Frances remembered little of the journey after it was over, though she
was keenly conscious of everything at the time, if there can be any keen
consciousness of a thing which is all vague, which conveys no clear
idea. Through the darkness of the night, which came on before she had
left the coast she knew, with all those familiar towns gleaming out as
she passed--Mentone, Monaco on its headland, the sheltering bays which
keep so warm and bright those cities of sickness, of idleness, and
pleasure--the palms, the olives, the oranges, the aloe hedges, the roses
and heliotropes--there was a confused and breathless sweep of distance,
half in the dark, half in the light, the monotonous plains, the lines of
poplars, the straight highroads of France. Paris, where they stayed for
a night, was only like a bigger, noisier, vast railway station, to
Frances. She had no time, in the hurry of her journey, in the still
greater hurry of her thoughts, to realise that here was the scene of
that dread Revolution of which she had read with shuddering
excitement--that she was driven past the spot where the guillotine was
first set up, and through the streets where the tumbrels had rolled,
carrying to that dread death the many tender victims, who were all she
knew of that great convulsion of history. Markham, who was so good to
her, put his head out of the carriage and pointed to a series of great
windows flashing with light. “What a pity there’s no time!” he said. She
asked “For what?” with the most complete want of comprehension. “For
shopping, of course,” he said, with a laugh. For shopping! She seemed to
be unacquainted with the meaning of the words. In the midst of this
strange wave of the unknown which was carrying her away, carrying her to
a world more unknown still, to suppose that she could pause and think of
shopping! The inappropriateness of the suggestion bewildered Frances.
Markham, indeed, altogether bewildered her. He was very good to her,
attending to her comfort, watchful over her needs in a way which she
could not have imagined possible. Her father had never been unkind; but
it did not occur to him to take care of her. It was she who took care of
him. If there was anything forgotten, it was she who got the blame; and
when he wanted a book, or his writing-desk, or a rug to put over his
knees, he called to his little girl to hand it to him, without the
faintest conception that there was anything incongruous in it. And there
was nothing incongruous in it. If there is any one in the world whom it
is natural to send on your errands, to get you what you want, surely
your child is that person. Waring did not think on the subject, but
simply did so by instinct, by nature; and equally by instinct Frances
obeyed, without a doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had
said, “Get me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag--hand me
so-and-so,” she would have considered it the most natural thing in the
world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped in and out of
his seat at her smallest suggestion. He pulled up and down the window
at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it mattered whether _he_
liked it or not. He took her out carefully on his arm, and made her
dine, not asking what she would have, as her father might perhaps have
done, but bringing her the best that was to be had, choosing what she
should eat, serving her as if she had been the Queen! It contributed to
the dizzying effect of the rapid journey that she should thus have been
placed in a position so different from any that she had ever known.
And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-grey stormy sea,
which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up just so far--no
farther, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to understand what is
said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she
saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that
meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera,
when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep
purple, solemn enough for a king’s pall, as it has been the pall of so
many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening
lash of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised
their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of
green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart
of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations. She had thought
there would be something triumphant, grand, about the aspect of
England--something proud, like a monarch of the sea; and it was only a
damp, greyish-white line, rising not very far out of those sullen waves.
An east wind was blowing with that blighting greyness which here, in the
uttermost parts of the earth, we are so well used to: and it was cold. A
gleam of pale sun indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but
there was no real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was
depressing. The green fields and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it
was all damp, and the sky was grey. And then came London, with a roar
and noise as if they had fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs,
multitudes of people at every little station which the quick train
flashed past, and on the platform, where at last she arrived dizzy and
faint with fatigue and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind than
words could say. He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn looks at
everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what she thought of her
native country. When they arrived at last, he found out miraculously,
among the crowd of carriages, a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham,
and put her into it. “We’ll trundle off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan,
and let John look after the things; you are so tired you can scarcely
speak.”
“Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could not say
any more.
“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing
touch. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. There’s nothing to be
frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps it was silly of me to
say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. I am the
foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do.
Don’t make a fool of your old brother, my dear. There, look out and see
what a beastly place old London is, Fan.”
“Don’t call me Fan,” she cried, this slight irritation affording her an
excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in
her. “Call me Frances, Markham.”
“Life’s too short for a name in two syllables. I’ve got two syllables
myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome
to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to
it. Did you ever see such murky heavy air? It isn’t air at all--it’s
smoke, and animalculæ, and everything that’s dreadful. It’s not like
that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?”
“Oh no!” cried Frances, with fervour. “But I suppose London is better
for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice.
“Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the earth; it’s
the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, child, it is
paradise,”--he paused a moment, and then added, “with pandemonium next
door.”
“Markham!” the girl cried.
“I was wrong to mention such a place in your hearing. I know I was.
Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about
the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.”
The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out a
flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out.
She had got her veil entangled about her head, her arms in the cloak
which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt
arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until
she found herself suddenly in some one’s arms; then the light seemed to
go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the
warmth, the softness, the faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which
she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more.
“Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate--I hope she is not
given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before
she felt able to open her eyes.
“Not a bit,” said Markham’s familiar tones. “She’s overdone, and awfully
anxious about meeting you.”
“My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?” said the
other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive tone in it; and
then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the
voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half
because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a
faint little tentative utterance, “Mother!” wondering vaguely whether
the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she
was to know.
“My poor little baby, my little girl! open your eyes. Markham, I want to
see the colour of her eyes.”
“As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a strange
outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant
crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He
seemed to walk away, and then came back again. “Come, Fan, that’s
enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I told you there was nothing to
be frightened for.”
And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she was
lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her
stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like
hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself
a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance
had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed
in soft black satin, that did not rustle--that was far, far too harsh a
word--but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and
round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother
to her for ever and ever,--an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch
in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with
disdain--something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious
ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement
of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt.
“Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl,
Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never grown up, like
the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances?
Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain
awake in the night and cried for you.”
“Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into
her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known
anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense,
was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have
always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and
laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion and
melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich
softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new
personality by which her own was surrounded on every side.
“Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this
child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us--isn’t it, my
darling?--as if we had always been together--all the same in a moment.
Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one. Do you think, Markham,
she is able to walk up-stairs?”
“Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I
was--frightened, I think.”
“But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Markham, drawing
the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy
still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to
be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs.
She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian
palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the
warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could
scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly
furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the
tea-table, like, and yet how unlike, that anxious copy of English ways
which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a
momentary gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better,
though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like these; but, alas,
in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs,
through--as she thought--the sumptuous arrangements of her mother’s
room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and in which there was
the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables,
in addition to the necessary details of a sleeping-room. Frances looked
round it admiringly. She knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though
something, a very little, about old art. The painted ceilings and old
gilding of the Palazzo--which she began secretly and obstinately to call
_home_ from this moment forth--were intelligible to her; but she was
quite unacquainted with Mr Morris’s papers and the art fabrics from
Liberty’s. She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. She thought
the walls “killed” the pictures that were hung round, which were not
like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little
pang to her sister. “Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly,
called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the
transfer was to be complete.
“No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said Lady Markham. “It has always
been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always
hoped that; but I never thought that Con would desert me.” Her voice
faltered a little, which instantly touched Frances’ heart.
“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, when she
came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have
very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you
know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her
mine.”
Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very
faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was, “You have
not many visitors, I suppose?”
“Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are--rather poor. We are
not--like this.”
“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do
you mean, dear, by _we_? You must learn to mean something else by _we_.
Your father, if he had chosen, might have had--all that you see, and
more. And Constance---- But we will say nothing more to-night on that
subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was
always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each
side.”
Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great
interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to
herself--more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which
shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and
it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of
Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and
decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor
Constance!” she said under her breath.
“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp
and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con!
You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has
chosen. Was it--dreary for you, my poor child?”
Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of
tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “It is the only life I
know--it was--everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the
sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she
wavered, hesitated, changed the tense--it was. She did not quite know
herself what the change meant.
Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “It was--everything
you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be
disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows
something else---- Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for
her experience, like all the rest.”
Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She
did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the
relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the
sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it
that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown
mother, whom it had been a rapture to see and touch? Or was it only
that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves
and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My
dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do
just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send
Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left
alone and quiet.”
“Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do
not think me disagreeable to say so.”
“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,” said
her mother, kissing her--but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a
burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone--alone,
quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered
to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable and altogether fantastic
disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely
it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised
level of feeling.
“No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She
was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, looking into it with
her head bent and a serious expression on her face. “Perhaps I was too
much delighted for a moment; but she, poor child, now that she has
looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed
in me. That’s rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t
know.”
“I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s very natural.
The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had
been an angel from heaven----”
“Which I am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the fire.
“Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “In that case, you would not have
suited me--which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.”
She gave a half glance at him, a half smile, but did not disturb the
chain of her reflections. “That’s something, Markham,” she said.
“Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go too fast
with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let
her settle down her own way.”
“I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw
something like it in her eyes.”
“That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her
father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about
her. My dear mother, Con’s like Waring, if you like. This one is of our
side of the house.”
“Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand
affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. “But, my dear boy, you
are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there
is nobody at all, unless, as you say----”
“Frances,” said the little man. “I told you--the best of the lot. I took
to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go too fast with
her, mother. She has her own notions. She is as stanch as a
little--Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he
met his mother’s eye, he retired a little, with the air of a man who
does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated curiosity in
her mind.
“How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?”
“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered, carelessly. “And she will stick
to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.”
Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, before the
fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs.
“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “to be making
acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter--and
to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?”
“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “it might have been worse. Let us make the
best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has
never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to
go to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we’ve
got the other one too.”
Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her
handkerchief to her eyes. “For all that, it is very hard, both on her
and me,” she said.