooding and the last blow had really driven him mad.

He was conscious, but in a dream-like, unreal manner, of rising, as

Sebastian led a lady into the room--a lady who laughed a happy laugh.

He was conscious, also dreamily, of seeing a figure which had been in

his thoughts quite lately--a tall, superbly shaped, queenly figure--not

the figure of Adrienne; of seeing a lovely face, glowing with a soft

flush of health and happiness; of meeting eyes which, for darkness and

fire, might match his own; of seeing a long, white throat, a dress of

silk and lace, rings flashing on white hands, and a dazzling smile

making the brilliant whole more brilliant still. Nothing like a sweet

violet, indeed, but a rich and gorgeous rose, in the full pride of its

queenly beauty.

‘Helena, this is Mr. Heywood, of whom you have often heard me speak.

Heywood, Mrs. Mallory.’

(‘How fearfully he stared at me, dear!’ said Helena afterwards. ‘He

is really a very remarkable-looking young man, and I liked him when I

talked to him; but he stared most alarmingly at first.’)

Myles was still dimly aware that the brilliant vision, which he kept

expecting to see fade away like a dissolving view, to be followed by

that of Adrienne, held out her hand graciously, saying something about

‘My husband has often told me about you,’ or words to that effect; and

that he took the hand and bowed over it--very creditably, considering

his state of mind. Then Sebastian placed a chair for--yes, his wife--it

must be his wife, Myles argued within himself, and the conversation

was taken up, and he listened to it in silence for a time, gradually

comprehending that he had been labouring under a delusion, but a

different delusion than he had imagined. By and by he became able to

answer some remark addressed to him by Helena, and then she continued

to talk to him, and Myles found himself being drawn out to show to the

best advantage, saying clever things which he had had no idea that he

could say, until they were elicited by the tact and sympathy of a woman

like Helena. Still, he could not altogether get rid of the sensation

that he was in a dream, and he continued to feel so for the rest of the

evening.

When he was going away, Sebastian asked him if he could see him on the

following morning.

‘At any time you please,’ said Myles.

‘Then I will call at the works in the forenoon. I can soon say what I

have to say.’

On that understanding they parted.

CHAPTER III.

WHICH WINS?

The following forenoon, while it was yet early, Myles saw Sebastian

coming through the great yard, towards the office where he sat. His

face wore an expression of gravity--even of trouble--and he frowned

thoughtfully as he came along.

Myles took him into his private room. He could not help thinking of how

he had received him on that eventful morning when he came driving up to

the office at Thanshope with Hugo beside him, and Myles smiled a little

sadly at the change.

‘You came on business, perhaps,’ suggested Myles.

‘Yes; but I had no idea myself, until about an hour ago, how pressing

the business was. Herr Süsmeyer and I were talking about you last

evening before you came. He tells me his son is on his way home, and

that he intends devoting himself to business.’

‘Yes; I believe that is true.’

‘Under those circumstances, I presume, your position would be somewhat

changed.’

‘Certainly. It would naturally become more subordinate.’

‘Will you like that?’

Myles shrugged his shoulders.

‘Herr Süsmeyer was talking to me about it. He gave me a very high

character of you. He very much regrets your having to take a secondary

position. He says he would be very sorry to part with you for many

reasons, but not if you left him to your own advantage.’

‘Does Herr Süsmeyer want to get rid of me?’ asked Myles.

‘On the very contrary. He only wishes to see your position improved. I

may as well come to the point. You would hear that I have been returned

as the representative of Thanshope, in Parliament.’

‘Yes. I think the Thanshope people showed their good sense there, at

any rate,’ said Myles, with a smile.

‘Let us hope so. But you will easily understand that such a position

will take me away from home a good deal, and make me unable to attend

to my business as fully as I have done.’

‘Naturally,’ said Myles, with a sudden, quick glance upwards, as he

first saw the drift of Sebastian’s remarks. His face flushed, and he

rose from his chair, pacing about the room.

‘For some time Mr. Sutcliffe has been quite unfit for the post he

held--I mean, as regards bodily health. I have wanted very much to

provide him with an assistant, but did not know how to manage it

without hurting his feelings. My conversation with Herr Süsmeyer

decided me to ask you to take the post. Since then--in fact, this

very morning--I have a telegram from Wilson with the news of poor

Sutcliffe’s death. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I liked him well.

Such faithful probity, such diligence, and such capacity, are not found

in one man in a hundred. But, long ago, I thought I had discovered

them all in you, and my errand to you this morning is to ask if you

will take Mr. Sutcliffe’s post in my business. Your energy, vigour,

and the talents for business which Herr Süsmeyer tells me you have,

would be invaluable to me, and without doubt the connection would be an

advantageous one for you. What do you say?’

Myles had come to a stop in his restless walk, his hands plunged in

his pockets, his brows knit, his eyes somewhat downcast. He did not

look elated. His first words were not an explicit answer to Sebastian’s

question.

‘I think you are the most generous man I ever knew, sir,’ he said at

last, almost abruptly.

‘That is beside the question. There is no talk of generosity, but of

a business connection, a contract entered into by us for our mutual

advantage.’

‘It would at least be very much to my advantage. Have you not

considered that there are plenty of men, employers like yourself, who

would be glad to see sons of theirs placed with you, and would furnish

capital too, as a premium?’

‘_Mon Dieu!_ yes, I know. I have had hints to that effect from more

than one already. It does not suit me to do anything of the kind.

I don’t want a young gentleman with capital, whom I shall have to

teach. I want a business man, who can really take commercial care

off my shoulders when cares of another kind are laid upon them. I am

not a fellow to do things in a hurry. The whole matter has been well

considered, and it is a great object with me to secure you. As to

terms, we could come to some satisfactory arrangement, I doubt not.

What I want to know now is, will you come to me, and take the place of

manager of my business?’

Again Myles began to pace the room, biting his lip and frowning

desperately.

‘You must think me strangely callous and indifferent, not to jump at

such an offer,’ he began.

‘No; I see you don’t want to come. I know your reasons. No,’ he added,

as Myles started, ‘not your very reason, but I know that when you left

Thanshope it was in the hope never to see it again; and that desire has

not yet changed.’

‘No it has never changed,’ he owned.

‘But, if I guess rightly, there is no actual, tangible obstacle to your

return. It is a strong private feeling of repugnance on your own part,

arising from some cause or causes to me unknown. Is it not so?’

‘Yes, it is so.’

‘Well; still I ask you to come. Come and try, at least. Fight it down,

and come and revisit your city of the dead. Come and try whether there

may not be new life hidden for you there.’

Myles shook his head.

‘There is not that,’ said he.

‘Then, to put it in another light, come because I ask you, to oblige

me. Surely all that wrath and misunderstanding which once existed

between us is burnt out for ever now. I am certain we can act together

in most things. And--excuse me, I have no wish to be impertinent--but

let me tell you that Stonegate is always empty now; and if it were not,

I have introduced you to my wife.’

Myles turned abruptly away. Stonegate always empty! Whether empty or

inhabited, he had forfeited all right to approach it.

‘With the best wishes in the world for friendship, that would have

divided us, would it not?’ continued Sebastian, who, when he took

up the probe, was not wont to lay it down again, with the operation

half finished, deterred by the anguished face or fainting mien of the

patient.

‘Yes,’ was the only answer.

‘But it is gone. I know not what life may hold for you in the future;

I do know that you have suffered in the past, and that places where

one has had that kind of suffering are haunted, and full of ghosts;

but again I urge you--come! I think you are leading a morbid, foolish

life here, rendered, by the motives which prompt it, not a particularly

healthy one, and----’

‘Say no more, sir. I will come. I knew I should come, as soon as you

asked me. No wish of yours could be other than a command to me now. It

was only that I could not force myself to say yes. But now I say it. I

will go whenever you like--that is, whenever Herr Süsmeyer will spare

me.’

‘That is spoken as I hoped you would speak,’ said Sebastian, heartily.

‘Let us shake hands upon it.’

‘On my agreement to take you for my lawful master, and serve you

faithfully and honestly,’ said Myles, with rather a forced smile, as he

grasped Sebastian’s hand.

‘I suppose that is the foundation of all such agreements, but I trust

we shall be something more worthy of us both than mere master and

servant. At least, you need not be afraid of rusting. I have dozens of

plans which I have never had time or assistants to carry out. Now, with

my wife, and I hope you to help me too, I shall get along splendidly.’

‘I am glad to hear there is plenty of work,’ said Myles. ‘I was to

have left here in a couple of days for a holiday. Suppose I went to

Thanshope direct, instead of Berlin, and the other places I had thought

of. That would leave the field clear to Herr Süsmeyer and his son, and

I could get to work at once.’

‘Better take the holiday first, hadn’t you?’ said Sebastian. ‘It may be

long enough before you have the chance of another.’

‘Thank you; but I would much rather go straight to work. The holiday

was none of my seeking. It was Herr Süsmeyer’s doing.’

‘Very well. I will telegraph to Wilson that you will be there in a few

days, and he must have the books ready for you. I will just give you

an idea of how we stand at present, and leave you to shake down before

I come back, eh?’ said Sebastian, with as much nonchalance as if he

had been proposing nothing more difficult than that they should take

a stroll together. He knew, this astute young man, the kind of nature

he was dealing with. To have proposed coming to Thanshope with Myles,

and there standing by him and smoothing out his way for him, would

have been in the highest degree distasteful to the latter. The charge

imposed upon him was a heavy one; it promised him arduous and incessant

occupation for some time, at least until Sebastian’s return from

abroad. Already the idea of Thanshope looked less like a grim phantom.

The way became more practicable. He brightened visibly, to Sebastian’s

private amusement.

‘Yes. How soon will you return?’

‘It is impossible to say. It will depend a great deal upon the reports

you send me. This is my wedding tour, really, though it has had a

queer beginning, and I think my wife has a right to complain of being

dragged about to German manufacturing towns in order to settle business

matters, when I promised to take her to the Italian Lakes. We shall

try to go on there, and to Switzerland, and make a regular holiday of

it, before coming back to settle really to business. You will do the

best you can.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Myles. ‘I hope and think that my reports will

allow you to take a pretty long holiday.’

‘Then I can go,’ said Sebastian. ‘We leave to-morrow morning. Suppose

you come up to Herr Süsmeyer’s to supper to-night, as you did last

night, and we will take an hour afterwards for business--yes? And now I

must be off.’

These rapidly made arrangements were all faithfully carried out.

In less than a week Myles, armed with Sebastian’s explanations and

instructions, was on his way to Thanshope.

CHAPTER IV.

‘Yet, ere the phantoms flee,

Which that house, and heath, and garden, made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free

From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.’

It would be difficult to overrate the completeness of the change which

had supervened, in both the outer and inner life of Myles Heywood,

between the time when he had left his native town, and now, when he

returned to it.

He was very busy, very quiet, and very lonely. Sebastian had acted with

the soundest wisdom in leaving his new manager to take his place alone,

and alone to fight down the obstacles which he encountered, alone to

strike back the ill-will, the jealousy, and the insubordination--all of

which things raised their heads and gaped upon him with their mouths on

his first assumption of his new office.

Myles had accepted the post calmly, but he had known perfectly well

that he assumed no light task. It would have been comparatively easy,

if there had not been the envy and prejudices of old friends to be

overcome. Thanks to the first-rate management of Mr. Sutcliffe, and

to Sebastian’s own ubiquitous eye, the whole machine was in complete

working order; but this, perhaps, only left all the more room for

smaller spites and jealousies to make themselves felt. There was, first

of all, Wilson, the faithful old cashier who had once been Myles’s

superior: he was a first-rate accountant and bookkeeper, but no manager

or man of business, and utterly devoid of the faculty of arranging

or regulating things. None knew it better than himself, yet it was

something of a trial to his feelings to see the young fellow, whom he

had known from the time when he had begun life as a ‘half-time’ of

eleven, placed over him. In justice to both the men, it must be said

that this little jealousy soon wore off. Myles won Wilson’s heart by

his manner of treating him with scrupulous respect in the presence of

third persons, and without pretensions of any kind when alone with him.

Wilson, too, was an intelligent man, who knew a clever man of business

when he met him. Myles very soon proved his perfect capacity for his

post, and after that Wilson’s soreness was at an end. He backed up ‘Mr.

Heywood’ on every possible occasion, and suffered no appeal from the

said Mr. Heywood’s behests.

Myles found it a somewhat more difficult matter to dispose of others,

old comrades of his own, who were working away in the same old places,

no higher than they ever had been; and who, unable to rise themselves,

were lost in astonishment that he should be put over their heads.

Some of them were strongly inclined to be provokingly familiar; first

jocosely, and then maliciously, insubordinate; utterly unconscious

of the mental gulf between him and them. But the stronger brain and

will of the man who had risen beyond them was able to check these

manifestations of feeling. One or two sharp examples, and a most

unequivocal demonstration that no nonsense would be endured, reduced

them to their natural places. Ever afterwards he had the name amongst

them of having become hard, inconsiderate, and a fine gentleman. He

knew it and regretted it, but accepted it as inevitable, remembering

the time when he had resented the fact that the law did not compel all

men to live on the same level.

The new manager’s eyes appeared to be ubiquitous--nothing escaped them;

but good work and good conduct were as keenly noted by him as bad, and

he let the approval be as distinctly felt as the displeasure. There

was, moreover, another thing which soon began to tell more than all the

others put together: he was utterly unconscious of deserving ill-will;

he was so evidently bent upon work, hard work, and nothing but work,

and not upon hectoring it over those who had become his subordinates,

that distrust gradually subsided. Sneers and scoffs had no effect

whatever upon him; they were ignored in a manner so complete as to

recoil with disconcerting effect upon their originators. That grave

absorbed face, those eyes which noted everything, that ready presence

of mind, that seemingly unwearying, untiring strength, that utter

disregard of the amount of work which fell upon his own shoulders, soon

began to tell upon individuals, and, through them, upon the mass.

Myles wrote Sebastian regular accounts of his business transactions,

hoping they met with his approval. He never named any disputes with the

work-people, leaving his master to infer that he was, as the latter had

said, ‘shaking down’ to his new work.

Outside that work his life was rather colourless. Mary and Harry no

longer lived at Thanshope. Harry had found work in a manufacturing

village some five miles distant; he lived in a cottage on the borders

of an open moor, where the air was pure, free, and bracing. He had

grown, physically, much stronger in consequence of the change, and

thought that his hearing, if not actually better, did not become

worse so rapidly as when he lived in the town. Occasionally, on a

Sunday, Myles would go over to see them, and nurse his sister’s little

boy on his knee, feeling a passion of tenderness which he could not

express for the little round-faced thing, with its large, solemn, dark

eyes--like his own, Mary said, with affectionate pride. He would walk

with Harry over the moors, and gratify him by shouting descriptions of

his foreign life into his failing ears. But, except for this one day

in the week, they were lost to him; their incessant toil, and his own,

preventing further intercourse.

Very often his dead brother occupied a place in his mind. Poor Ned!

What a life he could have given him now! He could have had him to live

with him, and bought him books and pictures, and given him music, and

made his existence a poetry to him. But it was too late: Edmund slept

his quiet sleep, killed off by the want and the sorrow which had been

too much for them all, at the time of the great distress.

One face was missing--that of Hoyle, his old enemy. Myles made some

casual inquiries about him one day, and heard that he had left

Thanshope about a year ago. He never knew the part the man had played

between him and Adrienne.

The young men who had once been friends of his (it seemed as if it

must be hundreds of years ago), and to whose debating society he had

once belonged, received him with a mixture of timidity and admiration.

Many of them had advocated--perhaps still did so--the Proudhonistic

theory--‘all property is a crime.’ At one time Myles had believed

and ardently advocated the same delusion. He had lived faster and

grown faster than these old friends of his, and now they were divided

between embarrassment at his open support of one of the most flagrant

property-holders of the district, and admiration of his cleverness,

which had swept such gains into his own lap. Myles felt little sympathy

with them, and had the uncomfortable sensation that while they were

shy of discussing things before his face, they were very voluble, and

chiefly about himself, behind his back.

He found his most congenial associate in Mr. Lyttleton, the Factory

Inspector of Thanshope and some surrounding towns, who lived in

Thanshope--a middle-aged, highly educated man, who was attracted,

the first time he saw him, by the keen yet sombre countenance of Mr.

Mallory’s new manager; and who, when he learnt the outlines of Myles’s

history, became still more interested in him, asked him to his house,

and there introduced him to some young professional men, of a higher

class, taken all in all, than those he had known in Eisendorf. The

benefit was mutual, and Myles’s circle of acquaintances, if not of

intimates, thus gradually extended. Almost everywhere he pleased, but

everywhere there was the constant wonder why Heywood was so reserved,

so almost melancholy in manner, and so sparing in speech; ‘much more

like a Spanish grandee,’ observed a young doctor to Mr. Lyttleton,

‘than a man who has risen from the ranks of the working-men. I can’t

make the fellow out.’

Very few people could make the fellow out, though many seemed to find a

decided pleasure in trying to do so.

Thus time passed until Sebastian and his wife came home, and then

Myles found that ‘master and servant’ was indeed far from expressing

the relation which Mallory wished to exist between them. Sebastian’s

regard, once won, was dealt out with no niggard hand. He had got

Myles to yield to his will; now it seemed he wished for more than

respect--regard. The best part of Myles’s nature responded to the call;

his liking warmed each day, till it grew to an affection, reserved and

reticent indeed in outward show, but inwardly glowing as warmly as

Sebastian himself could desire. The former ill-will had burnt itself

out. Master and man were on a footing of perfect amity and accord.

The more Myles heard of Sebastian’s plans, thoughts, and schemes,

the better he liked them, and the wiser he felt them to be. He could

appreciate them now; three years ago he could only have scoffed at

them. He entered heartily into them all; he worked unremittingly till

Sebastian declared he was afraid of his energy, and refused rest,

saying he neither required nor desired it. Whatever his own private

and personal hopes, thoughts, or wishes (if he had any), he kept them

strictly and entirely to himself. Helena was very kind to him, and

they were very good friends; she, woman like, always thinking of that

background in his life, that hinted love-story, of which Sebastian had

given her some glimpses. Occasionally she and her husband would speak

of it.

‘Sebastian, you know him best, and what he is capable of. Do you think

he is in love with that girl yet?’

‘I think, most reverend matron, that he is in love with that girl--who,

by-the-by, is rather older than yourself--yet.’

‘Then why doesn’t he find her out and propose to her?’

‘I have not asked him.’

‘He cannot think she is too good for him.’

‘I should not be surprised if he did.’

‘Absurd!’

‘Pray take it upon yourself to tell him so. No doubt you will succeed

in convincing him.’

‘You are ridiculous, sir.’

When he, Myles, had by any chance a leisure hour, he would go--even

after the nights had grown dark, and frosts of winter had set in--up

the dreary length of Blake Street to the wicket of the empty Stonegate,

and, leaning upon that support, would stand gazing at the emptiness

and the desolation of it. No one lived there. A woman came some few

times in the week, and spent the day there, lighting fires and throwing

open shutters and windows; but that was all. It had always, at the

best of times, been a dreary-looking, sad, cold place, but now it was

forlorn in its mournfulness. If it had not been so utterly lonely,

Myles would not have gone there. No one he knew ever came past. He had

his watch-post to himself, and probably found some kind of mournful,

unsatisfactory joy in his vigils. Always it remained the same--empty,

closed, desolate--always void of her presence--always without sign or

indication that it would ever again be gladdened by it. Her name had

never been mentioned, either by him or his friends. He was absolutely

ignorant of where she was, or how; of what she was doing, whether she

were happy or sad; of every fact and circumstance connected with her.

CHAPTER V.

‘Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen;

Du, du, liegst mir im Sinn;

Du, du, machst mir viel Schmerzen--

Weiss’ nicht wie gut ich Dir bin!’

The spell--the long silence--was broken at last. One evening towards

the end of April, when he had been seven months in Thanshope, he first

had any news of Adrienne. The Mallorys were in London, and had been

there since the opening of Parliament in the beginning of February.

Myles had had all the work and responsibility at home laid upon his

shoulders. His work for the day was over, and, the evening being fine

and the air pleasant, he turned out for his usual stroll up Blake

Street. As he came nearer to the house, he saw a man standing in the

garden, and as he approached still nearer, he recognised the man; he

was Brandon, Mr. Blisset’s old servant and factotum.

The windows in the front of the house were all open, and glittering

in the rays of an April sunset--mild and cool. Brandon was standing,

looking meditatively towards that sunset, and towards the moors to

which it formed a flaming background. His hands were in his pockets,

and he was softly whistling a tune.

Myles paused, and the man turned round. There was a mutual recognition.

Brandon had been three days in the town, and had heard all the

gossip there was--all about Myles’s changed position; and while he

looked pleased to see an old acquaintance, he touched his cap as to

a superior. Myles, wishing him good evening, rested his elbow on the

gate, and said.

‘Are you living in Thanshope?’

‘No, sir. I only came here for a few days on business.’

Myles was gratified that he could at once satisfy the deep yearning

that lay at his heart--to ask after Adrienne--and at the same time do

what was natural and to be expected; for who, if not her uncle’s old

servant, should know anything about her? He therefore inquired.

‘Do you ever hear anything of Miss Blisset now, since Mr. Blisset’s

death?’

Brandon looked surprised.

‘Hear of her, sir! I’m in her service.’

‘In her service?’ repeated Myles mechanically.

‘Yes, when my late master died, Miss Blisset was good enough to say

that she particularly wished me to remain with her, unless I had other

views, which I had not. I have served her and her family for thirty

years, and I hope never to serve any other.’

‘I had no idea you had remained with her. I am glad to hear it. She

must require a person to--an old servant, who will be like a friend to

her as well.’

‘Miss Blisset was so kind as to say, when she asked me to remain, that

she looked upon me as a friend. My wife and I are the only servants she

has.’

‘Ah! How is Miss Blisset--or rather, how was she when you left her?’

‘She was quite well, sir, thank you.’

‘Does she live in England?’

‘At present she is living in London, and we have been at Florence and

Dresden.’

‘Indeed! Does she mean to stay in London?’

‘I think she will stay until autumn. Then she is going abroad with some

friends. I am not sure where, but I think to Italy. Most likely she

will take either my wife or me with her, and leave the other behind.’

‘Then she does not think of coming to Thanshope at all?’

‘No. Her lease of this house expires directly, and she is not going to

renew it. She has seen Mr. Mallory in London, and made arrangements to

give it up. I have come to see about storing the furniture.’

‘Yes. When shall you be returning?’

‘In about three days, sir, I expect.’

‘The house will then be empty.’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause. Myles’s heart was beating. Brandon was looking at

him inquiringly, as if he awaited some further word or some message to

be delivered to his mistress. But Myles dared not send any message.

He could not forget how he had ignored her own message to him, though

head and heart alike cried out that he was wrong. In ordinary concerns

he was clear-headed and practical enough: where his love for Adrienne

stepped in, his nature seemed changed; he became timid, nervous, and

lost all self-confidence. To have sent a mere conventional phrase

of compliments or kind regards, would, it seemed to him, have been

deliberate, insolent bravado--after what had passed. If he could have

seen her, if she would have spoken to him, he might have confessed his

fault and begged her pardon; but there was no word, no message that he

could send through even the most trusted of old servants--through any

third person.

After a few more words with Brandon, he wished him good night and moved

on, leaving that worthy man to think how ill-mannered he was. ‘And he

used to sit and look at my young lady in a way that any one must have

noticed,’ thought Brandon, rather indignantly.

Myles walked homewards, deciding in his own mind that he would not go

near Blake Street again until after Brandon should be gone. He pictured

Adrienne in London, with plenty of friends, visiting the Mallorys,

happy--the man had given no sort of hint that she was not happy.

Suppose he happened to be in London, to be in the same room with her,

to pass her in the street! He had forfeited the right to claim her

acquaintance; he did not think he would have the courage to address

her. He had made a great mess, a horrible mistake, when he repulsed

that advance of hers; for that it had been an advance there could be

now no doubt, since there had never been anything between her and

Sebastian Mallory. What a shock, what offence, that behaviour of his

must have caused her! The dead silence which had supervened on her part

showed how she must have taken it.

His heart ached a good deal as he walked towards his home. What

profited him all this solitary, lonely prosperity? If he could have

exchanged it all for one more of those evenings at Stonegate in the

old days--for one more of those glances from Adrienne, which used to

intoxicate him with their half-frank, half-timid expression--he would

have flung all he had to the winds, and begun life again to-morrow,

if he could have seen her once again betrayed into such a look, such

a tone, as that with which she had said, ‘Oh, Myles!’ one Sunday

afternoon. But that would never be. She too had found that Thanshope

was not the place for her. She would never come to Stonegate again.

When next he saw it, it would be empty, dismantled, a shell. He

wondered--and immediately felt eager that it should be so--whether

Sebastian Mallory would let _him_ have Stonegate. There was no other

place in which he cared to live. A fear seized him, lest it might

already have been promised to some one else. He hastened his steps,

and as soon as he got in wrote to Sebastian, and dropped the letter

with his own hand into the letter-box. He had written urgently. If Mr.

Mallory had not already disposed of Stonegate, might he, Myles Heywood,

become its tenant, at whatever rent Mr. Mallory pleased, even to the

half of his income? Repairs and everything of that kind (he mixed up

business and sentiment in a hurried jumble) were to be his concern, and

his alone. And might he have an answer soon? He did not care whether

the reasons of his eagerness were guessed or not by Sebastian.

By return of post he had an answer:

‘DEAR HEYWOOD--I am glad to find there is something you seem to

care much about, outside business. Since Miss Blisset is leaving

Stonegate, I could have no other tenant so desirable as you, and I

assure you applications have not flowed in with the rapidity you

seem to think. You are at liberty to take possession as soon as she

vacates, which I suppose will be in a few days from now. It is not

a residence which I should have exactly chosen out from amongst all

others, but _chacun à son goût_.--Yours truly,

‘S. M.’

Myles carried this note about with him in his breast-pocket, as if it

had been a magic talisman. He studiously adhered to his resolution not

to go near Blake Street till the three days of which Brandon had spoken

should have elapsed, but the shadow of the deserted house ‘haunted him

like a passion’--a longing, intense and increasing, concentrated his

thoughts upon that ‘house, and heath, and garden,’ the ‘phantoms’ of

which had been ‘so dear to him erewhile.’

Not until the fourth evening after this interview with Brandon did he

again take his way along the familiar street.

It was even such an evening as that earlier one. The air was mild, the

sun, now declining, had been bright--all nature smiled. It was growing

dusk as he drew near the house. Why was his heart so low? Why had he

such a great sensation of loneliness--of being cast adrift? Why did sad

words of a sad song ring in his ears, and seem to be borne in whispers

to him with each breath of wind--

‘Away! away! to thy sad and silent home!

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth!

Watch the dim shades, as like ghosts they go and come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.’

‘The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall fall about thine head,

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet,

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the

dead,

Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may

meet.’

He felt the idea dreadfully prophetic; he felt as if that were the fate

he had selected for himself, as he at last rested his arms upon the

homely wicket of that lonesome abode, and looked towards the front of

the house.

He was prepared for closed shutters, melancholy wisps of straw and

scraps of paper, doors bolted and barred--such as mark, with a brand

not to be mistaken, the deserted house. What he beheld was an open door

and an open window--the window to the right hand; he could see that the

hall was stripped of its fittings, that the windows were curtainless,

but the house was not empty--as yet, its hearth was not ‘desolated.’

What is that moving within the room? A figure; perhaps one of ‘the dim

shades, as like ghosts they go and come.’ So dull are our senses, when

night is falling, that even he did not recognise whose form it was; it

was not to a sight, but to a sound, that his nerves suddenly thrilled,

and his senses became tense and alert.

As he stood, a chord was struck upon a piano within--another. A slight

shiver shook him, but still he was not convinced until a voice floated

out--the softly melodious voice which he knew in every fibre of his

heart, not loudly, but with a subdued intensity of feeling which made

him also absolutely tremble. For the song she sang brought hopes,

doubts, fears--and again, wild and tremulous, chaotic hopes, crowding

into his mind. It was the homely old German _Volkslied_--

‘Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen.’

To every word his heart throbbed, as she apostrophised, with the

abandon of one who believes herself unheard and unlistened to, that

absent one--

‘Thou, love, shrined in my heart,

Thou, love, shrined in my mind!’

and sang how he ‘caused her much pain, and knew not how much he was

loved.’ A pause after that, till she went on to the second verse--

‘So, love, e’en as I love thee,

So, so, by thee I’d be loved.’

‘For,’ said the song, ‘I must ever be drawn most tenderly towards thee.’

(‘Die, die, zärtlichsten Triebe

Fühle ich ewig auf Dich.’)

Towards thee--towards whom? Her voice vibrated, almost failed, as

she went on with a sad, pondering accent, to the wonder expressed in

the third verse, as to whether _he_, that absent one of the careless

spirit, might be trusted, as he might trust to her; and the notes

swelled out again--

‘Weiss’ nicht wie gut ich Dir bin.’

Myles’s head had sunk down upon his arms. The wonder, the mystery, the

wild hope, that came surging over his heart almost unmanned him, and

still the voice floated out, as she sang the last verse of the song.

_Could_ it be? Might he dare to hope that, as she chose _that_ hour,

that place, that song in which to express her feeling, that it _was_

he--for she was singing now--

‘My love, when in the distance

In dreams thy face I see,

My heart, with fond insistance,

Turns evermore to thee.’

Whose face? Her voice had faltered with the energy of her own feeling,

on the last lines--

‘Dann, dann, wünsch ich so gerne,

Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’

She sang the last cadences again, as if she could not leave them, as if

weary of waiting and separation--

‘Ja, ja, ja, ja!

Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’

With a heart full of the wildest, most chaotic doubt, wonder, surmise,

Myles stood, his head raised again, his dark eyes burning, as their

wont was when he was agitated, upon the open window. The dusk was too

deep now for him to see anything in the room.

His brain, his heart, all of him, were thrilling with the aspiration

conveyed in the last untranslatable words of the song--the passionate,

simple, primitive--

‘Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’

He saw nothing, heard nothing, until a footstep paused, as if arrested

in surprise, beside him--a figure interposed itself between his eyes

and the window at which he was gazing.

‘_Adrienne!_’

The name fell, like a sigh, without his will or wish, almost without

his knowledge, from his lips. He scarcely knew himself, or where he

was, or anything, except that she stood there, and had paused, stopped,

was looking at him. It was light enough to see that she had recognised

him on coming close to him, and that, when their eyes met, she was

trembling.

When she looked into his face, her own turned paler, and a startled

‘Oh!’ fell from her lips.

For a moment they both stood silent thus. Then Myles, seeing that she

still trembled and looked startled, remembered suddenly where he was,

and how it all was. He bared his head and stood before her, saying, in

a low voice,

‘Pardon me! I forgot! I will not intrude. I did not know you were here.’

He had turned to go, was absolutely moving, when she herself opened the

wicket wide, and said, in an indescribable tone,

‘Will you leave me without one word, as before?’

The tremulous appeal was a command. He entered the garden, looking at

her, as if awaiting a direction from her. But at last he said,

‘It was that which made me fear to look at you. I can scarcely believe

you will speak to me. Do you mean,’ he added, with a sudden appeal in

his voice--‘do you mean that I may come in, and--talk to you?’

For all answer Adrienne held out her right hand, and closed the wicket

with the other, so that they stood together within the garden.

Myles took that hand, but he could not at first speak.

‘Miss Blisset, I behaved unpardonably--like a ruffian--two years ago. I

do not deserve your forgiveness.’

They had been moving towards the house, and they now stood in the

almost dismantled drawing-room, by the open piano.

‘At first,’ said Adrienne, in a voice which still trembled, ‘I thought

I never could forgive you. It was cruel on your part----’

‘It was brutal--unpardonable.’

‘No; you were mad with grief--I knew it afterwards--and you could not

know what it was I had to say to you.’

‘What was it?’ he asked, below his breath.

‘It was to say good-bye, and something more--to say that I feared I had

been unkind! I had seemed to desert you--in your trouble, but that

it had never been so in reality, for I had thought of you constantly;

and,’ she added steadily, ‘to tell you, too, that I had heard

something--that some report had been set going about you and me----’

‘You heard _that_! It was to spare you that--it was because I was

almost mad at the thought----’

‘It was to tell you that I prized your friendship beyond all those

slanders, and that nothing could ever shake it. I did wish to tell you

that; but after you were gone, after you had left me in that manner,

Myles, I dared not write.’

‘Fool that I was! But I have been paying the price of my folly for two

years without ceasing. Till seven months ago I believed you were going

to marry Sebastian Mallory. You may suppose I was anxious for nothing

so much as to be silent--to hear nothing of you.’

Adrienne made no answer, till Myles said,

‘And now you are going to leave Thanshope?’

‘Yes, for ever.’

‘You have come to say good-bye to the old place?’

‘I never meant to come. Brandon found some difficulties about the

arrangements I wished him to make, and telegraphed for me. I came this

afternoon, and am leaving again to-morrow morning.’

Adrienne had lost her self-command as he gained more of his. Her voice

shook uncontrollably, as she leaned her elbow on the top of the piano.

‘I shall always feel happy that I have been able to see you, to tell

you that, whether you forgave me or not, I have repented, and do

repent, my churlishness, and to thank you for your--your _unspeakable_

kindness to a rough, stupid, clumsy fellow like me,’ said he. ‘Your

great goodness and your gentle influence will go with me through my

life; and--may you never know a sorrow or a care as long as you live!’

The aspiration appeared useless, for Adrienne had buried her face in

her hands, and was weeping with a quiet sorrow that had something of

despair in it.

‘But before I go,’ he added, ‘will you answer me a question? Perhaps

I have no right to ask it, but I must, I have been listening to your

singing; I heard every word.’

‘Yes,’ was the almost inaudible answer.

‘Tell me if you had some one in your mind when you sang that song.’

‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, still scarce above her breath.

‘You had!’ he exclaimed, and forgot the solemn farewell, the almost

benediction, he had just bestowed upon her, while he hurried his words

out desperately. ‘Oh, Adrienne! forgive me if I am too presumptuous;

but have mercy! Tell me, when you sang ‘Du, du, liegst mir im

Herzen’.... But I am too bold--I----’

‘Do not look at me so strangely!’ she began, raising her tear-stained

face. ‘Tell me----Ah!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as with one movement

they clasped each other, ‘it is you, Myles--it was always you; but you

were so dreadfully proud.’

‘Do you mean,’ he asked, after a long pause, ‘that if I had come to you

that night--if I had forgotten myself, and told you, as I felt sure I

should, that I loved you, and that no “friendship” could be anything

but a wretched mockery to me--do you mean that _then_ you would have

taken me, ruined and wretched, and without one bright thought or one

hope for the future?’

‘If you had come then, and told me all that, you need not have gone

away without hope, and I should have spent a different two years than I

have done. But it is all right now,’ she added. ‘The probation is over,

my love, and you have borne it bravely.’

‘If you think so, it must be so; but at the time, I assure you, I felt

anything but brave. _Now_ I feel--I feel at rest,’ said Myles.

There was silence. The darkness gathered. The air blew softly in at the

window, and bore with it the faint sound of an old tune, in broken,

melodious chimes.

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Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Spelling of

surnames names were standardized

Other spelling was retained as in the original except for the following

changes:

Page 113: “Another murmer indicative” “Another murmur indicative”

Page 138: “exclaimed Alkibiades” “exclaimed Alcibiades”

Page 140: “nor was he reasurred” “nor was he reassured”