“A Pebble for your thoughts, Constance,” said Mary, tossing one to
her feet. “But I can guess them--for so many sisters is there not one
brother?”
“Are you so sorry that they have all left us?” returned the other,
smiling and coming back from the realms of fancy.
“I'm sure _I_ am,” said Fan, looking up from her book. “It was so
delightful to have them with us at this distance from London.”
“But why at this distance from London?” objected Mary. “According to
that, our pleasure would have been greater if we had met them at the
Canary Islands, and greater still at Honolulu or some spot in Tasmania.
Imagine what it would be to meet them in one of the planets; but if the
meeting were to take place in the furthest fixed star the delight would
be almost too much for us. At that distance, Sidmouth would seem little
further from London than Richmond or Croydon.”
Fan bent her eyes resolutely on her book.
“You have not yet answered my question, Mary,” said Constance.
“Nor you mine, which has the right of priority. But I am not a stickler
for my rights. Listen, both of you, to a confession. I don't feel sorry
at being left alone with you two, much as I have been amused, especially
by Arthur, who has a merrier soul than his demure little sister.”
“Why will you call me _little_, Mary? I am five feet six inches and a
half, and Arthur says that's as tall as a woman ought to be.”
“A sneer at me because I am two inches taller! What other disparaging
things did he say, I wonder?”
“You don't say that seriously, Mary--you are so seldom serious about
anything! You know, I dare say, that he is always praising you.”
“That's pleasant to hear. But what did he say--can't you remember
something?”
“Well, for one thing, he said you had a sense of humour--and that covers
a multitude of sins.”
The others laughed. “_À propos_ of what did he pay me that pretty
compliment?” asked Mary.
Fan, reddening a little at being laughed at, returned somewhat
defiantly, “He was comparing you to me--to your advantage, of
course--and said that I had no sense of humour. I answered that you were
always mocking at something, and if that was what he meant by a sense of
humour, I was very pleased to be without it.”
“Oh, traitress! it was you then who abused me behind my back.”
“And what about me?” asked Constance. “Did he say that I had any sense
of humour?”
“I asked him that,” said Fan, not joining in the laugh. “He said that
women have a sense of humour of their own, quite different from man's;
that it shows in their conversation, but can't be written. What they put
in their books is a kind of imitation of man's humour, and very bad.
He said that George Eliot was a very mannish woman, but that even _her_
humour made him melancholy.”
“Oh, then I shall be in very good company if I am so fortunate as to
make this clever young gentleman melancholy.”
“I quite agree with him,” said Mary, wishing to tease Constance. “As a
rule, there is something very depressing about a woman's writing when
she wishes to be amusing.”
But the other would not be teased. “Do you know, Mary,” she said,
returning to the first subject, “I was in hopes that you were going to
make a much more important confession. I'm sure we both expected it.”
“You must speak for yourself about a confession,” said Fan. “But I did
feel sorry to see how cast down poor Captain Horton looked before going
away.”
“The more I see of him,” continued Constance, heedless of Mary's
darkening brow, “the better I like him. He is the very type of what a
man should be--strong and independent, yet gentle, so patient when his
patience is tried. It was easy to see that he was not happy, and that
the cause of it was the coldness of one Mary Starbrow.”
“Why not _your_ coldness, or Fan's coldness?” snapped the other.
“I was not, and could not, be cold to him, and as to Fan----”
“Why, he was constantly with me; we were the best of friends, as you
know very well, Mary.”
“So handsome too, and he has such a fine voice,” continued Constance.
“Sometimes when he and Mary sang duets together, and when he seemed so
grateful for her graciousness, I thought what a splendid couple they
would make. Didn't you think the same, Fan?”
“Yes,” she replied a little doubtfully.
“Yes!” mocked Mary. “It would be a great pleasure to me to duck you in
the sea for slavishly echoing everything Constance says.”
“Thank you, Mary, but I'm not so fond of getting wet as you are,” said
Fan, with a somewhat troubled smile.
Constance went on pitilessly:
Oh, he was the half part of a better man
Left to be finished by such as she;
And she a fair divided excellence
Whose fullness of perfection was in him.
“And pray what are you, Constance?” retorted the other. “A fair divided
excellence or an excellence all by yourself, or what? If you find
pleasure in contemplating a deep romantic attachment, think a little
more of Mr. Northcott. He is the type of a gentleman, if you like--brave
and gentle, and without stain. And how was _he_ rewarded for his
devotion? At all events he did not look quite like a conquering hero
when he went away.”
Constance reddened. “He is everything you say, Mary--you can't say more
in praise of him than he deserves; but you have no right to assume what
you do, and if you can't keep such absurd fancies out of your head, I
think you might refrain from expressing them.”
“But, Constance dear, what harm can there be in expressing them?” said
Fan. “They are not absurd fancies any more than what you were saying
just now. I am quite sure that Mr. Northcott is very fond of you.”
“That is your opinion, Fan; but I would rather you found some other
subject of conversation.”
“No doubt,” said Mary, not disposed to let her off so easily; “but let
me warn you first that unless you treat Mr. Northcott better in future
there will be a split in the Cabinet, and Fan, I think, will be on my
side.”
“I certainly shall,” said Fan.
“In that case,” said Constance with dignity, “I shall try to bear it.”
“We'll boycott you,” said Mary.
“And refuse to read your books,” said Fan.
“And tell everyone that the creator of tender-hearted heroines is
anything but tender-hearted herself.”
“This amuses you, Mary,” said Constance, “but you don't seem to reflect
that it gives me pain.”
“I'm sorry, Constance, if anything I have said has given you pain,”
spoke Fan. “At the same time I can't understand why it should: it must
surely be a good thing to be--loved by a good man.”
“Then, Fan, you must feel very happy,” retorted the other, suddenly
changing her tactics.
“I don't know what you mean, Constance.”
“What sweet simplicity! Do you imagine that we are so blind, Fan, as not
to see how devoted Mr. Starbrow is to you?”
The girl reddened and darted a look at Mary, who only smiled, observing
strict neutrality.
“You are wrong, Constance, and most unkind to say such a thing. You say
it only to turn the conversation from yourself. No one noticed such a
thing; but about Mr. Northcott it was quite different--everybody saw
it.”
“I beg you will not allude to that subject again. When I have distinctly
told you that it is annoying--that it is painful to me, you should have
a little more consideration.”
“This grows interesting,” broke in Mary. “The conspirators have
quarrelled among themselves, and I shall now perhaps discover in whose
breast the evil thought was first hatched.”
The others were silent, a little abashed; Fan still blushing and
agitated after her hot protest, fearing perhaps that it had failed of
its effect.
Mary went on: “Are we then to hear no more of these delightful
revelations? Considering that the Mr. Starbrow whose name has been
brought into the case happens to be my brother--”
She said no more, for just then Fan burst into tears.
“Oh, you are unkind, both of you, to say such things, when you
know--when you know--”
“That there is no truth in them?” interrupted Mary. “Then, my dear girl,
why take it to heart?”
“You brought it on yourself, Fan,” said Constance.
“No, Constance, it was all your doing. Even Mary never said a word till
you began it.”
“_Even_ Mary--who is not as a rule responsible for her words,” said that
lady vindictively.
“I shall not stay here any longer,” exclaimed Fan, picking up her book
and attempting to rise.
But the others put out their arms and prevented her.
“Dear Fan,” said Constance, “let us say no more to vex each other; the
remark I made was a very harmless one. And you forget, dear, that I am
different to you and Mary--that words about some things, though
spoken in jest, may hurt me very much.” After a while she continued
hesitatingly--“I am sure that neither of you will return to the subject
when you know how I feel about it. I shall never love again. To others
my husband is dead, but not to me; his place can be taken by no other.”
Fan, who had recovered her composure, although still a little “teary
about the lashes,” answered:
“And I am equally sure that I shall never want to--change my name. I
have Arthur to love and--and to think of, and that will be enough to
make me happy.”
“And I shall get a cat,” said Mary, in a broken voice, and
ostentatiously wiping her eyes, “and devote myself to it, and love it
with all the strength of my ardent nature, and that will be enough to
make _me_ happy. I shall name it Constance Fan, out of compliment to you
two, and feed it on the most expensive canaries. Of course it will be a
very beautiful cat and very intelligent, with opinions of its own about
the sense of humour and other deep questions.”
Constance looked offended, while Fan laughed uncomfortably. Mary was
satisfied; she had turned the tables on her persecutor and provoked
a little tempest to vary the monotony of life at the seaside. Without
saying more they got up and moved towards the town, it being near their
luncheon hour. Fan lagged behind reading, or pretending to read, as she
walked.
“Oh, let's stay and see this race,” said Mary, pausing beside a bench
on the beach near an excited group of idlers, mostly boys, with one
white-headed old man in the midst, who was arranging a racing contest
between one youngster mounted on a small, sleepy-looking, longhaired
donkey, and his opponent, dirty as to his face and argumentative,
seated on one of those archaeological curiosities commonly called
“bone-shakers,” which are occasionally to be seen at remote country
places. But the preliminaries were not easily settled, and Constance
grew impatient.
“I can't stay,” she said. “I have a letter to write before lunch.”
“All right, go on,” said Mary, “and I'll wait for that lazy-bones Fan.”
As soon as Constance had gone Fan quickened her steps.
“Mary,” she spoke, coming to the other's side, “will you promise me
something?”
“What is it, dear?” said her friend, looking into her face, surprised to
see how flushed it was.
“I suppose that Constance was only joking when she said that to me; but
promise, Mary, that you will never speak to Mr. Starbrow about such a
thing?”
“Why?”
“Promise, Mary--do promise,” pleaded the girl.
“But, Fan, I have already talked to him more than once on that same
dreadful subject.”
“Oh, how could you do it, Mary! You had no right to speak to him of such
a thing.”
“You must not blame me, Fan. He spoke to me first about it.”
“He did! I can hardly believe it. Was it right of him to speak of such a
thing to you?”
“And not to you first, Fan? Poor Tom spoke to me because he was afraid
to speak to you--afraid that you had no such feeling for him as he
wished you to have. He wanted sympathy and advice, and so the poor
fellow came to me.”
“And what did you say, Mary?”
“Of course I told him the simple truth about you. I said that you were
cold and stern in disposition, very strong-minded and despotic; but
that at some future time, if he would wait patiently, you might perhaps
condescend to make him happy and take him just for the pleasure of
possessing a man to tyrannise over.”
Fan did not laugh nor reply. Her face was bent down, and when the other
stooped and looked into it, there were tears in her eyes.
“Crying! Oh, you foolish, sensitive child! Was it true, then, that you
did not know--never even suspected that Tom loved you?”
“No; I think I have known it for some time. But it was so hard to hear
it spoken of in that way. I have felt so sorry; I thought it would never
be noticed--never be known--that he would see that it could never be,
and forget it. Why did you say that to him, Mary--that some day I might
feel as he wished? Don't you know that it can never be?”
“But why can't it be, Fan? You are so young, and your feelings may
change. And he is my brother--would you not like to have me for a
sister?”
“You _are_ my sister, Mary--more than a sister. If Arthur had had
sisters it would have made no difference. But about Tom, you must
believe me, Mary; he is just like a brother to me, and I know I shall
never change about that.”
“Ah, yes; we are all so wise about such things,” returned the other with
a slight laugh, and then a long silence followed.
There was excuse for it, for just then, the arguments about the
conditions of the race had waxed loud, degenerating into mere clamour.
It almost looked as if the more excited ones were about to settle
their differences with their flourishing fists. But Mary was scarcely
conscious of what was passing before her; she was mentally occupied
recalling certain things which she had heard two or three days ago; also
things she had seen without attention. Fan, Tom, and Arthur had told
her about that day spent in Exeter. At their destination their party had
been increased to four by Arthur's clerical friend, Frank Arnold.
This young gentleman had acted as guide to the cathedral, and had also
entertained them at luncheon, which proved a very magnificent repast
to be given by a young curate in apartments. It was all a dull wretched
affair, according to Tom; the young fellow had never left off making
himself agreeable to Fan until she had got into her carriage to return
to Sidmouth. And yet Fan had scarcely mentioned Mr. Arnold, only saying
that she had passed a happy day. How happy it must have been, thought
Mary, a new light dawning on her mind, for the sparkle of it to have
lasted so long!
“Shall you meet your brother's friend, Mr. Arnold, again?” she asked a
little suddenly.
“I--I think so--yes,” returned Fan, a little confused. “He is coming to
London next month, and will be a great deal with Arthur, and--of course
I shall see him. Why do you ask, Mary?”
But Mary was revolving many things in her mind, and kept silent.
“What are you thinking about, Mary?” persisted the other.
“Oh, about all kinds of things; mysteries, for instance, and about how
little we know of what's going on in each other's minds. You are about
as transparent a person as one could have, and yet half the time, now I
come to think of it, I don't seem to know what you would be at. A little
while ago you joined with Constance in that attack on me. I am just
asking myself, 'Would it have been pleasant to you if Jack had gone away
yesterday happy and triumphant--if I had promised him my hand?'”
“Your hand, Mary--how can you ask such a question? How could you imagine
such a thing?”
“Does it seem so dreadful a thing? Have you not worked on me to make
me forgive and think well of him? You do not think his repentance all
a sham; you have forgotten the past, are his friend, and trust him. Do
you, in spite of it all, still think evil of him and separate him from
other men? Was the thief on the cross who repented a less welcome guest
at that supper he was invited to because of his evil deeds? And is this
man, in whose repentance you really believe, less a child of God than
other men, that you make this strange distinction?”
The girl cast down her eyes and was silent for some time.
“Mary,” she spoke at length, “I can't explain it, but I do feel that
there is a difference--that it is not wrong to make such a distinction.
It is in us already made, and we can't unmake it. I know that I feel
everything you have said about him, and I am very, very glad that
you too have forgiven him and are his friend. But it would have been
horrible if you had felt for him again as you did once.”
Mary turned her face away, her eyes growing dim with tears of mingled
pain and happiness; for how long it had taken her to read the soul that
was so easy to read, so crystalline, and how much it would have helped
her if she could have understood it sooner! But now the shameful cup
had passed for ever from her, and the loved girl at her side had never
discovered, never suspected, how near to her lips it had been.
And while she stood thus, while Fan waited for her to turn her face,
hard by there sounded a great clatter and rattling of the old ramshackle
machine, and pounding of the donkey's hoofs on the gravel, and vigorous
thwacks from sticks and hands and hats on his rump by his backers,
accompanied with much noise of cheering and shouting.
“Oh, look; it is all over!” cried Mary. “What a shame to miss it after
all--what could we have been thinking about! Come, let's go and find out
who won. I shall give sixpence to the winner, just to encourage local
sport.”
“And I,” said Fan, “shall give a shilling to the loser--to encourage--”
In her haste she did not say what.