CHAPTER I.

A WIDOW'S TALE AND OTHER STORIES

by

MRS OLIPHANT

With an Introductory Note by J. M. Barrie

William Blackwood and Sons

Edinburgh and London

MDCCCXCVIII

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

I remember well my first meeting with Mrs Oliphant a dozen years ago,

how she "ordered" me to Windsor where she was then living (I like to

think that it was an order, and obeyed as such by her very loyal

subject), and that I was as proud to go, and as nervous, as those must

be who make the same journey by command of another lady resident in the

same place. I have an odd recollection too of buying my first umbrella

for this occasion--for no reason apparently except that I wanted to

impress her.

They say she was not tall, but she seemed tremendous to me that day. I

find an old letter in which I dwelt on the height of her and her grand

manner, so that evidently the umbrella was of little avail. In her

presence, I think, those whose manner is of to-day must always have felt

suddenly boorish. She belonged to a politer age: you never knew it more

surely than when she was putting you at your ease with a graciousness

that had something of a command in it. Mrs Oliphant was herself the fine

Scots gentlewoman she drew so incomparably in her books, most

sympathetic when she unbent and a ramrod if she chose--the _grande dame_

at one moment, almost a girl, it might be, the next (her sense of fun

often made her a girl again), she gave you the impression of one who

loved to finger beautiful things, and always wore rare caps and fine

lace as if they were part of her. She could be almost fearsomely

correct, and in the middle of it become audacious (for there was a dash

of the Bohemian about her); her likes and dislikes were intense; in talk

she was extremely witty without trying to be so (she was often, I think,

amused and surprised to hear what she had just said); her eyes were so

expressive, and such a humorous gleam leapt into them when you attempted

to impress her (with anything more pretentious than an umbrella), that

to catch sight of them must often to the grandiloquent have been to come

to an abrupt stop; and, more noticeable perhaps than anything else, she

was of an intellect so alert that one wondered she ever fell asleep.

That was but a first impression, a photograph of externals, little to be

read in it of the beautiful soul and most heroic woman who was the real

Mrs Oliphant. The last time I saw her, which was shortly before her

death, I knew her better. The wit had all gone out of her eyes, though

not quite from her talk; her face had grown very sweet and soft, and

what had started to be the old laugh often ended pitifully. The two sons

who had been so much to her were gone, and for the rest of her days she

never forgot it, I think, for the length of a smile. She was less the

novelist now than a pathetic figure in a novel. She was as brave as

ever, but she had less self-control; and so, I suppose it was, that the

more exquisite part of her, which the Scotswoman's reserve had kept

hidden, came to the surface and dwelt for that last year in her face, as

if to let all those who looked on Mrs Oliphant know what she was before

she bade them good-bye.

I wonder if there is among the younger Scottish novelists of to-day any

one so foolish as to believe that he has a right to a stool near this

woman, any one who has not experienced a sense of shame (and some rage

at his heart) if he found that for the moment his little efforts were

being taken more seriously than hers: I should like to lead the simple

man by the ear down the long procession of her books. It is too long a

procession, though there are so many fine figures in it--men and women

and boys (the boy in 'Sir Tom' is surely among the best in fiction) in

the earlier stories, nearly all women in the latest; but whether they

would have been greater books had she revised one instead of beginning

another is probably to be doubted. Not certainly because the best of

them could not have been made better. That is obvious to almost any

reader: there nearly always comes a point in Mrs Oliphant's novels where

almost any writer of the younger school, without a sixth part of her

capacity, could have stepped in with advantage. Often it is at the end

of a fine scene, and what he would have had to tell her was that it was

the end, for she seldom seemed to know. Even 'Kirsteen,' which I take to

be the best, far the best, story of its kind that has come out of

Scotland for the last score of years, could have been improved by the

comparative duffer. Condensation, a more careful choice of words, we all

learn these arts in the schools nowadays--they are natural to the spirit

of the age; but Mrs Oliphant never learned them, they were contrary to

her genius (as to that of some other novelists greater than she), and

they would probably have trammelled her so much that the books would

have lost more than they gained. We must take her as she was, believing

that she knew the medium which best suited her talents, though it was

not the best medium.

Her short stories, of which this book is a sample, contain some of her

finest work,--indeed nearly all of her deepest imaginings have appeared,

as it happens, in this form. There is nothing in this volume that

deserves to rank with, say, 'Old Lady Mary,' nor has it the rippling

humour of the delicious 'Chronicles of Carlingford': its tale of the

Fellow of his college who becomes a raving lunatic because society has

discovered that his mother sells butter would be quite unworthy of

inclusion were it not for the noble figure of the mother; yet the book

has numberless flashes of insight, several of those women "no longer in

the first flush of youth" of whom Mrs Oliphant wrote always with

abundant sympathy, and latterly as if she loved them the best, and at

least one sweet love story in "Mademoiselle" (Mademoiselle writes such a

charming love letter, saying No, that if she had dropped it on the way

to the post-office the first man who picked it up and read it would have

rushed her to the registrar); and as if all this were not enough, she

gives us in "Queen Eleanor and Fair Rosamond" as terrible and grim a

picture of a man tired of fifty years of respectability as was ever

written. One would have liked to be able to pitchfork the son out of the

story, because he will talk, and, after the supreme situation, to drop

the curtain on the analysis of Queen Eleanor's state of mind. But it is

a story to set you thinking. Mrs Oliphant wrote so many short stories

that she forgot their names and what they were about, but readers, I

think, will not soon forget this one; and if not this, when shall their

hearts grow cold and their admiration wane for the wonderful woman of

whom it is but the thousandth part?

J. M. BARRIE.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

A WIDOW'S TALE 1

QUEEN ELEANOR AND FAIR ROSAMOND 57

MADEMOISELLE 115

THE LILY AND THE THORN 177

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF JOHN PERCIVAL 261

A STORY OF A WEDDING-TOUR 301

JOHN 321

THE WHIRL OF YOUTH 339

THE HEIRS OF KELLIE 369

A WIDOW'S TALE.

CHAPTER I.

The Bamptons were expecting a visitor that very afternoon: which made it

all the more indiscreet that young Fitzroy should stay so long

practising those duets with May. It was a summer afternoon, warm and

bright, and the drawing-room was one of those pretty rooms which are as

English as the landscape surrounding them--carefully carpeted,

curtained, and cushioned against all the eccentricities of an English

winter, yet with all the windows open, all the curtains put back, the

soft air streaming in, the sunshine not too carefully shut out, the

green lawn outside forming a sort of velvety extension of the mossy soft

carpet in which the foot sank within. This combination is not common in

other countries, where the sun is so hot that it has to be shut out in

summer, and coolness is procured by the partial dismantling of the

house. From the large open windows the trees on the lawn appeared like

members of the party, only a little withdrawn from those more mobile

figures which were presently coming to seat themselves round the pretty

table shining with silver and china which was arranged under the acacia.

Miss Bampton, who had been watching its arrangement, cast now and then

an impatient glance at the piano where May sat, with Mr Fitzroy standing

over her. He was not one of the county neighbours, but a young man from

town, a visitor, who had somehow fallen into habits of intimacy it could

scarcely be told why. And though he was visiting the Spencer-Jacksons,

who were well known and sufficiently creditable people, nobody knew much

about Mr Fitzroy. It is a good name: but then it is too good a name to

belong to a person of whom it can be said that nobody knows who he is. A

Fitzroy ought to be so very easily identified: it ought to be known at

once to which of the families of that name he belongs--very distantly

perhaps--as distantly as you please; but yet he must somehow belong to

one of them.

This opinion Miss Bampton, who was a great genealogist, had stated over

and over again, but without producing any conviction in her hearers. Her

father asked hastily what they had to do with Fitzroy that they should

insist on knowing to whom he belonged. And May turned round upon her

little, much too high, heel and laughed. What did she care who he was?

He had a delightful baritone, which "went" beautifully with her own

soprano. He was very nice-looking. He had been a great deal abroad, and

his manners were beautiful, with none of the stiffness of English

manners. He did not stand and stare like Bertie Harcourt, or push

between a girl and anything she wanted like the new curate. He knew

exactly how to steer between these two extremes, to be always

serviceable without being officious, and to insinuate a delightful

compliment without saying it right out. This was May's opinion of the

matter: and then he had such a delightful voice! So that this stranger

had come into the very front of affairs at Bampton-Leigh, to the

disturbance of the general balance of society, and of many matters much

more important than an agreeable visitor, which were going on there. For

example, Bertie Harcourt had almost been banished from the house: and he

was a young squire of the neighbourhood with a good estate and very

serious intentions; while the Spencer-Jacksons, with whom Mr Fitzroy was

staying, were not above half pleased to have their novelty, their new

man, absorbed in this way. Mrs Spencer-Jackson was a lively young woman

who liked to have a cavalier on hand, whom she could lend, so to speak,

to a favourite girl as a partner, whether at carpet dance or picnic, and

dispose of according to her pleasure--an arrangement which Mr Fitzroy

had much interfered with by devoting himself to Bampton-Leigh.

These things were being turned over in her mind by Miss Bampton, while

she sat looking out upon the lawn where everything looked so fresh and

cool under the trees. She was busy with her usual knitting, but this did

not in any way interfere with the acuteness of her senses, or the course

of her thoughts. Though May and she were spoken of as if on the same

level, as the Miss Bamptons, this lady was twenty years older than her

sister, and had discharged for half of that time the functions of

mother to that heedless little girl. May had made Julia old, indeed,

when she had no right to be considered old. When the mother died she had

been a handsome quiet young woman, thirty indeed, which is considered,

though quite falsely, an unromantic age yet quite capable of being taken

for twenty-eight, or even twenty-five, and with admirers and prospects

of her own. After her mourning was over she had become Miss Bampton, the

feminine head of the house, managing everything, receiving the few

guests her father cared to see, who were almost all contemporaries of

his own, as if she were as old as any of them--and had moved up to a

totally different level of life. Such a transformation is not unusual in

a widower's house. Miss Bampton took the position of her father's wife

rather than of his daughter, and no one thought it strange. If she

sacrificed any feelings of her own in doing so, no one found it out. She

was a mother to May; she had found her position, it seemed, taken

possession of her place in the world, at the head of a house which was

her own house, though it was not her husband's but her father's. It was

generally supposed that the position suited her admirably, and that she

had never wished for any other: which indeed I agree was very probably

the case, though in such matters no one can ever be confident. It was

thus that she happened to be so absorbed in May, so watchful of this

(she thought) undesirable interposition of Mr Fitzroy, of the partial

withdrawal of Bertie Harcourt, and of many things of equal, or rather

equally little, moment to the general world.

And this was the afternoon when Nelly Brunton, the little widowed cousin

from India, was coming on her first visit since her return. It was true

that a year had elapsed or more since the death of Nelly's husband: but

Miss Bampton felt that to receive the poor little widow in the very

midst of the laughter, the songs, the foolish conversation and

excitement of a love affair, or at the least a strong flirtation, was

the most inappropriate thing that could be conceived. Poor Nelly with

her life ended, so soon--come back with all gaieties and gladness for

ever shut out, the music silenced, the very sight of a man (Miss Bampton

felt) made painful to her--to a life much more subdued and quiet than

old-maidenhood, she who had always been such a bright little thing, full

of fun and nonsense! Good Julia figured her cousin to herself in a

widow's cap (which, however, whatever people may say, is a most becoming

head-dress to a young woman), pale, smiling quietly when her sympathy

was called upon, shrinking aside a little from a laugh, thinking of

nothing but her two little children, in whom she would, no doubt, poor

thing, begin to live a subdued life by proxy--and whom she had called,

in that very touching letter, the sole consolations of her life. Poor

little Nelly! who would no doubt break down altogether when she came in

to this old place, which she had known in the brightness of her

youth--and who ought, at least, to be received by her relations alone,

not in a stranger's presence. Miss Bampton grew very restless and

unhappy as the time went on. She heard the pony carriage drive out,

which May ought to have driven down to the station to meet her cousin.

May had found time to run out to tell Johnson that he must go himself,

that she could not be ready, and the sound of the wheels upon the gravel

felt like a reproach to Julia, who was not in the least to blame. How

dreadful to send only a servant to meet her--considering how much had

come and gone since she last stopped at that station! When the carriage

had gone, Miss Bampton, who felt it her duty, though she was not in the

least wanted, to remain in the drawing-room while all this practising

was going on, could not keep still. She went and came into the inner

drawing-room, she took out books from the shelves and put them back

again, she laid down her knitting and took it up, she looked at the

clock first in one room, then in another, and compared them with her

watch. Finally, she came up to the performers just as they came to the

end of a song.

"That was very nice," Miss Bampton said. "I think you have it perfect.

May, poor Nelly may be here at any moment; don't you think you should

shut the piano before she comes in?"

"Why?" said May, swinging round upon her stool to look her sister in the

face.

"Oh! well, dear, I don't know that I can explain. Nelly, that used to be

so fond of all these things herself, coming home a widow, deprived of

everything--I think that explains itself, dear."

"Is this lady, then, a statue of woe, covered with crape and white caps

and streamers?" said Fitzroy.

"I think I see Nelly like that," cried May, with her fingers running up

and down the keys. "We can manage this trio when Nelly comes. You know,

Julia, she was always the merriest little thing, ready for any fun. What

nonsense to try to make us frightened of Nelly!"

"In the first place, she is much older than you are," said Miss Bampton,

with something as nearly like anger as she ever showed to her sister,

"so how you can speak so confidently--I can't tell, I am sure, whether

she may wear a widow's cap. They don't, I believe, in India; but I am

very certain, May, that you should have gone down to the station to

meet her, and that it will be a painful thing for her, poor dear, though

I hope the feeling may not last--to come back to this house after her

trouble, she that has been so happy here."

"Why does she come, then?" said May, with a pout. "If I had thought we

were to give up everything to Nelly, and go sighing through all the

house----"

"Weep upon her shoulder," suggested the young man, in a low tone.

"I must say," cried Miss Bampton, fluttering her feathers like a dove

enraged, "that though this sort of talk may be funny and fashionable and

all that, I find it in very bad taste. There is the carriage coming

back, and if you have no real sympathy for your cousin, I hope you'll at

least shut down the piano and meet her without a song on your lips and a

grin on your face!"

This tremendous Parthian shaft Miss Bampton discharged as she hurried

out, with an almost pleased consciousness, soon to be changed into

remorse, of the force of the dart. A grin on May's face! To think that

her laugh, which Mr Fitzroy compared to silver bells and all manner of

pretty things, should be spoken of as a grin! May closed the piano with

a noise like a blow.

"We shall have to stop, I suppose," she said, impatiently, "though I did

want so much to try over that last again."

"And I suppose I ought to fly," said Fitzroy. "Must I? I should like to

have one peep at this wonderful widow before I leave you, dissolved in

tears----"

"Oh, don't talk nonsense!" said May, with the faintest little frown upon

her forehead. It is one thing to laugh or jeer in your own person at

your family arrangements, and quite another thing to have your laugh

echoed by a stranger. "I suppose I must go and meet her," she added,

quickly, and hurried out, leaving him alone by the piano.

If Mr Fitzroy had been a young man of delicate feelings, it is probable

that he would have disappeared by the window, and delivered his friends

from his unnecessary presence at such a moment. But his feelings were

quite robust so far as other people were concerned, and his curiosity

was piqued. He stood calmly, therefore, and waited till the party

returned. He listened to Miss Bampton's little cries and exclamations,

subdued by the distance but yet distinguishable. "Dear Nelly! dear

Nelly! So glad, so glad to see you! Welcome back to us all! Welcome! oh,

my dear, my dear!" Then a little sound of crying, then "Oh, Nelly,

dear!" from May; and kisses, and a note or two of a new voice, "Dear old

Ju! dear Maysey," different, not like the tones of the sisters, which

resembled, much unlike as their personalities were. Then there sounded

old Mr Bampton's tremulous bass. "Well, Nelly, my dear; glad to see you

back again." To all this commotion Percy Fitzroy listened, amused at the

self-revelation in the different tones. It was highly impertinent on his

part to stay, and without reason; but his mind was not much disturbed by

that.

Then the little procession streamed in, May first, pushing open the

door, Miss Bampton after, with the new-comer's arm affectionately and

tightly drawn through hers, Mr Bampton lumbering behind, with his heavy

tread. The new-comer--ah! she was certainly worth a second look. She was

covered with crape, with a long veil falling almost to her feet; but it

was apparent to Fitzroy's very sharp and experienced eyes that the crape

was rusty and brown, and probably _d'occasion_, put on for her first

appearance and to impress her relations. I don't know what it was in Mrs

Brunton's face which gave the young man of the world this impression.

There are people who understand each other without a word, at a glance.

Mrs Brunton's face was a very pretty one, much prettier than May's, who

had not much more than the _beauté de diable_, the first freshness and

bloom of a country girl, to recommend her. The young widow had better

features; she had a lurking something in the corners of her mouth, which

looked like "a spice of wickedness" to the audacious stranger. She

lifted her eyes with a little sentiment to survey "the dear old room,"

prepared to sigh; but caught, with a lightning glance, the unknown young

man in it, with the faintest elevation of her eyebrows, postponing for a

moment that "suspiration of forced breath," which, however, followed all

the same, with only an infinitesimal delay. "The dear old room," said

Nelly; "nothing changed except----" and then came the round, full,

long-drawn sigh. Mr Fitzroy felt that he had done well to wait; there

was fun to be anticipated here. He caught May's eyes slightly dubious,

and elevated his own brows with a look that called back the smile to her

face. Then he crossed the room to the door, under shadow of Mr Bampton's

back, and giving a little pressure to her hand in parting, whispered

"To-morrow?" as if it were for that question he had stayed. May gave him

a smile and a nod, and he hastened away. What could be more discreet?

Even Miss Bampton, full of wrath against him for his lingering, opened

her mouth in surprise when she found he had disappeared so

unobtrusively, and had nothing to say.

CHAPTER II.

When Mrs Brunton's bonnet with the long veil was taken off, and her long

cloak, which was half covered with crape, she presented a very agreeable

figure in a well-fitting dress, which indeed was black, but in no

special way gloomy, and pleasantly "threw up" her light brown hair and

pretty complexion. The crape, which was rather shabby, was indeed more

or less worn--if not for effect as Percy Fitzroy supposed--at least by

way of response to a natural prejudice in favour of "deep" mourning,

which Nelly knew to exist among the English kindred, apt as they were to

forget that a long time had elapsed since that crape was a necessity and

quite congenial to her feelings. The tears which had come to her eyes

when she first saw her cousins, the sigh with which she had greeted the

dear old room (though kept back for half a second by the unexpected

sight of a stranger), were quite authentic and genuine. Much indeed had

passed over her head since she had been last there, much since she had

met the "dear old Ju" and little Maysey of her youthful recollections.

The over-experienced young man who had fixed his cynical eyes upon Mrs

Brunton set it all down as fictitious, with a wisdom which is still more

ignorant and silly than foolishness. He took the smile of a buoyant

nature which lay _perdu_ about the corners of her mouth for an equally

cynical amusement at the _rôle_ she had to play. And he was entirely

wrong, as such penetrating observers usually are. She was ready to smile

whenever an occasion should arise, but at that moment she was very ready

to cry. When they took her out upon the well-known lawn, and established

her in the very same old chair which she remembered, before the same

tea-things, the old silver teapot, the china which she would have

recognised anywhere, Nelly burst out crying in spite of herself. "I

don't believe there is a cup cracked of the whole set," she said; "and

to think how many things have happened to me!" May, quite touched, threw

herself down on her knees by Nelly's side and clasped her arms round her

cousin's waist ("And I dared to think the child was unfeeling!" Miss

Bampton, remorseful, said to herself), while Julia bent over her and

kissed her, and even old Mr Bampton stroked her shoulder with his heavy

hand, saying, "You must keep up your heart, Nelly--you must try to keep

up your heart." And then presently they all dried their eyes, and sat

down in comfortable chairs and took their tea.

It was all as natural as the sunshine and the rain. Mrs Brunton had not

perhaps great cause to be an inconsolable widow; and she was not so. Her

husband, had he been the bereaved person, would probably by this time

have married again, and she had no thought of doing that. But she had

felt his loss keenly, and the change in her life and all the unexpected

differences in her lot which separated her from so many of her

contemporaries to whom nothing had happened. Fortunately the

unfortunates in this world often come to feel a certain superiority in

their experience to those who have had no trouble, to whom nothing has

happened, which modifies the great inequalities of the balance; and this

had some share in Nelly's feelings. The cousins had been happy and at

peace all the time during which she had "gone through" so much; but she

felt herself on such a height of experience and development over their

heads as no words could say. They had never known what trouble was--they

were here with their old china, their old silver teapot, polished! as if

that was the great business in life; not a cup was cracked, not a chair

displaced, old Sinnett the butler stepping softly across the noiseless

grass, with the cake basket, just as he had always done. After Nelly had

cried with a full heart, she laughed, looking round, as she took her

tea. "Does nothing ever happen over here?" she said; "are you all

exactly as you used to be before I went away?"

"Ju has never gone off, you see; she can't bring any man to the point,"

said the old heavy father with a laugh.

"Oh, papa!" said the gentle Julia--"but Nelly knows your naughty ways."

"Yes, I know my uncle's naughty ways--and that he gives thanks on his

knees night and morning that Julia has never brought any man to the

point: for what would Bampton-Leigh do without her?" Nelly cried.

"Oh, there's me!" said May.

"That little thing!" said Mr Bampton; "she is in the other line, quite

the other line. I can't go out for my walk in the morning but some young

fellow or other comes trying to make up to me--I'm May's father, Nelly,

nowadays: that's what I am to those young men."

"I saw one in the drawing-room," said Mrs Brunton; "I suppose it was one

of them. It gave me quite a start to see a stranger there."

"And very bad taste of him," said Miss Bampton, reddening; "the very

worst taste! I suppose he stopped to see whether you were nice-looking

enough to please him, Nelly."

"Nothing of the sort!" cried May; "he stopped to finish a song we were

practising. Julia is always saying disagreeable things of Mr Fitzroy."

Nelly had not the air of finding it very disagreeable that the young man

had waited to see whether she was nice-looking. She smoothed back her

hair, which curled a little on her forehead, and said with a smile:

"That was why you couldn't come to meet me at the station, May."

"It is for a concert in the village," said May, with a great flush of

colour.

"Oh!" said Julia hastily, "you must not think, Nelly, it was the child's

fault. I gave all the hints I could, but we could not get him to go

away. He is one of those society men, as people call them, who do

exactly what they please and never mind what you say."

"Julia is so dreadfully prejudiced--she is nothing but a bundle of

prejudices!"

"And is there nothing new but Mr Fitzroy?--if that is his name," Nelly

said.

Then they began to tell her of all the vicissitudes of the country life,

the people who had been married, the children who had been born, a point

on which Nelly, being a mother herself, was very curious--and the sons

who had gone away to seek their fortune. Mr Bampton by this time had

taken his tea and gone in again, so that the ladies were alone with

their gossip; and Mrs Brunton sat and listened with a smile, in the

relief of having got the first meeting over, and the first shock of the

old recollections. She felt at her ease now, not disturbed by any fear

of criticism, or of meeting in Julia's eye a reminder that she ought to

have had her hair covered by a cap. If truth must be told, it had

wounded Julia's feelings much to see her cousin take off her bonnet so

simply, without putting up her hand to her head and saying "But I have

no cap!" as ladies who wear that article generally do. Miss Bampton,

however, had still a hope that when Nelly dressed for the evening it

might appear, covering her with the appropriate crown of sorrow. All was

not lost as yet, though already indeed Julia had begun to feel a regret

that the pretty hair should so covered up, and was in a state of mind to

forgive Nelly if that outward and visible sign was not in her wardrobe

at all.

When Nelly came down to dinner it was a shock, but not so great a shock

as Miss Bampton, had she foreseen it, would have expected. She had no

cap--but then her dress was in such very good taste! It was of very thin

black stuff, almost transparent, faintly showing her shoulders and arms

through, but made quite up to the throat and of a material which was

very black and "deep," with no lustre or reflections in it, not even jet

or any of the deadly-lively ornaments with which mourning is "lighted

up." It made her look very slim, very young, very much like a girl--but

poor Nelly could not help that. And nothing, Miss Bampton said to

herself, could be nicer than Nelly was. She asked May about her concert

that was coming off, and begged that she might be told what songs she

was going to sing. "I might help you a little," she said; "I could play

your accompaniments at least." And so she did, helping her, for Nelly

was a good musician, and giving her a great many hints--as good as a

lesson, May acknowledged. And later in the evening when Mr Bampton came

in and asked if she could not sing for him that old-fashioned song she

used to sing, Nelly, sighing a little, and smiling, and with a tear in

her eyes, sang "My mother bids me bind my hair" with a pathos in her

voice for Lubin who was away, that made the good Julia cry. She dashed

off after that into another lighter song that meant nothing, to take

away the taste of the first, she said, which was a little too much for

her. Oh no, she had not given up her singing--but nobody had asked her

for that old song for years.

"Shows what fools they are nowadays--in music as well as everything

else," Mr Bampton said.

The next day Nelly offered most good-naturedly to help May and Mr

Fitzroy with their accompaniments--and the next they tried the trio,

which was accomplished with great success. She was a better musician and

had a much finer voice than May--and before her visit was half over it

was she who sang with Fitzroy, taking the leading part in all the

concerted music. There were two or three small parties, and it was

decided by everybody that it was with Nelly's soprano, not May's, that

the baritone went so well. "Dear May's is a delicious little voice,"

said Mrs Spencer-Jackson, "so pure and so sweet; but Mrs Brunton has a

great deal of execution, and she has been so well trained. It is what I

call artificial singing, not sweet and child-like, like dear May's. But

then so is Percy Fitzroy's--these are the two that go together." Perhaps

there was a secret inclination on the part of Mrs Spencer-Jackson to

give a little prick to the Bamptons, who had stolen her young man from

her. But he was now more away from her than ever. He had always

something that called him to Bampton-Leigh, and, if she had disliked to

have him carried off by May, there was a still stronger reason for

objecting to his entire absorption in Mrs Brunton. However, among most

of the audience which listened to their music--whether in the continual

rehearsal of which all but the singers were tired--or at the village

concert where Nelly, "for such a good motive," was persuaded to lay

aside her scruples and take a part--the same idea was prevalent. These

were the two that went together. It had always been a delusion in

respect to May Bampton. Her little chirp of a voice never could hold its

place along with Mr Fitzroy's baritone: which shows how people deceive

themselves when their own vanity is concerned. Thus the whole

neighbourhood concurred in the verdict. And poor little May, much

surprised, was left out of it without any preparation or softening to

her of the event. Percy Fitzroy had never been her lover, so that there

was nothing at all to blame him for. If the girl had taken foolish

notions into her head, there was nobody to blame but herself.

May, for her part, was so much surprised when Fitzroy transferred his

attentions to her cousin that she could not believe her eyes. He came as

often as ever, and he was ready enough to throw her a crumb of kindness,

a scrap of compliment, a morsel of conversation in something of the old

tones. She was not jealous of Nelly, or what she and Julia called her

strong voice; but when the little girl, new to all perfidies, perceived

that the man who had hung about her and charmed her was turning all the

artillery of whispers and glances in another direction, and that Nelly,

in her black dress--Nelly, who was a widow, who ought to be entirely

above the region of flirtation--was the object of these seductions, a

cruel astonishment was the first feeling in her breast. She had been

flattered and pleased and amused by the little _éclat_ of Fitzroy's

subjugation. She now stood by in amazement, and watched the change

without understanding it. At first everybody had been so sorry for

Nelly; and it was easy to imagine that Fitzroy, too, shared that

admirable sentiment. A widow, so young! though, now that it came to

this, May began secretly to count up Nelly's years, and to decide that

at thirty Nelly was not so very young; that she had quite reached the

shady side of life, when troubles were to be calculated upon. At twenty,

thirty is a great age: it means more than maturity--it is the beginning

of decadence. After all, why was Nelly so much to be pitied? And there

was such a thing as carrying pity too far. May did not know how to

account at first for the change in her own feelings towards her cousin,

any more than for the change in her own position, so strangely brought

about--the change from being the first, always considered, to being in a

manner nobody at all.

CHAPTER III.

Miss Bampton's sentiments during this sudden change of circumstances

were more remarkable than those of May, for she was as much dismayed and

startled as her sister, and much more angry, understanding the whole

process better; while at the same time she was, in the midst of her

indignation, more or less satisfied to see that Fitzroy's attentions,

which had made her so uneasy, were coming to an end. This is a state of

mind which it is very difficult to describe in so many words. The

excellent Julia would have believed herself ready, before Nelly came, to

welcome anything which should break the charm of the stranger's

fascinations, and restore May to her previous much more trustworthy

suitor; but when this deliverance came in the shape of Mrs Brunton, her

anger and resentment and sense of downfall were quite unreasonable. That

any one--any man in his senses--should turn from May to Nelly! that the

fresh and delightful bloom of the girl should be left neglected for the

attractions of the maturer woman; that May, in her _own house_, the

young princess of everything, should be thrust into the second place,

and Nelly--_Nelly_, whose day was over--made the principal attraction!

This was almost more than Miss Bampton could bear. And to see May

sitting by with her needlework, or pretending to read, while Nelly and

Fitzroy sang, and turned over the music and talked to each other, as

musical people do, "Do you remember that phrase?" "Oh, don't you

recollect this?" with a few bars played on the piano, and how "the

melody comes in here," and how "that cadenza was repeated there," and so

forth and so forth, interspersed with exclamations of ecstatic

admiration--produced in Julia's mind an exasperation which it was almost

impossible to subdue. Even Mr Bampton, who took so little notice, had

said once or twice, "Why isn't May singing?" when he came in for his cup

of tea. And May, taking it all like the darling she was, not sulky at

all, saying a word when there was any room for her to come in, making

her first experience in life, but so sweetly, so patiently, through all

her surprise.

This changed altogether, however, the character of the scene in the

drawing-room at Bampton-Leigh, where now the two sisters, who were the

mistresses of the place, pursued their occupations almost as if they had

been alone, while the little vaudeville, operetta, genteel comedy, or

whatever you please to call it, went on at the piano. Miss Bampton felt

that she had no call whatever to provide the scenery, as it were--the

good piano, the pretty room, the tea-table, with all its

_agréments_--for this drama. When May was the heroine it was all

befitting and natural--but for Nelly! Miss Bampton's fingers trembled

over her knitting, as she sat bursting with indignation. The only thing

to console her was that she had never in her life so admired her little

sister. How beautifully May behaved! When Julia, in an access of that

fury which sometimes moves the mildest, said fiercely, under her breath,

to her sister working at the window, "I can't bear this much longer!"

May lifted up pathetic eyes and cried, "Why? You used to like it well

enough," said the young martyr, steadily, yet with a pale cheek,

ignoring any change. Oh, what a darling she was! and set aside in her

own house by that little Nelly, a widow, who ought to be thinking of

very different things.

I do not know how to justify Nelly's conduct in these circumstances, and

yet I do not think she was so much to blame as appears at a first

glance. Mrs Brunton's spirit, much subdued and cast down for a time, had

risen before she came to visit her relations in the country, by the

natural movement of life and youth, and the sense that after all her

existence was not over, though she had tried hard to persuade herself

that it was. It was not at all over; it was very warm and lively in her

veins, despite of everything she had gone through. Poor Jack was gone.

She had been very faithful to Jack, suffering no one to say a word

against him either living or dead. She had not blamed him for giving

very little thought to the comfort of his wife and children after he was

gone. But now that he was gone, and his grave green, and her crape rusty

and worn out, it was not natural that she should continue to pose, like

a statue of woe leaning upon an urn. That was not at all the _rôle_

which she had felt herself to be capable of playing. And she had never

felt herself the venerable matron which she appeared to May. She was

young; her blood was still running fast in her veins; her little

children made no claim yet upon her for anything but kisses and smiles,

and the cares which an excellent nurse made light. And Nelly, for a long

time sequestered from every amusement, amused herself with relish as

soon as it came within her reach. She was scarcely aware at first that

she was taking May's admirer from her. Little Maysey! Why, she was only

a child, not old enough for that sort of diversion. She had plunged into

the music, into the fun, into that little excitement of flirtation which

comes on so easily, without intention, without at all perceiving any

other effect. And, indeed, she only awoke to what she had done quite

suddenly one evening when there was a dinner-party at Bampton-Leigh, and

when, after the gentlemen came back to the drawing-room, she had been

called upon to sing with Mr Fitzroy for the delight of the party, and

without waiting for any special entreaty had complied. When they sang

one song they were asked for another, in the most natural way in the

world.

"That is one of May's songs," said some one who was near the piano.

"Oh, is it?" cried Nelly. "I have sung it several times with Mr

Fitzroy."

"But it is one of May's songs all the same," insisted this injudicious

person. "I have heard her sing it very often, also with Mr Fitzroy."

"Yes," said young Harcourt, who was present, and who was still more

angry than Julia to see May seated at the other end of the room talking

to an old lady. "It is certainly one of May's songs: and nobody could

sing it so sweetly," the young man added, with fire in his eyes.

"By the way," said the indiscreet person, "how is it, with so much music

going on, that we have not had a song from May?"

"Oh, May--has not been singing much for some time," said Miss Bampton,

with a little quiver in her voice.

And Mrs Brunton, startled, gave a sudden look round the room. She saw

Fitzroy placing the music upon the piano in a deliberate, conscious way,

which made it apparent to her suddenly awakened faculties that he was

aware of the meaning in these words; and she caught young Harcourt's

look fixed somewhat fiercely upon herself: and Julia, who had turned her

head away and would not look at her at all: and May, in the background,

smiling and talking to the old lady, talking very fast, smiling a little

more than she meant, looking pale and "out of it"--that curious

condition which is not to be described, but which betrays itself to a

looker-on. All this Nelly saw with a sudden awakening to the real state

of affairs, which ought, of course, to have occurred to her before. And

for a moment shame and compunction were strong in her.

"I am so glad," she said. "It is far more suited to her voice than mine:

and I want so much to hear her sing it. Please, Mr Harcourt, go and ask

her. I hadn't sung for ever so long before I came here," she added,

apologetically, to the little circle round the piano, "and they made me

begin again; and I never know when to stop--so that I have scarcely

heard May. Isn't it a dreadful confession to make?" she said, with an

embarrassed laugh.

"You have so strong a voice," said Miss Bampton, melting a little.

"May's voice is a little thing after yours."

"May herself is a little thing beside me," said Mrs Brunton, sitting

down apart from the piano. "I am almost old enough to be her mother!"

She felt that in saying this she had made fully the _amende honorable_

to May.

But May would not sing, though she was entreated by all the company. She

had her little dignity. "Oh, no," she said, "I could not sing after

Nelly--Nelly has so much stronger a voice than I have. Oh, please no!"

"There is nobody who sings so sweetly as you do," said young Harcourt,

delighted with the opportunity.

But May would not be persuaded. I don't know that Mrs Brunton was

altogether pleased to hear her voice described as so "strong." That is

not always a complimentary adjective, and it gave her an amusement

tempered with annoyance to hear her organ thus classified. She could not

help a little half-angry smile, nor could she help meeting Fitzroy's

eye, whose position at the piano, with no one to join him, was a little

absurd. He was putting aside the music, looking exceedingly annoyed and

rather fierce; but when their eyes met he, too, laughed. They understood

each other at once, and when, after this little incident, the music was

stopped altogether, he came and sat by her, anxious to communicate his

feelings. "What a ridiculous business!" he said. "How silly! to put a

stop to everything for the gratification of a little absurd jealousy!"

"Jealousy!" said Nelly; "that would be the most absurd of all--if there

was any jealousy in it. There is very little reason for any one to be

jealous of me."

"I do not think so," said Fitzroy, in a low voice.

And then Nelly felt again how very foolish it was to remark upon such

simple incidents in this strain.

"You don't understand my cousins, I see," she said. "It is nothing of

the kind; but it is extraordinarily foolish of me to have absorbed

everything, and forgotten that May was not a child any longer. She

always seems a child to me."

"She looks quite as old as you do," her companion said.

"Oh, nonsense! she is full ten years younger than I am. However, it does

not matter so much, for I am going away."

"So soon?" murmured Fitzroy.

"Soon! I have been here a fortnight--away from my little children." Mrs

Brunton found it expedient to quench his tone of devotion by putting all

her disadvantages in the foreground. He looked at her with more meaning

than he had ever felt in his life in his eyes.

"Would it be indiscreet to ask where you were going?" he said.

"Not at all; I am going home. I have a little house at Haven Green,

where my children are."

"I am going, too," he said. "May I come and see you? I shall be for some

time in town."

"Oh, if you are in the neighbourhood," said Mrs Brunton; and she turned

aside to talk to some one on the other side, an old friend, with whom

her colloquy was not conducted in such subdued tones. And soon the name

of Haven Green, and the fact that her children were there awaiting her,

and that she was going almost immediately, floated from one to another

through the room. Miss Bampton heard it, and her heart rose; yet it

smote her when she thought these incidents over to feel that she had

herself been almost guilty of suggesting to Nelly that it would be

better if she went away. As for May, she had seen the conversation, the

two heads bent, the exchange of looks, the evidently subdued tone of the

communications that passed between them. The poor girl scarcely knew how

to behave when Fitzroy approached her some time after. She had been

foolish about the song--she had shown her feelings, which is to a girl

in such circumstances the worst of sins. Should she tell him she had a

headache, or a sore throat, or anything that would excuse her? But he

did not leave her the time to invent any excuse.

"I am so sorry," he said, carrying the war into the enemy's country,

"that you would not sing with me to-night: for it will be, I fear, one

of the last times, if not the very last, that I shall have the chance."

May's poor little heart seemed to cease to beat. What a sudden, dreadful

punishment was this for her little gentle self-assertion! "The last

time?" she cried. "Oh, are you going away?"

"I must, I fear," he said. "I have been idling too long, and I seem to

have outstayed my welcome. I did think that you would have sung with me

this last night."

"Oh, Mr Fitzroy!" was all that May could say. She had hard ado to keep

the tears out of her eyes.

CHAPTER IV.

Bampton-Leigh felt very blank and vacant when both these people who had

troubled its peace went away. Had Nelly gone alone and Mr Fitzroy

remained, it is possible that there might have been some consolation;

indeed, May, in her inmost heart, had looked forward to that period as

to a time of peace, when the disturbing element being removed--the

"strong" voice of Nelly, and those amusing and enlivening social

qualities in which it was natural that a matron of her age should excel

a timid girl--things might return to their original condition, and

Fitzroy once more hang over her, and encourage her exertions, and praise

the sweetness of her voice, which "went" so well with his. Perhaps May

had not been aware how eagerly she had been looking forward to this

time: and the abyss into which she fell when her hopes came to an end so

suddenly, the dull and dreadful vacancy, which was all that remained to

her, was almost more than she could bear. It was her first experience of

disappointment and deprivation. She had been the spoiled child all her

life of her father's house. Whatever she had wanted had been got for

her, had it been in any way possible to attain it: and May had never

wished for anything that was quite unattainable, until she wished, yet

would not for the world have expressed the wish, for the visits, the

songs, the fascination of Percy Fitzroy's society, which had come to her

without asking, without any action or desire of hers. This gives

additional sharpness to the stab of such losses--that the thing which

makes your life desolate when it is taken away, has come accidentally,

as it were, unsought--to add to and then to annihilate the happiness of

(as in this instance) a poor little girl, who had been quite happy

without it, who had not wanted it when it originally appeared. Poor May

felt that she had no share in bringing on this doom, which to her

youthful consciousness seemed to have overwhelmed her for ever. She had

not wanted Mrs Spencer-Jackson to invite him; she had not suggested to

Julia to bring him to Bampton-Leigh; she had not even begun the singing,

poor little May! She was a perfectly innocent victim. And now, alas! she

could not bring back the happy unconscious state to which Percy Fitzroy

was unknown. The afternoons did not return to her as they had existed

before--full of cheerful occupations and amusements. They were blank,

and vacant, and impoverished, full of a wistful longing. Oh, if he were

but here! Oh, if she could but hear his voice, and join in his singing

again! She spent hours at the piano, dreaming that he was by her side,

murmuring over her part, recalling all the past delights. Poor little

May! When the girls from the Rectory came to play tennis, which they did

more often than usual, at Miss Bampton's instigation, instead of being

glad to see them, May hated the sight of their well-known faces. She

said to herself that she was sick, altogether sick, of her life.

And if May was thus miserable, it may be imagined how much more

miserable was the elder sister, who suffered all that May suffered, and

the additional burden of blaming herself for all the unthought-of steps

that had brought it about. Why had she allowed Fitzroy to come at all?

Why had she permitted all that singing, those constant attentions which

stole May's heart away? Why, having done that, had she asked Nelly? Oh,

what a fool, what a fool she had been all round! It was always she who

was to blame whatever happened--she, with such a dear little sister to

take care of!--she ought to be a dragon in respect to gentlemen, and

never allow one to come near unless she knew his character and could

trust him; and she knew nothing of Fitzroy's character. And then, when

that harm was done by her fault, to think that she should go and invite

Nelly, and throw everything into confusion! Was there ever so

abominable, so wicked, a thing to do? Had she asked Nelly _at the first_

(these italics were all Miss Bampton's, deeply, trebly underlined in her

thoughts), everything would have been well; for then it would have been

Nelly and this stranger, this unknown, untrustworthy man, who would have

attracted each other, and May would have gone free. But no! if she had

intended to make mischief, to make everything as bad as could be, she

could not have managed better. It is all my fault, she said to

herself--all, all, _my_ fault. It was she, indeed, and not Percy

Fitzroy, who had broken May's heart!

Thus it will be seen that these two persons left chaos and untold

confusion behind them when they went away. Mrs Brunton looked very

wistfully at her cousins when she took leave of them. She had the air of

wishing to ask their pardon. But then it would have been an offence, an

insult, to ask pardon--for what? for taking May's lover from her, for

being preferred to May! Better to bear the stain of blackest guilt, to

submit to an everlasting breach, than to insult May by suggesting that.

And yet Nelly was very sorry and ashamed of herself, though supported

underneath these two sentiments by a certain softening of complacence

and gratified vanity, which she would not have acknowledged for the

world. That she, poor Jack's widow, hardly out of her weeds (indeed she

left Bampton-Leigh in the same crape bonnet, with the long veil, in

which she had arrived), should have interfered with May's love affair,

should have taken her place, and carried on something which she could

not to herself deny to be very like a flirtation with her young cousin's

admirer! How terrible, how treacherous, how shocking it was! At the

bottom of her heart there remained that dreadful little guilty sense

that there was pleasure in it; that to be still capable, amid all her

disadvantages, of touching a man's heart, was something not

disagreeable: but this she did not own to herself. She was very tender

to May all that last morning, praising her and flattering her with the

intention of making up a little for her fault; and she looked very

wistfully in Julia's face, and would fain, very fain, have said

something. But Miss Bampton was much on her dignity, and had a look

which forbade all such effusions. "I hope you will like your new house,"

Miss Bampton said. "For my part, I think you would have been a great

deal better in the country--not so near town."

"But it is quite in the country," said Nelly.

"Nothing which is within ten minutes of town by the railway can be

called the country," said Julia, with great severity. "I _hope_ it may

be good for the children--of course it will be much livelier for

yourself."

"Indeed, I don't see how it can be very lively for myself," cried Nelly,

feeling this attack upon her. "I know nobody but the clergyman's

family--and the society is not usually very lively in such places--if I

wished for lively society," she added in an equally serious tone.

"Oh, my dear Nelly, you will wish for it!" cried her cousin. "It is not

to be expected that you should shut yourself up for ever at your age.

And then it will be so handy for town--you will have all your friends

coming to see you from town."

And a look passed between these ladies which did away with the

recollection of many years of love and friendship--a look which said on

one side--You know that you have asked him to come to see you!--and on

the other with a flash. Well! and what then!--notwithstanding that

Julia's heart was full of charity, and Nelly's of compunction. But Mrs

Brunton was stirred up to self-defence, and Miss Bampton had in her all

the fury of the outraged dove.

"Well! she is gone," said Miss Bampton, coming back to May who stood at

the window of the hall looking out very gravely at her cousin's

departure. Julia did not recollect now how angry she had been with May

for not driving to the station to meet Mrs Brunton. But neither of them

thought of accompanying her when she went away. May stood at the hall

window while Julia went out to the door, and they both looked after the

disappearing carriage with a seriousness that was alarming to see. It

might have been a funeral after which they were gazing, instead of Nelly

in her mourning bonnet and with all her little boxes. "Well!" said Miss

Bampton, "she is gone at last, and I am sure I am very glad. I never

thought Nelly Bampton could have changed so in half a dozen years."

"Has she changed?" said May, with a quiet air of indifference, turning

from the window. "And I don't see why you should say 'at last.' For,

after all, she has only been a fortnight here."

"A fortnight too long," Miss Bampton said.

"You are such a very strange person, Julia, one never understands you,"

said her young sister. "Why in the name of wonder did you ask Nelly to

come here, if she has been a fortnight too long? What absurdity that is!

She thinks she had a most successful visit, I feel sure."

"If she calls that success!"

"What?" said May, looking fiercely into Miss Bampton's eyes.

But that was what the poor mother-sister dared not to say. If she had

uttered the name of Percy Fitzroy, May would have turned upon her, with

what angry disdain! "Mr Fitzroy! what could he possibly have to do with

it?" May would have said. Miss Bampton did not venture to bring upon

herself such a response as that.

"Oh, nothing!" she said. "I am always making mistakes. Nelly is--not at

all what she used to be, dear. Matrimony is not good for some people,

and ladies in India get dreadfully spoiled sometimes. They are

accustomed to so much attention. There are not so many of them there as

here, and they are never contented if they have not every man they see

at their feet."

"I did not remark that in Nelly," said May, who was very pensive, and so

wounded and sore in her poor little heart that it did her good to be

disagreeable to Julia. "There was Bertie Harcourt, for instance, whom

she took no notice of--and who, I am sure, was not at her feet."

"Ah, Bertie Harcourt!" cried Miss Bampton, "He"--she paused on the

pronoun for greater emphasis, speaking with fervour--"He--is a heart of

gold."

"Is he?" said May, indifferently; "you seem to imply that others are

different--and indeed I think that it would be much more comfortable to

have a heart like other people."

"Oh, May!"

"I wish you would stop all that," cried May, angrily; "when you get into

one of your moods, Julia, you are intolerable. I wish you would let

Nelly Brunton alone: I don't see anything remarkable about her," the

girl said with a toss of her head, walking back into the drawing-room,

where she flung the piano open, and began to sing in the most defiant

manner. It was a wet day, the lawn swept by a white blast of rain, and

all the trees cowering piteously as if running in for shelter. Poor Miss

Bampton sat down in a deep chair to hide herself, feeling as if she had

been the occasion of all that had happened, and that it was natural she

should suffer accordingly. And when presently May ran singing up-stairs,

and the door of her room was heard to shut upon her, poor Julia did not

follow. She dared not follow; for the first time in her life poor little

May, now finding out what it was to be grown up and a woman, had to bear

her moment of bitterness by herself. I need not say that Julia cried

silently all the time, sunk in the depths of the big chair, so that Mr

Bampton when he came in, in quest of tea or something to break the

dulness of the afternoon, saw nobody in the room, and went out again

calling indignantly for Ju and Maysey, and demanding of the butler in

angry tones whether this afternoon of all others, when no one could go

out or do anything to amuse oneself, there was to be no tea.

CHAPTER V.

Mrs Brunton was not, I think, at all comfortable in her mind as she left

her cousin's house. It had been in some sort a trial visit. She had not

gone anywhere, or seen anybody, except aunts and other uninteresting

relations, since she had returned home. She had paid a long visit to her

husband's family, with her children, where everything of course was

mourning and seclusion, and where she was made more conscious of her

widowhood than of any other condition in her life; then she had been in

the country with her own people, where everything was subdued in order

to be suitable for poor Nelly; and then she had been involved in the

trouble of settling, finding a little house, which was nice and not too

dear, which would be good for the children, and quiet, and yet

sufficiently in the way to be accessible to those who were most

interested in her. This had cost a great deal of trouble and kept her in

full occupation, so that it was only when she had settled down,

furnished the house, and arranged everything, and got her new address

neatly printed upon her writing paper and her visiting cards (if she

ever had any need for the latter, which she doubted), that she had

consented to go for a fortnight to Bampton-Leigh, leaving the children

under charge of their excellent nurse, who had assisted at their birth

and was devoted to them--for her uncle Bampton could not bear children

in the house. She had explained to her only friend at Haven Green, the

clergyman's wife, and still more gravely she had explained to herself,

that this was in every way a trial visit to see whether she could bear

society again. Society, she said to herself, without Jack! without the

consideration which is accorded to a woman who has her husband behind

her. She did not know how it looked to a widow, who would naturally be

shut out from some things, who might perhaps be pushed aside among the

dowagers, who certainly would see everything from a different point of

view. Should she be able to bear it?

Alas, Nelly had felt that she was but too able to bear society! She had

gone into it with the elasticity and ease with which one glides into

one's native element. The absence of Jack behind her, the position of a

widow among the dowagers, had never once come into her mind. She had not

even required time to bring her to the surface, but had risen at once to

be, as she had always been, rather the ringleader than a

follower--always in the front of everything, singing, talking. Nelly

felt herself flush and burn all over, as she sat in the Bampton carriage

on the way to the station with the windows shut between her and the

pelting rain; and then she burst into a guilty yet irrestrainable laugh.

Yes, she had proved to herself that she was quite able to bear society,

and that the temptation to fall into her old ways was not in any way

lessened by widowhood. She had done the same sort of thing before now,

out of sheer high spirits and love of enjoying herself, when Jack was

alive and looking on, and amused by his wife's pranks. She had always

known that she was too fond of admiration, too fond of fun. It was not

the first time, alas!--and this she had always known was wicked--that

she had given some brother officer's _fiancée_ a moment of alarm, a

thrill of misery, by taking the man away, and boldly tying him to her

own apron-strings for a week or so, for some occasion of festivity, "for

fun," and to show what she could do, Nelly laughed, and then she cried,

at some of the recollections thus evoked. Jack had even been brought to

the point of scolding her--not on his own account, but on account of the

lady on the other side. And then Nelly, as gaily as she had taken him

up, had thrown over her prey.

All these naughty and wicked ways--of which she had been only able to

say in self-defence that she meant no harm--were still in her, it

appeared, though she was a widow and had believed that she never would

be equal to society again. Oh, what a frivolous, unfeeling little wretch

she must be! To think that she had plunged into it as if nothing had

happened! The faces of her two cousins--one at the door, seeing her off

with such warnings about her imprudence in settling so near town, and

the other in such gloomy gravity at the window behind, watching her

going--could not be remembered without compunction. And Nelly could not

say to herself, as she had done before, that no harm was done, that the

sinner would return and be forgiven. This man Fitzroy was different. He

was not May's _fiancé_! Perhaps, Nelly said to herself, he never would

have been. He was not a marrying man; he was a man who amused himself,

and whom to expose and show in his true light was a good thing for the

girl. But this was mere casuistry, as Nelly knew; for May had given the

man her heart, or, if not her real heart, at least her imagination, and

she, Nelly, had wickedly taken him away.

It is difficult, however, to see the full enormity of one's own guilt in

such a conjuncture. There is always a certain amusement in it to the

culprit. It is fun--though it is so little fun to the other persons

concerned. Nelly did not, however, feel herself at all responsible so

far as Mr Fitzroy was concerned. She had not inspired him with a

hopeless passion; she had probably only afforded him the means of

extricating himself from a situation in which things were going too far.

When Nelly was safely established in the railway compartment, restored

completely to her own independence and individuality, with all her

packages around her, a modest tip administered to Johnson, and the

Bampton carriage out of sight, May indeed floated out of her thoughts;

but Percy Fitzroy did not so disappear. Should she ever meet him again?

she wondered. Would he seek her out, as he had said, at Haven Green? She

felt that it was quite likely he might do so, being a man who was fond

of his amusement; and if so, Nelly promised herself that the situation

should certainly not be permitted to become strained, or the fun go too

far. She had been more or less irresponsible, a free lance, under Julia

Bampton's eyes; but in her own little house she would always remember

that she was Jack's widow, a householder, the head of a family, a

personage in her own right, very different from a girl protected by

home--very different from a young wife thinking of nothing but a little

fun, and with Jack, who understood all her ways, behind--oh, very

different! She had her dignity to keep up, her position, her place in

life. If this man insisted on coming, he should be made at once to see

that a flirtation was entirely out of place in these circumstances. He

might make a call--there was nothing to prevent any man making a

call--he might even sing a song, or she might join him in a single duet:

but no more--upon no pretence any more.

No later than the first Sunday after Mrs Brunton's return these fine

sentiments were put to the test: for Mr Fitzroy appeared in the

afternoon, early, with the full intention, as was evident, of staying as

long as he should be permitted to stay. Nelly had not forgotten him at

all in that little interval. He had intruded into her mind a number of

times, to her annoyance and discomfiture. Why should she keep wondering

whether he would come? Better that he had come and gone, and Nelly had

never thrown a thought after him. Why should she think about this man,

or whether she should ever see him again? But she did, in spite of

herself, perhaps because he was the only figure visible on her way,

where there had been once so many. Her house was a nice little house,

made in a sort of imitation of that country house which is the English

ideal. In France and other countries the better houses of the village

are built like town houses--high, with rows of shuttered windows and a

big staircase. But in England it is always the country house that is

copied--windows opening upon a little lawn, mimic trees, shrubberies,

conservatories, the walls covered with climbing plants and roses.

Nelly's villa had a little verandah on one side, a little hall, with a

tiger skin--one of poor Jack's trophies--spread out in it; a

drawing-room full of Indian curiosities. She went and came by the

drawing-room window oftener than by the door, and so did her intimates

the clergyman's wife and daughters, who would run round through the

garden and tap at the pane. Of course Mr Fitzroy did not do this. He

came decorously through the hall, ushered in by the maid, and was

received with a little state by Mrs Brunton, who had her two children

with her--little Jack, aged five, and Maysey, aged three. These little

people remained playing in the room during the greater part of the

interview, in which scarcely a word was said about music. Mr Fitzroy

took the little girl on his knee, and patted the boy on the head, and

asked them their names. "Ah, Maysey," he said, "the same as your cousin,

Miss May Bampton." "Yes, the same: for they are called after the same

person, a great authority in the family," answered Mrs Brunton. This was

the unexceptionable character of their talk.

But that was only the first of a series of continual visits, during

which, as was inevitable, the intimacy grew. The piano was opened on the

third or fourth occasion, and after that the children no longer formed

part of Mrs Brunton's _mise en scène_. She did not any longer feel it

necessary to keep them in the front, to keep herself and her visitor in

continual remembrance of her widowhood and her responsibilities. When a

friend comes two or three times in a week, you cannot be always in a

state of preparation for him. You must occasionally fall off your guard,

forget that there is anything in his presence that needs to be guarded

against. The children came in whenever they pleased, but it was the hour

for their walk, or they preferred to play in the garden, which was much

better for them. And Nelly forgot: sometimes it seemed to her that she

forgot everything, their very existence, and poor Jack who was dead, and

India and all her experiences, and was for a moment now and then as she

had been when Jack was a young lover, and she was nineteen--at home in

the old days. It is curious how a woman, who has had a home of her own

for many years, goes back to the time when her father's house was the

only place that bore that name. "We used to do that at home," the matron

will say, with a smile or a tear, realising in a moment the girl she

used to be--with how much stronger reason when she is only parted from

it by some half-dozen years. Nelly felt as if she were again a girl at

home during many of those golden afternoons, as if nothing had ever

happened, as if her life were as yet all to come. She forgot herself,

and that position which had been so much impressed upon her by all her

friends. Poor Nelly! It was very wrong for a woman who was a widow, and

had been a widow not eighteen months; but she was young, and her heart

was very light and elastic, rebounding from the deep gloom which was so

unnatural to her character and to her age. For her character, I need not

say, was not a solid and steady one, as that of the mother of these two

little children ought to have been. And it was so sweet to be young

again, to receive the homage which seemed so genuine, to have the

companionship which was so entrancing, to sing with that other voice

which was so suited to hers, to talk and smile, and be amused, and find

the time fly. She did not know many people--nobody, indeed, but good

Mrs Glynn and the girls, who were absorbed in parish work and mothers'

meetings, in which they had hoped and expected Mrs Brunton would take

her part. They had wanted her to take a district; they had set apart

many things in which she ought to take an interest. But Nelly's interest

had never been awakened in such things. She would have been dull, very

dull, in her new home if it had not been for that very different kind of

interest which was so much more in her way. It is impossible, when you

have an excellent nurse who really knows much better what is right than

you do, to occupy your whole time with a little boy of five and a little

girl of three. Nelly gave Jack his little lesson every morning very

punctually, and devoted to the children as much of the earlier part of

the day as remained when they had taken their walk, and fulfilled the

little routine of their existence. And then in the afternoon----

Well, in the afternoon Mrs Brunton found it dull. She went across to the

rectory, and often found that the girls were all out about their parish

work, or else playing tennis at the house of some neighbour whom she

scarcely knew, or who did not venture to ask the young widow to appear

at a garden party--so soon. And then Nellie would take a rather

mournful, lonely walk. Is it wonderful that when she saw Mr Percy

Fitzroy coming her heart gave a jump of pleasure, and her face grew

bright with smiles? Not at first because he was Percy Fitzroy--but

because he was life and movement and pleasure and fellowship, and

because this was the kind of occupation and entertainment which she had

been most used to in her former career.

CHAPTER VI.

There is nothing in the world, as all the world knows, that can go on

for any time at a given point without developments, and those probably

of an unforeseen sort, especially not a kind of intercourse like

this--the "friendship," as Nelly to herself stoutly and steadily called

it. It was much remarked upon, as may be supposed, but not in any

unkindly way. Though her neighbours scarcely knew her as yet, they knew,

or thought they knew, that the young widow about whom they were all

prepared to be so much interested would not, as was said, be a widow

much longer. And her husband not yet a twelvemonth dead, some said, who

were of the class who always hear the wrong version of a story. Others,

who had called upon her and liked her, explained to each other

apologetically that young Mrs Brunton was a sweet young woman, and of

course could not be expected to make a recluse of herself at her age.

Thus it was with charity, though clear-sightedness, that the village saw

Mrs Brunton and her "friend" from town, followed by the children and the

nurse, walking across the fields towards the river one September

afternoon, the gentleman in boating costume. Mr Fitzroy himself was not

perhaps so much touched by that procession as were Nelly's neighbours.

He had come early, and proposed that, as the river was not far off, Mrs

Brunton should go for a row, to which Nelly had replied with

delight--half naturally, half to cover her own pleasure; for are not all

things mingled in this world?--that little Jack had been crying to go on

the river, and that it would be such a treat for the children. Young

mothers have a way of doing this, on much less moving occasions, when

the delight of the children is the last thing in the world of which

their entertainers are thinking. Fitzroy had to make a great gulp and

swallow the children, though he did not like it. The nurse sat behind

him in the boat, and Nelly kept the two little ones beside her in the

stern, and they were very well behaved. But Fitzroy felt that, had any

of his friends seen him on the river in this patriarchal guise, the joke

would have rung through all the clubs where his name was known. Happily,

however, in September there are few people about of the club kind. When

he came down another time in his flannels Mrs Brunton said nothing about

the children. She hesitated a little, and the colour fluttered in her

face. Oh, if she only knew what was the right thing! There was no harm

in it, certainly. It was like walking along a public street with him,

which was a thing no one could object to. And if she refused to go, what

would he think? or, rather, what would he think that she was thinking?

He would probably imagine that she was afraid of him, that she was

giving a character to his friendly attentions which did not belong to

them, thinking that he was in love with her. How silly and vain that

would seem; how he would laugh in his sleeve to see that this was what

she thought, like any silly girl--she, a woman whom he only considered

as a friend!

This was the argument which made Nelly finally decide to go. And she

enjoyed that row beyond anything she could remember. It was as if she

had made an escapade as a girl, with some one who perhaps one day----But

she never would have been allowed to make that escapade as a girl. Now,

at her present age and in her position of dignity as a married person,

what could there be wrong in it? And yet it was rather wrong. She was a

little ashamed, a little self-conscious, hoping that nobody would see

her. And the sunset was so glorious, and the river so golden, and the

sense of a secret, intense companionship so sweet! There was very little

said between them--nothing, Nelly protested to herself afterwards, that

all the world might not have heard--but they came home across the fields

in the misty lingering autumn twilight, with a bewildering sense of

happiness and perfect communion. "I do not know," Fitzroy said, "when I

have spent so happy an evening." "The river was so lovely," said Nelly,

faltering a little. "Everything was lovely," he said. He was so delicate

and considerate that he would not come in, but said good night to her at

the gate, in the presence, so to speak, of all the world.

And this occurred a good many times, as long as the fine weather lasted.

It would be such a pity, Fitzroy said, not to take advantage of it, and,

indeed, Mrs Brunton thought so too. And once or twice he did come in,

and there was a little supper, and he went off in good time for the

half-past nine train. Nobody could say that was late: and then, to be

sure, if any one did say so, Nelly was not responsible to anybody for

her actions. She was herself the best judge of what was befitting.

Perhaps she was not quite so sure now that nothing was ever said that

all the world might not hear. Things were said--about philosophical

subjects, about the union of souls, about affinities, about the

character of love metaphysically considered, whether a man or a woman

could love twice, whether sometimes in early youth it was not more

imagination than love that moved the heart, whether it did not require a

little experience of life to make you really acquainted with the force

of that sentiment. "There is no passion in the love of girls and boys,"

Fitzroy said, and he almost convinced Nelly that passion was the salt of

life, the only thing really worth living for. These discussions perhaps

were a little dangerous. But they were not personal--oh no! abstractions

merely, the kind of subjects which promote conversation and which draw

out the imaginative faculties. The thing that proved this was that there

was not a suggestion of marriage ever made, nothing which approached

that subject. Love-making from the point of view of an Englishwoman

means marriage as a matter of course. And Fitzroy had never in the most

distant way said to Nelly, "Will you marry me?" "Is it possible that

you should one day become my wife?" He had talked, oh! a great deal

about love in the abstract. He had said hurried things, phrases that

seemed to escape him, about a man's "passion." And Nelly had felt many

times, with a trembling of all her faculties, that he and she were on

the eve of a crisis, that the moment must soon come in which these

decisive words must be said.

But that crisis never did come, though certainly the excitement of the

intercourse grew daily, and the suspense bewildered and overwhelmed her

so that she was entirely absorbed in it, and no longer her own mistress.

She had let the stream carry her away. From the time when she went out

first alone, with something of the secret delight of a girl making an

escapade, upon the river with her kind visitor in the early September,

till now, scarcely a month later, what a change had occurred! Then she

obeyed a pleasurable impulse, partly that he might not think she thought

of anything beyond the pleasant intercourse of an hour or two; now she

felt her whole existence, her life, her happiness, her credit with the

world, hanging as it were on the breath of his lips. Would he say, or

would he not say, the words which would make all clear? For a time after

every meeting she felt as if she had barely escaped from that supreme

scene, holding it off, according to a woman's instinct; and then a chill

began to creep over Nelly when he went away without a word: and life and

everything concerning her seemed to hang in that suspense. Poor Nelly!

poor, foolish, unsuspicious creature! If she had ever been a cruel

little flirt in her heedlessness, never meaning any harm, she was

punished now.

One night--it was early in October--Fitzroy stayed late and shared

Nelly's supper, and lingered after it, going back to the drawing-room

with her, not taking leave of her in the little hall as he was in the

habit of doing; and thus he missed the half-past nine train. But what

did that matter? for there were two later, and an hour's delay could

not, after all, make much difference. They were both full of emotion and

suppressed excitement, and Nelly felt that the crisis could not be much

longer delayed. She made, however, that invariable effort to keep it at

arm's length, to talk of other things, which is one evidence that things

have come to an alarming pass. She chattered, she laughed, flushed with

feeling, with suspense and excitement, thinking every moment that the

passion (certainly there was what he called "passion") in his eyes must

burst forth. But still the suspense went on. Nelly's nerves and spirit

were almost on the point of breaking down when she was suddenly roused

by the chiming of the clock. "Oh," she cried, "eleven! you must run, you

must fly! You have not a moment to lose for your train--the last train!"

He looked at her for a moment with unutterable things in his eyes. "Is

it so very indispensable that I should catch the last train? Nelly! how

can I leave you? How can you send me away, when you know how I love, how

I adore----"

There came at this moment a sharp knock at the door.

"If you please, ma'am," said Nelly's excellent nurse, "there's just time

for Mr Fitzroy to catch the last train."

And he had to go, seizing his hat, hurrying out with an apology for

staying till the last moment, while Nelly, trembling, terrified, shrank

back into the room where a little fire was still burning, though the

night was warm. She went back to it with the chill of exhausted nerves,

and held out her hands to the smouldering glow, while nurse locked and

bolted the hall door with unnecessary noise and commotion. Then that

excellent woman once more put her head into the room with a look which

Nelly could not meet. "Is there anything I can get for you, ma'am,

before I go to bed?" she said.

Nelly thanked her, hurriedly recalling her faculties. "How glad I am you

came to warn Mr Fitzroy, nurse! I had told him, but he paid no

attention. Gentlemen always think they can catch a train by a rush at

the last moment." She felt that she was apologising to nurse, and was

ashamed of doing so, though it was shame and uneasiness which had forced

the words to her lips. Nurse did not commit herself to any approval or

condonation of her mistress's behaviour. She said only "Yes, ma'am," and

marched up-stairs with measured steps to bed.

Nelly sat down on a low chair in front of the smouldering fire. She was

trembling all over, scarcely able to command herself, her cheeks burning

with the heat of excitement, yet her teeth chattering with a nervous

chill, her strength almost completely broken down. Now that she was

alone the tension of her nerves gave way: the light went out of her

eyes, her heart seemed to suffocate her, struggling in her breast. The

agitation of her whole being prostrated her physically as well as

mentally. She lay back upon her chair, as if its support were necessary

to hold her together, and then she bent forward, holding her trembling

hands to the fire. Had the crisis come, not as she had expected, but in

a form that she did not understand? or was this strange interrupted

climax a mere break in the stream, no end at all, a broken thread to be

taken up again to-morrow and to-morrow indefinitely? Nelly was not

capable of forming these questions in her mind, but they swept through

the whirlwind within her, with a horror and alarm which she did not

understand and knew not how to explain. What had he said? Why had he

said that and not something else? What had she done that he had looked

at her so? No, she did not ask herself all this; these questions only

went whirling about in the wild commotion of her soul. She did not know

how long she sat thus, incapable of movement. The fire sank lower, and

she felt, without knowing whence it came, a chill draught from her right

hand where the window was, but took no notice, perceiving it only, not

in a condition of mind to account for it. But Mrs Brunton suddenly sat

up erect, and all that tempest stopped in a moment, at the sound of a

footstep outside and a tap on the window. What was it? Oh, heaven! what

was it? She suddenly remembered in a moment that the window had been

unfastened because the room was too warm. The shutters had been almost

closed upon it, leaving only the smallest opening to give a little air,

and Nelly had forgotten all about it, in her agitation and trouble. She

sat for a moment motionless in her panic, thinking of burglars and

robbery, not daring to stir. Then there came another tapping, and a low

voice. "Mrs Brunton, I have lost my train; I remembered that the window

was open; may I come in?"

The next moment, without waiting for any reply--which, indeed, Nelly in

her consternation was unable to give--he pushed open the window quickly

and came into the room. She stood petrified, staring at him, feeling as

if she must have gone suddenly mad, and that all this was a

hallucination, as he entered with a glow of triumph in his face.

"Nelly," he said, coming forward to her, dropping down on his knee by

the side of her chair. "Darling, you left it open for me! You knew I

would come back."

It all happened in a moment, and in a moment Nelly had to make her

decision: her life, her fate, her good name, everything in the world

worth thinking of, was in the turn of the scale. If he had not made that

suggestion, heaven knows, in this prostration of her whole being, what

poor Nelly might have done. But it gave her a sting of offence too sharp

to bear.

"I left it open for you!" she cried, starting up. "You must be mad, Mr

Fitzroy! What do you want? What do you want? Why have you come back

here?"

He was startled by the terror, yet almost fury, in her eyes. "Forgive

me," he said, starting up also, facing her, "I have lost my train. You

know it is the last. What could I do but come back to the only house

where I am known? and I thought you would not refuse me shelter for the

night."

"Oh," she said almost wildly, "shelter--for the night!"

"May I close the window? It's rather cold, and you are shivering. If I

have frightened you, forgive me, forgive me! Rather than that, I would

have walked to London or sat down on a doorstep."

"I am not frightened," said Mrs Brunton with a gasp. Her senses came

back to her; she felt that she must keep very cool, and make no scene.

"It was a little alarming to see a man come in," she said. "It is very

unfortunate that you should have lost your train. I am afraid you will

not be very comfortable, but we will do the best we can for you."

He caught her sleeve as she was turning to the door. "Where are you

going?" he cried.

"Only to call one of the maids to make a room ready for you."

"I want no room," he said. "An hour or two on the sofa will be luxury;

and I shall be off in the morning by dawn of day, and disturb no one.

Nobody need know: and you are not the sort of girl to think of Mrs

Grundy. Nelly, my darling! stay, stay with me a bit! what is the use of

taking me in if you leave me like this? Half an hour, just half an hour,

to finish our talk!"

"When I have given my orders, perhaps," said Nelly. She would not stop

even to forbid the familiarity of his address. She walked out of the

room with composed steps, but as soon as she was outside flew up the

dark staircase to the nursery, where nurse, an anxious and troubled

woman, was not yet asleep. Mrs Brunton went in like a ghost to the room

in which the night-light was burning, where the children were breathing

softly in their cribs. "Nurse," she said, with all the composure she

could command, "Mr Fitzroy has come back; he has lost his train. I want

you to get up and prepare the spare room for him. I am sorry: but what

else can we do?"

Nurse looked fixedly at her mistress in the light of the candle which

Nelly had just lighted, and which came to life in a sudden glare upon

her agitated face. "Yes, ma'am," she said quietly, beginning to dress.

What a strange agitated scene in the middle of the silent night! The man

below could not have been more dismayed by the appearance of a band of

soldiers than he was by the quiet, respectable, respectful maid-servant

who came in with a candle to show him to his room, and whose polite

determination to get rid of him, to put out the lamp and see that

everything was safe for the night, was full of the most perfect calm.

"I'll go up-stairs presently; but you need not wait," he said. "Oh, sir,

I don't mind waiting; but my mistress likes me to see the lights out.

I'll be in the next room when you are ready, sir, to show you the way."

He was moved at last to ask impatiently, "Is not Mrs Brunton coming

down-stairs again?"

"Oh dear no, sir; my mistress is passing the night in the nursery, for

Master Jack is a little feverish, and he never will part with his mamma

when once he sees her. If she offered to go away he'd scream so, he'd

raise the whole house."

Fitzroy glared at this guardian of the little helpless household--a very

respectful, very obliging maid-servant--making light of the trouble a

nocturnal visitor gave. He could no more have resisted or insulted this

woman than if she had been a queen. He followed her quite humbly to his

room, not daring to say a word. He might as well have been in a hotel,

he said bitterly to himself.

When nurse went back she found poor Nelly sitting on the floor between

the two little beds, her head leaning on one of them, holding fast the

rail of the other, and weeping as if her heart would break.

Next morning Mr Fitzroy left the cottage early, without asking to see

Mrs Brunton. It was, indeed, too early to disturb the lady of the house.

CHAPTER VII.

Mrs Brunton woke next morning with an aching head and a confused mind,

not knowing for a moment what had happened to her. Was it a nightmare? a

dreadful dream? She had not slept till morning, and then had fallen into

an unrestful torpor, full of the broken reminiscences of the night. A

nightmare! that was most like what it was--until she came to herself all

at once, and remembered everything.

Everything! and yet did not in the least understand. What had been the

meaning of it all? It was more like a nightmare than ever as all the

different incidents come back upon her mind. The lingering, the wild

talk--the question, "Must I go away?" The cry "I love you. I adore----"

and nurse coming in to save her mistress perhaps from wilder utterances

still. "Was it indispensable that he should go by the last train?" What

a question! Was it not indispensable--more! exacted by every feeling, by

every necessity? "I love you, I adore----" Oh yes, these words made poor

Nelly's heart beat; but they were not words a man should have said in

the silence of the night to a woman without any protection, with a wild

heart leaping and struggling in her bosom, and to whose code of possible

existence something else, something very different, was needful. Was it

indispensable?--oh! it was not, it was not _that_, a man should have

asked. He might love her, but what kind of love was it to humble a woman

in her own esteem, to make her ask herself, "What have I done, oh what

have I done, that I should be spoken to so?" Nelly did not think of her

reputation, of honour, or, as he dared to suggest, of what people might

say. Mrs Grundy! That was all very well for the light follies that mean

nothing, the laughing transgression of a formal rule. But the shock of

his look, the horror of his return, struck at her very being. It seemed

to her that she could die of shame only to remember it. And what could

he think of her? Was it indispensable? Had not she left the window open

for him? Had she not known he would come back?

O God, O God! These words, that come to us by instinct at the most

dreadful moments, were not profane exclamations in poor Nelly's case.

She sat up in her bed, and wrung her hands, and uttered that wild

appeal--not a prayer, for her brain was too distracted for prayer--but

only an appeal, a cry. The words he had said kept whirling through her

mind, till they came to have no meaning except the one meaning of horror

and pain: "indispensable," and "Mrs Grundy," and "you knew I would come

back." Oh, what kind of woman must he have thought her to think that she

knew he would come back, to leave the window open for him? The last

train, was it indispensable? and the window left open--and Nelly had to

seize herself, as it were, with both hands, to keep her reason, to stop

the distracted rush of those words over and over and over again through

her brain. There was a lull when nurse came in--nurse, who had been her

saviour from she did not know what, who had cut the dreadful knot, but

who must not, not even she, know the tempest which was going on in

Nelly's being. She stopped that nervous wringing of her hands, pulled

herself together, tried to smile. "How dreadfully late I am! How did I

come to be so late?" she cried.

"It was the fright, ma'am, last night."

"I--I--was just trying to recall that, nurse. Mr Fitzroy"--she could

not say his name without flushing scarlet all over to the tips of her

fingers--"lost his train, and came back?"

"He did, ma'am," said nurse, with severe self-restraint.

"He ought not to have done it, nurse."

"Indeed, ma'am, he ought not to have done it." Nurse shut up her lips

firmly, that other words might not burst forth.

"He--gave me--a terrible fright, nurse. I had forgotten that the window

was open."

"Yes, Mrs Brunton." Poor Nelly looked so wistfully in the woman's face,

not explaining further, not asking her support in words, but so clearly

desiring it, that nurse's heart was deeply touched. "I think, ma'am,"

she said, "if you'll not be angry----" Nelly's face was heartrending to

behold. She expected nothing but condemnation, and how could she accept

it, how defend herself against it, from her servant, her dependant, a

woman who at least might have been expected to be on her side? If nurse

had indeed condemned her, Nelly's pride might have been aroused, but now

she sat with her eyes piteously fixed upon her, appealing to her as if

against a sentence of death.

"If you won't be angry with me, ma'am," repeated nurse, "and if I may

make so bold as to say it, I think you behaved just as a lady ought--not

stopping to argue with him, but coming right away, and leaving the

gentleman to me."

"O nurse!" cried Nelly, bursting into tears with a relief unspeakable.

"O nurse! thank God that you think I did right."

"It was an awful trial for a lady, a young lady like you--oh, an awful

trial, enough to drive you out of your senses!" Nelly had flung herself

on the woman's shoulder and lay sobbing there, while nurse patted her

tenderly, as if she had been one of the children. "Don't take on now,

don't, there's a dear lady! Get up, ma'am, and dress quick, and don't

spoil your eyes with crying. I saw Mrs Glynn at the Rectory door,

looking as if she were coming here."

"O nurse! I cannot see her! You must say I have a headache."

"Not this morning, Mrs Brunton, oh, not this morning," cried nurse, "if

I may make so bold as to say it. Come down and look your own self; and I

would own to the fright, if I was you."

To say that Nelly was not half-angry at nurse's interference, which she

had evoked, would scarcely have been true. She began to resent it the

moment that she had most benefited by it, as was natural. But she also

recognised its truth. And she dressed with as much care as possible,

and did all she could to efface the signs of agitation and trouble from

her face. Nelly was like most people in a dreadful social emergency; she

forgot that Mrs Glynn was the kindest of women. She began to ask

herself, with fictitious wrath, if this was indeed Mrs Grundy, the

impertinent inquisitor, come to inquire into her private affairs, with

which she had nothing to do--nothing! She immediately perceived, arrayed

against her, an evil-speaking, evil-thinking world, making the worst of

everything, accepting no explanation, incapable of understanding! When

she walked down to the drawing-room it was not Nelly, the kind and

confident girl-widow, nor was it Mrs Brunton, the young matron secure in

her own right and the protection of her home and her children, feeble

shields as these were against the world; it was rather an army with

banners, spears flashing, and flags flying, which marched against the

enemy, defying fate.

It was Mrs Glynn who looked pale and unhappy when Nelly went into the

room. She was old enough to be Mrs Brunton's mother, and in the

tenderness of her heart the Rector's wife felt something like it as the

younger woman appeared. Her experienced glance showed her in a moment

that Nelly was self-conscious and defiant, which meant, of course, that

her information was correct, and that something dreadful had occurred.

They bade each other good morning and kissed--as ladies do in the habit

of intimacy, which generally means so little--Nelly meeting the salute

with a little impatience, Mrs Glynn giving it with a marked and

lingering tenderness, which also was to Mrs Brunton an offence; and then

they talked for a moment or two about the beauty of the autumn morning,

the health of the children, and various other small subjects of no

immediate interest. Then Mrs Glynn was silent for a moment, and said

softly, "Mrs Brunton!" and paused, hesitating, looking wistfully in

Nelly's face.

"Yes."

"I am afraid you will be angry. I have come to say something--to ask

you----Dear Mrs Brunton, you are very young--and I--knew your mother."

"Yes," said Nelly again, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "Please tell

me at once what it is. Have I--done anything wrong?" She gave a little,

nervous laugh. An altogether innocent person would have been frightened,

but Nelly knew every word that was going to be said, and steeled herself

for the ordeal.

"The Rector," said Mrs Glynn, "came home by the last train last night;

and he saw some one--a gentleman--go in at your gate. He was

frightened--for you, my dear; and he stood still and watched, meaning to

call a policeman if anything was wrong; and then he saw who it was,

recognising him in the moonlight. Dear Mrs Brunton! Mr Glynn came home

to me in great distress. We have done nothing all night but think, and

think, what we ought to do. Oh, my dear girl, hear me out! You are so

young, and you have been used to such different ways in India, such

hospitality, and all that. We know it, and we know that people there

keep a sort of open house, that friends are constantly visiting each

other. But it's not so here, and you don't know how people talk, and I

thought you would, perhaps, let me speak to you, warn you----"

"Of what?" said Nelly, with white lips. All sorts of plans and thoughts

had rushed through her mind while this address was made to her--quick

impulses, bad and good, to overwhelm her visitor with scorn, to refuse

to answer, to turn the meddling woman out of her house. But oh, on the

other hand, she wanted help so much! to throw herself upon this kind

woman's breast, at her feet. For a moment this battle raged fiercely in

her breast, and she herself knew not which side would win. "Mrs Grundy,"

she said, at length, with a smile upon her parched mouth, not able to

articulate any more.

"Mrs Grundy!" said the Rector's wife. "Oh, my dear, I am not Mrs Grundy;

I am a very anxious friend, anxious to help you, to do anything. Oh, let

me help you! We are sure there must be an explanation."

"No," cried Nelly, "you are not Mrs Grundy, I know; I was a fool to say

that."

"Thank you, my dear. You are so young, and a stranger--a stranger to our

village ways, Mrs Brunton!" The good woman took Nelly's hand in both of

hers, and looked at her with appealing eyes.

"I will tell you precisely how it was," said Nelly, hastily, as quickly

turned to the good as to the bad impulse. "Nobody was to blame. Mr

Fitzroy----" She grew red at the name, and then felt herself chill all

over--chill to her very heart, turning as pale as she had been red, as

if some ice wind had blown over her. The sensation made her pause for a

moment. "Mr Fitzroy stayed a little too late last night; he left himself

scarcely time to catch the train--men are so apt to do that. They think

they can rush in a moment."

"I know," said Mrs Glynn, pressing her hand.

"And he lost it," said Nelly, faltering. "He came back; and he

remembered that the drawing-room window had been left a little open, and

he thought it better to come round by the garden instead of--instead of

rousing the house."

"Tell me," said Mrs Glynn, "one moment; are you engaged to him, my

dear?"

Nelly drooped her head. "Not yet," she said. "You shall know everything.

He was--saying that--when nurse came to tell him he must fly for his

train."

"Ah!" cried Mrs Glynn, pressing Nelly's hand in both hers, "now I begin

to see! And he came back to have it out! Oh, how glad I am I came! Now I

can see all the excuses for him. It was an error of judgment, but it was

very natural. My dear, my dear; and then?"

"There was no more," Nelly said, raising her head. With what relief she

heard that--excuses for him! even for _him_. "I was very much

frightened," she added, with new confidence, "for I had forgotten the

window was open, and I thought--I don't know what I thought. I ran

up-stairs at once to bid nurse prepare a room for him--and I did not see

him again."

"God bless you, my dear," cried the Rector's wife, taking Nelly into her

arms and giving her a kiss. "That was the very best thing you could have

done; unless you had sent him over to us to the Rectory, but of course

you did not think of that. Oh, how glad I am I came! Oh, how pleased my

husband will be! It was what I would have wished you to have done if you

had been my own child. But what a situation for you! what a moment, my

poor dear! It was wrong--it was very wrong--of him; he ought to have

known better: but yet, a young man! and interrupted at the very moment

when----He was wrong, but there were excuses for him, my dear."

Mrs Glynn stayed for some time, full of sympathy and consolation. "He

has behaved very foolishly, my love. He ought not to have come, and,

being here, he ought not to have gone away so soon. He ought to have

left openly, like any other visitor, and settled everything before he

went. But a young man in the height of passion----" It was a comfort to

Nelly that good Mrs Glynn said "passion," too. "Of course, he will come

back in the afternoon, and you will have your explanation," she added.

"And then you will come to the Rectory, and bring him to see us; you

will--you will, promise me you will? And, oh, God bless you, and make it

a happy change for you, my dear!"

CHAPTER VIII.

There were excuses for him; he had been interrupted, and he had come

back to have it out, to tell his tale, to make his declaration. Mrs

Glynn, who was quite cool and impartial, not bewildered by excitement

like Nelly, thought so. But then she had not that heavy sense of

something else--some things said that ought not to have been said--which

crushed Nelly's heart like a stone. "Was it indispensable that he should

catch the last train? Had she not expected him back--left the window

open for him?" If Mrs Glynn had known of these words, would she have

still thought there were excuses? Nelly's heart lay in her breast like a

stone. The scientific people may say what they will--that the heart is a

mere physical organ; not those who have felt it ache, who have felt it

leap, who have felt it lie like a stone. There seemed no beating in it,

no power of rising. She said to herself that she was relieved and

comforted, and thanked God that, to a calm spectator, there were excuses

for him. But her heart did not respond; it lay motionless in her breast,

crushed, heavy as a stone.

She did not, however, leave the house all that day, expecting, yet not

expecting, the visit which should put everything right, of which her

friend had been so confident; but he did not come. Next morning there

arrived a letter, full of agitation and bewilderment to Nelly. It was

not the apology, the prayer for forgiveness, which she had expected. The

letter took a totally different tone. He accused Nelly--poor Nelly,

trembling and miserable--of distrust, which was an insult to him. What

did she think of him that she had fled from him, turned him over to a

servant? What horrible idea had she formed of him? What did she expect

or imagine?

"I have often been told," he wrote, "that women in their imaginations

jumped at things that would horrify a man; but I never believed it,

least of all of you. What could be more simple or more natural than to

go back to the house of my only friend--to one more dear to me than any

other friend--instead of walking to London, which was my only

alternative? What dreadful things have people put into your head? for

they would not arise there of themselves, I feel sure. And now here we

have come to a crisis which changes our relationship altogether. How are

we to get over it? My first thought was to rush off at once--to put the

Channel between us--so that you might feel safe; but something tugs at

my heart, and I cannot put myself out of reach of you whatever you may

think of me. O Nelly! where did you learn those suspicions that are so

insulting to me? How can I come again with the recollection of all that

in my mind? Do you wish me to come again? Do you want to cast me off?

What is to happen between us? After the insult you have put upon me, it

is for you to take the next step. I am here at your orders--to come or

to stay."

Nelly was struck dumb by this letter. She did not know what to think or

to say. A simple-minded person, not accustomed to knavery, has always

the first impulse of believing what is said to her (or him), whatever

she may know against it. How could she tell, a woman so little

acquainted with life, whether he might not be in the right--whether he

had not cause to feel insulted and offended? If his motives were so

transparent and his action so simple as he thought, he had indeed good

reason to be offended--and for a moment there was a sensation of relief

and comfort indescribable in Nelly's heart. Ah! that these vile things

which had given her so much pain had not risen again like straws upon an

evil wind, and blown about her, confusing all her thoughts. Not

indispensable that he should catch the last train--he who treated this

incident now as so inevitable, so simple an occurrence! And had she not

expected him to come back--left the window open for his stealthy entry,

which was to disturb nobody?--he who now took so high a tone, and

explained his coming as so entirely accidental and justifiable. Nelly

did not know what to think. She was torn in two between the conviction

which lay heavy at the bottom of her heart, and the easier, the

delightful faith to which he invited her with that show of high-toned

indignation. And even now he said no more: a dear friend, the dearest of

all--but not a word of that which would smooth away all doubt, and make

it possible for her to believe that her ears had deceived her, that he

had never said anything to make her doubt him. Poor Nelly was torn with

trouble and perplexity. They had come to a crisis? Oh yes! and she had

felt so long that the crisis was coming, but not--not in this guise! She

sat all the evening alone, pondering how to reply, writing letter after

letter, which she burned as soon as they were written. At last, after

all these laborious attempts, she snatched her pen again, and wrote in

great haste, taking no time to think: for the powers of thought were

exhausted, and had nothing more to do in the matter. She wrote that it

was best he should not come again--unless----And then, in greater haste

still, with a countenance all glowing with shame, she scratched out

that word "unless." Oh no, no!--not from her, whatever were the

circumstances, could that suggestion come.

During the next two days a hot correspondence went on. Fitzroy wrote

angrily that he respected her decision, and would not trouble her again.

Then, almost before the ink was dry--before, at least, she had awakened

out of the prostration of misery caused by reading this letter--there

came another imploring her to reverse her judgment, to meet him, at

least, somewhere, if she would not permit him to come; not to cast him

off for ever, as she seemed disposed to do. Poor Nelly had very little

desire to cast him off. She was brought to life by this hot protest

against the severance which she felt would be death to her. She began to

believe that, after all, there was nothing wanting on his part--that all

he had not put into words was understood as involved in the words which

he did employ. Poor Nelly! "It must be so," she said to herself--"it

must be so!" A man in whose thoughts there was nothing but love and

honour might never think it possible that he could be doubted--might

feel that his truth and honesty were too certain to be questioned.

"Women in their imaginations jump at things that would horrify a man."

Was this true? Perhaps it was true. At what horror had Nelly's

imagination jumped on that dreadful night? Dared she say to any

one--dared she to put in words, even to herself--what she feared? Oh no,

no! She had not known what she feared. She had feared nothing, she said

to herself, her cheeks burning, her bosom panting--nothing! All that she

was conscious of was that this was not what he ought to have done--that

he had failed in respect, that he had not felt the delicacy of the tie

between them. Was that all? Surely that, after all, was not a matter of

life and death.

Nelly went on reasoning with herself that had she been a man it would

have been the most natural thing in the world that he should have come

back, having lost his train. Had her husband been living, had she been

in her father's or her mother's house, of course he would have done so;

and why should she think herself less protected by her own honour and

good faith, by the presence of the children, than by these other

safeguards? Nelly began to be ashamed of herself. "Women in their

imaginations jump----" Was she so little sure of herself, she cried at

last to herself with burning scorn, her heart beating loud, her

countenance crimson, that she attributed to him ideas altogether alien

to his thoughts--that she had fled to the help of nurse as if she wanted

protection? After this argument with herself, which lasted long and

went through more phases than I can follow, Nelly read Fitzroy's first

letter over with feelings ever varying, ever deepening in force. Had she

done him wrong? She had done him wrong--cruel wrong. He had acted with

simplicity all through. She it was who had put meanings he never thought

of into his mind. She it was----Oh! and she had thought herself a good

woman! What horrors were those that filled a woman's imagination--things

that would confound any man?

The result was that, with many a confused and trembling thought, Nelly

granted to Fitzroy the interview he asked for. Something in her heart--a

sick sensation of giddiness and bewilderment, as if everything had gone

wrong in her life--prevented her from receiving him again at home; but

she consented to meet him (of all places in the world) at the railway

station--the noisy, bustling place where no quiet could be secured,

where anybody might see them, where, indeed, it was impossible that they

should not be seen. I wonder if any other pair ever walked about

Paddington, rubbing shoulders with the calmest suburban folk, and all

the daily commotion of the little commonplace trains, with such a

subject between them. But we never know how often we touch tragedy as we

walk about the world unconscious. They met, these two people, with such

a question between them, with all the confused and incomprehensible

intermediate atmosphere which veils two individual minds from each

other, in the midst of all the bustle and noise, in which, in their

self-absorption, they were lost as in a desert. They walked about, round

and round, in the darker corners of the great area, and at last,

overcome with fatigue and excitement, sat down upon a bench a little out

of the way, where few passengers came. I cannot tell what was in the

man's mind--if he was conscious of wrong and acting a part, or conscious

of right and only speaking as a man who felt himself to be under an

unjust imputation might have a right to do. But it became very visible

now if never before that he was a coarse-minded man, notwithstanding his

outside of refinement, and that he no longer took the trouble to attempt

to veil it as he had hitherto done. And Nelly, on the other hand, though

keenly conscious of this, accepted it as if she had always known it.

They had been together for nearly an hour, pacing up and down the gloomy

background of the great noisy station, talking, talking; and yet she did

not know with any more conviction than when they first met whether it

was he or she that was in the wrong. Was he true--a man who had acted in

all simplicity and honour--and she a woman with a bad imagination which,

had jumped at something enough to horrify a man? Nelly's mind seemed to

be enveloped in cobwebs and mists, so that she could make out nothing

clearly, though sometimes there pierced through these mists a keen ray

of light, like an arrow, which seemed to break them up for a moment and

make all plain. Ah! but it came sometimes from one side, sometimes from

another, that sudden arrow cleaving the confusion. Sometimes its effect

was to make her heart leap; sometimes to make it drop, down, down into

the depths. Oh, if she could but see into his heart! But there is no one

who can do that--not into the heart of the dearest and most near our

own--or be absolutely certain of those motives which bring the smile or

the sigh.

There was one strange thing, however, that this strange incident had

done--it had set the two upon a level of intimate acquaintance, of

sincerity in speaking to each other, which all their previous

intercourse had not accomplished. With what veils of flattering illusion

that intercourse had been wrapped! It had never been mentioned between

them that she expected or that he withheld any proposal, that the time

had come for any decision, that there was any question between them

greater than the question whether he might come again to-morrow. Now

that pretence had blown away for ever. When they sat down upon that

bench at the dreary end of the long platform, where once in a half-hour

or so a railway porter went past, or a bewildered stray passenger, this

was what Fitzroy said--

"The thing that has risen between us now is the brutal question of

marriage, and nothing else, Nelly. Oh, you needn't cry out! I use the

word 'brutal' in the French sense: all that belongs to the imagination

or the fancy, all that's vague, seductive, and attractive is over. It

_is_ a brutal question----"

"Mr Fitzroy!" cried Nelly, springing to her feet.

"Don't 'Mr' me!" he cried, almost angrily, seizing her hand, drawing her

to her seat again. "What good will all this commotion do? We must face

the real question; and you know this is what it is. I should never have

forced it upon you; but still, here it is, and there is nothing else for

it now. Don't you think I see that as well as you do? It is the only

thing, and I have made up my mind to it."

The colour that covered Nelly's face was more than a blush--it was a

scorching fire. She drew farther from him, raising, with what pride she

could, her abashed and shame-stricken head. "If you think that I--will

permit any man to speak to me so--that to make up _your_ mind is

enough----"

Oh, the humiliation even of that protest, the deep destroying shame

even of the resentment which was a kind of avowal! For here, at least,

he was logically right and she helpless, dependent for so much upon the

making up of his mind.

"I can't stop," he said, "after all that's past, Nelly, to pick my

words. Here's the fact: I was an ass, I suppose, to go back that night.

I was off my head; and you had not given me any reason to suppose you

were a prude. I had not expected to find--the British matron up in arms,

and an old witch of a duenna to watch over her mistress! What more harm

is there in talking to a lady after midnight than before? I can't see

it. But we needn't argue. After all this fuss, and the maid, and the

vicaress, and so on, there's nothing, I say, but this brutal question of

marriage. Can't you sit still, now, and hear me out?"

"You have no right," she said--"you have no right--to speak to me in

that tone!"

"What tone? There is nothing particular that I know of in my tone. I

haven't time to pick my tones any more than my words. Your train will be

going soon, and the deuced affair must be settled somehow. Look here! it

is horribly inconvenient for me to get married now. I have no money, and

I have a lot of debts to pay. A marriage in St George's, published in

the papers and all that, would simply make an end of me. These tradesmen

fellows know everything; they would give each other the word: Married a

widow with a family and with no money! By Jove! that would finish me."

"Mr Fitzroy!"

"I tell you not to 'Mr' me, Nelly. You know my name, I suppose. We are

past all that. The question now is how to manage the one business

without bursting up the other. Making a regular smash of my affairs

can't do you any good, can it? We'll have to go abroad; and we can't, of

course, take those chicks--dragging a nursery about with us all over the

world. Keep still! you'll frighten that porter." He had seized and held

her arm tightly, restraining her. "For goodness' sake be reasonable,

now, Nelly. You don't suppose I mean you any harm? How could I?" he

added, with a harsh laugh, "you're much too wide awake for that. Listen

to what I say, Nelly."

"I cannot--I cannot endure this," she cried.

"We may neither of us like it," said Fitzroy, with composure, "but you

ought to have thought of that a little sooner. There's nothing else for

it now that I can see. Speak up if you know any other way. I don't want

to ruin you; and you, I suppose, don't want to ruin me. There's no other

way."

"There is the way--of parting here, and never seeing each other more!"

He held her fast, with her arm drawn closely through his. "That's the

most impracticable of all," he said. "For one thing, I don't want to

part and never see you more."

Oh, poor Nelly! poor Nelly! She was outraged in every point of pride and

tenderness and feeling, and yet the softness of this tone sank into her

heart, and carried, like a flood, all her bulwarks away.

"Well, and then it couldn't be done. You've gone too far, with your

vicaress, and all that. I don't want to ruin you; and neither, I

suppose, do you want to ruin me. Look here, Nelly: I've got a little

money at present--by chance, as it happens. I'll buy a licence--it's all

you'll have from me in the shape of wedding-present--and you'll run up

to town to-morrow morning, and we'll be married at the registrar's

office. Can't help it, Nelly; can't do anything better. It is no fault

of mine."

There was silence for a moment. Nelly was not able to speak. Her heart

was beating as if it would burst; her whole nature revolting, resisting,

in a horror and conflict indescribable. At length she burst forth: "It

is a brutal question, indeed, indeed--a brutal question!" she cried,

scarcely able with her trembling lips to form the words.

"Well, didn't I say so? But we can't help it; there's nothing

else left to do. I am not an infernal cad--altogether; and you're

not--altogether--a fool. We may have been that--that last--both of us;

but there's no use going over all that again. Nelly, compose

yourself--compose yourself!"

"I cannot! I cannot!" she cried, struggling with that burst and flood of

misery which is one of the shames and terrors of a woman. It had come to

such a point that she could not compose herself, or resist the wild tide

of passion that carried her away. Passion! ah, not of love--of shame, of

horror, of self-disgust, of humiliation unspeakable. A woman who has had

poor Nelly's experiences seldom retains a girl's dream of superlative

womanhood, of the crown and the sceptre. But to endure to be spoken to

like this--to feel the question to be not one between two lovers, but

between a man who was not "an infernal cad" and a woman who was not "a

fool"; to submit to all this because there was nothing else for it, to

be obliged by her reason to acquiesce in it--was almost more than flesh

and blood could bear. She kept in, by the exertion of all her strength,

those heartrending sobs and cries within her own bosom as much as was

possible. Even in the depth of her misery she was aware that to betray

herself, to collect a crowd round, would be worse still, and must be

avoided at any price. Finally, poor Nelly found herself, all wounded and

bruised with the conflict, exhausted as if she were going to die, alone

in the railway carriage in which Fitzroy had placed her, kissing her

openly in sight of the guard as he left her, and bidding her remember

that he would meet her at eleven o'clock to-morrow. At eleven o'clock

to-morrow! It seemed to ring in her ears all the way down, like a bell

going on with the same chime. Eleven o'clock! Eleven o'clock

to-morrow!--for why? for why?

CHAPTER IX.

Thinking, thinking all the long night through did not seem to do poor

Nelly any good. She had arrived at home so exhausted in mind and body,

so chilled to the heart, that she was good for nothing but to retire to

bed. She was scarcely able to see the children--the children, whom

perhaps in a day or two----Oh! should she not secure every moment of

them, every look of the innocent faces that were her own, lay up in her

heart every innocent word, with that dreadful possibility before her?

But the effect was exactly the reverse. The sight of them seemed to fill

her with a sick horror. She could not meet their eyes, could not bear

their caresses, turned from them with an awful sense that she had

betrayed them. And then all the night through in the dark she lay awake

thinking, thinking, listening to the clock striking--the vigilant clock,

which watched and waited, measuring out the unhasting time, never

forgetting, looking on whatever happened. It would strike eleven o'clock

to-morrow in the calm little unalarmed house where nobody would suspect

that the young mother, the smiling and loving guardian of the children,

had come to her hour of doom. For a long time her mind held to this as

if it were a sentence which had to be carried out. Eleven o'clock

to-morrow, eleven o'clock! a thing which she could not alter, which had

to be done. Then by-and-by, which was worse still, there flashed into

her soul the thought that it was no sentence, but a thing subject to her

own decision, which she might do--or not. Or not! She was free; it was

for her to settle, to do it or not to do it. I don't know how to explain

how much worse this was. To be held fast by a verdict, sentenced at a

certain hour to do something which perhaps you would rather die than do,

but which you must do, your dying or not dying being a matter of

indifference--is a very terrible thing: yet even in this the _must_

gives a certain support. But to be cast back again into a sea of doubt

from which you have to get out as best you may, in which you must decide

for yourself, choose--this or that, settle what to do, what not to do;

the choice being not between pleasure and pain, between good and evil,

as it used to be in the old days--but only of two tortures, which was

the worst and which the best.

The result of this terrible night was at least to solve the question for

eleven o'clock to-morrow: for she was too ill to stand, her limbs aching

and her head aching when to-morrow came. It was dreadful to Nelly to

have to call nurse, who already half knew so much, and to send her with

the necessary telegram. "Too ill to move--postpone for a day or two"

was, after long labour with her aching head and perturbed brain, all she

could think of to say; and she had scarcely said it when it flashed upon

her that the very word "postpone" was a kind of pledge, and committed

her to an acceptance of everything he had settled upon, though even this

did not hurt like the look which nurse gave her when she saw Fitzroy's

name--a look, not of reproach, but of anxious curiosity. Before this

time poor Nelly had begun to feel to her very soul the misery of having

a confidant. It is a comfort in some cases: it relieves the full heart

to speak, it sometimes gives support, the support of being understood in

a difficult crisis. But it also gives to the person confided in a right

to follow further developments, to know what happens after, to ask--to

look. "You did not come as you promised, dear?" Mrs Glynn had said to

her; "you did not bring him to see us." The Rector's wife doubted, but

did not know certainly, that Fitzroy had not come. "No," Nelly had

faltered, "I did not, I--could not." "But to-morrow! promise me, promise

me faithfully that you will bring him to-morrow. Dear, let us have the

comfort of seeing you two together." Nelly had only nodded her head, she

could not trust her voice to speak. This was before the interview at

Paddington. And Mrs Glynn had gone away sorrowing. She was very anxious

about the poor young woman whose life was thus compromised by what might

turn out to be a bad man. She could not comprehend why all was not

settled by this time, and the lover ready to satisfy her friends. She

took Nelly's hands in both hers, and kissed her, and looked wistfully in

her face. Poor Nelly had felt as if she must sink into the ground. She

could not meet her friend's eyes. She gave no sign of reply, no

answering look: but dropped the kind hands that held hers, and turned

back into the house, which was a refuge at least for the time.

But she was not safe even in her house, for nurse also had been her

confidant, and had a half right to ask, an undoubted right to look. Her

eyes when they flashed upon the name of Fitzroy in Nelly's telegram were

terrible. Well-trained woman as she was, she raised those eyes

instinctively to Nelly's face with a question in them before which

Nelly's, hot with fever yet dim with tears, fell. Oh, if she had said

nothing, if she had but kept the whole story to herself! But that had

been impossible--he had made it impossible. When she had confided the

telegram to nurse she gave instructions that she was not to be

disturbed, and lay, with her blinds down, in the darkened room,

trembling lest Mrs Glynn should force the _consigne_, and find the way

to her bedside in spite of all precautions. It was bad enough to be

questioned when she had nothing to reply; what would it be when her

heart and mind were so full? Nelly lay there in the dark the whole day

with her troubled thoughts. In an hour or two nurse came back, bringing

the children from their walk, and told her mistress that they had walked

as far as Deanham, a little neighbouring village, and that she had sent

the telegram from that office, which she hoped would not matter. It

mattered only so far as to send a fiery dart through Mrs Brunton, who

divined at once that this was done to save her--that no local telegraph

clerk might be able to betray the fact of her communication with

Fitzroy. And Mrs Glynn called, and was repulsed, not without difficulty,

and left her love, and a promise--which was to Nelly as a threat--of

calling early to-morrow. And once more there came the night when all was

silent, when there was no one even to look a question, when Nelly was

left alone again to battle with her thoughts.

Alone, to battle with her thoughts. With this addition, that if she

remained here and faced her trouble, and resolved to tread the stony

path, to bear the penalty of her indiscretion, and cling to her

children--she would have Mrs Glynn to meet in the morning, to explain to

her that Mr Fitzroy had not come and was not coming, that all this

stormy episode was over, and to endure her astonishment, her questions,

perhaps her reproaches. And nurse, too, to nurse there would be due some

explanation--nurse, who had seen everything, who had gone on the river

with them, who had known of all his constant visits, before that last

visit which had brought to a crisis the whole foolish, foolish story.

Oh, how well everything had been before he ever came; how contented she

had been with her children, how pleased with her little house, how much

approved by everybody! Nelly believed in all good faith that she would

have been quite contented and happy had Fitzroy never appeared to

disturb her life, alone in her tranquillity with her children: but it

may be doubted whether her confidence would have been justified. At all

events, now, she shivered when she looked forward upon that life which

would lie before her if this was to be the end. Alone, with the

children. Oh, how dear the children were! But they were so little, such

babies, not companions for a woman in the full tide and height of her

life. Mrs Glynn would be kind, she knew, but a little suspicious of her.

Nurse would watch her as if she were a giddy girl; she would not dare to

open her doors to any one, to offer a curate a cup of tea! I don't say

that Nelly was guilty of such thoughts as these in her musing--but they

drifted through her desolate, solitary, abandoned soul, abandoned of all

comfort and counsel. Whereas, on the other side----

In a great many histories of human experience it is taken for

granted--and indeed, perhaps, before the reign of analysis began it was

almost always taken for granted--that when man or woman of the nobler

kind found that a lover was unworthy, their love died along with their

respect. This has simplified matters in many a story. It is such a good

way out of it, and saves so much trouble! The last great instance I can

remember is that of the noble Romola and Tito her husband, whom, though

he gives her endless trouble, she is able to drop out of her stronghold

of love as soon as she knows how little worthy of it is the fascinating,

delightful, false Greek. My own experience is all the other way. Life, I

think, is not so easy as that comes to. Nelly understood a great deal

more of Mr Fitzroy now than she might have done in other circumstances

had she been married to him for years. She had seen him all round in a

flash of awful reality and perception, and hated him--yet loved him all

the same. She did not attempt to put these feelings in their order, to

set so much on one side and so much on the other. She knew now, as she

had never done before, what love could mean in some natures. How it

could be base, and yet not all base, and how a man who was only not

altogether a cad, to use his own description, apprehended that passion.

And yet it did not matter to her, it did not affect the depth of her

heart, any more than it would have affected her had he lost his good

looks or his beautiful voice. Ah yes! it did matter. It turned her very

love, herself, her life, into things so different that they were

scarcely recognisable. The elements of hate were in her love, an

opposition and distrust ineradicable took possession of her being: and

yet she belonged to him, and he to her, almost the more for this

contradiction. These are mysteries which I do not attempt to explain.

Yet, notwithstanding all this terrible consciousness, when Nelly awoke

next morning (for she was tired out and slept notwithstanding

everything) and remembered all that lay before her, and the decision she

had to make, the two things which immediately flashed upon her

mind--small things of no real importance--were, the look which nurse

would fix upon her, trying to read her thoughts, and the inevitable call

of Mrs Glynn. They were not Mrs Grundy--oh, how little, how petty, how

poor was anything that the frivolous call Mrs Grundy! They were women

who were fond of her, who would stand for her and defend her, women who,

alas! were her confidants. They had a right to know. Of all that stood

in her way and made the crisis dreadful, there was nothing at this

moment so dreadful as the glance of suppressed anxiety, the question,

that did not venture to put itself into words, of nurse's look, and the

more open, more unconcealed gaze of Mrs Glynn. She felt that she would

not, could not, bear these, whatever she might have to bear.

I do not pretend to say that this was what finally turned the scale. Was

there any doubt from the beginning how it would turn? She came

down-stairs very early on that dreadful morning and breakfasted with the

children, and dressed them with her own hands for their walk, fastening

every little button, putting on each little glove. She kissed them again

and again before she gave them over to nurse, who was waiting--and stood

at the door looking after them until they had disappeared beyond the

garden gate. Then she, who had seemed so full of leisure, all at once

became nervous and hurried. She called the housemaid to her, who was

busy with her work. "Mary," she said, "I have to run up to town by the

half-past ten train. I have not a moment to lose; if Mrs Glynn should

come you must tell her that I am gone, and I will slip out by the back

door--for if she comes in I know I shall miss my train." "Yes, ma'am,"

said Mary, making no remark, but thinking all the more. Happily,

however, Mrs Glynn did not come, and Mrs Brunton left the house in good

time for the train, carrying her dressing-bag. "It is possible I may not

get home again to-night," she said. "Give this to nurse, Mary. I forgot

to give it to her; and if any one inquires, say I have gone to town for

a few days." Mary never knew how she could have made so bold. She cried

out: "Oh, ma'am, I hope as you are not going to leave us." "To leave

you!" said Nelly. "What nonsense you are speaking! How could I leave

you?" But she was not angry; she gave the girl a look which made Mary

cry, though she could not have told why.

What was left for nurse was a letter with a cheque enclosed, imploring

her to take the greatest care of the children till she could send for

them. "I may tell you to satisfy you that I am going to be married,"

Nelly wrote. "We want to have no fuss. And I could not take the

children; but as soon as--as we are settled I shall send for you to

bring my little darlings. Oh, take care of them, take care of them!" And

that was all; not an address, not an indication where she had gone.

Nurse did not say a word to any one as long as her courage held out.

When Mrs Glynn, after receiving her message from the housemaid, asked to

see the more important servant, nurse made her face like a countenance

cut out of wood. She could give no explanation. Mrs Brunton had gone to

town for a few days. Perhaps she might be detained a little longer. It

was on business she had gone. "But it was very sudden?" cried Mrs Glynn.

"Yes, ma'am," said nurse. "And you don't know what day she will be

back?" "No, ma'am," replied the faithful servant. There was nothing more

to be learned from her.

She kept this up as long, I have said, as her courage held out; and

indeed a week strained that courage very much. The servants all grew

frightened left in the house alone. They did not know how to contain

themselves, or to bear up in the unusual leisure and quiet. I think that

nurse held out for ten days. And then she wrote to Mrs Brunton's married

sister--for Nelly's mother was an old lady, and not to be disturbed.

After this there ensued a whirl of agitation and trouble, in which the

cook and the housemaid found much satisfaction. The sister came, and

then her husband, and after them a brother and uncle, all in

consternation. Nelly's letter to nurse was read over and over, and much

of what had passed before was elicited by anxious questioning. "Depend

upon it, she has gone off with this man," said the uncle solemnly, and

nobody contradicted him, the fact being self-evident. "Fitzroy--of what

Fitzroys I wonder?" said the brother, who thought he knew society.

Finally, Nelly's brother, who was young and impetuous, started off for

the Continent in search of her, and the married sister took the children

home.

Poor little children! they were so forlorn, and so ignorant, crying for

mamma, such little things. Consoled by a box of chocolate, treated very

kindly, oh very kindly! but not kings and queens, nurse said with tears,

as in their own home. And the poor mother, poor Nelly--where was she?

She was discussed by everybody, all her affairs, whether she were really

married, or what dreadful thing had happened to her: how she could go

away, for any man, and leave her children. All that she had kept most

private to herself was raked up and gone over, and her conduct at

Bampton-Leigh, and how all this had begun. Poor Nelly! all the world was

in her secret now.

CHAPTER X.

The children had been but a week at the house of Mrs Evans, Nelly's

sister, when a letter arrived, first sent to Haven Green, then by

various stages to their present habitation, to nurse, asking for news of

them. It was rather a melancholy letter. "I cannot send for my darlings

yet, and it is dreadful to be without any news. Mr Fitzroy and I are

moving about so much that I can scarcely give you an address; but write

at once, and if we are no longer here, I will leave word where we are

going, and your letter can follow me;" and again a cheque was enclosed,

signed with the name of Helen Fitzroy. "Say, if anybody inquires, that

we may come back any day," she added in a postscript. It was evident

that she had overestimated nurse's courage, that she had calculated upon

her remaining quietly at home, until further orders: and the assumption

made nurse feel exceedingly guilty, as if she had betrayed her mistress.

A short time after, information came from the family solicitor that he

had received Nelly's orders to sell all the property that Mrs Brunton

had in her own power, and forward the money to her at another address,

different from that given to nurse. It was not a sum which represented

very much in the way of income, yet it was a large sum to be realised

without a word of explanation, and roused the worst auguries in

everybody's breast. Needless to say that both addresses were telegraphed

at once to the impetuous brother who was roving about Europe, looking

under every table in every hotel for Nelly. Needless also to add that

she was found at last.

But here exact information fails. Her brother Herbert never described

how he found her, or went into any unnecessary details. The pair, who

were henceforward spoken of in the family as the Fitzroys, were at Monte

Carlo when he came up with them; and it was evident enough that "my new

brother-in-law," as Herbert called him, awakened no enthusiasm in the

young man's breast. He acknowledged that he thought the fellow was in

his proper place among the queer society there, though it was not much

like Nelly; and there it appeared they meant to remain, on the ground

that Nelly had showed some symptoms of delicate health, and it was

thought expedient that she should winter in the south of France, which

made it impossible for her to have the children with her, as she had

intended. "So far as that goes, Nelly was silly," Herbert said; "how

could she expect a fellow newly married to have another man's children

dragging after him all over the place? And she knew they'd be safe with

Susan." Susan Evans took this very quietly; but she knew that Nelly had

not intended the children to be with her, but had meant to send for

them, or to come back to them, leaving the issue to the decision of

after events. Poor Nelly, she looked delicate, Herbert allowed. She was

not like herself. He confessed, when he was alone with his sister, and

had become confidential, walking about the room in the twilight when the

changes of his countenance could not be remarked, that perhaps Nelly had

made a mistake, and he was not sure that she had not found it out.

"Do you mean that he is unkind to her?" cried Susan, all aflame.

"I should just like," said Herbert, grimly, "to have seen any man unkind

to her while I was there."

"Isn't he fond of her, then? Then why did he marry her? Do you mean that

they're unhappy, Herbert? So soon, so soon!"

"Now, look here," said Herbert, "I won't be cross-examined; I say that I

think Nelly has made a mistake, and I fear she thinks so too. I can't go

into metaphysical questions why people did that, or why they did this.

I'm not fond myself of Mr Percy Fitzroy--and we are not done with him

yet," Herbert said.

"Done with him? and he Nelly's husband; I should hope not, indeed!" Mrs

Evans cried.

"Then I promise you you'll have your wish," her brother replied.

And, indeed, for the next year or two there was a great deal heard of Mr

Percy Fitzroy. One thing that developed itself in the further history of

poor Nelly was a chronic want of money. She disposed of everything over

which she had the least power. Her little house was, of course, sold and

everything in it. What was the good of keeping it up? and even the

Indian curiosities, the little stock of plate, all the things of which

Nelly Brunton had been proud. What did all that matter now? These

trifles served to stop the wolf's mouth for a very short time, and then

Herbert began to receive letters by every post, which he showed to

nobody. He was the head of the family, and he was the only one who was

fully acquainted with the affairs of the Fitzroys. He gained a prominent

line on his forehead, which might have been called the Fitzroy wrinkle,

from this constant traffic and anxiety, and nobody knew but himself how

far these claims and applications went.

Meanwhile the poor little children remained in the nursery of Mrs Evans;

not poor little children at all--much benefited, at least in Mrs Evans'

opinion, by the superior discipline of a large family. Susan was of

opinion that whoever suffered by Nelly's second marriage, to little Jack

and Maysey all things had worked together for good. How much better it

was for them to be brought up with a little wholesome neglect among a

great number of nice children, who were very kind to their little

cousins, than spoiled to the top of their bent by Nelly, who gave them

everything they wanted, and kept up no discipline at all? And, indeed,

there could not be a doubt that it was far better for them to be in the

wholesome English nursery than dragging about through a series of hotels

after their mother and their mother's husband. It was against her

judgment that Mrs Evans kept nurse devoted to their special service; but

she did so, for, though she thought a great deal of her own system, she

was a kind woman, and very sorry for poor Nelly, thus separated from her

children, though at the same time very angry and indignant with her for

submitting to it. "I should like to see Henry, or any other man, try to

keep me from my children!" Susan cried. But then Henry Evans, good man,

had no such desire, nor naturally, in his lifetime, had any other man

the right.

It need scarcely be said that the subject was discussed in all its

aspects at Haven Green, where nobody knew anything, and there was the

widest field for conjecture. Mrs Glynn, who never would allow an unkind

word to be said of Mrs Brunton, now Mrs Fitzroy, in her hearing, blamed

herself very much that she had not watched Nelly more closely and that

the Rector had not interfered. "For if my husband had married them, even

if it had been by special licence in her own drawing-room--though I

disapprove of that sort of proceeding very much--yet not a word could

have been said." "I suppose it was done at a registry office," said some

ill-natured person. "We have none of us any right to suppose such a

thing," Mrs Glynn replied. Well! there were dark whispers in corners

that it might have been even worse than that--though, of course, now

that the family had taken it up, it was clear that all must be right;

but these whispers were not uttered in the presence of the Rector or of

Mrs Glynn, who avowed boldly that she had been in Mrs Brunton's

confidence all the time. You cannot do much harm, it may be proudly

asserted, when you unbosom yourself to your clergyman's wife!

Among all poor Nelly's sympathisers and anxious supporters there was no

one more anxious--no one, it may be said, so compunctious--as Julia

Bampton. She said that she could never forgive herself, for it was she

who had introduced dear Nelly to Percy Fitzroy. She it was, all

unwitting of evil, who had thrown them together. Mrs Spencer-Jackson,

indeed, had brought him into the county, but it was at Bampton-Leigh

that he had been taken up most warmly and made most of. It was because

of his voice--such a beautiful baritone voice; and Julia herself--Julia,

who spoke with tears in her eyes, had thrown them together, made them

sing together, brought it all on. She could never forgive herself for

this, though she hoped with all her heart that poor Nelly, though she

had been so imprudent, was happier than people said. By this time May

had married Bertie Harcourt, and was the brightest of young matrons,

with a handsome house and an adoring husband, and nothing but happiness

about her. She, too, was very sorry for Nelly, and said she had always

thought there was something queer, like a man in a book, about Mr Percy

Fitzroy.

And thus it came about that the poor little Brunton children were a

great deal at Bampton-Leigh, where there was no discipline at all, and

which seemed to them the most delightful place in the world. They called

Julia aunt, _en attendant_ the arrival of Harcourt children who would

have a right to address her by that title, and made up to her in such a

surprising way for the absence of May that their visits were the

happiest portions of her life. Julia was seated with them in the

drawing-room on an evening in October about two years after these

events, telling them stories, Maysey's little figure buried in her lap

(for the good Julia began to grow stout), and Jack leaning closely

against her knee. It was growing dark, but the fire was bright and

filled the room with ruddy gleams and fantastic shadows and reflections.

She had come to a very touching point in the story, and Maysey had flung

her arms round aunt Julia's neck in the thrill of the approaching

catastrophe which the children both knew by heart, yet heard over and

over again with undiminished delight and horror. They all heard the

door open, but paid no attention, supposing it was the tea; and Julia

had told the tale all out, and the nervous clasp of the child's arms had

loosened, when, looking up, Miss Bampton saw--not in actual reality, but

in the great mirror over the mantelpiece--a shadowy figure standing over

them, a woman in a travelling cloak, with a great veil like a cloud

hanging over her face. Julia gave a shriek that rang through the house,

and the veiled figure dropped down upon the hearthrug on its knees, and

encircled the whole group with eager arms. "O Nelly, Nelly, Nelly!"

Julia cried, thinking at first that it was a ghost.

When the lights came it was visible that both things were true--that it

was Nelly, and that she was little more than the ghost of herself. It

was some time before the frightened children--who had forgotten her, and

who were terrified by her paleness, and her cloak and her veil, and her

sudden arrival--would acknowledge their mother. Oh, how different from

the Nelly who had arrived there on that summer afternoon, and stopped

the singing at the piano, and diverted (as Julia in the profoundest

depths of her heart was aware) from May's path an evil fate. She bore

all the traces of that evil fate upon her own worn countenance. She was

very pale, worn, and thin: she was not like herself. But when she had

rested from her journey, and recovered the confidence of her children,

then the old house of her kindred became aware of another Nelly, who was

not like the first, yet was a more distinct and remarkable personage

than Nelly Brunton. She was dressed in all the elegance of the fashion,

and she had an air which the country lady did not understand. Was it

natural stateliness and nobility? Or was it only the tragedy of her

unknown fate?

Nelly stayed and lingered in the calm of Bampton-Leigh. It seemed as if

she never could separate herself from the children. It was with

reluctance that she allowed them to be put to bed, or to go out for

their play. She could not bear them out of her sight, and she never

spoke of Mr Percy Fitzroy except when questions were put to her. When

Mrs Spencer-Jackson came to see her, with effusive welcome, she received

that lady with extreme coldness, holding her at arm's length. "My

husband is quite well," was all she answered to a thousand inquiries.

Letters came to her "from abroad" at rare intervals, and she herself

wrote very seldom. She never looked as if she wanted to hear anything

except about her little boy and girl.

And for anything I have heard she is there still, much wondered at, yet

very kindly cherished, good Julia asking no questions, at

Bampton-Leigh.

QUEEN ELEANOR AND FAIR ROSAMOND.

CHAPTER I.

THE FAMILY.

Mr and Mrs Lycett-Landon were two middle-aged people in the fulness of

life and prosperity. Though they belonged to the world of commerce, they

were both well-born and well connected, which was not so common,

perhaps, thirty years ago as it is now. He was the son of an Irish

baronet; she was the daughter of a Scotch laird. He had never, perhaps,

been the dashing young man suggested by his parentage, though he rode

better than a business man has any call to ride, and had liked in

moderation all his life the pleasures which business men generally can

only afford themselves when they have grown very rich. Mr Lycett-Landon

was not very rich in the Liverpool sense of the word, and he had never

been very poor. He had accepted his destination in the counting-house of

a distant relation, who was the first to connect the name of Landon with

business, without any heartbreak or abandonment of brighter dreams. It

had seemed to him from the beginning a sensible and becoming thing to

do. The idea of becoming rich had afforded him a rational satisfaction.

He had not envied his brothers their fox-hunting, their adventures in

various parts of the world, their campaigning and colonising. Liverpool,

indeed, was prosaic but very comfortable. He liked the comfort, the

sensation of always having an easy balance at his bankers (bliss,

indeed! and like every other kind of bliss, so out of reach to most of

us), the everyday enjoyment of luxury and well-being, and was

indifferent to the prosaic side of the matter. His marriage was in every

sense of the word a good marriage; one which filled both families with

satisfaction. She had money enough to help him in his business, and

business connections in the West of Scotland (where the finest people

have business connections), which helped him still more; and she was a

good woman, full of accomplishments and good-humour and intelligence. In

those days, perhaps, ladies cultivated accomplishments more than they do

now. They did not give themselves up to music or to art with absorbing

devotion, becoming semi- or more than semi-professional, but rather with

a general sense that to do lovely things was their vocation in the

world, pursued the graces tenderly all round, becoming perhaps excellent

in some special branch because it was more congenial than the others,

but no more. Thus while Mrs Lycett-Landon was far from equal to Mozart

and Beethoven, and would have looked on Bach with alarm, and Brahms with

consternation, in dance music, which her children demanded incessantly,

she had no superior. The young people preferred her to any band. Her

time was perfect, her spirit and fire contagious--nothing under

five-and-twenty could keep still when she played, and not many above.

And she was an admirable mistress of a house, which is the first of all

the fine arts for a woman. What she might have been as a poor man's

wife, with small means to make the best of, it is unnecessary to

inquire, for this was fortunately not her _rôle_ in life. With plenty of

money and of servants, and a pretty house and everything that was

necessary to keep it up, she was the most excellent manager in the

world. Perhaps now and then she was a trifle hard upon other women who

were not so well off as she, and saw the defects in their management,

and believed that in their place she would have done better. But this is

a fault that the most angelic might fall into, and which only becomes

more natural and urgent the more benevolent the critic is, till

sometimes she can scarcely keep her hands from meddling, so anxious is

she to set the other right. It was to Mrs Lycett-Landon's credit, as it

is to that of many like her, that she never meddled; though while she

was silent, her heart burned to think how much better she would have

done it. Her husband was somewhat of the same way of thinking in respect

to men in business who did not get on. He said, "Now, if So-and-so would

only see----" while his wife in her heart would so fain have taken the

house out of the limp hands of Mrs So-and-so and set everything right.

It is a triumph of civilisation, and at the same time a great trial to

benevolent and clear-sighted people, that according to the usages of

society the So-and-so's must always be left to muddle along in their own

way.

Lycett, Landon, Fareham, & Co. (Mr Lycett-Landon combined the names and

succession of two former partners) had houses in Liverpool, Glasgow, and

London, and a large business. I think they were cotton-brokers, without

having any very clear idea what that means. But this will probably be

quite unimportant to the reader. The Lycett-Landons had begun by living

in one of the best parts of Liverpool, which in those days had not

extended into luxurious suburbs as now, or at least had done so in a

very much less degree; and when the children came, and it was thought

expedient to live in the country, they established themselves on the

other side of the Mersey, in a great house surrounded by handsome

gardens and grounds overlooking the great river, which, slave of

commerce as it is and was, was then a very noble sight, as no doubt it

continues to be. To look out upon it in the darkening, or after night

had fallen, to the line of lights opposite, when the darkness hid

everything that was unlovely in the composition of the great town and

its fringe of docks, and to watch the great ships lying in midstream

with lights at their masts and bows, and the small sprites of attendant

steam-boats, each carrying its little lamp, as they rustled to and fro,

threading their way among the anchored giants, crossing and recrossing

at a dozen different points, was an endless pleasure. I do not speak of

the morning, of the sunshine, shining tranquil upon the majestic stream,

flashing back from its miles of waters, glowing on the white spars and

sails, the marvellous aërial cordage, the great ships resting from their

labours, each one of them a picture, because that is a more common

sight. But there are, or were, few things so grand, so varied, so full

of interest and amusement, as the Mersey at night. There were times,

indeed, when it was very cold, and rarer times when it was actually

dangerous to cross the ferry; when the world was lost in a white fog,

and a collision was possible at every moment. But these exciting

occasions were few, and in ordinary cases the Lycett-Landons, great and

small, thought the crossing a pleasant adjunct both to the business and

pleasure which took them to vulgar Liverpool. Vulgar was the name they

were fond of applying to it, with that sense of superiority which is

almost inevitable in the circumstances, in people conscious of living

out of it, and of making of it a point of view, a feature in the

landscape. But yet there was a certain affection mingled with this

contempt. They rather liked to talk of the innumerable masts, the miles

of docks, and when their visitors fell into enthusiasm with the scene,

felt both pleasure and pride as in an excellence which they had

themselves some credit from--"A poor thing, sir, but mine own"; and they

felt a little scorn of those who did not see how fine the Mersey was

with its many ships, although they affected to despise it in their own

persons. These were the affectations of the young. Mr Lycett-Landon

himself had a solid satisfaction in Liverpool. He put all objections

down at once with statistics and an intimation that people who did not

respect the second seaport in the kingdom were themselves but little

worthy of respect. His wife, however, was like the young people, and

patronised the town.

At the time when the following incidents began to happen the family

consisted of six children. These happy people had not been without their

griefs, and there was more than one gap in the family. Horace was not

the eldest, nor was little Julian the youngest of the children. But

these times of grief had passed over, as they do, though no one can

believe it, and scarcely disturbed the general history of happiness

looking back upon it, though they added many experiences, made sad

thoughts familiar, and gave to the mother at least a sanctuary of sorrow

to which she retired often in the bustle of life, and was more

strengthened than saddened, though she herself scarcely knew this.

Horace was twenty, and his sister Millicent eighteen, the others

descending by degrees to the age of six. There was a great deal of

education going on in the family, into which Mrs Lycett-Landon threw

herself with fervour, only regretting that she had not time to get up

classics with the boys, and with great enthusiasm throwing herself into

the music, the reading, all the forms of culture with which she had

already a certain acquaintance. These pursuits filled up the days which

had already seemed very fully occupied, and there were moments when

papa, coming home after his business, declared that he felt himself

quite "out of it," and lingered in the dining-room after dinner and

dozed instead of coming up-stairs. But there is nothing more common than

that a man of fifty, a comfortable merchant, after a very comfortable

dinner, should take a little nap over his wine, and nobody thought

anything of it. Horace was destined for business, to take up the

inheritance of his father, which was far too considerable to be let fall

into other hands; and though the young man had his dreams like most

young men, and now and then had gratified himself with the notion that

he was making a sacrifice, for the sake of his family, of his highest

aspirations, yet in reality he was by no means dissatisfied with his

destination, and contemplated the likelihood of becoming a very rich

man, and raising the firm into the highest regions of commercial

enterprise, with pleasure and a sense of power which is always

agreeable. Naturally, he thought that his father and old Fareham were a

great deal too cautious, and did not make half enough of their

opportunities; and, that when "new blood," meaning himself, came in, the

greatness and the rank of merchant princes, to which they had never

attained, would await the house. He had been a little shy at first to

talk of this, feeling that ambition of a commercial kind was not heroic,

and that his mother and Milly would be apt to gibe. But what ambition of

an aspiring youth was ever gibed at by mother and sister? They found it

a great and noble ambition when they discovered it. Milly's cheeks

glowed and her eyes shone with the thought. She talked of old Venice,

whose merchants were indeed princes, generals, and statesmen, all in

one. There are a great many fine things ready existing to be said on

this subject, and she made the fullest use of them. The father was rich

and prosperous, and able to indulge in any luxury; but Horace should be

great. A great merchant is as great as any other winner of heroic

successes. Thus the young man was encouraged in his aspirations. Mr

Lycett-Landon did not quite take the same view. "He'll do very well if

he keeps up to what has been done before him," he said. "Don't put

nonsense into his head. Yes; all that flummery about merchant princes

and so forth is nonsense. If he goes to London with that idea in his

head, there's no telling what mischief he may do."

"My dear," said Mrs Lycett-Landon, "it must always be well to have a

high aim."

"A high fiddlestick!" said the father; "if he does as well as I have

done, he'll do very well." And this sentiment was perhaps natural, too;

for though there are indeed parents who rejoice in seeing their sons

surpass them, there are many on the other side who, feeling their own

work extremely meritorious, entertain natural sentiments of derision for

the brags of the inexperienced boy who is going to do so much better.

"Wait till he is as old as I am," Mr Lycett-Landon said.

"So long as he is not swept away into society," said the mother. "Of

course, when he is known to be in town, he will be taken a great deal of

notice of, and asked out----"

"Oh, to Windsor Castle, I daresay," said papa, and laughed. He was in

one of his offensive moods, Milly said. It was very seldom he was

offensive, but there are moments when a man must be so, against the

united forces of youth and maternal sympathy with youth, in

self-defence. Unless he means to let them have it all their own way he

must be disagreeable from time to time. Mr Lycett-Landon asserted

himself very seldom, but still he had to do it now and then; and though

there was nothing in the world (except Milly) that he was more proud of

than Horace, called him a young puppy, and wanted to know what anybody

saw in him that he was to do so much better than his father. But the

ladies, though they resented it for the moment, knew that there was not

very much in this.

It was to the London house that Horace was destined. He was to spend a

year in it "looking about him," picking up an acquaintance with the

London variety of mercantile life, learning all the minutiæ of business,

and so forth. At present it was under the charge of a distant relative

of Mr Fareham's, who, as soon as Horace should be able to go alone in

the paths of duty, was destined to a very important post in the American

house, which at present was small, but which Fareham's cousin was to

make a great deal of. In the meantime, Mr Lycett-Landon himself paid

frequent visits to town to see that all was going well, and would

sometimes stay there for a fortnight, or even three weeks, much jested

at by his wife and daughter when he returned.

"Papa finds he can do a great deal of business at the club," said Milly;

"he meets so many people, you know. The London cotton-brokers go to all

the theatres, and to the Row in the morning. It is so much nicer than at

Liverpool."

"You monkey!" her father said with a laugh. He took it very

good-humouredly for a long time. But a joke that is carried on too long

gets disagreeable at the last, and after a while he became impatient.

"There, that's enough of it," he would say, which at first was a little

surprising, for Milly used, so far as papa was concerned, to have

everything her own way.

CHAPTER II.

THE LONDON OFFICE.

"Again--so soon!"

This is what Mrs Lycett-Landon and Milly said in chorus as the head of

the house, with something which might have been a little embarrassment,

announced a third visit to London in the course of four months. There

was an absence of his usual assured tone--a sort of apologetic accent,

which neither of them identified, but which both were vaguely conscious

of, as expressing something new.

"Robert," said his wife, "you are anxious about young Fareham; I feel

sure of it. Things are not going as you like."

"Well, my dear, I didn't want to say anything about it, and you must not

breathe a syllable of this to Fareham, who would be much distressed; but

I am a little anxious about the young fellow. Discipline is very slack

at the office. He goes and comes when he likes, not like a man of

business. In short, I want to keep an eye upon him."

"Oh, papa," cried Milly, "what a dear you are! and I that have been

making fun of you about the club and the Row!"

"Never mind, my dear," said her father, magnanimously; "your fun doesn't

hurt. But now that you have surprised my little secret, you must take

care of it. Not a word, not a hint, not so much as a look, to any of the

Farehams. I would not have it known for the world. But, of course, we

must not expose Horace to the risk of acquiring unbusiness-like habits."

"Oh, and most likely fast ways," cried Mrs Lycett-Landon, "for they

seldom stop at unbusiness-like habits." She had grown a little pale with

fright. "Oh, not for the world, Robert--our boy, who has never given us

a moment's anxiety. I would rather go to London myself, or to the end of

the world."

"Fortunately, that's not necessary," he said with a smile, "and you must

not jump at the worst, as women are so fond of doing. I have no reason

to suppose he is fast, only a little disorderly, and not exact as a

business man should be--wants watching a little. For goodness sake, not

a word to Fareham of all this. I would not for any consideration have

him know."

"Don't you think perhaps he might have a good influence? he has been so

kind to his nephew."

"That is just the very thing," said Mr Lycett-Landon. "He has been very

kind (young Fareham is not his nephew, by the way, only a distant

cousin), and, naturally, he would take a tone of authority, or preach,

or take the after-all-I've-done-for-you tone, which would never do. No,

a little watching--just the sense that there is an eye on him. He has a

great many good qualities," said the head of the house with a little

pomp of manner; "and I think--I really think--with a little care, that

we'll pull him through."

"Papa, you are an old dear," said Milly with enthusiasm. Perhaps he did

not like the familiarity of the address, or the rush she made at him to

give him a kiss. At least, he put her aside somewhat hastily.

"There, there," he said, "that will do. I have got a great many things

to look after. Have my things packed, my dear, and send them over to

Lime Street Station to meet me. You can put in some light clothes, in

case the weather should change. One never knows what turn it may take at

this time of the year."

It was April, and the weather had been gloomy; it was quite likely it

might change, as he said, though it was not so easy to tell what he

could want with his grey suit in town. This, however, the ladies thought

nothing of at the moment, being full of young Fareham and his sudden

declension from the paths of duty. "And he was always so steady and so

well behaved," cried Mrs Lycett-Landon. She saw after her husband's

packing, which was a habit she had retained from the old days, when they

were not nearly so rich. "He was always a model young man; that was why

I was so pleased to think of him as a companion for Horace."

"These model young men are just the ones that go wrong," said Milly,

with that air of wisdom which is so diverting to older intelligences.

Her mother laughed.

"Of course your experience is great," she said; "but I don't think that

I am of that opinion. If a boy is steady till he is five-and-twenty, he

is not very likely to break out after. Perhaps your father's prejudice

in favour of business habits----"

"Mamma! It was you who said a young man seldom stopped there."

"Was it? Well, perhaps it was," said Mrs Lycett-Landon, with a little

confusion. "I spoke without thought. One should not be too hard on young

men. They can't all be made in the same mould. Your father was always so

exact, never missing the boat once--and he cannot bear people who miss

the boat; so, I hope, perhaps it is not so bad as he thinks."

"It would never do," said Milly, still with that air of solemnity, "to

have Horace thrown in the way of any one who is not quite good and

right."

At this her mother laughed, and said, "I am afraid he must be put out of

the world then, Milly. I hope he has principles of his own."

Notwithstanding this sudden levity, Mrs Lycett-Landon fully

agreed--later in the day, when the portmanteau had gone to the Lime

Street Station, and she and her daughter had followed it and seen papa

off by the train--that it was very important Horace should make his

beginning in business under a prudent and careful guide; and that if

there was any irregularity in young Fareham, it was very good of papa to

take so much pains to put it right. Horace, who went home with them, was

but partially let into the secret, lest, perhaps, he might be less

careful than they were, and let some hint drop in the office as to the

object of his father's journey. The ladies questioned him covertly, as

ladies have a way of doing. What did the office think of young Mr

Fareham in London? Was he liked? Was he thought to be a good man of

business? What did Mr Pearce say, who was the head clerk and a great

authority?

"I say," said Horace, "why do you ask so many questions about Dick

Fareham? Does he want to marry Milly? Well, it looks like it, for you

never took such notice of him before."

"To marry me!" said Milly, in a blaze of indignation. "I hope he is not

quite so idiotic as that."

"He is not idiotic at all; he is a very nice fellow. You will be very

well off if you get any one half as good."

"I think," said the mother, "that papa and I will make all the necessary

investigations when it comes to marrying Milly. Now make haste,

children, or we shall miss the first boat."

It was an April evening, still light and bright, though the air was

shrewish, and the wind had some east in it, blighting the gardens and

keeping the earth grey, but doing much less harm to the water, which was

all ruffled into edges of white. The ten minutes' crossing was not

enough to make these white crests anything but pleasant, and the big

ships lay serenely in midstream, owning the force of the spring breeze

by a universal strain at their anchors, but otherwise with a fine

indifference to all its petty efforts. The little ferry steam-boat

coasted along their big sides with much rustle and commotion, churning

up the innocent waves. It was quite a considerable little party of

friends and neighbours who crossed habitually in this particular boat,

for the Lycett-Landons lived a little way up the river--not in bustling

Birkenhead. They were all so used to this going and coming, and to

constant meetings during this little voyage, that it was like a

perpetually recurring water-party--a moment of holiday after the work of

the day. The ladies had been shopping, the men had all escaped from

their offices; they had the very last piece of news, and carried with

them the evening papers, the new 'Punch'--everything that was new. If

there was any little cloud upon the family after their parting with

papa, it blew completely away in the fresh wind; but there was not, in

reality, any cloud upon them, nor any cause for anxiety or trouble. Even

the mother had no thought of anything of the kind, no anticipation that

was not pleasant. Life had gone so well with her that, except when one

of the children was ailing, she had no fear.

Mr Lycett-Landon on this occasion was a long time in London. He did not

return till nearly the end of May, and he came back in a very fretful,

uncomfortable state of mind. He told his wife that he was more uneasy

than ever; he did not blame young Fareham; he did not know whether it

was he that was to be blamed; but things were going wrong somehow.

"Perhaps it is only that he doesn't know how to keep up discipline," he

said, "and that the real fault is with the clerks. I begin to doubt if

it's safe to leave a lot of young fellows together. It will be far safer

to keep Horace here under my own eye, and with old Fareham, who is

exactitude itself. He will do a great deal better. I don't think I shall

send him to London."

"Of course, Robert, I should prefer to keep him at home," she said, "but

I am afraid, after all that has been said it will disappoint the boy."

"Oh, disappoint the boy! What does it matter about disappointing them at

that age? They have plenty of time to work it out. It is at my time of

life that disappointment tells."

"That is true, no doubt," said the mother; "but we are used to

disappointment, and they are not."

He turned upon her almost savagely. "You! What disappointments have you

ever had?" he cried, with such an air of contemptuous impatience as

filled her with dismay.

"Oh, Robert!" She looked at him with eyes that filled with tears,

"Disappointment is too easy a word," she said.

"You mean the--the children. What a way you women have of raking up the

departed at every turn. I don't believe, in my view of the word, you

ever had a disappointment in your life. You never desired anything very

much and had it snatched from you just when you thought----" He stopped

suddenly. "How odd," he said, with a strange laugh, "that I should be

discussing these sort of things with you!"

"What sort of things? I can't tell you how much you astonish me, Robert.

Did you ever desire anything so very much and I not know?"

Then he turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. "You are so matter of

fact. You take everything _au pied de la lettre_," he said.

This conversation remained in Mrs Lycett-Landon's mind in spite of her

efforts to represent to herself that it was only a way of speaking he

had fallen into, and could mean nothing. How could it mean anything

except business, or the good of the children, or some other perfectly

legitimate desire? But yet, in none of these ways had he any

disappointment to endure. The children were all well and vigorous, and,

thank God, doing as well as heart could desire. Horace was as good a boy

as ever was; and business was doing well. There was no failure, so far

as she was aware, in any of her husband's hopes. It must be an

exaggerated way of speaking. He must have allowed the disorder in the

London office to get on his nerves; and he had the pallid, restless look

of a man in suspense. He could not keep quiet. He was impatient for his

letters, and dissatisfied when he had got them. He was irritable with

the children, and even with herself, stopping her when she tried to

consult him about anything. "What is it?" or "About those brats again?"

he said, peevishly. This was when she wanted his opinion about a

governess for little Fanny and Julian.

"What between Milly's balls and Fanny's governess you drive me

distracted. Can't you settle these trifles yourself when you see how

much occupied I am with more important things?"

"I never knew before that you thought anything more important than the

children's welfare," she said.

"If there was any real question of the children's welfare," he answered,

with more than equal sharpness.

It came almost to a quarrel between them. Mrs Lycett-Landon could not

keep her indignation to herself. "Because the London office is not in

good order!" she could not help saying to Milly.

"Oh! mamma, dear, something more than that must be bothering him," the

girl said, and cried.

"I fear that we shall have to leave our nice home and settle in London.

It is like a monomania. I believe your father thinks of nothing else

night and day."

Mrs Lycett-Landon said this as if it were something very terrible; but,

perhaps, it was scarcely to be expected that Milly would take it in the

same way. "Settle in London!" she said; and a gleam of light came into

her eyes. The father came into the room at the end of this consultation

and heard these words.

"Who talks of settling in London?" he said.

"My dear Robert, it seems to me it must come to that; for if you are so

uneasy about the office, and always thinking of it----"

"I suppose," he said, "it is part of your nature to take everything in

that matter-of-fact way. I am annoyed about the London office; but

rather than move you out of this house I would see the London office go

to the dogs any day. I don't mind," he added, with a little vehemence,

"the coming and going; but to break up this house, to transplant you to

London, there is nothing in the world I would not sooner do."

She was a little surprised by his earnestness. "I am very glad you feel

as I do on that point. We have all been so happy here. But I, for my

part, would give up anything to make you more satisfied, my dear."

"That is the last thing in the world to make me satisfied. Whatever

happens, I don't want to sacrifice you," he said, in a subdued tone.

"It would not be a sacrifice at all; what fun it would be: and then

Horry need never leave us," cried Milly. "For my part, I should like it

very much, papa."

"Don't let us hear another word of such nonsense," he said, angrily; and

his face was so dark and his tone so sharp that Miss Milly did not find

another word to say.

CHAPTER III.

ALARMS.

It was rather a relief to them all when the father went away again. They

did not say so indeed in so many words, still keeping up the amiable

domestic fiction that the house was not at all like itself when papa was

away. But as a matter of fact there could be little doubt that the

atmosphere was clear after he was gone. A certain sulphurous sense of

something volcanic in the air, the alarm of a possible explosion, or at

least of the heat and mutterings that precede storms, departed with him.

He himself looked brighter when he went away. He was even gay as he

waved his hand to them from the railway carriage, for they had gone very

dutifully to see him off, as was the family custom. "Papa is quite

delighted to get off to his beloved London," Milly said. "He feels that

things go well when he is there," her mother replied, feeling a certain

need to be explanatory. The household life was all the freer when he was

gone. The young people had a great many engagements, and Mrs

Lycett-Landon was very pleasantly occupied with these and with her

younger children, and with all the manifold affairs of a large and full

house. As happens so often, though the fundamental laws were not

infringed, there was yet a little enlarging, a little loosening of bonds

when the head of the house was not there. Mamma never objected to be

"put out" for any summer pleasure that might arise. She did not mind

changing the dinner-hour, or even dispensing with dinner altogether, to

suit a country expedition, a garden-party, or a picnic, which was a

thing impossible when papa's comfort was the first thing to be thought

of. It was June, and life was full of such pleasures to the young

people. Horace, indeed, would go dutifully to the office every morning,

endeavouring to emulate the virtue of his father, and never miss the

nine o'clock boat; though as this high effort cost him in most cases his

breakfast, his mother was much perplexed on the subject, and not at all

sure that such goodness did not cost more than it was worth. But he very

often managed to be back for lunch, and the amusements for the afternoon

were endless. Mr Lycett-Landon wrote very cheerfully when he got back to

London: he told his wife that he thought he saw his way to establishing

matters on a much better footing, and that, after all, Dick Fareham was

not at all a bad fellow; but he would not send Horace there for some

time, till everything was in perfect order, and in the meantime felt

that his own eye and supervision were indispensable. "I shall hope by

next year to get everything into working order," he said. The family

were quite satisfied by these explanations. There was nothing

impassioned in their affection for their father, and Mrs Lycett-Landon

was happy with her children, and quite satisfied that her husband should

do what he thought best. So long as he was well, and pleasing himself,

she was not at all exacting. Marriage is a tie which is curiously

elastic when youth is over and the reign of the sober everyday has come

in. There is no such union, and yet there is no union that sits so

lightly. People who are each other's only confidants, and cannot live

without each other, yet feel a half-relief and sense of emancipation

when accidentally and temporarily they are free of each other. A woman

says to her daughter, "We will do so-and-so and so-and-so when your

father is away," meaning no abatement of loyalty or love, but yet an

unconscious, unaccustomed, not unenjoyable freedom. And the man no doubt

feels it perhaps more warmly on his side. So it was not felt that there

was anything to be uncomfortable about, or even to regret. The letters

were not so frequent as the wife could have wished. She sent a detailed

history of the family, and of everything that was going on, every second

day; but her husband's replies were short, and there were much longer

intervals between. Sometimes a week would elapse without any news; but

so much was going on at home, and all minds were so fully occupied, that

no particular notice was taken. Mrs Lycett-Landon asked, "How is it that

you are so lazy about writing?" and there was an end of it. So long as

he was perfectly well, as he said he was, what other danger could there

be to fear?

There are times when the smallest matter awakens family anxiety, and

there are other times when people are unaccountably, inconceivably easy

in their minds, and will not take alarm whatever indications of peril

may arise. When real calamity is impending how often is this the case!

Ears that are usually on the alert are deafened; eyes that look out the

most eagerly, lose their power of vision. Little Julian had a whitlow on

his finger, and his mother was quite unhappy about it; but as for her

husband, she was at rest and feared nothing. When he wrote, after a long

silence, that he felt one of his colds coming on and was going to nurse

himself, then indeed she felt a momentary uneasiness. But his colds were

never of a dangerous kind; they were colds that yielded at once to

treatment. She wrote immediately, and bade him be sure and stay indoors

for a day or two, and sent him Dr Moller's prescription, which always

did him good. "If you want me, of course you know I will come directly,"

she wrote. To this letter he replied much more quickly than usual,

begging her on no account to disturb herself, as he was getting rapidly

well again. But after this there was a longer pause in the

correspondence than had ever happened before.

On one of these evenings she met her husband's partner, old Fareham, as

he was always called, at dinner, at a large sumptuous Liverpool party.

There was to be a great ball that evening, and Mrs Lycett-Landon and her

two eldest children had come "across" for the two entertainments, and

were to stay all night. The luxury of the food and the splendour of the

accompaniments I may leave to the imagination. It was such a dinner as

is rarely to be seen out of commercial circles. The table groaned, not

under good cheer, as used to be the case, but under silver of the

highest workmanship, and the most costly flowers. The flowers alone cost

as much as would have fed a street full of poor people, for they were

not, I need scarcely say, common ones, things that any poor curate or

even clerk might have on his table, but waxy and wealthy exotics,

combinations of the chemist's skill with the gardener's, all the more

difficult to be had in such profusion because the season was summer and

the gardens full of Nature's easy production. Mr Fareham nodded to his

partner's wife, catching her eye with difficulty between the piles of

flowers. "Heard from London lately?" he said across the table, and

nodded again several times when she answered, "Not for some days." Old

Fareham was usually a jocose old gentleman, less perfect in his manners

than the other member of the firm, and of much lower origin, though

perhaps more congenial to the atmosphere in which he lived; but he was

not at all jocose that evening. He had a cloud upon his face. When his

genial host tried to rouse him to his usual "form" (for what can be more

disappointing than an amusing man who will not do anything to amuse?) he

would brighten up for a moment, and then relapse into dulness. As soon

as he came into the drawing-room after dinner he made his way to his

partner's wife.

"So you haven't been hearing regularly from London?" he said, taking up

his post in front of her, and bending over her low chair.

"I didn't say that; I said not for a few days."

"Neither have we," said old Fareham, shaking his white head. "Not at all

regular. D'ye think he is quite well? He has been a deal in town this

year."

She could scarcely restrain a little indignation, thinking if old

Fareham only knew the reason, and how it was to save his relative and

set him right! But she answered in an easy tone, "Yes, he has thought it

expedient--for various reasons." If he had the least idea of his

nephew's irregularities, this, she thought, would make him wince.

But it did not. "Oh, for various reasons?" he said, lifting his shaggy

eyebrows. "And did you think it expedient too?"

"You know I enter very little into business matters," she replied, with

the calm she felt. "Of course we all miss him very much when he is away

from home; but I never have put myself in Robert's way."

"You've been a very good wife to him," said the old man with a slight

shake of the head, "an excellent wife; and you don't feel the least

uneasy? Quite comfortable about his health, and all that sort of thing?

I think I'd look him up if I were you."

"Have you heard anything about his health? Is Robert ill, Mr Fareham,

and you are trying to break it to me?" she said, springing to her feet.

"No, no, nothing of the sort," he said, putting his hand on her arm to

make her reseat herself. "Nothing of the sort; not a word! I know no

more than you do--probably not half or quarter so much. No, no, my dear

lady, not a word."

"Then why should you frighten me so?" she said, sitting down again with

a flutter at her heart, but a faint smile; "you gave me a great fright.

I thought you must have heard something that had been concealed from

me."

"Not at all, not at all," said the old man. "I'm very glad you're not

uneasy. Still it is a bad practice when they get to stay so long from

home. I'd look him up if I were you."

"Do you know anything I don't know?" she said, with a recurrence of her

first fear.

"No, no!" he cried--"nothing, nothing, I know nothing; but I don't think

Landon should be so long absent. That's all; I'd look him up if I were

you."

Mrs Lycett-Landon did not enjoy the ball that night. For some time

indeed she hesitated about going. But Milly and Horace were much

startled by this idea, and assailed her with questions--What had she

heard? Was papa ill? Had anything happened? She was obliged to confess

that nothing had happened, that she had heard nothing, but that old

Fareham thought papa should not be so long away, and had asked if she

were not uneasy about his health. What if he should be ill and

concealing it from them? The children paled a little, then burst forth

almost with laughter. Papa conceal it from them! he who always wanted so

much taking care of when he was poorly. And why should he conceal it?

This was quite unanswerable; for to be sure there was no reason in the

world why he should not let his wife know, who would have gone to him at

once, without an hour's delay. So they went to the ball, and spent the

night in Liverpool, and next morning remembered nothing save that old

Fareham was always disagreeable. "If he knew your father's real object

in spending so much time in London!" Mrs Lycett-Landon said. It was her

husband's generous wish to keep this anxiety from the old man; and how

little such generous motives are appreciated in this world. It was

evening before they returned home--for of course with so large a family

there is always shopping to do, and the ladies waited till Horace left

the office. But when they reached the Elms, as their house was called,

there was a letter waiting which was not comfortable. It was directed in

a hand which they could scarcely identify as papa's; not from his club

as usual, nor on the office paper--with no date but London. And this was

what it said:--

"MY DEAR,--You must not be disappointed if I write only a few

words. I have hurt my hand, which makes writing uncomfortable. It

is not of the least importance, and you need not be uneasy: but

accept the explanation if it should happen to be some days before

you hear from me again. Love to the children.--Yours

affectionately,

R. L. L."

Mrs Lycett-Landon grew pale as she read this note. "I see it all," she

said; "there has been an accident, and Mr Fareham did not like to tell

me of it. Horace, where is the book of the trains? I must go at once.

Run, Milly, and put up a few things for me in my travelling-bag."

"What is it, mother? Hurt his hand? Oh, but that is not much," Horace

said.

"It is not much perhaps; but to be so careful lest I should be anxious

is not papa's way. 'If it should happen to be some days----' Why, it is

ten days since he wrote last. I am very anxious. Horry, my dear, don't

talk to me, but go and see about the trains at once."

"I know very well about the trains," said Horace. "There is one at ten,

but then it arrives in the middle of the night. Stop at all events till

to-morrow morning. I will telegraph."

"I am going by that ten train," his mother said.

"Which arrives between three and four in the morning!"

"Never mind, I can go to the Euston, where papa always goes. Perhaps I

shall find him there. He has never said where he was living."

"You may be sure," said Horace, "you will not find him at the Euston. No

doubt he is in the old place in Jermyn Street. He only goes to the

Euston when he is up for a day or two."

"I shall find him easily enough," Mrs Lycett-Landon said.

And then a little bustle and commotion ensued. Dinner was had which

nobody could eat, though they all said it was probably nothing, and

that papa would laugh when he knew the disturbance his letter had made.

At least the children said this, their mother making little reply. Milly

thought he would be much surprised to see mamma arrive in the early

morning. He would like it, Milly thought. Papa was always disposed to

find his own ailments very important, and thought it natural to make a

fuss about them. She wanted to accompany her mother, but consented, not

without a sense of dignity, that it was more necessary she should stay

at home to look after the children and the house. But Horace insisted

that he must go; and though Mrs Lycett-Landon had a strange

disinclination to this which she herself could not understand, it seemed

on the whole so right and natural that she could not stand out against

it. "There is no occasion," she said. "I can look after myself quite

well, and your father too." But Horace refused to hear reason, and Milly

inquired what was the good of having a grown-up son if you did not make

any use of him? Their minds were so free, that they both tittered a

little at this, the title of grown-up son being unfamiliar and half

absurd, in Milly's intention at least. She walked down with them to the

boat in the soft summer night. The world was all aglow with softened

lights--the moon in the sky, the lamps on the opposite bank, reflecting

themselves in long lines in the still water, and every dim vessel in the

roadway throwing up its little sea-star of colour. "I shouldn't wonder,"

said Milly, "if it is a touch of the gout, like that he had last year,

and no accident at all."

"So much the more need for good nursing," her mother said, as she

stepped into the boat.

Milly walked back again with Charley, her next brother, who was fifteen.

They went up to the summer-house among the trees and watched the boat as

it went rustling, bustling through the groups of shipping in the river,

and made little bets between themselves as to whether it would beat the

Birkenhead boat, or if the Seacombe would get there first of all. There

were not so many ferry-boats as usual at this hour of the night, but one

or two were returning both up and down the river which had been out with

pleasure-parties, with music sounding softly on the water. "It is only

that horrid old fiddle if we were near it," said Milly, "but it sounds

quite melodious here,"--for the soft night and the summer air, and the

influence of the great water, made everything mellow. The doors and

windows of the happy house were still all open. It was full of sleeping

children and comfortable servants, and life and peace, though the master

and the mistress were both away.

CHAPTER IV.

GOING TO LOOK HIM UP.

They reached London in the dawn of the morning, when the blue day was

coming in over the housetops, before the ordinary stir of the waking

world had begun. Of course, at that early hour it was impossible to do

anything save to take refuge in the big hotel, and try to rest a little

till it should be time for further proceedings. They found at once from

the sleepy waiter who received them that Mr Lycett-Landon was not there.

He remembered the gentleman; but they hadn't seen him not since last

summer, the man said.

"I told you so, mamma," said Horace; "he is in Jermyn Street, of course.

If he had been anywhere else, he would have put the address."

They drove together to Jermyn Street as soon as it was practicable, but

he was not there; and the landlord of the house returned the same answer

that the waiter at the Euston had done. Not since last summer, he said.

He had been wondering in his own mind what had become of Mr

Lycett-Landon, and asking himself if the rooms or the cooking had not

given satisfaction. It was a thing that had never happened to him with

any of his gentlemen, but he had been wondering, he allowed, if there

was anything. He would have been pleased to make any alteration had he

but known. Mrs Lycett-Landon and her son looked at each other somewhat

blankly as they turned away from this door. She smiled and said, "It is

rather funny that we should have to hunt your father in this way. One

would think his movements would be well enough known. But I suppose it's

this horrid London." She was a little angry and hurt at the horrid

London which takes no particular note even of a merchant of high

standing. In Liverpool he could not have been lost sight of, and even

here it was ridiculous, a thing scarcely to be put up with.

"Oh, we'll soon find him at the club," Horace said; and they drove there

accordingly, more indignant than anxious. It was still early, and the

club servants had scarcely taken the trouble to wake up as yet. Club

porters are not fond of giving addresses, knowing how uncertain it is

whether a gentleman may wish to be pursued to their last stronghold. The

porter in the present instance hesitated much. He said Mr Lycett-Landon

had not been there for some time; that there was a heap of letters for

him, which he took out of a pigeon-hole and turned over in his hands as

he spoke, and among which Horace (with a jump of his heart) thought he

could see some of his mother's; but nothing had been said about

forwarding them, and he really couldn't take upon himself to say that he

knowed the address.

"But I'm his son," said Horace.

The porter looked at him very knowingly. "That don't make me none the

wiser, sir," he said with great reason.

The youth went out to his mother somewhat aghast. "They don't know

anything of him here," he said; "they say he hasn't been for long.

There's quite a pile of letters for him."

"Then we must go to the office," Mrs Lycett-Landon said. "He must have

been very busy, or--or something."

That was an assertion which no one could dispute. When the cab drove off

again she repeated the former speech with an angry laugh. "It is

ridiculous, Horace, that you and I should have to run about like this

from pillar to post, as if papa could slip out of sight like a--like

a--mere clerk." The mercantile world does not make much account of

clerks, and she did not feel that she could find anything stronger to

say.

"Nobody would believe it," said Horace, "if we were to tell them; but in

the City it will be different," he added, gravely.

In Liverpool it must be allowed the City was not thought very much of.

It had not the same prestige as the great mercantile town of the north.

The merchant princes were considered to belong to the seaports, and the

magnates of the City had an odour of city feasts and vulgarity about

them; but in the present circumstances it had other attractions.

"The name of Lycett-Landon can't be unknown there," said the lad.

His mother was wounded even by this assertion. She drew herself up. "A

Lycett-Landon has no right to be unknown anywhere," she said. "We don't

need to take our importance from any firm, I hope. But London is

insufferable; nobody is anybody that comes from what they are pleased to

call the country 'here.'"

There was an indignant tone in Mrs Lycett-Landon's voice. But yet she

too felt, though she would not acknowledge it, that for once the City

would be the most congenial. They drove along through the crowded, noisy

streets in a hansom, feeling, after all, a little more at home among

people who were evidently going to business as the men did in their own

town. The sight of a well-brushed, well-washed, gold-chained commercial

magnate in a white waistcoat with a rose in his button-hole did them

good. And thus they arrived at "the office," that one home-like spot

amid all the desert of unaccustomed streets.

"Perhaps," the mother said, "we shall find him here, ready to laugh at

us for this ridiculous expedition."

"Well, I hope not," said Horace, "for he will be angry. Papa doesn't

like to be looked after."

This speech chilled Mrs Lycett-Landon a little, for it was quite true;

and for her part she was not a woman who liked to be found fault with on

account of silly curiosity. As a matter of fact, few women do. So that

it was with a little check to their eagerness that they got out at the

office door among all the press of people coming to their daily labour.

Horace, though he had been intended to work there, scarcely knew the

place; and his mother, though she had driven down three or four times to

pick up her husband on the occasions when they were in town together,

was but little better acquainted with it. And the clerks did not at all

recognise these very unlikely visitors. Ladies appeared very seldom at

the office, and at this early hour never.

"Your father, of course, would not be here so early," Mrs Lycett-Landon

said as they went up-stairs; "and I don't suppose young Mr Fareham

either is the sort of person--but we must ask for Mr Fareham."

Remembering all that her husband had said, she did not in the least

expect to find that young representative of the house. How curious it

was to wait until she had been inspected by the clerk, to be asked who

she was, to be requested to take a seat, till it was known if Mr Fareham

was disengaged! An impulse which she could scarcely explain restrained

her from giving her name, which would at once have gained her all the

respect she could have desired; and for the first time in her life Mrs

Lycett-Landon realised what it must be to come as a poor petitioner to

such a place. The clerks made their observations on her and her son

behind their glass screen. They decided that she must want a place in

the office for the young fellow, but that Fareham would soon give her

her answer. These young men did not think much of the personal

appearance of Horace, who was clearly from the country--a lanky youth

whom it would be difficult to make anything of. Their consternation was

extreme when young Mr Fareham, coming out somewhat superciliously to see

who wanted him, exclaimed suddenly, "Mrs Landon!" and went forward

holding out his hands. "If I had known it was you!" he said. "I hope I

have not kept you waiting. But some mistake must have been made, for I

was not told your name."

"It was no mistake," she said, looking graciously at the young clerk,

who stood by very nervous and abashed. "I did not give my name. We shall

not detain you a moment, we only want an address."

While she spoke she had time to remark the perfectly correct and

orthodox appearance of young Fareham, of whom it was almost impossible

to believe that he had ever committed an irregularity of any description

in the course of his life. He led the way into his room with all the

respect which was due to the wife of the chief partner, and gave her a

chair. "My time is entirely at your service," he said; "too glad to be

able to be of any use."

Mrs Lycett-Landon sat down, and then there ensued a moment of such

embarrassment as perhaps in all her life she had never known before.

There was a certain surprise in the air with which he regarded her, and

not the slightest appearance of any idea what she could possibly want

him for at this time in the morning. And somehow this surprised

unconsciousness on his part brought the most curious painful

consciousness to her. She was silent; she looked at him with a kind of

blank appeal. She half rose again to go away without putting her

question. She seemed to be on the eve of a betrayal, of a family

exposure. How foolish it was! She looked at Horace's easy-minded,

tranquil countenance, and took courage.

"Do you expect," she said, "Mr Landon here to-day?" with a smile, yet a

catch of her breath.

"Mr Landon!" The astonishment of young Fareham was extreme. "Is he in

town? We have not seen him since May."

"Horace," said Mrs Lycett-Landon, half-rising from her chair and then

falling back upon it. "Horace, your father must be very ill. He must

have had--some operation--he must have thought I would be

over-anxious----"

She became very pale as she uttered these broken words, and looked as if

she were going to faint; and Horace, too, stared with bewildered eyes.

Young Fareham began to be alarmed. He saw that his quick response was

altogether unexpected, and that there was evidently some mystery.

"Let me see," he said, appearing to ponder, "perhaps I am making a

mistake. Yes, I am sure he was here in May--he had just come back from

the Continent. Wasn't it so? Oh, then, I must have misunderstood him. I

thought he said----Now I remember, he certainly was here in town. Yes,

came to tell me something about letters--what was it?"

"Perhaps where you were to send his letters," Mrs Landon said quickly.

"That is what we want to know." While she was listening to him, her mind

had been going through a great many questions, and she had brought

herself summarily back to calm. If it should be serious illness, all her

strength would be wanted. She must not waste her forces with foolish

fainting or giving in, but husband them all.

Then there arose an inquiry in the office. One clerk after another was

called in to be questioned. One said Mr Lycett-Landon's letters were all

forwarded to the Liverpool house, or to the Elms, Rockferry, his private

address; another, that they were sent to the club; and it was not till

some time had been lost that one of the youngest remembered an address

to which he had once been sent, to a lodging where Mr Landon was

staying. He remembered all about it, for it was a pretty house, with a

garden, very unlike Jermyn Street.

"It was just after Mr Landon came back from abroad," the youth said; and

by degrees he remembered exactly where it was, and brought it written

down, in a neat, clerkly hand, on an office envelope. It was a flowery

address, a villa in a road, both of them fanciful with a cockney

sentiment.

Mrs Lycett-Landon took the paper from him with a smile of thanks; but

she was so bewildered and confused that she rose up and went out of the

office without even saying good-morning to young Fareham.

"Mamma, mamma," cried Horace after her, "you have never said----"

"Oh, don't trouble her," said young Fareham; "I can see she is anxious.

You'll come back, won't you, and let me know if you've found him? But I

hope there is some mistake."

He did not say what kind of mistake he hoped for, nor did Horace say

anything as he followed his mother. He, like Milly, thought it

impossible that papa would have hidden himself thus to be ill. He was a

little nervous of speaking to his mother when he saw how pale and

preoccupied she looked.

"Shall I call a cab?" he said. "Mother, do you really think there is so

much to fear?"

"He has never been on the Continent," was all his mother could say.

"No; that's true. They just have got that into their heads. It was no

business of theirs where he went."

"It is everybody's business where a man goes--a man like him. I think I

know what it is, Horace. He has been fretful for some time, and

restless; he must have been ill, and he has been going through an

operation. Don't say anything; I feel sure of it. Perhaps there was

danger in it, and he feared the fuss, and that I should be

over-anxious."

"We always thought as children that papa liked to be made a fuss with,"

said simple Horace.

"You thought so in the nursery, because you liked it yourselves. Yes, we

had better have a cab. How full the streets are! one cannot hear oneself

talking."

Then she was silent a little till the hansom was called. It was a very

noisy part of the City, where the traffic is continual, and it was very

difficult to hear a woman's voice. She paused before she got into the

cab.

"Now I think of it," she said, "you had better go and telegraph to

Milly, for she will be anxious. Go back to the hotel and do it. Tell her

that we have got to town all safe, and that you will send her word this

evening how papa is."

"But, mother, you are not going without me! and it will be better to

telegraph after we know."

"That is what I wish you to do, Horace. It might upset him. I think it a

great deal better for me to go by myself. Just do what I tell you. Milly

will want to know that we have arrived all right; and wait at the hotel

till I send for you."

"You had much better let me come with you, mother."

The noise was so great that she only made a "No" with her mouth, shaking

her head as she got into the cab, and gave him the address to show the

cabman. Then, before Horace had awakened from his surprise, she was

gone, and he was left, feeling very solitary, pushed about by all the

passers-by upon the pavement. The youth was half angry, half astonished.

To go back to the hotel was not a thing that tempted him, but he was so

young that he obeyed by instinct, meaning to pour forth his indignation

to Milly. Even in a telegram there is a possibility of easing one's

heart.

CHAPTER V.

THE HOUSE WITH THE FLOWERY NAME.

Mrs Lycett-Landon drove off through the crowded City streets in a

curious trace of excited feeling. She had a sense that something was

going to happen to her; but how this was she could not have told. Nor

could she have told why it was she had sent Horace away. Perhaps his

father might not wish to see him, perhaps he might prefer to explain to

her alone the cause of his absence. She felt the need of first seeing

her husband alone, though she could not tell why. It was a very long

drive. Out of the bustling City streets she came to streets more showy,

less encumbered, though perhaps scarcely less crowded, and then to some

which showed the lateness of the season by shut-up houses and diminished

movement, and then to line after line of those dingy streets, all

exactly like each other, which form the bulk of London. There are so

many of them, and they are so indistinguishable. She looked out of the

hansom and noted them all as she drove on--but yet as if she noted them

not, as if it were they that glided by her, as in a dream. Then she

reached the suburbs, the roads with the flowery names, houses buried in

gardens, with trees appearing behind the high enclosing walls. This

perhaps was the strangest of all. She could not think what he could want

here, so far out of the world, until she recalled to herself the idea of

an illness and an operation which had already faded out of her mind--for

that, like every other explanation, was so strange, so much unlike all

his habits. Her heart began to beat as the cab turned into the street,

going slowly along to look for the special house, and she found herself

on the point of arriving at her destination. Though she was so anxious

to find her husband, she would now, if she could, have deferred the

arrival, have called out to the driver that it was not here, and bidden

him go on and on. But there could not be any mistake about it--there was

the name of the house painted on the gate. It was a little gate in a

wall, affording a glimpse of a pretty little garden shaded with trees

inside. She would not let the cabman ring the bell, but got out first

and paid him, and then, when she could not find any further excuse, rang

it--so faintly at first that no sound followed. She waited, though she

knew she could not have been heard, to leave time for an answer. Looking

in under the little arch of roses to the smooth bit of lawn, the flowers

in the borders, she said to herself that there was not very much taste

displayed in the flowers--red geraniums and mignonette, the things that

everybody had, and great yellow nasturtiums clustering behind--not very

much taste or individuality, but yet a great deal of brightness, and the

look as of a home; not lodgings, but a place where people lived. There

were some garden-chairs about, and on a rustic table something that

looked like a woman's work. How natural it all seemed, how peaceable! It

was curious that he should be living in such a place. Perhaps, she said

to herself, it was the house of some clerk of the better sort--some one

who had known him in his early years, and had wished to be kind: and in

good air, and out of the noise of the streets. She made all these

explanations as she stood at the door waiting for some one to answer a

ring which she knew very well could not have been heard--unable to

understand her own strange pause, and the manner in which she dallied

with her anxiety. But this could not last for ever. After she had waited

more than the needful time she rang again, and presently the door was

opened by an unseen spring, and she went in within the pretty enclosure.

How pretty it was--only red geraniums and nasturtiums, it was true, but

the soft odour of the mignonette, and the sunshine, and the silence--all

so peaceful and so calm. There came over her a certain awe as she

stepped across the threshold and closed behind her the garden-door. The

windows were all open, the house-door open. Under the trees on the

little lawn were two basket-chairs, and a white heap of muslin, which

some woman must have been working at, on the table. Mrs Lycett-Landon

felt like an intruder in this peaceful place. She said to herself at

last that there must be some mistake, that it could not be here.

A housemaid, wiping her arms on her apron, came to the house-door--a

round-faced, ruddy, wholesome young woman, just the sort of servant for

such a place. No doubt there were two, cook and housemaid, the visitor

said to herself, just enough for needful service. The young woman was

smiling and pleasant, no forbidding guardian. She did not advance to

meet the stranger, but stood waiting, holding her own place in the

doorway. Her honest, open face confirmed the expression of peace and

comfort that was about the house. The intruder came up softly, not able

to divest herself of that sense of awe.

"Does Mr Lycett-Landon live here?" she said, almost under her breath.

"Yes, ma'am, but he's rather poorly this morning," the housemaid said.

"He is at home then? Will you take me to him, please----"

"Oh, I don't think I can do that, ma'am. He's rather poorly; he's

keeping his room. The doctor don't think that it's anything serious, but

as master is not quite a young gentleman he says it's best to be on the

safe side."

"Is Mr Lycett-Landon your master?"

"Yes, ma'am," with a little curtsey.

"Has he been ill long?"

"Oh, bless you, not at all. He has his 'ealth as well as could be

wished; only a little bilious or that now and then, as gentlemen will

be. They ain't so careful in what they eat and drink as ladies--that's

what I always say."

"He is only bilious then--not ill? not long ill? there has been

no--operation?"

"Oh, bless you, nothing of the sort!" the young woman said, with the

most evident astonishment.

Mrs Lycett-Landon put all these questions in a kind of dream. Something

kept her from saying who she was. She felt a curious anxiety to find out

all the details before she announced herself.

"I think he will see me," she said, a little faintly. "I have come a

long way to see him. Take me to him, please."

"Is it business, ma'am?" said the girl.

"Business? yes; you may say it is business. I am his----Take me to him

at once, please."

"Oh dear, I can't do that. I ask your pardon, but the last thing the

doctor said was that he mustn't be troubled with no business."

"But I must see him," Mrs Lycett-Landon said.

"You can't, ma'am, not to-day--it's not possible. To be sure," the girl

added with a pleasant smile, "if Mrs Landon would do as well."

"Mrs----, whom----?"

"Mrs Landon--Mrs Lycett-Landon, that's her full name. Oh, didn't you

know as he was married? She'll be down in a moment if you'll step

inside."

The woman outside the door felt herself turned to stone. She said

faintly, "Yes, I think I will step inside."

"Do, ma'am: you don't look at all well; you've been standing in the sun.

Missis will be fine and angry if she knows as I let you stand like that.

Take a chair, ma'am, please. She'll be here in a moment," the cheerful

maid-servant said.

She did not ask for the visitor's name--she was evidently not accustomed

to visits of ceremony--but went up-stairs quickly, with her solid foot

sounding on every step.

The visitor for her part sat down, not feeling able to keep upon her

feet, and faintly looked round her, seeing everything, understanding

nothing. What did it all mean? The room was furnished like that of a

newly-married pair. Little decorations were about, newly-bound books, a

new little desk all ormolu and velvet; albums, photograph-frames,

trifles from Switzerland, carved and painted, like relics of a recent

journey. Nothing was in absolute bad taste, but the fashion of the

furnishing was not of the larger kind, which means wealth. It was

slightly pretty, perhaps a little tawdry, yet not sufficiently worn to

acquire that look as yet. Mingled with all this decoration, however,

there was something else which had a curious effect upon the intruder,

something that reminded her of her husband's library at home, a chair of

the form he liked, a solid table or two, strangely out of place amid the

little low sofas and _étagères_. She saw all this, and took it into her

mind at a glance, without making any of these observations upon it. She

made no observations. She was unable even to think; the maid's words

went through her head without any will of hers--"Didn't you know as he

was married?" "If Mrs Landon would do as well." Mrs Landon! Who was this

that bore her own name--who was the man up-stairs? She was not in any

hurry to be enlightened. She seemed to herself rather grateful for the

pause; glad to hold off any discovery that there might be to make with

both hands, to keep it at arm's length. She sat quite still in this

strange room, not thinking or able to think, wondering what was about to

happen--what strange thing was coming to her.

At last she heard a footstep, a light step very different from the

maid's, coming down-stairs. She rose up instinctively and took hold of

the back of a chair to support herself. The door opened, and a young

woman, pretty, timid, tall, in a white flowing gown, with a little cap

upon her dark hair, and a pair of appealing eyes, came in. She had an

uncertain look, as if not wholly accustomed to her position. She said

with a pretty blush and shyness, "They tell me that you want to see my

husband on business--but he is not well enough for business. Is it

anything that I could do?"

"Will you tell me who you are?"

The new-comer looked a little surprised at the voice, which was hoarse

and unnatural, of her visitor. She answered with a little dignity,

drawing up her slight young figure. "I am Mrs Lycett-Landon," she said.

CHAPTER VI.

PERPLEXITIES.

What was she to do?

It is not often in life that a woman is brought to such an emergency

without warning, without time for preparation. She did nothing at all at

first, and felt capable of nothing but to stare blankly, almost

stupidly, at her supplanter. She did not feel capable even of rising

from the chair into which she had sunk in the utter blank of

consternation. She could only gaze, interrogating not the face before

her only, but heaven and earth. Was it true? Could it be true?

The young woman was evidently surprised by this pause. She too looked

curiously at her visitor, waited for a minute, and then advancing a

step, asked, with a tone in which there was some surprise and a faint

shadow of impatience, "Is it anything that I can do?"

"Have you been married long?" This was all the visitor could say.

A pretty blush came over the other's face. "We were married in the end

of April," she said. It still seemed quite natural to her that everybody

should be interested in this great event. "We went abroad for a month.

And we were so lucky as to find this house. You know my husband?"

"I think so--well; his Christian name is----"

"Robert is his Christian name. Oh, I am so glad to meet with any one who

has known him!" She drew a chair with a pretty vivacious movement close

to that on which her visitor sat. "I feel sure," she said, "you are a

relation, and have come to find out about us."

There was something in the young creature's air so guileless, so assured

in her innocence, that if there had been any fury in the other's heart,

or on her tongue, it must have been arrested then; but there was no fury

in her heart. After the first unspeakable shock of surprise there was

nothing but a great pang, and that almost more for this young life

blighted than for her own. "It is true," she said, "that I am

a--connection. Is your mother alive?"

"Mamma?" cried the girl, with a laugh. "Oh yes, and she is here to-day.

She does not live with us, you know. She would not. She says married

people should be left to themselves, though I always told her Mr

Landon was far too sensible to believe in that trash about

mothers-in-law. Don't you think it is rubbish? Young men may believe it;

but when a gentleman is experienced and knows the world----"

"Perhaps I could see your mother," said the old wife. She felt herself

growing a little faint. The day was warm, and she had been travelling

all night. Was not that enough to account for it? And this happy babble

in her ear made her heart sick, which was more.

"Mamma? Oh yes, certainly she will be very glad to see you. She always

wanted to see some of the relations. She said it was not natural;

though, to be sure, at his age----Shall I go and tell her you want to

see her--her and not me? But you must not take any prejudice against me.

Don't, please, if you are his relation: and you look so nice too. I know

I should love you if you would let me."

"Let me see your mother. I have no--prejudice." She scarcely knew what

she was saying. The room was swimming in her eyes, the green of the

closed blinds waving up and down, surrounding her with an uncertain mist

of colour, through which she seemed to see a half-reproachful, wondering

look. And then the white figure was gone. Mrs Lycett-Landon leant her

head upon the back of the chair, and for a minute knew nothing more.

Then the greenness became visible again, and gradually everything

wavered and circled back into its place.

The little house was very still; there were hurried steps overhead, as

if two people were moving about. It was the mother hastily being put in

order for a visitor--her cap arranged, a clean collar put on, the young

wife dancing about her in great excitement to make all nice. This

process of decoration occupied some time, and as it went on the visitor

came fully to herself. What should she do? As she recovered full command

of herself she shrunk from inflicting such a blow even upon the mother.

Should she go away before they came down?--disappear like a dream, take

no notice, but leave the strange little drama--what was it, comedy or

tragedy?--to work itself out? Why should she interfere, after all? If he

liked this best--and all the harm was now done that could be done--the

best thing was to go away and take no more notice. She had risen with

this intention to slip away, to let herself out, not to interfere, when

another sound became audible--the sound of a door opening in the back

part of the house. Then a voice called "Rose"--a voice which, in spite

of herself, made the visitor's brain swim once more. She had to stop

again perforce. And then a step came towards the room in which she was;

a heavy step, with a little gouty limp in it--a step she knew so well.

It came along the passage, accompanied by a running commentary of

half-complaint. "Where are you? I want you." Then the door of the little

drawing-room was pushed open. "Why don't you answer me?" He paused there

in the doorway, seeing a stranger--with a quick apology--"I beg your

pardon." Then suddenly there came from him a cry--a roar like that of a

wounded animal--"ELEANOR!"

Neither of the two ever forgot the appearance of the other. She saw him

with the little passage and its stronger light opening behind him, his

large figure relieved against it; the sudden look of consternation,

horror, utter amaze in his face. Horror came first; and then everything

yielded to the culprit's sense of unspeakable downfall, guilt

self-convicted and without excuse. He fell back against the wall; his

jaw dropped; his eyes seemed to turn upon themselves in a flicker of

mortal dismay. The entire failure of all force and self-defence did not

disarm his wife, as might have been supposed, but filled her with a

blaze of sudden vehemence, passion which she could not contain. She had

said his name as he said hers, in a quiet tone enough; but now stamped

her foot and cried out, feeling it intolerable, insupportable. "Well!"

she cried, "stand up for it like a man! Say you are sick of me, of your

children, of living honestly these fifty years. Say something for

yourself. Don't stand there like a whipped child."

But the man had nothing to say. He stood against the wall and looked at

her as if he feared a personal assault. Then he said, "She is not to

blame. She is as innocent as you are."

"I have seen her," said the injured wife. "Do you think you need to tell

me that? But then, what are you?"

He made no reply. And the sight of him in the doorway was unbearable to

the woman. If he had stood up for himself, made a fight of any kind, it

would have been more tolerable. But the very sight of him was

insupportable--something she could not endure. She turned her head away

and went quickly past him towards the open door. "I meant to tell her

mother." She scarcely knew whether she was speaking or only thinking. "I

meant to tell her mother, but I cannot. You must manage it your own

way."

Next moment she found herself out in the street, walking along under the

shadow of the blank wall. She was conscious of having closed both doors

behind her, that of the house and that of the garden. If she could but

have closed the door of her own mind, and put it out of sight, and shut

it up for ever! She hurried away, walking very quickly round one corner

after another, through one street after another, of houses enclosed in

walls and railings, withdrawn among flowers and trees. You may walk long

through these quiet places without finding what she wanted--a cab to

take her out of this strange, still, secluded town of villas. When she

found one at last, she told the driver to take her back to the Euston,

but first to drive round Hyde Park. He thought she must be mad. But that

did not matter much so long as she was able to pay the fare. And then

there followed what she had wanted, a long, endless progress through a

confusion of streets, first quiet, full of gardens and retired houses;

then the long bustling thoroughfares leading back into the noisy world

of London; then the quiet streets on the north side of the park, the

trees of Kensington Gardens, the old red palace, the endless line of

railings and trees on the other side; the bustle of Piccadilly, so

unlike the bustle of the other streets. Naturally the hansom could not

go within the enclosure of the park, but only by the streets. But she

did not care for that. She wanted movement, the air in her face, silence

so that she might think.

So that she might think! But a woman can no more think when she wills

than she can be happy when she wills. All that she thought was this,

going over and over it, and back and back upon it, putting it

involuntarily into words and saying them to herself like a sort of

dismal refrain. At fifty! After living honestly all these fifty years!

Was it possible? was it in the heart of man? At fifty, after all these

years! This wonder was so great that she could think of nothing else.

And he had been a good man--kind, ready to help; not hard upon any

one--fond of his family, liking to have them about him. And now at

fifty! after living honestly----She did not think of it as a matter

affecting herself, and she could not think of what she was to do, which

was the thing she had intended to think of, when she bade the man drive

to the other end of the world. When she perceived, as she did dimly in

the confusion of her mind, that she was approaching the end of her long

round, she would but for very shame have gone over it all again. But by

this time she had begun to see that little would be gained by staving it

off for another hour, and that sooner or later she must descend from

that abstract wandering, which had been more like a wild flight into

space than anything else, and meet the realities of her position. Ah

heavens! the realities of her position were--first of all, Horace, her

boy--her grown-up boy: no longer a child to whom a family misfortune

could be slurred over, but a man, able to understand, old enough to

know. Her very heart died within her as this suddenly flashed upon her

deadened intelligence. Horace and Milly--a young man and a young woman.

How was she to tell them what their father had done? At fifty! after all

these years!

She was told at the hotel that the young gentleman had gone out--for

which she was deeply thankful--but would be back immediately. Oh, if he

might but be detained; if something would but happen to keep him away!

She came up the great vulgar common stairs which so many people trod,

some perhaps with hearts as heavy as hers, few surely with such a

problem to resolve. How to tell her boy that his father--oh God! his

father, whom he loved and looked up to; his kind father, who never

grudged him anything; a man so well known; a good man, of whom everybody

spoke well--to tell him that his father----She locked the door of her

room instinctively, as if that would keep Horace out, and keep her

secret concealed.

It was one of those terrible hotel rooms, quite comfortable and wholly

unsympathetic, in which many of the sorest hours of life are passed,

where parents come to part with their children, to receive back their

prodigals, to look for the missing, to receive tidings of the worse than

dead; where many a reconciliation has to be accomplished, and

arrangement made that breaks the heart. Strange and cold and miserable

was the unaccustomed place, with no associations or soothing, no rest or

softness in it. She walked about it up and down, and then stopped,

though the movement gave her a certain relief, lest Horace should come

to the door, hear her, and call out in his hearty young voice to be

admitted. She had not been able to think before for the recurrence of

that dismal chorus, "At fifty!" and now she could not think for thinking

that any moment Horace might come to the door. She was more afraid of

her boy than of all the world beside: had some one come to tell her that

an accident had happened, that he had broken an arm or a leg, it seemed

to her that she would have been glad,--anything rather than let him

know. And yet he would have to know. The eldest son, a man grown, after

his father the head of his family, the one who would have to take care

of the children. How would it be possible to keep this from him? And how

could it be told? His mother, who had prided herself on her son's

spotless youth, and rejoiced in the thought that a wanton word was as

impossible from the lips of Horace as from those of Milly, reddened and

felt her very heart burn with shame. How could she tell him? She could

not tell him. It was impossible; it was beyond her power.

And then she shrank into the corner of her seat and held her breath: for

who could this be but Horace, with a foot that scarcely seemed to touch

the ground, rushing with an anxious heart to hear news of his father, up

the echoing empty stair?

CHAPTER VII.

EXPLANATION.

"Mother! are you there? Let me in. Mother! open the door."

"In a moment, Horace; in a moment." It could not be postponed any

longer. She rose up slowly and looked at herself in the glass to see if

it was written in her face. She had not taken off her bonnet or made any

change in her outdoor dress, and she was very pale, almost ghastly, with

all the lines deepened and drawn in her face, looking ten years older,

she thought. She put her bonnet straight with a woman's instinct, and

then slowly, reluctantly, opened the door. He came in eager and

impatient, not knowing what to think.

"Did you want to keep me out, mother! Were you vexed not to find me

waiting? And how about papa?"

"No, Horace, not at all vexed."

"I went a little farther than I intended. I don't know my way about.

But, mother, what of papa?"

"Not very much, my dear," she said, turning away. "It must be nearly

time for lunch."

"Yes, it is quite time for lunch; and you had no breakfast. I told them

to get it ready as I came up. But you don't answer me. Of course you

found him. Is he really ill? What does he mean by it? Why didn't he come

with you? Mother dear, is it anything serious? How pale you are! Oh, you

needn't turn away; you can't hide anything from me. What is the matter,

mamma?"

"It is serious, and yet it isn't serious, Horace. He is not ill, which

is the most important thing. Only a little--seedy, as you call it.

That's a word, you know, that always exasperates me."

"Is that all?" the youth said, looking at her with incredulous eyes.

She had turned her back upon him, and was standing before the glass,

with a pretence of taking off her bonnet. It was easier to speak without

looking at him. "No, my dear, that is not all. You will think it very

strange what I am going to say. Papa and I have had a quarrel, Horace."

"Mother!"

"You may well be startled, but it is true. Our first quarrel," she said,

turning half round with the ghost of a smile. It was the suggestion of

the moment, at which she had caught to make up for the impossibility of

thinking how she was to do it. "They say, you know, that the longer one

puts off a thing of this kind the more badly one has it, don't you

know?--measles and other natural complaints. We have been a long time

without quarrelling, and now we have done it badly." She turned round

with a faint smile; but Horace did not smile. He looked at her very

gravely, with an astonishment beyond words.

"I cannot understand," he said, almost severely, "what you can mean."

"Well, perhaps it is a little difficult; but still such things do

happen. You must not jump at the conclusion that it is all my fault."

Horace came up to her with his serious face, and put his arm round her,

turning her towards him. "I was not thinking of any fault, mother; but

surely I may know more than this? You and he don't quarrel for nothing,

and I am not a child. You must tell me. Mother, what is the matter?" he

said, with great alarm. For she was overdone in every way, worn out both

body and mind, and when she felt her son's arm round her nature gave

way. She leant her head upon his young shoulder, and fell into that

convulsive sobbing which it is so alarming to bear. It was some time

before she could command herself enough to reply--

"Oh, that is true--that is true! not for nothing. But, dear Horry, you

can't be the judge, can you, between your father and mother? Oh no!

Leave it a little; only leave it. It will perhaps come right of itself."

"Mother, of course I can't be the judge; but still, I'm not a child. May

I go, then, and see papa?"

"Oh no," she cried, involuntarily clasping his arm tight--"oh no! not

for the world."

The youth grew very grave: he withdrew his arm from her almost

unconsciously, and said, "Either it is a great deal more serious than

you say, or else----"

"It is very serious, Horace. I don't deceive you," she said. "It may

come to _that_--that we shall never--be together any more. But still I

implore you, don't go to your father--oh! not now, my dear. He would not

wish it. You must give me your word not to go."

She could not bear the scrutiny of his eyes. She turned and went away

from him, putting off her light cloak, pulling open drawers as if in a

search for something; but he stood where she had left him, full of

perplexity and trouble. A quarrel between his parents was incredible to

Horace; and the idea of a rupture, a public scandal, a thing that could

be talked about! He stood still, overwhelmed by sudden trouble and

distress, though without the slightest guess of the real tragedy. "I

can't think what you could quarrel about," he said. "It seems a mere

impossibility. Whatever it is, you must make it up, mother, for our

sakes."

"My dear, anything that can be done, you may be sure will be done, for

your sakes."

"But it is impossible, you know. A quarrel! between you and papa! It is

out of the question. Nobody would believe it. I think you must be joking

all the time," he said, with an abrupt laugh. But his laugh seemed so

strange, even to himself, that he became silent suddenly with a look of

confusion and irritation. Never in his life had he met with anything so

extraordinary before.

"I am not joking," she said; "but, perhaps, after a while----Come and

have your luncheon, Horace. I know you want it. And perhaps after a

time----"

"You are worn out too, mother; that is what it is. One feels irritable

when one is tired. After you have eaten something and rested yourself,

let me go to papa. And we'll have a jolly dinner together and make it

all up."

And she had the heroism to say no more, but went down with him, and

pretended to eat, and saw him make a hearty meal. While she sat thus

smiling at her boy, she could not but wonder to herself what _he_ was

doing. Was he smiling too, keeping up a cheerful face for the sake of

the unfortunate girl not much older than Horace? God help her whom he

had destroyed! She kept imagining that other scene while she enacted her

own. Afterwards she persuaded Horace with some difficulty to let

everything stand over till next day, telling him that she had great need

of rest (which was true enough) and would lie down; and that next

evening would be time enough for any further steps. She insisted so upon

her need of rest, that he remembered that Dick Fareham had asked him to

dine with him at his club, and go to the theatre if he had nothing

better to do--a plan which she caught at eagerly.

"But how can I go and leave you alone in a hotel?" he said.

"My dear, I am going to bed," she replied, which was unanswerable. And

after many attempts to know more, and many requests to be allowed to go

to his father, Horace at last yielded, dressed, and went off to the

early dinner which precedes a play. He had brought his dress clothes

with him, though there had been so little time for feasting, confident

that even a few days in London must bring pleasure of some kind. And

already the utterly absurd suggestion that his father and mother could

have had a deadly quarrel began to lose its power in his mind. It was

impossible. His mother was worn out, and had been irritable; and his

father, especially when he had a touch of gout, was, as Horace well

knew, irritable also. To-morrow all that would have blown away, and they

would both be ashamed of themselves. Thus he consoled himself as he went

out; and as the youth never had known what family strife or misfortune

meant, and in his heart felt anything of the kind to be impossible, it

did not take much to drive that incomprehensible spectre away.

Mrs Lycett-Landon was at length left alone to deal with it by herself.

What was she to do? She had a fire lighted in the blank room, though it

was the height of summer, for agitation and misery had made her cold,

and sat over it trembling, and trying to collect her thoughts. Oh, if it

could be but possible to do nothing, to say no word to any one, to

forget the episode of this morning altogether! "If I had not known," she

said to herself, "it would have done me no harm." This modern Eleanor,

who had fallen so innocently into Rosamond's bower, had no thought of

vengeance in her heart. She had no wish to kill or injure the unhappy

girl who had come between her and her husband. What good would that do?

Were Rosamond made an end of in a moment, how would it change the fact?

What could ever alter that? The ancients did not take this view of the

subject. They took it for granted that when the intruder was removed

life went on again in the same lines, and that nothing was irremediable.

But to Mrs Lycett-Landon life could never go on again. It had all come

to a humiliating close; confusion had taken the place of order, and all

that had been, as well as all that was to be, had grown suddenly

impossible. Had she not stopped herself with an effort, her troubled

mind would have begun again that painful refrain which had filled her

mind in the morning, which was perhaps better than the chaos which now

reigned there. So far as he was concerned she could still wonder and

question, but for herself everything was shattered. She could neither

identify what was past nor face what was to come. Everything surged

wildly about her, and she found no footing. What was to be done? These

words intensify all the miseries of life--they make death more terrible,

since it so often means the destruction of all settled life for the

living, as well as the end of mortal troubles for the dead--they have to

be asked at moments when the answer is impossible. This woman could find

no reply as she sat miserable over her fire. She was not suffering the

tortures of jealousy, nor driven frantic with the thought that all the

tenderness which ever was hers was transferred to another. Perhaps her

sober age delivered her from such reflections; they found no place at

all in the tumult of her thoughts; the questions involved to her were

wholly different: what she was to do; how she was to satisfy her

children without shaming their youth and her own mature purity of

matronhood which had protected them from any suggestion of such evil?

How they were ever to be silenced and contented without overthrowing for

ever in their minds their father and the respect they owed him? This was

the treble problem which was before her--by degrees the all-absorbing

one which banished every other from her thoughts. What could she say to

Horace and Milly? How were they to be kept from this shame? Had they

been both boys or both girls, it seemed to their mother that the

question would have been less terrible; but boy and girl, young man and

young woman, how were they ever to be told? How were they to be deceived

and not told? Their mother's powers gave way and all her strength in

face of this question. How was she to do it? How was she to refrain from

doing it? That pretext of a quarrel, how was it to be kept up? and in

what other way--in what other way, oh heaven! was she to explain to them

that their father and she could meet under the same roof no more? She

covered her face with her hands, and wept in the anguish of helplessness

and incapacity; then dried her eyes, and tried again to plan what she

could do. Oh that she had the wings of a dove, that she might flee away

and be at rest!--but whither could she flee? She thought of pretending

some sudden loss of money, some failure of fortune, and rushing away

with the children to America, to Australia, to the end of the world; but

if she did so, what then? Would it become less necessary, more easy to

explain? Alas! no; nothing could change that horrible necessity. The

best thing of all, she said to herself, if she were equal to it, would

be to return home, to live there as long as it was possible, with her

heart shut up, holding her peace, saying nothing--as long as it was

possible!--until circumstances should force upon her the explanation

which would have to be made. Let it be put off for weeks, for months,

even for years, it would have to be made at last.

Thus she sat pondering, turning over everything, considering and

rejecting a thousand plans; and then, after all, acted upon a sudden

impulse, a sudden rising in her of intolerable loneliness and

insufficiency. She felt as if her brain were giving way, her mind

becoming blank, before this terrible emergency, which must be decided

upon at once. Horace was safe for a few hours, separated from all

danger, but how to meet his anxious face in the light of another day his

mother did not know. She sprang up from her seat, and reached towards

the table, on which there were pens and ink, and wrote a telegram

quickly, eagerly, without pausing to think. The young ones were in the

habit of laughing at old Fareham. She herself had joined in the laugh

before now, and allowed that he was methodical and tedious and tiresome.

He was all these, and yet he was an old friend, the oldest friend she

had, one who had known her father, who had seen her married, who had

guided her husband's first steps in the way of business. He was the only

person to whom she could say anything. And he was a merciful old man:

when troubles arose--when clerks went wrong or debtors failed--Mr

Fareham's opinion was always on the side of mercy. This was one of the

reasons why they called him an old fogey in the office; always--always

he had been merciful. And it was this now which came into her mind. She

wrote her telegram hastily, and sent it off at once, lest she should

repent, directing it not to the office, where it might be opened by some

other hand than his, but to his house. "Come to me directly if you can.

I have great need of your advice and help. Tell no one," was what she

said. She liked, like all women, to get the full good of the permitted

space.

CHAPTER VIII.

EXPEDIENTS.

His mother was in bed and asleep when Horace returned from his play--or

at least so he thought. He opened her door and found the room dark, and

said, "Are you asleep, mamma?" and got no answer, which he thought

rather strange, as she was such a light sleeper. But, to be sure, last

night had been so disturbed, she had not slept at all, and the day had

been fatiguing and exciting. No doubt she was very tired. He retired on

tiptoe, making, as was natural, far more noise than when he had come in

without any precaution at all. But she made no sign; he did not wake

her, where she lay, very still, with her eyes closed in the dark,

holding her very breath that he might not suspect. Horace had enjoyed

his evening. The play had been amusing, the dinner good. Dick Fareham,

indeed, had asked a few questions.

"I suppose you found the governor all right?" he said.

"I didn't," said Horace; "the mother did."

"And he's all right, I hope?"

"I can't tell you," said Horace, shortly; "I said I hadn't seen him."

The conversation had ended thus for the moment, but young Fareham was

too curious to leave it so. He asked Horace when he was coming to the

London office. "I know I'm only a warming-pan," he said, "keeping the

place warm for you. I suppose that will be settled while you are here."

"I don't know anything about it," said Horace. "We heard you were all at

sixes and sevens in the office."

"I at sixes and sevens!"

"Oh, I don't mean to be disagreeable. We heard so," said Horace, "and

that the governor had his hands full."

"I'd like to know who told you that," said the young man. "I'd like to

punch his head, whoever said it. In the first place, it is not true, and

your father is not the man to put such a story about."

Now Horace had not been told this as the reason of his father's absence,

but had found it out, as members of a family find out what has been

talked of in the house, the persons in the secret falling off their

guard as time goes on. He was angry at the resentment with which he was

met, but a little at a loss for a reply.

"Perhaps you think I have put it about?" he said, indignant. "It has not

been put about at all, but we heard it somehow. That was why my

father----"

"I think I can see how it was--I think I can understand," said young

Fareham. "That was what called your father up to London. By Jove!"

And after that he was not so pleasant a companion for the rest of the

evening. But the play was amusing, and Horace partially forgot this

_contretemps_. When he found his mother's room shut up and quiet, he

went to his own without any burden on his mind. He was not so anxious

about "the governor" as perhaps Milly in his place might have been. It

was highly unpleasant that the mother and he should have quarrelled, and

quite incomprehensible. But Horace went to bed philosophically, and the

trouble in his mind was not enough to keep him from sleep.

Young Fareham, on his side, wrote an indignant letter to his uncle,

demanding to know if his mind too had been poisoned by false reports.

The young man was very angry. He was being made the scapegoat; he was

the excuse for old Landon's absence, who had not been near the office

for months, and he called upon his own particular patron to vindicate

him. Had his private morals been attacked he might have borne it; but to

talk of the office as at sixes and sevens! this was more than he could

bear.

Next morning, before anybody else was awake, an early housemaid stole

into Mrs Lycett-Landon's room, and told her that a gentleman had arrived

who wanted to see her. The poor lady had slept a little towards the

morning, and was waked by this message. She thought it must be her

husband, and after a moment of dolorous hesitation got up hastily and

dressed herself, and went to the sitting-room, which was still in the

disorder of last night, and looking, if that were possible, still more

wretched, raw, and unhomelike than in its usual trim. She found, with a

great shock and sense of discouragement, old Mr Fareham, pale after his

night's journey, with all the wrinkles about his eyes more pronounced,

and the slight tremor in his head more visible than ever. He came

forward to meet her, holding out both his hands.

"What can I do for you?" he said. "What has happened? I came off, you

see, by the first train."

"Oh, Mr Fareham, I never expected this! You must have thought me mad. I

think, indeed, I must have been off my head a little last night. I

telegraphed, did I?--I scarcely knew what I was doing----"

"You have not found him, then?"

She covered her face with her hands. To meet the old man's eyes in the

light of day and tell her story was impossible. Why had not she gone

away, buried herself somewhere, and never said a word?

"I have seen Mr Landon, Mr Fareham; he is not--ill: but Horace knows

nothing," she said, hastily.

"My dear lady, if I am to do anything for you I must know."

"I don't think there is anything to be done. We have had a--serious

disagreement; but Horace knows nothing," she repeated again. He looked

at her, and she could not bear his eyes. "I am very sorry to have given

you so much trouble----"

"The trouble is nothing," he said. "I have known you almost all your

life. It would be strange if I could not take a little trouble. I think

I know what you mean. You were distracted last night, and sent for me.

But now in the calm of the morning things do not look so bad, and you

think you have been too hasty. I can understand that, if that is what

you mean."

She could not bear his eye. She sank down in the chair where she had sat

last night and talked to Horace. _In the calm of the morning!_ It was

only now, when she felt that she had begun to live again, that all her

problems came back to her, full awake, and fell upon her like harpies.

_Things do not look so bad!_ There passed through her mind a despairing

question, whether she had strength to persuade him that this was so, and

that there really was nothing to appeal to him about.

"My dear lady," he said again, "you must be frank with me. Is it a false

alarm, and nothing for me to do? If so, not another word; I will forget

that you ever sent for me. But if there is something more----"

How much was going through her mind, and how many scenes were rising

before her eyes as he spoke! There appeared to her a vision of duty

terrible to perform; of going home, putting on a face of calm, speaking

of papa as usual to the children, living her life as usual, keeping her

secret: and then of the universal questions that would arise, Where was

he? what had become of him? why did he never return? Or she seemed to

see herself going away, making some pretext of health, of education, she

could not tell what, carrying her children, astonished, half unwilling,

full of questions which she could not answer, away with her into the

unknown. These visions rolled upward before her eyes surrounded with

mists and confusion, out of which they appeared and reappeared. When her

old friend stopped speaking her imagination stopped too, and she came to

a pause. And then the impossibility of all these efforts came over her

and overwhelmed her--the mists, the clouds, the chaos of helplessness

and confusion in which there was no standing-ground, nor anything to

grasp at, swallowing her up. She did not know how long she sat silent

while the old man stood and looked at her. Then she burst forth all at

once,--

"I cannot tell the children! How is it possible? Horace and Milly, they

are grown up; they will want to know. How can I tell them? I want you to

help me to keep it from them--to think of something. I would rather die

than tell them," she said, starting up wringing her hands.

"My dear lady! my dear lady!----"

"Mr Fareham, Robert--has married--again!"

The old man gave a loud cry--almost a shriek--of surprise and horror.

"You don't know what you are saying," he said.

"That sounds as if I were dead," she said, calmed by the revelation,

with a faint smile. "Oh yes, I know very well what I am saying. He is

married--as if I were dead--as if I had never existed. I went to see

him, and I saw--her!"

Old Fareham caught her hands in his; he led her to her seat again, and

put her in it, uttering all the time sounds that were half soothing,

half blaspheming. He stood by her, patting her on the shoulder, his old

eyebrows contracted, his lips quivering under their heavy grey

moustache. He was more agitated now than she was. The telling of her

secret seemed to have delivered her soul. When he had recovered himself

he asked a hundred questions, to all which she answered calmly enough.

The room, with its look of disorder--the litter of last night, the fresh

morning sunshine streaming in disregarded, emphasising the squalor of

the ashes in the grate--surrounded with a fitting background the strange

discussion between these two--the old man fatigued with his night

journey, the woman pale as a ghost, with eyes incapable of sleep. She

told him everything, forestalling his half-said protest that it must be

another Lycett-Landon with the fact of her personal encounter with her

husband, forgetting nothing. The facts of the case had by this time

paled of their first importance to her eyes, while they were everything

to his. They no longer agitated her; while that which convulsed her very

soul seemed to him of but little importance. "I cannot tell the

children. How am I to tell the children?" He became weary of this

refrain.

"We can think of the children later. In the meantime, this other is the

important question. He has brought himself within the range of the law;

you can punish him."

"Punish him?" she said, with a strange smile--"punish him?"

"Yes; you may forgive if you please, but I can't forgive. He deserves to

be punished, and he shall be punished--and the woman----"

"He said she was as innocent--as I am."

"He said! he is a famous authority. One knows what kind of creature----"

"I have seen her," said Queen Eleanor, with a sigh, "poor child. He said

nothing but the truth; she is not in fault. She is the one who is most

injured. I would save her if I could."

"Save her! You would let this sweet establishment go on," he said, with

fine sarcasm, "and not disturb them?"

"Yes," she said. "It may be wrong, but I think I would if I could."

"You are mad!" cried the old man. "You have lost all your good sense,

and your feeling too. What, your own husband! you would let him go on

living in sin--happy----"

She stopped him with a curious kind of authority--a look before which he

paused in spite of himself.

"Happy!" she said; "I suppose so; at fifty, after living honestly all

these years!"

He stopped and shook his grey head. "I have known such a thing before.

It seems as if they must break out--as if common life and duty became

insupportable. I have known such a case once before."

She cried out eagerly, "Who was it?" then stopped with a half-smile.

"What does it matter to me who it was? The only thing that matters now

is the children. What is to be done about the children? I cannot tell

them; nor can you, nor any one. Mr Fareham, let him alone; let him

be--happy, as you call it--if he can. But the children--what am I to say

to the children?" She rose up again, and began to walk about the room,

unable to keep still. "Horace, who is a man, and Milly. If they were

little things it would not matter; they would not understand."

"And is it possible," said old Fareham, looking at her almost sourly,

"that this is the only thing you can think of?--not your own wrongs, nor

his abominable behaviour, nor----"

She paused a little, standing by the table. "Oh, you do wrong," she

said, "you do wrong! A woman has her pride. If his duty has

become--insupportable; it was you who used the word--and life

insupportable, do you think a woman like me would hold him to it? Oh,

you do wrong! I have put that away. But the children--I cannot put them

away! And he was a good father, a kind father. Think of something. If

only they might never find out!"

Here her voice gave way, and she could say no more.

"Horace will have to know," he said, shaking his head.

"Why? You could tell him there was some difficulty between us, something

that could not be got over. That we were both in the wrong, as people

always are in a quarrel. And no doubt I must have been in the wrong,

or--or Robert would never have gone so far--so far astray. No doubt I

have been wrong; you must have seen it--you with your experience--and

yet you never said a word. Why didn't you tell me?--you might have done

it so easily. Why didn't you say, 'You make life too hum-drum, too

commonplace for him. He wants variety and change?' I would have taken it

very well from you. I am not a woman who will not take advice. Why did

you never tell me? I could have made so many changes if I had known."

He took her hand again, with a great pity, and almost remorse, in his

old face. "It is too early," he said, "to do anything. Tell me where I

shall find him, and go back to your room and try to rest. Say you are

too tired to see the boy, if that is all you are thinking of; and go to

bed--go to bed, and try and get a little sleep. I have a great deal of

experience, as you say. Leave it to me. I will see him, and then we will

talk it over, and think what is best to be done."

"You will see--him? What will you say to him, Mr Fareham? Why should you

see him? Is not the chapter closed so far as he is concerned?"

"Closed? He will come home when he is tired of--the other

establishment--is that what you mean him to do?"

She blushed like a girl, growing crimson to her hair. "Oh yes," she

said, "I know you have a great deal of experience; but, perhaps, here

you do not understand. That--that would not be necessary. He is not a

man who would--Mr Fareham, you don't suppose I wish him any harm?"

"You are a great deal too good--too merciful."

"I am not merciful; it is all ended. Don't you know, since yesterday the

world has come to an end. Life has become impossible--impossible! that

is all about it. I am not angry; it is too serious for that. I would not

harm him for the world. God help him! I don't know how he can live, any

more than I know how I can live. It is--no word will express what it is.

But he will not come back. He is not that kind of man."

"Do you think if you had not seen him yesterday, if he did not know that

you had found him out--do you think," said old Fareham, deliberately,

"that he would not have come back?"

She looked at him for an instant, and then hid her face in her hands.

"I have no doubt on the subject," said the old man, triumphantly. "But

when a man has put himself within the reach of the law he is powerless,

and we have him in our hands."

CHAPTER IX.

THE REVELATION.

She woke suddenly with the sense that somebody was by her, and found

Horace seated by her bed. She had fallen asleep in the brightness of the

morning, overcome with fatigue, and also partly calmed by having

confided her secret to another: even when it is painful, when it is

indiscreet, it is always a relief. The bosom is no longer bursting with

that which it is beyond its power to contain. She woke suddenly with

that sense of some one looking at her which breaks the deepest sleep.

She was still in her dressing-gown, lying upon her bed. "Horace!" she

said, springing up.

"I am so glad you have had a sleep. Don't jump up like that; you look so

tired, mother, so worn out."

"Not now, my dear; I feel quite fresh now. Did you enjoy your evening?"

"What does it matter about my evening?" he said, almost sternly.

"Mother, do you know that old Fareham came up by the night train?"

"Yes, Horace," she said, turning her head away.

"You knew? Do you think you are treating me fairly--I that am more

interested than any one? What _is_ the matter? The business has gone

wrong. Do you mean to say that my father--_my_ father----?"

Poor Horace's voice faltered. That it should be _his_ father was the

extraordinary thing, as it always is full of mystery to us how

misfortune, much less shame, should affect us individually. He looked at

his mother with a look which was imperative and almost commanding, not

perplexed and imploring, as it had been before. Mr Fareham's arrival had

thrown light, as Horace thought, on the mystery--light which to him, as

a young man destined to be a merchant prince, and to convey to the world

higher ideas of commerce altogether, was more dreadful than anything

else could have been. He thought he saw it all; and that as no one

would be so deeply affected as he, his mother had been weakly trying to

hide it from him. Horace felt that his spirit would rise with disaster,

and that he was capable of raising the house again and all its concerns

from the ground.

And for a moment she caught at this new idea. To her own feminine mind

disaster to the business was as nothing in comparison with what had

happened. If others could make him believe this, it would be a way out

of the worse revelation. This was how she contemplated the matter. She

said, "It was I who sent for Mr Fareham. He is a very old friend, and

his interests are all bound up with ours."

"Then that is what it is. He has been speculating. Oh, how could you

conceal such a thing from me? How could you keep me in the dark? Mother,

I don't mean to be unkind, but this is nothing to you in comparison with

what it is to me. You don't care for a man's credit," said Horace,

rising and striding about the room, "or the reputation of the firm, or

anything of real importance, in comparison with his health or his

comfort or some personal matter. His health--of what consequence is that

in comparison? Mother, mother, I shall find it hard to forgive you if

you have let our credit be put in danger without warning _me_."

This reproach was one that she had not looked for, and that took her

entirely by surprise. She looked up at him, still feeling that what

there was to say was worse, far worse than anything he could imagine,

yet startled and confused by his vehemence. "I--I--don't think the

credit of the house will suffer," she said, faltering a little.

"It is not so bad as that? But then why did you send for old Fareham?

You ought to have taken no step without consulting me. I understand this

sort of thing better than you do," he said, with an impatience which he

could not suppress. "Mamma, I beg your pardon; everything else I am sure

you know better--but the business! Don't you know I have been brought up

to that? I mind nothing so much as the credit of the house."

"Nothing, Horace?" she said, faintly.

"Nothing," he repeated with vehemence, "nothing! Of course," he added

after a moment, "if papa were ill I should be very sorry: but he must

not play with our credit, mother--he must not; that is the one thing.

What has he been doing? Surely not anything to do with those new bubble

companies?"

"Oh, Horace, how can I tell you? Wait till Mr Fareham comes back."

"He has gone to see papa, then? I thought it must be that; but why, why

not tell me? I am not very old, perhaps, but I know about the business,

and care more for it than any one else. I would make any sacrifice, but

our credit must not be touched--it must not be touched."

"Compose yourself, Horace; it need not be touched, so far as I can see."

This calmed him a little, and he sat down by her, and took pains to

explain his views to her. "You see, mamma," he said kindly, but with a

little natural condescension, "ladies have such a different way of

looking at things. You think of health and comfort and good temper, and

all that, when a man thinks of his affairs and his reputation. You would

be more distracted if the governor" (at home Horace never ventured on

this phrase, but it suited the atmosphere of town) "had a bad accident,

or got into a snappish state, than if he had pledged the credit of the

firm. It is nice in you to think so, but it would be silly in a man."

"You think then, Horace, that nothing can be so bad as trouble to the

firm. You think that loss of money----?"

"Loss of money is not everything," he said, testily. "I hope

Lycett-Landon's could lose a lot of money without being much the worse.

The fact is, you don't understand. It is always the personal you dwell

upon. I am not reproaching you, mamma; it is your nature." He patted her

hand as he said this, and looked at her with a half-smile of boyish

wisdom and superiority, very kindly compassionating her limited powers.

This silenced her once more: and so they remained for some time, he

sitting thoughtfully by her, she reclining on the bed looking at him,

trying to read the meaning in his face. At last she said tremulously, "I

am not quite so bad as you think: but perhaps a matter that touched our

family peace, that sundered us from each other--disunited us----"

He kept on patting her hand, but more impatiently than before. "Nothing

could do that--permanently," he said. And he asked no more questions. He

was a little, a very little, contemptuous of his mother. "I ought to

have gone along with old Fareham. We should have talked it over

together. I suppose now I must have patience till he comes back. When do

you think he will come back? Can't I go and join him there? Oh, you

think papa wouldn't like it? Well, perhaps he might not. It is rather

hard upon me, all the same, to wait on and know nothing."

"Don't you think if you were to take a walk, Horace, or go and see the

pictures----?"

"Oh, the pictures! in this state of anxiety? Well, yes, I think I will

take a walk; it is better than staying indoors. And don't you make

yourself unhappy, mother. It can't have been going on very long, and no

doubt we shall pull through."

Saying this with a cloudy smile, Horace went away, waving his hand to

her as he went out. She then got up and dressed with a stupefied

sensation, taking all the usual pains about her toilet, though with a

sense that it was absolutely unimportant. She could not remember what

day it was, or what month, or even what year. She was conscious of

having received a remorseless and crushing blow, but that was all; when

she had left home or whether she would ever go back to it, she could not

tell; neither could she form the least idea of what was going to happen

when old Mr Fareham came back. She forgot that she had not breakfasted,

and even, what was more wonderful, that to save appearances it was

necessary to make believe to breakfast. Everything of the kind was swept

away. She went into the sitting-room and sat down at the window like an

abstract woman in a picture. It was very strange to her to do nothing;

and yet she never thought of doing anything, but sat down and

waited--waited for something that was about to happen, not knowing what

it might be.

She had not waited long when one of the hotel servants knocked at the

door, and, opening it, admitted a stranger whom she had never seen

before--a small, thin woman in a widow's dress, who stood hesitating,

looking at her with a pair of anxious eyes, and for the first moment

said nothing. Mrs Lycett-Landon was roused by the unlooked-for

appearance of this visitor. She rose up, wondering, at such a moment,

who it was that could have come to disturb her. The stranger was very

timid and shy. She hung about the door as if there were a protection in

being near it.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "I don't even know by what name to speak

to you. But one of my daughter's maids saw you yesterday get into a cab,

and then we heard you had come here."

"I think I understand; your daughter is----?"

"Mrs Landon, madam, where you called yesterday. You asked for me, and

then went away without seeing me. I could not help feeling anxious. You

may think it presuming in me to track you out like this, but I do feel

anxious. We were afraid perhaps that my son-in-law----"

She had a wistful, deprecating look, like that of a woman who had not

received much consideration in the course of her life. She watched the

face of the person she addressed with an anxiety which evidently was

habitual, as if to see how far she might go, to avoid all possible

offence. Mrs Lycett-Landon returned the look with one which was full of

alarm, almost terror. It seemed impossible that she could get through

this interview without revealing everything; and the small, anxious,

hesitating figure looked so little able to bear any shock.

"Will you sit down?" she said, offering her a chair.

The stranger accepted it gratefully, with a timid smile of thanks. She

seemed to take this little civility as a good omen, and brightened

perceptibly. She was very carefully, neatly dressed, but her crape was

somewhat rusty, and the black gown evidently taken much care of. She

twisted her hands together nervously.

"We were afraid," she repeated, "that perhaps Mr Landon--had got himself

into trouble with his own family because of his marriage; and that you

had come perhaps--to see. We were so delighted that you should have

come; and then when we found you had gone away----"

Her voice trembled a little as she spoke. She watched every movement of

the face which regarded her with such strange emotion, ready to stop, to

modify any word that displeased.

"Then did you let him--did you give him your daughter--without any

inquiries, without knowing anything----?"

"Oh, madam," the widow cried, clasping and unclasping her nervous hands,

"perhaps I was imprudent. But at his age one does not think of the

family approving. If he had been a younger man----But who could have any

right to interfere at his age?"

"That is true--that is very true!"

"And you see it came upon me, you might say, unexpectedly. I saw that he

was getting fond of Rose; but I never thought, if you will excuse me for

saying so, that she would marry a gentleman so much older--and then it

was so sudden at the last. He had leave from his office, and the

opportunity of getting away----"

"Leave from his office!" The listener could not help repeating this with

a curious cry of indignation. It gave her a shock, in the midst of so

many shocks. As for the widow, this interruption confused her. She

trembled and stumbled in her simple tale.

"And so--and so--it was settled at last in a hurry. I have not very

strong health, and I was very glad that Rose should be settled. Oh yes,

I was glad that she should have some one to take care of her in case

anything happened. I had confidence that you could feel for me as a

mother; perhaps you are a mother yourself."

The widow stopped short when she had made this suggestion, with a

momentary panic; for Rose's idea had been that the lady who had appeared

and disappeared so suddenly was a sister, perhaps a maiden sister. Her

mother judged otherwise, but then paused, afraid.

"Yes, I am a mother myself."

"I thought so--I thought so! and I felt sure you would feel for me as a

mother. It was Rose I had to think of. As for his family, at his age,

you will understand----But it makes my poor girl very unhappy to think

she may have been the means of separating him from his relations. I tell

her a wife is more to a man than any other relation. But still, if it

could be possible to make a reconciliation--if you would be so kind as

to help us----"

The nervous hands clasped together; the little hesitating woman looked

with a face full of prayer and entreaty at the lady who sat there before

her, like an arbiter of fate. If she could have known how the heart was

beating in that lady's breast! Mrs Lycett-Landon did not speak for some

time, not being able to command her voice. Then she said, tremulously,

but with a great effort to be calm--

"You don't know what you ask. I am the last person----"

"Oh, madam!"

She had an old-fashioned, over-respectful way of using this word. And

there was no fear or suspicion of the truth, though much anxiety, in her

eyes.

"Oh, madam! you have a kind face; and who should be the one to make

peace but such as you, that can feel for a young creature, and knows

what is in a mother's heart?"

The words were scarcely out of her lips when Horace entered hastily,

asking, before he saw that any stranger was present--

"Mother, has Fareham come back?"

"No, Horace; but you see I am engaged."

"I beg your pardon," he said, surprised by the look of agitation in the

stranger's face. But he was terribly excited. "I won't stay a moment;

but do please tell me papa's address. I cannot wait and knock about all

day. Old Fareham is so tedious; he will take hours about it. Tell me my

father's address."

Horace was not without wiles of his own. He thought it more likely that

he should extract this address when somebody was there.

"Horace, I am engaged, as you can see."

"Only a moment, mother; it was something flowery--Laburnum, or Acacia,

or something. If I go to the office I can get it in a moment."

The little widow rose up; something strange and terrible came over her

face.

"Young gentleman," she said, "are you any relation to Mr Lycett-Landon?

You will tell me if no one else will."

"Relation?" said Horace, with a laugh, "oh yes; only his son, that is

all!"

"And this lady? This lady is----?"

"My mother; who else should she be?" the youth said.

There was a moment during which the two women stood gazing at each other

in an awful suspension of all sound or thought. And then the visitor

uttered a great and terrible cry, and fell down at their feet upon the

floor.

CHAPTER X.

THE END.

The Lycett-Landons went home to the Grove that night. Horace asked his

mother no questions. He helped her to lift up and place upon a sofa the

visitor whose strength had failed her so strangely; but how much he

heard from Mr Fareham, or how much he guessed, she never knew. He was

anxious to go home at once, and, instead of making any objections as she

had feared, facilitated everything. He was very kind and tender to her

on the journey, taking care of her and of her comfort, saving her from

every trouble. This had not heretofore been Horace's way. He was still

so young that the habit of being taken care of was more natural to him

than that of taking care of others; but he had learned a new version

apparently of his duty on that strange and agitating day. It was late

when they reached the Mersey again, and the great river was full of

shooting fireflies, little steamers with their sparks of glowing colour

flitting and rustling to and fro among the steady lights of the moored

ships. The sky was pale with the rising moon, the stars appearing

languidly out of the clouds. As they crossed the river to their home,

sitting close together on the deck, saying nothing to each other,

avoiding in the darkness all contact with the other passengers, two or

three little steam-boats rustled past, full of music and a crowd of

merrymakers going home noisy and happy after a day's pleasure. The sky

was stained all round the horizon behind them by the smoke of the great

town, but before them was soft and clear with fringes of dark foliage

and outlines of peaceful houses rising against it. Everything was full

of quiet and peace, no false or discordant note anywhere; even the

fiddles and flutes of the bands harmonised by the air and water and

magical space about, and the dew dropping, and the moon rising. It was

only forty-eight hours since they had left their home almost under the

same conditions, but what a change there was!

Milly was full of questions and surmises. How was papa? Why did they

leave him? When was he coming home? Why did they return so soon? She

supposed the season was over, and nothing going on, not even the

theatres. She never thought it possible they would come back directly.

She poured a flood of remarks upon them as they walked from the boat to

the house. Fortunately it was dark, and their faces gave her no

information; but their brief replies, and a something indefinable, a

restraint in the atmosphere about them, a something new which she did

not understand, began to affect the girl after the first abandon of her

surprise and her interrogations. As soon as Mrs Lycett-Landon entered

the house she announced that she was very tired and going to bed. "I am

growing old; travelling affects me as it never used to do, and I have

got a headache. I shall go to bed at once, Milly. No, I don't want

anything to eat; quiet and rest--that is all I want. Give Horace his

supper, dear; and you need not come into my room to-night. I shall put

out my light and get to sleep."

"Not even a cup of tea, mamma? Mayn't I come and help you to take off

your things? Let me send White away, and undress you myself."

"I want no one, my darling, neither you nor White. My head aches. I want

darkness and quiet. Good night. To-morrow morning I shall be all right."

She kissed them, her veil still hanging over her face, and hurried

up-stairs. Milly watched her till she had disappeared, and then turned

upon her brother. "What does this mean?" said the girl; "what has

happened to mamma, and where's papa, Horry? Tell me this very moment,

before you have your supper or anything. I know something must be

wrong."

"Something is wrong," said Horace, "but I can't tell you what it is. I

don't know what it is. Now, Milly, that is all I am going to say. You

need not go on asking and asking, for you will only make me miserable. I

can't tell you anything more."

"You can't tell me anything more?" She was struck, not dumb indeed with

amazement, but into such a quiver and agitation that she could scarcely

speak. Then she regained her courage a little. "Where's papa? He can't

be ill, or you would not have come home."

"I have not seen him," said Horace, doggedly.

"You have not seen him?"

"Mother did, and then old Fareham. I can tell you this: it isn't

speculation, or anything of that sort. The firm is all right. It's

nothing about that."

"The firm--speculation!" cried Milly, with wild contempt; "who cares for

business? What is the matter? and why doesn't he come home?"

"Who cares for it? I care for it. I thought at first that was what had

happened; but we may make our minds quite easy--it's not that." Horace

was really comforted by this certainty, though not perhaps so much as he

pretended to be. "I was very much frightened at first," he said. "It was

a great relief to find that, whatever it is, it is not that."

Milly stood looking at him with scared eyes. "Do you mean to say that

papa is not coming home? Oh, Horry, for goodness' sake tell me something

more. Has he done anything? What has he done? Papa! It is impossible,

impossible!" the girl cried.

"So I should have said too," said Horace, who had now had a long time in

which to accustom himself to the idea. "Perhaps the mother will tell you

something; she has not said a word to me. I don't know, and therefore I

can't tell you. It has been a horrid sort of day," said the lad, "and

perhaps you'll think it unfeeling, Milly, but I'm hungry. I'd like to

have something to eat, and then I'd like to go to bed. I'm horribly

tired, too; wandering about, and always waiting to hear something and

never hearing, and imagining all sorts of things, is very fatiguing, and

I don't think I've eaten anything to-day."

Milly despised her brother for thinking of eating, but yet it was a

relief to superintend his supper and get him all he wanted. They had a

great deal of talk over this strange meal, and though Horace gave his

sister no information, they yet managed to assure themselves somehow

that a terrible catastrophe had happened, and that their father had gone

out of their lives. Milly wept bitterly over it, and even Horace could

not keep the tears from his eyes; but somehow they recognised the fact

between them, far more easily than their mother above stairs or any

bystander could have imagined possible. Two days ago what could have

been more impossible to them? And Milly did not know even so much as

Horace knew, nor had any insight at all into how it was; and yet she,

too, in the course of an hour or so, had accepted the fact. To youth

there is something convincing in certainty, an obedience to what is,

which is one of the most remarkable thinks in life. They acknowledged

the mystery with wonder and pain, but they did not rebel or doubt. Their

mother thought nothing less than that they would struggle, would be

incredulous, would rebel even against her for their father's sake. But

there was nothing of all this. They submitted almost without a struggle,

though they did not understand.

And then the quiet days closed down upon this family, upon which so

mysterious a loss had fallen. It need not be said that there was great

discussion as to the cause of Mr Lycett-Landon's disappearance, both

among the merchants in Liverpool and among their wives and daughters on

the other side of the water. The explanations that were given at first

were many and conflicting; and for a long time people continued to ask,

"When do you expect your husband?" or "your father?" And then there came

the time, not less painful, when people pointedly refrained from asking

any questions, and changed the subject when his name was mentioned,

which was, perhaps, almost less tolerable. Then, gradually, by degrees

it became an old story, and people remembered it no more. Ah, yes! they

remembered it whenever any incident happened in the family--when Horace

took his place as one of the partners in the office, when Milly

married--then it all cropped up again, with supposititious details; but

when nothing was happening to them the family escaped into obscurity,

and their circumstances were discussed no longer. Old Mr Fareham had a

very bad cold after he returned from London, and was for some time

confined to the house, and would see nobody. And then other things

happened, as they are continually happening in a mercantile community. A

great bankruptcy, with many exciting and disgraceful circumstances,

followed soon after, and the attention of the community was distracted.

The Lycett-Landon business remained a mystery, and after a while the

waters closed tranquilly over the spot where this strange shipwreck had

been.

Milly never heard till after her marriage what it was that had happened,

and at no time did Horace ask any questions: how much he divined, how

much he had been told, his mother never knew. And she herself never was

aware how the other story ended: if the poor Rose, her husband's

unfortunate young wife, died of it, or if she abandoned him; or if the

poor mother lacked the courage to tell her; or if between them the young

woman was kept in her poor little suburban paradise deceived. Mrs

Lycett-Landon made many a furtive effort to ascertain how it had ended;

but she was too proud to inquire openly, and though she wondered and

pondered she never knew.

Years, however, after these events, when Horace had begun to be what he

had determined upon being, a merchant prince, and the house of

Lycett-Landon & Co. (old Mr Fareham being dead, and young Mr Fareham at

the head of the American branch, Landon, Fareham, & Co.) was greater

than ever, Mr Lycett-Landon suddenly appeared at the Grove. He came to

make a call in the morning, sending in his name; for the old butler was

dead, and the new one did not know him, and he was admitted like any

other stranger. His wife even did not know who he was--for she had come

down expecting a distant relation--until she had looked a second or

third time at the stout, embarrassed old gentleman, looking very awkward

and deprecating, who stood up when she came into the room, and shrank

with a certain confusion from her inspection. After the first shock of

the recognition they sat down and conversed calmly enough. He inquired

about the children with a little affectation of ease.

"I know about Horace, of course," he said, "and I saw Milly's marriage

in the papers. But I should like to hear a little about the others."

She accepted his curiosity as very natural, and gave him all the

particulars very openly and sedately. He sat for nearly an hour,

sometimes asking questions, sometimes listening, with a curious air of

politeness, like a man on his best behaviour, in the society of a lady a

little above him in station, and with whom his acquaintance was far from

intimate, and then took his leave.

With what thoughts their minds were full as they sat there, in the old

home equally familiar to both, where every article of furniture, every

picture on the walls, had the same associations to both! But nothing was

said to betray the poignant sensation with which the woman,

compunctious, though she had never been revengeful, or the man, so

strangely separated and fallen from all that had been habitual to him,

beheld each other, sat by each other, after these years. He smiled, but

she had not the strength to smile. After this, however, he came again

at intervals, always asking with interest about his children, but not

caring to see them.

"I suppose they don't remember anything about me," he said.

His visits were not frequent, but he became, in the end, acquainted with

all the family, and even resumed a certain intercourse with Horace and

Milly, his first meeting with whom was accidental and very painful. To

see him elderly, stout, and (but perhaps this was one effect of some

refinement of jealous and wounded feeling on the part of Mrs

Lycett-Landon) oh so commonplace! and fallen from his natural level,

shuffling his feet, reddening, smiling that confused and foolish smile,

conciliating his children, gave to his wife almost the keenest pangs she

had yet suffered. She could not bear to see him so lowered from his

natural place. Tragedy is terrible, but when it drops into tragi-comedy,

tragi-farce at the end, that is the most terrible of all. Pity, shame,

something that was like remorse, though she was blameless, was in his

wife's heart. The impulse in her mind was to go away out of the house

that was his, and leave him in possession. But, to do him justice, he

never, by look or word, reminded her that the house had been his, or

that he was anything but a visitor.

And what was the explanation of the strange passion which made him, at

fifty, depart from all the traditions of his virtuous life--whether it

was a passion at all, or only some wonderful, terrible gust of

impatience, which made duty and the rule of circumstances, and all that

he was pledged and bound to, insupportable--she never knew; nor whether

he found that this poor game was even for a moment worth the blazing

flambeau of revolution which it cost; or whether it cost him still more

than that candle--the young life which he had blighted; whether Rose

lived or died; or where he came from when he paid these visits to his

old home, and disappeared into when they were over: all this Mrs

Lycett-Landon lived in ignorance of, and so, in all probability, will

die.

MADEMOISELLE.

CHAPTER I.

She was not altogether French, notwithstanding her name: indeed her

nationality was the most dubious thing in the world, unless any assault

was made upon either of the countries to which she owed her parentage.

She had a way of thus becoming intensely English at a moment's notice,

and intensely French the next--the latter, perhaps, with still greater

warmth than the former, as became the constitutional difference between

French and English. She was a woman in the full flower and prime of

life--that is, approaching thirty-five: a period, however, at which few

people will acknowledge a woman's prime to be. According to the vulgar

notion, indeed, beauty has begun to fade at this period, when it ought

to be in fullest, gorgeous flower. There are some liberal minds which

will confess that a woman who is married is in all her magnificence at

this age; but for those who are unmarried it is always, in England at

least, considered a time of decadence. Thirty-five means fading--the

state of the _délaissée_--the condition of the old maid. Mademoiselle

had come to this age. She had been a governess for a great part of her

life, since she was twenty: fifteen long years, but it seemed a hundred

as she looked back upon it. She had developed in that time from a raw

girl--weeping passionate tears over a great many things which she

scarcely noticed now, feeling herself abandoned, miserable, left in the

background, left out of everything, humiliated in her unaccustomed

position, injured by life and all that happened to her--into a rational,

calm woman, who had made up her mind to the path she was compelled by

necessity to tread, and had acquired a dignity of her own which no

little slights or scorn could touch. The number of people who are

absolutely unkind to their governesses and dependents is small, and yet

it can scarcely be, except in very exceptional cases, a comfortable

position. To be as good as, or perhaps better than, your employers and

superiors--as good and yet so very much worse; to live in a house, and

yet not to belong to it; to sit alone and hear the echoes of life going

on all round--sounds of voices, of doors opening and shutting, of people

coming and going, which you cannot help hearing, and yet have nothing to

do with; to be contented and independent alone, not showing too much

sympathy nor too much zeal, interfering with nothing, making no

remark,--can anything be more difficult? A woman can scarcely do this

without deteriorating in some way; and there is a state of mind which is

born of the condition--its most common development--a state in which the

faculties are on the alert to interpret all the echoes, to catch at

every whisper, to make out everything that is concealed or under the

surface. The back-stairs at Court do not afford an edifying sphere of

study, but still there are notable persons coming and going, and a faint

reflection of history in their chance words and looks. But the

back-stairs in an ordinary house, in Belgravia, in Bloomsbury, in the

suburban villas, are so much less elevating that there is nothing

notable or historical in them. And yet how can a woman, all alone in a

schoolroom, keep from hearing what floats upward, keep from that

curiosity which all human creatures share, in respect to the people whom

she is meeting every day? The pitiful little records that form the chief

interest of so many starved and impoverished lives afford often one of

the saddest spectacles in existence. And the woman who is able to resist

this tendency runs the risk of growing stoical, cynical, harsh, and

contemptuous. A girl may go through a few years of it without suffering.

If she is happy at the end, and is able to live her own life, she

forgets the difficulties of the probation, and probably the strongest

feeling in her mind is the sense of being neglected, justly or unjustly,

which is very bitter yet evanescent. But a woman who goes on with it for

life has a hard lot.

Mademoiselle had carried on this profession for fifteen years, and she

had no prospect but to continue it all her life. It had developed in her

a sort of self-denied and reserved quietude, which was strangely out of

accord with the natural vivacity which she had inherited from her French

father, and which all the subduing influence of an English mother had

not brought under. A foreign governess is so much worse than a native

that she has not even possession of an independent and distinctive

name. Miss Smith or Miss Jones is better off than the impersonal

Mademoiselle or Fräulein, whose title is generic and official, to be

transferred to her successor with an indifference to any individuality

in it which, were it not the mere growth of unthinking custom, would be

brutal. Perhaps the ladies thus officially addressed do not, among their

many grievances, count this; but the special personage of whom we speak,

who was in her soul a very proud woman, and possessed, as it happened, a

_beau nom_, a fine, and ancient, and high-sounding name, did feel it,

though she was one who never owned to any grievances, nor showed her

dislike of any of the peculiar methods of English politeness in dealing

with governesses. Her name was De Castel-Sombre, an old name of Béarn,

from whence her family came: but her father had been the last of his

branch of the house, and had fallen off from its spirit by becoming an

artist, which, as he had no money to begin with, had cut him off

entirely from the favour of the noble cousins who might have helped him

on had he been without tastes of his own. Mademoiselle's pride,

therefore, was purely visionary, and had nothing vulgar embodied in it.

It was the refuge of a high mind, longing for everything that was

excellent, yet attached by straitest bonds of necessity to the common

soil. When Monsieur de Castel-Sombre died he left his wife with scarcely

any money, two girls, and a number of unsold pictures, for which nobody

cared. Naturally, at that moment these women believed that he was one of

the greatest of unappreciated painters, and that it was the cruelty and

envy of the world which had deprived him of the fame which was due to

him. At least Madame de Castel-Sombre clung to this belief, which her

daughters held hotly until experience taught them better. Mademoiselle

(she had really a Christian name also of her very own, and was called in

her family Claire) knew now as well as any one that these cherished

pictures, with which her mother's little rooms were darkly hung, were of

small merit, and that there was nothing at all remarkable in the fact

that they had not found anybody to buy them; but that, too, was a

discovery which it took time and experience to make.

Thus she had come through a great many illusions, and discovered the

falsehood of them before the time at which our story begins. She no

longer felt that she was left out of life when the family in which she

lived received company or returned their visits. She no longer believed

that it was intended as a slight to her, or neglect of her, when she was

left behind, but perceived that it was the commonest necessary

arrangement, a thing which she herself approved. Instead of being

always offended, always conscious of injury, she perceived now all the

difficulty of circumstances, and that the presence of a stranger in the

house was often as great an inconvenience to the people of the house as

it was a humiliation to the governess. She learned to look upon the

circumstances in general with those "larger, other eyes" which the poet

has attributed to the dead. In one sense Mademoiselle felt that she was

dead. She had died to, or rather had outlived, many things in which the

chief charm of life seemed once to lie. She no longer expected, as young

people do, that life would change sooner or later, and that one time or

another she should have what she wanted. This is an illusion that some

people pursue as long as they live, and which even age does not cure.

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast." They think, however

unlikely, that it is not possible but things must improve, and the good

they desire come to them before they die. Mademoiselle had got over

that. She expected nothing but to go on as she was doing for the rest of

her life. It was not, perhaps, an exhilarating prospect. She had thought

it over in every way, but she could not make anything better of it. She

had thought of taking up a school, which was the highest possibility in

the future of a governess, and getting her mother under the same roof,

and her sister to help. But to set up a school required capital, and

Mademoiselle had none. She had a little--a very little--laid by in case

of illness, or to bury her if she died, which is a forlorn provision

often made by lonely proud women, who even in death would be indebted to

no one; but to furnish a house and live till pupils came would require

what would have appeared a fortune to Mademoiselle--a thousand pounds,

or something of that sort. As well say a million at once. She had

learned, among her many experiences, that to rise to the height of

independence like that it was necessary to begin on a large scale--to

have a good house, and gardens, and servants, and pretensions. The

little bit of a house in a little street, with half-a-dozen little daily

pupils drawn from the neighbourhood, meant beggary and misery and

endless struggles. When the time should come that the mother wanted her

children's care and tendance, and could not be left alone, then it might

come to that; but a mother who was only sixty, and full of activity,

required no such sacrifice. Therefore Mademoiselle had arrived at the

conviction that there was no change to be expected in the tenor of

existence--no change for the better--nothing but decadence and downfall.

When the present pupils grew up she would go on to another family. She

would have little difficulty in finding another situation. It gets very

speedily known in any profession what people are worth, and she would

find another place easily enough; but she would be older, and when

another change came older still. By the time she was fifty she would

have finished her present pupils, and probably another set, and then she

would be old, and the young mothers of growing girls would not care to

have her. They would fear that she would not be strong enough, that she

would be unable to take the walks that were necessary, and to be up

sufficiently early in the morning. They would be alarmed lest she should

fall ill on their hands. She looked forward, seeing this prospect very

clearly before her, not deceiving herself, thinking it all over with a

sort of cheerful despair. She kept cheerful--for what good would it do

her to be gloomy?--and it was altogether foreign to her temper, in which

there was a natural horror of dulness and monotony, and an elasticity

which astonished even herself; but yet, no doubt, the outlook was one of

despair: to labour on, always with a kind of personal luxury, living and

lodging more or less as people who are very well off lodge and live, yet

with so little money--money which, when she sent a share to her mother,

and looked to her modest, serious wardrobe, her dark gowns, which were

so thrifty, and lasted for ever, left so little over--sometimes a few

pounds, sometimes only shillings! Great is the power of saving, as we

have all heard, and many littles make a mickle, the proverb says; but

you may think how slow a process saving is when all that it permits to

be laid by is, perhaps, ten pounds a-year. In ten years a hundred

pounds! which was a great comfort, and made her feel that she might have

a long illness and die of it, and be laid in the bosom of the

mother-earth without being indebted to anybody--a consolation

unspeakable; but yet, when you come to think of it, one which means

despair, though always a cheerful despair. Alas! no chance of ever

getting a Rosebank, a Sunnyside, a dignified mansion that would pay, for

such a sum as that: it would, however, be enough for the expenses of a

last illness (if not too long), and of her burial after, which was a

great relief to think of, and gave her the power of looking without fear

in the face of fate.

Mademoiselle was at present in the family of Mr Leicester Wargrave, who

was in the City, but who lived in an old-fashioned house in the

Bayswater district--a house with beautiful rooms and a delightful

garden, though not within the lines of fashion. He was the junior

partner in the business to which he belonged, a rising man making a

great deal of money, but also with many demands upon him in the shape of

a large family and a hospitable, cheerful disposition, which his wife

shared fully. They both liked to see their friends, to have their house

full, to enjoy their life. Though Mrs Leicester Wargrave was in the

habit of declaring with some ostentation that she and her husband were

quite outside the fashionable world, yet they loved to entertain people

from Belgravia, to show their fine rooms, their beautiful old-fashioned

decorations, their large shady garden--a thing so unusual in London. "We

don't pretend to be fashionable, but we have something to show for

ourselves," said the lady, who was fond of asserting that she was

nothing but a City lady; "City people, _pur et simple_"--people with no

pretensions to be anything better. There are many ways in which pride

shows itself, and this mock humility was one of these ways. Mrs Wargrave

had a number of vanities, though she was, on the whole, a nice woman.

She liked to speak French with the governess in the presence of people

not, perhaps, quite conversant with any language but their own, which is

so often the case in the best society; and she liked to say that her

governess was "a great swell--far finer, you know, than anything we can

pretend to--a _fille de Croisé_, and that sort of thing." But if there

was one thing more than another of which she was proud, it was the

influence which she allowed she had over her cousin-in-law, the head of

the firm, who was a bachelor, a man about town, a fashionable person. "I

don't know, I'm sure, what he sees to make such a fuss about in us," Mrs

Leicester Wargrave said; "I suppose ours is the only house, poor fellow,

in which he finds real family life. There is nothing he wouldn't do for

me. Leicester and he have always been like brothers, but my husband says

I can do more with Charlie than he can. I don't think myself that he

will ever marry. I know as a fact that many and many a set has been made

at him, but he only comes and tells me and laughs over it. He had a

disappointment, you know, in early life, before he settled to the

business. Oh, he has not settled much to it now. He came in in his

father's place, which makes him nominally the head; but my husband is

really the first working partner. _He_ is not too fine for City life. It

is a little absurd, isn't it, that a man who never does anything should

get the lion's share, and the real workers come off second best?"

"It is a question of capital, I suppose," said the friend to whom she

was telling this story of the family fortunes.

"Oh, to be sure! he has the capital which the old gentleman worked for,

so now he doesn't require to do much, and everybody toils for him. But I

don't think he will ever marry--all his habits are against it. And he

says why should he, when we have been so kind as to provide an heir for

him as well as a home? He refers to little Charles, of course. You may

imagine I don't build much on what a young man like that says; but I

really don't, myself, believe he will ever marry. He is too happy with

us here."

"He is very young to come to such a decision," was the remark of the

listener, whose private opinion was that Mrs Leicester Wargrave was far

too self-important, and ought to be taken down.

"Oh, yes, not much over thirty. Of course it's ridiculous: but I have my

own ways of knowing, and you'll see it'll come true."

Whether Mrs Leicester Wargrave believed that a hopeless platonic

attachment for herself lay at the bottom of Mr Charles Wargrave's

determined celibacy it would be difficult to say. She was certainly very

proud of his devotion to her, of the dutiful way he appeared at all her

parties, and the familiar manner in which he haunted her house. It was a

very pleasant house, unlike other London houses, in the depths of the

quaint little square of which it formed one side--with its great wide

staircase showing a sublime disregard of space, its stuccoed roofs and

walls, fine garlands of delicate white against a pale green not quite so

faded as the last novelty of asceticism, though a hundred and fifty

years old, and its windows opening upon a genuine garden--a garden in

which you could lose yourself, in which there were shady walks and great

trees, in which it was impossible to believe that at the other side of

the house omnibuses were standing, and that a hansom could be called to

the door by a whistle almost at any hour of the night or day. This gave

it a quaint and paradoxical character, adding a charm to the large

pleasant rooms, which were not shrouded in curtains and blinds as London

houses usually are, but saw clear sky out of every window--clear sky and

waving trees. And Mrs Leicester Wargrave had a choice of very good

society, mixed and more original than is usual. She had a number of law

people, a few who were simply society people, an occasional literary

person, and a certain contingent from the City. The City makes a good

mixture when it is carefully done. It brings in the practical, it brings

a kind of intelligence always entertaining to the other classes, and a

kind of prejudice and narrowness all its own, which is, as people say,

"full of character" and amusing to the enlightened. This sort of thing

is, perhaps, more practicable in Bayswater than it is in Belgravia.

Need less to say that Mrs Leicester Wargrave cultivated relations also

in the world of artists, meaning the musical and dramatic professions,

especially the former, for it was necessary to amuse her guests. An

Academician now and then is a feather in one's cap, but it is not

exactly amusing. This, however, was the society which Charles Wargrave

found sufficiently agreeable to bring him across the Park whenever his

cousin's wife held up her little finger. He thought it more amusing than

anything he found in Mayfair or St James's. I do not suppose he was

fortunate enough to be anything but an occasional guest in the very

greatest houses of all, which are the Elysian fields of society.

Such were the assemblies which Mademoiselle heard arriving and departing

as she sat up-stairs in the schoolroom, thinking her own thoughts or

reading her book. Sometimes she was invited to be one of the guests;

more often she was not wanted or was forgotten. She kept up on the

outside a serene indifference, and really believed that she did not at

all care one way or the other. As a matter of fact, some remnant of the

old passionate sense of being left out would occasionally revive in her

mind; but, on the other hand, Claire de Castel-Sombre did not like to be

introduced to strangers as "Mademoiselle," so that there was a good deal

to be said on both sides.

CHAPTER II.

One summer evening Mademoiselle was seated in her schoolroom as usual,

which was a very pretty room though at the top of the house, a room with

a balcony overlooking the garden, and refreshed by all the air which was

kept up by the fanning of the trees and the open space. It was covered

with fresh cool matting, and lighted by a reading-lamp, which scarcely

added to the heat, and diffused a mild light. The large window was wide

open. The balcony with its seats seemed to form part of the room, and

Mademoiselle had put herself into a white dressing-gown. The children

were in bed, and a grateful stillness filled this part of the house. The

rest, the quiet, and the coolness were very refreshing after the

intolerable heat and noise of the day. There had been a dinner-party

down-stairs, and, as usual, the carriages coming and going had been

heard in the schoolroom. The children had brought up a description, as

they generally did, of the splendour of the ladies, for they had been

in the drawing-room in all their finery when the guests arrived.

Mademoiselle had listened to their remarks and criticisms, but she had

not regretted her own absence. She had accomplished all her little tasks

after Edith and Dorothy had gone to bed--corrected their exercises,

looked over their lessons for next day--and then she had put on her

dressing-gown, and concluded to put off certain mendings that were

necessary till next evening, as it was so hot, and had taken up her

book.

She was thus seated in great luxury when the sound of some one running

and stumbling up-stairs startled her--evidently a maid in great haste,

her foot catching in her gown. She put down her book and listened,

feeling that she was about to be called upon for some service. Then came

a hurried knocking and a cry of "Mademoiselle!" "Oh, if you please, come

down-stairs; Mrs Wargrave has gone off quite dead-like, and they don't

know what to do. O Mademoiselle, come quick, for the gentlemen is off

their heads," cried the messenger, continuing in her excitement to drum

against the door. Mademoiselle sprang up, and only pausing to take a

bottle of eau-de-cologne and a fan from a table, hurried down-stairs.

"It will be a faint," she said. "I don't know what it is, but she looks

like death," said the maid. The governess had forgotten her

dressing-gown, her loosened hair, her aspect altogether informal and out

of character with her position. She rushed into the drawing-room to find

Mrs Wargrave lying on the floor, her husband slapping her hands and

calling to her, half in fright, half in anger, "Marian, Marian! wake up;

what's the matter? Wake up, dear!" Charles Wargrave had gone to fetch

some water, and came in with it ready to discharge it upon the head of

the poor lady. When something white descended between them, shedding

odours of some perfume and raising a sudden air with the fan, the two

men were more startled than ever. Neither of them had ever had to do

with a woman in a faint before.

"It will be nothing," said Mademoiselle. "She has fainted. It is the

great heat. She has not been well all day." She took the command of the

situation quite simply, taking the water from Charles Wargrave's hand

without even looking at him, and sending the aggrieved husband out of

the way. The men ran about quite humbly, obeying the orders of

Mademoiselle, who knew what to do, setting the door open to make a

draught, bringing cushions, doing everything she told them. It is

doubtful for the moment whether even Mr Leicester Wargrave, though he

was her employer, said good morning to her every day at breakfast, and

gave her a cheque every quarter, was at all clear as to who she was; and

Mr Charles Wargrave did not know her at all. She did not look like

Mademoiselle, a mere official without any name of her own. In her loose

white dressing-gown, her hair falling out of its very insecure

fastenings, her mind entirely occupied with her patient, she looked like

one of those beings whom men call angels, when they come in unexpectedly

and save a great deal of trouble. This was the position which

Mademoiselle had suddenly taken. They had been about to send for the

doctor, to do all sorts of desperate things. Mademoiselle in a moment

took everything out of their hands.

By-and-by, when Mrs Wargrave had recovered consciousness, the white

figure with the falling hair disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

When the lady came to herself she had looked up and asked, "What is the

matter? Where am I?" and then she had breathed out with a faint

vexation, "Oh, is it you, Mademoiselle?"

"She ought to go to bed," said Mademoiselle to the husband.

"I feel as if I had been ill," said Mrs Wargrave. "Where am I? Where is

Jervis? I want Jervis. O Jervis, send these gentlemen away and let me

get to bed."

Mademoiselle had disappeared. She had slightly shrugged her shoulders

with a gesture which was not British; and suddenly, no one knew how, had

stolen away. To have her services of kindness so repulsed and the maid

called for--the maid who had been too frightened to do or think of

anything while her mistress lay insensible--was painful enough. No, she

said to herself, not painful--nothing so tragic--only disagreeable; for,

after all, it was not gratitude nor tenderness which she looked for from

Mrs Wargrave. She had not done any great thing--only the most common

good offices of one human creature to another. Why should Mrs Wargrave

be grateful? And, naturally, she liked the services of her maid, to whom

she was used, best. There was nothing in it to resent, nothing to be

pained by. And just then Mademoiselle had caught sight of herself with

the white dressing-gown and her hair hanging loose, in the great dim

mirror between the windows, and this had so quickened the effect upon

her of Mrs Wargrave's cry for Jervis that in a moment she was gone. She

flew up-stairs like an arrow from the bow. She was horrified by the

sudden sight of her own negligent apparel, of which till now, in the

necessity of the moment, she had not thought.

When Mademoiselle arrived again in the shelter of the cool schoolroom,

with its windows open to the night and its mild lamp burning steadily,

she was panting with the haste and slight excitement of the moment, and

still more with her hurried rush up-stairs; but she was not excited in

any other way, and she would have laughed, or, at least, smiled to scorn

the idea that anything had happened in those few minutes which could in

any way affect her life. Nevertheless, she was a little struck by the

sight of herself which suddenly appeared to her in the glass which was

over the mantelpiece of the schoolroom, straight in front of her, as she

came hurriedly in. The white figure seemed to fill the mirror with

light. Her hair had not got completely detached, but hung loosely,

forming a sort of frame round her face, which, naturally pale, had now a

slight rose-flush; and her eyes, generally so quiet, were shining with

the commotion produced in her physical being by the accelerated

throbbing of her heart and pulses--due, as much as anything else, to her

rapid flight, first down- and then up-stairs. Everything had passed in

the course of a few minutes; and, of course, the hasty movement, the

momentary thrill of alarm and anxiety, had made her heart beat; but it

was curious that it should have produced the change in her appearance

which she could not but perceive as she caught the reflection of her own

face in the glass. She half laughed to herself with amusement and

surprise, and no doubt a little pleasure too. She looked (she thought)

as she had done when she was a girl of twenty. The reflection passed

through her mind that white was very becoming, _très flatteur_. It is

not _flatteur_ to everybody, but it certainly was to Mademoiselle. She

laughed to herself at the young, bright figure which she saw in the

glass, and then shook her head with a sort of amused melancholy. No,

Claire! no white gowns for you to make you look young and fair. Why

should you look young and fair, not being either? White dresses, like

other illusory pleasures, are not adapted for a governess of

thirty-five. With this thought she shook back those loose locks,

thrusting them behind her ears. Many people have grey hair at her age,

but not a thread of white was in that dark-brown _chevelure_, which was

so abundant and vigorous. Mademoiselle had always been a little proud of

her hair--a small and innocent vanity. She pushed it away, and sat down

again to her book, which, somehow, did not arrest her attention after

that very brief, very insignificant episode. Mrs Leicester Wargrave was

a pretty woman in her way. As she lay on the floor in her faint,

Mademoiselle had admired her straight features, her fine shoulders,

partially uncovered, the dazzling whiteness of her complexion. She was a

year or two older than the governess, but her circumstances were very

different. She had a devoted husband, nice children, a beautiful house,

plenty of money. Why did she faint, _par exemple_? This question,

however, did not produce in Mademoiselle any conjectures of mystery or

mental trouble. She concluded, more sensibly and practically, that it

was the heat, the thunder in the air, or that something had gone wrong

in the unromantic regions of the stomach. Faints come from these reasons

rather than from the non-ethereal causes to which they are attributed in

dramatic art. If it is true that men die and worms eat them, but not for

love, it is also true that women faint, in most cases, from anything but

mental trouble. Mademoiselle did not attempt to hunt out any mystery.

She did not dwell upon the enormous difference between the woman to whom

she had just been ministering, and who did not want her ministrations,

and herself. With one of those exercises of the philosophy of experience

which were habitual to her, she said to herself that nobody would

willingly change their own identity for that of another, however much

they might like the advantages belonging to the other, and that she

herself would certainly rather be Claire de Castel-Sombre than Mrs

Leicester Wargrave: though she added also to herself that this, too, was

a delusion, and that there was nothing so delightful in Claire de

Castel-Sombre that a reasonable mind should prefer her personality in

this decided way. However, Mademoiselle was wise enough to see that

there was little progress to be made by entering into the region of

metaphysics in this way; so that, with a smile at herself, she returned

to her book in earnest, and found the thread of interest in it again.

The one result which remained from the incident of the evening was a

sensation of pleasure, at which she mocked, but which was quite real, in

her own momentary return to her youthful brilliancy--a sensation

expressed in the passing reflection that white was _très flatteur_, and

that she was not too old to look well in it, but yet----

"Who is the angel and minister of grace that you keep in your house,

ready for any emergency?" said Mr Charles Wargrave to his cousin, when

the mistress of the house had been transported to her room and left in

the care of her maid.

"Eh?" said Mr Leicester Wargrave, dully; but his mind was occupied with

other questions. "I wonder what made my wife faint?" he said; "there was

nothing in what we were talking of that could have made her faint." He

was of the romantic opinion that mental shocks were the causes of such

disturbances, and not the weather or the digestive organs. He had not

the least suspicion or jealousy of his wife, but he was a man of some

temper, and took such a performance as more or less an offence to

himself.

"I have no doubt it was the heat."

"Oh, the heat! in this cool room? And why to-night, specially? It has

been as hot for the last three days."

"I suppose that having borne it for three days would make one all the

more likely to succumb on the fourth," said Charlie.

Leicester Wargrave shook his head. "Suppose we had been out," he said;

"suppose it had been in somebody else's house. What a nuisance it would

have been--making everybody talk! I shall have to speak to Marian

seriously----"

"You don't suppose she fainted to annoy you?" said Charles.

"Oh, you never can tell what a woman will do," said the husband. "If I

could only remember what we were talking of when she went off in that

ridiculous way----"

"We were talking of nothing of the least importance, Leicester."

"Ah, you don't know. A wife's a great comfort in some circumstances, I

don't deny, and Marian's a good wife; still, there's nobody can make a

man look so ridiculous--when she chooses."

"Poor Marian! It must have been very unpleasant for herself: she

couldn't have done it on purpose, you know."

"You can never tell," said the aggrieved master of the house. He looked

so rueful and so annoyed that the young man burst into a laugh. He was

aware that his cousin was prone to blame some one for every accident

that occurred, but it seemed a new way of dealing with a fainting-fit.

After a minute of silence, during which Leicester Wargrave kept walking

up and down the room in an impatient way, Charles repeated his previous

question. "I say, old fellow, who was the angelic being in white?"

"Eh?" said the other again, with half attention; then he added angrily,

"Don't be such a fool--the angelic being was simply Mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle! the governess? That's nonsense, Leicester."

"What is nonsense? I hope I know as much as that: and there is no doubt

about it. She was in a nightgown, or something; that woman Jervis, who

is good for nothing, fetched her, I suppose. I'll tell Marian to send

that useless fool away. She's no good."

"Mademoiselle," said Charlie, "the governess? I thought she was a dowdy,

elderly person--but this one was a beautiful girl. Are you sure you are

not making a mistake?"

"Girl!" said Mr Leicester Wargrave; "she's nearer forty than thirty.

She's not a bad-looking woman--there's a good deal in her: I've often

said as much to Marian. But Marian says she's very French--though that's

what we have her for, I suppose."

"I don't mind what country she is of. She's----" But here Charles

Wargrave seemed to check himself, and said no more.

"You--don't mind? No, I don't suppose so. Between ourselves, I don't see

what you've got to do with it," said Leicester, with a laugh.

Charles, who had been sitting with his hands in his pockets, thrust

deeply down, and his head bent as if in deep consideration, here roused

himself a little, and gave his head a shake as if to chase some cobwebs

away. "No," he said, after a moment's pause, "I don't suppose I have got

anything to do with it--as you say."

This being granted, and his grievance in respect to his wife's faint

beginning to subside a little, Mr Wargrave unbent. "Yes," he said, "I

noticed she looked very well to-night. She had a little colour; that's

the drawback of Frenchwomen, they have so little colour--except what

they put on themselves, don't you know."

The two men laughed at this, though it was not very funny. "By Jove!

they do make up!" said the elder. "There's plenty of that in the Park,

but still Englishwomen have complexions. The French like it--they talk

of _blanc mat_, though there's not much _blanc_ either, by nature, any

more than red--except what's put on."

The joke failed the second time, and did not even elicit a smile from

Charlie Wargrave, who sat with a perfectly grave face staring straight

before him and swinging his leg. He was seated on the arm of a sofa--not

the legitimate part to sit upon--and either he did not care to discuss

the charms of Frenchwomen or he was fatigued by the discussion. He got

up suddenly and held out his hand.

"You want to get up-stairs, I'm sure, to see after Marian. I think I'd

better go."

"Oh, don't hurry yourself, Charlie. I could go up and come back to you

again if I was so anxious as that."

"Anyhow, I must go, it's getting late," said the visitor, getting up. He

paused a moment, as if he were trying to recall something as he stood in

the middle of the room, where his cousin's wife had lain fainting with

Mademoiselle bending over her. To think that it was only Mademoiselle!

He felt a sort of dazzle in his eyes, not thinking, as she had done,

that white was becoming, but wondering how it was that a sort of light

seemed to diffuse itself from the white figure--healing and consolation.

She had scarcely spoken at all; she had not so much as looked at him or

taken any notice of his existence. She had taken the water out of his

hands as if he had been a servant--more than that, as if he had been the

table on which it stood--without looking at him. She had said "Get me a

cushion" with the same non-recognition of him or his existence. And the

moment that the necessity for her presence was over she had disappeared

like a vision. It was curiously disappointing, tantalising, provoking to

hear that she was only Mademoiselle. Charles Wargrave was not a man whom

ladies generally--women much more imposing than any governess--passed

over without notice. He reflected that of those he knew very few, even

in a similar emergency, would have treated him with that calm and

absolute indifference. There would have been a glance in recognition of

the fact that he was he, never an unimportant person. There would have

been something in the shape of a smile of thanks, or of apology. But

this lady had taken no more notice of him than if he had been a wooden

figure made to hold things in his hands, like the grinning negro

candelabras of Venice. One would not say "thank you" to the painted and

gilded blackamoors, and neither did she say "thank you" to him. He could

think of no fitter image. As if he were made of wood! Charles Wargrave

was not used to this sort of treatment. He laughed to himself softly at

the thought of it--laughed, yet was piqued and a little rueful. And all

the time it was only Mademoiselle!

CHAPTER III.

Mrs Wargrave made next morning a very pretty little speech of mingled

gratitude and apology to Mademoiselle. "I can't imagine," she said,

"what made me so silly as to faint last night. It is a thing I've always

been subject to, but it's always a stupid thing to do. I hear you were

so good, coming down directly when Jervis lost her head, and doing

everything that was kindest and best. I am so much obliged to you,

Mademoiselle. Of course I was not conscious of what was going on, so I

couldn't show you any gratitude then."

"De rien," said Mademoiselle, "à votre service, as my country-folk say."

"Your country-folk are always polite," said Mrs Wargrave, and then she

laughed a little meaning laugh. "I hear the gentlemen were quite

impressed by the sight of you in your dressing-gown."

Mademoiselle coloured a little. She had forgotten that reflection of

hers that white was becoming, and only felt the horror of having been

seen in _déshabillé_. "I did not stop to think," she said, "how I was

dressed: and it was so hot. I had no idea that I should be called

down-stairs."

"No, how could you? I shall not do anything so absurd again if I can

help it. I have told that foolish creature Jervis what she ought to have

done. Yes, I feel all right this morning, thanks. The heat was

tremendous last night, there was not a breath of air, but this morning

it's quite cool again. Don't let me delay the lessons. I only came to

say again 'Thank you,' Mademoiselle."

"De rien," said Mademoiselle again. Edith and Dorothy were sitting very

demurely all the time with their books quite ready, waiting to begin.

They were two nice little girls, and they learned their lessons very

creditably. Mademoiselle sat and heard their little dull, expressionless

voices running on glibly enough, giving forth the knowledge of the

schoolbooks, the information, cut and dry, which had nothing to say to

any circumstance round them, and remained in its concrete state, never

dissolved or assimilated as long as memory held out--and wondered to

herself what was the good of it, and wherein these unexceptionable

children were the better for the pills or stores of knowledge which they

thus swallowed dutifully. But this was not a reflection to be followed,

since it would go to the root of much that is called education, and

drive many honest persons out of the occupation by which they made their

living. It was Mademoiselle's vocation, as it is of so many other people

more pretentious, head-masters and classical tutors, and all the

high-priests of the schools, to superintend the swallowing of these

pills, which might be digested or otherwise, as it pleased Providence.

The brother of the little girls was disposing of many more such doses at

Eton with much the same result. It is, however, perhaps rather a pity

when the teachers of youth are disturbed by such thoughts. It is much

better to believe entirely in the advantage of what one is doing, as

some happy people do,--to believe that you are determining the character

of children when you administer boluses of knowledge, and that it is for

the eternal gain of your parishioners that they should go to hear you

preach. Mademoiselle did not believe that the little girls in the

nursery would be at all changed out of their natural bent by anything

she could do--and this, perhaps, took something from the fervour of her

teaching, though everybody said she was so conscientious. Perhaps the

thing which Edith and Dorothy retained most clearly from the day's

lessons was their mother's laugh and assertion that the gentlemen had

been "so impressed" by the appearance of Mademoiselle in her

dressing-gown. What gentlemen? and why were they impressed? and which

was it, the white one or the blue one? These were questions in which

they took more interest than in the Merovingians and the divisions of

the Continent under Charlemagne. Mademoiselle herself took the reference

as a little prick on the part of Mrs Wargrave--a reminder that even to

succour the sick it is indiscreet and unladylike to come down-stairs in

a dressing-gown, and she felt it was a reproof to which she had perhaps

justly laid herself open. She resolved that, until she was certain that

everybody was in bed, nothing should induce her to put on a

dressing-gown again.

Mr Charles Wargrave, however, was moved by very different feelings. He

could not get that white figure out of his head. Perhaps he was piqued

to think that there was a woman, and she a dependant, who could look at

him as if she did not see him, and take a thing from his hand without,

so to speak, being conscious of his existence. He came in one day to

luncheon without any warning, apologising for taking advantage of the

invitation so often given him, and making a very lame explanation of how

he had been passing through the Square and had heard the bell ring for

the nursery dinner. He was made to sit down with the little fuss and

commotion of laying a new place, at Mrs Wargrave's right hand, and then

cast his eyes about with great anxiety to discover who was there. The

sunblinds were down and the room in a sort of rosy twilight, shutting

out as much of the light and heat as possible. But he recognised

Mademoiselle at the other end of the table. She was in a dark dress, and

her hair was more tidy than words could say. She sat with Dorothy at one

side of her, paying more attention to the little girl's dinner than to

anything else, taking a slight share in the conversation now and then,

only enough not to be remarkable--a true governess, knowing her place,

not taking too much upon herself, or asserting her right to be treated

as one of the company. After luncheon she left the room immediately with

a child on each side. It would be difficult to describe the

disappointment with which Charles Wargrave looked after her, the curious

revulsion of feeling that had taken place within him! He felt angry that

such a person should have cheated him out of so many thoughts--a mere

nobody--a person evidently quite suited to her circumstances, nothing

but a governess. He gave himself a shake, and threw off the ridiculous

impression which had been made upon him, he supposed, by the mere

situation--the helpfulness of the woman, and the dress, which had

produced a false air of gracefulness and youth. Youth! She was no doubt,

as Marian said, five-and-thirty if she was a day--and not particularly

handsome; a fine sort of _air noble_ about her, a nice way of carrying

herself--but that was all. What a fool he had been to be taken in so

easily by appearances! He was obliged to confess to himself, however,

that the deception was not Mademoiselle's doing--that she had no hand in

it. She was a sensible person of middle age, devoted to her own duties,

giving herself no airs. If he was taken in, it was entirely his own

fault.

As for Mademoiselle, she knew as little that she had disappointed

Charles Wargrave as she knew that she had excited his imagination. She

thought nothing at all about it--did not try to look dowdy, or to limit

her remarks to the most formal subjects, any more than she had tried to

excite his interest. He was just the same to her as one of the pictures

which Mr Leicester Wargrave called family portraits which hung on the

walls.

However, the matter did not end there, though Charles Wargrave hoped it

would. He went away from the Square feeling quite light, and released

from a burden that had been weighing on him--for, to be sure, he had no

desire to attach himself to a governess, however beautiful and charming

she might be--and it was a real relief to find that he could shake off

the visionary yoke, and that she was not either charming or beautiful.

He left the house in the Square quite at his ease, saying to himself

that it would be a joke indeed, after having passed harmless through all

the snares which every man about town believes to be laid for him,

should he fall a victim at last to the delusive angelic presence of

old-fashioned poetry--

"When pain and anguish wring the brow,

A ministering angel thou."

That was all very well, and women were good sick-nurses in general, and

Mademoiselle in particular might be very kind and ready, he made no

doubt. It might be reasonable enough to fall subject to an angelic nurse

who had ministered to yourself; but when it was only your cousin-in-law

who was the object of the ministrations! He laughed, and said to himself

that it was a good joke, as he went away, and shook off the

recollection, which was a sort of hallucination, a deceptive effect of

the lights, and the white dress, and the extreme consolation of having a

woman in a faint taken off his hands. He had no doubt Mademoiselle was

quite a superior article of her kind, a nice woman, and all that. He was

glad he had seen her in her everyday garb, and convinced himself what a

nice, commonplace, ordinary governess she was. He went out feeling quite

emancipated and much pleased to have altogether regained his

independence. Good heavens! what a business it would have been had he,

acquainted with the finest women in London, fallen a victim to a

governess! It was too ludicrous to be considered for a moment--and yet

it was certainly an escape.

But next morning Mademoiselle, by some inexplicable caprice, had

regained her unconscious ascendancy. The governess in the dark gown

disappeared and the white figure came back. He could not get it out of

his eyes. He said to himself that it was a mere vision, and had no

existence at all, but all the same it haunted him, and he could not get

it out of his mind. It was with an effort that he kept his feet from

moving towards the Square. He felt that he must see her again and

convince himself that she was merely the governess, a dowdy and elderly

person, nothing at all like his imagination. It was with the utmost

difficulty that, reasoning with himself, and pointing out the

consequences that must result if he were to be seen constantly at his

cousin's in the middle of the day when there was no occasion for his

presence, he persuaded himself not to go again to luncheon till several

days were past. The second time he appeared was on Sunday, when Mr

Leicester Wargrave was at home, and his appearance more natural. But

Mademoiselle was absent. He thought at first she was only late, and kept

watching the door, expecting her to come in, and almost disposed to find

fault, as an employer might have done, at her tardy appearance and want

of punctuality. But the meal went on without remark from any one, and

the governess did not appear. It was not till something was said about

Mademoiselle that he, with his embarrassing consciousness of having come

there to see her, and her alone, ventured to ask a question.

"Oh!--Mademoiselle! what has become of her?" he said at last.

"She has a friend she goes to on Sundays--not every Sunday, but a day

now and then. It is a great loss for me," said Mrs Wargrave, "for there

are so many people that call on Sunday afternoon, and I have the

children on my hands."

Charles Wargrave received this explanation very unsympathetically. He

relapsed into silence, not taking the trouble to make himself agreeable,

and he took a long walk afterwards, during which his curiosity and

interest grew higher and higher. He tried all the means in his power to

put out of his mind this unwelcome visitor: for she was unwelcome. Of

all people in the world, persons in her position were the least likely

to occupy this man of fashion. He began to feel it something like a

calamity that he had been present on that unlucky occasion when Marian

was so silly as to faint. No more absurd seizure of the fancy had ever

happened. What was Mademoiselle to him, or he to Mademoiselle? And yet

the unlucky fellow could not get her out of his head.

About a week later he went to the Square in the afternoon, whether

wishing to see her or wishing not to see her it was difficult to say. He

was told that Mrs Wargrave had gone up to have tea with the young ladies

in the schoolroom, but could be called at once. It was a wet day, and

probably she expected nobody. "With the young ladies in the schoolroom?"

he repeated; "is there any one else?"

"There's only Mademoiselle," said the butler--"the governess, sir."

Charles Wargrave felt disposed to knock the fellow down for his

impertinence; he had scarcely patience to desire him to show the way.

How dared he speak of a lady so--a lady better than any one in the

house, the pampered menial? He made the man an impatient sign to get out

of the way when they came to the top of the house to the schoolroom

door, which was sufficiently pointed out by the sound of cheerful voices

within. He knocked, smiling to himself at the little Babel of noise, two

or three speaking together; and was bidden to come in by a voice with a

faint little _parfum_ of foreignness in its sound, so faint as to be

only discernible by the sharpest ears. A sudden flush came to his face

as he heard it. It was not a voice, he thought, like the others. It was

full of sweetness and yet of power--a voice round and harmonious like

the notes of an organ, with nothing shrill or thin or common in it; a

voice which suddenly brought before him again, not the dowdy governess,

but the white-robed ministering angel. He felt himself flush with

pleasure and expectation as he opened the door.

Mademoiselle was sitting opposite pouring out the tea. She had her back

to the light, and he saw her in a kind of relief against the large

window--the shape of her head, her hair a little loosened, not quite

smoothed upon her brow, in the shining perfection of the other day. He

saw her face in a luminous shadow, clear yet dusky, her eyes looking

down, somewhat deeply set, the oval of their form and the hollow under

the eyebrow clearly defined. She had not perceived him, nor did she even

look up to see who was coming in in obedience to her invitation. It was

only when the children made a sudden pause in their chatter with a cry

of, "O Uncle Charles!" that Mademoiselle raised her eyes and stopped,

with teapot in hand, to see who it was.

"Yes, it's me," he said, more cheerfully than grammatically. "I heard

you were here, and I thought I'd ask Mademoiselle's permission to come

in--and, perhaps, get a cup of tea----"

"Oh, come in, Charles," said Mrs Wargrave; "I'll answer for it you shall

be welcome: we are all glad of anything to break the monotony of a long

day."

Mademoiselle made no movement, gave no sign, except the faintest,

scarcely perceptible bow of recognition. She found a clean cup for him

and filled it with tea, calling one of her pupils to present it to him.

She withdrew a little into the seclusion of her subordinate place while

Mrs Wargrave took up the talk. It did not occur to the governess that

she had anything to do with it. She had no great interest even in the

visitor. The monotony of the long day was her natural atmosphere. She

had no recognised need of anything to break it. Mrs Wargrave went on

talking, and Mademoiselle heard and assisted now and then to keep the

speakers going when she found that from the stranger, to whom the

discourse was addressed, there was little response. And the children

resumed their chatter _sotto voce_. As for Charles Wargrave, he sat

still, saying very little, watching them all, but especially

Mademoiselle, wondering how it was that such a woman could pass under a

generic name, and bear, so far as the people around her were aware, no

individuality at all. She withdrew from the centre of the scene, so to

speak, in order to let the chief personages, Mrs Wargrave and her

visitor, occupy it. Then, when it became necessary that there should be

a response, or chorus, she disclosed herself by moments out of the

background, just enough to keep up the action. He sat and watched them,

watched her under his eyelids. Mrs Wargrave found Charlie more than

usually taciturn, but felt that she was entertaining him--helping him to

overcome his dulness, whatever might be the occasion of it. It never

occurred to any one that he had another object, still less that his

object could be in any way associated with Mademoiselle.

CHAPTER IV.

It was not at once remarked in the Square that Mr Charles Wargrave had

changed his habits in respect to his visits there,--that he came in the

afternoon and at the hour of luncheon, and often declined invitations

for the evening, which had previously been the time he generally spent

with his cousins. This was partially accounted for, when it was noticed,

by the reflection that during the height of the season the evenings of a

young man who was to some extent a man of fashion and "went everywhere"

were not his own. "He comes as much as he can," Mrs Leicester Wargrave

said; "he comes when he can: of course he's full of evening

engagements--three or four every night." She was, indeed, on the whole,

pleased with the demonstrations of pleasure in her society, as she

thought, which the young man showed. "He takes us just as he finds us.

We have no inducements to offer him. He has such simple tastes. There is

nothing he is so fond of as family life. He comes to me and the children

just as if he were one of the family. Of course he is one of the family,

but you would think he was either a son or a brother to see how that

young fellow, to whom every smart house in London is open, comes and

spends his afternoons with the children and me!" Mrs Wargrave was a

little proud of the good influence which she felt she was exercising

over her husband's cousin. He was becoming so domestic, so fond of home!

He even sometimes met the children on their walks, and had taken them

over to the Natural History place, and another time to the Kensington

Museum. It was really too kind of him to think of the little girls.

During all this time, except on those two occasions when he had met the

children, Charles Wargrave had not been able to secure any personal

communication with Mademoiselle. She accompanied her charges with the

greatest calm--a calm which was not at all complimentary to the young

man who thus made himself her companion whether she would or not. She

showed no signs whatever of embarrassment, or of supposing that his

attentions might be misconstrued. If he had been eighty she could not

have been more at her ease. And Edith and Dorothy had seized upon him on

both sides, each clinging to an arm, which was not at all what he

intended. He was so entirely discomfited, indeed, by the too much

_empressement_ of the little girls and the too little of Mademoiselle,

that after these two accidental encounters he gave up attempting

anything of the sort. However domestic he might be, it did not suit him

to expound the Kensington Museum to Edith and Dorothy, each clinging to

an arm. And was she made of stone, that woman? Was she made of vulcanite

or some such impervious material, white to the sight but tough and

unyielding to the touch? He was so much disgusted after that second

expedition that he turned violently round upon himself and declared that

he would have nothing more to say to Mademoiselle. What was Mademoiselle

that she should exact such service? To be sure, it could not be said

that she exacted any service; she smiled and ignored it with a perfect

composure which was still more aggravating. And why should a man take

all that trouble for a woman who took no notice, who never seemed to see

anything, neither his civilities nor his impatience? He said to himself

that it was in every way a mistake, that to pursue a person of that

class was the height of folly, that to marry her would be madness

itself. To marry a governess! a woman almost middle-aged, as Mrs

Leicester Wargrave assured him so often--a foreigner--a nobody--above

all, one who showed no appreciation of his attentions, and probably

would not marry him! Oh, it was too much. He would break off at once and

think of such folly no more.

This decision Charles Wargrave emphasised by going out of town for a

whole week. But when he returned the first place he went to was the

Square, just to see whether she was as composed as ever, he said to

himself. As it happened it was in the afternoon, after the hour of

luncheon and before that of tea, that he presented himself at Leicester

Wargrave's house, and Mrs Wargrave was out. He paused a moment to think

what he was to do; then, hearing the voices of the children, asked if

they were in the garden.

"Yes, sir, with Mademoiselle," replied the servant.

"Then," said Charles, "I'll go out there, and you can let me know when

your mistress comes in."

The garden was large and shady, and there was always something _banal_

to say about the wonder of finding such a place in London, with

omnibuses and hansom cabs on the other side of the house. He found

Mademoiselle walking slowly round under the trees while the children

played, and he felt sure that she gave a start when first she saw him--a

quiver of astonishment and dismay. She might be dismayed and astonished

for anything he cared. She might look all round for a way of escape;

this time she should find none. Edith and Dorothy were in the middle of

a game at tennis, and the governess was at some distance from them,

taking a meditative walk. She was in a white dress, the first he had

seen her wear since that night. It was a very still afternoon, the

borders flaring with their late summer show of geraniums and all the

foliage in full green, untouched as yet even by the heat and dust of

London summers. He saw her before she saw him, walking along with her

head bent a little, and an air of meditation and thought about her. She

had a book in her hand, as if she had intended to read, but the soft

stillness, the green shadiness, the warm, soft, drowsy air, had

vanquished that intention. And then she perceived him and started with a

slight glance round, as if she would have run away. No, no; not this

time. He felt a kind of revengeful exultation in the suggestion of alarm

which was in her startled movement. She was afraid then, after all her

imperturbable airs!

It was, however, with the greatest composure that they met. She began at

once to tell him how sorry she was that Mrs Wargrave was out.

"Oh, I can wait," he said; "I am in no hurry. She will come in

by-and-by, no doubt."

"Not for some time, I fear," said Mademoiselle.

"Oh, I am in no hurry," he repeated, and, turning, walked with her. It

was so sweet and still, and he found it so satisfactory to have at last

got this impenetrable person to himself, with leisure to speak to her

and nobody looking on, that for a time Charles Wargrave said nothing at

all. It was pleasant to walk by her, to be conscious of the white figure

by his side, so perfectly quiet and tranquil, not betraying by so much

as a quiver of her dress anything of that alarm which he had divined in

her at the first sight of him. For a minute or two he was quite

satisfied with this; and it was to his surprise Mademoiselle herself who

burst into those usual _banal_ sentences about the strangeness of this

garden in London, so secluded, so perfectly quiet, as if there was not a

house or a vulgar sound within miles, while all the time the omnibuses

were running, &c. He knew the words exactly, and had indeed meant to say

them himself if other means of conversation failed.

"Yes," he said, "it is wonderful; but not so wonderful as some other

things--for instance, to find you here, waiting upon the amusements of

these two little----Mademoiselle, will you do me a favour?"

She looked up surprised--alarmed, too, this time, he felt sure--but said

with a smile, "If it is anything in my power."

"It is quite in your power. It is very simple. Do you know that I have

known you all this time without knowing you by anything else than the

absurd official (if I may call it so) generic name of Mademoiselle?"

She coloured a little and laughed. "That is allright," she said, with

one of the few slips she made in English, running the last two words

into one. "It is an official title, and I am Mademoiselle. You would

refuse to let an Englishwoman be called Miss, but with a Frenchwoman it

is allright."

"I don't think it all right; I dislike it very much. Will you permit me

the pleasure of being able to call you by your name?"

Mademoiselle paused a little. She was evidently doubtful which was the

more dignified--debating between a reluctance to reply and a reluctance

to permit it to be seen that she had any objection to reply. A denial,

it appeared to her, might seem coquettish--a sort of challenge to a

playful struggle. So she raised her head and answered, "I am Claire de

Castel-Sombre," with the air of a queen.

"Ah," said Wargrave, "I thought as much. Is it out of pity for us as

nobodies, with a name never heard of till our grandfathers went into

business, that you have concealed, Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre, _un si

beau nom_?"

"I have not concealed it," she said with a smile. "Mrs Wargrave knows my

name; but why waste breath upon so many syllables when Mademoiselle

answers every purpose just as well?"

"That is a little scoff at us as industrials--not willing to waste

anything, even our breath."

She shook her head. "I will not be tempted into an argument."

"No?" said Wargrave, changing rapidly from one language into the other.

He knew French well, which is not too common with young men about town,

and he was proportionately pleased with his own acquirement, and glad to

note the little start of light and colour in Mademoiselle's face. "You

are too proud to argue or even to assert the difference between an old

noble name of Béarn and a common English one which, on the foundation of

a little money, sets itself up as something, and condemns a woman like

you, such a woman as you, to give up every attribute of real life and

waste all your gifts and become an abstraction for the benefit of

two----"

"Stop, stop!" she cried; "you are going a great deal too far. I am not

compelled to anything. I am doing only what it is my business to do, in

circumstances which are unusually comfortable and favourable. I do not

know what can have put such an idea of my situation into your mind."

"It is very easy to explain that," he said. "My indignation has been

growing since ever I made your acquaintance. As if you did not know very

well that there is nobody in this house at all your equal, either in

family and breeding--which are, perhaps, accidental advantages, for, of

course, to have them you had only to give yourself the trouble of being

born--but also in mind, in heart----"

She put up her hand to stop him. "Mr Wargrave, you are under some

strange delusion. I am neither very clever nor very highly instructed,

nor capable of anything above what I have to do. As for breeding, I was

trained to be a governess as I am. Oblige me by giving up this subject,

which can lead to nothing but misunderstanding. I possess nothing but

that _beau nom_ of which you form so great an idea. Of all visionary

things to stand upon, is not birth the most visionary? Certainly it is

so in my country: and ought to be still more in yours, which is so

practical----"

"Mine is not practical at all," said Wargrave; "that is one of the

mistakes you make. You are far less affected by romantic reasons than we

are. I have always thought so, and more than ever now."

She said nothing, but with a little movement of her hand seemed to wave

his argument away. "These things are beyond discussion," she said.

"That may be; but you cannot imagine that one can look on and see such a

sacrifice, and not earnestly protest against it?" Wargrave said.

Mademoiselle laughed--half pleased, half provoked. "You force me into a

discussion," she said. "I don't know what to say to convince you that I

am very well off, and desire no better. If I was not doing this, what

should I do?"

She turned and looked him in the face as she put this question, half

angry, half flattered, amused also at the young man's curious

earnestness and excitement. The look was unexpected, and caught him full

in the eyes. He made a hurried step backwards, and uttered an

unconscious exclamation.

"There is nothing," she said, quickly--"nothing else that I could do. Do

not disturb with such suggestions a woman working for her bread. One

might have had other dreams when one was young. But life is very

different from one's dreams. I am very well off; and there is nothing

else that I could do."

"Yes," he said, drawing a long breath, "there is something else. I must

say it--you could marry me."

She looked at him again with consternation, falling back a little,

drawing away, her eyes opening wide with amazement, and made no answer

for a moment. Then she said in a soothing tone, "Mr Wargrave, don't you

think you had better go home?"

Charlie was piqued beyond measure by this speech. "I believe she thinks

I am out of my mind," he said.

"It looked like it for a moment." She gave a little, low, uneasy laugh.

"You have given me a great fright. Pray go in at least, and lie down

upon the sofa till Mrs Wargrave comes in."

"Do you think me mad?" he said.

Her eyes dwelt upon his face with a serious doubt. "I think--the sun has

been too much for you. Your head is a little confused, Mr Wargrave.

Don't let us talk of it. I am quite sure that you did not mean to be

rude."

"Rude!" he cried; "Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre, you are very cruel to

me; you wound me deeply. I made you a very serious proposition, and you

treat me as if I were insane."

"Temporarily," she said. And at this moment there came an interruption

unexpected on his part. The two little girls had finished their game,

and they came with a rush, both together, upon Uncle Charlie, as they

called him, pushing between him and Mademoiselle, and breaking up the

situation in a moment. Edith and Dorothy seized him and clung to him,

hanging one on each arm. "O Uncle Charlie, where have you been? What are

you doing in the country? Why, everybody is in London at this time of

the year."

"Ask this lady what I was doing--she knows," he replied, not without an

effort to cast them off: but the children held fast.

"Ask Mademoiselle! How does Mademoiselle know? Was that what you were

telling her in French? I didn't know you could speak French, Uncle

Charles. O mamma! Here he is, and he's been here all the time waiting

for us till the set was over and talking French to Mademoiselle."

"Well, I am sure I am very glad to see you, Charles. I hope you're

better for your change," said Mrs Wargrave, sailing up to the group

across the grass in all her finery. "And so you were talking French to

Mademoiselle? Well, of course, I understand it, and read it and all

that, but I'm not good at talking. Mademoiselle must have been quite

pleased to have a chat in her own language. Come in; there's tea in the

drawing-room, and it is cooler there than out of doors. Edith and

Dorothy, don't hang on to your uncle so."

"Oh, he doesn't mind!" cried the children, hanging on more closely than

ever. He was led in thus helpless to the cool drawing-room, unable even

to gain a look from Mademoiselle. She fell back in her habitual way,

leaving Mrs Wargrave to take her place. He was himself forced forward in

advance when she dropped behind. And the last he saw of her was the

sweep of her white dress across the grass as she went another way. He

turned his head to look after her, but she did not vouchsafe him a

glance. And the family loudly called for his attention, and dragged him

over the sill of the great window which opened on to the lawn.

As for Mademoiselle, she went hastily up-stairs and reached the

schoolroom almost at a flying pace; nor did she pause then, but went

into her own room, which opened from it, shutting the door behind her.

She was in great agitation, she who was always so calm. She tore her

dress, stumbling and treading upon it as she made that breathless run

up-stairs. Her breath came quick, and she turned the key in the door as

if she were afraid of being pursued, which, of course, was nonsense. But

Mademoiselle was not in a state of mind to weigh possibilities. The

question was, what had happened to her? Had she been insulted, or had

some new thing too strange to be comprehensible entered into her life?

CHAPTER V.

Claire de Castel-Sombre reached her room in a condition of mind in

which, though this was quite unusual, she forgot altogether that she was

Mademoiselle and became herself, a woman of strong feelings, great

personal pride, and a temperament impassioned and imperious rather than

subdued and calm. It was subdued under the burden of all those

necessities which made her natural impetuosity almost a crime, so out of

place was it, and out of keeping with every circumstance around her; but

such subjugation, being artificial, is always at the mercy of an emotion

or an impulse too strong for manufactured bonds, and at this moment the

natural flood had swelled beyond all restraint. Her usual paleness was

flushed with angry colour. Her eyes shone, her whole figure thrilled

with an excitement which was beyond all restraint. A curious

consequence, one would suppose, of a proposal of marriage made by a

young man considered eligible in every way in circles much more exacting

than Mrs Leicester Wargrave's daughters or sister, much less her

governess. But Claire was roused by emotions which would not have

influenced these young ladies. It was not that there was anything in the

English language which prevented her full understanding of what was said

to her, or in the habits of Englishmen; but perhaps something of French

breeding, and something of the involuntary depression and susceptibility

which are fostered by such a position as hers, turned her from the

natural interpretation of such an overture to a strained and false one.

She thought that she had been insulted by a light proposal which meant

nothing, which was not intended to mean anything, which was a sort of

jibe and no more; and every sentiment in her mind, as well as every drop

of blood in her veins, seemed to rise up again. "You might marry _me_;"

it meant contempt, or suggestive of an impossible escape from the

subdued state which, in the first place, it was insulting for any man to

remark upon. A woman who does her duty in the position which her

circumstances compel her to accept, whose pride lies in accepting those

circumstances as not alone the only possible, but as the most natural

and dignified, is not a woman to be insulted, she said to herself,

passionately stamping her foot upon the floor in her paroxysm of wounded

pride and feeling. In her usual condition Mademoiselle would have been

bitterly ashamed of that stamp upon the floor. She was even now, in the

fumes of her passion, and blushed for herself, clenching her hands,

which was a noiseless operation, to stay in herself any possible

repetition of that _bêtise_. All good feeling, all honour, all justice

even, forbade that a woman should be jeered at for circumstances she

could not help, circumstances which her strength lay in making the best

of, in taking the sting out of by a dignified acceptance of them, in

which there should be neither question nor assumption of injury, nor the

pose of a person wronged. Above all things that pose of wrong was

abhorrent to Claire. It went against her pride to acknowledge that she

was in an inferior position, a dependant, and in the cold shade. Her

pride had been to ignore all that, to define her place as clearly as

possible, and make it fully comprehensible that it was the place which

she chose and that pleased her best. To remark upon it at all, as Mr

Charles Wargrave had done, even though in a way that was intended to be

flattering, was very bad taste, to say the least; but to end these

remarks by such a suggestion, by an offensive jest, was an insult in

every sense of the word. Her blood boiled in her veins. She walked up

and down the room to wear out as far as she could the exasperation that

possessed her, not stamping her foot any more, which was a humiliating

confession of weakness, but pacing up and down because she was incapable

of keeping quiet. A woman who had always avoided any folly of so-called

sensitiveness, who had accepted everything with a smiling face, never

murmured, never taken offence, consented to be Mademoiselle, and to

dignify the title by the perfect philosophy of her self-adaptation to

it--and after all these years, after all these heroisms, after her proud

self-denials and self-subjugation, to be thus insulted! a sneer flung

full in her face, a dart of contempt to her heart! Mademoiselle felt as

if that sneer had struck her like a blow. Her face burned with the smart

of it: she had the sensation of the physical shock as well as of the

rush of blood to the brain which is its result.

And there was this special smart in it, that she had been beginning to

find in Charles Wargrave a friendly figure, a sympathetic look. He had

not been so often in the schoolroom, so often at the luncheon-table,

without exchanging now and then a word with herself which had made her

feel that he was more akin to her than his relations were, more able to

understand. The people under whose roof she had lived for a year had not

the faintest beginning of understanding, nor were they likely to have it

should she remain there for five years more, which was very likely if

she continued to "give satisfaction." But he had looked at her now and

then as if he recognised that she was an individual, and not merely

Mademoiselle. He had asked her opinion on one or two subjects on which

he and she were in accord against the other stolid couple whose point of

view was so different. Mademoiselle had not been able to deny to

herself--nay, had done so with serious pleasure--that she liked to see

M. le Cousin; that he was one of the few people whose entrance was

agreeable to her. The fact that he was young made no impression upon

this well-trained stoic. She herself was old, she was on the level of

men ten years her senior, according to a well-understood chronology

current in society. There might not be, perhaps, much actual difference

between them in point of years, but, according to this system, she was

at least ten years in advance of her male contemporaries. It is

difficult, perhaps, to know the reason why, but it is perfectly

understood by everybody. She was "old enough to be his mother," and she

had no feeling that it was otherwise. She regarded him as so completely

out of her sphere, in character and in age, as well as in circumstances,

that it had never occurred to the imagination of Claire that he and she

should meet anywhere save as they sometimes did, on the ground of a

mutual opinion, a common taste. But this was enough to make her feel

that it was an outrage greater and more painful than usual, that scorn

or insult should come from him.

There was a knock at the door while Claire had as yet scarcely regained

any of her usual composure. "Please, Mademoiselle, mother wants to know

if you're coming down for tea?"

She paused a moment to master herself, and then opened the door. "Not

this afternoon, Edith. As you are going out with your mother I am going

to begin my mending, do you see?" There were some garments laid out upon

the bed that supported her plea. The little girl cast a glance upon the

high colour, so unusual in her governess's cheeks, and ran off, with a

vague sense of something which she did not understand.

"She's not coming; she's going to mend her things; and, oh! mamma, she's

got such a red face, like she does when she's furious with us!"

"To hear these little monkeys," said Mrs Wargrave, "you would think

Mademoiselle had the temper of a fiend. But she hasn't, Charlie; don't

take up a false impression. She is really one of the best-tempered women

I ever knew."

If any one had looked at Charles Wargrave at that moment it would have

been seen that he had "a red face" too; but he said nothing, and

presently went away.

That evening, sitting alone in the schoolroom, having so exercised the

power over herself which she had acquired by the practice of many years

as to banish the unusual colour from her face, to subdue the

over-beating of the heart and pulses, and to present to the eager eyes

of the children, when they returned from their drive, the same calm

countenance with which they were acquainted, Mademoiselle received a

letter which made her glad that she was alone, with nobody to spy the

changes of her face. It was very short, and, though she had never seen

his handwriting before, she knew that it was from Charles Wargrave

before she had taken it from the attendant housemaid's tray. It was as

follows:--

"I feel that I have offended you, though I scarcely know why. I

spoke hastily, without considering the form of words I used. If you

had been an Englishwoman you would perhaps have thought less of

that: but as you are you are the only woman in the world for me. My

hasty proposal was not hasty in meaning, and it was made in all

reverence and respect, though I fear you did not think so. Forgive

what has seemed to you careless in the expression, but believe in

the love that made it. Say I was rude, and punish me as you

please, but reply; and oh! if you can, accept.--Yours ever and

only,

"C. W."

Mademoiselle read this letter over three times, almost without

breathing, and then she laid it down on the table before her, and grew,

not red, but pale. Her lips dropped apart with a long-drawn breath which

seemed to come from the very depths of her being; the blood seemed to

ebb away from her heart; she grew white like marble, and almost as

chill, with a nervous shiver. She was terrified, panic-stricken,

dismayed. If all the anger had gone out of her it had been replaced by

something else more trying still. Astonishment in the first place,

dismay, a panic which impelled her to rise and flee. But this it was

impossible to do out of this well-regulated house, where all went on

with such unfailing routine, and there were no breaches either of

decorum or of hours. To have gone out after dinner, unless for an

understood engagement, would have scandalised every inmate, as well as

Mademoiselle herself, who also had far too much good sense to allow for

a moment, even to herself, that it was possible to run away. No; she

had, as is usual, something much worse to do--to remain; to meet the man

who, she thought, had insulted her, who, instead of insulting her, had

done her the greatest honour in his power, who had attracted her

sympathy and liking, and now had made himself one of the most

interesting of all mankind in her eyes--to meet him without betraying by

a sign that anything had ever passed between them more than good-night

or good-morrow, to discourage and dismiss him summarily at once, yet to

be always ready to receive him when he deigned to converse with her, as

though never a word had been said between them which all the world need

not hear. Mademoiselle's first impulse was absolute dismay; the

embarrassment of the situation struck her above everything else.

Everything about it was embarrassing. She would have to answer his

letter, yet she must put her answer in the post herself, keeping it away

from all prying eyes: for why should she write to Charles Wargrave, the

cousin of the house? Supposing that the housemaid saw it, that Edith or

Dorothy saw it? Though she was utterly blameless, how could that be

proved,--how could she keep their untutored minds from drawing their own

conclusions? She had nothing whatever to blush for, and yet she blushed

instinctively, involuntarily, at the idea of being found out in a

correspondence with Charles Wargrave. How much more, she said to herself

with fright, had she accepted his offer (wild thought which sent all

her pulses beating!). And then she must meet him absolutely unmoved; not

only without a look or word, but without the suspicion of a breath that

could have any meaning. The air must not move a fold of her dress or

lock on her forehead, lest it might be supposed that she trembled. These

were difficulties of which he would never think--how should he?--of

which nobody would think who was not in her position. And though nothing

else came of it, this must come of it. Nothing else! What else? She

paused, with a shock of abrupt cessation in her thoughts, as one does

who suddenly stops running. What else? Nothing else except this--that

she could never be at her ease, but must always seem to be at her ease,

in Charles Wargrave's presence again.

In the meantime, the first thing to be done was to answer his letter:

that was a thing that could not be delayed, that must be accomplished at

once. And yet it took a long time even to begin it. Mademoiselle

arranged the paper upon her desk a dozen times before she was satisfied.

She did more than this. She shut up the schoolroom writing-table, where

all her usual writing was done, and fetched from her bedroom a little

old desk, a relic of girlish days, once pretty in its inlaid work and

velvet lining, now sadly shabby in faded finery. She did not even say to

herself what freak of fancy it was which made her produce this old toy,

this treasury of girlish souvenirs, for the serious purpose she had in

hand. It gave her a great deal of trouble, for there was no ink in the

minute ink-bottle, no pens in the tray, nothing she wanted. She had to

bring the paper from the writing-table, and all the other accessories.

Even after she had surmounted these obstacles there was still a

considerable delay. She wrote a letter in French, and then one in

English, and tore them both into small pieces, and it was not till

almost midnight, after all the other members of Mr Leicester Wargrave's

family were in bed, that Mademoiselle succeeded in producing the

following, which, though it did not please her, she sent, as being the

best she could do:--

"I am very thankful, sir, that it is not as I at first supposed:

and indeed I ought to have known better, and never to have believed

that an English gentleman would insult a woman in my position. I

thank you that you have not done so; but, on the contrary,

complimented and indeed flattered me to a very high degree.

"In return I send you a very direct answer, as you have a right.

There can be no question, sir, of my accepting a gift far too

great, which I had never anticipated, to which my thoughts were

never directed at all. It would be a poor compliment in return for

your goodness if I should take what you offer as carelessly as if

it were a cup of tea you were offering me. Oh, no! no! I respect

you too much to do so. A moment's thought will also show you how

very unsuitable in every way it would be. You are young, you are

rich, you have all the world can give. I am old--a middle-aged

woman. I have nothing at all but the _beau nom_ you were so good as

to recognise. It does not mean even what it would mean in

England--it means nothing; in my own country, being poor, I would

not even carry it. My mother calls herself in Paris only Madame

Castel. And, chief of all, I am more old than you, middle-aged; it

is therefore a thing beyond the possibility of even taking into

consideration at all.

"Adieu, monsieur, je vous remercie de tout mon coeur; vous ne m'avez

pas insultée, vous m'avez flattée; je réponds avec une vive

reconnaissance. Que le bon Dieu vous donne tous ce que vous pouvez

désirer hors la pauvre et obscure créature qui s'appellera

toujours,--Votre obligée,

"CLAIRE DE CASTEL-SOMBRE."

She wrote this in great haste at last, and, without even trusting

herself to read it over, fastened it hastily into its envelope. She was

so frightened lest anybody should see it--lest it should fall under the

eyes of any youthful observer, whether pupil or attendant--that she put

it by her bedside unaddressed until the morning, when she concealed it

in her pocket until, in the course of the morning's walk, she could put

it into the nearest post-office. Perhaps it was her sense of wishing to

conceal which made the children's chatter so significant to her. "Oh,

Mademoiselle," said Edith, "why didn't you send your letters out for the

early post with mother's?" "And why didn't you give it me to carry?"

cried Dorothy; "you know I'm always the postman." "Mother would say it

was to somebody, and you didn't want us to see the address," said the

one little importunate. "And you needn't have been so careful,

Mademoiselle," said the other, "for I would never have told who it was."

"There is no question of telling," said Mademoiselle, very gravely, to

stop further discussion; but as she turned away from the post-office

another dreadful and unforeseen accident happened. Charles Wargrave came

up to the group. She felt her heart leap from where it was, very low

down in her being, up, up to her throat. The children seized upon their

cousin as usual, while she walked along by their side with downcast

head. They told him all the story, how Mademoiselle had been posting a

letter and would not let any one see the address. "And I always put the

letters in the post," said Dorothy, aggrieved. Mademoiselle kept her

eyes down, and would not meet the look which she divined.

CHAPTER VI.

It would not be easy to find a more difficult position than that in

which Mademoiselle now found herself. She had just put into the post-box

a letter to the man who came up at the moment, almost before it had

disappeared, and before she had returned his bow and evaded the hand

held out to her in greeting. The children had informed him of this

almost clandestine letter, which the governess would intrust to nobody,

which she had posted with her own hands. He gave her a rapid look of

inquiry, which she saw without making any response to it. She could even

see, somehow, without looking, the flush that rose to his face on this

intimation. He knew as well as she knew that the letter was to himself,

and, perhaps, perceived for the first time, in a sudden flash of

unconsciously communicated feeling, how it was that she had posted it

herself, and the reluctance she must feel to allow the fact of her

communications with him to be known. The flush on his face was partly

pain at this discovery, and partly suspense on his own part, and the

tantalising consciousness that, though she was so near him, and a

word--even a look--might enlighten him, neither word nor look was to be

had from her. She had completely relapsed into Mademoiselle--the careful

guardian of the children, a member of a distinct species, an official

personage, not Claire de Castel-Sombre, nor any mere individual. She was

at her post like a sentinel on duty, to whom the concerns of his

personal life must all be thrown into the background. There was no place

in the world where she would not rather have been than walking along the

road towards Kensington Gardens by Charles Wargrave's side, though with

the potent interposition of Edith and Dorothy between. But, though he

felt this, he went on, with a curious fascination, prolonging the

strange thrill of sensation in himself, and glad to prolong it in her,

to keep up in her the excitement and whirl of feeling which he knew

must exist in the strange, concealed circumstances which, for the moment

at least, bound the two together. To think that they should be walking

thus, not speaking, she, at least, never turning her head his way, who

possibly might be destined to spend all their lives together, to be one

for the rest of their days! Charles felt, with a sickening sensation of

failure, that there was little prospect of this; but yet that moment

could never, whatever happened, pass from the memories of either for all

their lives to come. He liked to prolong it, though he was aware it must

give her pain, though it made himself giddy and dazed in the confusion

and suspense. There was a cruel kind of pleasure in it--a pleasure that

stung, and smarted, and thrilled every nerve. They walked thus, with the

children chattering, along the side of Kensington Gardens towards Hyde

Park, all the freshness of morning in the air, the sounds softened by

summer and that well-being and enjoyment of existence which warmth and

sunshine bring. When at last he left them, he would not let Mademoiselle

off that touch of the hands which she had the excuse of French habit for

eluding, but he the settled form of English use and wont to justify his

insistence upon. It was another caprice of the excitement in his mind to

insist upon shaking hands: but the hurried, reluctant touch taught him

nothing, except that which he did not desire to learn.

Mademoiselle reached home much exhausted by her walk, and retired to her

room, complaining of headache, which was very unusual; but not before

the whole history of the morning had been reported to Mrs Wargrave--the

mysterious letter put in the post, the meeting with Uncle Charlie, and

all the rest. Happily, no member of the Wargrave family required any

reason, save his devotion to themselves, for Charles Wargrave's

appearance. "He is so devoted to the children; it is quite beautiful in

a young man!" their mother said. But she felt, at the same time, that

Mademoiselle's behaviour required looking into. A mysterious letter

transferred from her pocket to the post-office, though Dolly was always

the postman, and loved to be so employed--as if she did not want the

address to be seen! and then the mysterious headache, so unusual in

Mademoiselle, who, in delightful contrast to other governesses, never

had headaches, never was ill, but always ready for her duties. Mrs

Leicester Wargrave was divided between the fear of any change which

might deprive her of so admirable a governess, and that interest which

every woman feels in the possibility of a romance going on under her

eyes, and of which she has a chance of being the confidante. She

graciously consented that Mademoiselle should not come down-stairs to

luncheon, but paid her a visit afterwards in her room, with every

intention of finding out what was the matter. She found Mademoiselle in

her dressing-gown--that famous white dressing-gown--retired into her own

chamber, but with nothing the matter, she protested; no need for the

doctor--only a headache, the most common thing in the world.

"But not common with you, Mademoiselle," Mrs Wargrave said, drawing a

chair near, and putting her hand on the governess's wrist to feel if she

were feverish,--for, of course, she knew, or thought she knew, something

of nursing, as became a woman of her time.

"No, it is not usual with me: I am glad, for it is not pleasant," said

Mademoiselle.

"I am very glad, too, I assure you; for a person in the house with a

continual headache is the most horrid thing! It is always such a

pleasure to find you ready for everything--always well."

Mademoiselle smiled, but said nothing. She was not without sympathy for

the employers of governesses who had perpetual headaches: at the same

time it is, perhaps, not exhilarating to be complimented on your health

as a matter of convenience to another--though quite reasonable, as she

was ready to allow.

"That is what makes me think," said Mrs Wargrave, "that you must have

something on your mind."

This assault was so entirely unexpected that Mademoiselle not only

flushed to her very hair, but started from her half-reclining attitude

in her chair.

"Ah," said Mrs Wargrave, "I thought as much! I don't call myself clever,

but it isn't easy to deceive me in that sort of a way, Mademoiselle. I

have noticed for a long time that you were not looking like yourself.

Something has happened. The children--they are such quick observers, you

know, and they tell me everything, poor things!--said something about a

letter. You know, I am sure, that I don't want to pry into your affairs,

but sometimes it does one good to confide in a friend--and I have always

wished my governesses to consider me as a friend--especially you, who

give so little trouble. I thought it might, perhaps, be a comfort to you

to speak."

Mademoiselle, during this speech, had time to recover herself. She said

only, however, with the most polite and easy way of evasion, "I know

that you are always very kind."

"I am sure that I always mean to be," her patroness said, and she sat

with her eyes fixed upon the patient, expectant--delighted with the idea

of a sentimental confession, and yet rather alarmed lest this might

lead to an intimation that it would be necessary to look for a new

governess. Mrs Leicester Wargrave meant no harm to anybody, and was, on

the whole, an amiable woman; but, as a matter of fact, the thing that

would have truly delighted her, real pleasure without any penalty, would

have been the confession from Mademoiselle of an unhappy love.

And now there suddenly occurred an idea, half mischievous, half

humorous, to Claire, who, in her own personality, had once been

_espiègle_, and was not now superior to a certain pleasure in exposing

the pretences of life. She scarcely understood how it was that, having

finally and very seriously rejected the curious proposal which

certainly, for a day or two, had done her the good service of quickening

the monotony of life, she should have the sudden impulse of taking

advice about it, and asking Mrs Wargrave, of all persons in the world,

what she ought to do. Caprices of this kind seize the most serious in a

moment without any previous intention, and the thought that to get a

little amusement out of Charles Wargrave's proposal was permissible,

seeing how much embarrassment and annoyance she was sure to get out of

it, came to her mind with a flash of amused impulse: she said, "I did

not think I had betrayed myself; and, indeed, it is only for a day or

two that I have had anything on my mind."

"Then there _is_ something?" cried Mrs Wargrave, delighted, clasping her

hands. "I was sure of it: I am a dreadful person, Mademoiselle; there is

no deceiving _me_."

"So it would appear," said Claire, with a gleam of humour which was a

little compensation, she felt, for her trouble. And she added, casting

down her eyes, "I have had a--very unexpected--proposal of marriage."

"I knew it!" Mrs Wargrave said. She added, more warmly than she felt,

"And I hope it is a good one--and makes you happy. Tell me all about it,

my dear."

It was not that she had never called Mademoiselle "my dear" before, for

this is a word which glides very easily to some women's lips: but once

more it made Claire smile.

"It makes me neither happy nor unhappy," she said, "though it is a very

good one; for it is not a possible thing: except the trouble of vexing

some one, it can do nothing to me."

"You can't accept it?" Mrs Wargrave felt a momentary relief, and then a

stronger sentiment seized her. She could not bear to have sport spoiled

in the matrimonial way. "But why?" she said. "Why? Do tell me all about

it. If it is a good offer, and there is nothing against the man, why

shouldn't you accept it, Mademoiselle?"

"I have many reasons, Madame; but the first is, that I do not care for

him at all. You do not accept an offer which you have never expected,

never thought of as possible."

"Oh, if that is all!" said Mrs Wargrave. "Good heavens! nobody ever

would be married if that was to be the rule. Why, I never was more

surprised in my life than when Mr Wargrave proposed to me! That's

nothing--nothing! If it is a good match----"

"It is much too good a match. The gentleman is not only much, much

richer than I--that is nothing, for I am poor--but he is better in the

world in every way. His family would consider it a _mésalliance_: and it

would be so completely to my interest----"

"But, good heavens!" cried Mrs Wargrave again, "what does that matter?

Let his family complain--that's their affair. You surely would never

throw up a good match for that? Is there anything against the man?"

"Nothing!" said Mademoiselle, with some earnestness.

"Then, what does it matter about his family? I suppose he's old enough

to judge for himself? And he could make nice settlements, and all that?"

"Very likely--I do not know. He is rich, I am aware of that."

"You surprise me very much," cried Mrs Wargrave. "I have always heard

that the French cared nothing for sentiment--that it was always reason

and the _dot_, and all that, that was considered. Yet, here you are,

talking like a silly girl. Mademoiselle, if you will be guided by me,

you will not let any romantic nonsense stand in the way of your

advancement. Dear me! you don't disapprove of married life, I suppose?

You don't want to set up as superior to your neighbours? And, only think

what your position is--Mr Wargrave and I are very much satisfied with

you, and I had hoped you would stay with us as long as Edie and Dolly

require a governess; but you must reflect that you won't be any younger

when that time comes. We are all growing older, and the time will come

when ladies will think you are not lively enough to take the charge of

young children; they will think you are not active enough to go out for

their walks. Many people have a prejudice against old governesses. I

want to put it quite clearly before you, Mademoiselle. Think what it is

to go on slaving when you are an old woman. And you will never be able

to earn enough to keep you comfortable if you should live to be past

work; and what will you do? Whereas, here is, apparently, an excellent

chance, a certain provision for you, and a far more comfortable life

than any governess could ever expect. Goodness! what do you look for?

You must accept it; you must not throw such a chance away. I can't hear

of it; and any one that had your real interests at heart would say the

same."

Mrs Wargrave spoke like a woman inspired. She reddened a little in her

earnestness, she used little gestures of natural eloquence. All selfish

thoughts of retaining so good a governess for Edith and Dorothy had gone

out of her mind. She could not endure that such a piece of folly should

be perpetrated under her eyes.

"All that I know very well," said Mademoiselle. "I have gone over it too

often not to know."

"And yet!" cried Mrs Wargrave, with a sort of exasperation. "Come,

come," she added with a laugh, "you are only playing with my curiosity.

Of course you can't possibly mean to do such a silly thing as refuse.

Poor man! when everything is in his favour and nothing against him! I

never heard of such a thing. I can't have it! Your friends _must_

interpose."

"But his friends will be most indignant--they will be in a state of

fury--they will say I am an adventuress, a schemer, a designing

woman--everything that can be said."

"Let them say!" cried Mrs Wargrave in her enthusiasm; "what have you to

do with that? Of course they'll say it. Men's friends always do: but

what is it to you what they say? that's their concern, not yours. I

suppose he is old enough to judge for himself."

"That is the last and greatest objection of all," said Mademoiselle. "He

is quite old enough to judge for himself: but he is younger than I am.

If all the rest could be put right, there is still that."

"Oh!" said Mrs Wargrave, making a pause. "Well, that is a pity," she

added, slowly. "I don't much fancy these marriages myself. But," she

said, pausing again, "it can't be denied that they turn out very well. I

have known three or four, and they've all turned out well. And, besides,

that's the man's own affair. If he is pleased, I don't see why _you_

should object. Is it much?" she asked, with a little hesitation.

"I am sure as much as--two or three years," said Mademoiselle, firmly.

Mrs Wargrave was so indignant that she sprang from the chair and all but

stamped her foot. "Two or three years!" she cried. "Do you mean to laugh

in my face, Mademoiselle? I thought you were going to say a dozen at

least. I supposed it must be some boy of twenty. Two or three years!"

"No, not twenty, nor thirty, but still younger than I am."

"This is quite absurd," said Mrs Wargrave, sharply; "a year or two makes

_no_ difference, and you must let me say that it will be not only

foolish but wicked, _criminal_, to let such an opportunity slip. How can

you think of doing it, you who have a mother, and nothing but your own

work to look to? How do you know how long you may be able to work? how

can you tell what may come upon you if you slight a distinct

interposition of Providence like this? I can't imagine what you are

thinking of. Do I know the gentleman? Is he a Frenchman? I hope, when

you have thought it over, you will not be such a fool as to send such a

man away."

"No, he is not a Frenchman. He is English," said Mademoiselle, eluding

the other question. "And do you think I could bear it that his family

should call me all the names and turn against him?"

"His family!" repeated Mrs Wargrave with fine scorn. "What have his

family to do with it? It will be the most dreadful folly in the world to

give up your own happiness for anything his family can say."

She had no patience with Mademoiselle. She preached quite a clever

little sermon upon the necessity and duty of thinking of herself, and of

the ingratitude not only to Providence, which had afforded this chance,

and to the man who had given it, but even to the people under whose roof

she was, and who had her best interests at heart, should she neglect

such a means of securing her own comfort and independence. Mrs Wargrave

ended by feeling herself aggrieved. Mademoiselle's culpable

sentimentality, her rejection of the best of advice, her obstinacy and

wrong-headedness would, she felt sure, recoil upon herself--but in the

meantime Mrs Wargrave could not conceal that she was wounded, deeply

wounded, by seeing her advice so slighted--"Though it is yourself who

will be the chief sufferer, Mademoiselle," she said, with almost

vindictive vehemence. And it was in this mood that she left the room,

leaving, so to speak, a prophecy of doom behind her. Mademoiselle, she

said, would repent but once, and that would be all her life.

Mademoiselle tried to laugh when Mrs Wargrave was gone, but the effort

was too much, and she astonished herself very much by suddenly bursting

into tears instead. What for, she could not tell. It was, she supposed,

a case of overstrained nerves and bodily exhaustion, for she felt

herself curiously worn out. But afterwards she grew more calm, and it

was impossible for her not to go over Mrs Wargrave's arguments, and to

find in them many things which she could not gainsay. The smile that

came over her face at the thought of her own little mystification, the

snare which had been laid without intention, and into which her adviser

had fallen so easily, was very transient; for, indeed, the oracle which

she had so lightly evoked had spoken the words of truth and soberness.

Claire asked herself whether, on the whole, this matter-of-fact and

worldly woman was not right. Poor, solitary, and, if not old, yet within

sight of the possibility of growing into what was old age for a woman in

her position, had she any right to reject the chance of comfort and

advancement thus held out to her? Had she any right to do it? She asked

herself this question so much more at her ease that she had already

rejected it, and Charles Wargrave must already have accepted her

decision, so that she said to herself it was only a hypothetical case

she was considering. The question was, under such circumstances, a mere

speculation. What should a woman do? Poverty before her on one side and

wealth on the other--obscurity, helplessness, the absence of all power

to succour or aid, and possibly want at the end--while with a word she

could have all that a woman could desire, every possibility of

helpfulness, comfort for her family, freedom for herself, the freedom

from all cares and personal bondage. And it was not as if there was

anything wrong involved. Mademoiselle knew herself not only to be a

woman who would do her duty, but one who would have no thought beyond it

or struggle against it. If she married a man she would be a good wife to

him, one in whom his soul might trust. Was it necessary to reject the

overture which would bring so much, because she had not that one

ethereal thing--the sentiment above duty, the uncertain errant principle

called Love, to justify the transaction? She asked herself the question,

with all the French part of her nature and breeding urging her towards

the common-sense view. Marriage meant a great deal more than mere

loving. It meant the discharge of many duties which she could undertake

and faithfully do. It meant a definite office in life which she knew she

could fulfil. It meant fellowship, companionship, the care of joint

interests, the best advice, support, and backing up that one human being

could give another. She felt, though she would not have said it, that

all this she could give, far better, perhaps, than a girl could, who

would be able to fancy herself in love. Ah! but then----The other side

of her character turned round and cut her short in her thinking, but

with an abruptness that hurt her. She gave an almost sobbing sigh of

regret and something like pain.

Then another part of Mrs Wargrave's argument came to her mind. Let his

family say what they pleased, that was their concern. After all there,

too, was the teaching of common-sense. Mademoiselle had felt as if it

would be something like treachery to live in the Wargraves' house and

allow their relation to make such overtures to her. Why? The Wargraves

were kind enough, good enough, but not more to her than she to them.

They gave her the food and shelter and wages they had engaged to give,

and she gave to them a full equivalent. They never considered her but as

their children's governess. On what rule should she consider them as

something more than her employers, as people to whom she owed a higher

observance beyond and above her duty? Gratitude?--there was no reason

for gratitude. There is a curious prejudice in favour of being grateful

to the people under whose roof you live, however light may be the bond,

however little the bargain may be to your advantage. Mademoiselle knew

that the day she ceased to be useful to the Wargraves they would tell

her so, and arrange that she should leave them, not unkindly but

certainly, on the common law which exists between employers and

employed. And why should she abandon any hope of improving her condition

through a visionary sentiment of treachery to them? Ah! she said to

herself again, but then----What was it that stopped her thoughts in both

these cases? In neither was there anything wrong--no law of man, none

even of God would be broken. She would wrong no one. And yet----She

ended her long course of thinking with a sigh. An invisible barrier

stood before her which she regretted, which was unreal, which was,

perhaps, merely fantastic--a folly, not a thing to interfere with any

sensible career. But there it stood.

What a good thing that the case was merely hypothetical, everything

being in reality quite fixed and decided, to be reopened no more!

CHAPTER VII.

That night late there came a note by the last post--that post which

sometimes adds horrors to the night in London, with missives which

interfere hopelessly with the quiet of the hour. In it Charles Wargrave

thanked her that she did not accept his heart carelessly, as if it were

a cup of tea. He thanked her for her decided answer, but he thought she

would at least understand him when he said that, so far as he was

concerned, it could not stop there. Next time it would not at least be

a question which she had not anticipated, and he would still hope that

her prayer for his welfare might be accomplished without the condition

she put upon it--with which there could be no welfare for him at all. It

cannot be said that, though her heart beat at the sight of it, this

letter was a great surprise to Claire. Notwithstanding her conviction

that it was a hypothetical case which she was putting to herself, she

felt now that she had not indeed really imagined or believed that

Charles Wargrave, a man who had got his own will all his life, was now

to be thwarted in so important a matter without resistance or protest.

She felt at once that this was what was to be expected. The letter,

however, piqued her a little--annoyed her a little. It would have been

reasonable that he should have met her arguments one way or other. It

would have been civil to have protested, and declared that she was not

old, though she pleased to call herself so. Though Mademoiselle was

herself so full of common-sense on this subject, as on most others, she

had a feeling that it was a failure of politeness on the part of Charles

Wargrave not to have said something about it. When she discovered this

sentiment in her own spirit she was a little ashamed of it, but still it

was there. And the note in general said so little that it piqued and

interested her. It was skilfully done; but Mademoiselle did not see

this--neither, perhaps, did the writer. Perhaps Mademoiselle was

momentarily vexed, too, that there was no need to answer it. If there is

one weakness which is common to human nature, it is the pleasure which

people take in explaining themselves, especially on emotional subjects,

so as to leave their correspondents in no doubt as to their real

meaning. Claire had written very hurriedly the first time, with a

genuine desire to sweep such a troublesome episode out of her life. She

felt now that it would be pleasant to fill out and strengthen all these

arguments, and especially to bring out that point of age of which he had

taken no notice. He might, perhaps, from what she had herself said,

think her forty or more, seeing that he did not object to her statement

about her age; and she would have liked, while reiterating that, to have

made it quite clear what her age was--not, after all, so much as he

might think. But her good sense was sufficiently effective still to make

her feel that no answer was needed to his letter. She put it away in the

little faded desk, which, perhaps, was doing it too much honour. There

the matter would end, notwithstanding what he said. He should find it

impossible to get any opportunity of speech; nothing would induce her to

listen to him in his cousin's house--nothing, though she had felt all

the force of Mrs Wargrave's arguments about the family. In short, it

must be allowed that, in respect to the question, in this, its second

phase, Claire de Castel-Sombre did not carry with her all the prudence

and experience of Mademoiselle, but was sometimes in her thoughts more

like a petulant girl than was at all consistent with her character of a

philosopher or a mature woman of the world.

And then there occurred what can only be called a pause in life.

Everything, of course, went on quite as usual; but in this particular

matter there was silence in heaven and earth. Life came to a pause, like

that pause in music which gives so much expectancy to what precedes it,

so much emphasis and effect to what follows. It is easy to notice the

advantage of a pause in music, but not so much in life, where perhaps

the occurrence of an interval, whether agreeable or disagreeable, is,

while it lasts, exceedingly tedious, involving many stings of

disappointment and blank moments of suspense. Claire would not have

allowed even to herself that she wanted the sensation, the new condition

of affairs to go on, which had suddenly brought a shock of interest and

novelty into her monotonous existence. But, all the same, she suffered

when it stopped. The monotony to which she had so well schooled herself

seemed more monotonous than ever. A restless desire that something

should happen dawned within her; not so much that another incident in

this history should happen, as that something should happen--an

earthquake, a great fire, even a thunderstorm if nothing more. But this

desire was in vain, for nothing happened. There was a time of very

brilliant yet mild weather, not even too hot, threatening nothing, and

all went on in its usual routine. Mr Charles Wargrave came occasionally

to luncheon, as he had been in the habit of doing, but Mademoiselle had

always the best of reasons for withdrawing immediately that the meal was

over--lessons that required instant attention, or letters that had to be

sent off by the afternoon post. Sometimes she caught a look from him

which reproached her, or questioned her, or merely assured her, as a

look can do, that he saw through her artifices, yet was not moved by

them. She felt the strain upon her nerves of these meetings, which were

not meetings at all, and in which no word was exchanged on any private

subject; but when he was absent, and did not appear for about a

fortnight, strangely enough Claire felt this still more. She said to

herself, with a smile, that he was at last convinced and saw the

futility of the pursuit; but though the smile ran into a laugh, there

was no sense of absolute pleasure in her mind. When an exciting story

stops, even when it is only a story in a book, and there are no more

accidents and adventures to anticipate, it leaves a dulness behind. And

Claire felt a dulness. The story of Charles Wargrave stopped. She did

not want it to go on--oh! far from that, she said quickly, with a hot

blush; but it left a dulness--as much as that a woman might allow.

The season was just about coming to an end, and Mrs Leicester Wargrave's

engagements were many in the rush of the final gaieties. She had gone

out one afternoon, taking the little girls with her, to a garden-party,

a thing which did not happen often, but when it did come was a holiday

to Mademoiselle. It was the beginning of July, still and warm, and

Claire went out with her work to the garden, to a shady corner in which

she could be quiet and undisturbed. She had no fear of any interruption:

a visitor for herself was the rarest possible occurrence (for people

naturally do not like the governess's visitors about, who might be

mistaken for visitors of the house), and none of Mrs Wargrave's visitors

were likely to penetrate to the garden, the mistress of the house being

absent. Claire had brought out her mending, which was her chief work in

her brief moments of solitude. It was in a trim little covered basket,

not to offend anybody's eye; and, as a matter of fact, she did more

thinking than sewing. The happiness of thinking is when you think about

nothing in particular, thinking without an object: and the sense of

unusual leisure and quiet, and the soft influences of the air

outdoors--which she could enjoy without any anxiety as to Edith exposing

herself to the sun, or Dorothy running too fast--had filled Claire's

mind with this soft atmosphere of musing without definite thoughts.

Stray fancies went flitting through her mind like the little white

clouds upon the sky. She was Claire de Castel-Sombre through and

through, she was not Mademoiselle at all. She had forgotten to remember

about Charles Wargrave, and the story which had come to a pause.

For once in a way to have got rid of all that, and then to lift your

eyes quickly at the sound of a step on the gravel, and to see him,

walking out quietly from under the shadow of the trees! Her heart gave a

leap as if it had somehow got loose, but she rose to meet him with a

countenance which was no longer that of Claire de Castel-Sombre, but the

well-trained face of Mademoiselle.

"I am sorry," she said, "Mrs Wargrave and the children are gone out.

There is a garden-party at the Merewethers'."

"I know," he said, "and hoped to find you alone."

"They were kind enough to ask me too," said Mademoiselle.

"I am very glad you did not go; I have been watching for this

opportunity so long! I suppose you don't think what it is to see you

across the table, and never have a chance of a word?"

"Monsieur Wargrave," said Mademoiselle, "might avoid that by coming--to

dinner, for example, when I am not there."

"It is malice that makes you say so," he replied. She had changed into

French and he followed her lead. "You know the purpose for which I come.

No, I cannot consent to lose my small opportunity, my holiday from

observation, by not speaking of what is nearest my heart."

"Monsieur does not care, then, for spoiling mine?"

"Ah!" he said, "Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre, you think you can silence

me with that. So you can. If it is, indeed, to take anything from you,

to spoil your quiet, of course there cannot be any question on the

subject, and I will go away."

Thus it would have been easy to finish the conversation. No doubt it

would have been rude--and to be rude was very abhorrent to all

Mademoiselle's notions--still, on such an important issue, and to secure

that he should go away! But Mademoiselle evidently would rather suffer

than be so impolite, for she answered not a word.

"I must take advantage when I can," he said, "or otherwise how am I to

make myself known to you--how prepare the way? I will talk on any

subject you please. I have not come here to worry you, to press myself

upon you like an ice or a cup of tea. How I thank you for that simile! I

do not want you to take me, when you take me, as if I were a cup of

tea."

Mademoiselle once more was silent. If she had combated the assumption of

that _when_, it might have reopened the whole discussion, she said to

herself.

"There are certain mistakes about myself I should like to correct," he

said. "You seem to have thought I was twenty or twenty-five, and I am

thirty-four. It is not of much importance, but I should like you to know

it. I wonder Mrs Wargrave, who knows everybody's age, did not inform you

of that."

"She does not care about the ages of men," said Mademoiselle with an

effort. Like many other people, when there was a desperate occasion for

keeping up the conversation, she plunged into sarcasm as the easiest

way. "To keep women from going wrong about their age is what she wishes.

You know we are sometimes accused of taking off a year or two."

"Unless when you add a year or two," he said. She had ventured on a

glance upward at him over her work, and he caught the glance, being on

the watch, and made a point on his own side by that which replied to

it. "I suppose both have their uses," he added, "to attract or to

repel."

"If you think," said Mademoiselle hastily, "that all women think of is

either to attract or repel----! But even were it so, it is but a small

number of women who are within that circle. In youth it may be the

object of too many thoughts, but when a woman is in the midst of life,

do her thoughts dwell on such arts more than a man's? No, Mr Wargrave,

it is not just to say so."

"Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre," he said with great gravity, pronouncing

every syllable, till she smiled at the formality in spite of herself, "I

am not superior to such arts, if I knew how to use them. And, man or

woman, I think the desire to please is of itself a great charm."

"It must be kept within bounds," she said, vaguely, scarcely knowing

what it was she said.

"There would be no bounds in mine if I had the luck to succeed," he

said, "or even the hope of succeeding." Then he stopped himself with a

little abruptness, and there was a silence during which the birds came

in singing, and the leaves rustling in a curious little interlude which

Mademoiselle never forgot. At last he said: "The opportunity of speaking

with you alone goes to my head. And I run the risk of wearying you, I

know, of pressing prematurely. I wish you would tell me--anything you

would like me to do."

"Yes," she said, suddenly putting down her work and looking up at him.

She saw against the trees, for a moment, his head bent forward, his look

of profound pleasure, the expectation in his face. "If you wish to

please me," she said, "you will go away."

It was cruel, and she felt it to be cruel,--an insult flung full in his

face when he looked for it so little. He sprang suddenly to his feet as

if he had been shot. His countenance changed. Mademoiselle bent her head

again, not to see what she had done.

"Mademoiselle!" he cried, with a pang in his voice, then composing

himself. "If that is really what you wish--if it is the only thing I can

do for you, to relieve you of my presence----"

"Forgive me!" said Mademoiselle, very low. She added more distinctly:

"Monsieur Wargrave will see that here, in the home of his family, who

would resent it so much, is the last place in the world----"

"Confound my family!" he cried, then begged her pardon hastily; "they

are not my family--a cousin, to whom I am no more responsible than to

his gardener."

"But I am responsible," she said. "She is my--mistress. Ah! whatever

glosses we put upon it, that is the case. I will not be dishonourable to

listen to what would enrage her and shock her, here."

"Then I may speak--elsewhere?" he said, eagerly.

"There is no elsewhere; we are here. It is the only place where we meet.

Monsieur Wargrave must not take advantage of what I say. There is but

one good thing and true that can be done."

"And that is to leave you?" he said, despondently. "Mademoiselle, it is

yours to command and mine to obey--but it is cruel. Surely at the most,

with all your delicacies and precautions, you cannot think a man's

honest love, and wish to commend himself to her, is any shame to a

woman?"

"Not if she were a queen!" Claire could not have said otherwise had she

died for it; but she did die, or rather put herself to death, and

Mademoiselle came back to her place. "But there are times and seasons,

and there are places in which what was honourable becomes profane. If

Monsieur Wargrave will put himself in my place, instead of thinking of

his own."

Mademoiselle did not know whether she was most elated or depressed by

her victory. When he had left the garden she hurried indoors, feeling

that all the peacefulness of her previous mood was gone. The afternoon

quiet had been sweet to her, but it was so no more, and all that had

made her position endurable seemed to have gone with it. Why should the

life, which she had so carefully shaped into the limitations in which

she believed it must be bound for ever, be thus disturbed? She thought

with almost resentment that it was for a caprice, for a little

additional pleasure to a man who had all the pleasures of life at his

command, that this had been done, and that he had thought of himself,

and not of her, when he thus took in hand the unsettling of all her

views, the disturbance of every plan. It would have been little had he

been satisfied with her first reply, had he left her to herself when he

saw that there was no response in her to his proposition; but to

continue to push on, in spite of her prohibition! She went in angry in

her annoyance and trouble, for it was now no use to say to herself, as

she had done at first, that it was nothing, a passing folly, to-morrow

to be numbered among the follies of the past. Now she knew very well

that her life had been disturbed, that the interruption was not a

nothing; that the calm had been broken up, and all her rules displaced.

And all this by no doing of hers, at the caprice of a young man, who

wanted for nothing, to whom, perhaps, it was but one of many diversions!

She was very indignant with him as she gained the refuge of her room;

but milder thoughts came in, relentings, a curious rueful sense of the

interest and variety which he had brought into her monotonous life. She

had been contented after a sort. She had fully adapted herself to her

fate, and learned to think it not an ill fate, better than so many. But

now! And yet there had been a certain pleasure in the disturbance all

the same.

Mademoiselle did not see Mrs Wargrave till next day, when she asked to

speak to her, and to that lady's great astonishment put forward a

request for a holiday--leave to go to Paris to see her mother, who was

ailing and wanted her. Mrs Wargrave grew pale with astonishment and

dismay. "A holiday, Mademoiselle! to go to Paris! You could not have

chosen a more inconvenient time. You know we shall be going to the

country in about a month, and how do you suppose I can take the charge

of the children, with all I have to do?"

"I will come back before that time," said Mademoiselle.

"Then it is now directly you want to go? But that is worse and worse,

for I have numbers of engagements; and what is to happen to the girls if

you are away?"

"I am very sorry," said Mademoiselle, "but my mother----"

"Your mother cannot be more important to you than my children are to me.

And you must recollect you have not yet been two years with us,

Mademoiselle. I don't expect any governess to ask for a holiday till

after the second year."

"I am very sorry," said Mademoiselle again; "but it is very important

for me to go away. I--am not well: I must go--I cannot continue now. It

is _plus forte que moi_."

"Mademoiselle! it is not your mother, it is this business about your

marriage."

"Not my marriage; I shall never marry."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" cried Mrs Wargrave. "I am sure you want to

have him all the time. It will be too ridiculous if for a set of foolish

romantic scruples you go and throw a good match away."

Mademoiselle made no reply. She stood uneasily moving from one foot to

another, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I must, I must get away,"

she said, quietly, almost under her breath. "It must come to an end. I

can do no good while I am kept in agitation. Ah, Mrs Wargrave, let me

go."

"I wish you would be frank and tell me who he is," said Mrs Wargrave.

"I wish you would let me speak to him. Going away is the very last thing

you ought to do. To throw away a good match at your age, and with your

prospects! I told you before it was criminal, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle said something under her breath, in her agitation, which

sounded like "You do not know," and Mrs Wargrave grew angry. "I don't

know? Who knows, then, I wonder? I tell you that for you, in your

position, with your mother to think of, it is simple wickedness. If the

man were an ogre I'd marry him if I were in your position. Goodness,

what have you to do with his family? You make me so impatient I could

shake you. You should marry him, whoever he is, if he can give you a

good home."

"If Madame Wargrave could but spare me for a month--for three weeks!"

"I am sure it's not for your own good. You should be proud to stay and

marry him, for your own good. Mademoiselle! I tell you, whoever he is,

if he were an ogre----"

Mademoiselle suddenly laid her hand upon the arm of her patroness. There

was a gleam of desperation in her eyes. "You would not say so were I to

tell you his name."

"I would say so, whatever is his name, for your own good. What _is_ his

name?"

They stood looking at each other for a moment, both of them excited, Mrs

Wargrave full of curiosity, and Claire carried away by the passion of

the moment, feeling it the only way to clear herself, to throw off the

shadow of double-dealing which she felt upon her: but the crisis was a

desperate one, and calmed her in spite of herself. She took her hand

from the other's arm. "It is Mr Charles Wargrave," she said.

Mrs Wargrave received the shock in all its force, being wholly

unprepared for it. She was so startled that her sudden movement shook

the very walls. "Mr Charles Wargrave!" she repeated, with a voice of

horror. "It can't--it can't be true! Is it true?"

To this question Mademoiselle did not answer a word.

"Charles Wargrave!" repeated the lady, with a mixture of consternation

and incredulity. "And you're not ashamed to tell me that?" she cried.

"You can stand and look me in the face?"

Claire had not looked her in the face, but at these words she raised her

head and met Mrs Wargrave's angry eyes. She was pale, but she did not

flinch. Now it was all over, she knew. This house, which might have been

more or less hers for five years, the salary which had helped to

maintain her mother, the freedom from care for so long,--all was over!

When she went out of these doors it would be to face the world again, to

find another means of subsistence, to begin anew.

Mrs Wargrave turned and left the room, and Mademoiselle saw nothing of

her till next day, when in the morning, before the lessons had begun,

she was summoned down-stairs. To her surprise she found Mr Leicester

Wargrave, as well as his wife, awaiting her in the room which they

called the library. He was seated at the writing-table with some papers

before him, she standing beside him. With some ceremony a chair was

placed for her, and she was asked to sit down. "We will not detain you

long, Mademoiselle," Mr Wargrave said, clearing his throat; and Mrs

Wargrave, too, coughed and cleared hers before she began.

"Mademoiselle, you will not wonder that I thought it right to consult my

husband about what you said last night. He thinks you must have made a

mistake. His cousin is not at all that kind of man."

Claire's countenance lighted up with sudden indignation. "I have made no

mistake," she said.

"Ladies are apt to think, when a young man is just amusing himself, that

he means something. Anyhow, of course we can't pass it over."

"Pass it over!"

"I mean--that we think your going to Paris a very good plan; and

perhaps, if you could find something there that would suit you, it would

be better for you--to be within reach of your mother."

"You mean that I am not wanted here again?"

"It is not so decided as that. I'm sure we're both very sorry that any

unpleasantness should have arisen, and both Mr Wargrave and I think you

have behaved very well, Mademoiselle. You have nothing to reproach

yourself with, and we'll be delighted to answer any inquiries. But, on

the whole, I think, if you could find something in Paris, or

thereabouts--where you could be nearer your mother--I do think you would

find it--a relief to your mind."

"You are, no doubt, right, Mrs Wargrave," said Mademoiselle, rising from

her chair.

"Yes, I'm sure I'm right: and Mr Wargrave has written a cheque--for the

difference, you know. And if you would like Sarah to help you with your

boxes--we thought you might, perhaps, like to go by the night train."

CHAPTER VIII.

It is needless to add that Claire did not say a word in remonstrance or

objection. She was startled and unprepared for such summary measures.

And yet she said to herself that she had fully expected it, and was not

surprised that her employer should take energetic measures to stop such

a _mésalliance_. A _mésalliance_! But she reflected with her usual

philosophy that it would be so, that her _beau nom_ meant nothing--less

even in her own country than here. If she had been a man who could

confer that _beau nom_ in return for some romantic nobody's money, then

perhaps there might have been some value in it; but to her, a woman, an

old maid, a governess! She was far too proud to ask for an hour's delay,

even for so much as would enable her to travel by day instead of by

night; yet there was no doubt that it was with a very strange sensation

that she felt herself dismissed from the recognised place in which

yesterday she had expected to remain for years, and facing once more a

blank world, in which she knew not where to go, or what her next

standing-point might be. It is true that she was in no way destitute or

without a refuge. She had her mother's house to go to, the little shabby

apartment in Paris, where she could scarcely hope to be triumphantly

received, seeing that her return meant a diminution of its slender

resources, besides the inference which old Aunt Clotilde at least would

be so ready to draw, that Claire had left her good situation in

disgrace. This suggestion made her blood boil, and it was one which was

inevitable. But still there was nothing hopeless or even terrible in her

position. She was sufficiently well known in the circles where people of

her class are known to have little fear of finding another situation.

And she had already known so many new beginnings that another did not

appal her. No, there was nothing desperate, nothing tragical in her

circumstances. A little additional humiliation, a shock, perhaps a

reproach, but no more. And perhaps it was the best thing that could have

happened. It put a stop summarily to an episode that never would have

come to anything, which was well; surely from any point of view it was

well. When she found herself on the Channel, looking somewhat wistfully

at the clear sky overhead, full of the softness of the summer stars, and

at the dim whiteness of the cliffs she was leaving behind, it is

possible that Claire saw them blurred yet amplified though the medium of

a tear. In front of her the other coast was lost in the distance and

darkness of night, so that while what was past was still clear, what was

future was wholly invisible, which was a perfect symbol of life itself.

She noted the similitude with that love of imagery which is natural to a

soul in trouble, with forlorn interest. How little she had expected last

night to be crossing the Channel thus! how suddenly her existence had

changed!

But these are vicissitudes which must occur in the life of a governess,

for whom more than for most human creatures there is no continuing city;

and by the time Mademoiselle had left behind her that dark and mystic

interval of the Channel, with all its suggestions, she had begun to be

able to indulge in a rueful smile at the transformation scene which had

been played for her (doubtful) amusement in her late home in the Square.

Mrs Wargrave's indignation at her fastidious and romantic objection to

marry a man who could make a provision for her turned in a moment into

swift horror and alarm lest such a catastrophe should occur, and the

acknowledgment that Mademoiselle had "behaved very well" in the

reluctance which half an hour before she had denounced as folly! Claire

had known how it would be from the first, and it was an amusing

exhibition of human inconsistency. But yet she was not so much amused

after all. Exhibitions of this kind, perhaps, fail of their effect when

they are too closely connected with ourselves. The spectator must not be

too much involved in them if he would retain his power to smile.

When Charles Wargrave next appeared at the Square he was greeted by his

two small cousins with rapture. They had great news to tell him.

Mademoiselle had gone away. "Oh, Uncle Charles, only think what has

happened!" The information was so unexpected that he was off his guard,

and his consternation was evident. "Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre!" he

said, in tones of dismay. Mrs Wargrave kept her countenance very well,

and maintained a close watch upon him under her eyelids, without

betraying herself; but Leicester Wargrave, who was at home, as it was

Sunday, was exceedingly uneasy, and hewed away at the roast-mutton

before him, though everybody had been helped, to conceal the agitation

he felt.

"Oh, you know her name? It is such a funny name, like a name in a novel.

I never could keep it in mind; but, of course, to introduce her to any

one, in her position, it was enough to say Mademoiselle."

"Do you think so? It is scarcely like your usual good breeding," said

Charles, concealing his agitation too as best he could under a tone of

high and somewhat acrid superiority. "And perhaps you don't know that

Castel-Sombre is a historical name, and one of the best in Béarn--which

makes a difference."

"Oh, if you go so far as that," said Mrs Wargrave, with a slight quaver

in her voice. She did not resent what he said; indeed, she felt very

humble before him, and deprecated any argument. "We did not know, of

course, when she came, that she was any one--in particular. I mean, any

one out of the ordinary."

"And has it been long settled that she was to go away?" said Charles

Wargrave in his most formal voice, addressing his cousin grandly from an

eminence: which he had a right to do, as at once a man of fashion and

the principal partner in the firm--a right, however, which he very

seldom exercised.

"Oh, it was only on Friday," cried Edith; "she never said a word till

then."

"And she went away the same night, oh! in such a hurry," added Dorothy,

breathless to bring forth her part of the news before she could be

frustrated. "She went by the night train."

"After she had that talk in the morning, mother, with you and papa in

the library," Edith burst in.

"Yes, poor thing!" said Mrs Wargrave. "She had told me on Monday night

her mother was ill; and, of course, in the circumstances, I spoke to

Leicester, and we did what we could to make it easier for her."

Leicester paused in his destruction of the leg of mutton at this speech,

and gave his wife an astonished look; but Charles was too much

preoccupied to note these signs of excitement, and he had to defend

himself from observation at the same time.

"That was kind of you," he said, though with a certain haughtiness. He

was angry that they should have given her aid, that she should have

accepted it; but this was a sentiment impossible to express. "Then I

suppose you little ones have holidays now, and no lessons?" he said,

attempting a lighter tone.

"Only till the new governess comes," said Edith; "and oh! mother went

out that very day to ask about another," cried Dorothy, in an aggrieved

tone.

"Oh!" he said; "then Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre is not coming back?"

"She is so anxious about her mother," said Mrs Wargrave, "we

thought--that is, she made up her mind--that it would be better to look

for something in Paris, that she might be near her mother. You know,"

added the lady, seeing a chance of administering a return blow, "her

mother must be quite an old lady, for Mademoiselle herself is far from

young."

Charles Wargrave gave her a keen look. But the pudding had been placed

before her, and she was busy serving it, an occupation quite

inconsistent, surely, with any unkind meaning. Leicester was a great

deal more likely to betray himself, and was indeed very uneasy, looking

and feeling very guilty, wondering how his wife should be able to tell

such lies, yet not venturing to contradict her; for he had been as

strong as she was on the necessity of parting Charlie (if he was really

such a fool) from Mademoiselle.

Little more, however, was said. Charles was so much confused by this

sudden catastrophe that it took him some time to collect his thoughts.

And he felt it quite possible that Claire might have fled from him, and

not by any means the worst omen for his success. If she had fled it was

that she was afraid of yielding. His heart rose as he reflected that, by

going home, she had freed herself from all hindrance to their

intercourse; that he might go and see her without having to watch for an

opportunity; that he might gain partisans in her family, make himself

friends. These reflections cleared his brow, and made this alarming

explanation, which had hung like a thunder-cloud over Mrs Leicester

Wargrave, pass over with more ease than could have been hoped. The pair

exchanged a look of congratulation as they rose from the table. The

danger for the moment was past, or so at least they thought.

"By the way," said Charles, when his cousin and he strolled out into the

garden to smoke the inevitable cigarette, "I suppose you can give me

Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre's address in Paris?" He took his cigarette

from his mouth and blew away a long pennon of smoke, as if it had been

the most simple question in the world.

"Mademoiselle's address!" said Leicester Wargrave, with open eyes and

mouth.

"Yes. I've--I've got a book of hers which I should like to send back."

"You'd better send it to my wife," said Leicester. "Women have ways of

managing these things. You had much better send it to my wife."

"Women have ways! One would think it was some mystery you were talking

of."

"I say, Charlie, I'm older than you are, and I've seen more of the

world. Don't you go after that Frenchwoman. They're not to be trusted.

Marry if you like, but marry an English----"

"What are you talking of?" cried Charles, red with wonder and wrath.

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps it's only the silly way women have of

looking at a thing. They said, you know--but I don't generally mind them

for my part.

"I should like very much to know what they said."

Mrs Wargrave was seized with a panic when she saw the two gentlemen

together. She had no confidence in her husband. "He will go and spoil

everything," she said to herself; and the consequence was that she

hurried out to join them, arriving just at this critical point in the

conversation. "What who said?" she asked, lightly. "I believe you are

talking gossip, you two."

"Leicester tells me that somebody, whom he calls the women, have been

talking--apparently about me. I want to know what they said."

"You are a pair of regular old gossips," said the lady, though she grew

a little pale. "They said, and he said, and she said! You need not be

afraid, dear Charlie; nobody says any harm of you."

"It is to be hoped so," he replied, shortly. "Perhaps you will tell me,

Marian, the address of Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre in Paris; Leicester

does not seem to know."

"Mademoiselle's address!" cried Mrs Leicester, startled like her

husband.

"Is there anything so wonderful in my question? I may have something to

send her. I may know some one who wants--her help."

"Dear Charlie," said Mrs Wargrave, "I know you'll think it strange when

I tell you--just as if she had something to conceal!--she left no

address."

He turned upon his cousin, who was gazing at his wife, and caught him

unawares. Seizing his arm: "Is that true?" he said.

"Charlie, don't!" said Leicester Wargrave. "My good fellow, don't do it.

You'll never repent it but once, and that will be all your life."

"What does he mean?" said Charles, turning from the husband to the wife.

"How can I tell what he means?" cried that lady. "You are very uncivil

to ask him if what I say is true. It is perfectly true. He may talk as

much nonsense as he pleases, but it is the plain fact that I don't know

Mademoiselle's address."

Charles Wargrave looked her in the face sternly. "I do not believe you!"

he said, as if every word had been a stone; and, flinging his cigarette

among the bushes, he turned round and left the garden and the house. It

startled him a little as he went out to receive the same answer from the

butler to whom he repeated his question. "The young lady, sir, went off

in a great hurry. I asked her where I should send her letters, but she

said she expected no letters. And she went off without leaving an

address."

Was it a conspiracy against him, framed by her? or was it some

interference of Marian's? or was it true, which would almost be worst of

all?

It is a bad thing not to leave an address, but it is not such an

effectual shield of privacy as might be wished. What with directories

and other aids, it is very difficult for any one who does not belong to

the hopelessly nomadic portion of the population to conceal their

whereabouts for long. Charles Wargrave had all his wits about him, and

he knew his Paris as well as foreigners ever succeed in knowing that

wonderful city. The result of his investigations was that before a

fortnight had passed he knocked at a door on the second floor of a house

in one of the smaller streets near the Arc de Triomphe, and asked to see

Madame Castel. He was shown into a tiny salon, looking out upon a narrow

court,--a little room full of traces of a larger life, which did not

make it more attractive now, with furniture too large, pictures which

seemed to overshadow its small dimensions like clouds--relics evidently

of a time when the family life was not pinched and restrained as now. A

photograph of Claire was on the mantelpiece among other household

treasures, at sight of which the visitor gave an exclamation of relief:

for, though he had come in so boldly, he had been quite uncertain

whether this was or was not the place he was seeking. He was standing

before the little picture which had given him the welcome assurance that

he was right, when the door opened and an old lady came in. She was, as

Mrs Leicester Wargrave had suggested, quite an old lady, with, a cap

made of black lace covering her rusty grey hair. Keen curiosity and an

almost hunger of earnestness were in her blue eyes, which kept their

colour and brightness, though the countenance was so faded. She had the

air of one who had kept asking, "What is it? what is it?" for weary and

unsatisfied years. She was dressed with that curious neglect which

characterises so many Frenchwomen indoors, in garments indescribably

dingy, of the colour of poverty, a well-ascertained and understood

hue--the same, with variations, which was visible in the carpets and

curtains and all the old furniture--but had so much intelligence in her

face that her age and shabbiness had nothing in them that was

disagreeable. Charles Wargrave made her his bow, like an Englishman,

not like a Frenchman, and the old lady, though her nationality had been

partly washed out by long acquaintance with Parisian shabbiness and

mannerisms and formality, the reverse of the medal of which the brighter

side only is visible to visitors, noted the difference with a favourable

impression. There was a certain witchlike ruggedness in her features and

look which betrayed the old Scotch stock, never uncongenial with the

French, from which she sprang.

"You have a daughter, Madame," said Wargrave, who felt as shy as a

schoolboy before the keen old lady, who measured him from head to foot

with her penetrating eyes.

"Two," she replied, quickly. "That is Claire, at which you are looking;

and that is Leonore, who is away, who is in a situation. My eldest

daughter came home about a fortnight ago. She has gone out to see some

people who put an advertisement in 'Galignani.' Perhaps you wish to see

her--about an engagement?"

"That is exactly what I wish," said Wargrave, with an uneasy smile.

"Ah! will you take a seat? She may come back at any moment; and if I

could in the meantime give you any particulars----"

"Madame de Castel-Sombre----"

"No, no," said the old lady, putting away the double-barrelled name, as

it were, with a wave of her hand. "Plain Castel, if you please; that is

enough for us now."

"Madame," repeated Charles Wargrave, "it is not the kind of engagement

you think of, which I wish to propose to Mademoiselle Claire."

"Ah!" cried the mother with a sudden start; "is it, well--what is it? I

may misunderstand you. Please to speak plainly. You are----?" She gave a

quick glance at his card, which she held in her hand. "It is the same

name as Claire's employers in London. Perhaps I am making a mistake. Is

she called back?"

"The people in London are my relations. I saw your daughter there; you

will not wonder, perhaps, that I admired her, that I did all I could to

make myself known to her--that I loved her."

He made a pause, feeling his story somewhat embarrassing to tell under

the close inspection of the mother's eyes.

"No," she said, after a moment's pause, "I am not surprised. I have

always thought Claire a very interesting woman; but, pardon me, I should

have thought her a little too old for you."

"What does that matter?" he cried, vehemently angry to have this

objection produced against him from the last quarter in the world where

it could have been expected.

"Well, nothing, if you don't think so," said this reasonable old lady.

"I only mentioned it as a fact, you know. I am afraid it will weigh with

Claire herself."

"Madame Castel, I have come to throw myself upon your protection. Would

it not be better for Claire to be the mistress of her own house, and

that a good one, to have her own life, and that a prosperous one, even

though weighted with a husband, than to live and work as she is doing

now?"

"Perhaps I should think the husband the best part of it," said Madame

Castel. "Your appeal is a little bewildering, seeing that I never saw

you before; but I agree with you, if it is as you say. My protection,

however, is not of much importance. What would you have me to do?"

"Mademoiselle de Castel-Sombre is French, and in France a mother's power

is supreme."

"Ah," said the old lady, shaking her head, "don't flatter yourself. A

mother's power is seldom supreme over a daughter of thirty-five; and,"

she added, "I would gladly secure these good things for my Claire; but

she is more able to judge than I am. Does she know?"

"I have done all I could to make her aware of my respectful devotion,"

said the young man, with a certain formality which came to him in the

air of the unaccustomed foreign place; "but, indeed, I have no reason to

flatter myself. My hope is that the objections which she thought valid

in my cousin's house might not exist here."

"Ah, it was in your cousin's house. Then that explains----" Madame

Castel said. She gave a sigh of relief. "I had been fearing something, I

know not what. She came so suddenly, without any warning but a telegram.

I see it now."

"Mother, what is it you see now?"

Claire came into the room, bringing the air of the morning with her, a

fresh waft of outdoor atmosphere. She was not the Mademoiselle of the

Square. There was a freedom in her movements--the freedom of a woman at

home--not the enforced sobriety of an official. Her look was alert and

bright; she had found pleasure in her native air, in the surroundings

she loved: and yet there was a line of anxiety in her forehead. She was

emancipated for the moment, and keenly felt the warm thrill of

independence; but she was anxious for her future, and that of her

mother, and full of care. Pleased, yet anxious and full of care--it

seemed a contradiction in words--and yet Charles Wargrave saw all that,

and read more, written in her face. She had not seen him as he sat

within the shadow of the door, and, he thought, he had never seen her

before, free to express any emotion, free to come and go as she pleased,

carrying her heart in her face.

"I have not been successful," she said. "Never mind; better luck will

come to-morrow. They say I am quite sure to hear of something

before----Mr Wargrave!" she cried, with a sudden step back. The blood

rushed to her face and then forsook it. Her brow clouded, her

countenance fell.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Claire." He had risen to his feet, and stood before

her with a painful, whimsical consciousness that he could not bow like a

Frenchman, which, perhaps, was the sort of thing to please her, shooting

through his mind even in the excitement of the moment, and all the eager

rush of feeling roused by seeing her again in this new phase.

Claire was too much startled to know what she was saying. A flood of

strange feelings seemed to carry her away. Her head, which she had

carried with such airy grace, drooped; something seemed to dazzle her

eyes. "I did not expect," she said, faltering, "to see you here."

"I have come--to seek the protection of your mother," he said. It was

said in English, but the meaning was French. And there was something so

strange in the idea of Madame Castel's protection--the shabby, eager,

old lady--extended to this young man, who had everything that life could

bestow, that Claire, after a hard effort to restrain herself, and with

something hysterical climbing in her throat, suddenly broke the

embarrassment of the situation by the most inappropriate thing in the

world--a burst of unsteady laughter, which returned again and again, and

would not be quieted. "My mother's protection!"

It was the ridiculous which follows so close upon the heels of the

sublime. But though she laughed, Claire foresaw how it would be: Madame

Castel's protection threw such a weight into the scales on Charles

Wargrave's side that there was scarcely anything more to say. He was not

sent away again. He remained, and found the little shabby apartment

divine. It was his turn to laugh when they compared notes and found that

even the obstacle of age meant nothing more than a few days. And thus

this little drama, so exciting while it lasted, came to a speedy and

satisfactory end. It is the penalty of a happy _dénoûment_ that it is

not half so interesting as the painful steps that sometimes lead to it;

and Claire, in all the brilliancy of her late but perfect good fortune,

was too happy to mind or to attract that sympathy which attended

Mademoiselle.

The Leicester Wargraves found it a bitter experience when Mademoiselle

returned as Madame, with a finer house, finer carriages, more social

honours, than themselves. They said everything which she had herself

predicted to Mrs Wargrave that they would say, calling her a designing

woman, an artful adventuress, and half-a-dozen slanders more. But if

anybody was harmed by their proceedings it was themselves, and not

Claire.

THE LILY AND THE THORN.

CHAPTER I.

The Murrays of Overbeck, in the parish of Waterdale, among the hills,

were nothing but a family of peasants. Nevertheless they were the cause

of so much trouble and confusion that no ducal house could have done

more to excite and interest the neighbourhood, which is the reason why

we now attempt to give a sketch of their earlier story. The later part

of it has, alas, by other means and in other ways, been blazoned before

all the world.

Elizabeth Murray, the mother, was always considered a woman out of the

common. She was tall and strong and handsome even in her old age, and in

her youth it was said she had been as powerful as a man, doing many

feats of strength altogether beyond the power of either men or women of

ordinary calibre. She it was from whom the children took their beauty.

It was not beauty of the full-blown rustic kind, but that of finer

quality, the only true beauty, perhaps, in the formal meaning of the

word: that which involves regularity and nobleness of features rather

than the evanescent charms of complexion and colour. Elizabeth was not

even exalted enough in position to be called Mrs Murray. She was

addressed by everybody by her Christian name. She was a woman who drove

her beasts to the field, milked her cows and churned her butter with her

own hands, and would hoe and dig her potatoes without flinching, had

there been need. But she had the carriage and bearing of a queen, and a

majestic style of form and feature such as few queens possess. When she

stood in the little market-place in Waterside, with her eggs and

chickens for sale, she might have been a Roman matron--Portia, stately

in old age, or the mother of Coriolanus. It was said that there was

Gipsy blood in her veins, and no one knew where she came from, or how it

was that a peaceable countryman like Abel Murray should have wanted to

marry her. There were many who did not hesitate to say that she had

driven the poor man to death. But it is easy to say such things, and

very difficult to prove them. If her strength, high spirit, and

imperious temper were too much for him, Abel Murray was not the man to

say it; but he died, nevertheless, leaving her open to such accusations,

as he might have done had he married a white maiden with no character at

all. But he left all he had in her hands, with the three little

children, who were as yet too young to be anything but encumbrances; and

Elizabeth had worked for her children like a slave, like a heroine. All

that they had in the world was a little house among the hills, far from

all other habitations of men, and a few bare, unproductive fields, less

profitable than they were sacred, as having been "in the family" for

generations. Here the widow toiled and struggled alone, telling nobody

of her privations and indebted to nobody, making out of her few cows and

her poultry-yard enough to support her children and bring them safely

through the simple dangers of childhood. From dangers more serious,

however, where is the mother, however exalted, who can defend her sons

and daughters? She was absolutely and passionately devoted to them, and

during all the best years of her life toiled for them night and day; and

if afterwards, when those perils befell them which she could not guard

them from, Elizabeth, used to sacrifice everything in her own person,

became selfish for her children and exacted sacrifices from others, such

as she herself felt it natural to make, may not a little pity mingle

with the blame her fault deserved? The passion of motherhood does not

bear so high a place among human passions as it once was supposed to do,

being set down now as a sort of animal instinct merely, we are told. But

high or low, it is a very great and strong and overwhelming sentiment,

and now and then works harm enough as well as good.

She had three children, all dark and handsome like herself. The eldest

boy, Abel, was a young Hercules, stronger and taller for his age than

any boy in the neighbourhood; and his little sister Lily, almost as soon

as she reached her teens, had been talked of far and near as the beauty

of Waterdale. Abel had other qualities besides. When he was about twelve

years old his mother deprived herself of his services, then just

becoming valuable, in order to send him to school. He went through

storms and sunshine, never missing a day, whatever might be the weather,

and in a year had driven the parish schoolmaster to despair, who had no

more to teach him. He was as clever as he was handsome, and he was more

ambitious than either, and full of that intellectual curiosity which is

the making of a scholar. It was a fatal day for Elizabeth when she sent

the boy to school, as all who knew them said. He could read and write

very well before he went there at all, and what does a country boy want

more? But after he had begun there was no getting him to care for

anything else but learning. He borrowed all the schoolmaster's store of

books, which was not great, and devoured them; then interested the

clergyman and got admission to his library; then, best and worst of all,

so caught the attention of a visitor that his whole lot in life was

changed. This stranger took the boy and sent him to a school where he

could learn more than was possible in Waterdale; then finding him worth

the trouble, sent him to the university and made "a gentleman" of him.

Thus, instead of labouring upon the tiny miserable farm, cultivating the

late little patch of corn and working among the "beasts," and taking his

share in the labours which his mother had carried on since he was a

child, the boy carried his handsome face and keen intellect into the

world, and throve, as was supposed, though the little house at Overbeck

heard little of him. In one point of view, it was hard that he should

thus deprive his mother of his legitimate assistance and leave her to

toil alone; but then she, of all others, was the one most anxious that

he should improve his position and rise into a higher place than that in

which he was born. If she felt a pang at his complete desertion of her,

she never put it into words, but rejoiced that he had made his way to

better things, and exulted with the whole force of her being in the

consciousness that her boy was "a gentleman." She bore the additional

labour without grudging, and toiled on with a high heart, never fearing

work. The work was sweet so long as Abel went on prospering and

progressing; and the proud mother, rejoicing in his advancement, never

betrayed to any one how soon this boy for whom she had toiled forgot all

about his home.

By-and-by, however, it became necessary to think how Lily, her only

daughter, was to set out in life. Lily had grown to be seventeen amid

the silence of the hills. She had the education of her class, could read

well enough, and write decently, though without any clear principles as

to spelling, and she was no doubt in her turn a help to her mother, who

was still strong and vigorous bodily, and in the prime of her days.

Lily had plenty to do at home, and might have gone on there, never

venturing upon the world, if she had chosen. But in that humble class it

is recognised that a lass as well as a lad may naturally desire to see

something of the world and to try her wing and her fortune even out of

the cosiest nest. It never occurred to Elizabeth Murray to question this

law of nature; indeed, had Lily chosen to remain under the shelter of

her mother's shadow for ever, it is probable that the mother would have

held it her duty to send her forth to try her own powers and strength.

The only question was, what was Lily to do? To go to service was the

first thing they thought of, and indeed tried; and the beautiful girl,

looking like a half-savage princess, full of natural dignity, but

untrained to conventional "manners," sometimes rude in youthful

ignorance, if always sweet in natural temper, marched down from her

native hills where all was wild and solitary and free, into the

restraint of a little genteel home in a little gossiping village, and

there made, as was very natural, a disastrous failure in her first

place. Lily did not understand the many restraints nor the unceasing

scoldings; and the minute and constant supervision to which she was

subjected drove her wild with indignation and resentment. What was she,

the daughter of a woman who sold butter and eggs in the market, to

"speak back" to a lady--and to be as fond of her own way as if she had

been a lady too? Elizabeth was sent for, and there were storms and

passions; but the upshot was that Lily, after having been smoothed down

and calmed on Saturday by her mother's representations and

remonstrances, overcome by home-sickness and love of freedom, and

general disgust with the world which was so contrary, ran away secretly

on Sunday evening, and got home at midnight, to the great scandal of the

gossips in the village she had left, who were very eager to find out who

had been with her. But no one had been with her. Lily had not learned

enough by that time either of herself or others to be vain. She was as

yet more annoyed and angered by the stare of wondering admirers than

pleased by their admiration. All life was still before her, a vague

sweet chaos, undiscerned and undivined.

But after this it became more impossible still that Lily should tamely

stay at home and help her mother. Though "the town" had been

disagreeable to her while she was in it, it had a certain charm when

recollected in the fields at Overbeck, where she never saw any one. The

excitement of a carriage passing now and then, a party of

tourists--strangers, perhaps foreigners--or of great people of the

county, lords and ladies like those in the story-books: the wild

exhilaration of a show or pedlar's van, the errand to a shop where

countless desirable things were to be seen at least, if not to be

had--all these sweetnesses, once tasted, leave a want, a void, when they

have passed away, that nothing else can fill up. Lily felt this, though

she did not wish to feel it. The remembrance of the constantly exacted

obedience, the unrelaxing rule, and all the crosses of her first

"service," were very distasteful to her. Home at a distance had seemed

heaven. But, if the flaming sword had been swept aside, and Adam and Eve

had found the entrance to Paradise reopen to them after the excitement

of the struggle with barren earth, would they have gone back, one

wonders? Home was (theoretical) Paradise to Lily; but how gay and how

exciting, if not pleasant, looked now the little Purgatory below, which

had seemed no better that an Inferno to the girl cribbed and cabined and

confined! The very gleam of the light in the shop window, the lamp over

the inn door--what a sense of dissipation and gaiety was in them! There

was nothing like this on the hills, where the stars were the only lamps,

and the tinkling of the beck all the music; whereas on the other hand

sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the town, and once there had

been a German band! The silence and the loneliness overcame Lily after

that taste of the excitements of life. She was sick of her old familiar

mountains; and the horizon on the landward side, a horizon which was

contracted within the limits of a tree or two and a village

steeple--that was the best of all.

Then there came sinkings of heart, and fitful ill-temper upon the part

of the girl, who did not know what she would be at. But Elizabeth was

learning wisdom, and knew. She said, "Lily, my lass, you must not bide

here. It's fine to have you, but when I'm dead and gone, what would you

do up on the fells? You would have to dig potatoes like me. Service is

no heritage, but to have a good trade at your fingers' ends, what a

thing that would be! I think I will speak to Miss Prentice on Saturday;

that's lively. You could see whatever's going on out of her windows, and

folks passing by to the castle; the young squire is at home, and there's

balls, and I don't know what. I'm 'most sure you will like that, Lily,

my dear."

Lily was too wild to respond with immediate approval, but her heart

jumped. She had seen the young ladies and the young gentlemen out

riding, and what a sight it was! They filled the streets, the horses'

hoofs ringing like soldiers, and the ladies' long habits sweeping down,

and the horses arching their shining necks. And when there was a ball,

if you knew one of the servants you might be let in to see the ladies in

their beautiful dresses, and to hear the music; and sometimes Miss

Prentice would be sent for with one of her girls to hold the pins.

Lily's heart danced at the thought of these delights. Miss Prentice was

the dressmaker in Waterside, and lived in the street which was nearest

to the gate of the castle, and where everything could be seen that was

going on.

Here Lily went accordingly, after there had been various consultations

between her mother and the dressmaker. "My Lily is a good lass; there's

no harm in her," Elizabeth said. "You may think I'm partial; but who

should know her like me; and who so anxious to see if there's ill in

her? She's a good lass, but she's fanciful: she takes things into her

head."

"Most folks does," said Miss Prentice; "especially them that is good for

something. So long as she is not taken up with lads and nonsense----"

"Never such a thought has been in her head," said Elizabeth, with some

heat.

"Ah! that's more than I would say of a saint. I'm not fond of the pretty

ones, for my part; they're fine to try things on, for all looks well on

them; but they seldom settle to the business as I could like. Lads are

the destruction of the business; but you're an honest woman, Elizabeth

Murray, and you've had a fight to bring up your bairns. I'll take her

and I'll try her, to show my respect for her mother; and that's as fair

as I can say."

Elizabeth made her acknowledgments like a duchess, with conscious

dignity. "I cannot think a bairn of mine will ever shame me," she said;

"if you take her canny, you'll never get a saucy word from my Lily. It's

the unmannerly that make bad manners. If I saw her with a good business

at her finger-ends I think I could die happy."

"Die! not you! You're not of the dying kind," said Miss Prentice,

briskly; "and as for the business, if she will stick to the business, it

will never forsake her: if she be not too bonnie for the business," the

dressmaker added with a sigh. She was an enthusiast for her profession,

as all artists should be, and sighed at the thought of those temptations

of intrusive life which tempt the neophyte astray.

Thus it was that Lily came to Waterside to learn the dressmaking. She

was a great deal too pretty for the business. Miss Prentice, who was a

wise woman in her way, and who felt the advantage of having a girl (in

such lonely places not yet called a young lady) upon whom every garment

looked well, took great precautions in her treatment of the mountain

Lily, and grew fond of her, and made much of her. And by-and-by Lily

became enlightened as to the sweetness of admiration. She learned after

a time why it was that the young squire rode past so slowly, staring at

the dressmaker's window, and why other young men of less high degree

passed the same way so often. She pretended even to herself that she was

very angry with them all, for staring at her thus. But in her heart she

soon ceased to be angry, and began to find the universal homage not

unsweet. When she heard the horse's hoofs she was not averse to being

visible or half-visible behind the fashion-book in the window. How

handsome he looked on his horse, handsomer than the lads on foot--the

town-lads who went and came, and saw nothing but the book of fashions!

Lily's heart began to beat a little quicker at certain hours of the day

when (she began to divine) he was likely to pass. He! of course; who

could any one mean by that but the chief gentleman of the place, young

Squire Ridley, who up the water and down the water was better known than

any other man?

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had to help her with the beasts and the potatoes,

and all her work, only the other boy, the youngest, of whom nothing has

been said. No one thought it necessary to say anything about him. He was

only Dick--he was the man of all work, though he was but sixteen. He was

Elizabeth's prop, her right hand, whom she could always depend upon; but

she did not make much account of Dick, any more than other people did.

He never gave any trouble,--whatever anxiety came, it would not be by

his means.